And Then Came Bombay
I’ve been meaning to write this ever since I left Bombay, but every time I tried, the words slipped away — maybe because I was still trying to avoid the weight of my move to Bangalore after 6 beautiful years? Then, on a flight from Bangalore to Delhi a year later, I stumbled upon a terribly written description of Bombay in a magazine, and in that moment, I knew I had to make it right and finally get to writing. I owe it to Bombay.
They don’t exaggerate in movies or books — Bombay is romantic, yet like all lovers, it can be moody. Somehow, the city has always been gentle with me, offering homes when I needed them and guiding me from soul-crushing jobs to ones that hurt a little less. Even in its darkest moments — wading through rains — there was always an auto bhaiya to ferry me across the street. Call me naive, but it was love at first sight. It’s been almost a year since I left, and trust me, it doesn’t get easier. Maybe it never will.
In 2007, my mom was reading this thick book called Shantaram. I wasn’t ready to read it then, but she’d share its stories with me, and that’s when the dream of Bombay first took root in my mind. Shantaram paints Bombay as a city of contradictions, where beauty and chaos coexist. It highlights the warmth and resilience of its people, the sense of belonging found in its vibrant streets, and the unexpected kindness amidst struggle. Bombay is portrayed as a place where life is raw and intense, but filled with moments of deep connection, adventure, and a unique spirit of survival. From that moment on, I knew I wanted that life.
It was my mum’s work that first brought me to Bombay. When she left, fate smiled, and I got my big break — working on a children’s museum. I was fortunate enough to stay for six years, beginning my journey in my best friend’s parents’ house in Juhu, not yet realizing my stay would become permanent (well, 6 years)
Those days in Juhu felt like pure exhilaration — endless paos, the scent of fish mingling with the salty breeze from the beach just steps away. Fruit vendors lined the market, neighbors strolled by with their dogs, and it was here I met one of my dearest friends - Candy. Sharing a lane with legends like Hema Malini and Dharmendra made me feel like a superstar. Candy, an avid reader and storyteller, would paint vivid pictures of old Juhu — how Raj Kapoor built his home, who was entangled with whom, and how Dharmendra wooed Hema Malini while still married. Each tale was a thread, weaving me deeper into the city’s charm. I’m not sure why, but hearing these stories made me love Bombay even more. The warmth of unexpected friendships taught me it’s quiet lessons: to ask people their name, how they’re doing, and what their favorite color is.
One night, Bombay imparted another lesson — how strangers can feel like family.
It was 3 a.m., and my stomach was in knots I was in extreme pain. I had just returned from a party in Bandra, navigating the chaotic streets of Bombay with the comforting assurance of safety. In the stillness of my new apartment, I felt alone and convinced I was dying. With no close friends nearby, I began Googling for 24-hour chemists, hoping for some miracle. Bhatia Medical popped up, and I dialed them, explaining my distress. They calmly reassured me it was probably just gas and promised to send medication to my door.
At 3:30 a.m., a delivery arrived at my home of only one week. I took the medicine, barely opening the door, afraid of who might be standing on the other side. Zonked out, I quickly shut it, grateful but nervous, and drifted into sleep.
When I woke up, panic set in — I hadn’t paid them. I braced myself for angry calls or messages, maybe even a threat to call the police. A couple of hours later when my phone finally rang, it wasn’t to demand money. “Ma’am, aap thik ho na? Hum sab ko yahaan pe tension ho rahi thi,” (Ma’am, are you okay? Everyone here was getting worried) the voice on the other end said. I was stunned. They weren’t asking for payment — they were checking if I was okay.
I ventured to locate Bhatia Medical, which I later realized was right beneath my building. Walking in, it felt like entering a home full of worried grandparents. Everyone greeted me with concern. At the cashier, I added a KitKat Chunky and some milk on the counter as I settled last nights bill. With a sly smile, the cashier quipped, “Isse pet theek nahi hoga,” (This won’t help with the stomach) and I sheepishly put it back.
In that moment, I understood the true magic of Bombay — it wasn’t just the city, but the people and their small acts of kindness that made it feel like home. Bombay gave me friends who became family. From that day on, the staff at Bhatia Medical treated me like one of their own, always keeping my favorite things in stock — tonic, ramen, and all the chocolates I loved.
The city can be so cruel to people, most people I knew hated it. I wondered how I have fallen for a city that thrives on hustle, where everyone’s broke, lost, and aching? Maybe it’s because in Bombay, even amidst the chaos, I felt like I belonged in the crowd— like I was under a spell only that city could cast.
Bombay revealed to me everything I was capable of, and what I truly sought in life. Through school and college, I wandered without a clear dream, without knowing what I truly wanted. When I came Bombay, the city became my dream. To live in this city, to live like its people, became my driving force in those early years. It wasn’t just a place; it was a pulse, a purpose that shaped me, guiding me toward the path I walk today as a design researcher.
The work I do now, tracing the patterns of human behavior, began with my fascination for this city and its people. Bombay was my first great subject — the endless stories woven into its streets, the nuances of lives lived in motion. The city didn’t just give me a career; it gave me a calling. It taught me that I find joy in human connection, in understanding the layers of why people act and think the way they do. (But more on that in another blog…)
Bombay didn’t just inspire me; it moulded me. It gave me the purpose I hadn’t known I was searching for.
It fed me, kept me warm, and wrapped me in music — songs so beautiful they could bring tears. It taught me how to feel the rain, not just endure it. Time doesn’t stop in Bombay but you learn to pause, to carve out moments amidst the rush. It gave me heartbreak and showed me how to heal. It gave me my dog and my life partner. Even in its endless race, the city always found space for me to think, to stare at the ocean, and just be.
I don’t know if I’ll ever return, but I hope something calls me back.
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