Is it Mumbai or Bombay? Can't decide. Won't decide.
It's a city of happenings. Happenings such as love, rains, panic attacks, road blocks, friendships, heartbreaks, locals and taxis; all in all, is a garden where flowers blossom
Today is my 15th day in Bombay. Yes, I am trying to be fancy by not calling it Mumbai and going with Bombay. I like Bombay - both the place and the word. Whenever I watch adorable characters on Bollywood screens, I always wonder how on earth they get blown with air in the face. Well, now I know. They have been living in Bombay. A place where every person is living their main character moment. Each one of us is a heroine. Most people don’t like rain, but I love them. I love the little droplets falling on my hair. I love it even more when my hair gets wet, and I get an excuse to leave them open. I love that the scorching heat of Delhi is not forcing me anymore to tie my hair back in an ugly bun. I love that my umbrella and I dance together in the rain. When crushed under people’s feet, the bright yellow flowers paint the road orange and red. It’s an easily accessible art for people to enjoy. I am a sucker for gardens and greenery; therefore, I love the little green and mustard leaves crunched onto the concrete roads. When you walk at night, the moon descends under your feet. It dances and plays in the water, like a toddler who sees the sea for the first time. Unlike Delhi, there is no polluted air masking the sky, so the moon is pretty and bright, but let us not get too happy because Mumbai's seas suck!
I am just happy about the fact that I finally saw an ocean, despite how filthy it was. The waves crumbled and crashed on top of each other, coming towards me and on my touch, running away. Amid the darkness, the white beads and the rippling sound of waves stops your heart and clears your head. All you could wish for at the moment is to stop and sit and take everything in. The fast-paced noise of city life diminishes from the background in its entirety, and there is only stillness that remains. The only thing I was sad about was that my first beach was Juhu Beach - disgusting and dirty. I romanticized it more than it deserved. But maybe that is what life is about - you don't always get what you want, and that is okay.
Sometimes when people talk, they smile. They smile unknowingly; it’s just their smile-like clothes - inseparable. And I like smiles. I mean, who does not?
Fast forward to 4 months later…
What the actual fuck is this place. Food - bad. Transportation - bad. Weather - bad. How on earth is it so hot in December? Tying my hair up in a bun with a muffled vexation. Shouldn’t it suppose to snow or be as chilly as Delhi? How do I not eat gajar ka halwa in December? December is supposed to be freezing cold, and my mother buys me coats and jackets as a b’day gift. Maybe it was not about the place and rain and hyped-up Mumbai (yes, we are back to Mumbai) but about those smiles. Damn, I miss those smiles! The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel is made of various murals and frescos; those different elements connect with each other and bewitch the eyes. Little idiosyncrasies of people are those eclectic elements that make them who they are - transparent, beautiful, honest, adorable, and loveable. If they choose to reveal their idiosyncracies to you, treasure them. It does not often happen that people choose you and show their raw selves. Humans spend their lives pretending - pretending they are not hurting, pretending they are happy, pretending they are not angry, not upset. Just pretending. If it is easy for you to be who you are around them - it's a rarity. And rarities should be cherished. It is the most exquisite thing for someone to see why you do what you do and then laugh with you, cry with you, be hurt with you, and, well...share the assignment torture with you.
Well, oops, I do have a tendency to deviate from the topic at hand. This may be one of those times when you realise it was never about the place but about the darlings. Delhi may be a place I love (it's a love-hate relationship, I tell you), but the mi amors who wear oversized shirts, are chai fanatics, brand ambassadors, adorn flowery shirts, never reply to WhatsApp messages, wear pretty jhumkas, speak through their eyes, randomly write kathalae on your hand, are the most random and weird ducks, are in Bombay. I do not know what I am doing, and maybe I will never know, but I feel seen, accepted, and safe around these authentic buffoons. Bombay may not be that bad.
After all, it still is a garden where flowers blossom.