My first and second visions of Mumbai were through the tinted glass windows of an Indica. During the monsoons, what one sees is a murky, salty city crowded with nameless buildings jostling for space. They were worn-out in a way that seemed specific to Mumbai. Here, even the newest construction seemed fatigued, as if it had sighed wearily at the battle ahead with the elements and settled into a permanent languor. Perhaps, the fatigue was my own. Having to wake up at 2 am, offer oneself to the dank air that prevails in the hills of Lavale (home to Symbiosis) and be driven in a car packed with hopefuls was no way to prepare for an interview later in the day. Any efforts to recall the verve that had mushroomed at the end of my preparation were futile. Sleeping on and off during the journey didn’t help either. In effect, I had nothing remotely close to the soaring ambition and confidence that, I thought, were needed upon encountering this megapolis.
My third tryst with Mumbai involved the onset of the monsoon the year after. I flew into stormy skies on a six-seater Dassault whose insides, so calm and plush while in Gujarat, were transformed into a light and sound show upon descent in Mumbai. Even a pretty girl facing me, looking on with increasing trepidation with the “what is happening!” nod from time to time didn’t help. Uninitiated, I found it easy to blame Mumbai again. Two months of satisfying interning experience, touring and a warm friendship in amiable Gujarat found their denouement in a crazy ride into the cauldron that was Mumbai. I hated it already, looking ahead with dread at the impending doom that was the flight the next morning to Bangalore. Worse was to follow.
A simple meeting with friends in Andheri became a series of misadventures. I took the wrong local from Chunabhatti and ended up in Vashi instead of Wadala. When I doubled back, the train stopped midway near King’s Circle and I dropped my phone into knee-deep water. After more misses, I somehow managed to meet a friend from Wipro. On the way back, things had calmed down in Mumbai but I wouldn’t have it. Unsure of its tenability (or sure of its untenability) I imagined an imminent apocalypse in the making. A childhood fetish for dreaming up large mega-tsunamis at beaches (something that Goa cured) returned.
As a gloating ha-ha counterpoint, I began envisaging idyllic Bangalore. Bangalore wouldn’t throw violent tantrums; she’d welcome you with a genial embrace. The prospective weather alone was enough to send me into the throes of a pastoral fantasy. As if to prove a point, the flight was a breeze after the rough take-off phase. When the captain announced “a pleasant 25 degrees outside” upon landing, I beamed, relieved that I’d escaped Mumbai. Now the krakens beneath could wreak havoc upon the city, the waves could swallow everything in their wake. It wouldn’t matter. I was home.
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