It is a foggy November evening. I nod vigorously over a glass of Merlot whilst Lodewijk tells me of his years in Bombay. As he speaks of restaurants and spices, his eyes glitter and his voice takes on this excited animation. His wife Brigitte remembers the gorgeous bolts of brocade she found in Khar market, sheets of raw silk that have now become much-envied curtains. Another friend speaks of the sounds of the Ganesh festival, the Portuguese-accented Konkani and the characteristic hollow clap of the roadside hijra, the roadside eunuch. As each of them dwells on old memories of the city, I smile again. This is a familiar scene.
It took me a while to realize a new life does not happen all at once. In fact, when I left Mumbai to move to Amsterdam two years ago, I did not see this coming. My new life was crafty. It seduced me, winked at me from corners and made promises of sparkling canals and fluffy snow. Although I did not know it at the time, everything was changing, slowly but steadily. It started with the most inane things – cold breakfasts and thick duvets – and did not stop until it deposited me in an entirely different world.
Life in Amsterdam is like taking a giant step into a modern village, with huge parks and bicycles paths everywhere. Moving from the incredible Mumbai pace to a sleepy complacent city needed effort, tons of it. I slowly began to get used to sparkling canals, snow-clad roofs and the incredible summer weather. I made my peace with most shops shutting at 5 and staying closed on the weekends. I grew accustomed to the sea of black jackets walking around in winter and the fact that fashion here is very limited. I surrounded myself with endless books, joined a library and a writing group. I made friends from all over the world and realised that I actually loved my Indian family here. Like Amsterdam, my life became calm, more Zen.
It was an afternoon leafing through a Steve McCurry book that triggered my Mumbai nostalgia. His photographs released a host of memories, bursting in like fresh sunlight after a storm. Suddenly I began to notice the unremarkable Dutch food, the constant freezing rain and the surly service. The canals had become a murky brown and the cheery Dutch frugality began to get under my skin. The lack of sunlight began to unnerve me and even pesto would not help. One day it all came out in a sobbing and blubbering fit – until my husband gently sat me down to console me.
Even everyday life had dramatically changed. There was no Prithvi theatre to seek refuge at and no tiny lunch homes with unbelievable food. Now the morning azaan that used to echo in my neighbourhood had been replaced with the church bells from Westerkerk. My daily pani-puri fix had been exchanged for caramel macchiato and if I needed a dosa, I had to make one. Desperate for any flavor of Mumbai, I watched Hindi movies that ought never be seen. I became that person who bores her friends to tears gushing about the food in Mumbai, humming terrible Hindi songs and following Bollywood actors’ love lives online. I missed the myriad colours I took for granted, the food and the incredible sun.
When I told my pragmatic mother as much, she scoffed down the phone. She reminded me of the real world, of our maid in Mumbai who worked 5 houses a day to rent a tiny room, of the now almost-regular train blasts, of the time my father took me to a murky part of town to show me the slums, where each house had at least one member who went without food that day.
Of course she was right. Mumbai is a very different place for some, a cruel, expensive and filthy city that is bursting at its seams. But that same city with all the beggars is the city that reached out to others, offering food and a roof to those stranded in the rains. The people who clean our houses also become part of our lives, joining in our celebrations and sorrows. The city with the filthy underbelly is also the one place where I feel completely safe. Where I delight in coming across the unexpected. Where else do you see quirky Parsi colonies jostling for space alongside a Portuguese fishing village? Who would believe that in this bustling city, there are thousands and thousands of flamingos coming to roost in a marshland?
I wish I could say this was just homesickness, but I think it is saying goodbye to one part of my life and making room for another. Mumbai is ever changing and now just two years later, is a very different place to the home I left behind. My husband and I often wonder if any future child of ours will be able to comprehend it at all, or if the words “Mumbai spirit” will ever mean anything to them? If they will ever understand the innate need of the city to help the needy, to party as hard as it works, to toughen you up properly for the real world. Somehow, I doubt it.
That evening at the dinner party we ended up barbecuing butter-garlic crabs. We watched German-dubbed Hindi movies and discussed the best and worst of the new Bollywood crop. Someone had brought a crate of Kingfisher and we slowly drained it, debating Anna Hazare and the now-legendary corruption. We talked about our favourite Mumbai restaurants and changes in the school system. We talked into the wee hours of the morning over makeshift brun-maska and chai, looking at old pictures of colonial Bombay, marvelling at the trees and brooks, Dutch, German, Indian and English accents mingling together to speak fondly of one city. The ability to bring people together, this is my favourite thing about Mumbai.
No comments:
Post a Comment