Sleepless in Mumbai

Night is here, but I am sleepless. Still a few more hours before dawn breaks, but I want to hold on to something, and the fear that it could disappear if I shut my eyes, keeps me awake. Right now, at this moment, I am biding my time. And why not? This is possibly my last week in Mumbai this year.

I am leaving the city to re-live an old memory and though, it is what I always secretly wanted, it has just dawned upon me that what I am about to leave will now be another memory that someday, like the other, I would want to live again. 

When we move on, we leave a lot behind us: Family, best friends, good friends, not-so-very-good friends, college-mates colleagues, enemies, well-wishers, acquaintances, and all the many stray incidents that remind us of them. In fact, just today, I happened to catch-up with the initial set of friends I made, when I first came to Mumbai back in 2003. In the span of a few nostalgic hours, I was taken back to St. Xavier's College, where I first studied, before my mind rattled into the present. 

What it did was project to me a 10-year graph of how Mumbai came to mean what it does to me today and what Mumbai made of the Jane, who is fortunately or unfortunately, so different from yesterday. When a city does so much to you, you don't just feel obliged to it, but also begin to absorb it in your veins and make it your own. Its pride, fears, comforts and insecurities begin to course through you, and then before you realise, you two are inseparable. You become it, and it becomes you. Today, I owe to the city, as much as it owes to me. 

It owes me time, that I could never have enough of, and I owe it gratitude that I have always grudged to part with. But now, as I lie awake, sleepless in Mumbai, I feel the urge to give the city its due, even as I secretly hope, that it would give me a little of something from its kitty: some more time.

Time to do what I didn't do; time to tell some people that I love them; time to tell a few others that I may always hate them; time to get to know some people better; time to give someone a chance; time to see a place that I never bothered to seek out; or may be a little more time to hoard all the good memories I had here, so that I can pack them up in a suitcase and take it wherever I go.

Like the day when my three best friends Tess, Blessy and Nadia and I walked the entire stretch from Marine Plaza to Churchgate at 4 am, soaking ourselves in the first real heavy showers of the monsoon season. We were the only four girls on the streets of the city, and were quite enjoying our unexpected night-time stroll, when Nadia suddenly panicked and suggested we take a cab and head back home. It was the only real-adventure we had as a gang, and how I still miss it. 

Then that trip to Essel World with Tess, Blessy and my family (Saby, Steven and cousin Karen), and how we bravely took on every single ride, despite some of us threatening to launch on a puke-fest, now and then.

Not to forget that ticket-less train journey from Pune to Mumbai with Deba and Nadia, and our brilliant plans of hiding in the Indian toilet if one of us saw a ticket checker approach from the other coach. And also that trip to Matheran, with me and Neha singing 'Gazab ka hain din' as we walked through the woods, even as Hiral gave us a cold shoulder and refused to have anything to do with us.  Or may be that 23rd birthday of mine, where we played Taboo all through the night, till as early as 7 in the morning with the D'Costas (Edric and Brian) trying all the possible tricks, even those not mentioned in the books, to see themselves through a victory. I also saw some of the most forgettable films with the cousin duo, which happened to make those memories all the more worth it.  

It is somewhere during the same time, that I had a period of musical bloom as a mezzo soprano/alto in the choir group Singspirator. During my four-year journey with them, every Christmas season took on a different hue; the sheer wonderment of performing for a houseful audience during the carol nights at the NCPA, paved the way for a beautiful festival season. Not to mention that it made me more musically sound. 

Then there were fond memories with colleagues (now friends): Of those after-edit meet walks with Aru, our heart-to-heart discussions about everything under the sun and the mouth-watering stops for daabeli or saabudana wadas at Maamis; Of my 27 hour-long train journey with Ipsi...her never-ending nuggets about her personal life, interspersed with the crazy food-binge at every halt, made that trip one of my favourties till date, Of those after-work parties at Megha's house where Tasneem once slipped down the window and tried to walk up the balcony grill, and where Aditya happened to get excessively involved with Megha's loo, refusing to even come out.  

And lastly, how can I forget my first real adventure in the city: when Lisa, Kruti, Saniya and I, along with 100 other students from the Science batch in junior college, mass-bunked to watch Love Actually at Regal, lapping up Colin Firth and Hugh Grant like remains of chocolate sauce on a spoon. 

Yes, I am taking them all with me in my tiny little suitcase of memories. And no, may be I am not leaving this city forever, but then what can a sleepless and bored girl in Mumbai do better than recalling these, and many other good old days of yore, and penning them down. Now that fatigue has set in due to the arduous packing, I shall end here. I may not sleep yet, because the city still owes me time. But I did my part, and all I feel now is plain gratitude. 

Reliving Muscat

One is almost, always overcome by a strange feeling of nostalgia, when one revisits the place of his/her childhood after a long period has elapsed. Having spent my mid-late teens and my enter youth in Mumbai, I realised that a trip back, to my first home Muscat — the land of sun and sand — was long overdue. I have been in Mumbai for over 10 years now, and my love for this fast-moving and always-on-its-toes city has only grown with each year; though, I must confess, that sometimes when I feel saturated and overburdened by the metro’s pace, this love takes an unpredictable nosedive.

This is when I am reminded of the fond memories of my childhood: the stillness of the clear-blue, pristine seas and the sand castles that my brothers and I built across it, on the shore; the times spent ruminating on the swing and slipping down the slides, or whirling round the merry-go-round in the garden; the annual picnics to a farm-house some distance away from the city; my weekly routine of playing the music organ in the church choir; the bi-weekly visits to the super-markets with me riding my youngest brother Steven who was carefully placed on the seat of the shopping cart, across the narrow alleys of market as he dirtied his hands with cheese balls; playing cricket, catching-cook, hide and seek, and badminton in the foyer of our residential building; the daily monotony of going to school, which then I hated, but now sorely miss. I had come to spend all these moments in Muscat, and as insignificant as these activities may now sound, it continued to stay with me.   

Of course, one would contend that this is nothing close to what Mumbai had to offer; with all the hypermarkets, multiplexes, designer stores, picnic spots up the hills of Lonavla and Khandala, smart and economical shopping alongside Fashion Street, Colaba Causeway and, Linking Road and Hill Road in Bandra, and not to forget the lip-smacking street food. Mumbai is also where I found a footing, got those wings to fly, heard my calling, followed my dreams, and earned my first byline. The city honed me, and I owe it everything that I possibly am.    

But some memories are like magnets, they draw you in, and sometimes the best way to evade them is by entering the whirlpool and becoming part of it. When I got my new passport, the first city on my mind was Muscat; when I quit my job, the first place I thought I should visit was (let us not bother guessing) again Muscat.

So, here I am, back to square one…where it all began, and where I first took those small little steps. Tomorrow, it will be a week since I came here. I must admit that I haven’t travelled much for want of a car, except visiting supermarkets, the market area in Ruwi, and catching a glimpse of the three old homes that we rented over a span of 16 years, when we lived here. But nostalgia has already seeped in. For instance, I managed to grab a bite of the yummiest shawarma I have possibly ever eaten at one of mine and Saby’s (younger brother) favourite joints in Ruwi. Surprisingly, it cost only 250 baiza, just 50 baiza more since we last left in 2003; I was shocked because in Mumbai, the price of a shawarma (not even close to the authentic one) jumped from Rs 70 in 2008 to almost Rs 150 recently. But I am not talking inflation here.

Getting back to my story, I remember how Saby and I would play our own secret games to convince dad to buy us a shawarma every time we went past the joint. It was not like dad refused to buy, but mom always threw a fit, because then, we wouldn’t eat food at home. So we would take turns at crying and telling our parents how hungry we were, as soon as we were in good distance from the shawarma joint. So the first time, it would be me, the next time Saby, and when Steven grew a little older, we drew him in our small, stupid plan too. Games we little children play.

Moving on, I also happened to meet the barber, a Bangladeshi national, who used to cut my hair when I was a child. Yes, I did not go to a women’s parlour till I was seven, because mom preferred my hair short; I don’t think I wore my hair down as a child; I embarrassingly strutted around in what was popularly known as the “boy-cut” hair. This barber I remember particularly well, because I would break into tears every time he brought out his scissors. He would try to placate me with Sun-Top, the most popular fruit drink here. I am glad it is still around; my fondest memory of the drink is collecting stickers of the Sun-Top bear (the mascot then) that came along with it. When I met him this time, he recognised me immediately and could not hold back a smile, on the mention of the Sun-Top episode.

No, I do not intend to regale or rather, bore you, with more such anecdotes. I don’t intend to break into a spiel on Muscat either. These moments I hold dear, and I just consider myself lucky to have gotten the opportunity to relive them again. I am going to stop now, hold back other thoughts that are currently running through my head.

But mind if I may mention that my father, who stayed back here after we left Muscat for Mumbai, suddenly seems to be re-living the old times too. Every time he introduces me to one of his young colleagues or friends, he says, “Jane, meet this uncle/aunty.” Ask them their age, they might be younger than me.

I told him, “Dad I am grown up you know, I don’t need to be calling people as old as me uncle or aunty.”

His response, “Oh! Yes, sorry…I don’t know why, but for some reason, I imagine only the young Jane here.”

It does not end there, yesterday when he entered a sweet and dry fruits shop, he bought me so many chocolates. I guess he has forgotten I am 26. But, I think, I like it that way.

   

The dilemma of fairy tales: To believe or not to…

Ask me what I'm most smug about and pat comes my reply, my parents' "unimaginably true love story". 

A boy of 12, falling in love with a girl of eight, only to be snubbed by her throughout school life. At the age of 25 (during a visit with friends to Mount Mary in Bandra) — when he's still holding on to those beautiful memories of how she once sashayed into the school exam hall, borrowed his expensive Parker for the paper, and unconsciously put its cap into her mouth — he's startled by her presence.  
"Johnny," she says, "After such a long time?" 
"Err...Sandra," he asks, shocked, but not once surprised at what youth had done to the geeky teenager he still loved from school.
"Wow, you've grown into a handsome young man," she says.
He stuttered nervously, "Err..uhh...well...Thanks," wishing he had the courage to say the very same words to her.
That was 29 years ago. Today, they are married with three kids, and a house, they've so meticulously worked on, to make it "their home." Their's is a fairy tale — one which could undoubtedly begin with a "Once upon a time," and end with an "And they lived happily ever after." 

I've grown up listening to this fairy tale, or so believing in it, cause it played right in front of my eyes and I knew how beautiful it was. So, I would be lying if I hadn't expectantly waited for my very own little love story. 

At the cost of being mocked at and being made to look like a fool, I continued being this so called "believer," who waited for her "Mr Right" — that Knight in shining Armour (so much so that I also wrote two poems on it http://www.janeborges9.blogspot.in/2010/08/one-of-them-is-in-love-with-you.html) —  who blew her heart away (Yes, I can be very corny or mawkishly sentimental as dictionary.com puts it subtly). 
I was teased for being single, with one saying, "you will end up like an old hag, rotting at your office desk, till a good old 60" and the other saying, "you just don't look enough... why don't you keep your eyes open when you walk;" or my mother telling me every time she came from church. "I prayed that you find the right man, who keeps you happy and blaah, blaah, blaah, blaah". Trust me, none of these dampened my spirits. 

Then, one day something happened... no, not the love story... like how I had imagined. 
But even as a new hope has spooled in everyone's heart, except mine...I am reminded of my father — he still has that Parker pen, and guess what, it hasn't been washed or used since then.