I was born and
brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.
They used to
tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the
difference.
But when I walk
past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still
run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble,
crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect
background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the
sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.
People waiting
for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on
moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the
process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in
the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz
spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter
of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes
my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to
protect me. My city calls out to me.
When I walk
through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares.
Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I
listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade
them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is
comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The
comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city
calls out to me.
I often take visitors
for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you? It's too
bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift
to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to
excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse
against each other. A faint whiff of the
sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.
Get on a bus
heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they
play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter
and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and
you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you
will have reached the ghats. You will
hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel
it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You
will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the
midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will
envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's
what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and
postal codes, my city calls out to me.
And you see, I
tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed
nothing. Who’s to
decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another?
They used to
tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the
difference.
I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.
I fail to see
the difference.
