Blindness & Bombay

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.