Bombay

Once again I feel an ache for the familiar, for the comfort it brings me and for the love that surrounds me every time I think about Bombay. Bombay, not Mumbai. Bombay, a place that I left so many years ago, a place that resides within my memory, a place that I search for whenever I go back to Mumbai, but that place, unfortunately, is no longer there because change has washed over my impression of it, eroding it over time.

So I seek out Bombay in books that talk about her bustling markets, the comfortable chaos, the zinging energy and its people. Yes, its people. The warmth, the zest for life and the ability to be resilient under any circumstances always inspires me, no end. 

The food, it’s street side stalls selling chaat like pani puri, bhel puri, ragda pattice. Shezwan Hakka Noodles and the best Chinese in the world? I would tend to agree. Vada Pao as well as so many other delicacies that the common man can afford for a small sum and yet feel extremely happy and fulfilled. 

I miss her sea, yes, that beautiful sea, the gorgeous promenades delicately lacing her hems. I miss the palm trees swaying, the water crashing against the rocks, the sun setting as a tired mother would after looking after her ravenous boisterous brood of children that never tend to have a moment of calm in an otherwise chaotic day. 

I miss the Bombay that I was once part of, that is still part of me, that will never leave me, wherever in the world I might be. So today when I miss Bombay, I reach out to literature that takes me back to her bylanes. And through the words of the writer, I relive parts of me that have been left behind. Parts of me that I seek out desperately , rummaging through my memory to find that one medium that will connect me once again to my motherland, to home, Bombay.