bombay aur jootein

65 days in Mumbai. Upon submitting my undergraduate thesis almost exactly four months ago, I could never have imagined that my feet and fate would lead me here. I had dreams and aspirations of becoming a writer, a journalist (to make it sound more ‘career-friendly’) and where else could I have yearned to be if not here? The city of vibrant chaos – a wonderful, maddeningly exciting collision of people and stories and lived histories. Bombay.

There is actually an interesting theory I have which aligns with how I was quite literally destined to live, or at least touch base with Mumbai – my birthday. Now, I am no fortune teller, but my birthday and the numbers contained within it – 12th September, 2002 – have uncannily aligned with places in which crucial phases of my life have unfolded. 12.09.02 – MH 12 being the RTO code of the city which didn’t birth but certainly nourished me, my hometown of Pune and MP 09 – the code number of Indore, a city to which  I was uprooted and lived my early teenage years in. The city where I lost myself in a few ways and found myself in others, but above all became resilient in the process.

So Mumbai – MH 02 – I saw you coming from afar. 

But for all its excitement, this city can get a little tiresome. A little exhausting. And it can definitely get on your nerves. The winding lanes of traffic on the afternoon streets of Andheri, the heart of suburban Bombay; the smell and slick of sweat on the handles of the trains; the battering of sudden rain diffused into the incessant honking against your ears; the pushing, and swearing. Sticky, harried bodies pressed against each other. The cigarette smoke and the autowallahs who are sure to run over your foot in their hurried enthusiasm of dropping off their fares – how else will they earn a living where there are thousands ferrying passengers across the teeming city? 

The romanticization of having your Taylor Swift ‘wind-in-my-hair’ moment as the local zips along the Western line at 6 a.m. lasted for a week, maybe two – and then it becomes a part of your day, your routine – a part of your life and who you are. And then you wonder, are you changing irreversibly with this city too?

I am taken back to my last days in Manipal – a tight-knit university town much like Mumbai in its cosmopolitan spirit, but rather young and naïve at heart – still burgeoning, still growing. A campus nestled between the mountains of the Western ghats on one side, the Arabian sea on the other. One cannot imagine a better place to spend one’s years of transitioning into an adult or experience the tenderness and intensity of growing pains. 

In my final days at Manipal, I had a conversation with my creative writing professor which continues to stay with me. I confided much of how murky it all seemed – being on the cusp of adulthood; of turning aspirations into money-making, passion-satiating words; of moving to the city of dreams at the risk of realizing yours weren’t rare. We talked about the ostensibly naïvete but incredible bravery that accompanies walking a creative path; and also of craft and courage. How it is the nomadic tendencies, the perils of uncertainty that draw a writer back to her desk.

She told me, “It’s going to be an adventure of a lifetime, Harshita. And sometimes, you just need good shoes for a long, hard journey.”

And while Manipal could never have prepared me for what was to come, it was this advice that I took to heart. I packed my Skechers – worn soles, discoloured cerulean blue laces and muddied sides. Marketed as walking shoes, but which have been used for every other possible activity – trudging along the red-soiled roads of Manipal, running along the trails on Pune’s hilltops.

And in the throb of Mumbai. Along the warmed roads and rainfall, these shoes carried my tired feet. Slipping and sliding on the platforms, steadying amidst the jostling at peak hour. Holding me up as I walked the long promenades at Bandstand, calling out to sea as they hung above the rocks at Marine Drive. Keeping up as I tided through ocean and road to get to work and explore the city’s arterial gems.

Grounding me, in my anxious work jitters, hidden away under my desk. A cat’s paw on its black-laced tops. And yes, while that might be conventionally used to describe lingerie, isn’t there something deeply sensual about a companion who’s seen you make your way uphill on lone, solitary nights?

Soiled in the many unexpected puddles during the storms, brushing against the urine and mud caked against the roads, tripping on uprooted tile and sidewalk. Groaning as I bent over my knees, squinting at each title on the heaped bookstacks near Flora Fountain. Helping my feet breathe, soothing my ankles on long journeys spent leaning against the metal seats. 

A lover in their own right.

Making this long, hard journey a little easier. Because aren’t the things I hate about Mumbai the ones I love most too?

My professor’s parting gift – a little hand-painted ceramic shoe sits amongst the warmth of my bookshelf. I like to think it has brought me luck. 65 days but I am still a wonder-eyed child. Outside, Bombay waits. So do my shoes.