Coming back home.

On my fourth night in Bombay, memories of the city I grew up in came flooding back in one shining moment.

It's about 10:45 on a Friday evening in the part of town which was formerly peopled with workers of cloth mills. Now, though its home to nightclubs and the assorted gentry of Mumbai. 

Me and a friend have stepped out to catch an international act passing through town. The traffic is snaking through roadblocks put up by the police to check for alcohol.

Interestingly, there is not a breathalyzer in sight. Instead I see the hawaldar stick his head into a window, pause for a few seconds and wave the car on. I see we're pushing the state of the biometrics art I tell myself dryly.

As I pull up to the barricade, the inspector looks intently in my direction and yells "If I ever see you here again, I'm going to kick your a*** !" I wonder if we've met.  A few seconds I hear clicking of hoofs. And then a young  boy riding bareback on a horse, racing past the barricade. 

I can't help grinning. This is old school Bombay, right down to the harassed inspector. He tells me, the chap has been up and down this road several times. And been warned for it too. I expect public nuisance or some lofty reason. But what he says stops me in my tracks. Loosely translated from Hindi, he says "Sir, the horse slips on this road. He is, after all, only an animal".

We share silent appreciation for a mute animal working bravely at the hands of a thoughtless handler. The moment passes. The inspector looks at me and waves us on - not bothering to check us. I feel something of  value passed between us in that silent moment. Thank you unnamed inspector on Tulsi Pipe Road. For bringing me back home. 

Silent Screams

I'm sad today. I heard silent screams from friends trying to be brave in their marriages.  Trying with every last breath of sincerity to make their way through the land of relationships. With outdated maps.  And finding themselves in forests instead of palaces.

The maps I have has valleys and flowers and sunshine everywhere. But the world my friends and me are seeing is different. There are thorns. Sometimes streets are paved with them. There are also flowers - on the top of icy mountains. There is venom. Freely flowing like water. There is also a philosophers stone. But only at the  heart of the volcano. It rains lightning. And it pours rainbows. 

Relating is not a matter of playing a role anymore. It appears to be more about facing fears with honesty. The safe routines  of an older world now seem limiting.  She wants to know I really need her. I need her to know I'm really scared of her leaving. With a  soft heart, the surface of the relationship seems to be able to weather storms our parents never imagined possible.  

The surprise is that I have been standing on this lesson my entire life. My planet needs the same from me that my wife does. A soft heart with a steady surface. She only expects what she is. The lessons, it appears will arrive from nature.

When in Bombay

When in Bombay, do as Bombay does - talk, flit, chat, run.

Why ?

In Bombay, moving is living. Running is growing. Earning is showing.

In Bombay, oneness is sameness. Be Different. Simple is a game to be played. Affection is an instrument.

Be Someone. If you are unknown, you do not exist. Be something measurable - a number, a position, a star, a designation.
In one word: be a quantity. Have many things. And everyone is finally a thing here - a door, a path, a destination, a ride. Have many things.

Be Someone Else.Being by oneself is the same as being alone.Be with someone. If you can't be someone else.


Not liking Bombay. I want the city I grew up in back.