Mumbai meri Jaan earned its name

I grew up in Goa. For anyone who has been there would know it’s easy going, slow and forgiving. The kind of place where time waits for you and houses are wide, airy, the neighborhoors wave and the world will always accommodate you. Then Mumbai happened.

In under ten minutes, my soul was rudely shaken and my entitlement was escorted out .

There is no parenting manual or self help book that prepares you for Mumbai. The city grabs you by the collar and gives you a reality check within the first ten minutes.

I moved to Mumbai for two years while studying audio engineering.

Overnight, I was stripped of my “badkari” privileges. The pompous space, the comfort, and accessibility was downgraded to “available accommodation” in high end West Bandra.

This was a 6sqmt shared bedroom inside a 1BHK flat, six roommates, one bathroom, one kitchen with spider webs that had preferential rates on their lease contracts with Mr Francis than what he was willing to sign with me. The walls on the apartment had mould that at first glance looked like wall paper in abstract art.

Every morning began with combat training. I would walk to the train station praying for safety whilst also questioning life’s choices of the education stream I chose . Once on track 4, I would be involuntarily pushed into train compartments , sandwiched between two sweaty elbows and spat out at Andheri West . The final leg to SAE institute involved a bus ride that felt like sitting on a camel . The wind in my hair was a constant reminder of the speed at which Mumbai moves.

Every day was a struggle.

And just when I finally became one of them, when my body adapted, my spirit toughened, I left and moved to UAE.

Dubai dawned a different shock. I searched desperately for crowds, rowdiness, dirt, street food, people. Instead, I was ushered smoothly from point to point. Everything was orderly, efficient, beautifully managed. And to my surprise, I loved it. Dubai became home and remains so for 22yrs and counting.

Ive returned to Mumbai for a quick 36hrs and so much has been observed since then.

There is not a single rider or driver who does not use the horn. Im confident that every morning, they set out determined to beat their personal best. Im led to believe it helps with rage therapy and provides exercise for fingers and self check of ear drum functionality . .

Food stalls line the streets chutney sandwiches, sugarcane juice, samosas, mirchi dunked in oil, badam milk, cutting chai. Fruits and homegrown vegetables sit in colourful carts, rinsed lightly in water that begins mildly brown and turns wildly black. The produce emerges shiny, polished, almost photoshopped.

Small kiosks at every square inch of the road that house tailors, cobblers, vendors selling plastic buckets, flower garlands, tobacco, simple rusks. These vendors show up every single day come rain, heat, dust, chaos, hoping today is the day the drawer fills enough. Enough to deposit money and keep aside to replace the bulb that has been dead since last month. Enough to go home, bathe, and collapse after a day of sensory overload.

Walking between doctor visits and buying papdi, the city drowned me. The sights, the smells, the noise overwhelmed and awakened me all at once.

My nose did not know which aroma to accept first. Spice, sweet, sandalwood incense stick, animal dung. And suddenly I had a whiff of freshly cooked jalebi.

I wanted to cry.

My eyes saw joy in the smallest gestures, struggle that somehow still fuels will. I heard begging, squealing, drums, construction and beneath it all, a strange happiness, collective acceptance and a refusal to surrender.

No matter where the world takes me, my roots remain here. In the noise, the dust, the food, the people.

This is home, loud, exhausting, unapologetic, and very much alive.