Bombay, Mumbai; my city anyways

Bombay, Mumbai; my city anyway 

 On a wet and rainy day in 1962, I arrived here. I was 11 years old. A war was simmering with China. Shammi Kapoor’s all-time hit film ‘Professor’ was running to a packed house at Novelty in Grant road where I stayed.

As Saurashtra Mail brought me to platform no. 3 at Bombay Central station, I had no way of knowing that an old aunt with whom I came here will soon be lost to cancer. We took a convertible Victoria, a horse-driven coach. We stayed at the building called Parvati Mansion. It stands exactly in the same shape as I left it then. 

This was the beginning of my tryst with Bombay. Traveling to Bombay by train was my first trip outside my hometown. I kept awake through the journey to note down the names of all the railway stations we passed by. I refused to let the ticket collector punch our rail ticket, thinking he is snatching them away. I preserved those tickets for years. 

I arrived again on a hot and muggy afternoon in April 1973. This time on my own, with a tin trunk and my destiny. Raj Kapoor’s super hit movie ‘Bobby’ was playing at Metro. I came to the city to train as a salesman, a profession I stuck to rest of my life. 

Then in 1996, the third and lasting tryst when I landed on a humid October evening from Baroda, with one suitcase and dream of making this city home for the rest of my life. Bombay fulfilled my dream. My old aunt, tin trunk, and suitcase are all dead and gone. 

 Bombay fits my skin, my character; being what I am; introvert, private, shy, and reserved chap. In this town, I live within myself when I want and go swinging when I feel like it. Bombay gives me the anonymity that I seek. 

To loners like me, it affords convenience to slip out of my home or work to become nobody I may want to be. Bombay does not question who I am and why I am here. Losing my identity in the swirling throngs around me is at once both refreshing and redeeming. My private world here remains private, my soul untouched by strangers forever. 

No one cares for the pretense of dress, face, caste, money, or gender. And if all these thoughts make you wonder about Bombay not having a heart, think twice; try asking directions and five people will walk with you, try boarding a crowded train running and twenty hands will extend to pull you up the train. 

But once you are inside, no one will even ask you your name. 

What do I care what you call it now; Bombay, Mumbai? It is my city anyway.

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