Mumbai is parched again. Dry days and quiet nights. No noise of the rain lashing against my window, no hearing the neighbour abuse because she got splashed by some lunatic auto driver. It’s all quiet again. I should be happy really – it’s a respite from the pot holes in front of my house that get concealed by the water, leaving no scope for escape, it’s a relief from the damp, musty smell of the semi-dry clothes, it’s a definite escape from the super slow traffic on the road and the almost-paralysed days of heavy downpours. But I miss the rain. I miss standing at my balcony and watching gorgeous polka dots form in the puddle below, I miss having my hair made frizzy by the light spray of the drizzle, I miss the giant globular water bodies crash against my arm when I stretch them out of the window, I miss the feel of the steaming cutting chai in the mud kulhads I have bought, I miss getting a call from my paranoid mom telling me to stay at home because the news channels tell her that Mumbai is drowning yet again! This monsoon season is growing on me – and it is, but dangerous.
I mean I hated the rains. I hated Mumbai primarily because of the rains. The dirt and the slush and the muck and the transition from sophisticated footwear to clumsy flip-flops made me want to run away from the damn city. There was a time I would dread this season – pray to the gods of weather to make monsoon pass soon but now, I actually miss it if it doesn’t rain for a few days in this season. I don’t know what it is really – I can’t seem to put my finger to it. Maybe it’s the fact that I have, with rains, some of the most memorable moments in Mumbai with some of my closest people. Or maybe it’s because for me, the rain is like this cathartic force that comes every year and washes away all the crap that has happened since the last monsoon. Or maybe it has become my muse, my inspiration to write. It seems to be the only weather which makes me really calm and makes me want to dig out an old book and re-read it. It seems to be the only time of the year when everything looks beautiful to me. It’s the only time of the year when I get to use my retro style flowery umbrella and roll up my jeans without the fear of looking silly.
I guess it was only a matter of time that monsoon grew on me. It was only a matter of time that Mumbai grew on me. It’s all happening. The unthinkable and the unimaginable. Mumbai taught me to be resilient and be good to strangers. It forced me to be patient and more tolerant. It made me see the whole world’s joy come together on the faces of people who spend their Saturday nights on Chaupati. The city is becoming me and I am becoming the city and though I am sure I won’t stay here forever, I am surer of the fact that I will miss it very very much once I leave. So here’s to Mumbai – the land of ‘anyone who really cares to come here’, the city that will make you fall in love with it no matter how much you resist and the place where dreams are weaved on local trains.
