That's it I'm doing it, I'm finally doing it. I swore to
myself that I'd write actually do something worthwhile with my so-called
writing skills and maintain a blog, but obviously that hasn't worked out too
well. Then again, me and 'maintaining' anything at all is pretty much a lost
cause, so I shouldn't have kept such high hopes. Really, I'm such an idiot.
But it's always been there, somewhere at the back of my
mind, much like a self-imposed sword of Damocles - god, I'm so hopelessly prone to hyperbole,
but that's hardly the point - so here I am, typing faster than I thought I
could, which obviously mean there'll be like 5 bazillion mistakes to correct
when I'm done typing - that's gonna be a pain to correct, ugh.
Mumbai is.... I'm going to sound like a pretentious arse here so bear with me. Mumbai is exactly what I imagined it'd be. It's loud and
sprawling and oftentimes smelly. The shopping is vastly overrated - and I've
discovered, so are monsoons. There's more puddle and less footpath, you fret
about your bookbag - which isn't water-proof, because you're an idiot who
doesn't plan for contingencies - and you get colds at he drop of the hat.
Okay so no that last part isn't half-true. I catch colds at the drop of the hat,
but that's just because I have a painfully weak immune system - no bragging
rights there, thanks so much God.
And, you know, despite how loud it is - and it is loud, make no mistake; there have been
nights I can't sleep till midnight because of the noise, and I live on the
ninth bleeding floor, which reminds me, Ganesh Chathurti is com-puh-letely overrated
too, no disrespect meant to Hindus - right so even though it is loud
and smelly and positively riddled with puddles, it's fascinating.
Fascinating, I
swear and I mean that without an ounce of
sarcasm. The sea is grey on the best of days, but in the monsoons it's grey and
emanates honest-to-goodness serenity and the waves break gently against the
shores and the winds whip your hair until you look positively subhuman and it's
wonderful magic moments that make Mumbai worth it. Magic moments meant for
coffee and friends, and heck, maybe even a bit of poetry.
The malls are tiny and "cozy" and have sales only twice a year - honestly, they are the bloodsuckers, so stop
name-calling on the Cullens, folks. Twice a year?! Are you out of your bleedin' mind,
you retarded little, dimwits? - but their food courts have more outlets than
Khalidiyah or Deira City Centre and you can spend hours lounging away and
sipping on your minty Krushers - which is disgusting,
I swear, unless you're one of those taste-challenged freaks who likes kaala-khatta (black salt, for the non-Hindi speakers) - even after all the ice has melted away.
And Mumbai is everyone telling you to avoid the yummy,
mouth-watering, crunchy delicious goodness that is roadside chaat cause of all
the typhoid and dengue and whatnot going around - you might just die by drinking the wrong kind of water,
don't you know? - and you go ahead and eat it anyway, because hello? Who says
no to yummy, mouth-watering, crunchy delicious goodness? Not me, lady.
And Mumbai is restaurants, ohmyLAWRD, I might just die thinking of the restaurants. Dubai and Abu
Dhabi combined ain't got nothin' on
this baby - this is the mother of
good food. Okay yeah I'll admit, it's pricey but ain't nobody saying no to the
best damn lasagna I may have ever tasted in my whole entire life, okay? Okay.
There's Chinese and Japanese - I tried sushi and it sucked, but I tried so boo-yah! - and
American - lasagna? Hello? Let's not forget the lasagna yet? And I don't think
my credit card has forgotten T. G. I. Friday's either, but that's a story for
another day - and so much edible awesomeness going around that I should
probably shut up now.
And Mumbai is friends - good friends, great friends, friends
that drift away, and friends that stick around. Mumbai is coffee on Bandstand,
and six hours at TGIF, and obsessing about boys at 5-star restaurants, and
late-night movies with cousins, because that's the only time you get to stay
out so late.
It's sneaking out and coming home a minute - or an hour - after curfew.
It's not studying for mid-terms, and lamenting about the male population at
college. It's breathing in the sea air, and forgetting where you are. Mumbai is
Mumbai and sometimes I know someplace deep in my bones, that there's nowhere quite
like here.
