Mumbai — A City of Shores and Hopes
A city where I saw my true self.
At my Brother’s wedding last year, which was also one of the most confusing years for me I went to Mumbai(a City in India), as I turned 23 and my parents wanted me to get a proper job, and they were not wrong. But I’ve tried it and it was one of the most depressing times of my life. It’s not about fitting in but I forget things easily when I am somewhere I don’t belong, so even with the basic task they gave I forget the instructions and messed it up, that time I realized how bad my ADHD is. I started to believe that I could not do anything in life.
But I held onto writing, I don’t know what exactly I wanted to write, but I just wanted to write. So I took my pen and an old diary from the year 2004, which I found in my father’s stuff, and hopped onto the local train and went straight to the beaches nearby, sitting on the shore.
And here’s what I wrote
“Hope is omnipotent, the more you hold onto it, the more it tries hard to drag you out from the deep dark sea onto the shore.”
The imprints of birds on soft sand, the flowing haze of smoke mating with the air, a weary dog resting in the shades of a pole, and me in the midst of it all.
Broken road leap to pass potholes makes the journey more compelling than tough. My train looks at the hastened passengers, an affordable, brisk, and best option in this city, which made this voyage of diversity make me worry about fewer things; getting in is not there.
Through the chaos, I gaze at the platform with others, a few hundred people. Looking for a place is the journey that I take to find the peace that I never had. The handle supports my hand as I lean on it while passing by people eagerly heed with the hope of seat. The eyes of some are glued to their phones as they watch incomplete films or series while bending, standing, or even sleeping. Some are staring at the people who are sitting, probably hoping and waiting for them to get up. I was awestruck when a strange Uncle stared at me throughout the journey; bad for him, my stop was second last, but I did the same coming back from it.
The habitual landmarks my eyes grab looking out as I pass tiny houses with rusty roofs, clothes hanging on iron railings by the side of the track, kids playing near a mountain of garbage, and tall buildings that make me feel small as I try to lean back to get a complete look. My head saves the chirping sound that I cannot silence; similarly, there’s also crying, which parents cannot silence. It was all going on with me on the journey.
Is the city calling you where you belong, or is it just a coincidence? I first breathed this city’s air; now it is where I belong. Where I feel I am. Because I was born in Mumbai and lived here till 5, it never was my first choice to think of living here again, but now, after 18 years, I am retracing my steps, and they led me here to be independent and to have a chance to understand the city and how it rests at my core.
It is my habit to reach the platform and find where to get out quickly. I cross the road as a green man on the traffic light signals us to move. I am accompanied by people with the same faces throughout my journey. The diversity I see in this city makes it hard for my brain to contemplate and take it all in, but observing people is the only thing I am slightly good at. A few 20 rupees notes in my left pocket to buy a small cold water bottle to help my body absorb the heat and the humid wind of the Afternoon.
As I follow people, I believe they’re on the same journey as me, and I hear a familiar sound. I never thought I would recognize it. I see the sea from afar over a pile of sand and listen to the sound of the waves. That moment is still etched and is protected in my heart. My anxieties and a loose thread of trust fade as my eyes capture this scene like the panorama setting on a camera, and I know what PEACE looks like now.
The lonely feeling passed by hundreds of hands mating with someone else, and here I am with an itching palm, angrily looking at me, never getting what they need. My eyes search for that spot where I and my upset body can be calm, far from family and couples.
Watching birds fly by as time elopes. The wind, at times, is strong enough and prompts them to walk and engrave their feet on the sand, even if the sand doesn’t believe it gives away its originality. Just like my subconscious was telling me to go for a train ride away from the city shor (Noise in Hindi) to the soothing sounds of wind and waves at the shore, I have sand stuck in my toes that I carry with me when I go back to the chaos and spread it around at places it is not supposed to be found at.
The weather tells me to break or love my heart, but I have no one around to do that, too, so I stride along the shore on the sandbar and drag the plastic stuck on my toes, too busy on the sea to pay attention to it.
The broken flamingo color shells, the square verdant stone with smooth edges, broken pieces of tiny glass green and sky color pebbles with unusual shapes with mud that I clean with the water I bring. I hid in my bag’s secret pocket can be my irregular rusty collection no one wants.
Now I come here more often; that’s what some do when they have no one to voice their thoughts to, they share them with the sea. Sitting with the hope of answers, they all eventually come from within. Maybe it’s the wind whispering in my ears, and I’m thinking and writing it down, but who knows? and who cares?
The kids’ excitement was expressed, and the parents suppressed as the kid ran, and the parents walked, smiling, slightly tricky to walk on the sand. The other kid smiles with the tourist as it tries to sell the toys to dig and play with the sand, waiting to explore and have fun with it.
The grave scrutiny of my heart when one wants to buy to play, and the other wants to sell to eat.
The shore bombards my brain with the naked truth that I never saw in the premise of four white walls. A cripple old man, sweating from his grey hair, carrying snacks on his shoulders in this heat, surrounded by birds watching him as he strolls on hot sand, hoping when the day is over, he will reach his old rusty house and have enough money to feed his family. That’s the REAL STRUGGLE.
The struggle that pushes me to work hard on what I love and believes in signals my brain that my fingers have to coordinate the thoughts straight from my brain to this old white paper without any filter, just pure feeling, Naked and Brutal. To hold onto that feeling, I am on the shore and writing; it can’t come out from the white wall of the presumption that protects me but keeps me away from the reality and unchanged essence of this city.
Each day my brain sends me images as feeds of different people roaming around the beach; well, young lovers are every day in those feeds, and they make my heart melt and sink. I start missing my love(My girlfriend)in the Capital(Delhi). The rhythm of my heartbeat gets louder, trying everything it’s got to send some signal to the Universe to help us be together, to explore the beauty and filth of this city, holding each other’s hand in the glitter of the Sun and the shadow of the night hoping for the Moon to endow us with the light.
Even though I am not that wise to give any advice if you feel low, and you get a chance to be in the city with beaches, come near shore in the early morning or Afternoon when the crowd is smaller, and you find less babble, sit on the moist sand and touch it with your hand and bare feet, sense the wind, hear its fathomable sound.
The hair proms with the wind hum and the vast sea brings harmony with it, the complete choir just for me as long as I want, I never want anything back, but I can at least give something back by cleaning the shore. Only artificial things can corrupt nature. I cannot.
There is something about the shores of this city; my nude feet touch the soft sand. It gets soiled by the small pieces of waste but isn’t it wonderful when you find something unexpectedly? The trash wouldn’t let you forget it quickly, I pick it up, but the next step on the sand carries on the sweet talking with the feet, and “Blip” you forget everything in the world. The balmy smell of wind pushes me forward and sometimes advises me to stop. The sound of waves, the pristine sound without any filter at all, whispers to me, “Don’t worry, everything will be just fine” That’s the HOPE the SHORE gives me in that shor of people I am in.
I should thank each one of you, for reading this part of my life!
