Mumbai

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After having spent a year in Mumbai, I am now able to relate to it as Bombay. And, with a little help from my nose, I can even tell which part of the city I am in.

It was during one of my trips back from Delhi that I experienced this moment of epiphany, as I stepped out of Chhatrapati Shivaji Airport, and shut the door of the black and yellow Fiat Padmini taxi, the unassuming four wheeler with a distinctive smell that drives this city, along with the famed local trains. South Mumbai, or ‘town’ as the Mumbaikars like to call it, is solely dependent upon this forgotten glory of the past, as the cheaper version of public transport, the auto-rickshaws, do not ply there.

As my ride towards the town began from the Western Expre ss Highway, and my taxi inched into the thickening traffic, I sunk back into my seat and shut my eyes out of exhaustion, assuming that I had nothing new to discover. That was the moment I realised that when you put on hold one of your bodily senses, the rest of the senses get heightened.

One of the first smells that wafted into my nose was the smell of raw fish. Repulsive at first, leading to the formation of a slight crease at my eyebrows, it soon gave way to a pleasant vision of the delicacies of bombil and jheenga fry. Scenes of Maharashtrian housewives cooking in their kitchens, and dabbawalas transporting their ‘tiffins’ across the city crossed my mind. Mumbai invites you with its distinctive aromas of food hovering even in the thickest of traffics.

At the next long wait, somewhere near Bandra, my nose was awakened to fragrances of cheap perfumes mixed with expensive ones, along with the odour of sweat. I sensed that these were from pedestrians scurrying along the streets, carving their own paths, yet careful not to intrude upon another’s. It is a lesson to be learnt from the busy Mumbaikar, whose dexterity in balancing work and home is admirable. In the city where the hand that flaunts an iPhone walks shoulder to shoulder with the hand that holds a begging bowl, the warm smell of humanity cannot be neglected. In the very claustrophobia that repels the eye, the nose was able to identify the innate human bond therein.

As I was reaching Haji Ali, the unmistakable trail of the sea captivated my senses. The peculiar whiff of salt mixed with water churns up memories of the Marine Drive, Worli Sea face and Breach Candy—all at once. Yet, I am now also able to recognise it as different from the smells of the seas of other places. The coast of Mumbai does not smell pristine, as that of Kerala, exotic as that of Andaman, laid-back as that of Chennai, or inviting as that of Goa. The aroma of Mumbai’s waterfront is redolent of its people, its culture and its food. The filth of the city that washes down to accumulate at its waters, the unending crowds that throng the shore like an unbreakable mass of termite-hill, the reek of poorly-maintained public urinals, the pungency of street-side buttered pop-corn… all amalgamate at the great Mumbai waterfront. Symbolic of the accommodating nature of its people, the sea of Mumbai is the great enchantress that devours every pain that you go with up to her, ensuring that you submerge all your worries in her waters and return with the serenity you had unknowingly come to seek.

As I touched the historical part of the city, I was transported to the Victorian era, when the British chose Bombay as their major port. The musty odours that surround the Elphinstone Building, the Mumbai Police Headquarters, and the Victoria Terminus were unmistakable. A walk down the Fort area earlier had acquainted me with the Gothic smells of these old structures, making you marvel at their sheer antiquity. Their smells take you back in time, and fill you with awe at the rich history they encompass. The dank odours inside the Asiatic library fill you with a sense of surrender towards the, sadly, decrepit structure it has become. At this point, I was revisited by the aromas of local delicacies—vada pav and pav bhaji—a taste gradually acquired, and now deeply cherished. My nose was intermittently tingled by the freshness wafting out of the bakeries, both niche and dated Parsi ones. It opened me up to the entire section of the Parsis, who form an imperative component of the history and formation of this city.

I knew I was nearing home, as my nose took in the posh scents of Colaba and its high-end markets. Which other place could so beautifully amalgamate both, a rich history as well as the most modern fashions, as personified by the Taj Palace Hotel itself.

In this brief journey of mine, the city grew to take its hold over me and bewitch me with its sights and sounds, that I now realise I can also relive through its smells. The smell of untarnished history and the living culture of this city grows to take roots into you. It stays in you to become a part of you, to make you free and invite you to merge into them and become one with them. It is what makes you understand why Mumbai will always remain Bombay for those who have absorbed the smells of this land. For them this is what home smells like.

This was first published in the March 2014 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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The ardent cat lover that I am, it breaks my heart to see how much these gentle beings are misunderstood and subjected to extreme psychoanalysis. The first words of accusation that spurt out of the professed cat-haters being that cats are emblematic of cunningness, stealth, and deceit! Moreover, there is a strong case for why cats are favoured more by women, as I learned to my horror during the argument. As my otherwise-friendly friend put it, women are like cats­—they fake affection to go after a fisherman with their tail perked up, and when they gain their prized piece of fish, they turn their backs, flick their tails and strut away in smugness. The fisherman is forgotten, along with his act of kindness, for now the cat has got what she wanted. If you haven’t picked up on the analogy already, he was hinting at the capricious nature of women to enchant unsuspecting ‘innocent’ men, catch them in their nets, and cast them away after satisfying themselves with their own version of fish. I had begun to lose track mid-way of the quarrel as to whether we were defending our respective preferred animals at all.

I therefore have to see myself as this defender of cats—and no, that does not entitle you to call me ‘Cat-Woman’. Though, with the incidental alliteration that my name has with my favourite animal, I am sometimes given the sobriquet of “Catty”. I don’t see why these benign creatures should be seen as anything other than divine manifestations of angel-like serenity and beauty. C’mon, they were deified by the Egyptians!

Other than dissecting cats psychologically, including accusing them of being lazy and selfish, dog-lovers [read cat-haters] have this compulsion of dismissing them as good-for-nothing, unlike dogs [the ferocious hounds score brownie points for their knack of assisting mankind with their intense sense of smell, memory, alertness, loyalty, blah-blah].

Objection, my lords and ladies! How can you afford to shut your eyes to all the cleaning up you have to do running after their poop? As for cats, I doubt there is another creature with such an intrinsic sense of cleanliness. What about all the ruckus dogs create with their incessant barking at the hint of a guest at home, not to forget the street-dogs that either rouse you from your slumber, or never let you sleep at all? Case-in-point: I am constantly asked by bewildered friends when I talk on the phone, what I am doing out on the roads or in my balcony at mid-night; and each time I have to tell them that being in the innermost room of my house on the fourth floor is not enough to shut out all the barking coming from the roads.

Cats, on the other hand, are the most peaceful companions for all ages. They radiate a sort of Zen, with their calm demeanour and closed eyes—a picture of pure meditation and tranquillity; you can almost see the halo.

Yes, cats do have a mischievous streak to them! Take the scratches on my arms and legs, for example. I have sometimes noticed the questioning look in strangers’ eyes, wondering if they are signs of domestic abuse. Or when my favourite piece of fried pomfret vanishes into thin air, the second I look away from my plate. Oh, but aren’t these just adorable idiosyncrasies that come along with the package? Cats bring out the inner strength in me when I face the tirade of censure I receive from my mother when she finds the blanket full of cat-fur, or the freshly mopped floor with little paw-marks of dirt from the garden. Or the hollering I hear from dad when he gets bitten, only because he stepped on mademoiselle’s tail that was so impudently laid right where he placed his foot. Ah, the pleasure of defending my love! Makes me a true knight in shining armour, eh?

I must say that a wave of change is coming about now. Thanks to Facebook celebrity Grumpy Cat, cats are being viewed more respectfully, or at least the grumpier versions of them. They are now seen as paragons of sarcasm and in-your-face retorts that many of us secretly envy. They will stand no nonsense, nor bow down to doggish slavery. They are their own masters and command human subservience. The debate of superiority between cats and dogs ends thus–

Dog: Humans feed me, pet me and love me. They must be god.

Cat: Humans feed me, pet me and love me. I must be god!

This was first published in the December 2013 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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