To Bandra, with jealousy

If you spend a week in Bombay, anywhere in Bombay that is, it would help you make at least one absolute statement in life. That life is tough. You arrive here with a bag full of memories of tiny roads meandering under the shade of trees drooping from either sides, of cycling to school and running away for a quiet afternoon on the roofs of your pretty houses, often getting disturbed by the noise made by a few rickshaws as you listen to your dad complain about how your town has changed, and then you smile to yourself, thinking that you have to live in Bombay now. Yes you live in Bombay now, you think a 400 square feet flat with a room and a hall with suspicious green flooring is an absolute steal. You think as long as you spend less than five grand a month for your daily transport you are living in a perfect area. You walk by in the morning staring intently at a Gulmohar tree and write poetry about how beautiful mornings are, and then suddenly, like the batmobile tearing through the silence of Gotham city in the middle of the night, comes the pest control, blowing pesticide and smoking the entire place up, and you rejoice. For now you imagine that the morning turned prettier as the Gulmohar is enveloped by a fog. Yes you are in Bombay now, while you are asleep in the middle of the night, desperately trying to push away the approaching dawn when you have to get up and rush through the crowded streets to the crowded platforms so that you are lucky enough to get at least 4 inch space in a crowded train right outside the entrance of the cabin, and suddenly feel a drop of water fall silently on your cheek, rolling down like a tear that lost its way, it’s not a sad dream. You wake up and see that like in the room high above on a pole where Cacophonix used to practice and make it rain indoors, the rain outside has graciously decided to remind you how wet it is through the ceiling of your beloved home. When you wake up and take your mattress and shift to another room and go back to sleep without uttering a single syllable of protest or disgust, you know you are in Bombay now.

And if you happen to stay in this very wonderful and glamorous place in the western suburbs called Bandra, well, you do all that, but just pay double. You see like every beautiful thing in life, Bandra comes at a price. For Bandra is a beautiful place. Hilly roads twisting and turning like a small Sicilian town where you would see Caucasians cycling to market place, delightful little cafeterias and bakeries so that you are never given the impression that you are too far away from Europe. Yes Europe, you seat next to this place called French Loaf and eat pastry and soft bun, and look at a lovely little Volkswagen Beetle go past followed by a teenager on a skate board. That’s Bandra. Delightfully international. Admit that this is India, anything international is supposed to be delightful, but Bandra is like an example to that sentence. You have bakeries called Sante, and a day in the week, where you have a ‘farmers’ market’! Bandra does its bit to make Bombay truly cosmopolitan. There is the annual Bandra Fair, its very own Mardi Gras, and on certain lazy Sundays, there are a few wine tasting events as well, where you can see women in floral one piece dresses (or whatever it’s call, excuse my fashion sense) and men with hats discussing, well, art. So you see, to be a part of this, you need to pay up. Bombay is expensive, but Bandra, is fashionably expensive. If you hear someone say “oh I pay 200 bucks for a veg thali from the local eatery, but then it’s Bandra,” with a very nonchalantly proud shoulder shrug, don’t be surprised. Be jealous, but not surprised. You don’t stay in Bandra, you won’t know what it is to be a part of it. You don’t get to quietly walk down Carter Road and witness a rock show to ‘celebrate Bandra’, you don’t get to intellectualise the abstract art exhibition with a theme to fight pollution opposite Joggers’ Park and witness the crimson dusk in the midst of walkers, joggers and expensive breeds of dogs with their masters wearing gloves and carrying newspapers to diligently clean their poop every time they defecate. So be jealous. If one fine day, you see that there is mushroom growing from your mat under the basin, do not be afraid, it’s but a small price to pay, because once you get out of that, you are probably 10 minutes away from a pretty little cafe, or five away from the beach.

You see in Bandra, houses have character. They are not going to let you take them for granted. I read somewhere that Afghans used to take pride in the fact that even though they were to live in an arid land with absolutely nothing to take pleasure from, harsh winters, burning summers, no water and only stones for miles, they loved their motherland enough to not desert it. They could have easily moved to the prosperous lands of Iran or even crossed the Indus to come to India, but they didn’t, for their love for their own land was strong enough for them to withstand the difficulties. You see Bandra houses give you the mettle, the character of an Afghan. You might forget that at some place, somewhere not that far away, there is a phenomenon where sunlight may enter your house, that it is not a miracle of some sorts. You might forget, that there are neighbours, when they open their doors, their homes won’t stink of something that can be anything from a rat to a titanium; and you most definitely might forget that end of a rainy season doesn’t necessary mean that your house would become a botanical garden of some sorts, but even if you do remember, like the Afghans, you would continue to live. Not necessarily, unlike the Afghans, because you actually love it, but because you won’t have a choice. Moving away from Bandra has its advantages, and a lot actually do, but then, if you don’t stay in Bandra, you don’t stay in Bandra. Somewhere, somehow, some way, something will certainly itch. So next time you see your friend who is living in Bandra, observe him closely. You will see intensity, there will be pride, trying to blanket a not so thin layer of strife and pain, giving his face a very deep and complex countenance. I call it the Bandra look, try it, it’s very sexy.

In my short stint with the queen of suburbs (seven months to be precise), I have grown a lot. Well, may be not a lot, but grown all the same. Next time I rant about discomfort, I would think twice. Next time I look at the sky as it bursts open and think that rains are romantic, I would think more than twice. And the next time I visit a pretty little bakery or a cafe or even a culturally active promenade, I would always think of her.

For now, it’s so long Bandra. Thank you for the memories, good and bad. If I had a god, I would have kept you in my prayers. You are no Khyber Pass, but you gave me the confidence to face one.