The Mind Aches for Physical Space
I’ve been away from home for over 10 days now. This is my goodbye trip to a lot of friends and family before I leave the country for a while. I had been really looking forward to these 10 days - the chance to meet people I consider close without the constant stress of what awaits at work (I am currently on my notice period - a blissful state that I recommend everyone take full advantage of), and the opportunity to discover a city I’ve always wanted to explore since I read Shantaram - Bombay.
I have visited Bombay almost every year of my life. But I’ve always been too caught up between family and logistics to ever fully explore its essence. To me, Bombay was a delicious dish I nibbled at every time I was here, but I needed a big bite to really savour it. I wanted to visit the little lanes in Colaba, the scattered stalls in Chor Bazaar, go for runs on Carter Road, and have a drink at a speakeasy. I wanted to ‘immerse’ myself in Bombay. I don’t know why I disregarded every existing account of it. Everyone knows this - there is no immersion in Bombay. You simply drown.
By day 2, the heat, sweat, noises and traffic had already worn me out. While sitting in a taxi (a non-AC cab since all Uber drivers seemed to enjoy cancelling on me), a bus scraped the entire length of our car. I sprung up in attention while the cab driver and bus driver both simply signalled at each other - one symboling ‘what/how/aise kaise?’ and the other pointing to the right - implying ‘move out of my way’. I stared at the driver aghast but only for a few seconds, because by then both vehicles had done a quick calculation on the risk-reward of fighting about it. The risk was losing 10 minutes of their time on a busy street in Colaba and the reward was at most some dissipation of vexation. So I assume my cab driver seethed in silence - another layer on the multiple folds of silent frustration that is woven into every Bombay-dweller’s life. Perhaps this is good too. It has made the people of this city supremely resilient and even easy-going. Why waste time on something you can’t change?
But my already chaotic day had been jolted again. I felt a sharp stab of something like home-sickness - for Delhi. I put up a quick Instagram story captioned ‘The more time I spend in Bombay, the more I like Delhi.’ I don’t deny it - it was an informed risk. Within minutes, my DMs were flooded with ‘How can you say so?’ and ‘What is wrong with you?’
Well, what is wrong with me is that I am an introvert. And as an introvert who is easily affected by stimulus, Bombay was proving to be a bit much. At that moment, I felt almost claustrophobic. My next 10 days were to look much like this, and in close proximity with various people. I almost considered putting an end to my trip. I was to not only bear the brunt of constant stimulus in this buzzing city, but also share a room with someone every day of my trip.
In India, any personal space is almost a privilege. Many people grow up in a house that has two people too many. The vast majority still live in houses with no rooms. The concept of physical boundaries is an idea alien to many. As a child, I would always lock myself up in a room and read. My parents would often ask me why. I did not have enough self-awareness to explain to them why I felt more at peace alone, and why just the fact that anyone could walk into my room while I was reading felt a little uncomfortable. Throughout my life, I have been terribly shy during social interactions - a trait considered quite unbecoming. It has been painful for me to exhibit my true self without fair warning. I never liked sharing my bed nor looked forward to any social gatherings, any attention (even positive) made me want to hide under a rock, and this included even my immediate family.
Sharing might be a beautiful part of our culture, but as an introvert, sharing my space was inversely correlated with any peace. I have been fortunate enough to grow up in a house large enough to afford me that space, and subsequently have the financial independence to live alone. My first apartment was a pigeonhole, albeit a cute one. It was all I could afford, but I was unwilling to share my space with anyone else. I soon moved into a bigger apartment, but nothing really changed. I still felt a warm feeling every morning I woke up alone, and every evening when I returned to MY house. It is difficult for others to understand this. At weddings and family functions, I am often the +1 since my divorce. Which means that I am the person who gets the extra bed in a room. My sister and brother-in-law have always been kind and accommodated me to the point of absurdity. But when I was married, I remember being on a family vacation, and suddenly being asked to accommodate 2 more people in my room. I did it for 2 nights, and then refused for the remaining 4 days. I remember how people looked at me then - almost in shock. I even questioned myself - was I really so selfish? Today, I understand myself much more. Getting some time just to myself is crucial for my mental balance. I am unable to let my guard down in front of people - however close they might be. I even sleep in a different position. Being around people 24/7 even on a holiday meant that it was actually no holiday for me. I wonder if people realize the impact of physical space on the mental. Being in Bombay brings me this realization in full force.
A city that is cramped for space everywhere - in its roads, buildings, lifts, trains, outside the house and even inside - it is easy to feel overwhelmed. I am lucky, as Manu Joseph writes a piece on Bombay right when I feel all these things, and saves me the trouble of elaboration -
About eight years ago when the first Mumbai Metro line opened, the passengers gawked like ancient rustics at the swanky air-conditioned cars, and the automatic doors. It was all so new to them. Purely from their reactions, they did not look like residents of one of the largest urban economies of the world.
This January, two more sections of two more metro lines opened, and the reactions of the people were the same because the people of Mumbai are still not used to what is basic infrastructure not only in the urban world but also in urban India. Most of Mumbai still travels in humid trains that cannot be air-conditioned because commuters spill out of the cars, dangling all the way, some of them falling to their deaths almost every day. In fact, most of Mumbai is not used to air-conditioned public buses or even taxis. Its traffic congestion today is among the worst in the world because it does not have enough roads. It is only now that some infrastructural projects are nearing completion, or starting.
This was once a great city, but has regressed so much that today, even by Asian standards, it is merely a small town with a lot of people in it. Even in the form of modern urban entertainment, it has nothing beyond food. Yes, women are generally safer on the roads, if you do not count the New Year’s eve.
Today, as I walked through the lanes of Bandra, I once again felt charmed by Bombay. The residential buildings that look like people live in them and not bankers, the scattered houses of the Salsette Catholic Housing Co-op, the fact that I could see the sky from ground level, the quiet small-town vibe, and the walk along the sea on Carter Road. It felt like in these parts, Bombay was what it was meant to be - hot, humid, sea-facing, alive yet lazy.
It is my last day in Bombay, and even though I have a late night flight, I have decided to arrive at the airport hours in advance, just to be away from company, and to put on paper all the thoughts that have been swimming in my head. But just for a while, I sit on a bench in front of the sea, take in the sights - a cat atop a postbox, a dog park, a bench with three generations of women, couples and runners, friends and ice creams, a hundred sights and smells, and then a cool breeze. I’ve had enough of Bombay for a bit. I’m ready to return to my bed, my room, and my head.