Aamchi Mumbai
I can imagine that people in the UK must think second generation Indians have it so good being able to go back to India, a warm, tropical country to visit lots of friends and family. They actually think we own palaces with peacocks, that we are driven around in AC-cars, get given lots of jewellery and then come back home with a glorious tan
You and I both know that trips to India are never “holidays”. Having holidays in India are impossible when you have to meet thousands of family members (and sometimes some people posing as family members, I’ve never seen them before in my life but apparently they are my aai’s second cousin’s twice removed niece or my baba’s brother’s milkman who happened to have met me when I was five minutes old). Everything from packing the bags to landing in India to coming all the way back home is an experience unlike any trip I have ever taken, but one that I do at least twice a year. Let’s break down all the stages of a “trip back home”.
Heathrow
There is always that family with stressed out parents who believe they should get to the airport at LEAST five hours before a flight takes off otherwise the Heathrow police won’t let them through the doors, and everything will be doomed forever. This family also has a tearful aai who keeps asking the kids if they have their passports (when she’s holding the damn passports). Last but not least, this family has a fleet of bags the size of houses, not only are the bags bright pink or some other loud colour but the aai has insisted on locking them with massive padlocks and has tied glittering silky ribbons on them to make sure everybody in the world knows this set of bags is owned by a barbie. That family is none other than the Patwardhans. The process of arriving at Heathrow and getting through check-in is more stressful than any exam I have ever sat. Heathrow itself is huge, there are signs everywhere making things easy to find, no long queues, everything is designed to be seamless, so I’ve never really understood why we have to lose our minds and sprint to the boarding gate only to be made to wait for an additional two hours because “the flight is delayed”. There is literally no need to look at the signs at this boarding gate to know it is for a flight to India because like the Patwardhans there are thousands of other Indian families who are also sitting around, as well as the odd “woke” white person in sandals and a string vest looking to go on their next yoga retreat.
Aeropain
So we’ve made it past the gate after a three hour wait and it’s finally time to get on the plane. Unless your name is Brad Pitt you walk straight past the business class section, it used to be filled only with men in suits on their way to a business expo but over the years I have seen more of a mix, everything from a grumpy aunty to…a two year old, yes apparently two year olds have a better quality of air travel than us mere mortals and they don’t even know how their legs work. Finally, we come to the economy class section or as they now call it, “world traveller class”. Row upon row of uncle after uncle after aunty after aunty, packed like battery hens bringing out their vacuum packed theplas, it’s definitely an assault on the senses. I am the type who prefers to sleep during long journeys but on flights to India this is near impossible with the constant train of adrenaline-fuelled toddlers barging down the aisles so I end up reluctantly eating the British Airways meal of lumpy gravy and grey chicken before passing out from one glass of wine. It’s always exciting on the plane knowing every passing minute is a minute closer to aaji, this feeling of hope is the only thing that gets me through these flights, otherwise I would have refused to get on a plane years ago.
Landing
I’ve just started to drift off into dreamland when I get woken up by this shrieking air hostess voice saying “NAMASKAR AAP SAB KA SWAGAT HAI, we are landing in TEN MINUTES” and I look at my brother wide-eyed and happy, knowing fully well that in a matter of minutes we will be on land, and as far away from an aeroplane as possible. I’m not too sure what the selection process is for pilots for British Airways, but I am convinced that flights to India are used for work-experience. A landing might be a little bumpy but otherwise it shouldn’t throw you forward in your seat and create vibrations like an earthquake and a volcano have just hit at the same time. That seat belt “on” sign has never been more of a lifesaver. The good thing is that the flight from hell is now over, and we have touched down in the greatest city in the world – Mumbai.
Out of the Frying Pan and into the Fire
The heat. This section alone can honestly end with those two words. After stepping out of the plane I am hit by a faint smell of leather but more importantly also a huge wave of the hottest air I have ever felt; it hits my face with such force that I end up gasping for air while feeling my hair slowly start to turn into feathers, and my fingers start to sweat like I’m going into labour. The most worrying thing is that everybody working at Mumbai airport seem to be totally fine; after adjusting to the heat (somewhat) I start to realise something that makes me smile inside – I can hear people speaking in Marathi. Not only are the airport staff speaking in Marathi, but they are doing it so casually and it makes me want to run up to them and tell them how much I’ve missed them. Thankfully I resist the urge, there is no way I would risk being tasered by a Mumbai policeman, they don’t mess about. Mumbai airport makes Heathrow look like Asda; before Mumbai airport had its makeover, I recall it being extremely disorganised, there would literally be queues leading to nowhere and unnecessary extra baggage checks. However, Mumbai airport now is stunning, there is AIR CONDITIONING, actual barriers, and clean facilities. After finally finding my family and picking up our massive pink bags, we reluctantly leave the refuge of the airport air conditioning and step out into what seems like an oven.
Finally
I feel like a movie star leaving the airport, there always seems to be a crowd of people just watching everybody, holding up placards but mostly I get the feeling these people are not actually waiting to pick up anybody…they are just sort of…waiting there, watching. After somehow lugging our bags into a grumpy uncle’s taxi, then begins the journey to Dadar. The drive makes me realise two things – the first is how lucky we actually are in the UK to never have to see true poverty and the never-ending limit to which men can suffer so they can feed their families. It’s alarming to be able to see run-down huts right next to giant billboards promoting makeup brands, or beggars living outside a fancy restaurant. The second thing I realise is that if I don’t find somewhere with air conditioning soon, I might just suffocate.
Near Kirti College
The first part of our trip always starts with aaji’s flat around the corner from Kirti College. I don’t know who announces this but every other person in the colony comes downstairs to greet my family and I and invite us over for tea (it’s never just tea, its tea followed by mithai, pohe, varan bhaat, and Naturals ice cream). After filling up our calendars for the next few days we proceed to finally enter the flat (which is the size of my bedroom) and start to unpack the bags which are full to the brim of totally unnecessary boxes of chocolate, and shortbread biscuits to hand out to random people. Unpacking itself takes a good two hours, but finally I can take that cold shower that I desperately need and wear a “house coat”. If I am honest, I despise the way house coats look, I find them too…casual, totally inappropriate to wear in front of guests and just very…”housey” but after being in a flight wearing jeans, surrounded by vomiting toddlers and stale air there is nothing more comfortable than these light cotton gowns; so for the rest of the day I will stay in this while I gather my senses, and try to fix my jet lag quickly.
Dadar
Before aaji wakes us all up with her yoga breathing exercises I hear a strange yelping noise that shocks me awake at about 5am, it sounds something like “ELYAAAAA REEEEEEEEE ELLLLLLYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA…”, I used to think this was some sort of mating call from a massive bird until one day I looked out the window and saw a man walking with a cart of bananas and realised he was actually selling them by yelling “kelya”. It amazes me that there is a demand for bananas that early in the morning and I feel like my sleep has been robbed from me. On top of the banana man are the crows. There must be more crows than actual humans in Mumbai because all you can hear in the background are these giant black birds barking at you. It’s weird how animals in India are just louder than animals in the UK – everything from the birds to the dogs, even the crickets make more noise.
Over the next few days we end up meeting hundreds of family friends, actual family and random people on the street. Having visited Mumbai many times you would think that I have seen the whole city which could not be further from the truth. I see Dadar, at the most Bandra but generally sticking to Dadar. A trip to India is only to Dadar, there is nothing outside Dadar. In a way I prefer this area of Mumbai the most; not only is it inundated with people we know but it’s also still a core Maharashtrian part of Mumbai, almost like a little pocket of Pune. It’s not commercialised to the point of being stripped of Maharashtrian culture. As well as going to meet people my parents insist on taking me to “Shivaji Park”.
Shivaji Park
My parents would always talk about their memories of a place called Shivaji Park. The food they had there, or when they would walk laps with their friends, etc. very basic things but they made out Shivaji Park to be like Alton Towers, a place where everybody goes to have the time of their life. I always imagined from these stories that Shivaji Park would be a gorgeous garden where people can sit on benches and catch up, surrounded by little restaurants, a little eden hidden away in the heart of Dadar. What I hadn’t realised is that my parents had been taking me to Shivaji Park since I was little, I just didn’t know what it was. I now know that Shivaji Park is basically a circle shaped sea of sand down the road from aaji’s flat. Nothing grows in it, there are no gardens there are no palm trees, there are people sitting around the edges of the “park” chatting away, aunties doing their “rounds” and children playing cricket. My parents truly believe that walking laps of Shivaji Park helps to improve overall health and is good for weight loss which didn’t make sense in my head at all but when I realised that it involves walking on hazardous pavements and dodging cows and stray puppies it made sense.
Weight, I can’t eat anymore!
One thing I don’t understand is how on earth anybody in India is slim. What are they eating? HOW are they able to do it? After spending a week in Mumbai, I feel like a gigantic, bloated and sweaty potato. All of those frantic pre-India gym sessions are cancelled out by the force-feeding sessions of carbs carbs carbs carbs and carbs, and I find the buttons on my jeans feeling like they are about to fling off and hit somebody. Those Shivaji Park rounds don’t seem to work either after a certain point and living a minute away from the famous Ashok Vada Pav stand does NOT help. Every time I visit Mumbai, I promise myself that I won’t go overboard with the food, and after a few days I end up hoovering down anything I am handed.
As well as all the fantastic homemade food people make, there will always be the guilty pleasure of Chinese food in Mumbai. One thing has to be said, Chicken Manchurian is a made-up dish. The same way Chicken Tikka Masala was invented in the UK I am positive that somebody decided to come up with an exotic name for Indian Chicken Balls in Indian Style Gravy. Yet in the last few days of the trip I find myself calling up a really dodgy restaurant called “Chinese Gardens” and ordering Hakka Noodles, Chicken Manchurian and some other totally made up Chinese dish like “Schezwan Killer Prawns” and the ever-famous “American Chopsuey”. Everything in Mumbai is always delicious, I couldn’t care less if Indian cooking kills off any natural flavour with the use of an obscene amount of spices, everything tastes amazing (especially those Shivaji Park Frankies).
Shopping
I am not a shopping fan; I love to spend money but the actual process of shopping in Mumbai is closer to getting lost in a riot than actually having fun looking around the shops. Aaji insists that we buy clothes in an area called Dadar TT… Shop after shop of multicoloured clothes with frills frills frills, “rose patterned” men’s shirts and bhaajis lining the pavements. I’m no fashion queen and I love my aaji dearly, but I worry for my life and any remaining fashion sense I have when I visit this area and buy anything.
Samudra
Forget the Sea Link, forget the way the beaches look, the best thing about Dadar Chowpatty Beach is the sound. The gentle surge of crashing waves is the most calming sound I have heard. The night before leaving Mumbai to come back to the UK, once all the bags are packed and all the guests have gone, I walk downstairs and listen to the waves for a few minutes. It’s a rare time for there to be no crows croaking or any banana men screaming, but around 2am is when you can actually appreciate the sound of the sea.
This is the point where I start to feel like I need to find a reason to stay, and suddenly something starts to hurt…and I don’t want to leave.
A Piece of Home
I try to avoid goodbyes where possible, but this is one goodbye that hits differently. I wish aajis were portable, that you could fold them up and take them with you in your hand luggage and re-assemble them at home. Unfortunately dear aaji says her goodbyes to us and in the early hours of the morning, my family and I leave for the airport with tears streaming down our faces (it’s always a melodramatic scene, as if we were never coming back when we have our next set of flights booked already!). The airport, the plane, it’s all a blur going back to the UK and unlike landing in India, when the plane lands back on the ground in London I feel an overwhelming sense of dread and dullness take over. Tell the plane to turn around, I forgot a piece of home in Mumbai.
Unlike the heatwave in Mumbai, walking out of Heathrow I am greeted by nobody, only by icy wind and total silence, even from the overweight pigeons. I’m Miss Pat Wor Dan now, not Miss Patwardhan. I can’t hear the banana man, and the crows fly away from me. The cars follow traffic rules, and I need to add salt to my food. It takes days, sometimes a couple of weeks to get used to the fact that I live in the UK and my life is here; and it’s now ironic that I wake up in the night because I can’t hear any noise.
The sorrow doesn’t actually last very long because we have smuggled over a lifetime supply of chewdas, aaji’s kairi cha loncha, and only the finest bags of methkut. Ultimately what it comes down to however is that I will keep going to India, not because I can’t resist the food, not because I can’t refuse invites from insane stalker aunties…
but because Mumbai majhi ahe.
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