One of the most iconic sights in Mumbai is the Worli-Bandra Sea link, an eight-lane-wide, five-kilometre-long bridge across the sea, cradling the city’s sprawling coastline in its steel and concrete embrace. Leaving the sweet, seaside charm of the South behind me, my second full week in Mumbai found me gliding over this super-sized conveyor belt to Bollywood-land, in an air-conditioned car no less! As he conveyed me on an uncharacteristically smooth and traffic-free journey to my next destination, my Ola driver pointed out the houses of Shahrukh Khan, Salman Khan and Akshay Kumar in the distance.
I couldn’t wait to get a closer look, but it hadn’t escaped me that for every beachside villa in Mumbai, there were thousands of makeshift huts, and tarpaulin tents sheltering whole families. As we entered Andheri, Ananya Pandey looked down over the slums from a billboard emblazoned with the caption “The only thing I want is everything.” I thought this quite an ironic marketing message for people who have next to nothing and simply aspire to something. But to the man in a dusty vest and lungi standing beneath her as he munched on his vada pav, something seemed to be enough.
Simple pleasures
Biting into my own morsel of spicy potato goodness at Dadar Chowpatty that evening, for a humble twenty rupees (20p), I watched the sun set over the swooping silhouette of the Sea Link in the distance. A legion of pigeons scrambled for scraps beside the street food stalls, chased into the sky by a small but fearless toddler. I perched on a rock as a group of boys played football on the beach, glancing furtively at the stranger watching their game. After a while their ringleader sidled over to flex his English skills in front of his friends. He reminded me of the Artful Dodger from Oliver Twist, desperate to prove that he was grown up and worldly-wise, although he insisted he was 21. He had friends from all over the world, he told me - America, Europe, Dubai – and knew all the best places to go clubbing in the city. Did I want to go on a night out with him? I declined, but agreed to a game of football with the boys.
To nobody’s surprise, they thrashed me, but it was such a fun and totally unexpected way to spend the evening. Dodger tried in vain to teach me how to kick properly and the younger ones ran sniggering circles around me while I did my best just to keep the ball out of the sea. I’ll always remember my trips to the Amber Fort and the Taj Mahal, but moments like these have also stayed with me for different reasons. There’s an understated kind of joy in the unique travel experiences that only you have, which don’t need 22,000 skilled craftsmen, 28 types of precious and semi-precious stone and the undying love of an exiled Mughal Emperor to be special.
Still in a spontaneous mood, the next day I made the short journey from Andheri to Powai to explore Powai Lake and Gardens. The weather was sticky hot, and my sneezing from the week before had come back to haunt me, but sitting among the bulrushes at the water’s edge, watching the Mumbai skyline dissolve into the trees and the mountains beyond, was very calming. After a while, the mystery of what lay beneath the canopy, along with the promise of shade, drew me towards the gardens at the edge of the lake. I wasn’t disappointed. As I walked through the entrance, I was greeted by a flurry of butterflies like none I’d ever seen before, and the soft sunlight filtered down on them through layer after layer of tropical greenery. On the way up to the lake was a rickety old bandstand, underneath which a large group of men had come to shoot the breeze, and perhaps to get away from their wives for a bit. It seemed like a wholesome alternative to a trip down the pub!
The garden was separated from the lake by a large dam which fed a stream that ran through the middle of it. As I followed the water through the trees, all sorts of disused structures poked out from behind them, becoming part of the landscape as they rusted and fell to pieces. One in particular that struck me was a giant platform rising up into the treetops, accessible via a crooked metal staircase. It was eerie, even in broad daylight, and yet part of me really wanted to climb it. So I did. I wondered, as I cautiously ascended the steps, what it might have been used for in the past. Scattered needles gave some indication of what went on there now. It creaked disconcertingly with every step, but it was so big that I doubted I would be the thing that toppled it. When I saw the view from the top, I was glad I took the risk. Beyond the needles and smashed beer bottles was a better view of the gardens than I ever could have gotten from the ground. It was like looking out over a mini jungle, but instead of big cats, there were couples meeting in secret and old, bearded men shuffling past and tutting at them.
Behind the scenes in B-Town
Those that know me will know how much I love Bollywood, and seeing where the film-making magic happened was a big motivation for my trip. However, the tour I booked was not exactly what I expected. Although I did get to see some cool things, like live shooting for a local TV serial and a set for Kapoor & Sons, it wasn’t very well organised and my guide didn’t even seem to know the itinerary for the day. I also discovered later that the house she claimed was Mannat, the
Mumbai residence of legendary Bollywood superstar Shahrukh Khan (which was conveniently scaffolded in preparation for Diwali) was just a random house, 30 minutes’ drive from the real building. I had also paid extra for a dance workshop which she knew nothing about and had to go through a lot of hassle to get a refund.
With all that said, there were a few special moments that made up for everything else. I got to watch a car bomb “explosion” happen on a pretend street, over six takes and using god knows how many bags of flour. In a turn of events so insane, it could only happen in an Indian TV serial, a five year old schoolgirl faced-off with a gun-wielding terrorist and saved her class and teachers from death with just her cuteness and Gandhi-esque words of wisdom. But the highlight for me was exploring some of the sets used in Pavitra Rishta, the show which launched one of my favourite actors, the late Sushant Singh Rajput. I sat through many a dramatic jump cut, family crying session and crazy plot twist watching it during the lockdowns, and it made me quite emotional to recognise these places where he had been.
Later that week, I met for coffee with my friend Piyush, who happened to be in Mumbai for Diwali, and he took me to Sushant’s old apartment in Bandra. I couldn’t explain why, but I just wanted to go there, even more than I’d wanted to see Mannat. It was an unassuming building, for the home of a Bollywood actor, but still beautiful, with a lovely sea view. I remember thinking that it suited him very well. We stood and prayed for a brief moment, but didn’t want to stay too long in such a tragic place. I went away glad to have visited, but preferring to think of Sushant running around the sets of Pavitra Rishta or dancing with Sara Ali Khan in Kedarnath than sad, drugged and lonely in his apartment.
Farewell but not goodbye
The morning after a night out with my friend in Powai, I found myself sat in Mount St. Mary Church, Bandra, feeling surprisingly awake and sober. Its bright, welcoming interior was decorated in cream, blue and gold, and each of the walls colourfully depicted a scene from the life of Mary. It was unlike any church I had ever seen, and yet exactly what I would expect an Indian church to look like. All the statues were draped in garlands and surrounded with brightly-coloured candles. Women in sarees whispered things to Mary's statue in languages I couldn't understand. On my way out, I met a boy running errands for his mum and asked him where to find food. He offered to show me a place, and we chatted along the way. I tried to speak in Hindi, but he was determined to practise his English and so I listened with a big smile as he told me about the lessons he was having and his plans to go to the UK one day. His enthusiasm warmed my heart.
Before we parted ways, we passed a couple of Bandra’s famous murals of Bollywood actors. I stopped to take pictures, but my companion seemed disinterested. Their big-screen India was not his India, and his mind was somewhere else entirely. I remember being his age and feeling trapped in my home town, anxious to see the world. Eventually, he sauntered off down a side-street, listlessly swinging his bag of groceries from hand to hand. I wondered what he pictured when he thought of England – I hope that it will live up to his dreams as much as India did for me.
The day before Diwali, I went to visit some friends of mine in Thane, and had the loveliest time meeting them and their families. I was just about to shoehorn that whole experience into a couple of lacklustre sentences, but Thane really needs its own article, so watch this space... And so we come to Diwali itself, my penultimate day in India. With all my things packed ready for my flight in the morning, I went for one last walk down the street behind my hotel before going to Piyush’s place to celebrate with his family. The atmosphere was magical – every house, street stall and balcony was aglow with lights and lanterns. Flustered aunties hurried from shop to shop, picking up last minute bits and bobs. Mothers and children knelt together on their front steps making rangolis to invite positive energy and prosperity into their houses, and welcome Diwali guests. I stopped to buy a tray of sweets for Piyush’s mum, and treated myself to Baskin Robbins gulab jamun ice cream that melted apace in the post-monsoon humidity.
As I walked back towards my hotel, wishing passers-by a happy Diwali between gloopy mouthfuls, a man approached me, laughing nervously. He hovered a few paces away, like I had with the snake charmer in Jaipur, as if I might bite him.
“Hello! I like your suit. You are looking very good in Indian clothes.” He said. I thanked him and wished him a Happy Diwali, and he relaxed a little. We stood talking for a while, as the dusty blue of the sky deepened into its evening colours, and then he asked if I’d like to take a ride with him and see the lights in Andheri. I had some time to kill, and something in the air made me forget my inhibitions and climb onto his bike, all dressed up in my shiny new anarkali and with no helmet. It turned out to be another risk worth taking. Something about watching the festive blur of fairy lights and firecrackers on the back of a bike – for the first time in my life – felt like a final rite of passage.
But the highlight of the night was sharing in the food and festivities at Piyush’s family home, with an incredible rooftop view of all the fireworks in the entire city. When I arrived, after a brief exchange with his parents in spluttering Hindi (I was a teensy bit nervous), I was ushered into the apartment next door where his aunty was dishing out a traditional Rajasthani thali. She was more talkative than the rest of the family put together, and the partial language barrier was no match for her conversation skills. As I tucked into a selection of veg curries with kachori, roti and a giant, pistachio-filled gulab jamun for afters, she asked me about my travels, especially my time in Rajasthan. When she discovered I was a dancer, she insisted that I teach her my moves. And so we got up and danced to Yeh Ladka Hai Allah and Bole Chudiyan, much to the quiet amusement of her sweet but reserved husband. Piyush, to his great credit, obliged us by being our Shahrukh.
We finished the night up on the roof, chasing fireworks round the smoke-filled sky with our cameras for the perfect shot. In the end though, we decided just to watch them and enjoy the moment. He pointed out Marine Drive in the distance, and Andheri and Powai and all the places I had visited in the city. Below us, fireworks shot up from every street corner, whistling and popping as people on the ground bolted from their lit fuses. On a neighbouring roof, a group of women sat singing and celebrating, their vivid, glittering suits catching the lamplight as they danced and swayed. When they saw me watching, they turned and waved. Even with my mouth and eyes dry and scratchy from all the smoke, I was so happy. All the emotions of the moment caught in my throat and flooded my eyes as I thought about leaving in the morning, but the waterworks were interrupted by the arrival of Piyush’s nieces. He introduced me and they said hello very sweetly but it was clear that all they wanted was to see their favourite uncle.
After getting back to the hotel, I sat next to my window and watched the last few fireworks traipse across the sky. On the balconies of the apartment building opposite, the fairy lights flickered gently, lulling me into a trance, which the randy pigeons on my windowsill eventually cooed me back out of. Just as it began, my time in India ended in tears, but these were tears of a very different kind. I was sad to be going, but also so proud of the me who, for a panicked moment, wanted to go straight home after landing in Delhi, and yet decided not to.
