Mumbai Calling

“Is it your first time? Don't worry, I'll help you. Be careful. It might be tough at first, but you'll love it. Oh, it gets sticky and wet. Dress appropriately”

I have been spoken to more about Mumbai than sex, drugs and alcohol (and not the very conveniently left out cigarettes). Instructionally ofcourse, I come from a rather open family where the cringe-induceability of the members are directly proportional to the information shared. Everyone seemed to think Mumbai wasn't my place.

“You're too used to another life honey” Read: You're spoilt and if you carry on like this I'm gonna be broke. Courtesy-the boy.

“People aren't very nice there” Read: You're a pussy. Courtesy-dad

“Wear open shoes! Mosquito repellant! Do you have zyrtec? Paracetamol? I have a fifth cousin in pune, I'll give you their number!” Read: You're doomed, serves you right for taking my lipstick. Courtesy-mom.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!” Read: I need new friends.

So, armed with encouraging words and for some strange (yet stellar, I'm sure) reason sans raincoat or umberella (my bikery chick jacket looks sort of waterproofy I suppose) I reached. I landed. I held back a cough as they scanned my Swine Flu card (yes I've experienced all the symptoms. But I don't get interesting newsworthy ailments. I get the common cold caused by too much wine by a lake in the rain. I know. I checked. WebMD might as well me my homepage and Boots my living room. I'm allergic to dust though, if you're interested. Dust.)

Everyone I've met in Mumbai asks me the same question, “what do you think?” as though Mumbai was a work of art only the discerning could enjoy. Seeing as this was my second day there and I had only really spent about 12 hours in the city at that point, the bulk of it in a delightfully tantraic lounge bar restaurant type establishment with class and less of the sticky tables and suspect beds and more lovely sushi and retro music and 'domestic' wine to everyone's horror; as well as in one of dad's oldtime friend's apartment. It was in this context that it was decided that I needed to go to a street to shop and get completely ripped off by the locals who would instantly realise that I know as much Hindi as Obama. With less of the whole POTUS thing going on. (being 'Lakshmy' I'm more of the Lotus persuasion. HAHAHAHA!). The only place I could actually remember was Colaba Causeway, maybe because of 26/7 or word of mouth or because Colaba just sounds nice. A few cheap H&M tops later, the likes of which I have never seen back in Notts or London, bags and impulse buys later I began to understand why people go places to shop. There's nothing like being able to convert things back into pounds. A very irate brother of a friend who had only spent a year in the UK seethed, “Just because it's nothing in pounds doesn't mean it's nothing in Rupees!” as we gleefully giggled over how cheap everything was.

Another lovely dinner later heralded my last day in luxury, and despite “You're not staying here? Why not? You should, one of the drivers will take you up and down for work and shopping and everything” I (for some insane and uncharacteristic reason) made my way to the corporate guesthouse near the company I'd be working for. It's no smoking. It's no alcohol. The internet says 100Mbps but it can't possibly be more than 0.5. And mom says hostels are worse. I almost think back longingly to my room during the first week, in (of all halls) Rutland. After a few heavy sighs and temporary euphoria at the fact that the TV has decent English channels I decided to stop feeling like a deprived yet spoilt brat. Five minutes later I went back to being me.

But enough about me (I doubt it). It's humid here. And alive. Inspiring and depressing and frustrating and uplifting all at the same time. Three days here, and although I still haven't made up my mind about this place it's crystalastically easy to see why some people hate Mumbai with every fibre of their being, and some don't ever want to leave.

In retrospect, I think it is.