Mumbai Diaries - 4

Monday. A heritage walk pops up on my feed. The start time (8 am) immediately puts me off. In my current state I’d rather curl up and sleep in. The walk goes through a part of Mumbai I’ve already been through. I hesitate, wondering if it is worth my time. Then I see my camera, lying unused on my table for so many days. “At least I’ll get some pictures out of it”, I think, reminding myself how much I love and miss photography. The mouse hovers over “make payment” for a good ten minutes before I click.

Monday night. The day has been a haze, I can’t seem to emerge. Amidst the swirl of my thoughts I manage to remind myself that my camera battery needs charging. I go to bed late. I curse myself for already having paid for something that requires me to get out of bed that early in the morning.

Tuesday morning 5.30 am. Hammers go banging in the apartment below ours where works have been going on for what feels like an eternity. I get up and unleash a string of curse words. Fuming, I can’t go back to sleep until my alarm rings at 7. I get up, book an Uber then reach out to put my camera into my bag.

I open it….. I have forgotten to put in the battery. More curse words. I dither again over cancelling my Uber; then, utterly frustrated with myself, think the only worthy punishment for my behaviour is having to go without my camera. I leave in a hurry, hating on myself the whole way there.

I run up to the group gathered at the bus stop. I have reached early and we are waiting for people to join, so I’m forced to interact. Because I’m so sick of hearing my own thoughts, I find myself being surprisingly sociable, laughing and talking easily with strangers whom I would otherwise be too shy of. I am envious of them all because they have a life, a social circle, jobs. They ask me what I do. I tell them about my journey. Every time I tell my story, the response is admiration. I’m surprised, but also taken aback by how much I have done and how much I don’t give myself credit for.

I wander through the narrow streets, the little temples, the priests and flower-vendors, school kids and bleary-eyed moms. I venture a taste of the spring water, said to have magically emerged from a godly bow and arrow. I forget my camera and use my phone. I take in the sights in silence. I listen. I still myself.

Under a peepal tree, I have a long conversation with one of the girls, bright-eyed and sprightly. She tells me she is a copywriter, but that is not her “long-term plan”. I laugh inwardly, then find myself saying “there is no such thing as a long-term plan, just things we enjoy doing and that we find a way to do.” She smiles, then asks me what I do with my time. I dread the question but answer honestly, telling her I’m trying to find work and trying to fill my time with photography and walks. Then suddenly out of the blue comes the question “so other than translation, do you dance?” I wonder how she could have guessed. I say “yes, but I haven’t in a while, I’ve been looking to take up something new, like salsa” “OMG,” she gushes “yes please, let me know if you do, I find it so hard to do things on my own!” I exchange numbers with her as she runs off, marvelling at how common that feeling is, the very feeling I’ve been beating myself up about for a week.

I walk up to the sea through the filthiest of side streets, covered with trash, drainage, human and animal excrement. On the rocks below, people are relieving themselves. The breeze stinks but it is cool, I feel it on my skin. A dog yawns sleepily. A cat feasts on a fish he pulled out of the tank. On two plastic chairs, some of the slum-dwellers are shelling peas. On a bench opposite, a grandma sits with her granddaughter. Both are looking out to the horizon.

I take a picture with my phone; it is perfect.