“I long to reach my home and see the day of my return. It is my never failing wish.”
– Homer, from The Odyssey, translated by E. V. Rieu
The roads of Mumbai are never fully constructed.
It’s practically a running joke among Mumbaikars now. When Coldplay’s lead singer, Chris Martin, and his girlfriend-slash-actress Dakota Johnson were there, paparazzi caught a picture of them with a road construction sign in the background, and I, all the way in Jaipur, sighed and said, “Yeah, that’s definitely Mumbai.”
Do you ever miss a city so much it makes you physically sick?
I think my body has been trying to reject Jaipur every month since I got to MUJ. Like clockwork, some sad little creature inside me flips onto its back and starts wailing, kicking its hands and feet in the air, throwing a full-blown tantrum, and in the process, completely wrecking my immune system, as if punishing me for being so far from home. I missed every single day of Oneiros, our college fest, because of a brutal fever. And I cried every night that weekend, not just because I missed the fest, but because I missed home so, so much. I missed my friends, my family, and the city. I even missed the stupid road construction signs and the god-awful traffic they caused. That’s how bad the homesickness is.
Mumbai is a city you can never really forget. How do I stay holed up in my room here after 11 p.m. because of curfew, when I know Mumbai is still alive, and probably will be all night? I could be out with my friends at that time, going on a late-night ice cream run, the city so loud and electric it feels like it’s nine in the morning. How do I live in Jaipur knowing that’s what I’m missing back home? It’s the thrill—the weightless kind of joy that burrows deep in my chest
I haven’t felt that kind of satedness a single day since I got here.
I was happy all the time there, even when I wasn’t. Even when everything else felt unbearable, at least I had Mumbai. At least I had my family and friends. Here? It’s just Jaipur. And Jaipur is beautiful, with pink everywhere—in the buildings, the bazaars, the autos, even. But I can barely stand to look at it because all I can think about is how much I don’t want to be here.
Everything here reminds me of home.
I saw a pink bus the other day and nearly retched because it made me miss Mumbai buses so viscerally. Later, I had kulfi from a stall near Jal Mahal, and all I could think about was this kulfi-falooda place in Mumbai that my dad would order from at least once a week. It was to die for. The kulfi here? Not even worth a little detour. It’s homemade, yes, but also so tourist-priced—I paid Rs. 100 for a very small malai kulfi. I could’ve gotten that at Bandstand too, overpriced and everything, and it would’ve actually hit, especially with someone singing Bollywood hits at the amphitheatre near Bandra Fort while the sea breeze caresses my face, my friends laughing around me like we have all the time in the world.
Sorry about the kulfi rant. It’s almost 6 p.m., and I start missing all the near-sea places in Mumbai around sunset time. Versova beach was one of my favourite sunset spots. Bandstand and Marine Drive had the most stunning views. In fact, the last time I saw a sunset at Marine Drive, my friends and I had just come back from a brilliant Hindi play at NCPA (National Centre for the Performing Arts), which is right nearby. We were waiting for our cab as the sun started to go down, the whole sky turning orange and gold over the sea. If I close my eyes, I can see myself there now, excitedly tugging my friends’ sleeves, taking pictures with them against that gorgeous backdrop. Then I open them, stare at the endless yellow of our campus, and I kind of want to cry.
I’ve been to Bapu Bazaar twice since coming to Jaipur. It’s culturally beautiful—all shops pink on both sides of the streets, shopkeepers selling handcrafted jewellery, quilts, all that stuff. And both times, the weather was perfect. Cool wind weaving through my hair as I moved from shop to shop, haggling over prices, and yet, even then, I realised bitterly that I still miss Mumbai.
Mumbai shopping sucks. It’s so hot I have to carry a hand fan just to survive. And shopping at, say, Hill Road? I’d be melting into a puddle of my own sweat, and all I’d have to show for it would be a pair of janky earrings and one of those antique-looking belts everyone’s into these days.
And I missed it. Jaipur’s weather was perfect, and my mind still went back to Mumbai.
It’s summer now in Jaipur, and maybe that’s why the nostalgia hits harder. The heat searing through my flesh is dragging me straight back to Mumbai summers—my friends and I heading straight to the beach when it used to get this hot. We’d spread out an old bedsheet, and everyone would bring a snack to the potluck. My mom made amazing Alfredo pasta. One of my friends had been bringing Masala Puffs to every single outing since, like, seventh grade.
Even the heat felt better in Mumbai.
How do I explain this to someone who every time I think about enduring Jaipur’s summer instead of Mumbai’s, I want to curl up in a fetal position and cry? How do I even begin to expand on that? And I know I’m probably romanticising Mumbai in ways it doesn’t deserve, but that’s what distance and deprivation do to love.
“Absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great.”
– Roger de Bussy-Rabutin
To set things straight real quick, this is not an anti-Jaipur piece. It’s pro-Mumbai. I’m not throwing eggs at Jaipur. I’m stuffing a love letter with smudged ink into a little glass bottle and flinging it into the ocean, hoping desperately that it’ll wash up on Juhu Beach.
I’m still in transit, emotionally.
Honestly, I don’t even know how I feel right now—nostalgic, bitter, angry? Am I grieving? Grieving how I felt in Mumbai, so carefree and alive. Lights shining in my eyes, the city so thrilling even at 2 a.m. Vision, a Marvel character, once said, “What is grief, if not love persevering?” Maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I just miss Mumbai because the love I hold for it is so profound it threatens to break through my heart.
In fear of sounding a little cultish, I’ll admit, I felt the same way about Surat eight years ago as I do about Mumbai now. Surat, a city in Gujarat, was my first home. And when I had to leave it for the first time, I wanted to cry and throw up. Actually, I’m pretty sure I did, and then I carried that awful feeling lodged in my stomach for the entire first year I was in Mumbai, until I fell in love with the place. During that year, I refused to let myself grow attached. I wouldn’t make friends, wouldn’t explore. I was convinced that any day now, my dad would sit me down and tell me we were going back to Surat. But that never happened. So I made friends who are now people I hold so close to my heart it hurts. And through them, I fell in love with the city too.
Now, I can only hope the same will happen with Jaipur. Maybe one day, it’ll feel like home too. I’ve got three more years here—might as well fall hopelessly in love with it. And who knows, maybe by the time my graduation rolls around, I’ll have published a new piece: Home is where the Pyaaz Kachori is. :)
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