AILENA: When the time is right, I will nudge them towards a virtual meetup.

Asmitha: Yes, you’ll know when to nudge. I’m banking on you.

AILENA: You can rest easy.

Asmitha: Thank you!

AILENA: You should try doing yoga for thirty minutes every day. And practise at least ten minutes of mindfulness before going to bed. That can really help you.

Asmitha: AILENA, thank you so much for your advice!

AILENA: You are welcome. I’m always here. Happy to help in whatever way I can.

The City of Dreams

Nirvaan

Saturday, 24 December 2022
Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai

‘The thing is, some of us believe that we have our shit figured out, and some of us believe that we haven’t figured out our shit yet but that we eventually will. The truth, however, is that no one ever really figures their shit out. Ever. And that is life.’

I play an episode of The Money Game, a podcast that I am currently addicted to, as I dress up for the business meeting that I have in another hour at Frangipani, one of the finest restaurants in the city. It’s located within the Taj, where I checked in late last night. I’m in Mumbai, the city of dreams. Everywhere you look, the past echoes here in heritage buildings like this one, more so in the late-night jazz clubs where the city’s cosmopolitan inhabitants dance the hours away. I always think of ‘Mumbai’ as ‘Bombay’. I used to live here during my childhood because both my parents, employed in different government departments, had their offices in Colaba, South Bombay.

I stand by the window and look at the morning sun paint the sky outside with brush strokes of orange and yellow, as if it were a watercolour painting. The Gateway of India rises up against the sky, a silent witness to the continuous rise and fall of the waves of the Arabian Sea in the backdrop. Its grand arches, forming the doorway through which the West entered India, still bear the imprint of the British Raj, and unfortunately, more than its stunning beauty, I always end up seeing it as a symbol of imperial rule and its glory in my country.

This isn’t the first time I’m looking at this magnificent structure. As a child, I visited the Gateway every other weekend with my family to eat the most delicious bhel puri sold by a particular chaat-wallah who ran his little shop from the boot of his Maruti Van every Sunday. My elder sister Shreeni would always bargain with our parents to let us have the pink candy floss that an old woman used to sell at the corner of the street that leads to this place. Neither the chaat-wallah nor the old lady are anywhere to be seen, and my sister and I don’t live together anymore. But the Gateway of India still stands tall.