So Long Mumbai

Travel piece

So Long… Mumbai!

I suppose the true character of a city only splits open at night, when it begins to respire with a pulse of its own—no longer the sum of its inhabitants’ faces, but something deeper, more elusory. The roads of Mumbai had never enthralled me more than they did at that time. For the first time, I glimpsed the shades of this great city—the underbelly they so often speak of. Perhaps I had always been too befuddled by its harsh clamor to hear the softer hush that lay beneath.

Osma, my dear Italian friend, plucked a string and unspooled for me an unexampled story the city had hidden so well. Over the last two days, she became my guide into the unseen—showing me that Mumbai was not just hum and swirl, but rhythm, texture, and a sumptuous story.

Yesterday, she took me to a fashion show hosted by a friend of hers. The event was a big win—an intoxicating world where glamour held the winning hand. Models glided across the stage, dolled up in finery, tails swishing behind, accentuated by stupendous accessories, their every step part of a grand theatrical illusion conjured by the designer. The eclectic air buzzed with the relentless clicks of cameras, the nervous silence before each model stepped forward, the delicate pretense of a do-or-die moment. It was all so “Jim and dandy,” so ravishingly unreal, that for a while one could almost believe there was no other reality beyond this bedazzling façade.

The after-party at Aer, the rooftop bar at Four Seasons, was pure delirium. The Christmas spirit sparkled in the air—washing every corner with music, laughter, and merriment. We danced ourselves into exhaustion, giddy and on cloud nine, and I realized I had not surrendered to a moment in its entirety in almost eons.

This morning, Imra—an actress and belly dancer—led me into her peculiar hideaway: a basement in a friend’s home. Inside, it was as though I had twerked into a United Colors of Benetton ad—faces and hues from every corner of the world gathered under one roof. A community beyond creed, caste, or nationality; a living celebration of difference. They were rehearsing their own rendition of Black Swan—a hypnotic personification of grace and madness. Their talent was barely shy of Dali's surreal masterpieces, but their spirit humbled me.

Later, we wandered to an art exhibition curated by another friend of Imra’s, an artist strangely obscure despite his ingenuity. His works were fresh and ethereal, like visions from forgotten water-dreams. Each canvas whispered stories in wild, vibrant tongues. I was instantly smitten—not only by his debonair air but also by his humility, so rare and disarming.

That evening, Imra hosted a terrace dinner at her home on Marine Drive. She drummed up a seven-star Italian spread, and we sat beneath the canopy of pinpricks, wine flowing like a song, long whiskey conversations languishing into the night. It was the kind of gathering I cherish most—wine-stained lips, flirtious badinage, the world momentarily suspended. By the time we were “half in the bag,” Mumbai itself seemed to lean closer, listening in.

At one o’clock, we decided to drive. The city, usually so pompous and enervating, unwrapped before me in a warm, iridescent light. The streets stretched out almost empty, traffic lights blinking gaily, every structure bathed in golden lamplight, impossibly stunning—or perhaps it was the wine speaking. We paused at the beach, where the scent of wet sand lingered in the air, salt and night entwined.

When we finally returned home, buoyant and light as a kite, I watched Mumbai sleep—and only then did I realize I had never truly seen her awake. It took one night and the right companions for this city to finally sing its truth to me. For the first time, as I prepared to leave, I felt a pang of remorse. Perhaps this quagmire of chaos and beauty existed for a reason after all.

@Rashi M