How is Bombay?

One of the first questions people ask when I meet them here is “How do you like Bombay?” It’s a complicated one to answer because on any given day I could love it and be reveling in the unexpected nature of just walking down my street: horse parked by a tree, lazy cow munching on green grass, my wiry, bearded shirtless, sarong-clad neighbor sweeping his stoop, freshly minted kittens meewwing downstairs, jackfruit bulging on my tree’s trunk, green mango teasingly pulling on a branch outside my window, temple bells ringing, temple devotees singing, milk man with the milk, newspaper boy with the newspaper, smile from the rubbish collector, Morning! from the guy completely devoted to washing his orange hot rod, sleepy nod from the guard—or I could hate it and the hardship that living in this city brings: sweating before the sun has made her imprint on the morning, smell of sewage long before you reach the open sewer, screams of buses, grinding of rickshaws, dust in their wake, hijaras (transsexuals) pinching my cheeks, one armed children tapping on my window.

It seems on so many occasions that, like a petulant girlfriend, India wants to make loving her a trial. She makes trouble just to see how much you like her. And then, and only then, she reveals her beauty.

So, do I like it? My answer depends on small, small moments. If my rickshaw driver has been kind and I’ve gotten a seat on the train and the fruit man hasn’t cheated me and my splotchy Hindi worked on the delivery guy—then I like it. But if just two or three things backfire, I’m knocked out of balance. And suffice it to say, red-faced and ornery, I do not like Bombay.

One of these small moments eliciting Bombay affection happened while leaving the house the other day. I’ve started taking yoga classes in the morning, and I walk out of my lane every morning about 6:45 in order to catch a rickshaw to take me to class. On this morning, I tried to flag down one or two, to no avail, and had nearly made up my mind to just walk to class when a rickshaw I had just waved at pulled to a stop about 20 feet ahead of me. A girl poked her head out and yelled, “Yoga?”

Amazing. (Reminder: there are 18 million people in this city; let me repeat...amazing).

“Yes.” I replied. I didn’t know the girl—didn’t recognize her at all, in fact. But, she figured, where else would I be going in snug black Reebok pants at 6 in the morning? She tucked her head back in and moved over so that I could join her on the rickshaw’s brown bench. In one gesture, there was connection, community, openness, we-are-all-oneness, fighting the elements, united we stand, united we fall.

Today, Bombay is okay.