Malavika’s Mumbaistan: Of Grace And Gratitude

A lyrical tweet (though that might be an oxymoron) – recounting how an out-of-towner on his first visit to Mumbai had been a bit surprised to be hopelessly charmed

A lyrical tweet (though that might be an oxymoron) – recounting how an out-of-towner on his first visit to Mumbai had been a bit surprised to be hopelessly charmed by it – has struck a chord and found itself a growing following on the micro-blogging site, mostly known for brash, cruel words and awkward syntax.

“Young dating couples (in most places), sit opposite each other at a table for four, hold hands, and look into each other’s eyes. In Bombay they slide into the same side, share earphones and watch a show, Thereby saving space, data, battery life, and time,” @ramkid (founder, cartwheel creative, holdingwilley, reads his Twitter bio) had begun his Twitter thread, gently taking his audience on a delightful excursion, leading up to what had made him stay on, and well, say such fine things about his adopted city.

“They have no problem at all if another couple sits opposite them, doing the same thing. In fact, they may not even acknowledge them. That’s the amazing thing about this city. Live and let live comes naturally to people here,” @ramkid continued.

What was even more heartening is that this lyricism, emerging from a platform widely believed to be so far removed from any tender feelings at all, found an echoing lyricism from a rising chorus of voices. It was almost as if a long line of people had been waiting for such reminders of gentler, better times.

“I know a Bombay from a time when an entire BEST decided to re-route to drop off a young woman who had lost her sense of direction and was lost...she had broken down and could not answer,” went one response, and soon, one-by-one, others began to narrate their own memories of Mumbai grace.

Who doesn’t have a few? Moments when this city of movers and shakers, of fast cars and faster cash, of mean streets and style miles, of sprawling urban mess and soulless malls, suddenly, briefly, magnificently shows you its heart, reminds you that it has one.

Like the night nurse in the busy Emergency room of a hospital, who knows that the young 20-something executive – who shows up at least two times a month complaining about some ailment or the other – seated across from her, is just lonely (possibly homesick) and in need of nurturing; who attends to him with professionalism of course, but also with kindness, because she, too, had once come here from far away and remembers what it felt like waking up on some nights, the panic for human contact rising.

Or the waiter at the five-star hotel coffee shop who knows what it means when the star-wife comes in at 3am, her sunglasses on and her face puffy and bruised. He will not ask any questions, nor say a word, but who, instead of the two biscotti cookies usually served with coffee, slides half a dozen more so she eats something and stops crying.

Not to forget the receptionist at the snooty club who allows the newly-divorced (but yet to be identified as such on club documents), middle-aged wife enjoy her last afternoon, drinking tea on its veranda as a lady of elegance and consequence.

And of course, that owner of the art café who knows that the artist sitting across from her, trying to impress a potential buyer, has not a paisa in his pocket and will never be able to pay for the beers and dishes he is ordering with such style, but plays along in any case, hoping for the sake of his world-weary wife and under-nourished kids that he make the sale.

Or the A-list industrialist, who having lost his temper at one of his employees, waits outside the factory gate after hours, to offer to drive him home to make amends.

Along with the taxi driver who gives the tremulous old lady on her way to attend a court case alone, some practical, kindly advice and then drops her at the correct gate, even though it means a bit more effort.

And the wife of the celebrated-jurist who, when she visits the home of one of her husband’s younger associates, notices how nervous his newly-wedded wife is and how hopelessly inept. Graceful and friendly throughout the evening, however, she remains seated, not leaving her chair even once. It is only when she departs that her hosts realise that she’d trapped one of their apartment’s innumerable roaches under her exquisite heel all the time, and didn’t stir, so as not to embarrass her hosts.

And Mumbai’s lovers, furtive behind the sweep of the sea-link, wistful as they sit on the rocks, their backs to rush-hour, or giggling and unabashed at Udupi joints, how can we forget the ones who give this city its tiny fist fulls of magic dust and wonderment.

No surprises either that at a time when elections and politics and the stock market and turbulent rumblings and harsh words and unbound fears jostle for people’s attentions, that a delicate thread about Mumbai and its tender, better, moments has emerged this week like a flower from the concrete, its face yearning for sunshine.