A little over twenty years ago, when I left Bombay (now Mumbai), I had promised the city of dreams at the Railway Station at Bombay Central that I will return “soon”. The “soon” turned into months and years and two decades when I finally decided to fulfill the promise which I had made.

I did traverse through Mumbai in the interregnum, changing flights on a few occasions or passing through a railway station on way to Goa once, but I never got an opportunity to set my foot in the city and savour that famous Vada Pav in the last over two decades.

So there I was, hovering above the skies in Mumbai and thinking how the city would have changed in the last two decades. I could see the high-rise buildings in the perfect weather and then the famous Mumbai slums, which surround its airport from two sides. The slums, or chawl in the local language, looked quite uniform from a distance, painted garishly with blue plastic sheets spread across them. And then, the wheels touched the ground gently and I was soon out of the airport, getting my taxi from one of the aggregators and heading towards Bandra.

At the first glance, it seemed nothing much has changed since I left, except buildings and digging work for Metro. The city had been preserved well, particularly the core areas. I wanted to have as much of Mumbai with my eyes till I reached the Guest House where I was booked in Pali Hill, Bandra. The road had now been named after Nargis Dutt, better known amongst the millennial as the mother of Sanjay Dutt and the entrance of the road was called Rajendra Kumar Chowk in the name of another famous film-star of yester years. Several film stars, including the legendary Dilip Kumar, have their bungalows on this hilly road, supposed to be a posh address.

I checked in the guest house, a two BHK flat and was ushered in a nicely kept room by an attendant who hailed from Odisha. I was so impatient to roam the streets of the city that I changed within half an hour and hailed an auto rickshaw for Juhu. The rickshaws in Mumbai are extremely efficient. I have never seen them refusing any passenger unlike those in Delhi. They never bargain for the fare in advance, scrupulously use the electronic meter and give you the exact change. This was the case then and I discovered that this good practice had not changed even slightly.

I used to sit on the huge boulders of Juhu when I lived in Bombay and spent several evenings looking at the Arabian Sea and doing nothing in particular. I vividly remember that the boulders were so huge that couples could easily hide or sit between two big boulders to spend some private moments.

This time, the Juhu Beach was swarming with police personnel, in anticipation of the sixth day immersion of the  idols of Lord Ganesha during the Ganesh Chaturthi festival when a sea of humanity emerges from every nook and corner to witness this annual festival. This tradition was started in the modern era by Lokmanya Tilak to organize people, help them socialize and in the process build a movement against the British who looked down on Indian festivals and wanted to crush the nascent emergence of dissent against the colonial powers.

It would have been a sacrilege to miss the festival on the occasion and that too at a place where all the festivity was centered. As the evening set it, people started thronging the  Beach with merry making, sound and splashing of colour. “Ganpati Bappa Morya” rent the air as the idols were lowered in the sea and the Lord given a tearful farewell with the promise that he will return again next year to bless the family and the people.

Not having Vada Pav at the first given opportunity too would have been a disrespect to the immensely popular proletariat cuisine of the Maya Nagri as Mumbai is referred to by the writers of popular Hindi fiction. There is something in the water of Mumbai which makes this Vada Pav so tasty in this city. The crispy fried Vada of the roadside vendor stuck inside the Pav was tangy with the mint chutney plastered liberally on the Pav. Spices invaded my taste buds as I was having this snack after years. It was indeed fulfilling, something which I was craving for…for years. Washed down with hot cutting tea made it all the more fulfilling. For the uninitiated, Cutting Tea is simply half glass of tea or a smaller cup of tea, may be 60-75 ml, depending on the locality. But here, they make Tea well; plenty of milk, boiled consistently to get the aroma of the cheaper variety of tea leaves and sugar too is added liberally—something which the popular dhabas do in north India.

I had lived in the suburb of Goregaon for several weeks two decades ago and so it was now natural to go and have a look at the area and the guest house where I had lived then. “Rickshaw”, I said, as I hailed the three-wheeler and asked him to take me to Goregaon. Markets, residential areas, traffic, film posters of all hues and then in around 30 minutes, I was at a small junction where one road headed to the Goregaon station.

I got down, looked around, found myself lost but then finally located Saigal Guest House where I had stayed then. Nothing had changed in two decades. The building was as dilapidated as it was then…it was of mixed use, there were residential quarters, offices and the Guest House in the upper floors of the decaying building and restaurants and shops on the ground floor. “It has been preserved for posterity,” the thought struck my mind immediately.

I climbed the first floor where the reception of the guest house was located. “Yes,” asked the middle aged male receptionist. “I had stayed here twenty years ago…Can I have a look at the room please,” I told him. The receptionist was puzzled as this must have been one of the strangest requests made to him. “What was the Room Number?” he asked. My memory was not sharp then nor is it now. I just remembered the location. I pointed to a corridor on the left.  “Go have a look,” he advised. I was not sure whether the room was second last or third last in the corridor. In any case, both the rooms were occupied and locked as a waiter accompanying me indicated. Mission accomplished. I clicked a few photographs and left without any emotions.  

Roaming in the area, I saw the multi storied Topiwala Centre Mall and immediately recalled that it used to be Topiwala Cinema Hall then where I used to watch movies in free time when I was flirting with film journalism for a while, just after finishing with my university degree in Delhi. A multiplex had come up and several movies were being shown. I was not interested and walked to Filmistan Studio, close to Saigal Guest House on SV Road. It was here then that I had met Jackie Shroff and Juhi Chawla on the sets of a film, the name of which I do not remember now. I vaguely remember, Shroff, now better known as father of Tiger Shroff, pulling out a thin brown cigarette and smoking in style. After finishing the smoke and in between two shots, both the hero and heroine sat for a small chat about the film. The publicist handed me photographs and the job was done.

Filmistan, having a big slice in the history of Bollywood, is credited with the shooting of several successful films in the Black and White era of the 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s with several top names then associated with it.  Like several other places, it too was the same as I had left it—partly dilapidated, partly being used for shooting purposes and largely without much maintenance. The watchman at the Gate did not even ask me where I was going. “How could nothing change in over 20 years,” the thought struck me. I had no answers. There was a painted set of the gates of a Jail then where numerous shots were filmed, it existed even now. Interestingly, “Motihari Central Jail” was painted on it. I was surprised, Motihari in Bihar is close to my home town and Mahatma Gandhi was jailed here when he went to Champaran in 1917 to take part in protest against the British authorities. I asked the proprietor of the canteen about it, he had no clue about Motihari, leave alone why was it written “Motihari Central Jail” or if any film had been shot here recently.

Dozens of teenagers were supposed to participate in a reality show on dance and were rehearsing around the “Jail area” of Filmistan. Inside, there was a huge set with strong lighting where these teenagers were supposed to perform. In another set of Filmistan, a period serial was being shot with several junior artists dressed as soldiers, sipping “Cutting Tea” as they waited for the Director’s call. The “elite” in this serial, which could be the producer, director or the financer, were sitting on plastic chairs. All sorts of eatables were there on the table for this elite while the others were sitting on raised platform and passing their time as the shooting went on a snail’s pace with plenty of breaks.

Stepping out of Filmistan, I spotted several pamphlets pasted on its walls and even the main gate. These posters had a phone number and asked all those interested in “film jobs” to call those numbers. I wondered what kind of “film job” it would be! Must be those of carrying lights, junior artists who play the role of a “crowd”…what else? Those coming to Mumbai from all parts of north and east India to become heroes and heroines must be calling these numbers, I presumed. I called the number. The female voice on the other side gave me an address in Vile Parle and timing of 10 am to 6 pm with a photograph and facilitation fee of Rs 5000. “The numbers of those falling in this trap must be huge,” I thought.

The Goregaon railway station was next on my itinerary, simply because I used to board trains from here in the off-peak hours for work or for leisure. It had changed beyond recognition. There was an escalator, a shining complex on the first floor with ticket counters, refreshment shops and generally clean surroundings. The old station complex had given way to a new one. “Change is the only constant in life,” the quote struck my mind even though I did not board a train and just roamed around the station and the new walkway connecting it to the main road.

I finally called it a day after spending some time in Vinoda Bar and restaurant and got back to my Pali Hill guest house. So much of Mumbai in a single day thrilled me and filled my curiosity quotient.

 Getting early and slipping into walking shoes is a habit now. I decided to walk down to Bandra Bandstand promenade, a recently developed walkway along the sea. Mumbai hardly has public parks so the fitness enthusiasts walk on the roads or hit the gyms. They were there in plenty, walking on Pali Hill Road, some with their pet dogs, others listening to music on their earphones, some dressed in flashy athletic wear others in utility walking clothes; some lost in themselves others counting their steps carefully. An army of sanitation workers were on the roads, clearing the litter and making the city fit for another day. In half an hour, I was at the sea front though I had to ask for directions twice.

Arabian Sea was in front of me. The walkway was over a kilometer long and boys, girls, men, women, senior citizens…stray dogs and plenty of pigeons… all were there on a perfect morning when the sun was behind the clouds and despite humidity, one felt comfortable. There were two plaques here. “Major beautification at Bandra Bandstand was funded in 2000 by Shabana Azmi MP with great efforts from PK Das, architect and Bandra Bandstand Residents Trust” and “beautification and entire re-tiling of Bandra Bandstand promenade was carried out through the efforts of Priya Dutt MP from the MLA beautification fund of Baba Siddique MLA…”

Sitting on rocks, two anglers were trying their luck with their fishing rods. I climbed down the walkway, through the boulders, sought their permission through a gentle gesture and sat beside them, watching their moves. There was a jerk in the fishing rod of the angler sporting a hat, he pulled it in excitement and found a fish of around 300 grams hooked. Visibly happy, he pulled the struggling fish out of the hook, put it in a plastic bag and got busy preparing the rod for another one. The other angler felt jealous that he couldn’t get any and changed his position. “This is a hobby, not a profession,” said the hat wearing angler. “The excitement is in waiting, it’s like meditation, it’s like scoring a goal in football or hitting a six in Cricket,” he explained when I asked what attracts him to angling.

I walked to the Taj Lands End Hotel and then to the Bandra Fort, amid drivers of taxis and auto rickshaws sipping their morning tea and smoking their first cigarette of the day. The road came to an end; you could see a terraced park and ruins of an old fort, built by the Portuguese who had occupied the area in 1640. Climbing the stairs, you could see the enchanting view of the Bandra-Worli Sea link, connecting Western Mumbai to its southern part through a cable stayed bridge. Keep watching for whatever time is at your disposal, it de-stresses you as there is silence away from the commotion of an extremely busy city. The view of the south Mumbai skyline on one side and the high sea on the other from this height forced me to keep sitting till the sun started shining brightly, triggering heat and sweat, forcing my retreat.

After the morning rendezvous with Bandra Bandstand, it was time to get ready and head for Sidhi Vinayak Temple in south Mumbai. Crowded it was at noon with devotees carrying small baskets with flowers, waiting patiently for their turn to pay obeisance. A large number of tourists from Gujarat were inside the temple at this time.  Festivity was in the air and you could feel the spiritual vibration of a holy place while offering flowers at the sanctum sanctorum.

When I was in Mumbai last time, I hadn’t visited Haji Ali Dargah so it was next on the agenda. Dropped on the opposite side of the sea front, an extremely busy underpass, crowded with hawkers of all hues, took me to the other side and the entrance of the popular Dargah. I was humming popular Qawwallies when I entered the Dargah through a long walkway into the sea. Most of those present were tourists and some construction work too was going on inside the complex. The trust managing the affairs needs to be more vigilant in maintaining cleanliness in and around the Dargah. The shallow sea around too needed to be cleaned up so that the visitors take a great memory back home. The Dargah is known to fulfill wishes and there were a large number of people offering chadar to get their wishes fulfilled or doing so as their wishes have materialized.

I had planned my lunch at Leopold Cafe before coming to Mumbai as this was the spot where the shootout of 26/11 took place, guests were killed and the café sprung to its feet and started its operations soon after. Terrorists strike to spread terror but when people are not terrorized, it defeats the purpose of the criminal perpetrators. Leopold Café represents the spirit of average Mumbaikar and started doing what it is best at—serving the guests delicious dishes from all over the globe within a week of the strike. It has a very informal atmosphere, slightly cramped for space but intensely popular amongst the locals as well as the foreigners on a visit to Gateway of India, Marine Drive and the Colaba area. I ordered sea food—prawns and fish with green salad and it was quite a satisfying lunch.

“Much more people visit here now than what they used to before the terror strike,” said a waiter, when I asked him about the house full café and bar at around 3 pm when lunch time was almost over. It has kept one bullet mark near the pastry counter as a reminder to that dastardly attack. “Initially, people came here for terror tourism, now that curiosity is over. It does a brisk business,” said a middle aged garment seller, on the footpath, next to the popular Café.

For me, walking aimlessly is refreshing. Without any idea, where you are going or any particular thought what exactly you will do next, I kept walking on the sideways and the footpaths, selling numerous items in the Colaba Causeway. Garments, toys, small electronic items, household goods, books, spectacles and goggles, belts, bags, antiques, old coins, shoes and slippers,  artificial jewelry…the list is endless. Mumbai is one big market where you have kiosks, shops, vendors, hawkers, everywhere.

Walking distance from Colaba is the cultural district of Mumbai housing the popular Jehangir Art Gallery. In a city where nothing comes free, entry to this gallery is not only free but you are encouraged to enter by the friendly watchman. Artists of all hues are given space by the gallery to hold their exhibition. As I entered the hall, a lady artist who was holding her exhibition, looked at me in anticipation. I am hardly a connoisseur of art not have in-depth understanding but she came to me and explained why vibrant colours had been used and what exactly the painting of nature depicted. “On a cloudy day, the sun rises as usual but it’s so difficult to see it. Women work so hard in household and outside but it’s not visible neither appreciated,” she explained the painting which had all elements of nature and the shadow of a woman. The paintings were also for sale and each had a price. I believe in storing the images in my mind and not a great believer in acquisitions. There were two more exhibitions on the ground floor and another on the first floor.

On the pavement outside, there were a whole range of paintings and art material on sale, some of them quite cheap. Expertise was writ large on these paintings with the artist sitting on a stool and lost in himself, little bothered about his surroundings. Some paintings got sold, others remained unsold but that perhaps is the destiny of an artist. It seemed they were there for art’s sake and not for the money part and the sale proceeds were simply a byproduct of their effort. Some other artists were drawing sketches after making their patrons sit on stools. He was carefully observing the face, drew the lines on the paper and again looked up. It was in a rhythm. Satisfaction writ large on the face of the artist after the patron appreciated the effort. I watched and kept watching from a short distance. The artist nudged me to get a sketch done but watching the artist at work from a distance is more satisfying an experience for me than becoming a subject.

My cousin Avinash, an engineer with a private company, was scheduled to meet me next day. So far in this trip, I had not yet travelled in the lifelines of Mumbai—sub-urban trains. I asked him to meet me at Bandra Station so that we can travel together to Churchgate. So there he was. I was meeting him after almost a decade and he had converted into a pot bellied gentleman from a youngster I knew. He purchased the ticket from his electronic card and I was shocked at the price—only Rs 10. “Rs 10 is the standard fare for most of the places,” he informed me. It was fun travelling in the train in the afternoon as I managed to get a window seat after two stations. Listening to the rattle of the train carefully, watching and trying to read faces of the fellow travelers, looking outside the window…my concentration was broken by a transgender, who gently touched my shoulders for alms. I gave Rs 10 coin and got plenty of blessings in return.

Lunch was at Café Mondegar, almost similar to Leopold with identical menu and then we headed for the one hour boat ride in the sea from Gateway of India to Elephanta Caves. Finding a place on the top deck, we looked into the sea, with ships anchored on all sides, the port of Mumbai at a distance and a refinery clearly visible with pipelines of all hues leading to it. The rock cut Shiva caves at Elephanta, a lot of which were destroyed by the Portuguese during their occupation, still leave you mesmerized at the kind of technology which the people had hundreds of years ago to carve out magic. “Can it be done today?” I asked my cousin. “No way,” he was sure.

By the time we took the last boat to return, it was sunset. Colour of the sun first faded and then turned into pink, its shadow in the sea was spectacular. Darkness set in the next 15 minutes as the anchored ships in the sea with all sorts of lighting at various decks presented a magnificent view. A little further ahead, the Coastline looked magical and felt like stars shining from a distance. The breeze on the top deck felt a bit cold, intense, caressing the face with a certain momentum. It had a unique flavor to it, like a mild deodorant. Nostrils felt better with the smell of the sea breeze and I wanted this to continue forever. But there I was, landing at the Gateway of India in an hour and ending my dream.