IT was with some trepidation that I greeted the news of my husband's transfer to Bombay. Having lived in Delhi for nearly three decades, I was apprehensive about starting life anew. But now here I am, experiencing Bombay firsthand. And I would like to share with you a few of my more memorable impressions of the city. The house in Juhu we first moved in was a tad too small, besides being dark, damp and gloomy. My three-month-old, used to Delhi's open spaces and generous ration of sunshine, failed to take a shine to it. And so we went house-hunting again. For three weeks our daily outing comprised a visit to residential complexes in Yari Road, Lokhandwala and Seven Bungalows, hobnobbing with brokers and wondering where we would put up clothes to dry. If she had the facility of speech, the little one would have pleaded to be left out of it all. We could make that out from the look in her eyes. Now everyone knows that Bombay is squeezed for space and housing here is, more often than not, a matter of pure function as opposed to the lifestyle statements they are in Delhi. I have no quarrel with that. But why do I get this constant feeling that the loos here are made as an afterthought? As a means of cutting corners, literally and figuratively? If the western style loo is bad, the Indian one is downright sad. And positively antediluvian! Needless to add, the houses got rejected right, left and centre primarily because of the loos! But the time we invested in house-hunting paid off. We have a beautiful home with a splendid view of the sea. In fact, the house is almost on the sea. And I don't much care if the loos are still nothing to write home about. The sea is breathtakingly lovely and endless. And ever so gentle on our minds. But there's one huge downside. It's the morning spectacle. A virtual exhibition of backsides of all hues and shapes as slum dwellers squat along the entire length of the beach doing you-know-what. What a way to answer nature. Monsoon rains in Bombay, to my mind, are not as much intimidating as they are singularly lacking in romance, poetry, and magic. There is hardly any foreplay of thunder and lightening and the ominous darkening of clouds that characterise monsoons in most parts of north India. The rains here are prosaic and very matter-of-fact. I miss the mighty roar and rumble, the dazzling fireworks across the firmament, and the enveloping darkness at noon, typical of the scenario in Delhi. In comparison the monsoon in Bombay is professional, a sort of getting on with the job sans the theatrics. Talking of professionalism, you can take it from me that its Bombay brand is neither exaggerated nor untrue. How else would you account that despite heavy rains, messy roads and god-awful traffic, the city never takes a day off? Rain or high water my maid showed up for work everyday. An amazing contrast to Delhi where playing hooky on rainy days is a perk most maids and drivers (we'll leave the government servants out of this) have given themselves. If Delhi is an eve-teaser's paradise, Bombay is the liberated woman's dream-come-true. All decked and dolled up on our first wedding anniversary, hubby, baby-in-pram, and I waited outside Goa Portuguesa for our number to be called. And then on an impulse yours truly darted across the road to make a long-distance call from a telephone booth. Here I was crossing the road, dressed to the nines and dripping with jewellery, and not one catcall, not one whistle, not even a stare in my direction! In Delhi I would have been leered and jeered at, at the very least. Being a victim of men's lecherous attention has very little to do with looks, physicality or what one wears. It has everything to do with mentality and mindsets. And for the respect it offers womenfolk, Bombay wins hands down. I am certain that onions in Bombay are made of sterner stuff. Every time I get down to peel onions, my lachrymal glands get into an overdrive. I am seriously thinking of giving this lowly (as in underground) vegetable a heave-ho from our diet unless someone is willing to give me tips on how to chop Bombay onions without having to cry over them! Delhi pulls up its covers by eight in the evening. At eight, the night is still an infant in Bombay. No, I do not refer to the party or the nightlife scene in the two cities. I am talking of everyday life on the streets. It is this buzz that makes Bombay such an exciting place to be in. Delhi hangs up its boots when Bombay is just getting ready to put on its dancing shoes. Doesn't the chalta hai in Delhi's colloquial lingo and the chalega in Bombay's tell you something about these cities? A few more months and Purba Dutt will be a pukka Bombayite. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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