For nearly two decades I have been living in this glorious city and my scrapbook of memories is filled with nameless people who went out of their way to take care of me. I was never able to thank them because they left before I could say a word — but they left me with a love for this city that has grown into an enduring passion. It started the moment I landed in the city. It was nearly midnight and I had no place to stay. A friend of mine thought nothing of depositing me at his kaka and kaki’s house in Worli. A simple Gujarati couple, they welcomed me into their homes and in an instant adopted me. They actually assumed I was going to move in with them and made room for me in a their tiny flat — by moving out of their own bedroom. For one month I was fed, hugged, and pampered. I didn’t even have time to miss home. When I finally left they actually wept — even though it meant they were getting their privacy back. I come from the original rude city — New Delhi— so I was taken aback when Bombay opened its heart to embrace me. I was a naive, clueless 21-year-old when I landed, with no survival skills and was ripe for the picking. Instead of taking advantage of me I was taught how to grow up. By a kind Parsi gentleman who realised I was heading to Marol instead of Hutatma Chowk. Not only was I lectured on my poor sense of direction, he took the time to escort me to my office all the while explaining BEST routes to me. Of course he paid for my ticket, found me a place to sit on the bus and walked me to the door. Did he wait to be thanked? Before I could say a word he had already hurried off. Yes, Bombay is a city in a hurry. And yet it has never forgotten to take time out for its own. One quiet Sunday afternoon I got off the bus to head to my ATM before I went in to my newspaper office. A few seconds later a man walked in behind me. Thinking nothing of it I was startled when another man came rushing in. The first man suddenly darted out and I found myself being soundly ticked off. It seems the first man had been following me — on to the bus, off it, into the bank. This man was not comfortable with what he saw and he decided to check it out for himself. I don’t know what would have happened to me that day but I was bundled into a taxi and dropped off by a really angry man. He told me to watch my back. The city is not as safe as you think, were his parting words. But I disagree. A total stranger taught me that I would be safe in Bombay because the city would always be watching out for me. I could go on about the people of this city and their acts of kindness. I made so many mistakes when I first came to Bombay. And I continue doing so. Yet I am never scared that I will get hurt because time and again someone has stepped out from the shadows and supported me. It amazes me, this spirit of the people. In spite of bad roads, bad traffic, lousy infrastructure and even worse governance Bombay and its people are always rising to the occasion. History has recorded its heroism following the bomb blasts, newspapers have chronicled its humanity following the floods. And I have been turned into a sentimental fool about my Bombay. I find I cannot leave the city without a tear in my eye. Because the bai at the ladies toilet in the domestic airport — the most dank and depressing gift from our local government — always sends me out with dry hands. Not by turning on the hand drier— that hasn’t worked since the time it was installed. No, she pulls out a wad of toilet paper that she has stashed away for just this purpose. I watch her take extra special care of every traveler —and I smile at my city. Because when I step out on to the streets I know I have a debt to pay to Bombay. I have to be kind in return. To the man on the street, the old woman at the traffic signal and the child carrying a heavy school bag. I must extend the same courtesy Bombay extended to me — you see, that’s just the way we are. The people of Bombay. (Nonita Kalra is editor, Elle)
