They say it's not a place, it's an emotion. A variety of putrid smells fill the air at every corner. Smells of chicken kebabs and cat piss overlap. There's a child selling tote bags and she wears the biggest smile. The default Lay's cut here is crinkle. There’s a Chile Limón flavor. I make a mental note to try it later. The skyline is veiled beneath a thick carpet of smog. When is the last time the city saw blue? Do they know what stars look like? 32 but feels like 39. Kaali Peeli cabs have eccentric interiors. Subko sells amazing coffee. I feel cool just being here. Their baked goods are on display. We wonder what happens to the displayed food at the end of the day. I think about Tokyo and all the intricate fake plastic food. The seating here is barely comfortable but that adds to the charm. I hear an American accent. We spot a gora in Birks and a tote. Definitely American. There's a Delhi boy sitting across from us, 24 or something. A cat walks in from outside and lunges onto his seat. He gets fucking angry. This place is fuckall yaar. Stupid cat. A Bombay aunty tries to place me. She's giving major SoBo vibes. She throws a bunch of restaurant recommendations my way. I Google them and they're mostly ₹₹₹₹. Aukaat hai meri?
I spotted the Bandra-Worli Sea Link from the plane. I've watched enough YouTube to recognize the contours of Marine Drive from a distance. The smells overwhelm me. I take my first auto ride. Our bathroom is tiny and the bathroom is the shower. The new and decrepit coexist. Our friend is a movie star in the making. He has a shoot with Sachin Tendulkar. I don't know who that is but I know it's a big deal. We have butter chicken and laccha paratha near Ambedkar Road. I think about degrees of separation. I want to learn about caste. Garlic chilli momos. They have La Senza here. And Muji. We see Kangana Ranaut while waiting for our Ola. Things are not that cheap. People say the Russian invasion has made everything expensive. That and two years of corona.
The honking is endless. I talk back to birds. I walk into bookstores and find books I want. No waiting for 3 months, they're just there. A Girlhood In Kashmir. Coming Out As Dalit. I try on jeans and crop tops. Things fit funny. Small waist big hips don't like high waisted pants. Jaggery and espresso with oat milk are my new favorite thing. Croissants are an artisanal delicacy almost. It's one of the only things that's more expensive here. That and oat milk. I have Japanese food for the first time in 4 years. I have the first bite of a gyoza and I'm on the brink of tears. I read Vivek Shraya's People Change and find out her mom is from Bangalore. I want to be there now more than ever. I reflect on the many ways I've changed. My foot pain is manageable. There's a Mauritian lady behind me in line at Zara in Lower Parel. I read Warshan Shire's Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head. I take the poems in one at a time to keep my heart from shattering. Vivek Shraya blurbed this collection. I love when this happens. The noise carries on well into the night. People who call NYC the city that never sleeps have clearly never been here. Laundry is expensive. We take cabs everywhere. It's Eid and streets flood with people. My gaze feels voyeuristic. I drink more oat milk lattes. I buy a tote bag and sweat profusely.
A hawker twice my age calls me didi. There's no way to look away. I see babies with bloated bellies asleep on mats as we walk in to buy milkshakes on Carter Road. I can't shake the guilt. The first day a panhandler wouldn't leave me alone. So I had to shift my energy. I feel sick to my stomach. I know poverty is everywhere but I usually have the privilege of not seeing it every day. I don't know what to make of my heart. People stare but at least they don't catcall. Cafe Mondegar is so-so. A lot of these so-called institutions are. Some things are meant to be frozen in time. I forget to eat vada pav. I know I should be exploring the local food scene but my heart craves yakitori. The sky is a perpetual smog. I miss blue in my life. This is the city where my love feels the most at home so I'm at home by extension. This is the land all my ancestors are from. From Punjab to Andhra to Bengal. I am scattered across these lands, these polluted molecules carry fragments of me. Hindi nahi malum. Who will call me their own?
A friend asks about my roots. Are they in Canada? Yes although arguably some would say my roots are here. He doesn't catch my drift. What is a root? Does it anchor you against your will or does it ground? A Punjabi song starts to play in a loud pub in BKC. Someone tells me it's the music of my people. They do that classic bhangra move and tell me I should learn. What's in a name. If I took my husband's would the world have different expectations of me? Would I inherit exodus and a taste for Sheer chai? There's a Mauritian couple next to us in Colaba. At Subko, a girl in a Montreal t-shirt. A friend from San Francisco, a pin on my bag from The Castro. I salute all the Ambedkar statues and my eyes well up as if I'm feeling something deep. I've started doing the head bobble on instinct. Koel screams have become white noise. There are pieces of me everywhere. In the particles of rust, in the petals of dust.