From
Bombay to the Boondocks
Shabad Thadani, Ambassador from India
As a first-year international student, I came to Wooster full of
hope, expectation and apprehension.
The 24-flight from Bombay sapped most of my energy, and the time
difference between Cleveland and home only added to my mental fatigue.
I managed to settle in remarkably comfortably... but from the time
I dragged the heavy bags into my room, I knew I had more than just
left for college; I had moved into unexplored terrain.
Notwithstanding this exciting future ahead of me, I couldn't help
but feel that I'd left the best part of me behind. Back, in a place
called Bombay....
The similarities between Bombay and Wooster, I can count on a single
hand - no, Wal-Mart isn't one of them.
The differences, however, are innumerable - driving on the "wrong"
side of the road, not having street vendors call out "bhaisaheb"
("Sir") and follow you around, desperately trying to strike
a deal so they can make enough money to feed their families, the
smell of Indian delicacies wafting around every street corner, the
smog...
No, I didn't mistype that - when you're halfway around the world,
you miss everything.
Nostalgia's a wonderful thing....
With a population of a 'meager' 10 million, Bombay is characterized
by the hustle and bustle of people going about their business in
a busy metropolis. It's special. It's unique. And it can't be reproduced
anywhere in the world.
Sometimes, as I walk along Beall Avenue, I can't help but notice
the long stretches of road with neither car nor soul in sight.
I miss being able to rub shoulders with people I never knew, people
who I wouldn't even remember a mere five minutes after walking past
them.
I miss being able to pile into a car with seven of my friends at
midnight looking for a glass of sugarcane juice.
I miss the familiarity and comfort of home, of being able to sleep
on my own bed, shower in my own bathroom and eat a good, wholesome
Indian meal cooked by the loving hands of my own mother.
I miss walking down to the "maidaan", and playing a game
of friendly cricket, even if I was wearing formal pants and a tie.
Bombay's a world unto itself -
Movie theatres swamped by scalpers, just looking to make a quick
buck off the next idiot to walks by.
Sidewalks tainted with the remnants of "paan", a betelnut
concoction that I would only expect an Indian to know how to make.
College students skipping lectures as if they had not a care in
the world, sitting RIGHT OUTSIDE their college gates and eating
Chinese food about as unhealthy as a bowl of asphalt.
Cops riding around on their bikes or hiding behind bus stops to
catch speeding motorists, or cars running stop lights, only to pocket
their routine "haftaa" (bribe) of fifty or so rupees,
and walk off gleefully to find a new spot.
Believe me, I appreciate the fact that I can step outside and breathe
in fresh, clean air that HAS the requisite amount of oxygen. At
the end of the day though, having lived in a country which is as
close to "halfway around the world" as you could possibly
find, I've become accustomed to its routine, assimilated all it
has to offer, and inculcated it into what I do. Into who I am.
Home, it's where the heart lies - where I have no qualms about walking
anywhere at night, at anytime, knowing that somewhere along the
road, I'll be able to find my way back. Alone.
Because Bombay is my life, my jaan....
And as I sit here typing this out, tears streaming down my face,
my thoughts go back to that gut-wrenching night I left Bombay. Well-wishers,
friends and family gathered around me in numbers so large, airport
authorities could well be forgiven for thinking the President had
arrived. Emotions had overcome me and reduced my words to a stream
of incoherent babble.
Two hours later, I was on a flight to Frankfurt, and no matter how
much I cried, the pilot refused to turn back.
I had left Bombay; I was high above sea level, staring down at the
lights, the sounds and the spirit of a city which will always have
a special place in my heart.
It's where the roads are filthier than the dustbins.
Where traveling on a cycle delivers you to your destination faster
than a car.
Where haircuts cost twenty-five times less than they cost here.
No, we don't use garden shears.
It's where big red buses rule to road.
Where traffic accidents are caused more by the desire for alcohol
rather than a consequence of its consumption.
Where every month of the year is summer.
Where festivals are celebrated together, irrespective of caste,
creed or gender.
Where throwing water balloons and colors on people is considered
to be holy.
Where walking barefoot for hundreds of kilometers is the only true
test of devotion.
Where Christmas is big, but Kumbh Mela is bigger.
Where even an average guy like me thinks he's a Pulitzer-prize winning
poet, and seizes the opportunity to publish his meager works where
everybody can read them.
My city.
Call it Bombay or Mumbai, the new 'politically correct' name for
it, whichever you prefer.
Me, I'll always call it home.
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