A Rainy Evening in Bombay

A talkative, loud whisper dies down into a soft, humble rumbling as I put on my heavy headphones, their deep matte black harmonising with the grey-white scene ahead of me. Little cold sprinkles splash onto my even colder, shoeless feet, as if in a sly attempt to gradually drench them as they have done for the wood on which I rest, soaking it until its deep brown reminiscent hues are shown in darker shades while the soft patterns highlight themselves, as if a retrospective past was brought to life again as the grey scene turns into a cloudy black sky. These are the rains of Bombay, at least from my balcony.

4 floors down, and a 100m away, walking out into this 'humble rumbling', cold shards of liquid ice piercingly penetrated my ruffled hair, collecting itself in the curls and crevices in their new home for the next few hours until I can get myself hands on a decent towel. Rushing onto shrill roads, stumbling over the uneven bricks, and swiftly avoiding the deeper, 'dangerous' puddles, I search for a rickshaw amongst the army of whirring but stationary engines, all queued into 3 distinct lines, straighter than any you'll see on any Indian road, I suppose everyone's trying to get home. Bright red headlights yell at the cars in front to move as if in a chain reaction with no end nor beginning, a scurry of honks and auditory chaos disturb the air. A once black road now covered with a thin crystal mirror of raindrops glows vermillion from the flickering headlights and signals, it's almost as if the entire series of events is happening in two places, simultaneously.

I rush through the little gaps between the impatient vehicles and jets of hot air from the engines strike my skin from every direction as I make my way over to an empty rickshaw. Sharp beams of light shine brightly on my face, flickering incessantly due to the powerful waterflow that they reveal in the form of little shards of rain, that appear as fast as they disappear. My heart beats at the same pace, eyes on the signal, hope in my mind that it doesn't change. An overload of senses to which I feel familiar, but don't at the same time.

"Bhaiyaa pvr ke paas mein chalna hain" are the words that escape from the clutches of anxiety, my voice is drowned among a cacophony rattle of car horns and revving engines, I can feel my insignificance in this large, busy world. And despite this, a rickshawala, a complete stranger is so important to me that the noise of the world drowns in the peripheries of attention. I push aside the damp curtain in response to a thoughtful nod from the 'rickshawala' and swiftly climb onto the torn leather seat, as I occupy a cozy warm space. A flash from red to green, and there is movement. Smoke and dust fill the air and the rickshaw as it jerks into action.

Sweet smell of hot vada pav waft in briefly, kids splashing in the very puddles I was avoiding, a sweet sense of comfort has emerged within me. Somehow, just knowing that I have a place amongst this space of randomness, chaos and movement, however small, be it just sitting in a rickshaw, watching the scenes unfold from afar, it makes me feel one with this world.

A grey scene, black and white, calm, a time of rest, turned a flash of red and white, reflections and movement on every side with a dark, blanketed sky. A space of reflection and a space of instinct. This is Bombay, and I'll never be able to appreciate or understand its paradoxes and contrasts, and honestly, I find the only suitable description of this magically confusing place is 'Boletoh Mast Hain'.