3

Mumbai

‘Confusion, when embraced, is the starting point for discovery, direction and decision.’

—Richie Norton

November 2012

A night-time descent into Mumbai, the capital of Maharashtra, is an entrancing experience. The lights inside the aircraft are off and you feel like you are alone—suspended between the sky and earth.

Located on the west coast of India, Mumbai is home to one of the biggest film industries in the world. In this glamorous world of films, popularly called Bollywood, fortunes and reputations have risen to dizzying heights in no time, and also been shattered and smashed overnight.

This is the city that regularly attracts droves of hopeful youngsters, often from smaller towns, their eyes studded with starry dreams of catching that elusive bird of fame, success and wealth. Mumbai is India’s Aladdin’s magic lamp. Everyone wishes to rub it and get lucky. The genie has bestowed unimaginable boons on many seekers. It has also denied favours to innumerable others, driving them to despair. And yet there’s that attraction, that magical pull.

I had come to Mumbai as an actor in 1990 with my mom after being signed by Subhash Ghai-ji of Mukta Arts for my debut film Saudagar which released in 1991 and became a top-grosser. I never looked back.

Movies followed in quick succession, some of which were: Yalgaar (1992), 1942: A Love Story (1994), Akele Hum Akele Tum (1995), Bombay (1995), Agni Sakshi (1996), Khamoshi: The Musical (1996), Gupt (1997), Dil Se (1998), Kachche Dhaage (1999), Mann (1999) and Hindustan Ki Kasam (1999).

Much later, when I was working in a movie with Shah Rukh Khan, he told me, ‘Manisha, I think you should buy a house in Mumbai so that you can feel at home here.’ I had been living in a rented apartment ever since I came to Mumbai. I was saving money, though I don’t know for what! Shah Rukh told me that if I bought a place of my own, I would feel rooted and not feel like a nomad or wanderer. I smiled, because I knew that no house could really tie me down as I have been an eternal nomad by nature.

Shah Rukh, too, had come to Mumbai from Delhi, the same way I had come from Nepal. I guess deep down, I was feeling a little uprooted. I was working hard, but for the longest time, never really felt like I belonged here.

I decided to follow his advice and in 1999 bought my own house and made Mumbai my home.

Mumbai is a city that never sleeps, a city where the young at heart pack in unimaginably long hours of work and top it up by relaxing and hanging out in its shiny pubs and glittering parties all night long. Mumbai’s expansive heart is home to millionaires and the homeless, to gangsters and holy men, to the fisherfolk and the elite, to glamorous film stars and overworked commercial sex workers. Despite the city’s chaos, nobody wants to leave. For once you bite into Mumbai’s enchanted apple, you cannot stay anywhere else.

A great deal has been written and talked about Mumbai’s spirit, and rightly so. With a jack-in-the-box resilience, it bounces back and simply moves on after the worst floods, terrorist attacks and communal violence. Despite its hustle and bustle, you feel invigorated by Mumbai’s distinct stamp of electric creativity, youthfulness and vitality. Yes, with its cosmopolitan appeal, the city of dreams makes your heart soar.

This time, however, I did not feel any soaring of the spirit as we descended. My heart was in pain. I was gripped by fear. Mom and I had flown into the city alone. The rest of my family was flying in the next day. For the two of us, this was not simply a flight from point A to point B. It was traumatic. I was focused only on meeting Dr Suresh Advani, one of India’s best-known oncologists, whom I had set up a consultation with on phone. We were two frightened women trying very hard to come to terms with my condition.

In the aircraft, I had noticed people staring at me. Some in horror, others in sympathy.

How did they know my dark secret?

I felt unnerved by their unrelenting stares. I could feel my mom sitting beside me and grieving silently. I felt bad for her. It was not in divine order that a child should die before her mother.

The darkness of my fear was seeping into my bones now. But I did not want us to become a public spectacle. So I looked at her pale face and wrapped her in her favourite sky blue shawl that I had bought for her on one of my outdoor shoots. Today, after praying for my well-being, she had instinctively brought it along.

I was wearing a grey Juicy Couture tracksuit. To camouflage my bloated stomach I had worn my track pants below my waist. Although, to the casual onlooker, I appeared to be in control, I was not. My hands and legs were trembling. All I wanted was this flight to land soon so that I could get to Dr Advani fast.

As Dr Advani worked elsewhere during the day, he had asked me to meet him at Jaslok Hospital that very evening. I have trusted him implicitly over the years, sending many impoverished Nepali children with cancer to him. He looked after all my patients with the same concern he showed towards the rich and famous. Now I was going to be his patient.

Restlessly, I pulled my cap down and covered the rest of it with my outsized sunglasses. Why is everything happening so slowly? When will we reach Mumbai? My heart in my mouth, I surrendered weakly to the knowing gazes around me.

I had not even noticed the stewardess who came and stood next to me, trying to offer me food. I shook my head instinctively. Then another stewardess came, offering me some drinks. I refused. She looked at me compassionately. Did they too know? Is this why they were being so kind to me?

The stares followed me even after we landed, or so I thought.

Thankfully, a knot of efficient Airport Authority men met us at the immigration. Swiftly, they guided us into the VIP section and without much delay whisked us out of the airport.

Two things hit me instantly: Mumbai’s warm humidity and its distinct smell. I remember many years ago, when I had visited Mumbai as a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, I had wrinkled my little nose at its fishy smell.

I did not know why that memory came to my mind at that particular time, but it did. Many years of living there had made me become used to Mumbai’s salt-in-the-air, fishy smell. But in my Versova home, which is very close to the fishermen’s colony, I make it a point to surround myself with a lot of sweet-scented candles, incense and fragrance diffusers. At that point, however, the fear of my diagnosis overwhelmed me. I could hear my heart hammering and feel myself suddenly breaking out into a sweat. My mother was trembling. I caught her arm firmly and whispered, ‘Be strong, Ama!’ But my voice came out hesitant and weak.

An ambulance was waiting for us at the airport to take us to Jaslok Hospital. Ignoring it, I slid into my own car. When everything in my life was slipping away into unfamiliarity, I needed the security of the familiar. I sank into the comfort of the upholstered leather seat, rested my head on the multiflowered neck pillow which I always keep in my car and took a deep breath.

As we drove towards Jaslok, I felt a rush of fresh panic. I was in a hurry to reach the doctor but found our car caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I felt trapped by the private cars, taxis, autorickshaws, buses and trucks around us that were going wild with impatience. Autorickshaws cut lanes while pedestrians tried to cross the streets. People were honking, shouting profanities and threatening each other with dire consequences. Pot-holed roads had been dug up for sewage lines and metro construction, resulting in a huge traffic snarl.

I was bathed in sweat. Anxiety and impatience make a bad cocktail. I wished we had wings. We moved at a snail’s pace and, in places, did not move at all. Chaos reigned supreme at points where vehicles were parking illegally, leaving very little space for cars to move.

I twiddled my thumbs in agony and anxiety, feeling suffocated. For an eighteen-kilometre drive that should have taken us twenty-one minutes, it took us a full hour and a half.

***

Jaslok Hospital at Pedder Road, south Mumbai, is an imposing grey structure, with bands of light yellow running down from the top. Any other time I would have loved to look at it, located strategically on the main road overlooking the azure expanse of the Arabian Sea and standing tall above the chaos of Mumbai’s traffic and numerous billboards.

But my focus this time was on my own health. I was here to meet Dr Advani and felt certain that he would calm my frayed nerves and deal with the issue in the best possible way.

Dr Advani’s story has never failed to inspire me. Struck by polio at the age of eight, he had been confined to a wheelchair because of paralysed lower limbs. But his spirit remained undaunted. He was even initially refused admission to medical college because he was ‘crippled’. In the early seventies, he selected a field considered not good enough for pursuing—oncology. He then went abroad to train with the best of doctors and came back to India to create innumerable success stories. With sheer hard work and a deep understanding of his field, he emerged as one of the top oncologists in the country and was even bestowed the Padma Bhushan, the country’s third-highest civilian award. His contributions are immense and I deeply pray to god that he be bestowed with many such awards in the future.

As soon as we reached the hospital, I jumped out of the vehicle and rushed towards Dr Advani’s cabin. In our over-eagerness to meet him, we had arrived earlier than our scheduled time. I was surprised that we had made it, despite the obstacle race our car had been through. Once inside the cabin, I collapsed with exhaustion on the chair. My intense anxiety was also laced with hope. Having faced personal pain himself, Dr Advani would surely know how to deal with my perplexing diagnosis, I thought.

It turned out to be a one-hour wait for the doctor. Mom and I sat in his cabin quietly. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Inside the minimalistic cabin, with its certificate and award-lined walls, I noticed a heart-warming picture of the doctor’s family.

And then I saw that my friend Anupama and her husband, Avinash, had arrived. I was so relieved to see them. I have always felt secure in their presence, as if I am being held in somebody’s arms and told, ‘It’s all going to be okay. Don’t worry.’ They are both caring and dependable.

A thought struck me: Their marriage appears to be like a fairy tale. But do fairy tales happen in real life?

My friendship with Anupama is as old as my relationship with Mumbai city. I met this gorgeous, intelligent and funny woman for the first time at Birju Maharaj-ji’s kathak class. Anu was training under him as she aspired to be an actress. I was there because Subhash Ghai-ji had signed me and Vivek Mushran for Saudagar. I had to learn kathak for the role, while Vivek had to undergo stunt training with the Varma Brothers. Raveena Tandon too was in our batch.

For a long time, Anu and I hardly spoke to each other, but when we did, we instantly bonded and became fast friends. And that’s how it has been for the last 20–25 years. She is like a sister to me now.

Avinash belongs to the illustrious Adik family. Anu and Avinash have now been married for sixteen years and have two wonderful sons. Avi is this tall, caring man who knows exactly what to do in a crisis. He brings the word ‘super’ to my mind. He is super intelligent, super solid and super helpful. Together, Anu and Avi are my beloved extended family.

Avinash is like a son to Mom. They get along really well. I could see how relieved she was too to see him. She instantly held his hand and took him out of the cabin. After explaining everything to him, she entrusted him with the task of finding the best ovarian cancer surgeons in Mumbai. Dr Advani was undoubtedly the best oncologist. But we needed a surgeon.

I have always felt that my mom is an unstoppable, powerful force of nature, especially when it concerns the welfare of her children. Although she appears gentle, she is used to being in control and more often than not, does the right thing. She hurls herself into the task at hand wholeheartedly. Avinash’s arrival got her a chance to get back ‘into action’ instead of waiting endlessly for Dr Advani, while our tension continued to mount.

Alone with Anu now, I let down my guard. Mom was not around. I could finally be myself. I had a meltdown. I caught hold of Anu’s shoulders and let the flood from my eyes pour out.

‘I don’t want to die!’ I sobbed.

She hugged and patted my back lovingly. For someone like me who is very private and trained to be in control, this was a difficult moment. I was expressing my deepest fear. But I knew she would understand. After all, she was a mother and a wife. Her eyes showed she understood, and I was grateful.

It was a dark, moonless night. Nothing stirred. I do not like this mood of the day. It depresses me. When will he arrive?

Finally, I heard the rolling of a wheelchair in the hospital’s long, disinfected corridor and knew that it was Dr Advani. He was wearing a blue striped shirt and loose, khaki trousers. Below his sparse white hair was perched his square, rimless spectacles. On his lips, he wore a confident smile. After a few pleasantries, I eagerly—rather hurriedly—handed over my reports to him. As he went through them, I tried to read his reaction from his eyes.

We had reached the hospital late in the evening. It was almost 11 p.m. now.

‘Well,’ he looked up at me with his piercing eyes. ‘Manisha, I would like to do another round of tests: PET scans and CT scans. But it’s late now. Go home. Come back tomorrow on an empty stomach.’

Dr Advani will do the tests tomorrow and tell me that these reports are inaccurate. I know he will say it’s nothing. I can’t wait to go back tomorrow morning!

I felt sure that Mom was also thinking that he would tell us that I had been misdiagnosed. I felt hopeful. On our way back, I impulsively asked the driver to stop at the shop that overlooks one of the most recognizable landmarks of Mumbai—Haji Ali. Located on an islet off the coast of Worli in the southern part of Mumbai, Haji Ali Dargah is a mosque and tomb where people of all faiths and religions come to seek blessings. Silently and deeply, we prayed to the saint for my health and well-being.

Haji Ali Juice Centre is one of the city’s iconic eating joints and people flock to it between 5 a.m. and 1 a.m. I ordered my favourite—a sitaphal (custard apple) cream. We relished it quietly on our way home.

My Mumbai home. Within its safe space, I have led out my life, with all its ups and downs. On the ground floor, four coveted ‘black ladies’—my Filmfare Awards—stand proudly on the dark mahogany round table on the left, next to the white L-shaped sofas. The bright-coloured cushions overlook a wall full of the honours and accolades I have received for my films. This is my public persona—the ornate lamps, the glittering chandeliers.

On the right is a wooden staircase with about twenty steps. It spirals up daintily and leads me to my secluded space—my room. Here I become the real me, minus the frills. My personal space is pretty, quiet, reflective and extremely peaceful. It is my private sanctuary, where I escape from the realities of the world. I love my universe.

I was in a happy mood at this point. Hope seemed a tantalizing possibility.

I cuddled my two beloved dogs, Buddy and Sparky. Sparky was a Pekinese, a tiny white ball of fluffy hair. He was exceptionally temperamental, sensitive and loyal. He melted my heart each time he looked into my eyes with so much love, as if he understood my soul. We had named him Sparky because he had a lot of spark in him. He was a bundle of joy. His death a few years ago broke my heart.

Buddy was a golden retriever, gifted to me as a small puppy around the time of my diagnosis. When I discovered that my treatment would take long, I realized I would not be able to take good care of him. With a heavy heart I gave him away. I had a hard time controlling my tears, but I knew I was doing it with his best interest in mind. It gives me so much happiness to learn today that my Buddy is thriving in his new home.

Delighted to have me home once again, both my pets jumped up at me, vying for attention. I noticed how small Buddy was. He followed me around, though his legs were still not strong enough, and kept wagging his tiny tail. I felt a rush of love for him.

That day, I was convinced that canines have a sixth sense. From the moment I walked in, Buddy became my shadow. He refused to leave me alone even for a second. He followed me wherever I went. He firmly perched himself near my feet and refused to leave. He looked at me with his clear, liquid eyes, as if he wanted to console me. Could he sense what was in store for me?

***

As soon as morning dawned, I was up, eager to go to Jaslok and finish off whatever needed to be done. I couldn’t wait to restart my normal life which had suddenly been put on pause.

My mother was with me at Jaslok. So was Avinash, along with some other friends of mine. My dad and brother were scheduled to fly in that day and join us directly at the hospital. Tests and scans done, I was asked to check into the hospital room at the end of a long corridor. I was grateful for the privacy it gave me. It was a minimalistic room, sans any decoration. To my right was a window with blinds. My senses were assailed by the typical hospital smell of iodoform.

Once again the long wait for the test results began. I twiddled my thumbs. I fooled around with my mobile phone. I scripted what I would say to the doctor, for I felt certain that he would come and give me the good news that it was a huge mistake.

But time refused to pass quickly. Several hours rolled by—hours in which I kept peeping out into the corridor to check if the doctor was there. It was now beyond lunch time. I was restless, impatient and ready to run all the way up to his cabin.

Around 2 p.m., I heard his wheelchair rolling into the corridor outside my room. Eagerly, I stepped out and looked at him with an expectant smile. My heart missed a beat at his expression. His face was grim, his eyes veiled. What was happening?

By this time, many other doctors had trooped in. Avinash had contacted them for their expert opinion.

I was lying on my back, my stomach protruding. Dr Advani, along with two or three other accomplished doctors, surrounded me, looking down at me as if I were a specimen.

It was Dr Advani who spoke directly to me, ‘Manisha, it does appear you have cancer. Late-stage ovarian cancer.’

My world fell apart. But I was not letting this moment go without asking enough questions to understand things properly.

‘So what do we do now?’ I asked the group of doctors around me. It was a clinical, rather than emotional, question. I had become my practical self now.

One stout doctor with a moustache said, ‘I do not think immediate surgery is the best option. The cancer has intertwined with her organs.’ He looked at the others to make his point.

I looked on in shock at Dr Advani’s crestfallen face and asked, ‘Doctor, what do we do now?’ Before he could speak, another doctor—lean, tall and serious—spoke up, ‘It’s better we give her three rounds of chemotherapy, shrink the tumour, perform the operation and then give her another three rounds of chemo to complete the process.’

I asked Dr Advani, ‘Doctor, what do you say? Don’t you think that the normal procedure is the best? Surgery first and then chemo?’

He remained deep in thought, as if he were weighing the options. And then he looked directly at me and said, ‘Perhaps. But you see, the cancer has intertwined with your organs, so . . .’ Another doctor completed the sentence, ‘It’s risky. And very complicated.’

I was in an argumentative mode. Like a recalcitrant child, I asked, ‘What if after the operation, some cancer cells are left behind? Will the chemo destroy all of it? What will happen if some cancer cells refuse to get destroyed? What then?’

A cloud of worry seemed to drop over Dr Advani’s eyes. I looked around. That same expression seemed to be reflected in the eyes of all the doctors in the room. I turned my head away towards the window with its view of the Arabian Sea outside. I was struggling to fight my terror. I pushed my nails into the palm of my hands. It hurt, but not so much as the pain of disappointment in my heart.

Outside the room, my mom was in full action mode. She was making one call after another. There was a flurry of activity. My friend, Paulomi Sanghavi, too, had arrived by then.

Paulomi and I became friends around fifteen years ago. She is my closest girlfriend. We have travelled to many countries together and shared many happy times—shopping, going to restaurants, laughing at silly things and generally enjoying ourselves. A strong-headed Gujarati woman from a family that owns several huge factories and is in the business of importing and exporting clothing, she asserted her individuality by not joining the family business and becoming a jeweller instead. She now has a dazzling designer store in Mumbai’s Hughes Road. Fashionable and practical, Paulomi is a strong, independent woman who has seen me through my best phase as well as my worst. She always knows the right thing to do.

Assessing the grimness of the situation, Paulomi immediately called up her sister, Dr Premal, an oncosurgeon based in Virginia, USA. As she spoke on the phone, she kept nodding vigorously. She seemed to agree with her sister that I should be flown to the US immediately for treatment. There was a garble of voices outside. Paulomi’s self-assured voice intermingled with my mother’s nervous one. Mom was busy reaching out to all her friends in the US. She has a host of girlfriends across the country, all of them senior scientists and doctors in top hospitals.

My dad and Bhai too had arrived by then. Later, my brother told me about how angry he had been on witnessing the chaos around this sudden decision to take me to the US. He had heard Paulomi talking to her sister in the US and Mom speaking to Mukul Aunty and Meena Aunty and her other friends there. He felt strongly that my entire support system—my home, my friends, his own friends—were in India. This sudden decision to take me to the US agitated him. He also felt nervous and unsure about how he would manage in New York—a place he knew nothing about. He was upset with all of us.

I had zoned out completely. All I could think of was going along with everybody’s decision. All the doctors here were telling me it was a very complicated case. So why should I risk my life by not going to the best place in the world? When everyone around informed me that we would leave for America, I simply nodded. I was too weary to think. I could not make any more decisions.

Another fear resurfaced at that very moment. If we did go to the US for treatment, where would we stay? And for how long? I knew many people in America and had several friends there. In fact, many of them had even lovingly invited me over to their homes whenever I visited. But this was different. I was not a glamorous movie star; I was a cancer patient. Who would want me in their home? My heart sank. Instantly, my mind flew to the time I had offered my Mumbai home to a family from Nepal who had come for their son’s treatment at Tata Memorial Hospital, Mumbai. But how could I expect the same gesture from anyone? It was not fair.

Okay, I would need money. Lots of it. I called up my financial adviser, Mona, and got busy asking her details of how much investment I had in bonds and shares. ‘Liquidate everything!’ I instructed. But my heart knew that even that might not be enough. How could the rupee stand up against the strong US dollar? How would it suffice for our extended stay in New York?

Paulomi was at her best in this crisis. She got busy calculating the funds I had and told me roughly how much the treatment abroad would cost. I looked at her in horror.

And then she said something I did not expect to hear, ‘Manisha, please call up Sahara Shree and tell him your situation. He has a hotel in New York. Just ask him for help.’

I was horrified. I have always been shy and reserved about asking for favours. But after a lot of deliberation and gathering tremendous courage, I decided to call up Subrata Roy, fondly called Sahara Shree. Roy is the managing worker and chairman of Sahara India Pariwar, an Indian conglomerate with diversified businesses and ownership interests that include New York’s Plaza Hotel.

I had met him several times at business events with other celebrities and developed a deep respect for him. I was impressed by his humanitarian spirit, especially his efforts to provide financial support to the families of the 127 Kargil martyrs. I had never imagined that I would be in a position where I would have to ask him for help. I was embarrassed and did not know what his response would be. But I also knew deep inside that without this help, we would not be able to last many days in New York.

With trembling hands, I dialled his number. I shall never forget his response. He was warm, genuinely concerned and eager to help, given my situation. His words were music to my ears. Not only did he ask us to stay at his hotel but also told me that he knew a few people there who could assist us were we to need any help. I was overwhelmed. I learnt later that Sahara Shree used to call up my doctors and keep a tab on my progress.

I do not know how politically correct it is to mention him today, knowing how events unfolded adversely for him later on, but my family and I will always remain indebted to him for his generosity at a time we needed it most.

The days ahead were a blur. All I knew was that we were soon heading to the US. They were all determined to go. My parents and my brother.

In hindsight, I laugh when I recall the situation. So consumed were we with the end result of reaching America—to somehow bring me back to health—that we forgot to consider the most important detail. Going to America would require a visa! It suddenly dawned on my family that none of them except me possessed that precious stamp. They looked at each other in dismay.

Would that mean I would have to fly alone? They shook their heads in unison, determined not to allow such a preposterous thing to happen. My family is quite cute that way—they are my dependable army, but ever so often forget to carry their weapons to a war!

Thankfully, luck favoured us. The US embassies of both India and Nepal helped us in getting our visas quickly. So now, the date for our departure was set—1 December 2012—exactly four days after we landed in Mumbai.

In the days that followed, I found my heart expanding. My reports had not come out the way I had expected them to. I felt myself opening up to the wisdom around me. I listened to everyone who cared to give me advice. I was a flower, my petals open, soaking in the sun.

While inside my home, I preferred to stay in my sanctuary upstairs, immersed in a roller coaster of emotions. I could sense that the rooms downstairs were filled with people. Relatives and well-meaning friends had flocked to meet me. But I preferred to be left alone.

My trance was broken as soon as I heard the sound of someone coming up the wooden stairs. I looked up. It was Zakia, the fashion photographer. I had met her a few times at Deepti Naval’s home. Zakia had called me up to ask whether she could come over and I had said yes.

Zakia is an attractive and stylish woman. She has a great sense of fashion, which is natural, considering the profession she is in.

She came up to my bedroom. She spoke softly, unlike many others who were throwing around loud advice of all sorts. Perhaps seeing a cancer patient in the family sensitizes one to the feelings of others and makes one more respectful of another person’s private space.

Sheepishly, she asked me, ‘Manisha, may I share something with you?’

‘Of course!’ I said, knowing that her words were born out of affection and concern for me.

I welcomed these comments as much as I detested the frivolity of those sympathizers who said to me: ‘You’ll be fine!’ or worse, ‘Probably you do not have cancer at all.’

I was no fool. I knew that the doctors at Kathmandu and Mumbai were not hoodwinking me. Yes, I did have cancer.

So here was Zakia giving me precious tips from the learnings culled from her sister’s three-time cancer relapse.

‘And she is still alive after twenty-five years, Manisha.’ That was just the morale booster I needed.

You mean cancer patients could last twenty-five years after treatment? Not bad. Not bad at all!

So I listened to Zakia’s wise tips carefully and kept them close to my heart. This is what she told me:

And then she did the sweetest thing possible. She handed me her warm black Burberry jacket. ‘You can give it back to me when you return.’ My heart soared.

She is confident that I will live long enough to come back and return her jacket? Yay! Can I give living a try?

I wore that jacket lovingly. It reminded me of the selfless girl who kept in touch with me on Skype and never once burdened me with the huge family problems she was facing back then. I will always be grateful to my friends for supporting me empathetically.

I finally accepted that I had cancer. The rancorous information seeped into me drop by drop like a bitter medicine. It shook me rudely awake from my stupor of denial. I became very pensive and quiet.

I remember, on the last day of my departure, I got this sudden urge to see Mumbai in all its glory and chaos, as if to capture the images in my heart. I set off in my car, asking the driver to take me towards south Mumbai.

I wanted to see the magnificence of the island, the majesty of the skyscrapers and the tenacity of the have-nots. I love the sea. I love its confident girth, its benevolent expanse. I love the way Marine Drive’s promenade embraces the sapphire Arabian Sea. During the day, the waters glisten under the sun. Viewed at night from an elevation, Marine Drive turns into a string of glittering pearls. No wonder it is known as the Queen’s Necklace.

It was a bright sunny morning. The traffic at this hour was disciplined, not chaotic. It was a beautiful, peaceful sight. I rolled my windows down and breathed in the tangy air. A gentle breeze ruffled my hair and my tongue tasted salt.

As my driver drove past Chowpatty Beach, one of the famous public beaches adjoining Marine Drive in the Girgaon area of Mumbai, I saw flocks of white seagulls on the beach. It was a sight I can never forget. Everywhere I looked, there were these majestic birds, spreading their wings and fluttering around. Their harsh wailing and squeaking calls filled the air. Mesmerized, I asked my driver to stop the car.

I had read somewhere that these migratory birds come to Mumbai between October and March in search of warmer climes. A random thought struck me. The birds had travelled thousands of miles, crossing continents, to escape the winter there. And I? I was travelling away from the warmth of my Mumbai into the cold of America. It made for a beautiful thought and I almost smiled.

Just then, a regal white seagull broke away from the flock and came quite close to us. I was fascinated by the black markings on its head and wings as well as the perfection of its webbed orange feet. Suddenly, before my horrified eyes, it swooped down and caught an unsuspecting little bird in its stout, longish bill. I could not see what bird it was, but it was small, feathery and helpless.

Little bird, fight! Don’t give up so easily!

As if on cue, the little bird began struggling. Furiously.

The sight saddened me. Here was this innocent bird bobbing about in the seashore, enjoying the sunny day. Little did it know what destiny had in store for her.

I looked up at the blue sky. My eyes were blinded by the sun. The determined seagull had flown away. The unpredictability of life hit me forcefully.

I felt unhappy. Life was so fragile.

Who will win? The prey or the predator? I do not know. And perhaps never will.