Making Mumbai Home

IT was almost dusk, my favourite time of the day in Mumbai. I turned on the lamps and burned some incense to encourage Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, into our home. It was a sacred evening ritual that Aryan encouraged me to do. The light was soft, and the heady notes of the sandalwood incense trailed warmly through the rooms inside. Outside, children enthusiastically played cricket in the courtyard. The ball made a clunking sound as it landed and bounced off the cement, and cheers rose up as runs were made.

‘Chal, chal, mar, mar (move, move, hit, hit),’ they shouted encouragement to each other.

The area around the apartment building started to come alive. The warm glow from the shops and the smoky smell of oil and jeera (cumin) from the samosas being fried by the roadside drew people into the streets. After living there for two years, I still saw Mumbai as an exotic fusion.

There wasn't a lot about my old life that was same as it was five years ago. Not my job. Not my relationship. And not my home. Being a foreigner in a foreign land makes you so much more aware of how the universe, and life, alters.

‘Sab Kuch Milega’ means ‘You'll get everything’. This Hindi saying is especially popular with backpackers in India, who often have it emblazoned all over their T-shirts. Indeed, it usually is possible to get everything in India. What you want may not always be available, but it's definitely possible.

I returned to Australia early that new year and piece by piece, step by step, tidied up the loose ends. Aryan stayed in India. I had a lot to sort out and needed time to myself to do it. When I came back to India a month later, it was with an open heart and mind. I'd missed India while I was away. Yes, there were obstacles and inefficiencies, but there were so many things I undeniably liked, too. When I stopped noticing how difficult it was to get some things done in India, I started appreciating how easy it was to get other things done. No matter what happened or what I needed, there was usually someone nearby to conveniently fix it or provide it. And for a very reasonable price.

When the sole of my sandal broke, Aryan took it to the chappalwala who had a small stall on the footpath at the end of our road. He glued and stitched it back together while I waited. Cost: 5 rupees (15 cents).

When our lamp stopped working, Aryan fetched the electrician from one of the small shops in the street outside our apartment building to come and repair it. Cost: 40 rupees ($1).

A tailor sat with his sewing machine on the ground floor of our apartment building. He quickly mended and adjusted the seams of our clothes. Cost: 10 rupees (30 cents).

A dhar-wala often visited on his bicycle, which he would put on a stand, and pedalled to rotate a sharpening stone to sharpen our scissors. Cost: 20 rupees (60 cents).

When my laptop played up and refused to stay on for more than a couple of minutes, Aryan reassured me that we'd take it to the computer store nearby. The technician phoned us a few hours later. ‘Your laptop is fixed. All the viruses have been removed. You can come and collect it.’ It was fully operational again, and for only 250 rupees ($10).

The air conditioner clunked to a halt one hot, steamy evening. It was just over a year old, so the warranty would have expired. What's more, I didn't know where the receipt was. I envisaged an expensive repair bill. Aryan and I returned to the store where we bought the air conditioner.

‘We'll send a repairman to take a look at it within two or three days,’ the shop assistant assured us.

Not even a day later, two repairmen arrived at our door. Unannounced, of course. They pulled the air conditioner out of the wall and lifted the top off. Both the repairmen and I looked down in horror.

‘Yeh kyaa hai? (What is this?)’

I was particularly aghast. The unit was filled with pigeon feathers and excrement that had fallen through the grille.

The repairmen were obviously amused by my reaction. Very diligently, they proceeded to clean the air conditioner. When it was reassembled, they plugged it in and it started to work again. I was overjoyed. But I was even more impressed when they went to the effort of sweeping the mess off the floor.

Then came the moment I was dreading. One of the repairmen pulled out a service form.

‘What date did you purchase the AC, madam?’

‘I'm not sure, I can't remember,’ I replied honestly.

‘Okay, I am writing this date down,’ he said as he made up a date. The repairs were free. It was a welcome surprise to have India ‘kindly adjust’ in my favour. The lack of proper procedures and processes that had maddened me so much had finally balanced in my favour. Was this what they call karma?

The more I was reminded what an intriguing country India is, the more I rediscovered my interest in it. As I sat at my desk working one day, I happened to glance out the window. A massive, decorated Brahman bull accompanied by a drum player strolled into the courtyard of the apartment complex. The bull had bright orange-painted horns, and wore a colourful blanket on its back and a long necklace hung with bells. The drum player started yelling something that I couldn't understand. Within seconds, both he and the bull were escorted off the premises by the watchmen.

What had just gone on? Definitely something mysterious that only happens in India. My inquiries revealed that it was a Bholanath bull – a bull that can predict the future. Ask it a question and it will shake its head in either ‘yes' or ‘no’. Also known as the Nandi bull, the bull is the companion of Lord Shiva. Bholanath, one of the 108 names of Lord Shiva, is associated with him in his most innocent form, pleased by simple prayers and eager to grant wishes.

Innovative ways of making money can be found on every corner in densely populated India. Even if no one really believes in the supposed powers of the Bholanath bull, it still provided a great source of entertainment for children.

Small things also made me laugh. Simple, everyday things I'd never encountered before. I bought a light bulb from the local supermarket. As I was unloading my trolley at the check-out, I heard ‘Madam, madam’. One of the shop assistants was trying to get my attention. When I turned towards him, a light bulb shone brilliantly in my face, almost blinding me. After I recovered from the shock, I realised it was my light bulb. The shop assistant had plugged it in and was demonstrating to me that it worked.

My website had become an obsession. When each day was over, I fell into bed exhausted, but the end result was satisfying. Not only was I writing about a place I loved, I was sharing it with people. It was easy to put my heart and soul into it. As the website grew in popularity, businesses in India began taking notice. Invitations flooded in, as did offers of travel from one end of India to the other. The people I encountered along the way were gracious and inspiring, with a wealth of knowledge and experience. So many shared my everyday beliefs about spirituality and Indian philosophy. What's more, they were living their dreams. It confirmed to me that I was on the right track.

I was most impressed by the photographer I worked with on an advertising campaign for Mahindra Homestays in India. From Tamil Nadu, his name was Prasana. He broke the ice by immediately noticing my toe rings. It took me by surprise.

‘You're married?’ he asked me. I was pleased that he didn't think they might just be fashion accessories, like many foreigners wore. I soon realised he was a perfectionist like me. Work days were long, as we pursued the best light and angles, giving us plenty of opportunity to talk. ‘I completed my MBA and spent six months as a client servicing executive in an advertising agency. I hated it,’ he confessed to me.

‘So how did you end up as a photographer?’ I was curious.

‘It started off as a hobby and I taught myself. Then I quit my job and moved to Chennai to begin freelancing. I spent a lot of time struggling to prove myself in the industry. Finally got my big break.’

I recognised how bold and tenacious he'd been, particularly in India where creative career choices aren't often encouraged or looked upon favourably.

‘What did your family think?’

‘Actually, my father's a doctor and my family's all academically inclined. They were really worried and upset, and initially opposed what I was doing. However, they've accepted it over time now that they can see it's my passion,’ he explained.

I admired him. And, I was also quite astonished that I was in a position to relate to him. I thought back to the New Year's Eve party I went to in Kolkata, and to the filmmaker and musician I'd met there. At the time, I'd been so envious of how they'd left accounting and succeeded in their passions. I'd wondered if I could possibly follow in their footsteps but had no idea of where to begin or what direction to go in. Yet, a few years down the track, here I was. Miraculously, I'd done it!

It felt surreal to live the life of a travel writer, even more so to realise that it was my life. Lest you think it's all glamour, let me dissuade you. It can be an exhausting, mad life!

In June, as yet another southwest monsoon commenced making its way up the coast, I was staying in a cottage on a 90-acre coffee and spice estate in the Wayanad district of Kerala, in southern India. The road leading through the estate was thick with vegetation, including coconut palms, jackfruit trees and stunning red hibiscus flowers. The sun was about to rise. Soon, the whole valley came alive, illuminated in the sun's warm glow. I sat on my balcony, amid the swirling mist and intermittent bird calls, letting the fresh filtered coffee from the estate awaken me.

In July, I'd left the monsoon behind and travelled to the other end of India, 12,500 feet above sea level in the remote, high-altitude Spiti Valley of northern Himachal Pradesh. The stark alpine landscape was arid and barren, scattered with small villages and monasteries, and enclosed by soaring peaks crowned with snow. It was a world within a world.

I traipsed through the countryside on the back of a yak to the highest village in Asia. Village life was fascinating; tradition required families to donate their second eldest son to the local Buddhist monastery, to train to become a lama. Not all the children appeared to deal well with their fate; one little boy so disliked being told to study that I saw him belligerently throwing rocks at people. Farming was the principal source of income. It was a simple and uncomplicated way of life, but challenging. Winters were harsh. Heavy snowfall and below freezing temperatures forced residents to be housebound for months at a time, when they passed the time making handicrafts.

The trip wasn't an easy one for me. I was plagued by altitude sickness and became very weak. Headache, dizziness, vomiting, upset stomach – a different symptom each night. It felt like it would never end, and I felt so alone and helpless without anyone familiar there to help me.

I had only a few days to rest before my next journey. This time, it was to Chennai, to take part in an auto-rickshaw rampage, billed as an event for the ‘clinically insane’. I was about to spend thirteen days in a rickshaw, driving it over 1900 kilometres and through four states, from Chennai to Mumbai. Fortunately, Aryan saw the funny side and agreed to join me.

We were given a lesson in how to drive an auto rickshaw. I struggled to come to terms with the fact that the accelerator was located on the rickshaw's handlebar. Every time I gripped the handlebar in fear, the rickshaw dangerously surged forward. India's roads are often narrow and filled with potholes, but it's the traffic that's the biggest hazard, consisting as it does of everything from trucks to bullock carts. Obstacles such as the holy cows required dodging as well.

The journey to Mumbai was arduous but enthralling. Life on the road developed into an exhausting routine of 6 a.m. starts, and all-day driving, but it was worth the pain.

Shortly after, I headed to Udaipur, in the desert state of Rajasthan. It was a long time since a city had so entranced me with its splendour, often called the most romantic city in India. I had a whirlwind 72 hours there as a guest of the Mewar royal family who have done a remarkable job of converting their palaces into hotels. My room overlooked the famed Lake Pichola and the Lake Palace Hotel. Stationery with my name embossed on it sat on my writing table, and an invitation to drinks with the head of the Mewar royal family lay alongside it. It really felt like I was caught up in a royal fairytale. Or perhaps an extra in the James Bond movie Octopussy, which was partly filmed on the premises.

When I arrived back in Mumbai, it was September and time for my favourite festival of the year, Ganesh Chaturthi. This eleven-day festival honours the birth of Lord Ganesh. Pot-bellied and elephant-headed, he's a strange-looking but widely adored Hindu god with the revered ability to remove obstacles. Eager chants of ‘Ganpati Bappa, Morya!’ (Lord Ganesh, Hail!) filled the air, radiating excitement and anticipation.

Months before, tens of thousands of highly skilled artisans had been working to craft intricate sculptures of Lord Ganesh for the festival. These masterful creations were installed in carefully decorated pandals (canopied tents) all over the city, accompanied by a great deal of fanfare. I slipped off my shoes outside one of the tents, parted the curtains and stepped inside, into another world. Flickering fairy lights covered the ceiling, water trickled from a small fountain, and a dense cloud of incense swirled around. And there he was, lounging in all his glory on a throne on the podium, a towering Lord Ganesh, resplendent in his colourful robes. Gold jewellery dripped from his body and a gold crown graced his head. A hefty garland of gold and yellow marigolds was secured around his waist. At his feet were piles of coconuts, apples, bananas, pomegranates and platters of his favourite modak (a sweet made from rice flour, jaggery and coconut). They'd been provided by his devotees to ensure a trouble-free and prosperous year ahead.

‘Bahut sundar hai (very beautiful),’ I whispered to Aryan.

Many others had joined us in putting their busy lifestyles on hold to gather together and spend time with the beloved elephant-headed god. They prayed and sung, like others had for thousands of years, and would continue to do so for thousands more to come.

When the final day of Ganesh Chaturthi rolled around, everyone gathered to bid farewell to their favourite god and send him off in a huge street party. Maliha had a statue of Lord Ganesh at the end of her street, so I decide to join her. I got there in the evening at around seven o'clock, just as the statue of Lord Ganesh was carried out from his pandal and lifted onto the back of a large truck. Dozens of helpers, clad in saffron shirts and white hats, helped. I was handed a saffron-coloured ribbon bearing the familiar ‘Ganpati Bappa, Morya!’ chant written in Hindi to tie around my head. Even babies wore one. Crackers exploded and fireworks decorated the sky.

Then the music started. So, too, did the dancing. The fabled red powder was thrown everywhere, and white foam sprayed for added fun. Later that night, I found myself pulled into a huge circle. We linked hands and danced, round and round. The monsoon season was still with us, and like many other evenings, it began to rain. Then it poured. We all kept dancing.

As midnight approached, it was time for the statue to be carted away to the ocean for immersion. I took a lingering look at Lord Ganesh, knowing that he would soon be destroyed.

It's natural to wonder why these painstakingly crafted and beloved statues are discarded into the water, where they're left to crumble and be washed away. As with most things in India, the message behind the action is important and also poignant. Immersion symbolises the return of Lord Ganesh from the earth, after satisfying his devotees' wishes. Moreover, it serves as a reminder of the impermanence of everything in life, and the constantly changing state of the universe. Form eventually gives way to formlessness. Only the energy remains.

Although I'd adapted to life in Mumbai, at times I still missed the cleanliness, space and order of Australia. The photos that my friends sent me showed living conditions so pristine compared to mine in India. Did such a step up in the standard of living guarantee an equally large step up in happiness?

A house party at an immaculately decorated and roomy apartment in Bandra put it in perspective for me.

‘You're going to a kitty party?’ Aryan was dismayed when I told him of my plans to have dinner and drinks at a girlfriend's house. I'd met a group of foreign women also married to Indian guys, and we caught up from time to time. Like me, they found it difficult to relate to most of the expats in Mumbai. But together, we'd formed our own little niche.

I was just as dismayed. ‘What's a kitty party?’

It was, I soon learned, a popular form of entertainment for housewives in India. They gather in large groups at someone's home, bring food, salaciously gossip and play games. At a firangi (foreigner) kitty party, however, the games were replaced by wine and we talked about life in general.

A Bollywood actress was at the party. She had a business relationship with my friend's husband.

‘I'll be going to the US for two months but am not sure about where to live. I want a big place, but I'm concerned about getting good staff. It's important because I don't know how to operate a washing machine or a dishwasher, and I don't want to learn,’ she explained.

It was almost 4 a.m. by the time the last guests left. It didn't concern me that I'd have to find my way home alone. I'd become adept at getting around Mumbai, and it felt safe to me. The actress took pity on me.

‘Kandivali? Where's that? I've never even heard of it. Come with me, you can take my car and driver after he's dropped me home.’

We started chatting in the car.

‘So, what do you like about Indian men?’ she asked me, obviously curious about why I'd married one.

‘Their values and sense of commitment,’ I replied, thinking of Aryan. ‘Indian men tend to be quite stable and caring as well, which is what's often missing in the west.’

‘Really?’ She seemed surprised by my response.

‘And you? What are your views on Indian men?’ I asked her, knowing that she'd recently broken up with her long-term boyfriend. ‘They're too possessive and controlling. And they only see me as an actress, not who I really am.’

I remembered when I met Aryan, he'd expressed similar concerns about people not bothering to get to know who he really was.

‘Hmmm, I guess I got lucky,’ I said to her.

When I woke up in the morning, back in our small one-bedroom flat, the previous night seemed like a fantasy.

Living a simpler life had taught me to find joy in what I had. Even though our apartment was small, I had so much more freedom and flexibility than most people I knew. My days were mine to do what I wanted, when I wanted. There was a beach, a park and a huge shopping centre nearby. I worked when I wanted to work. I was writing and being creative. This new life had purpose and passion. My old life meant obligation, routine and entrapment into acquiring more and more unnecessary possessions. And it was bland compared to the unpredictability of India – unpredictability that had forced me to detach myself and let go.

I started feeling less like a foreigner in India and more like a white Indian. Mumbai had tested me but had failed to make me leave. I'd stayed on in the city against the odds, and proven how much I wanted my new life.

But Aryan wasn't satisfied working in the family business. While I'd finally found a fulfilling career, he'd sacrificed one. He wanted to keep his family and me happy, and prove to everyone that he was responsible and dedicated. Nevertheless, he had no passion for the job. He continued to devote all his spare time to music, spending long hours with friends producing music and dreaming of having his own studio. At work he'd taken to chanting mantras (spiritual verses) to keep his mind numbly blank and focused.

I also dreamed of a change. I spent long hours envisaging living in a cosmopolitan yet quiet area, with a 24-hour water supply, surrounded by a peaceful garden. In Mumbai? I didn't think it was possible. So, I contented myself with visiting public gardens and toyed with the idea of painting the walls of our apartment bright red and yellow.

Then Aryan arrived home one night with some unfathomable news.

‘Lloyd called me. He asked me if I wanted to join him in working at a new lounge bar that will be opening up in Hiranandani Gardens. We'll be playing music there as well as producing music for the venue. The owner wants to release four albums of world fusion music a year.’

Hiranandani Gardens, a planned township in the central Mumbai suburb of Powai, is home to expats and well-to-do Indians. The developer has built parks, hospitals and schools. There are world-class hotels, shops, supermarkets and restaurants. With its neoclassical architecture, the area looks more like Europe than India. But the real barometer of its cosmopolitan nature is that Indian women can be seen wearing shorts and miniskirts there. As Hiranandani Gardens was located almost an hour from where we lived, Aryan and I agreed that we'd have to relocate.

I felt a sense of accomplishment over being able to settle into a typical middle-class Indian lifestyle, eschewing that of an expat, even though it had taken its toll. I'd learned a lot about Indian society in the process and experienced things that most other foreigners wouldn't have. But what I really craved was to regain some anonymity. I had no intention of acquiring a bevy of servants or possessions, or even mixing in expat circles. I simply wanted to live serenely, without being such a subject of interest all the time.

I dreaded having to trudge though dozens of substandard apartments in the hunt for somewhere suitable to live. I wasn't even sure what was available within our budget. Yet, before I'd even finished compiling a list of requirements, Aryan called to tell me he'd found the ideal place for us.

It was a one-bedroom row house, located just opposite to where Lloyd would be living and where the music studio would be set up. It had three levels, including our own private rooftop and downstairs garden with a swing. We looked inside. To my delight, the walls were painted cheery shades of yellow, orange and red. The rent exactly fit our budget. We even had our own water tank! One of the last remaining row houses in a complex that existed before the area was developed, it was around ten years old and by no means luxurious like the surrounding apartment towers (in fact, I'd have to revert to cooking with a gas bottle as there was no gas pipeline). And, of course, there was an unappealing wet bathroom. Nevertheless, it was a house with a rare creative feel that was perfect for us. The owners, a kind-hearted elderly couple from Kerala, agreed to rent it to us.

Once again, what the universe had produced was better than anything I could have envisaged. I was humbled, grateful and in awe. My broken heart had led me into the unknown, and now my life had been transformed. I was doing what I was born to do. If my life hadn't been so torn apart, I never would be where I was. I wouldn't have had the courage or motivation to make changes to myself and my life.

I'd gone from self-awareness, to awareness of others, to awareness of the greater whole. I'd developed faith, and had been infused by the infinite sense of possibility in India. Old notions of who I was, defined by the roles that I'd played, had fallen away.

After years of searching and wandering, I'd completed the hardest and most rewarding journey of my life, and was at last living my dream.

Now, another new chapter could begin.