Mumbai
The aircraft door opens and I know I’m home.
I’m greeted by the city’s quintessential pre-monsoon stench. I can see first-time visitors overwhelmed by its pungency. Completely unrecognizable to them yet all too familiar to me, at the heart of it, it’s unmistakably fishy and rotten. A second whiff however, uncovers the lingering odor of sewage. And then there’s the garbage amalgamated with metallic undertones. It all comes together in one potent mix. It settles on your skin. It seeps into your blood. You can taste it if you mouth breathe. There’s really no getting away from it.
No other city in the world can envelope you in an array of scents quite like Mumbai can. It’s a city you consume by breathing it in. It’s a city you remember by the sensorial onslaught of its aromas and odors.
I glance at the airport terminal in the rear view mirror as I try to settle in the backseat of a taxi. Through the air-conditioning, I can smell the stale remnants of the driver’s tiffin. Perpetually humid, it takes just a few hours for anything edible to sour here.
The driver’s polyester clothing is doing nothing to help him from ripening beneath it. I ask if we can have the windows down until we get to the highway, seeking some respite before we’re engulfed in smog.
A few minutes are all I get.
I try to ignore the incessant honking as we wait at the traffic signal leading to the highway. Hawkers notice my windows down and thrust their plastic toys and balloons in my face. The synthetic smell of plastic wafts in, but is quickly replaced by the soothing fragrance of fresh jasmine. I don’t need to open my eyes to know what’s going on. The hawkers have been shooed away by a group of hermaphrodites who offer their blessings in return for a few rupees. Dressed in their brightest saris, caked in makeup, flowers in their freshly oiled hair, eunuchs seem to be a mainstay at most traffic signals in India’s big cities. You’ll see them often clapping their hands at your car window, blessing you and intimidating you all at once.
I offer one of them all the loose change I can muster in exchange for a string of jasmine.
The rest of the ride is far more pleasant.
As we approach the hotel, I see my old apartment building and all my old haunts. This is Bandra, a leafy suburb that’s only recently been gentrified. Home to a predominantly Catholic community, the suburb which was once known for its churches and bakeries is now famed for its ever-burgeoning hipster cafes, eclectic bars, and boutiques.
A swift check-in and shower later, I leave the plush confines of the hotel and venture out from the orchid-perfumed lobby onto the dusty streets. My first stop is Good Luck Café, an utterly nondescript Iranian cafeteria that boasts some of the most extraordinary keema pav. So outstanding is their signature mince and bread preparation, that it sells out even before lunchtime. I stand at the entrance taking in the wafting aromas of cardamom, ground chilies, fresh meat, and butter-soaked bread.
The streets here smell sweet and spicy. Bakeries and cafes at every nook mean you can follow your nose to the freshly baked poi, which is like a sourdough pita. Or to the slightly acidic, somewhat chocolaty brew at one of the new coffee shops. I choose to bypass these milder aromas in favor of those emanating from the street vendors’ stalls. Chopped onion, cilantro, mixed vegetables in copious amounts of butter, the tartness of spiced water that goes into pani puris. This tangy smell is what comes to mind when I think of home.
If only, I could stay in this neck of the woods soaking in the aromatics. But a visit to Mumbai always entails a ridiculous commute. I have to get back into the car and head to Lower Parel, a business district in progress and then to South Mumbai, where I spent most of my childhood.
Leaving Bandra requires us to cross a slum. Clumsily built shanties line the street. The tin-roofed, matchbox-sized homes are clean and sparse from within but littered outside. Despite the crisp air-conditioning and lingering scent of new leather upholstery in the hotel car, my seasoned olfactory system can smell the squalor. From the shanties, it’s just the smell of lemony soap bars used to wash utensils, an activity that takes place right there on the road. But as we drive meters away from the haphazardly built houses, we cross an open ground, where the slum-dwellers defecate each day. It’s hard not to gag. I hold my breath. Growing up in this city has given residents like me the lung capacity that could put Michael Phelps to shame.
The route we’re taking maps out what used to be my commute to work for three years. Arbitrary memories come rushing back to me. Bits of conversations with cabbies. Getting stranded in Mumbai’s notorious floods and having to walk home. Being stuck in traffic for hours almost always because of a religious ceremony or procession.
In contrast, my reminiscing ends rather unceremoniously in a sneezing fit. This is a usual occurrence on this stretch. We’re at the vegetable market of Dadar, but of course. Once again, business is carried out along the street. Women squat on the pavement with their baskets of produce. None of the customers seem to mind their veggies layered in car fumes.
It’s the sharp coriander that sets me off and has me sniffling for a few minutes.
Had I crossed this street in the wee hours of the morning, it would be a different story altogether. The flower market however, wraps up even before morning rush hour begins. And the sweet smell of marigolds and red roses is quickly replaced by spicy greens.
Lower Parel is largely odorless. I wonder if it’s because it’s a newly refurbished part of town or if its smells are neutralized by virtue of it being blanketed in particle matter because of the Metro construction. Either way, this part of Mumbai feels generic, soulless even.
I’m glad to be done with my pit stop here. I’m not a fan of the area.
On our way out, I deliberately roll down my window, as we pass the dhobi ghaat, an enormous alfresco laundry, where clothes and linen are hand washed and beaten and then hung to dry. It’s the only place in the world where you can smell dust and detergent and sunshine all at once. It’s a mild, mostly pleasant fragrance that is so unique it can be very well be a landmark. Go straight from the dusty detergent smell. And soon enough, you’ll see the sea.
You’ll most likely breathe it in first or feel it on your skin.
It’ll hit you as a balmy breeze if you care to ride with the windows down. Or drench you the moment you open the car door. When the tide is out, it’s all fish and salt. But when it’s high tide, the sea in Mumbai smells like iron. It lingers on your fingertips as though you’ve touched a metallic rail. It stays on your clothes and in your hair. Perhaps I’m biased, but I don’t find it entirely unpleasant. The feeling is sticky, yes, and you want to shower almost immediately. But cruising along the Queen’s Necklace with the grey seas on one side and beautiful art deco buildings on the other is an experience so romantic, the scent that defines it cannot possibly be any less.
I spend the rest of the evening with friends by the lawns of the Gymkhana club. Notes of freshly cut grass, salty lemonade, a lit cigar, and sweaty tennis players in the distance collide to create a sense of nostalgia.
The day is almost over and so is my hurricane of a visit.
The drive back is significantly shorter and I return to my hotel room weary, yet content. I lay my head to rest in the lemongrass-incensed cotton sheets and drift off to sleep with a tinge of anxiety thinking of the flight I’ll take tomorrow to the alien country I now reside in.
I already know that the first thing I’ll do on arrival is unpack just so that I can swathe myself in the clothes I’ve worn today. Holding the garments close, I’ll soak in their scent like a forlorn lover does, for what is this city if not my first true love.
Contributor
Ayesha Bedi
Ayesha Bedi is from India, works in South East Asia, and lives in Qatar. She is a Creative Director who writes ads for a living and fiction for the sheer joy of it.