Vada pav No. 2

Time in Mumbai, can be counted by the number of Vada-Pavs one eats during the stay.

Going down the ramp at the Airport, to the tarmac and mixed-feelings, the hot sun and humid windy air dance around me in a tepid welcome. The Air-India hangar is familiar, and I always see a younger me sitting on the half-built concrete approcah back in summer 2003, mesmerised by the continuous take-offs and landings of the big birds in such close proximity. My own front-row seat to the best show in the world. Not much has changed since.

Bangalore and a disposable income has spolit my thirst for fighting with the autowallahs. I haggle beforehand with one before jumping to go to Ville Parle. And to think that I'd scream bloody murder if they'd ever have shortchanged me on the meter reading back in the glory days. Airport tax, I justify it. Spend that extra rupees 20 on the ground. You've just spent a hundred times as much coming here. Yeah, I've become an old fuddy. Need to throttle up the Bombay cynicism to keep the city from eating me up.

No fear of that. Pushing through a crowded rush-hour second-class compartment on my way to Churchgate, my re-metamorphosis is complete. Complete, with the belligerent, if sheepishly accomodating and happy-go-lucky stare and opportunistic body language. Travelling the local is as all it take to get happily assimilated. The train gently rocks, as I unsubtely goose-step my way to taking up a 'position', where if my luck is good, I can 'convert' to a seat.

The code operates. My air-bag and backpack are an obvious nuiscence in the sardine tin, so I perform the magic act of lifting both bags up in the air, and anonymous arms cleanly deposit the bags on the overhead bins. A 'thanks' is nodded, and an air of general mutual smugness is perceptible. Voila! All we need now is the 'I heart Mumbai' tee-shirts and rumbling Koli drums in the background.

The ubiquitous announcer lady welcomes me to Churchgate, advising me of a possible return train to Borivilli at 1806 hrs from platform No. 1, that stops at all stations. Vada Pav no. 2 is consumed at the Churchgate subway. The taste of Bombay... tantalising.. satisfying.

I guess home is a place that never feels alien. Mumbai is that for me. Unquestioningly accepting all foibles, my eccentric arrival and departure. But then Bangalore is home too. Afterall, home is where the heart is. Two crushed vada-pavs travelled with me.. maybe these can show a lot more that any cell-phone videos can.