BOMBAY, in many ways, is about the India of the past and the India of today: a bridge between two paradigms; a connector between the spirit that India once possessed and that the India of today so desperately needs. It is a city that is almost fatalistic when it so chooses and driven when it wants to be. Of all the cities that I have been to in the world, Bombay comes closest to the raw emotions of men and women. There is a surrealism about the manner in which it venerates survival and the way it punishes failure. It is as if it were a demanding mother forcing the ward to top the class: not because the child is capable but only because the mother would have it no other way.

A lot has been written about Bombay. Films have been made on the city and there is a historicity that creeps through its sea-ravaged shoreline. To many, it is the realisation of unbridled dreams; to others it is reminiscent of the days when time stood still only to hear waves lash elegant promenades. But like everything else, Bombay has had to brave change and not all change is ever all good. Neither should it be that way. But the resilience of the city is not reflected in the clichéd manner in which we believe it bounces back either from bomb blasts or flooded streets but instead by the manner in which it stares every knock in the face desperately trying to convert it into an enduring opportunity: much like a human being would. And any city, which has such human facets, is bound to possess intricate layers that are both exciting and memorable.

I have always been energised by Bombay: it’s almost as if the city were brimming with boundless zeal which most often goes unharnessed, eagerly exhorting its citizens to harness it with vigour and determination. The energy defines the manner in which the city breathes and lives. When I first visited Bombay as a child, what struck me most was the fact that the city reverberated with all kinds of sound. Along with the devotional music played in a typical Maharashtrian home, there was the call from the mosque urging the faithful to flock together to pray, and almost in non-idyllic settings you would hear the clatter of trains pass with an ungracious ferocity. That was for me the sound of a city on the move: using every conceivable form of mobility to forge ahead, much like we mortals wish to do in our lives.

 

But then like all things complete, there was and remains to this day, the unreal side of Bombay: much like the unfulfilled part of any outsized dream. A lot has to do with not just the manner in which Bombay worships commerce but equally in terms of how it is emotionally aligned with the make-believe world of Hindi cinema. The indefatigable energy that drives Bombay also makes its way into the films which is why for decades we had cinema which was so aspirational that achieving the little it promised in the two hours at the theatre made one feel a victor rather than the cerebrally vanquished. It is this facet of Bombay that is pan-national.

The celebrities that find solace in the bowels of Bombay as it were are the celebrities we wish to be in some form or the other. It is not just about fame but of wealth which is why when one looks at Bombay, there is a strong association of money and fame, leaving power to be hankered after by the denizens of Delhi. To me this signals something else: there is a certain permanence about Bombay, which doesn’t exist in Delhi even though Delhi is an older city in historical terms. That could also be because Delhi, being the capital of this nation and the seat of power, centres its purpose on those in power. And as governments change, so do loyalties and priorities whereas the priority in Bombay is always about the individual and never about the system.

This power manifests itself in a myriad ways: the power to create processes as exhibited by the ubiquitous dabbawallahs who serve a million customers a day, to that of the famous black and yellow cabbie, there are characters that one can associate with in Bombay, not just the skyline. It is this resolve of the city to live life through caricatures that makes Bombay so disarmingly lovable. There are postcards at every traffic light and I have often made much of the winding traffic to stare at some of these magnificent vignettes. Venetian blinds on old bungalows to scaffolding on buildings going in for their makeover to the wafting aroma of dead fish and carbon fumes, make for a heady mix and are typical of Bombay. Cities, like human beings, have their own defining smells: Venice being another example.

 

But when one thinks of Bombay one thinks of many silos in which it is surprisingly composite and complete. There is the Bombay that drives commerce, which has been the bulwark of its history and its progress as also responsible for its decline purely from an urban imagery perspective. The lure of money drives hordes into Bombay every day and no amount of machinations on the part of self-serving politicians can stem this inflow of humanity: all of them in search of their own little fortunes coming to a city that seems to have endless magnanimity and this is what I love about Bombay. I adore the generosity that it exudes. There are many who believe the city is money-minded, chasing commerce at the altar of refinement, but I have always believed it to be the city with a heart that never seems to tire, throwing up undiluted affection for those seeking it.

 

Then there is the side of Bombay that is part fantasy and part reality: the home of the Mafia and India’s own version of Sicily and Colombia blended into one. My initial exposure to the city’s shoreline was replete with tales of Haji Mastan and how he was the Robin Hood of Bombay Port: taking from the establishment to provide succour to the poor. Stories of Mastan were replaced with those of Dawood Ibrahim and his merry gang of men. But these are stories that only embellish the charm of a city. It’s almost as if every brick in Bombay breathes stories that could be folklore or chillingly true.

Be that as it may, cities which have corners spewing stories are cities that excite and energise. Add to this their glorification in cinema and one has places and people one can identify and associate with, not just events but a certain sense of time too. It is an unwillingness to be dated that makes Bombay unique for me. There are some cities that age gracefully, while there are others you can’t put a dateline on, and Bombay is quite clearly the latter. That could also be because of the vast energy it possesses.

If there is however one defining quality that Bombay has and will perhaps never yield, it is its ability to live with a soul that is indestructible: quite an irony in a state where the concept of Hindutva keeps gaining ground. The soul exists because there is a conscience that Bombay provides, primarily because of the people who live there. They are truly liberal, truly inspirational, some of them, and what’s more, most are self-made. Those who inherit do so with grace too.

The wealthy in Bombay give more back to society than the wealthy in any other part of this country. The fact that one has the Tatas pumping in almost Rs 600 crore every year into philanthropy tells a story unlike any other. For me the enduring image of Bombay must also include the well-mannered, often eccentric, Parsi men and women who bring a lot to bear on the city. Their demeanour, their nationalism and more importantly their humanism rubs off well on the city. It is almost the same eccentricity with a great deal of integrity that has become the leitmotif of the city, and the city has come to respect that.

 

There are places that are soulful even today. I cannot ever imagine watching the setting sun except from the same chair that I have occupied for at least a couple of decades at the Sea Lounge in The Taj. For me, breakfast can never be as classy or as delicious as the one that the dowdy Military Canteen serves: the famous pao and keema early in the morning. Food is often the hallmark of a city as well. Take away the Tunda kabab and Lucknow will not be as charming. Take away the vada pao and you will hurt the soul of Bombay. There are iconic eating places: to call them mere restaurants would be an insult. I believe Bombay is also one of the few cities in the world (New York surprisingly being the other) where barstools talk to you. There is so much of history that is silently captured every day that you can drink back in time as it were!

Like any city that is cultured and civilized, Bombay’s enduring charm also rests in its art galleries and theatres: the fact that even today Gujarati theatre continues to blaze a trail as do the plays (and the Irish coffee) at Prithvi tell you a story of continuity that is so critical when you want to establish a relationship. Bombay to my mind is a relational and not a transactional city. It is not about doing deals as much as Delhi is. It is about carving careers and sustaining the kind of life that makes one happy. When I was doing a film many years ago, I saw a world that was insular: the spot boys and the light assistants didn’t know of a world that existed beyond tinsel-town and thank god for that. They retain their innocence and their generosity to this day: a far cry from Lutyens Delhi, which is polluted by power and the absolute abuse of it.

 

I have a home in Delhi but I live in Bombay. I guess that is true of most people who began and continue to retain their love affair with Bombay. It is a city that provokes and often in a positive way. It goads you into action: be it aspiring for a film role or making money on the stock exchange, there is a need for people to perform in a city such as Bombay. I have often said, Bombay is perhaps the only city in the world which could claim an alternative career as a puppeteer: it pulls enough strings that one would perform even if one didn’t want to.

But then Bombay is also a city harbouring some of the strangest paradoxes: it is a city that gives us our finest cricketers and our best bookies; it is the city where a Mafia don like Arun Gawli prefers to wear a Gandhi cap; where a Sanjay Dutt has to appear in TADA courts while unleashing a wave of modern-day nonviolence and where Lata Mangeshkar loses her voice over a flyover. For a city that is used to dreaming and making them come true, the incomplete Bandra-Worli sea-link is a harsh reality check. But will this ever daunt Bombay? I don’t think so. In any case, I am too much in love with the city to ever ponder over its minor flaws. Travesties of this kind must be forgiven.