Page 27 - Love Story of a Commando

4. Mumbai Meri Jaan

There exists a bitter rivalry between true blue Delhiites and Mumbaikars. A
thousand pens and a million voices have sketched myriad images of ‘Dilwali
ki Dilli’ and ‘Aamchi Mumbai’ in several shades and the unspoken war to
score over each other is centuries old. Delhi grasps you in its peculiarly
unsettling aura, grabs you by the scruff and tries to shove its own dented
version of Dilligiri down your throat, screaming ‘my way or the highway’.
Mumbai too approaches you with a mildly unnerving cocktail of aggression,
affection and apathy—depending on the time and place—but all that quickly
evolves into a generally comforting feeling of belonging.
Both cities have their own pace and tone. People in both these cities
think they’re living in one of the world’s greatest cities and express
themselves in their own distinct languages. While a true Mumbaikar has his
own lingo and no sentence can be complete without endearing words like
jhakkas, pandu, vtakle idhar se, etcetera, a true Delhiite cannot talk without
abuses, but don’t get them wrong, they’re just emotions. The paranthe of
Chandni Chowk and the kebabs of Purani Dilli have the power to bring a
Delhiite to tears, and similarly a Mumbaikar feels just as nostalgic about his
vada pav and Bombay sandwich.
In spite of being a true blue Delhiite, I found Mumbai liberating and
passionate.
The grandeur of Lutyens’ Delhi and campus politics were replaced
by Bollywood vibes and multicultural amusements where each individual
had the space to chase his dreams, his own way. Mumbai looked magnificent
from my airplane window seat, the glittering lights felt welcoming and the
huge ocean assured me of a better future.
That was it. I already liked the city.
When I finally walked out of the airport, I was greeted by a
cacophony of voices and a mass of humanity stretching as far as the eye
could see. All pushing, jostling, elbowing and shoving in an attempt to be
the first in the queue or making their way to the taxiwalas, which almost
qualified as a superman stunt. The stench of cautious revulsion bordering on
misanthropy in the demeanour of those taxiwalas perturbed me but the
instant reminder of Rajiv Chowk Metro Station during peak hours pleasantly
overwhelmed me with a sense of nostalgia for Delhi.