Page 28 - Love Story of a Commando
P. 28

Eventually,  after  frantically  searching  the  rows  of  identically  clad
                           potbellied men holding up signs outside the airport, I found someone bearing
                           my name and my company’s name.
                                   He led me across the road, striding out into the oncoming traffic until
                           we arrived at a battered Swift Dzire, which was thankfully air conditioned.
                           The streets of Mumbai passed by in a blur and I could register that pot holes
                           were common on Mumbai streets; Delhi that way has better roads, beautiful
                           parks, more space and people can actually afford to have a bungalow.
                                   I was aware that the cost of living in Mumbai was higher and having
                           a roof over your head here was counted as a luxury because half of Mumbai
                           lived in endless rows of slum dwellings with blue tarpaulin-lined roofs or
                           slept  on  footpaths.  But  Mumbai  has  its  own  charms  despite  the  stark
                           difference in the life it offers to its townies and burbies. Just so you know,
                           townies are the upscale pretentious pricks of South Bombay while burbies
                           are their supposedly less-privileged counterparts. They are like siblings who
                           constantly bicker about everything.
                                   Finally, we arrived at my new home—an apartment provided by the
                           company, which was basically a shabby building just off a busy intersection
                           in Colaba, one of the most touristy areas in Mumbai.
                                   The apartment, which I had to share with three other trainees, was
                           close to my office in Nariman Point. I stepped into an ancient, creaking lift
                           which looked like it had not been cleaned in years and entered my shady
                           little apartment. The interior of flat number 402 on the fourth floor did not
                           look much better than the outside of the building. It was furnished simply
                           with  a  tasteless  blend  of  dark  grey  curtains  and  minimal  furniture.  There
                           were two decent-sized bedrooms, each with two single beds sagging sadly in
                           the middle. The bathroom and kitchen continued the minimal decor theme.
                           The kitchen was equipped with a four-burner gas, some basic provisions and
                           a  fridge  that  hummed  loudly.  The  small  microwave-oven  was  a  surprise
                           though.
                                   All  in  all,  nothing  too  fancy,  nothing  too  pathetic.  I  was  not  in  a
                           position to expect more.
                                   The silver lining was that I got to choose my bed and cupboard. I
                           dumped my stuff onto the corner bed near the window which looked right
                           over the Arabian Sea. I could see miles and miles of ocean right from my
                           bed. I grinned; it was good that I arrived before the other roommates.
                                   I was glad I was in Mumbai. I had a job and a flat. This was the start
                           of my shiny new life and adulthood beyond the limitations of college life. I
                           fell asleep to the chorus of dogs barking and horns beeping below. Colaba
                           was a busy neighbourhood.
                                   I  woke  up  to  a  bright  cerulean  sky,  cloudless  and  luminous  in  its
                           intensity and an excellent ocean view.
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