The City Of Dreams

The open drawers, overflowing cupboards and the general mess in the little room suggested that it in the process of being cleared. However, the seventeen-year-old girl curled up on the floor with a paper in hand showed no signs of finishing the job. The page appeared to have been ripped out of a diary, with crease lines that indicated its repeated folding and unfolding. Her eyes scanned the messy but familiar handwriting for the umpteenth time, knowing exactly which word would come next.

To Frooza,

I still can’t believe you’re moving to Mumbai. 200 metres have somehow turned into 200 kilometres. I guess I’ll never be able to run down the road and get help with my math homework anymore. That’s also because I ditched math, but yeah. 

I miss going to school together; can you believe we’ve finished our first year in junior college? We’re freakin’ turning seventeen! But more than you, I’ll miss your mum’s dhansak and patra ni macchi. Where am I supposed to find another Parsi friend whose mum cooks half as well as yours does? Your community really needs to multiply- fast.

Have hope, my friend. Mumbai- or Bombay as you call it- can hardly be as bad as you think it is. You’ll make new friends, but if you forget/replace me, I’ll walk there from Poona just so that I can bash your face in. Also, if you turn into one of them high-speed robots always rushing about, that is also grounds for a face bashing.

You stay in touch. Tell me if there’s any action on the guy front (are they any better than the ones out here? Or are they all equally pathetic?)  Anyways, you got this. Need anything, anytime, I’m there (seriously, any time- #PerksOfBeingAnInsomniac).

Take care, bestie.

Love,

Zozo. 

Fehroza sighed. It wasn’t so bad leaving Poona, but what really mattered had to be left behind. The wall which she painted on, her best friend, the memory of her sister. Not to mention her favourite Shrewsbury biscuits at East street. But it was what it was and before she knew it, the Mumbai skyline stared down at her. 

Skyscrapers towered above her, their jarring LED eyes calling her a stranger. The omnipresent crowd would sweep over the roads, platforms, every nook and cranny. There was no concept of personal space as she found out whilst being crammed into a train compartment. The weather was hot and muggy, and her clothes were perpetually soaked in sweat. When it rained, it was as if the city was being thrown into a carwash. Fehroza had learnt that the hard way as she showed up to college looking like the Loch Ness monster. 

College was another new thing. The subjects were tough, but she knew she wasn’t the only one struggling. The boy in the next building, one of her classmates, was such a disaster at math that the blood in their teacher’s face drained out each time she saw him. Right now, Jehaan was pacing up and down his balcony with the formula sheet she had given him. He had returned the favour with a list of chemistry formulae, which Fehroza sucked at. Though most people were too busy to make friends, she had still managed to make a handful. Shy and awkward Jehaan, loony but lovable Hormazd and ambitious but affable Arya. She already had more friends in Bombay in a year than she did in Poona for the rest of her life.

The winding lanes of Fort fascinated her. She wandered about, drinking in the subtle details around her. The smell of freshly baked loaves in a nearby bakery, the trees that reached out and touched each other over the road, forming a sort of tunnel. The intricate carving in the old buildings around her, each groove with its own personality, while being a part of the bigger picture. Her feet moved mechanically, the rest of her senses trying to take in every bit of detail. Sometimes, she got so absorbed into the world around her that she’d suddenly realise she was lost. Not a problem, for there are always people around to ask for directions, at any hour of day or night. Mumbai isn’t called the “city that never sleeps” for nothing. 

The trains at Victoria Terminus, now called Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, had been running for almost a hundred years now. It is a uniting force, bringing the public together over the shared desire to go from where they were to where they wanted to be. It is more than a building, more than a train station. It is probably an emblem, a statement, a symbol of the indomitable spirit of Mumbai. It had also been the primary target in the 2008 attack on Mumbai. The blood that splattered the floors of the station on the twenty-sixth of November, 2008, triggered something in every Mumbaikar, for each of them had walked on those very floors at some point in their hassled lives. 

Goosebumps appeared on Fehroza’s arms as she thought of it, even though the crowds, stalls and trains were normal. For that day, innocent people were gunned down. People with families, possibly assuring their children of their return. Little did they know they would be forced to break this promise. That day, every Mumbaikar watched the horror unfold on their television set. Fehroza remembered her mother frantically calling up her grandmother in Bombay to check on her. She had been but six years old then. The busy telephone lines, the hard lines on her mother’s face as she dialled the numbers just like every Indian connecting with their loved ones. At that moment, the horror united every spirit across the country, those of every caste, creed, religion and economic strata. For the spirit of Mumbai, of India, had taken a bullet to the chest. On the twenty-sixth of November, the city fell with the soldiers that died trying to protect the city. It fell with the likes of Maj. Sandeep Unnikrishnan and ATS chief Hemant Karkare. 

Perhaps that was the beauty, or not, of Mumbai. Nothing could keep it down, not for long. The sun rose on the morning after the attacks, as it did today. People trickled out of their homes, rebuilding the damaged but unbroken spirit of Mumbai. Fehroza admired the indomitable character of Mumbai, of humankind. With each tick of the clock, the city patched up its wounds and got back to work. The scars still remain, however, as they should. To remind us of what we lost, to remind us that we are still at the mercy of Fate’s dictations, but most of all, to remember that, come what may, life goes on. It goes on, whether you deem Time’s ticking wholesome or merciless. 

Fehroza stared at the curly-haired girl in the mirror. If she held her gaze long enough, she could pretend Fehreshte was looking back at her. Her twin had left years ago, but she couldn’t help thinking about her. What would she be like if she was still here? Would she have outgrown her daydreaming? Would she still be able to swing higher than her on the swings at school? Would she still be that bundle of joy, of laughter, of goofiness? Would they still hold hands as they fell asleep next to each other, to comfort the other, to feel braver about facing the night and the monsters under their bed? 

The tears spilt out from her large obsidian eyes. She didn’t hear the knock on the door, the voice calling her name. The door cracked open a smidge, and an eye peeked through the gap.

“FEHROZA DASTOOR! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, CRYING IN YOUR ROOM ALL BY YOURSELF?”

Fehroza whipped around, hastily wiping her eyes to find Zoya standing at her doorstep.

“Let me cry with you,” said Zoya, throwing her arms around her best friend.

Zoya had always been there, always been the net under her tightrope. Everyone needs a net sometimes, to catch us when we fall. To help us stand up again. To help us onto the tightrope once more. And repeat the process all over again. 

People hustled and bustled in the street below. Back to work, back on the tightrope. In the hot sun, some in cars, some on crutches, but getting somewhere. Fehroza wiped her eyes, stood up straight. She would see Fehreshte again, someday many years in the future, but not today. Today was for acceptance. For her dreams and for Life. 

She smiled, the fire in her soul kindled by the ever-burning spirit of the City of Dreams. She, Fehroza Dastoor, was about to fly, and the world was about to see it.