It was a small room. A bookcase crammed to breaking point against one wall, a wooden cupboard, also stuffed till it could hold no more, occupying the second wall. Two years of sleeping on a sofa cum bed and a bathroom so small it could barely hold all the buckets of washing, let alone allow me to shove myself into it.
But best of all, a balcony. A view to die for: miles and miles of buildings, slums, huts, trees, people and beyond it all, the glorious, changeable sea. In the monsoons, you could see the approach of pregnant rain clouds, and, with the threat of rain imminent, we would run out and drag the clothes-stands in before newly washed clothes received a second dousing.
Two years of living out of a minuscule cupboard, a tiny bookcase and nooks and crannies: between pillows, behind the computer and under the dryer. My keepsakes jostling for space with wine and vodka and whisky; papers being blown away over the Bombay skyline every time I neglected to shut the balcony door; waking up to cold, misty mornings and little children screaming bloody murder.
A thunderstorm and a small, scared, warm shape crawling into my bed. Mealtimes that turned into battlegrounds. Reading “Harold and the Purple Crayon” twelve times successively to my darling baby. Gift-wrapping and gossip, for mammoth birthday parties, sneaking in TV after the kids were packed off to bed, trying to live my own life as much as I could in the middle of this madness. Shopping at Big Bazaar and Linking Road and Colaba Causeway; on the quest for the perfect dress and the perfect shoes.
So much advice, laughter, love and letting loose.
Diets, walking, enforced healthiness – resentment, anger, claustrophobia. But those phases never lasted long. Late night jaunts to Haji Ali Juice Centre or Barista or ice-cream at Worli with the babies. Playing in the garden, revisiting the Disney obsession, long MSN nights, midnight snacking on smoked cheese and crackers and whatnot. Half-adult, half-child – the boundaries were blurred and we rocked back and forth on unfamiliar, bumpy territory that we were all learning to negotiate.
I miss my life there.
I miss waking up to the puddle the rain made next to my bed. The surprises and the masala chai. The love and affection of people whom I can never hope to thank enough for having let me live with them.
I might not have communicated how utterly grateful I am. But suffice it to say, without those years, I would be nothing.
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