Mumbai Madlam...

I’ve been missing Mumbai a lot lately. It’s one city like no other, with a pulse that beats to a rhythm of its own.

Infact I love the place so much that I could exhaust reams of paper on it and yet have more to tell if only you had the patience to listen. So maddened was a friend of mine by this Mumbai mania that he thought he’d fox me into asking me to limit myself to one word that described the city best. And so…what's the one adjective that describes Mumbai best?

Onomatopoeic, I'd say bang on, without so much as batting an eyelid!

Right from the minute you've pronounced it - Mooombaaai, sound in every conceivable form is as much a part of the Mumbai experience as is 'aaloo' to 'tikki'. You just can't divorce one from the other - till death does them apart! Sound logic that, ain't it...

For a species blessed to be proudly christened a Mumbaikarr, the day begins with a jolt outta the early morning blue with the jarring 'darwaaze kii ghantii' shrieking for immediate attention lest the impatient 'doodhwalla' pasteurising in ire decides to supply you with milk that’s richly bathed to a texture that'd defy the theory of the anomalous behaviour of water. Talk of 'gayii bhaez paanii mein', the phrase takes-on a whole new meaning out here.

You've barely attended the door and sleepily trudged to bed, when triiiiiiiing goes the doorbell again, damn...and this time it's the paper man. To hell with him, you say, but then you're rudely awakened realising that failure to answer the door would mean your neighbours naughty kids eagerly feeding your paper to their dog. Back to the door you go yet again...

Finally, some treasured moments of sleep. But now, it's the turn of the morning alarm. An alarming churn of events these!

At eight you set out for work and as you move down the staircase you're acutely made aware of verbal duels concerning a burnt breakfast or whose turn it is to drop the kids to school today, to the maid next door proclaiming in lament and choicest of language to who-so-ever cares to give her a listening ear, her being underpaid and overworked by the pugnacious Punjabi family who've just moved in. Then there is the collective 'phatkarr' rhythm of clothes being stone washed (washing machines are passé, handwashed rules in Mumbai) that makes you feel that you’re almost living off 'dhobi ghaat' even though you may actually be right in the heart of Colaba. Phew...making it to the ground floor was never more of a relief...

Playing 'dodge-em' and screaming your lungs hoarse, lest they run you over because they didn't see you and can only hear you, you manage winding your way through the honking traffic to finally reach the railway station - Mumbai's ubiquitous lifeline. Aah, you say, finally for some respite! But how wrong you were. Within the confines of the railway station, it's an auditory symphony of rising decibels for one and all. From the shoe shine boy to the newspaper stall vendor, the irate stock broker on his flashy mobile to a vociferous bunch of college going teens, to even the railway announcer (and never mind if the announcement of a trains arrival comes minutes after its delayed departure) it's cacophony all the way and Mumbai after all. ‘Yahaan sab kucch chaltaa hai’ remember.

And if you thought Sivamani was the best percussionist around, then you haven't obviously heard the 'bhajan mandalii's' on the Mumbai locals who could put an Altaf Raja to shame with their modern day renditions of the 'santvanii'. Listening to them, even a Kaaphirr would be forced to remark, indeed, the God's must be crazy!

You’ve reached work in one piece all safe and sound. Sound, did I say, well, here at work you are constantly subjected to the drone of a staccato tabbing across keyboards as your fellow colleagues lap it all from sites varying from 'playboy.com' to 'cricinfo.com' depending on the sport they're up for playing. And then of course there’s that decoding of footsteps to be kept track of, of your boss whose sole raison d'etre in life - and you're convinced of it - is to come down on you depending upon his moods as he romps past your cubicle in anger, swishes by in haste or sways to a chested swagger in happiness as you impatiently drum your desk impatiently in a dilemma to have an audience with him over that long overdue promotion of yours.

You know it's time to leave office as you hear whispers tsunami into loud chatter amidst bags thumped on work desks and computers lullabying the same old shutdown jingle.

On your way from office, retracing your path home, you are left to defend yourself from the by now maddening pandemonium of rush hour traffic at its audible best.

Finally, home at last...and horror of horrors...your wife's returned from her 'maikaa' having cut her trip short to give you a surprise. Surprised, you definitely are as you bellow disguised niceties at her knowing it's just a matter of minutes before the next quarrel erupts over plans for dinner...mujhe merii biwi se bacchao!

That's Mumbai for you at its disquietituous best, described in one word – dare I say so!!!