Travel Brief: Mumbai, India

My joints were so stiff that I was almost afraid to even get up from my seat. I felt like a robot – unable to control even the most basic motions.

Never in my entire life was I more excited to see a two-room house. I was arriving in the city of Mumbai, India, that morning on a Virgin Atlantic flight from London. In a couple of hours, I would finally get to see my grandmother’s old home. Any physical troubles that may have arisen were overcame with my itching desire to finally walk on Indian soil – something I’d never done before in the 21 years of my existence. I took this journey with my father, who spent the first two decades of his life in Mumbai. Once the plane finally made its much-anticipated landing, we took our bags and walked on the jetway. “Welcome to India, son,” he told me as he patted me on the shoulder. I could feel my emotions rapidly climbing as we got closer to customs. And then I walked out of the airport doors, taking my first breath of Indian air.

We had one of my dad’s many family friends pick us up from the airport. The vehicle itself was a huge Toyota SUV that stood tall amongst the rest of the cars. I sat in the back, eagerly waiting to get on the road like a puppy getting ready for an evening walk. I had never been so excited for a car ride. We eventually got going and made our way out of the charming, well-maintained confines of the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. And then I saw Mumbai in its glory. From crossovers, to minivans, to sports cars, even the basic two-way streets of the city seemed like a car show. And of course, I saw the iconic Indian auto rickshaw at every corner we turned. I remember sitting in the backseat from the perched view of the SUV, looking past the daily tumultuous traffic of the city. Almost every other living complex was run down, covered in dirt, with wet clothes hanging near the windows. The sidewalks were overflowing with pedestrians, beggars, fruit stands, and the occasional people-watcher making themself comfortable on a lawn chair. The streets were littered with trash, like a garbage dump. I had never seen people be so subjected to filth – a result of the nation’s exponential population increase. According to Pew Research Center, India’s population has more than doubled since 1950. It has passed China as the world’s most populous country with over 1.4 billion people.

We ultimately arrived at a place called the “Lala Compound,” located in the Andheri East neighborhood of Mumbai. My dad called one of my grandmother’s friends, a man named Val. Val met us on the main road and after some long-lasting pleasantries exchanged between the three of us, we walked into an alleyway with a stairwell. I was still in awe of the compact housing. There were children playing with sticks, mothers praying on their knees at the doorsteps of their homes, and dogs fighting for territory next to an abandoned car – all within feet of each other.

Narrow walkways and compact housing are a way of life in places like the Lala Compound (left). Picture taken by Darayus Sethna.

We continued to stroll down the alleyway. And suddenly, I was standing right in front of my grandmother’s house. A plaque with her name, “Rochelle Menezes,” glowed triumphantly in the beating sun. There was nothing glamorous about the house. It consisted of two rooms – a basic living space and a tiny kitchen. Both rooms combined were just sizeable enough that it could narrowly fit our SUV.

A plaque of my grandmother‘s name shines proudly on the front of the house. Photo Taken by Farhad Sethna.

I was speechless. My dad showed me how everything was set up when he lived there almost four decades ago. It was the first time I imagined my dad in his childhood – sleeping on that floor and eating in that kitchen. I remember him telling me stories about my grandmother making an extra pot of rice and chicken to feed the stray dogs that would wander the neighborhood. It brought me to my memories with her – endlessly reading to me as a little boy to the point I fell asleep. No matter what book it was, no one would read it better than her. It was at that moment when I realized that this simple house, these streets, and these people are part of who I am. They are the side of my heritage I finally had a chance to see with my own eyes, which I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to do.

Some of my favorite memories with my grandmother are from as long as 15 years ago. She would read to me as a child – and no one did it better. I jumped on the couch with eager ears every time she opened a book. Photo taken by Kim Sethna.