Leaving Mumbai............

Even when I said goodbye to Delhi , I knew we’d meet again — but not even in my wildest imagination did I think it would be so soon. As someone who takes time to adjust to places, people, and rhythms, who learns slowly and makes friends even more slowly, frequent moves feel like a tasting menu at a restaurant: a glimpse of what could have been, but never enough to feel full. Not a happy situation. I remember this feeling — of not. being quite done — when I left Jaipur, or Rome, or even my hometown, Lucknow. And now, I add Mumbai to that list.

I’ve come to realize I’m full of contradictions. I have gypsy streaks that make me restless if I stay in one place too long — and at the same time, I suffer from a kind of incurable inertia. When it’s time to leave, I panic. With inertia like mine, you often find yourself in strange emotional spaces. You feel reluctant to leave a city even when you haven’t done half the things you wanted to. You wake up in the middle of the night aching to rewind time. You bristle at your new office or colleagues for no reason at all — even when they’re kind, even when they understand your moodiness. The strange thing is, even as you're looking forward to the new — the fresh sights, smells, and flavours — you still resist letting go of the now-familiar people, places, and routines.

Leaving Mumbai was especially frustrating — just as I was beginning to grasp the nuances of work and look forward to exciting assignments, the news came as a surprise. I’m not particularly good with surprises, but I played my part with as much courage as I could muster. All those “congratulations” sounded bittersweet to a heart that was, in equal parts, sad to leave and scared to join the new, larger assignment at the big office.

And yet, here I am — back. Back in Delhi, back on the familiar old campus with known faces, scents, and routines. Still, a certain sadness lingers. It would be a lie to say I’m not happy — I am genuinely excited about this new role — but like a greedy child, I want both joys, without having to choose. My mind tells me I should feel content, both personally and professionally, but the heart is stubborn. It clings to what I’ve had to leave behind.

A good friend told me, after hearing the news, that perhaps this is life teaching me to grow up — to stop imagining the world in black and white and to embrace the role of destiny, the fifty shades of grey that shape our paths. Something like what Nida Fazli so aptly captured:

"अपनी मर्ज़ी से कहाँ अपने सफ़र के हम हैं,
रुख़ हवाओं का जिधर का है उधर के हम हैं।
वक़्त के साथ है मिट्टी का सफ़र सदियों से,
किसको मालूम कहाँ के हैं किधर के हम हैं।
चलते रहते हैं कि चलना है मुसाफ़िर का नसीब,
सोचते रहते हैं किस रहगुज़र के हम हैं।"

(We never quite choose our paths — it's the wind that decides our direction.
Dust has travelled with time for centuries — who knows where we come from, or where we belong?
We keep walking because that is the traveler’s fate —
Even as we wonder which path is truly ours.)

Before leaving Mumbai, I found myself thinking about all that I loved and all that I didn’t — about the unfinished checklist of things to do, and the reasons I’d like to return.

To begin with, I was happy to leave behind the nerve-wracking traffic: the incessant, mostly unnecessary honking that seems to be a constant feature of Mumbai’s roads. Coming from small towns, the hyper-urban intensity of the city often felt overwhelming. I never warmed up to the view of endless apartment blocks, clothes dangling from window bars, or the cramped, concrete monotony of city living.

And yet, Mumbai gave me sights I will never forget — the monsoon clouds gathering over a deep blue sea, colourful fishing boats bobbing in the harbour, seagulls chasing them as they returned with the day’s catch. The sun setting behind Haji Ali. R.K. Laxman’s “Common Man” statue quietly watching over Worli Sea Face. The endless stream of people along Marine Drive.

At first, I laughed at the couples cosying up along the promenade. It felt awkward, intrusive even. But soon I understood the necessity. In a city where flats are smaller than pigeonholes, where big families often share tiny spaces and relatives drop in unannounced, privacy is a luxury. Over time, I began to find those public displays of love oddly beautiful — even poignant.

Every day, Marine Drive made me smile. The selfie queens posing with practiced ease, wide-eyed tourists from rural India, and slightly confused foreigners. The well-heeled elites turning fitness freaks on weekends, dressed in expensive sportswear. The middle-aged women gossiping about neighbours, celebrities, and simpler times — many of them now living in luxury, yet nostalgic for the days when they arrived in Mumbai with little more than dreams.

On my morning and evening walks, I met others who, like me, came to Mumbai as strangers and ended up falling in love. They now love even the noise, the grime, the chaos. Artists, musicians, entrepreneurs — people who chose this city not out of compulsion, but out of fascination. It amazed my small-town heart to see that in Mumbai, there’s no such thing as “too late” to go out. Unlike Delhi, where I wouldn’t dream of stepping out alone in the evenings, Mumbai mostly felt safe — especially for women.

It’s a pity I only got a glimpse of its cultural life. Though I managed to visit Prithvi Theatre, the NCPA, and the Kala Ghoda festival, there’s still so much I left unseen in this city that never sleeps.

The most unexpectedly heartbreaking part, though, was leaving my workplace. I had assumed it would be dull, impersonal — but I ended up loving the work. For someone who once couldn’t tell upstream from downstream petroleum, and who had no childhood fascination with aircraft, it’s surprising how my eyes now go first to aviation and petroleum news. I can’t board a flight without noting the plane’s make, model, and tail number.

This unexpected learning curve was made possible by a rare team: colleagues and a boss who inspired, taught, supported — and never let personal troubles interfere with professionalism. People who put work above ego, who welcomed my questions and ignorance with patience and generosity. It’s my loss, I know, to have had such a brief time with them.

Each time something like this happens, I tell myself I won’t plan the future. I won’t make wishlists or imagine how things will turn out. So I won’t end this by saying I hope to return to Mumbai. But let me just confess this:

For the last five days, on my way back from work, I’ve watched the sun set behind the shabby, uneven colonies that line the Delhi-Noida highway. And every evening, a part of me aches for the sight of the sun dipping into the Arabian Sea — calm, majestic, unforgettable. If I ever get to see that again, I’ll consider myself very lucky.