I’ve had a strange relationship with Bombay. It has always been the city that I refused to fall in love with. It’s also the city that I fought with at almost every stage and refused to become a victim of its unique circumstances.

While the first couple of trips to this amazing city were by train (unreserved third class) I decided very soon that I would only fly into that city or if there was no choice, I’d drive into it, but never would I take a train or a bus into it.

I set a rule for myself that I would never be part of the mad suburban rush on the insane electric trains that give the city its buzz in more ways than one. And except for a few  trips while I was a regular weekend hiker I managed to live most of my life in Bombay as a Taxi-ist.

One of the maddest, loveliest decisions I took when I decided to take up a job in Bombay was to take with me from Hyderabad, a motor cycle. The Bullet I laid my hands on thanks to a dear friend who was at that time migrating to the US was cabin baggage in what has proved to be my last entry into Bombay in a train.

Due to a safety rule in the Indian Railways, my bike accompanied me on the train, but had to have its tank emptied of all fuel. So the moment I landed in Dadar I took a cab, all my luggage, and went off to Juhu where I was going to live for the first few weeks. Having dumped my luggage at the flat, I came back to the station, collected my bike, unpacked it from the jute covering, then walked it a kilometre or two to the petrol pump (I wasn’t savvy enough then to bribe someone to allow me fuel in the bike, or smart enough to send someone from the station to get me a litre or two). The damn walk in the middle of the afternoon made me look at Bombay with a strange defiance. “Going to make it hard for me, are you”, I asked the city with the fresh, naive and almost confrontational attitude that I guess we all have at that age.

The first few weeks in Bombay were crazy. It took me very little time to figure out that I had to leave Juhu by 8.15 if I planned to reach my Marine Lines office by 9.30, and that it would be better to stay back a couple of hours at work in the evening so that I could avoid the 530-730 going home rush. While the mornings were a straight run, my evenings were exploratory and I managed to see a lot of Bombay in those first few weeks. I would ask around and work out alternative routes back to Juhu, ask for different eating joints, find them and get back home late at night, thrilled and enlivened by the sheer pace and energy of the city.

My Hyderabadi ‘laziness’ soon demanded that I look for more convenient living alternatives and I soon found myself (again thanks to a dear friend) moving into a single bedroom flat in Colaba.

And that changed my life and brought me back into my normal cycle. I have always been an early morning riser and the pleasure of taking the Bullet out on a spin on Marine Drive in the wee hours, looking condescendingly at the poor walkers and the joggers, discovering vada pav breakfasts or walking into office at 7 am and convincing the in-house canteenman to make me authentic Bhaiyya breakfast was all part of a delightful routine. Also it allowed me to finish my work in the morning before any of my colleagues came to work and I still remember with amusement my boss’s irritation to see me playing around through the day but almost never being in a position of being pulled up for late deliveries.

The first few months in Bombay also proved to be my loneliest. Come evening and my colleagues would all be planning to catch the 6.23 or whatever so they could go back to their homes and families. Even the bachelor friends I had were mostly suburban PGs. So the evenings, once we packed up from work would be lonely forays into dinner destinations.

Being a Colaba boy my evening map was predominantly shaped by Sundance Cafe, Paradise, Kailash Parbat, Woodside Inn and so on…and the Status, Samrat, Balwas options.

But once in a while I began to venture out in a different direction. Marine Drive became a regular option and I used to call it my Cream Triangle. Cream Centre, Chowpatty. Rajasthan Dairy behind Wilson College where I used to gorge on fresh strawberries and cream. New York, Thakker’s, Sukh Sagar and on my carnivorous days Kobe Sizzlers, these were the places that attracted me to that pocket.

It took me only a couple of rides to realise that if I planned my dinner runs late I’d have the pleasure of ripping my Bullet down Marine Drive and flirting with the night air.

That it was an early morning ride after working for 72 hours non-stop that I fell asleep on my bike while cruising on Marine Drive. That it was then that a taxi slammed into me while I took a turn in my sleep. That it was then that I shattered my ankle and had to be rushed to Hyderabad for a nut and bold operation. That it was then that I decided that biking was obviously not designed to extend my lifeline. That is a different story.

Just as the case of why I could not attend the Cream Centre Meet of the Desi Foodies is a whole new story.