MUMBAI
Mumbai Monologue: Revisiting the City Where It All Began
The flights were booked, the suitcases barely zipped shut, and I’d said my goodbyes at work, throwing in a few “don’t miss me too much” for good measure. I was finally on my way back to the mothership, perfectly timed to celebrate my mom’s birthday in the city I call home. As I walked out of Terminal 2 at the crack of dawn, Mumbai greeted me like an old friend: humid, crowded, and somehow comforting. The streets were buzzing even at 5 a.m.—because, of course, this is the city that refuses to sleep—and settling into my dad’s trusty SUV felt like I’d hit rewind on the last two years.
My room was exactly how I’d left it—well, minus my closet, which was now bursting at the seams with my brother’s clothes. Clearly, he hadn’t wasted a second claiming the space as his own after I hopped on a flight to Ireland two years ago. After a quick nap to beat the jet lag, I woke up to the unbeatable comfort of my mom’s idli and chutney, and as I sat in the living room gazing out at the 3rd Cross Lane that had been my home for seven years, it felt surreal. Like I had lived a lifetime away, and yet, somehow, it felt as if I’d never left.
Returning to Mumbai, surrounded by family and friends, was exactly the recharge I didn’t know I desperately needed after two years of endless hustle. The break from my predictable loop of work, job applications, and endless Kindle marathons (yes, the Kindle came along) felt like a breath of fresh, humid air. In the apartment where I once navigated the awkward chaos of puberty, sparred with my parents, wrestled with my brother, and celebrated every milestone with loved ones, I rediscovered a slice of joy and familiarity. Trading Galway’s chilly nights and snug pubs for Mumbai’s unrelenting buzz and sweat-drenched evenings? Totally worth it.
Every day felt like a whirlwind of reunions, family time, and revisiting old haunts. From lavish lunches at ITC Maratha with my parents to low-key afternoons at new Korean joints with my girlfriends, life started to feel refreshingly familiar. The cherry on top? My dad’s “no request too big” policy for the returning prodigal child. Craving Desi Chinese every night? Chicken lollipops and triple schezwan rice were delivered right to our doorstep. Yearning for Belgian waffles? Off he went on his motorcycle, fulfilling every sweet tooth whim.
While mom raised a sceptical eyebrow at my shopping sprees, dad was my enthusiastic partner-in-crime, happily chauffeuring me to every store in town. Funny, isn’t it? The teenage years were spent battling over curfews and “you just don’t get me” dramas, but moving away brings a whole new lens to those relationships. Turns out, absence does make the heart grow fonder.
One thing that hadn’t changed, though? My dad’s relentless mission to make me a licensed driver. So, every morning, before I could indulge in overpriced lattes, splurge on chic lunches, or endure hours in Mumbai’s infamous traffic to visit friends who inconveniently lived on opposite ends of this massive city, I had to step into the learner’s vehicle. It was time to face the GTA 5-esque roads of Mumbai—minus the fun respawn option.
Sitting behind the wheel, I discovered a whole new level of stress. Trying to master the clutch and gears while navigating streets that seemed to operate on their own chaotic logic was nothing short of terrifying. The traffic was so intense that shifting past second gear felt like an urban myth. Forget open highways; this was trial by fire—horns blaring, auto-rickshaws weaving, and pedestrians crossing with a confidence that can only come from living in this beautiful madness. Did I shed tears as I repeatedly stalled the car in the middle of Mumbai’s chaotic morning traffic, on roads that resembled a lunar crater expedition? You bet I did. There’s nothing quite like feeling the judgmental glares of a dozen honking drivers to add spice to your driving lesson. But, looking back, those ten days of white-knuckle, panic-filled driving lessons now seem like a breeze compared to the bureaucratic saga of getting a license in Ireland.
Sure, I managed to (not so) confidently navigate the madness of Mumbai streets, where traffic rules are more “friendly suggestions” than actual laws, but let me tell you—nothing could have prepared me for the endurance test of the Irish licensing system. Studying for the theory test on an app? That’s been the Everest I’m still climbing. But hey, at least I can legally drive in India now!
The month I spent back home felt like stepping into an oddly nostalgic time warp. Living under the roof of “my house, my rules” parents after enjoying the sweet, unregulated freedom of living alone? That’s an experience no one warns you about. My sleep schedule, now shaped by late-night work deadlines and the occasional Netflix binge, was a complete mystery to them. To my parents, I was still the kid who had a strict 9 PM bedtime—enforced by none other than me. Explaining my nocturnal habits to them was like trying to justify pineapple on pizza: they weren’t buying it.
The whole trip was a whirlwind of iced coffee-fuelled catch-ups with cousins, escape-room misadventures with friends, and never-ending visits to relatives who seemed to think “plate after plate of food” was the universal love language. Throw in a few birthday celebrations, reckless shopping sprees, scenic long drives (occasionally with me behind the wheel), and constant cuddles with the family’s undisputed star—our fluffy mini poodle, Teddy—and you’ve got a month that was equal parts chaotic and heart-warming.
As the final days of vacation slipped by, I was caught in a bittersweet limbo. While I was ready to return to the life I’d built in Galway, there was a desperation to savour every fleeting moment with the people I cherished most. Gossip sessions sprawled across my parents’ bed, cherished visits to my Nanna for her comforting hugs, and those late-night conversations with old friends—it all felt like a frantic attempt to etch these memories into my heart. They’d be my solace during those inevitable lonely nights back in Ireland.
After celebrating my dad’s birthday (don’t worry, his exact age is a state secret because he’s a little too sensitive about it) in true Indian style—drinks flowing, plates overflowing, and voices growing louder with every laugh—I braced myself for the dreaded task: packing for the journey back to Dublin while Turkish Airlines’ strict 30 kg luggage limit loomed over me like a judgmental relative. Clothes and gifts were crammed in with military precision, but sacrifices were made—goodbye, extra boxes of sweets. At least I managed to slip in mom’s handmade bags, a stylish little reminder of home to flaunt back in Galway.
A few tearful goodbyes later, I found myself once again at Terminal 2, suitcases in tow, and a heavy heart in my chest. As I passed through the gates and gave my parents one last wave for 2024, I couldn’t help but feel a swirl of emotions. The thought of returning to our daily video call routine was a small comfort, but knowing I wouldn’t get to feel their hugs or hear their voices echoing through the house for possibly another year? Let’s just say, it took every ounce of willpower not to become that person sobbing in the departures lounge.
