Tag Archives: Mumbai

Short Story: Echoes of Memory

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The first drops of monsoon rain struck the weathered stone steps of the Rajabai Clock Tower, and Meera Sharma felt her world tilt sideways.

She pressed her palm against the Gothic archway, the same way she had done… when? The memory flickered at the edge of her consciousness like candlelight in the wind. Her assignment from the Heritage Preservation Society had been simple: photograph the colonial-era buildings in the Fort district before the rains made the work impossible. But standing here, watching the storm clouds gather over Mumbai’s skyline, she felt an inexplicable dread settling in her chest.

Run, Kamala. Run before they find you.

The whisper came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Meera spun around, but the courtyard was empty except for a security guard dozing under a canvas awning. She’d never been called Kamala in her life.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Arjun, her research partner: Meeting cancelled. Strange dreams again. We need to talk.

Arjun Malhotra had joined the heritage project six months ago, bringing with him an encyclopedic knowledge of Mumbai’s independence-era history that often startled their supervisors. He was brilliant, dedicated, and lately, deeply troubled by nightmares he wouldn’t discuss. Meera had found herself drawn to his quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry some invisible weight.

Thunder cracked overhead, and suddenly she wasn’t standing in 2024 anymore.

The year was 1924, and Kamala Devi’s sari clung to her legs as she ran through the narrow lanes of Girgaon. The monsoon had started early that year, turning the unpaved roads into rivers of mud. In her hand, she clutched a leather portfolio containing documents that could change everything, proof that someone within their freedom-fighting group was feeding information to the British authorities.

Someone she trusted. Someone she loved.

Behind her, footsteps splashed through the puddles. Getting closer.

“Kamala!” Vikram’s voice echoed off the tenement walls. “Please, let me explain!”

But there was nothing to explain. She had seen the money changing hands in the shadows of Crawford Market, watched him pass along the names of their comrades who had subsequently disappeared into the British prisons. How many freedom fighters had died because of his betrayal?

She turned into a dead-end alley, her heart hammering against her ribs. The old warehouse loomed before her, its broken windows like dead eyes. Nowhere left to run.

“Kamala.” Vikram appeared at the mouth of the alley, his white kurta soaked with rain and mud. In the lightning’s flash, she saw tears streaming down his face. “They threatened my mother. My sisters. I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she whispered, backing against the warehouse wall. “You chose their lives over our cause. Over our people’s freedom.”

“I choose you,” he said, stepping closer. Something metallic glinted in his hand. “Come with me. We can leave Mumbai tonight. Start over somewhere else.”

“With blood on our hands? With the screams of tortured patriots in our ears?” Kamala pressed the portfolio against her chest. “Never.”

The knife entered her stomach like a cold whisper. She looked down in shock at the spreading crimson stain on her cream-colored sari, then up into Vikram’s anguished eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed as she slid down the wall. “I’m so, so sorry, my love.”

Kamala’s last coherent thought was not of pain or fear, but of a fierce, burning determination: somehow, someday, there would be justice.

Meera gasped, finding herself on her knees in the courtyard, rain soaking through her jeans and cotton shirt. The security guard was shaking her shoulder, speaking rapidly in Hindi.

“I’m fine,” she managed, struggling to her feet. But she wasn’t fine. The memories, Kamala’s memories, felt more real than her own childhood. She could still taste the copper of blood in her mouth, still feel the betrayal cutting deeper than any blade.

Her phone rang. Arjun.

“Meera?” His voice was shaky. “Something’s happening to me. I keep remembering things that never happened. A woman named Kamala. I think… I think I killed her.”

The phone slipped from her numb fingers, clattering on the wet stones.

Three hours later, they sat across from each other in a small café in Colaba, two cups of chai growing cold between them. Arjun looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, his usually immaculate appearance dishevelled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“It started three months ago,” he said, staring at his hands. “Dreams at first. Then waking visions. I thought I was having a breakdown until…” He looked up at her. “Until I saw you at the heritage site and recognised your face. Not Meera’s face. Kamala’s.”

“You killed me,” Meera said simply. The words should have filled her with rage, but instead she felt only a deep, bone-weary sadness. “In 1924. In an alley behind a warehouse in Girgaon.”

Arjun flinched as if she’d slapped him. “The British were going to kill my family. My mother, my two younger sisters. The officer, Captain Morrison, showed me photographs of their bodies, other informants’ families who had refused to cooperate. He said it would look like a robbery gone wrong.”

“So you gave them our people instead.”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper. “And when you found out…”

“I tried to expose you. To save others from the same fate.”

They sat in silence as the rain hammered against the café’s windows. Around them, Mumbai’s life continued its relentless pace: street vendors calling their wares, traffic honking, people rushing through the downpour with newspapers held over their heads.

“Why now?” Meera asked finally. “Why are we remembering now?”

Arjun reached into his laptop bag and pulled out a manila folder. “I’ve been researching it. Cross-referencing historical records with our… experiences. I think it’s because of the construction project.”

He spread photocopied documents across the table. Municipal records, architectural surveys, and newspaper clippings from the 1920s. Meera’s breath caught as she recognised a grainy photograph of the warehouse where Kamala had died.

“They’re tearing it down next month,” Arjun continued. Building a shopping complex. But first, they had to do a structural survey of the foundation. They found something.”

He handed her a recent newspaper clipping. The headline read: “MYSTERIOUS REMAINS DISCOVERED IN GIRGAON CONSTRUCTION SITE.”

“The construction crew found bones,” Arjun said. Wrapped in fabric. The forensics team is calling it a cold case from the independence era.”

Meera’s hands trembled as she held the article. “They found her. They found me.”

“The remains are in the police evidence locker. They’re trying to identify them, but the records from that period…” He shrugged helplessly. “Most were destroyed or lost.”

“But we know,” Meera said. “We know who she was. Who killed her? Where it happened.”

“What are you suggesting?”

She looked directly into his eyes, the same dark eyes that had filled with tears as Kamala died. “I’m suggesting we give her the justice she never got. We solve her murder.”

“Meera, I can’t…”

“Vikram’s name isn’t on any of the historical records as a freedom fighter. In this life, you’re a historian with an impeccable reputation. The police would listen to you.”

Arjun was quiet for a long moment, processing. “You want me to confess to a murder I committed in a previous life.”

“I want you to help me prove what happened to Kamala Devi. The British records still exist. Captain Morrison’s files were transferred to the national archives after independence. If we can prove she was murdered for her political activities, she could finally be recognised as a martyr.”

“And what about… this life? Us?”

The question hung in the air between them. In her recovered memories, Meera could feel the love Kamala had felt for Vikram before the betrayal, a love so deep it made the betrayal cut even deeper. Looking at him now, she could sense the echo of that connection, complicated by knowledge and pain.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I know that Kamala loved Vikram until the very end, even as he killed her. I know that you’ve spent ninety years carrying guilt that followed you into this lifetime. Maybe that’s punishment enough.”

Over the next week, they worked together like the scholars they were, piecing together the historical puzzle of Kamala’s death. Arjun used his connections to access the British colonial archives, while Meera interviewed elderly residents of Girgaon whose grandparents might have remembered the freedom fighting activities in their neighbourhood.

The picture that emerged was exactly as their memories suggested. Kamala Devi had been a courier for the independence movement, carrying messages between different revolutionary cells. Several freedom fighters had been arrested in July 1924, all betrayed by someone with inside knowledge. Kamala had disappeared shortly after, presumed to have fled the city.

Captain Morrison’s files, when they finally gained access to them, contained payment records to an informant identified only as “Subject V.” The amounts and dates matched perfectly with Arjun’s memories.

But it was Meera who found the most crucial piece of evidence.

“Look at this,” she said, spreading a hand-drawn map across Arjun’s kitchen table. She’d found it tucked into a notebook that had belonged to her grandmother, a notebook she’d never bothered to read carefully until now. “My grandmother was Kamala’s cousin. She kept some of Kamala’s belongings after she disappeared.”

The map showed the streets of Girgaon, with several locations marked in Kamala’s careful handwriting. Safe houses, meeting points, dead drops for messages. And in the corner, written in a different ink, was a note: “A betrayed me. Evidence hidden in Warehouse 7. Tell no one until the British are gone.”

“She documented everything,” Arjun breathed. “Even after she discovered my betrayal, she was still trying to protect the cause.”

They took their evidence to Inspector Rashid Khan, a senior officer known for his interest in historical cold cases. Khan listened with growing fascination as they laid out their research, carefully omitting any mention of recovered memories or reincarnation.

“Remarkable work,” Khan said, examining the documents. “If even half of this is accurate, Kamala Devi deserves recognition as a freedom fighter. But you understand, solving a hundred-year-old murder case…”

“The remains,” Meera said. “If we could search the area where they were found, there might be more evidence. Kamala’s note mentions hiding something in the warehouse.”

Khan was sceptical, but their research was thorough enough to warrant a controlled excavation of the site. Three days later, they stood in the rubble of the old warehouse as forensic archaeologists carefully sifted through a century of accumulated debris.

“Here,” called Dr. Priya Nair, the lead archaeologist. “Metal box, wrapped in oilcloth.”

Inside the box was a collection of documents that made Meera’s heart race. Letters in Kamala’s handwriting, describing the informant’s activities. Photographs of money changing hands. And most damning of all, a partial confession in Vikram’s handwriting from 1924, apparently started but never completed.

“My name is Vikram Malhotra,” the confession began, “and I have betrayed everything I believed in…”

Standing in the ruins where Kamala had died, Arjun read his own words from a century ago with tears streaming down his face.

“It was never supposed to happen,” he said. “I kept trying to find another way, to protect both my family and the movement. But Morrison kept pushing, demanding more names, more information. When Kamala found out…”

“You panicked,” Meera finished.

“I couldn’t let her expose me. My sisters were so young, my mother had already lost my father to British bullets. But afterwards…” He gestured to the incomplete confession. “I couldn’t live with what I’d done. I tried to write it all down, to turn myself in, but I was too much of a coward.”

“What happened to your family?”

“Morrison killed them anyway, three months later. Said I’d outlived my usefulness. I fled Bombay that night and spent the rest of that lifetime running from what I’d done.”

The confession, combined with the other evidence, was enough to officially classify Kamala Devi as a martyred freedom fighter. Her name would be added to the memorial wall at the Gateway of India, alongside other recognised patriots. The story made national news: “Lost Freedom Fighter Finally Gets Recognition After Century-Long Mystery Solved.”

But for Meera and Arjun, the real resolution came later, in the quiet of his apartment as they sat looking through Kamala’s recovered letters.

“She wrote about you, you know,” Meera said, holding up a letter dated just weeks before the betrayal. “About how much she loved you, how proud she was to fight alongside you for India’s freedom.”

“Don’t,” Arjun whispered.

“Vikram has such a pure heart,” Meera read aloud. “Sometimes I think he cares too much, loves too deeply. But that’s what will make us strong when independence comes. Love for our families, our land, our future.”

“She was wrong about me.”

“Was she?” Meera set down the letter and looked at him. “You made a terrible choice out of love for your family. It was wrong, but it wasn’t evil. And you’ve spent two lifetimes trying to atone for it.”

“How can you forgive me? How can you even look at me?”

Meera was quiet for a long moment, feeling the weight of Kamala’s memories alongside her own feelings. “Because,” she said finally, “I think that’s why we both came back. Not for revenge, but for understanding. For the chance to heal something that was broken.”

“And us? In this lifetime?”

She reached across the space between them and took his hand. “I don’t know what we are to each other now. We’re not Kamala and Vikram from 1924, we’re Meera and Arjun from 2025. We have different choices to make.”

“I want to try,” he said. “If you’ll let me. I want to see who we can become when we’re not carrying the weight of old wounds.”

Six months later, Meera stood once again in the Fort district, but this time in front of the newly unveiled memorial plaque for Kamala Devi. Arjun stood beside her, and she could feel the peace that had settled over both of them like a blessing.

“Do you still dream about her?” she asked.

“Sometimes. But they’re not nightmares anymore. She’s at peace.”

“Good.” Meera squeezed his hand. “She deserves that.”

As they walked away from the memorial, leaving flowers and a quiet prayer behind, neither of them looked back. The past had been honoured, justice had been served, and the future, their future, stretched ahead like an unwritten page.

Sometimes, Meera thought, the greatest stories weren’t about the wounds we carry, but about our courage to heal them. And sometimes, love was patient enough to wait not just years, but lifetimes, for the chance to begin again.

Behind them, rain began to fall on the memorial plaque, washing the stone clean and carrying their whispered prayers out into the vast, forgiving sea.

Mumbai Memories: Mumbai’s Lifelines

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Growing up in the 1980s and 1990s in Mumbai, we mostly took the BEST bus and the Mumbai train to school, college, or work.

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The red BEST or Brihanmumbai Electric Supply and Transport Undertaking, along with Mumbai’s train lines, are the lifeline and heartbeat of the city. For any Mumbaikar, the memory of the city is incomplete without recalling the daily dramas and quiet moments lived out aboard these iconic buses.

Since its inception in 1873, originally as a horse-drawn tram service, BEST has evolved into one of India’s most extensive bus systems, ferrying millions through the city’s bustling arteries every day. With over 3,800 buses and more than 440 routes, the system stretches far beyond the city’s traditional limits, reaching into the far suburbs like Thane, Navi Mumbai, and Mira-Bhayandar. Whether you’re braving the monsoon or the peak summer heat, the sight of a red double-decker lurching through traffic is a sign of Mumbai’s indomitable spirit. Stepping into a BEST bus is to step into a true cross-section of Mumbai society. Amidst the constant jostle, you hear the familiar clang of coins in the conductor’s pouch as they dispense paper tickets. There’s a heritage to BEST that transcends function. The city even hosts a dedicated BEST Transport Museum at Anik depot, where you can find miniatures and memorabilia tracing the journey from electric trams to today’s modern fleet.

When I was in school, we used to take a school bus and then started walking to school as we grew older. I used to take the bus sometimes when coming or going to tuition, but this was rare. It was only when I started college that I became a regular bus commuter. Every bus had a driver who sat up front and one or two conductors. If it were a single-decker, there would be a single conductor, while a double-decker would have two conductors, one on each deck. These conductors were responsible for collecting fares, giving out tickets and maintaining the decorum of the bus. Even though I had a few buses that would take me to the bus stop nearest my college, I almost always took one particular bus number. College started at 7:30 am, and I would take the bus from my bus stop at 7 am. And because I always took that particular bus, a double-decker where I would always sit in the lower deck, the conductor became a fixture in my life, and I became recognisable to him. We would greet each other, and if I didn’t take the bus for a few days at a time, he would check on me the next time I took the bus. Because of the bus’s timing, it was popular with students as there were multiple schools and colleges on its route. Two stories come to mind about this conductor.

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Both stories took place in a three-year time period, when I was doing my degree. In the first instance, I boarded the bus as usual and paid my fare and took my ticket. I don’t know how it is now, but in those days, it used to be a paper ticket with your stop punched. Sometime between taking the ticket and halfway to college, a ticket checker got into the bus and immediately went to the upper deck to check. I checked my bag for my ticket so I could show it to the checker and get down, and that’s when I realised I had dropped my ticket somewhere. I was frantic and started checking my bag, between my books and inside my wallet. I didn’t want to get caught by the ticket checker as the fine would be too much for a poor college student, not to mention the humiliation that went with it. The conductor saw me being agitated and came to ask him what had happened. I mentioned that I couldn’t find my ticket and that the ticket checker was going to come down anytime to check tickets. At that moment, the bus stopped at a scheduled stop and someone started to get down. Immediately, the conductor asked him for his ticket and passed it to me. The fare would be something similar, as this person apparently got in a couple of stops before me and got off two stops before mine. I was thankful to both the conductor and the passenger, and showed the ticket checker my ticket before alighting to go to college.

The second story was also in the same period. My sister had purchased a new watch and I wanted to wear it. After pleading and cajoling her, I finally got permission to wear it to college. I proudly wore it and boarded my bus. The watch was shaped like a bangle, and unknown to me, the clasp was not very secure. I got on the bus and sat in one of the seats that face sideways, close to the entrance of the bus, in the lower deck. The same conductor as the story above was on duty that day. After a few stops, I looked down and to my horror, the watch was missing! I started looking everywhere, below the seat, in my bag and even patted my clothes, but the watch was not to be found. I was almost in tears. I knew not only would my sister blame me for losing her new watch, and rightly so, but my parents would also not let it go. I would hear about this for years to come. Again, the conductor came to my rescue. After asking me what happened and learning about the watch, he got more information from me about how it looked. Then he made an announcement to the lower deck about my lost watch and got everyone to look for it beneath their seats and near them. The whole bus was busy for the next few minutes trying to locate it. Finally, someone found it close to the other end of the bus. It seemed that the watch fell down when I was sitting and got kicked inside the bus as other passengers got in and found seats. Again, I was so thankful to the conductor when I was handed my watch and was able to go to college in a much lighter mood..

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I only started taking the train when I started my second job. I used to take a local to Andheri and then a bus to work and the reverse in the evening. Because I only went to the office three days a week (the other days, I used to go to our office in the city, in the opposite direction), I was never a regular, and so I don’t have stories to share.

For every Mumbaikar, the local train is more than transportation; it is the pulse of daily life, dictating schedules, shaping friendships, and weaving together countless stories along the city’s expansive rail corridors. Regular train commuters, especially those travelling long distances, have created communities and train friend is a Mumbai special friendship. Some train friendships have traversed the divide, and these train friends have not only become friends in real life, but in many instances, they have become relatives, having siblings, children or other relatives married to each other or their relatives.

Mumbai’s suburban railway, often lovingly called the “local,” is the oldest and busiest commuter rail system in India and among the world’s top in daily passenger volume, ferrying over 7.5million commuters every single day. First run in 1853, the system stretches across approximately 465km and is divided among six major lines: the Western, Central, Harbour, Trans-Harbour, Vasai Road–Roha, and the Nerul–Uran lines. It connects the heart of Mumbai to distant suburbs like Virar, Dahanu, Kalyan, Khopoli, and Panvel, truly earning the moniker “the city’s lifeline.”

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The western line: runs from Churchgate in South Mumbai through posh neighbourhoods northwards, ending at Dahanu Road. This route is a lifeline for thousands who journey from the extended suburbs into the southern business districts each day. The central line begins at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT), branching out at Kalyan toward Kasara and Khopoli, capturing the hustle of commuters travelling to and from eastern and northeastern corridors. The harbour line, which is the one that stops at the station closest to my home, links CSMT to Panvel through Navi Mumbai; less crowded but vital for east-west connectivity, this line opens up the satellite city for daily business and education. The harbour line also has a branch line that connects the central and western lines, branching out after Wadala and moving to the western line at Mahim, and when I used it, it used to end at Andheri. Today, the western branch of the harbour line ends at Goregaon.

Locals run from before dawn with the first training rolling out at 4 am until late at night, with most lines’ last train running at 1 pm, and some services ending even later. The stations are the stages for daily dramas: the surge onto the platform as the train approaches, the precise choreography to catch a footboard, and the silent understanding to make space for one more commuter in the already-packed compartment.

Trains are designated “fast” or “slow,” with the former skipping minor stations to speed up long-distance travel, and the latter stopping at every halt, accommodating the needs of neighbourhoods, both big and small. Special ladies’ compartments offer safe passage for women, while luggage compartments are a godsend for vendors and small traders transporting goods across the city.

Each ride on a Mumbai local imprints memories, sights of the city whizzing past open windows, street vendors plying their trade at major junctions, or quiet philosophical moments watching the city transform in the monsoon. Rail maps stuck to station walls and painted on signboards become sacred: they are, to many, a navigational scripture. The fast local between Churchgate and Virar or the crisscrossing services out of CSMT are more than routes; they are lifelines, their rhythm marking the intervals of a Mumbai day.

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What began with simple steam trains in the 19th century now operates as a massive, modern fleet of electrical multiple units (EMUs), seamlessly blending history with the scale demanded by a modern megacity. Indian Railways continues to advance, phasing out old rolling stock for modern, more efficient carriages and electrifying the entire network for speed and sustainability.

BEST buses don’t just move people, they move stories. For years, they have connected the city’s extremes, providing a democratic, affordable way to traverse the chaos and beauty that is Mumbai. It’s hard not to get nostalgic about the local. Even with the rise of metro lines and air-conditioned buses, the Mumbai train network remains unparalleled in its reach and spirit, a thread uniting millions in the great urban tapestry that is Mumbai.

Both the BEST buses and the local train network are more than functional necessities; they are an essential part of Mumbai’s memoryscape: resilient, chaotic, joyful, and eternally moving forward. So if you are ever in Mumbai, maybe you should take a trip in a BEST bus or a local, but be prepared for the chaos and the spirit of the city.

Mumbai Memories: The Ambi Phenomenon

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All his life, even today in fact, my father has been called ‘Ambi’ by his family and neighbours. So much so that when I was younger, I used to think this was his name. Why? In Tamil Brahmin culture, the term ‘Ambi’ has traditionally been used to refer to the oldest son in a family, a title that carries with it a sense of affection and respect.

The Tamil Brahmin community is known for its rich cultural heritage and adherence to traditional practices. The term ‘Ambi’ likely derives from the word “Amba,” which means mother or goddess in Sanskrit, signifying a connection to nurturing and familial roles. In many families, the firstborn son would be affectionately called ‘Ambi,’ symbolising his position as the primary heir and caretaker within the family unit.

Historically, Tamil Brahmin families have followed strict naming conventions. The firstborn son is often named after his paternal grandfather, while subsequent children may receive names based on familial traditions or characteristics. This practice not only preserves lineage but also reinforces social structures within the community.

The title ‘Ambi’ has implications beyond mere nomenclature; it embodies a set of expectations and responsibilities. As the eldest son, the Ambi is often seen as a leader within the family. He is expected to uphold family traditions, participate in religious rituals, and act as a mediator during disputes. This role is particularly significant in joint family systems common among Tamil Brahmins, where multiple generations live together under one roof.

In many households, the Ambi is also viewed as a bridge between the older and younger generations. He often helps younger siblings navigate societal expectations while maintaining respect for traditional values. This dynamic fosters a sense of unity within families, as the Ambi becomes a central figure around whom family gatherings revolve.

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My father, though born to the middle son, was the oldest son of his generation. There were girls born before him, but none of his uncles or aunts had any sons until he was born. So he was the designated ‘Ambi’ in his family. Not only did his extended family call him Ambi, but he was also known as Ambi to the tambram residents in our building. Unfortunately, this practice is now hardly being used. If it were, both S and BB would also be Ambis as they both are the oldest boys in their generation.

The cultural significance of ‘Ambi’ extends into various facets of Tamil Brahmin life. The title signifies love and respect from both parents and relatives. It is not uncommon for children to refer to their uncles or older male relatives as ‘Ambi,’ emphasising the term’s affectionate connotation. Being an Ambi can enhance one’s status among peers within social gatherings. It often comes with expectations of leadership in community events or family functions. The name carries with it a sense of legacy. Many families have multiple generations with members named Ambi or variations thereof (like Chinnambi for younger siblings), showcasing how this tradition persists through time.

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Today, with increasing numbers of nuclear families replacing joint family systems, the role of an Ambi may hold a different weight than it once did. However, many still find comfort in these traditional titles as they navigate their identities in a rapidly changing world.

The phenomenon of calling the eldest boy ‘Ambi’ in Tamil Brahmin families encapsulates much more than just a name; it represents deep-rooted cultural values that emphasise respect, responsibility, and familial unity. While modern influences may alter its usage or significance over time, the essence of what it means to be an Ambi remains an integral part of Tamil Brahmin identity.

For future generations, it will be interesting to see how this tradition adapts while still honouring its historical roots. The enduring affection associated with ‘Ambi’ serves as a reminder of the importance of family ties and cultural heritage in shaping individual identities within this vibrant community.

Short Story: The Emerald Legacy

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The sun hung low in the sky over Mumbai, casting a golden hue over the bustling city. Inside the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya, excitement buzzed through the air. The museum was hosting an exclusive exhibition featuring the legendary emerald necklace known as the “Vishakha Necklace,” said to be one of the finest pieces of jewellery in India.

Detective Arjun Mehta stood outside the museum, eyes scanning the crowd. He had been called in to investigate what was supposed to be a routine security detail for the exhibition. But as he entered the grand hall, he felt an unsettling tension in the air.

The necklace was displayed under glass, surrounded by security personnel and museum staff. As Arjun approached, he overheard whispers among the guests, their excitement palpable. “Did you hear about the necklace? They say it’s cursed,” one woman said to her friend. “Cursed? What do you mean?” her friend replied, intrigued. “The legend goes that every emerald represents a life lost in a tragic love triangle centuries ago,” the woman explained. “It’s said that anyone who possesses it will face misfortune.”

Arjun raised an eyebrow at this. Superstitions were common in India, but he had always believed that crime had more tangible roots than curses. As he continued to observe, a sudden commotion erupted near the display case. A guard shouted, “Stop! Thief!”

Arjun’s instincts kicked in as he rushed towards the scene. He pushed through the crowd just in time to see a figure dart away from the display, clutching a bag that bulged with stolen goods. “After him!” Arjun shouted, sprinting after the thief.

The chase led them through the museum’s labyrinthine corridors and out into the streets of Mumbai. Arjun was determined; he had trained for moments like this. But just as he was gaining ground on the thief, a sharp turn into an alleyway caused him to lose sight of his target. Breathless and frustrated, Arjun stopped to catch his breath and assess the situation. He pulled out his phone and called for backup while scanning the area for any sign of the thief.

Back at the museum, chaos reigned as security personnel secured the area. Arjun met with Inspector Rao, who had arrived on the scene. “What do we know?” Arjun asked, his mind racing. “The necklace is gone,” Rao replied grimly. “The thief managed to evade capture. We’re reviewing security footage now.”

Arjun nodded and turned his attention to the display case. The glass was shattered, and shards lay scattered on the floor. He crouched down to examine it closely when he noticed something glimmering amidst the debris—a small emerald pendant that had fallen from the necklace. “Interesting,” he murmured, picking it up carefully. “This could be a clue.” As they reviewed security footage, they saw a hooded figure slip into view just before the theft occurred. The thief moved with agility and purpose, but their face remained obscured.

“Any leads on who this might be?” Arjun asked. “Not yet,” Rao replied. “But we’ll track down any known criminals in this area.” Arjun felt a growing sense of urgency. The Vishakha Necklace wasn’t just valuable; it held historical significance tied to an ancient tale of love and betrayal that had captivated him since childhood. That evening, as Arjun sat at his desk poring over old records about the necklace’s history, he found himself drawn into its tragic past.

The Vishakha Necklace was said to have been crafted centuries ago for a beautiful princess named Vishakha, who lived in a grand palace overlooking a lush valley. She was known for her beauty and kindness but found herself caught in a tumultuous love triangle between two brothers—Rajendra and Vikram—both noble warriors vying for her affection.

Their rivalry escalated into jealousy and betrayal, leading to tragic consequences that would haunt their families for generations. It was said that each emerald represented one of their lost lives—each stone holding within it a fragment of their sorrow. Arjun leaned back in his chair, contemplating how this dark history intertwined with present events. He needed to dig deeper into both the theft and its connection to this ancient tale.

The next day, Arjun visited local historians and jewellers who specialised in antique jewellery. He learned more about Vishakha’s story—how her love had led to heartbreak and how her spirit was said to linger around her beloved necklace. One historian shared an intriguing detail: “The necklace is rumoured to have been hidden away during times of strife but always returns when true love is threatened.”

Arjun couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye. He decided to visit Vishakha’s palace ruins located outside Mumbai, hoping to uncover any additional clues about its legacy. Upon arriving at the site, he marvelled at what remained of the once-magnificent structure. As he wandered through crumbling walls adorned with intricate carvings depicting scenes from Vishakha’s life, he felt an inexplicable connection to her story.

As dusk fell over the ruins, Arjun noticed something glimmering among some stones—a small locket engraved with initials matching Rajendra and Vikram’s initials. His heart raced as he realised this could be another key piece of evidence linking to history and present events. With newfound determination, Arjun returned home and began piecing together everything he had learned about Vishakha’s story and its connection to modern-day events surrounding her necklace.

He reached out to local police departments across India to track any known criminals who might have connections to stolen artefacts or historical jewellery thefts. Days turned into weeks as he followed leads across Mumbai and neighbouring states but found nothing solid. Just when he thought he might hit a dead end, Arjun received an anonymous tip about an underground auction happening in Goa where stolen artefacts were rumoured to be sold. Excitement coursed through him; this could be his chance not only to recover the necklace but also to uncover more about its dark legacy.

Arriving in Goa under cover of nightfall, Arjun found himself at an old warehouse by the beach, where whispers of illicit dealings filled every corner. He blended into the crowd as bidders gathered around tables laden with stolen treasures from across India—artefacts that should have been preserved in museums instead of sold for profit. As he scanned through items on display, his eyes landed on something familiar—a velvet cloth covering what appeared to be an ornate box adorned with emeralds.

Heart pounding with anticipation, Arjun approached cautiously while keeping an eye on potential threats around him—the last thing he needed was to be discovered while pursuing justice for Vishakha’s legacy. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced an auctioneer with flair as he unveiled several items before them—including what seemed like pieces from ancient royal families—before revealing what everyone had been waiting for: “And now we present…the legendary Vishakha Necklace!” Gasps filled the room as people leaned forward eagerly; this was it—the moment Arjun had been waiting for!

As bids began flying around him like confetti at a wedding celebration—Arjun knew time was running out before someone would walk away with not just history but also tragedy wrapped around those emeralds forevermore! He stepped forward boldly amidst shouts of excitement until finally raising his hand high above everyone else’s heads: “I’ll take it!” Silence fell over everyone present; eyes widened in disbelief at seeing someone challenge their intent on acquiring such valuable heritage without hesitation!

“What do you think you’re doing?” demanded one man from across whom Arjun recognized immediately—an infamous dealer known for trafficking stolen artefacts throughout India! “I’m here for justice,” Arjun replied firmly, meeting his gaze head-on while feeling adrenaline surge through him like fire igniting passion within!

Before anyone could react further—the lights suddenly flickered, ominously plunging them all into darkness! Panic erupted among bidders scrambling towards exits while others sought refuge wherever possible! Seizing this opportunity—Arjun dashed towards where he’d seen earlier glimpses of light shining through cracks, revealing hidden passageways leading deeper inside warehouse walls.

After navigating through narrow corridors illuminated only by faint glimmers reflecting off dusty surfaces, Arjun finally stumbled upon another room filled with artefacts piled haphazardly against walls; among them lay several boxes containing remnants from centuries past! In one corner stood what appeared like remnants belonging specifically connected back towards Vishakha herself—a small altar adorned with beautifully crafted sculptures depicting moments captured between love triangles long forgotten yet still haunting those connected forevermore…

Suddenly footsteps echoed behind him, causing an adrenaline rush once again, forcing him into action! Turning swiftly—he confronted none other than Rajesh—the dealer whose greed knew no bounds! “You think you can just take what isn’t yours?” Rajesh sneered menacingly while brandishing a weapon threateningly towards Arjun’s direction! “I’m here not only reclaiming history but also restoring hope,” Arjun declared defiantly, standing tall despite fear coursing through his veins, knowing well the consequences if failed today!

With quick thinking—he lunged forward, knocking the weapon aside and sending Rajesh sprawling backwards, crashing against shelves spilling artefacts everywhere, creating chaos around them both! Amidst the confusion, Arjun seized the opportunity to grab hold tightly of the necklace clasped firmly within grasp before fleeing towards the exit, where sirens blared outside, signalling police arrival nearby!

Back at police headquarters after recovering stolen items, including the Vishakha Necklace itself—Arjun felt the immense weight lift off his shoulders, knowing justice prevailed today, restoring honour—not just the family name but the entire legacy entwined within emeralds representing lives lost long ago.

As news spread throughout the community regarding recovery efforts made by local authorities alongside brave detectives working tirelessly behind the scenes, people began gathering outside, celebrating triumph over darkness bringing light back into lives affected deeply by the loss suffered throughout generations past…

Among those celebrating stood an elderly woman dressed elegantly, wearing traditional attire adorned beautifully, resembling designs reminiscent of ancient times; she approached slowly, reaching out towards Arjun and grasping hands tightly, expressing gratitude beyond words could convey…

“You’ve done what many thought impossible, young man,” she whispered softly, tears glistening in her eyes reflecting hope restored once again, reminding everyone present of the importance of preserving heritage passed down generations, ensuring future generations would never forget stories woven intricately together through time itself.

Weeks later, after successful recovery efforts concluded, the Vishakha Necklace returned to its rightful place within the museum, showcasing not only beauty craftsmanship but also tales woven throughout centuries, capturing hearts and minds alike and reminding all visitors of the importance of cherishing love and enduring even amidst trials faced along the way.

Arjun stood proudly beside an elderly woman who’d come forth earlier, expressing gratitude and witnessing firsthand the impact made through perseverance and resilience displayed throughout the journey taken together, restoring faith lost long ago.

“I’m honoured you chose me to help restore legacy,” Arjun said, sincerely looking deep into her eyes, feeling warmth radiate between them both, knowing the connection forged transcended beyond mere physicality, embracing unity shared amongst souls intertwined forevermore.

As they gazed upon stunning emeralds glistening brightly under lights, illuminating a room filled with laughter and joy, celebrating triumph over adversity—it became clear the journey didn’t end here, but rather a new chapter unfolding, inviting everyone to partake in discovering beauty lies within stories shared, connecting generations past, present, and future alike, reminding all hope remains alive, even in the darkest moments faced along the way.

And so they stood together united by purpose, celebrating life, love, and resilience, knowing together they’d overcome challenges faced, paving a path forward, ensuring light would always shine bright, illuminating hearts and souls alike guiding them homeward bound forevermore…

Mumbai Memories: My favourite Mumbai Photos

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As I mentioned previously, this year I will be posting posts about Mumbai, my childhood, and my grandparents under Mumbai Memories. So to kick off this series, here are some of my favourite photos of the city of my birth, Mumbai.

This photo was taken in 2022 and shows Mumbai around 2-2:30 am. During this trip, I flew to Mumbai to move my parents to the retirement community in Bangalore they currently are in. Because of COVID, I could only use a Vaccinated Travel Lane (VTL) flight. This meant that I could not take a direct flight from Bangalore back to Singapore. So I flew back to Mumbai and then took a VTL flight back to Singapore. This was my first trip back home after the two-plus years of the pandemic.

The same image, but during the day! This was taken last year in 2023 when I went back to India to drop my parents back home after they spent a couple of months with us in Singapore. Because of my father’s condition, this was probably their last international flight. I flew to Mumbai on a day trip to take care of some bank business. This was on my flight back to Bangalore.

A photo again from my 2022 trip. This was taken during my morning walk on our building’s terrace. I had the entire terrace to myself since I used to walk around 5:30 am. I loved how the light played with the trees and the scenery and created this ethereal photo.

This photo is from 2019 on a trip to Elephanta Caves. I clicked this just as the boat left Gateway of India. The Gateway itself was closed due to some Navy ceremonies, and I couldn’t take any photos of this iconic structure. An arch-monument, the Gateway of India was completed in 1924 to commemorate the landing of George V for his coronation as the Emperor of India in December 1911, the first British monarch to visit India.

This last photo is again from the 2022 trip and from my building terrace. I used to enjoy the sunrises when I walked there, and the colours were simply amazing. I feel this photo looks like a painting, with the clouds creating illusions of peaks.

I have more photos coming up from my recent trip, so look out for them.