S4, E3: The Spirits of Mumbai

In the third episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season four, author Shruti Swamy journeys to Mumbai, India, following the passing of her cherished aunt to discover the significance of the city in her life now.

Transcript

Aislyn Greene, host: I’m Aislyn Greene, and this is Travel Tales by Dinogo. In each episode, we hear from a traveler about a transformative journey. Additionally, this season, I’m engaging with each storyteller to delve into profound travel questions. Although I’m not physically meeting them, as I’m recording from my houseboat in Sausalito, you get the idea.

Have you ever been to a place that was defined for you by someone else? What does that location signify to you once that person is gone? This week, we’re contemplating this question through a poetic exploration of Mumbai, India. We join Shruti Swamy, a San Francisco-based author known for her novel The Archer and her short story collection A House Is a Body. Though her parents hail from Mumbai, Shruti has always felt somewhat out of place in the city.

Although she didn’t grow up there, Shruti has strong family ties to Mumbai, and as you will soon hear, she has spent considerable time there. Her aunt, Ila Mami, served as a vital link to the city for her. After Ila Mami's passing, last year Shruti returned to the city without her, on assignment for Dinogo’s magazine. This time, she brought her husband and four-year-old daughter along. She discovered that experiencing the city with her daughter, who had never visited before, revealed an entirely new perspective.

Just a note: At the beginning of this episode, I referred to the city as Mumbai, which is the name used by Dinogo. However, in her story, Shruti refers to it as Bombay, its name until 1995, reflecting how her family has always known the city at home.

Aislyn: Welcome to Travel Tales. It’s wonderful to have you with us today.

Shruti Swamy, author: Thank you for inviting me.

Aislyn: Absolutely. Your story originated from an essay you wrote for the magazine, and since you mainly write fiction, I’m curious—did you find writing this essay to be different in any way?

Shruti: Absolutely. I appreciate you asking that. It was an entirely different experience in a delightful way. Writing fiction doesn’t quite allow for the immediacy of processing and experiencing events through language right as they occur.

Traveling in a place like India, so rich in meaning, made it particularly enjoyable to have that experience while keeping the story in mind. Upon returning home, I was able to reflect on what it all meant through writing. This process was beautiful, as it helped me explore significant ideas and solidify my memories of that trip, which, although brief, was very intense and impactful.

Aislyn: Did this change your perspective on the experience? You mentioned it helped solidify your memories, but did it affect the trip in any other ways?

Shruti: Hmm, looking back, it may have made the trip feel longer. We were only there for a short time, and typically, I wouldn’t travel in India for such a brief duration because it’s too rushed. However, we accomplished so much during those days, and being able to recall them more vividly certainly expanded my perspective in hindsight.

Aislyn: That’s interesting. Having your daughter with you must have added a unique layer to the experience as well.

Shruti: It definitely was!

Aislyn: How did the story transform from the moment you pitched it to when you actually sat down to write?

Shruti: Well, the story underwent many changes. That’s one of the fascinating aspects of working with nonfiction. In fiction, you start with a clear framework, and while things may shift slightly, nonfiction is much more fluid. There were numerous experiences from that trip that I didn’t include in my writing.

My mom joined me on that trip, and she was featured in an earlier draft. However, my insightful editor suggested it was too much. That was a valid point; we needed to tighten our focus. I entered India with a broad sense of the city and its history, wondering how I might weave those elements in.

The focus ultimately developed from my personal experiences. I could have written four or five different essays about everything that unfolded because so much happened. The choices you make about what to include or omit significantly shape the narrative, making nonfiction an intriguing endeavor.

Aislyn: Did you have any expectations for your experience in the city before the trip?

Shruti: That’s an interesting question. Did I have expectations? Honestly, I was quite anxious about traveling with my four-year-old daughter. I thought, “How is this going to work out?” If I had any expectations, it was mostly anticipating a potential disaster. To my surprise, she adapted remarkably well. At four years old, she’s quite headstrong, but it was incredible to see her engage with everything around her, which was so different from her everyday life. Plus, we hadn’t traveled at all during COVID, so this was a big change for her.

I expected the trip to be quite challenging—and it was! But there was also a sense of joy in sharing those experiences, the food, the sights, and the stories that came with them. I didn’t anticipate her enjoying it as much as she did, but it seems she really did.

Aislyn: That’s amazing! It was difficult, yet she loved it.

Shruti: Somehow!

Aislyn: Has she held onto any memories from the trip? What was her experience like afterward?

Shruti: Well, we haven’t discussed it lately, so I can’t say for certain. However, I’ve been sharing stories from the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, emphasizing that these tales originated in India—the place we visited. For instance, we spent some time in Mathura and encountered monkeys, which were quite intimidating because they approach people for food. I don’t want to impose my views, but I found their behavior quite bothersome. I kept thinking, “These monkeys are terrible. Doesn’t anyone see how disruptive this is?”

We often carried a stick while walking around, and in Mathura, we occasionally had to wave it to keep the monkeys at bay. She found this utterly amusing.

She definitely retains some memories from the trip, though they’re likely similar to how I remember things from my childhood. There are specific images, sensations, tastes, and smells, along with an overall feeling—a vibe that stays with you. Some of these memories are conscious, while others are more subtle. Even though her time there was short, I believe those impressions linger.

Aislyn: That’s wonderful that she can experience that at such a young age; it will become part of her awareness. What was the toughest aspect of the trip for you?

Shruti: My experience was marked by a profound sense of disorientation, one that feels oddly familiar. Every time I visit, I sense it—a beautiful city layered with history, and as an adult, I find myself trying to catch glimpses of what it once was.

This feeling goes beyond just confusion about my location; it’s a deeper question of my identity within the city. I feel both a strong connection and a profound disconnection, particularly from the present-day Mumbai. The everyday frustrations I encounter stem from this unsettling sense of dislocation.

Aislyn: If you were to envision it, how do you see your connection to Mumbai evolving in the future?

Shruti: I genuinely wish to spend more time there. It’s undoubtedly a challenging city to navigate, but it offers not just beauty but a unique way of life. There were moments that resonated deeply with me, sparking a desire to immerse myself in that experience.

Shruti: It’s November in Bombay, which means it’s hot. It’s barely past nine in the morning, and already, I can feel the sweat forming on my neck as I squeeze into the shade of a nearby tree.

I find myself in this very spot once again—first as a child, unsteady on my feet; then as a bespectacled kid with scraped knees; as an awkward teenager adjusting a skirt that draws too much attention; as a young woman exploring post-college; and now, as a newlywed writer.

Now, I stand here, blinking beside my husband and four-year-old daughter, absorbing the chaos of traffic, the mix of animals, and the vibrant fruit carts overflowing with green and orange coconuts, tiny bananas, and dry, ruby-red berries known as chani bor.

And let’s not forget the river of college students, office workers, domestic help, and cooks. The crowd includes rickshaw drivers, key cutters, cell phone accessory vendors, and school children with oiled hair tied in loops and oversized backpacks, their parents already dressed for the day ahead.

In just one square block of Bombay, a universe unfolds, much like the vastness found in a single drop of ocean water. With so much to witness, I ponder whether I can truly absorb any of it.

Bombay is too hot, radiant, beautiful, and welcoming for me to view it as haunted. Yet, it is filled with memories of those I’ve lost—whether to migration or death. The number of those who have left far surpasses the family members who still remain here.

This city is also inhabited by other specters—those of my parents as young people. The echoes of their lives and the legacies of their families linger in the city’s quiet, vast memory. The most ephemeral ghost of all is the version of myself that could have been: the me that might have existed had my parents chosen to stay, if this city had become my home as it did for my cousins. (Though, with the exception of one, they have all since departed.)

Who is she, the me that remained here, whose face blends seamlessly with those around her, who speaks flawless Hindi, whose body has been nourished by the very food from this land, and whose ears are attuned to the languages of her homeland?

The last time I visited this city, in 2016, my aunt Ila was still alive; she passed away a few years later, before the onset of COVID. I affectionately called her Mami, as we do in Gujarati. Like Bombay, Ila Mami was too warm and vibrant to be a haunting presence, yet I sense her everywhere during this visit.

In past trips, various relatives took on the role of guides and chaperones, introducing me to family homes and local sights. As I gazed out of the car window, Bombay seemed flat and unfamiliar, a city that eluded my comprehension. But Ila Mami had a deeper understanding of her city, and perhaps of me as well.

My aunt embodied joy. Though she has passed, I still search for her visage: a youthful creamy brown complexion, her dark, welcoming eyes set deep in their sockets, and dark lips that frequently curled into laughter.

One time, we purchased a pirated Hindi music CD from a street vendor—back at the Parle apartment that belonged to my grandparents but has since vanished. She sprang up to dance to a particularly catchy tune, encouraging me until I joined her. Amidst the torrential rain blowing into the rickshaw, we embarked on our final epic shopping adventure, where she assisted me in finding my wedding ring. Although she deemed it far too simple for her taste, she ensured I secured a fair price when she couldn’t sway me toward something flashier.

We found ourselves outside the exposition hall where we had shopped for handicrafts, having picked up a stylish outfit: a long navy-blue kameez paired with wide-legged, eyelet-embroidered pants. During a lull between downpours, she halted at a guava cart—Do you want some?—she inquired. Yes, I always did.

The guavas were small, pink, ripe, and fragrant. She bought them for me, wiping them with her handkerchief before handing them over. When we returned home, I tried on my new outfit, and then she did as well, beaming with joy that the cream-colored pants fit her too. No matter how visibly Bombay has transformed since my last visit, it is her absence that my mind struggles to accept.

What, then, is a city if the individuals who once gave it meaning are no longer there? Bombay offers a multitude of delights for various tastes—hot chai and street food, the sparkle of textiles, cocktails on a rooftop, brightly colored inflatable seacraft bobbing in the shallow waters of Juhu Beach, and the crisp atmosphere of a jewelry store.

Yet pleasure devoid of substance fades almost immediately; it doesn’t blossom into joy or even comprehension. I no longer possess those cream-colored pants, but I cherish the memory of Ila Mami negotiating for them; she was a master bargainer, understanding it as a game.

The kulfi pulled from the chilled cart, vibrant blocks wrapped in leaves and sliced with a machete—while the flavors have faded, I still recall how she remembered me and paused for it. It wasn’t merely about sharing joy; that joy carried significance for us, illuminating the city like the flare of a struck match, making us briefly visible to each other. It was a way to navigate an otherwise chaotic city. Together, we viewed Bombay through this lens, which allowed it to coalesce into a semblance of sense.

Now, as I seek pleasure here, I also yearn for connection. In a handicraft exposition in Dadar, reminiscent of the last one I visited with Ila Mami, I observe Umar, the salesman, selling. There’s an artistry to it; he is an artist, gently unfurling scarf after scarf before me.

Shopping in India is an absolute delight, gliding your hands over the most exquisite textiles imaginable, being shown one, then two, then three colors of scarves cascading over the salesman’s arm. Then even more, more than you ever expected to see, intricate patterns formed from subtly varied warp and weft that create radiant colors, alongside bold prints made with digital graphics.

The eyes and hands are overwhelmed, saturated with the sense of abundance. I recognize this as a performance—and yet, something deeper underlies it. It’s Umar’s life: his humanity shines through the act, lending it strength, much like a method actor tapping into genuine memories, revealing his true self to the audience despite—or perhaps because of—the theatricality.

So delighted are we with one another—him the consummate performer, me the attentive audience—that he writes his phone number on the invoice and invites me to stay with him and his mother in Kashmir the next time I’m in India: not for selling, he says, this comes from the heart.

Is it possible for two people to connect within the confines of an exchange, despite the imbalances it brings, to catch a glimpse of each other? This question lingers in my mind days later as I find myself halted at an intersection. A hijra, a third-gender individual draped in a red sari with impeccably painted lips, approaches my rickshaw. The elegance of her sari radiates, and the fluidity of her long limbs and poised stature exudes complete self-assurance.

I divert my gaze as I decline her request for money, and while she acknowledges my refusal, she places a gentle hand on my shoulder before moving away. This gesture is unmistakably a blessing. I am touched by it, filled with a sense of pleasure, not from sensory stimulation, but perhaps from something deeper: the connection itself. It grounds me in the present moment.

The spirits of Bombay fade away in the illuminating light of now, and I find myself yearning for this city and the self I bring along: I can almost perceive it in its entirety. It is an immense repository of human joy, suffering, and creativity.

In a neighborhood north of the city, my husband, daughter, and I take a train followed by a rickshaw to Sanjay Gandhi National Park. Despite having visited Bombay over a dozen times in my life, this is my first trip to this park.

As we stroll through the expansive, tree-dappled landscape, we marvel at the shimmering, palm-sized butterflies. The birds’ songs outline the space for us if we close our eyes, as do the soft murmurs of the ancient trees, animated by the breeze rustling through their leaves. Monkeys, aggressive and engaged in grooming and mating, have become dependent on human food, which has left them unhinged; we keep our distance from them.

The park is vast. Expansive playgrounds and dusty fields for cricket and badminton lead into wilder landscapes further in. By the lake, vendors clear the dust and lay out cloth to display their goods: snacks of unripe starfruit and guava dusted with a salty-sweet spice, fresh sugarcane juice pressed just for you, nimbu pani, and zesty lime soda.

We purchase a whole coconut from a nearby vendor, who expertly chops off the top with a single swing of his machete. In the sweltering heat, sipping the coconut water through a slender straw feels like a remedy. I observe my child's flushed face relax as she drinks.

In a kind gesture, the coconut vendor stands up to offer her his seat, but she shyly declines. Heat rash pricks her chest, her fair cheeks redden in the warmth, traits we’ve never had the opportunity to see in temperate San Francisco.

While I take her to the restroom, a gigantic insect, the size of my hand, observes us from its spot on the closed door. I’m intrigued, while she is unsettled: I want it to go back into nature, she insists, but feels sympathy when I point out that it’s likely more frightened of us than we are of it. I suspect it’s a locust, that biblical scourge; still, perched there on the bathroom door, it resembles something carved from wood by a master artisan.

Stepping back outside, my little one, with her light skin and copper hair, embraces her Sanskrit name, Kavita, with pride. Her face is smeared with snot and dirt, her shoes dusted with red soil, her curious eyes wide open to the riot of visual stimuli, yet not overwhelmed as mine often are.

I have few recollections from my earliest trips to India, yet certain bursts of smell and sound transport me back to a time that feels more like a familiar emotion than a distinct memory. What will she take away from this journey?

And here it is, where I least expect it: another apparition, that of the grown girl who exists within the realm of possibilities.

Aislyn: That was Shruti Swamy. Although Shruti doesn’t plan to visit India anytime soon, she shares that her daughter still remembers (and misses) the family they met there. Recently, Shruti has been reflecting on how much her daughter and Ila Mami would have connected, sharing more stories about her.

We’ll include a link to the magazine piece Shruti wrote for Dinogo, along with her books and website in our show notes. Thank you for tuning in!

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You've been listening to Travel Tales, a production by Dinogo Media. This podcast is brought to you by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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