S5, E7: In Mumbai, Everyone Assumed I Was a Local. Here’s How I Embraced It.

When Sarika Bansal, the editorial director at Dinogo, relocated to Mumbai after finishing college, she felt she blended in appearance-wise but lacked the cultural knowledge to truly fit in. In the seventh episode of Travel Tales by Dinogo, season five, she recounts her experience.

Transcript

It’s the summer of 2006, and I’ve just spent two days in Mumbai. I’m living with a kind woman whom I call auntie, a term of respect for elders in India, though she’s more of a distant family friend. It’s around 7 a.m., and I’m still groggy from jet lag in the guest room. Suddenly, I feel a sticky hand on my face, and I wake up to find auntie spreading milk fat, or malai, on my skin. She thinks my features are beautiful but that my skin tone is too dark, and that this will fix it. I have to fake a smile—after all, I’m a guest in her home—but all I want to do is yell.

The culture shock I’m facing is utterly overwhelming. It’s especially confusing since I look like everyone around me. Yet, I feel completely out of place.

***

Both my parents hail from India. My father left at just 22 to chase his PhD. A few years later, he returned to India, entered into an arranged marriage with my mother, and they moved to Buffalo, New York together. I was born a few years after that, followed by my sister.

As children, we visited our homeland every couple of years. These trips unfolded much like those of many first-generation Indian Americans. My sister and I would be whisked away to meet what felt like an endless stream of relatives, often told we were too skinny, indulged with an overwhelming amount of food, and played cards with our cousins. Whenever we ventured outside a relative’s home, we were usually reminded to stay quiet. Even though we knew some Hindi, our American accents would give us away, leading a shopkeeper to charge extra for that sari our mom admired.

Consequently, while I felt a connection to Indian culture from a young age, my familiarity with India as a country was lacking.

This is why, upon graduating from college, I chose to relocate there. Specifically, I moved to Mumbai, far from my well-intentioned family who would have shielded me from the raw realities of the country. At 22, just like my dad, I took that leap.

Mumbai definitely leaves a mark. Coming from New York City, it felt like I’d stepped into a bustling metropolis that never sleeps. On Hill Road in Bandra, you might witness taxis, buses, auto-rickshaws, bicycles, cows, pedestrians, a vendor selling rejected export women’s clothing, another offering rows of baby shoes, and a third selling popular street snacks like pani puri and vada pao. Above, balconies are lined with clothes hanging out to dry. The air is filled with honking horns, lively bargaining, and people navigating the streets in close quarters.

I found myself both captivated and overwhelmed by the sights and sounds.

During my initial days in the city, I wandered with wide eyes and an eager spirit. I embodied that ‘main character’ vibe common among young adults venturing into unfamiliar territories. Each shopkeeper, auto-rickshaw driver, and passerby became part of my journey toward personal growth and transformation.

However, they didn’t see me that way. It took a few days for me to realize that while I marveled at Mumbai like a fresh visitor, everyone around me viewed me as just another local. Thus began my surreal out-of-body experience.

There’s something profoundly odd about traveling to a place where everyone assumes you belong, yet you lack the cultural knowledge to truly fit in. Over the following months, I often felt like I was lagging behind, perpetually trying to catch up.

My Hindi skills improved quickly, and while I celebrated my progress, those around me questioned my accent and frequent gender mistakes. I’d enjoy Bollywood films with new friends, feeling proud of my cultural immersion, while they wondered why I hadn’t seen many classics. I eagerly bought Indian attire for work, only for colleagues to comment on my mismatched dupatta. While others seemed to sip from a water fountain, I felt like I was trying to drink from a fire hose—nothing I did felt sufficient.

I worked at a management consulting firm as the only foreigner among the staff. Out of 14 new business analysts, all fresh graduates, I was surrounded by some of the smartest and hardest-working individuals I’ve ever met, many of whom graduated at the top of their classes from the prestigious Indian Institutes of Technology, known for their low acceptance rates. My American liberal arts background made me feel culturally isolated and constantly questioning my intelligence for the role.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment things shifted for me. However, I recall choosing to take the local train to work one morning instead of a taxi and feeling completely at ease with the crowds. This was around four or five months into my stay. The trains carry over 7 million commuters daily, and riding them can be quite an experience even for locals. That day, I bought my ticket, confidently headed to the ladies’ car, and found my balance near the doorway on the journey from Bandra to Churchgate. I raised my arms slightly to enjoy the breeze under my salwar kameez. The ride felt utterly ordinary, and I was thankful for that simplicity. After months of feeling lost, I finally felt a glimmer of control and self-assurance.

Once I found my footing, I became an eager explorer of Mumbai. The city is always alive, serving as the financial hub of India and the heart of Bollywood. With around 21 million residents, it’s one of the largest cities in the world, characterized by stark contrasts: home to Asia’s largest slum yet also to the highest number of millionaires and billionaires in India.

Yet, daily life in Mumbai is surprisingly laid-back. While many large cities are known for their frantic pace, Mumbai is chaotic yet profoundly human. One day, I approached a vegetable vendor and shyly asked for advice on making aloo gobi. It was as if a signal went out; almost instantly, two kind aunties shared their recipes with me and provided the cauliflower, potatoes, onions, and tomatoes I needed. Rather than looking down on me, they embraced me like a young student just learning to cook after leaving the hostel. To some, this may have felt overwhelming, but for me, it was the nurturing energy I desperately needed in that moment.

I also realized that being an outsider who blended in had its advantages. It opened doors to parts of the city that might have been harder to access otherwise. Mumbai boasts a vibrant arts scene, lively nightlife, delicious food, and a general zest for life. I began taking salsa lessons at a local bar and gradually expanded my social circle. I enjoyed live music and theatrical performances at the National Centre for the Performing Arts and Prithvi Theatre. I joined a bicycle tour of South Mumbai, where I explored the colonial history of the railway and savored Parsi cuisine at Britannia. During the Holi festival, I engaged in playful water balloon fights and colorful powder throwing, arriving at work the next day hungover and literally painted purple.

Living in Mumbai reignited my natural curiosity, guiding me toward a career in journalism. My hidden outsider status enabled me to ask questions that others might overlook. I fearlessly ventured into the city’s largest garbage dump, construction sites to speak with women, and onto crowded city buses. Stories unfolded around me, and it became my lifelong aspiration to share, and now edit, narratives that humanize people and places that initially seem completely unfamiliar.

Mumbai also transformed me in subtler ways. The everyday kindness I experienced in the city made me softer and more generous. Even brief encounters were met with genuine curiosity. Reflecting on my time with auntie when I first arrived, I reconsidered her actions. Though the milk-fat facial treatment was excessive, it was her unique way of expressing affection.

I came to understand that many of the questions I faced upon moving to Mumbai, which felt intrusive and painful at the time, were not meant to be exclusionary. I realized that honesty is a cultural trait in India, and there’s a certain beauty in that straightforwardness. Honestly, I’d rather know if there’s spinach in my teeth or if my scarf is mismatched. In contrast to the United States, I felt seen in Mumbai. I wanted to reciprocate and acknowledge others as they had acknowledged me.

Nearly two years into my Mumbai adventure, a friend and I decided to try the city’s famous laughter yoga at Joggers Park at 6 a.m. The concept is straightforward: laughter acts as a form of breathing that can alleviate stress and provide various health benefits. Plus, it sounded like a lot of fun.

We found ourselves in a circle, the youngest participants by at least 40 years. After a basic warm-up routine, the instructor had us raise our arms and chant, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Next, we clapped like seals while laughing, “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Initially, our laughter felt forced and awkward, but within five minutes, we were truly belly-laughing. One auntie jokingly asked if she could introduce me to her son, prompting another round of laughter from my friend and me. Aunties will be aunties, right? To this day, it remains the best yoga class I've ever attended.

Years later, I often reflect on that class. It encapsulated so much of my Mumbai experience: the joy that permeates the city, the shared humanity, the simplicity, and the countless hidden gems. I remember feeling genuinely relaxed and present, a stark contrast to my earlier days as a wide-eyed, overwhelmed newcomer making endless mistakes.

Mumbai isn’t for the timid. However, if you’re willing to put in some effort, the city rewards you immensely. My efforts led me to achieve what I had longed for: a true connection with India, a place that now feels like home, all on my own terms.

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This has been Travel Tales, a production of Dinogo Media. The podcast is produced by Aislyn Greene and Nikki Galteland, with music composed and produced by Strike Audio.

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