The crimson wave of beautiful roses unleashed an inner blaze, kindling a smouldering fire, readying the mind and body for an encounter with an unfamiliar world. But as the eyes adjusted, they met the soothing glow of yellow daisies, a calming balm to the senses. The human mind, ever astonishing, shifted effortlessly, like a machine changing gears, moving from one emotional state to another in the span of a heartbeat.
A cacophony of sounds bombarded my ears, a chaotic blend of highs and lows that formed a constant, unrelenting soundtrack. Each note was foreign, as though the very air here had its own symphony, yet behind every corner, a new mystery awaited. The immediate space was tight but oddly comforting, the kind of closeness that keeps you grounded even as the world shifts in the blink of an eye. In that moment, it was the familiar that brought me peace—Shabana by my side, and Ayaan and Azeem sitting quietly, taking it all in. It was my first time in this remarkable and unfamiliar city and country, Mumbai, India.
We had come for Shabana’s younger sister, Runa’s wedding. As the taxi weaved through the bustling streets, I realised that while everything around me was new, the bond of family kept me firmly anchored amidst the unknown. We rode in an old Ambassador taxi adorned with red and gold flowers, along with images of deities that, in the driver’s eyes, offered protection to all within. As we neared our destination, the taxi slowed, and we began gathering our belongings, along with our children. Stepping out, we found ourselves on Mumbai’s iconic Marine Drive. The long, sweeping curve of the road hugged the sea, its shimmering lights stretching out like a necklace against the dark waters—an image so striking it had earned the name “The Queen’s Necklace.” I assumed it referred to the Queen of England, and in my mind, I couldn’t help but think of the jewels left behind—rather than those taken to be showcased as Crown Jewels in London. Ah, the irony of colonisation. What a spectacle it must have been for those who orchestrated it. Satisfied that we had everything in hand, we found ourselves standing in front of a delightfully named restaurant, Cream Centre. A well-known spot in Mumbai, it was bustling with people, as is the case with most places in India. We were there with our beloved Auntie Chandra, a longtime resident of the city, ready to experience the legendary chole bhature for which Cream Centre was famous. As we savoured the flavourful chickpea dish, a special treat awaited us.
Though I rarely indulge in sweets, this iconic restaurant offered something too tempting to pass up—a flaming brownie. This indulgent dessert featured a rich brownie served on a sizzling cast iron plate, and at the table, it was dramatically doused in warm chocolate sauce. The moment was worthy of an Instagram post, as the chocolate bubbled and flowed over the hot plate, sending up swirls of steam. Needless to say, it was a decadent experience, the rich flavours dancing on the taste buds. We left the restaurant full, happy, and thoroughly satisfied. As we left the restaurant, another unexpected experience awaited us. The sidewalk was dotted with beggars, and a small, disheveled child approached me. She wore a brightly coloured traditional dress, its fabric faded and worn from time. Her eyes, sad and imploring, met mine, and a wave of guilt washed over me—I was full from an indulgent meal, and she was likely starving. Feeling it was my duty to help, I placed some money in her tiny outstretched hand.
Just as we prepared to leave, another child appeared, similarly dressed and eager for aid. I reached into my wallet again, offering another donation. Then I noticed a line forming—about 10 children, each with expectant eyes and outstretched hands, waiting for their turn. I placed money in each hand, one by one, before getting into the car to continue our exploration of the city. Later, I learned the shocking truth. Most of the beggars I had encountered were not simply individuals down on their luck, but part of a well-organised syndicate, overseen by wealthy bosses who ran it like a business. The “beggars” were employees, receiving a salary like any other worker.
I was stunned by the depth of deception, realising the entire scene I had witnessed was an orchestrated performance—worthy of an Oscar, no less. In my naivety, it was hard to grasp such manipulation. Having never imagined doing something like that myself, I found it difficult to conceive that others could. But what does one do when faced with such a situation? In the end, I suppose it’s best to follow one’s own conscience. Whatever the reality, I believe that Modimo, the divine, sees the purity of your intention
