My grandma in bed, in paralytic unhappiness.

My mother unable to leave her unattended.

The kind and affectionate servant who would take me

To the nearby beach, to play in sand, tell me

About the gods, my people and her family.

The next-door Lonkars, who taught me

To follow rules by keeping footwear outside their door.

Or the Hoskots, who kept me curious;

Their kitchen didn’t smell of fish and coconut oil.

Or the Iyers, who had six children,

One severely disabled, who we respectfully called “Dada”.

Or the maali’s family,

Who lived in a single room under the stairway,

Who cared for the building,

Who were cared for by the tenants.

I played lagori, hututu and skipped on a naked road.

No cars were parked, none could afford them then.

I didn’t know who was Sequeira, who Levi, Shah or Sheikh.

Now I know.

That time our parents didn’t care much about

Who ate what or spoke which tongue.

If one grazed a knee, the closest adult

Gave a biscuit, patted the bottom and sent one off.

That Bombay has long gone.