May 9th, 2024 – Thursday 

When I arrive in Mumbai, tired from a thirteen-hour flight and desperately hungry, the first thing I notice is an advertisement for Scotch whisky. It’s ironic – I laugh to myself, having come to India from Scotland – to be greeted in this manner. 

The second thing I notice is the heat. 

Mumbai is hot, swelteringly so, and the moment I leave the airport my shirt sticks to my skin, and I can feel my hair plastered on the back of my neck. After several months of rain and sea breeze, I’m unaccustomed to the humid heat: it’s startling, and I pause just outside the gate to catch my breath. Just moments later, I spot my chinna thatha – or granduncle, in English – who has come to pick me up. He waves to me, and we walk to his car together and soon set off through the bustling city streets. 

As he drives, my chinna thatha, who I soon end up calling Asok Uncle, tells me about the history of Mumbai. Originally made up of the seven islands of Bombay, the land was given to the Portuguese Empire in 1535. It was used as a Portuguese harbour for just over a century until it changed hands again when Catherine Braganza, a Portuguese princess, married King Charles II of England in 1661. In the 18th century, the islands were reshaped; the water bodies between them, part of the Arabian Sea, were filled in; alongside the construction of roads and railways, this project greatly changed the infrastructure of Mumbai. The city became a primary seaport for the British through the 19th century. In 1960, following the Indian independence movement, it was renamed Mumbai and made the capital of the state of Maharashtra. 

I listen to the story quietly, watching rows of palm trees line the sidewalk. Despite having family here, everything seems strikingly foreign to me at first: the languages, the surroundings – even the driving, which seems to be more of a game of Tetris than actual driving. But as we continue our drive into the city, I start to notice some familiar things. Bits of Tamil, my mother tongue, spoken on the streets. The food stalls advertising panipuri, one of my favourite chaat dishes. The colorful kurtas remind me of my own. And perhaps the most interesting similarity – the area we drive through is called Santa Cruz, a remnant of Portuguese rule. When I see the road sign, it brings up fond memories of my own Santa Cruz, all the way around the globe in California. 

Soon, we enter the west-coast region of Bandra, where Asok Uncle and his wife, my periyattai, lives in. Home to many celebrities, parts of Bandra are like Beverly Hills. Asok Uncle drops me off at a tall building, surrounded by trees waving lazily in the wind, and leaves to park the car; a doorman leads me to their apartment a few floors up. Eager to escape the heat, I head inside, where I am greeted by my periyattai, or grandaunt, Revati Auntie. I have not seen her in several years, but her curly hair reminds me of my own grandmother, her elder sister, who passed away when I was a child. I quickly grow to love Revathi Auntie; she’s funny and smart - and seems happy when I tell her I want to eat as much South Indian food as possible during my stay. 

Dropping my bags off in the guest room, I shower quickly. India is perhaps the only place in the world I am happy to have a cold shower – you feel hot the minute you step out from the water! I then go out to the dining room; it’s still morning, and Asok Uncle and Revathi Auntie are eating breakfast. I join them; their cook, a lovely woman who tells me to call her Priya didi, makes me some dosa and sambar. It’s great to spend some time talking with Asok Uncle and Revathi Auntie; I tell them about university and listen to stories of their travels. Within the hour, though, I feel oppressively sleepy. I can usually fight through jetlag, but this time around it’s a losing battle: I collapse into bed, and spend the next four hours dead to the world. I wake up only briefly to eat some lunch and spend some time with Revathi Auntie. The conversation shifts to my research, and I confess that it’s been difficult finding people to speak with in India. People are less responsive to my texts and emails, and I’ve been struggling to get people I’ve contacted to commit to a time and date. Revathi Auntie, however, turns out to be my saviour: after spending years working with NGOs on gender issues, she has several contacts across the city, and soon puts me in touch with a member of the Humsafar Trust, Mumbai’s largest LGBTQ+ activist group. We message him – but then, to some embarrassment, I fall back asleep. Jetlag, thou art horrific. 

Once again, I wake up a few hours later. I am determined not to sleep again, and Revathi Auntie is as well. She teases me for my apparent inability to keep my eyes open – but this time I’m awake for good. We have dinner together in the living room, which I love at first sight – the windows are bright and clear, plants line every corner of the room, and there is soft piano in the background. Although both Asok Uncle and Revathi Auntie retire to their rooms shortly after I wake up, as they have early morning starts, I sit in the living room for another several minutes, listening to the birds chirping outside. 

The evening is a quiet blur of work; I finish a research training course, send some emails out for my project, and follow up with some more contacts. I’m trying to stay awake until my appa – father – arrives; he’s on his way over from California, but his flight lands after midnight. The timing is perfect, though. Just as I finish my last piece of work, I get a text from him and run to open the door. After he showers, and I wind down with my book, we talk for awhile – about my day, the movies he watched on the plane, the coming week. He’s understandably tired after the flight, but it’s evening in Scotland time, and I’m wide awake after my day of sleep! It’s easy to fall back asleep, though, with the hum of noise outside and the tap-tap-tap of the air conditioning, and I soon do.