The reality of any time spent abroad is that not every day is a good one, no matter how much you might plan for it to be. The day was supposed to be simple: wake up early, catch my noon flight to Mumbai, and make it home by mid-afternoon, leaving me plenty of time to reacquaint myself with the twists and turns of Bandra. For weeks, I’ve been eagerly awaiting my return to Mumbai, the city I so fell in love with last year. The hidden backroads and tucked-away restaurants, the vibrancy of Colaba and the shaded paths of Waroda Road, Subko Cafe and Title Waves bookshop and Pali Hill; I keep them like snapshots, colourful and clear, waiting for me.  

I wake up Monday morning, though, not to any delightful thoughts of the journey ahead, but to waves of nausea that roll from my forehead through my spine. I gingerly place my feet on the floor, grateful for the cool stone against my feet, but within a few moments of standing up I need to sit back down again. I am by no means a stranger to discomfort: years of chronic pain and nausea have ensured I can work through a significant level of uncomfortableness, but it’s clear this morning that my body has well and truly given out on me. The cause isn’t immediately clear – it could be the same patterns of nausea and dizziness I experience regularly, although it feels a bit early for that to be starting. For a tongue-biting moment, I fear I’ve caught a stomach bug which might leave me stuck and sick for days, but no – it doesn’t quite feel like that. Unfortunately, in this minute, feeling is all I can trust. 

Slowly, breathing deeply, I brush my teeth and change into the most comfortable clothes I can find, pulling my jeans on one leg at a time. My suitcase is packed and ready, waiting by the door, and I hear paati calling me out to breakfast, but even the thought of food is enough to send my body into spirals. Poking my head out the door, I start to explain the situation, but my distress must be painted all over my face: before I can finish a sentence, paati bites her lips in concern and tells me to go lie back down. I check my watch quickly - we only need to leave for the airport in another half an hour. Within seconds of tipping my head back, I’m asleep. 

Ravi Mama Thatha shakes me awake gently at half past nine; it’s time to leave, and for me to say my goodbyes. With a passing hug around the room and exchanged farewells, I shoulder my backpack and traipse downstairs, trying all the while not to fall over my own feet. The sleep has helped, but not enough – I still feel strangely lightheaded and furiously nauseous, as if someone’s untethered my skull but chained my stomach to the concrete floor. My amma, who I immediately texted when I woke up feeling sick (some things never change), offers to move my flight back a few days, but I’m starting in-person work in Mumbai tomorrow. It’ll be fine, I tell myself, choking back some water and shutting my eyes the moment I’m in the car. Thirty more minutes of sleep during the drive, and I’ll be fine. 

As the day quickly reveals to me, thirty minutes is far from enough. After having spent the last several days struggling to fall asleep, usually watching the early rays of sun inch through the window, sleep demands me. I doze off in the car, waiting for my gate (thankfully, I set an alarm), waiting for the flight to take off, and in the air – anytime I seem to sit for more than five minutes, my ear hits my shoulders and I’m dead to the world. I’ve never quite understood the phrase out like a light before – sleep has always been a challenge for me – but I can think of no better way to describe it. One moment, here; the next, gone. 

Despite the continuing unsettledness in my stomach and the stabbing pain through my forehead, I still feel an overwhelming sense of joy when I step out of the plane into the monsoon-drenched roads of Mumbai. As soon as I exit the airport, I see Revathi Auntie waiting for me with a familiar smile and arms already open, and I am reminded once again how much of research is always about family. A year ago, we were entirely strangers, and now so intensely I look forward to seeing her. My dad’s aunt, or chitthi, Revathi Auntie is in her sixties, with a shock of white curls, two curling flower tattoos around her biceps, and eyes that dance when she speaks. She and her husband, Asok Uncle, hosted me during my trip last year conducting interviews in Mumbai – it was the first time we had met, and they quickly became two of my favourite people. We head off to the car, chattering a mile a minute. 

The drive is blissfully quick, and it’s not long before we arrive in Bandra. A coastal suburb of the city, Bandra is home to hilly streets lined with fruit sellers, chemists, and the occasional backdoor liquor store – but more famously, it’s also the residence of several Bollywood celebrities. It’s also, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful parts of the city: lush and green and constantly alight with buzz and life. Normally, I love to stare out the window and map the vine-heavy trees, or try and memorise each painted window pattern, or even listen in to someone bargaining with their auto driver - but I’m unfortunately still feeling quite ill, and I press my head forward into my trusted travel partner Appu. It dawns on me now, as I write, that I have not told you who Appu is, and for that I am grievously sorry, for knowing me must in a very fundamental sense include knowing Appu. A large grey elephant, with pink heart ears and warm silver eyes, Appu has been my companion for seventeen years now. He gives the perfect hugs – or perhaps he’s just moulded into my body from years of affection – and he is my bit of home that I always have with me. I am grateful now to wrap my arms around him, closing my eyes until Revathi Auntie ushers me out of the car. 

A familiar breeze hits my face as I open the door, and I pause for a moment, one foot over the threshold. Asok Uncle is sitting in the living room, book half-open in his hands, and I wave hello to him as I unlace my shoes. He’s just about to head out with his friend for drinks, I learn, but he promises to return soon. Honestly, though, I am not much company at the moment; as soon as I’ve showered and sat down on the couch, I feel my eyes growing heavy again. Days of building exhaustion, combined with heat, stress, and now a day without eating, has taken a toll, and the only solution I have is rest. So, after taking a second dosage of my nausea medicine (I will truly never get used to the taste of Zofran), I curl up into the couch, face tucked towards the window. I often feel guilty about sleeping, especially during the day and especially when I have work – I feel as if it’s hours wasted. I could be working on my project setup, or reading a new book, or talking to friends. But I’m reminded today, in a sincerely uncomfortable manner, that I cannot keep treating sleep as secondarily important. So, as much as I’m itching to head out and greet, once again, the poetic streets of Mumbai, I abstain. For now, shut eyes, deep breaths. Count some sheep, or count the seconds until I fall asleep – one, two, three.