Mumbai Rains, A Flumberer, and A Milk Van

If you have ever lived in Mumbai, you know Mumbai rains do not play around. They are either completely non-existent or they arrive with the full intention of making sure you are waist deep in water at least once during the season. No in between. No warning. Just chaos.

During those 3 to 4 days when 90% of Mumbai lives submerged, every soul collects a story they will carry for a lifetime. A loved one stranded at the office. A new car parked on the only dry patch of road within a 5 kilometre radius. A crying baby and zero electricity. You know the kind.

I too have one of those stories. And before I tell it, let me be upfront about something. My struggle that day lasted a grand total of 1 or 1.5 hrs. Compared to what some people go through during Mumbai rains, mine is basically a light inconvenience wrapped in drama. But it is a story I want to share, and you will understand why only at the end. So keep reading. This is what I call building suspense. 😄

A crucial detail before we begin: I have been travelling Mumbai Locals from Virar to Churchgate for more than two decades. Western line locals were, at one point, practically a second home to me. Navigating waterlogged roads, overcrowded compartments, and Mumbai traffic is not something that scares me. I say this so you understand that what follows is not the story of someone who panicked. It is the story of someone who was far too confident for her own good.

Part 1: Priyanka's POV

That day started like any other monsoon day in Mumbai. The usual drill. Pull your pants up from the bottom, dodge the water puddles, navigate the potholes cleverly disguised as roads, fight your way into the ladies compartment, and reach your destination with your dignity mostly intact.

It was a working day and I was buried in work the entire time. I did not notice that outside, Mumbai rains had quietly decided to stop playing and start performing.

By evening, people had begun receiving calls from home. "Leave now. Before the locals shut down."

I received similar calls from my husband and responded the way I always do in situations that require urgency…….

“Jab hoga tab dekha jayega” - This particular trait of mine, the one where I do not start swimming until the water has reached nose level, was about to backfire spectacularly.

I told him not to worry and that I would reach home safely from Lower Parel to Virar. Simple.

I left the office at my usual time, boarded the ladies slow local, and started reading a book. Unbothered. Completely unbothered. I did not register that the train was running late until I stepped out at Virar Station and reality introduced itself without an appointment.

Outside the station, the rickshaws had vanished. Gone. Disappeared the same way I used to disappear as a child when my mom asked for help with household chores. Knee length water had already logged the streets and the clouds had absolutely no intention of wrapping up.

To add to this, I was without an umbrella or a raincoat that day. It was the tail end of monsoon season and I had decided to try my luck. What this episode taught me is that luck does not necessarily favor the brave at all times. 😛

My husband kept insisting he was coming to pick me up. I kept telling him, firmly and repeatedly, that he should stay home. I was confident I could handle it. The independent, self-sufficient Priyanka had woken up and she was not about to wait for anyone to rescue her. We went back and forth like this for a bit, one lion meeting a slightly larger lion, until I finally told him my phone was about to die, I was putting it in my bag, and he should not bother calling because I would not pick up.

After about fifteen minutes of strategic thinking about how to get home without ruining my laptop and bag contents (I was not worried about myself getting drenched, only about the electronics, which I feel says a lot about my priorities), I managed to hitch a ride in a shared rickshaw that dropped me halfway home.

And this is where the story gets interesting.

Somewhere between the shared rickshaw and the last stretch home, it hit me. I am not 21 one anymore. A 20-something Priyanka would have waded through waist high water of questionable origin without a second thought. But older, slightly wiser Priyanka had a very clear picture in her head of exactly what that water contained and wanted absolutely no part of it.

The last stretch home was pitch dark because of course the electricity department is always the first to respond when rains get serious, and there were only a few brave souls making their way through the street. I managed to share an umbrella with a stranger to protect my bag and finally, finally, reached my building.

I heaved the sigh of a woman who had survived. Bhanu must be waiting downstairs. Hot bath. Cup of tea. Bed. That was the plan.

But fate, as usual, had other ideas.

I reached the building and realised something.

Bhanu was not there!

Part 2: Bhanu's POV

While I was out there negotiating puddles and shared umbrellas, and after the last call where I had very clearly and very firmly told him not to come looking for me, my husband had hailed a lift from a passing milk van and done exactly what I told him not to do.

He had jumped onto the back of a mini van and headed to the station to find me. When he did not find me at my last known location, he turned around and headed back toward home, figuring that knowing me, I had probably already made my way through and was somewhere close.

Part 3: Meanwhile, back at the building…

I had gone upstairs and was standing at the window, staring into the dark waterlogged street, scared out of my mind about whether my husband was alright out there.

Here is the thing. We were only two years into marriage at that point and I was still learning how Bhanu operated in a crisis. Fight or flight? I had told him firmly not to come because I was confident I could get home. But in that moment, standing at the window, I realised I had no idea if he was equally capable of navigating what was outside. And that thought was far scarier than any waterlogged road.

Part 4: The Reunion 🌧️❤️

After pacing around for what felt like an unreasonable amount of time, I decided to go back downstairs and look for him. Yes, we were essentially two people running around in a circle looking for each other like headless chickens. Very romantic. Very us.

The moment I opened the door, there he was.

Drenched from head to toe. Holding an umbrella that had clearly been completely useless in those conditions. About to ring the bell.

And just like that, the independent, self-sufficient, I-don't-need-anyone Priyanka dissolved faster than an old iPhone battery on a cold day. The real Priyanka showed up - a clingy, overthinking, madly in love woman who had been quietly waiting behind the independent facade the whole time.

I hugged him and cried for a full five minutes. And through the sobbing, I managed to say, 'Kyun gaye tum bahar jab maine kaha tha mat aana.'

That was my way of saying I love you and I cannot imagine a life without you.

And all Bhanu said was, 'Are! Kya hua!' 😂

Of course he did. 😄

What I want to tell you with this story…

We throw the word love around very casually. I have come to realise that real love is not what you say. It is what you do when it is inconvenient, uncomfortable, and completely uncalled for.

It is jumping on the back of a milk van in knee deep water because your wife told you not to come and something in you simply could not stay home.

Love, in all its forms, gives us a sense of hope that is very difficult to find anywhere else. And I think that is why finding it and treasuring it matters more than we admit.

A note to myself…

I may be unsure of many things in life. But if anyone ever asked me to trade what I have with Bhanu for anything else in the world, my answer would be no. Without hesitation. Without a second thought.

We are not perfect. But we are imperfectly perfect for each other. And on most days, that is more than enough. 🌸

The end he left from on a milk van

The end I arrived from