Vertical Limit

You lose your city if you refuse to venture into the unfamiliar to find the familiar

- Shabnam Minwalla

IT was an early morning in May. My eldest daughter, who attends university in a mid-sized American city, had just come back for the summer. As soon as she emerged with a trolley full of dirty clothes and a head full of plans, I herded her to the car.

Home was still a drive away, all the way at the southern tip of my long and narrow city.

It was early enough that the Western Express Highway had not yet become an enormous parking lot. We drove past shops selling slabs of marble and buildings selling highway views. Then we soared above the brown-blue waters of the Arabian Sea, past the 424 cables of the Sea Link that brought us to the once-island of Worli.

This was a route that Aaliya had taken hundreds of times, as familiar as the songs on her walk-to-class playlist or the veins on her hand.

But then we did something unfamiliar. While she had been away, South Mumbai had acquired a new road—one that swooped over old shrines and juice centres, hugged the sea and then dipped into a long tunnel. So instead of driving past Haji Ali Juice Centre (where I have always planned to stop for a Sitafal Cream or a Kesar Royal Milkshake), Pedder Road (where traffic must have built up) and Pravin Bhai Darji (from whom I needed to pick up a couple of blouses), we turned onto the Coastal Road.

We flew along the controversial land that had risen from the sea—rushing past groves of samudraphals, vast construction sites lined with tetrapods, and old buildings seen from new angles. Then we ventured beneath the surface of things and, a few minutes later, we emerged onto Marine Drive. At this rate, I would get two washing machine loads done before lunchtime.

I turned to Aaliya with glee. “Can you imagine?” I asked. “We’re almost home.”