Going from Other to Local in Mumbai

I was certain my appearance would mask my secret: that I didn’t belong.

I am convinced street vendors can smell fear. It’s a special skill, this ability to sense new nervous energy and within seconds be able to distinguish a foreigner from a local.

Picture my first visit to Pali Market, a popular destination near my apartment in Mumbai. Sprawled out along one long road and winding into offshoot lanes were wooden carts with white plastic coverings, empty red crates stacked below them, still wet from the early morning’s delivery of fresh produce that filled them moments before: plum-purple eggplants stood next to scaly green hides of bitter gourd, with bushels of coriander and fenugreek laid alongside them. Most vendors took pride in their carts, arranging fruits and vegetables in neat, color-coordinated rows or in woven baskets, creating a sense of secrecy by pulling out certain items upon request. Even through a dusty haze, there was an incredible energy, a magic, that hung in the air, a street where everyone was looking for something, from bootleg DVDs to incense, and would usually find it.

But Pali market is mostly known for its steep prices, Bollywood-celebrity sightings, and foreigners, who are often there in search of specialty products like imported cheeses, dried truffles, or Skippy peanut butter. When I first visited, I was fascinated by all the activity happening along this singular street. I held my iPhone, capturing on Instagram vendors announcing what they were selling in loud, singsongy voices and crowds of shoppers expertly negotiating with them. I bargained too, careful to choose a few words, worried they’d realize I wasn’t a local.

“Pyaj kitna hai?”

“Sixty rupees,” the vendor replied.

“Thirty!” I retorted, and a back-and-forth ensued until I succumbed to paying the sixty rupees.

I later realized my negotiations with the vendor must have made my foreignness all the more obvious. Not because bargaining wasn’t the norm (it was), but because no one bargains that hard for onions. Onions are a fixed price, and if you live in India and go to the marketplace, you know this.

I bargained too, careful to choose a few words, worried they’d realize I wasn’t a local.

When I moved to Mumbai, or Bombay, eight years ago, I believed that if I kept my mouth shut so my New Jersey accent didn’t announce itself, no one would realize I wasn’t from India. I’m brown, you see, with distinctive South Asian features: big round eyes, thick dark hair, full lips. I was certain my appearance would mask my secret: that I didn’t belong.

But my daily routine reminded me how painfully obvious my outsider status was and how tough it would be to blend in. It was clear from my thick accent and my bad bargaining skills that while I looked Indian on the outside, I was a foreigner on the inside.

It was even more obvious that I didn’t belong when someone saw my cane and inevitably asked what had happened to me. When I said it was muscular dystrophy, a progressive muscle-wasting disease that necessitated the cane and plenty of care, they questioned why I came to this country from America, their country, this city of broken streets and little consideration for the disabled.

I grew to understand their confusion, but it made me defensive of my place, my space in the city. I stood out in a crowd when I exploded in a fitful rage at people for staring too long when I walked by with my cane on one side and caregiver on the other. I felt their eyes dissecting me, wondering why a relatively young woman had such a hard time walking and considering all the ways I didn’t fit in. Their suspicion of me felt like a warning: Try as you might, you will never belong. I wasn’t sure what they rejected more: my disability or my foreignness.

*

Making friends in your thirties is tricky, but Bombay’s buzzing social scene entertained all my curiosities of potential friendships. In many ways, your social circle dictated your experience of Bombay, the city. It was a marker for how much money you did or didn’t have, suggested your dating life, what parties you got invited to; it was a gateway to tiny new worlds.

I floated between crowds, never quite belonging to any one circle. Most groups of friends knew each other from their school days, so nights passed by with me listening to their inside jokes or stories with no backstory and nodding along. When I felt cool enough to try an “arey, yaar!” instead of a “c’mon, man!” to one group, the American in me showed itself because it didn’t roll off my tongue in the way it was supposed to. My friends didn’t believe me, and neither did I. No one cared much, but the more I tried to shed my American skin, the more obvious it was that I didn’t belong.

My otherness revealed itself when getting up from a chair was a production, becoming a huge source of anxiety for me. Earlier on, I tried to hide my disability, uninterested in making my health a talking point. So I left the cane at home, touching the walls for support as I walked into meetings or bars or someone’s apartment. I searched for a stool or higher seating option, and, if there wasn’t one, I’d plop down in a chair.

No one cared much, but the more I tried to shed my American skin, the more obvious it was that I didn’t belong.

When I drank tequila and laughed till my face hurt, it was so easy to forget I had muscular dystrophy. When it came time to stand up, my reality hit me. I needed lots of support to stand, sometimes needed to be lifted up at the right angle. Wonderful people around me volunteered themselves and friends wanted to assist me, but I despised my dependency, all the hands on my body. I’m privileged to be able to afford full-time care, so as my condition progressed and hiding became too hard, I hired caregivers who helped me move more safely. Still, I hated how openly and slowly my body was betraying me, how I couldn’t float from one corner of the room to the other, how people might have wondered, Did she drink too much tequila?

There were a multitude of people who were part of my everyday life in India. I stuck out like a sore thumb to my carpenter, electrician, plumber, driver, cleaning lady, cook, coconut-water man, newspaper boy, and service repair person. When they somehow sensed my otherness, in my broken Hindi, the price for the product or service I was buying almost always soared. When I later pressed them about it, the price dropped back down, expat tax not included. But it was clear I was different.

*

As the years went on, Bombay became home more than New Jersey was. I had my regular routes with my go-to shops. I took Sunday drives where I discovered a new street and marveled at old bungalows or simply watched the city and its people, my people, from the car. I messaged my doctors and physical therapists on WhatsApp when a medical issue came up, and they were happy to discuss it over the phone or swing by for a session or even just a cup of tea. When I visited New Jersey, I missed this informality and the ease of medical care. I had to once again snap back to a way of living I had unlearned back in Bombay.

In time, I learned to mimic Bombayites and eventually became one in the process. I studied nuances in regional dialects from the people I interacted with and worked on my Hindi. I mirrored movements of the men and women that surrounded me, flicks of the hand from a woman on TV or a traffic cop, the subtle head nod from my vegetable vendor. I was lied to and robbed by close, trusted people. I went through what felt like the rites and rituals of passage of someone building a life in a new city. I graciously accepted home-cooked food from people I barely knew and became comfortable with my duality. I let strangers around the city give me a hand up steps and, in the process, started to accept my body’s way of moving. I stopped trying so hard to fit in. And now I noticed when other people seemed out of place.

On a recent trip to Pali Market, I saw a man standing by my usual vendor’s stall. He wore nude suede sneakers even though it was monsoon season, and he hesitated while pointing at the eggplants and french beans. I could smell his otherness from a distance.

While my heart swelled with pride knowing I’d finally arrived home, seeing the man in the market made me nostalgic for the earlier me, the naive girl who vibrated with innocence and did just about everything to belong. I mourned the loss of those days and the person I once was. Still, I knew I’d rather be this new person, the person who lived two very different lives in one, who, when approaching a stall, vendors greeted with a smile and asked, “Sonali, ma’am, where have you been?”