On weekend mornings, the maidan reverberated with the cries of children. The soft thud of cleats banging against football, the sharp crack of a leather ball hitting bat or wicket, and the booming voices of a herd of elderly uncles on their daily constitutional. At 9 am, the sunshine would momentarily blind as I stepped out of the building, drawing perspiration almost immediately as the humidity of the coastal city coalesced around me. I ambled along the boundaries of Cooperage football ground, feasting my eyes on the wilting green grass and trees, slowly making my way to the sandwich-wallah at Nariman Point, the only breakfast option open on weekends within my budget. 4 slices of white bread (no organic or whole-wheat!), Amul butter slapped on one slice, and mixed fruit jam on the other, the whole deftly wrapped up in a neat paper packet, to go! A cup of tea from the chai-wallah a few meters away completed this humble breakfast.
It was 1999. The world was on the cusp of a new millennium and I was poised at the edge of a new career. Like thousands of other single women (and men), a paying guest in what had clearly been the servant’s quarters of a large apartment. My home was a narrow dwelling of approximately 12 ft by 6 ft, containing a fan, a couple of naked bulbs, a narrow bed, and best of all, an attached bathroom (which also had the only window!) For these luxuries, I shelled out the princely sum of Rs 6,500 every…
