Ten years ago I lived in Mumbai, a name still newly minted for a city I shall always cherish by its Portuguese sobriquet. I lived in Mahim, close to the eponymous creek where the many mouths of the sea osculated with the many rectums of the land. My sparsely furnished rented apartment was equidistant from the pealing bells of Sitladevi temple, St Michael's Church -- ever-brimful of prayer, and the Dargah of Baba Makhdoom Ali Mahimi, which came into its own during the annual Urs. It was only the pull of faith that redeemed Mahim from being just another of Mumbai's teeming trash bins. Any way that wretched sea breeze blew, it swept blessings into your face.
I shared my tenement with a colleague, a Delhi-bred Tamil Brahmin whose staunch vegetarianism Bombay's gastronomic temptations in flesh and gristle had not succeeded in quelling. Our mostly Muslim neighbors assumed that I too was of similar dietary disposition. Ergo, I was offered nothing but smiles and adaabs on Eid.
Except early oneRead More »from When Eid got my goat