It has been roughly nine years since we landed in the city of dreams - the two of us with a one big suitcase each and one kid half-the size of a case. We walked into an empty apartment on the twelfth floor of a building on a hot June afternoon, physically exhausted, yet high in spirits (Age had not withered us then). Strangely, I seem to remember how the first day in Mumbai unfolded with a lot of detail - insignificant things like the first dress I wore in Mumbai, first road-side sandwich , the first shopping experience in the very Mumbai-sh "DMart", the first person I heard speaking in Tamil in a rather foreign place, the first maid I employed(who promptly quit on me), and of course, the first meal that we ordered (in a non-Swiggy era). Jhumpa Lahiri, in her Pulitzer winning collection "Interpreter of Maladies", insinuates through one of her characters, who reminisces about his first day in America with a new wife - about how bizarre it is that the mundane first
Interpreting Reminiscent Bytes...