Moving to Bombay, the literary edition - by Soumya Anand
A newcomer to Mumbai uses books as literal swimming lessons—reading Maximum City, Milk Teeth, and Bombay Balchao to transform from tourist to resident, living the literature by visiting Sassoon dock at dusk and seeking Irani cafes, all while hoping the city accepts her starry-eyed naivety.
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TLDR
• Uses the extended metaphor of learning to swim to describe moving to Mumbai—dipping toes, gauging depth, hoping not to drown
• Reads city literature as preparation: Maximum City for history, Milk Teeth for architecture, Bombay Meri Jaan for lived experience, Bombay Balchao for food culture
• Lives the books—walks to Sassoon dock after reading Pico Iyer's essay, seeks Irani cafes mentioned in novels, becomes her own Wikipedia on Mumbai history
• Acknowledges the romantic idealization ("my mind is already made up") but leans into literary knowledge as a way to earn belonging
• The vulnerability: hoping Mumbai accepts her naivety while she scrambles to finish the pile of books that might teach her how to belong
In Detail
The essay frames moving to Mumbai as learning to swim—the author visits twice before relocating, first as a tourist hitting the checklist (Gateway, Marine Drive, Prithvi), then attempting to "live" the city through activities. But something's missing: she doesn't know how to swim yet. Her solution is distinctly literary: read her way into belonging.
She uses specific books as guides to different aspects of the city. Maximum City becomes her encyclopedia for understanding Mumbai Police history and Kamathipura's rise and fall. Milk Teeth kindles appreciation for art deco architecture, turning her into a flaneuse who walks looking up at Indo-Saracenic and neo-Gothic buildings. When she reads Pico Iyer's essay in Bombay Meri Jaan about Sassoon dock at dawn, she immediately walks there at dusk—not finishing the essay but living it. Jane Borges' Bombay Balchao makes her crave prawn balchao and wonder if frequenting a Goan restaurant with her newfound knowledge of Bombay Catholic history might make the chefs think of her when they make their pickle.
The piece is self-aware about its own naivety—she admits her romantic lens "only grows crimson by the day" and that her tourist visit was "a farce" because she'd already decided. But she argues this starry-eyed quality, usually "not an enviable trait in an unapologetic Mumbai," is what makes her lean on words to fight the unfamiliar. The essay ends with hope: that Mumbai accepts her even as she scrambles to learn to swim its waters and finish the pile of books on her shelf. It's about whether literary preparation can earn you belonging, and the specific vulnerability of being new.