Beautiful and brutal: Mumbai through the lens of an American journalist

When I arrived in Mumbai in 2008, the first photo I took was of the curve of the sea along the city, kite birds swooping in a sepia sky. The second was of Marine Drive lit up like a string of pearls. I’d immediately bought into the city’s dreaminess. I even hoped to work in Bollywood then. Instead, I joined a startup magazine and scribbled Hindi film dialogues in my notebooks at night.

Soon after I arrived in Mumbai, I met Maya, who told me long stories about her marriage. She told me how she’d eloped with her husband Veer against her parent’s wishes, even swallowing pills when her father had tried to prevent it. They’d wed in Jaipur, switching hotels in the dark of night. She always fasted for him during the festival on the fourth day after the full moon. Veer told me she would always be “the most perfect”. This is what I wanted to write about.

I got to know other couples, too. Among them was Shahzad, who was sterile and went to a black magic priest to solve his problem, and his wife Sabeena, who tried to settle his mind and heart. And I met Ashok, who went on magical dates – dancing salsa, gifting fresh marigolds – but never kissed a girl for fear they’d have to marry. Later, he would find Parvati, who shared the same worries.