Postcard From... Mumbai

I am a dancer, swirling through tight alleyways and turning sharp corners. My skin is caked in sweat and dust, my hair is damp and whispy, but I have not a care for how I look or smell or dress. The streets lead and my feet follow. One two three, one two three.

I am a dancer, waltzing through corridors of soap manufacturers and tobacco sellers and women making roti in the oven of Mumbai’s summer fog. Before, I was afraid of coming to this place; fearful that I would be caught statuesque in an ocean of hungry bellies and stray dogs. Instead, I am dancing. I am lifted by the prosperity on the streets.

I am a dancer, and I am spinning. Not with abandon, but with grace. I am absorbed by the city smog and steeped gently in its humidifying embrace as I spin, faster and faster. I swirl through rainbows of silks and cottons that blow gently in the breeze. Wooden pegs clack as they collide against the crumbly floor.

I am a dancer, and laughter spills like honey from my lips. The dance is as intoxicatingly sweet as it is finite. The curtain drop is imminent. Magic drains with each step that takes me further from the centre of the city web.

I am a dancer, and for my final encore I am joined by a chorus of four smiling friends. We twirl delicately around one another. Slowly. Gently. The dance decrescendos.

I am a dancer, but I am not dancing anymore. My feet are motionless, but my soul is not. I am satiated, full of euphoria.

I am a dancer, and Mumbai is the music.