The Hardest Thing About Living in Mumbai

I admitted recently, in a comment on my post about my bad Indian habits, that I’ve developed a rather rude habit of often pretending that I’m not at home when people turn up unannounced. I don’t answer the door. It’s definitely not something I’m proud of, but it’s something that I’ve had to do to save my sanity.

Without a doubt, the lack of privacy in Mumbai and India in general, has been the biggest challenge for me.

I feel that I’ve adapted well enough to most other things.

I eat whatever Indians eat (and can eat with my hands while sitting on the floor), drink plain water, cook Indian food, have given up toilet paper, take the train and auto rickshaws to get around, know how to drape a sari, and live in a small one bedroom apartment that’s a quarter of the size of my house in Australia. I washed clothes by hand, using a bucket and brush, for two years. I also managed to survive last year’s nine month water shortage, where water only came for a couple of hours three times a day and there was never any water to flush the toilet.

I remember when I first moved to Mumbai and was completely overwhelmed with my new surroundings, all I wanted was a sanctuary that I could retreat to and forget about what was outside. Usually, such a place would be my home. There certainly aren’t many other options in this extremely crowded city.

The fact that I couldn’t get any solitude even in my home reduced me to tears of frustration on many occasions.

The landlord turned up unannounced to collect his mail. The boys from the apartment complex wanted me to retrieve their cricket balls from the balcony. The girls wanted me to retrieve their shuttle cocks. The internet and cable TV providers wanted payment (no bills in the mail here, they come and collect the money personally). The kachra walla (sweeper/garbage guy) wanted access to the balcony, to clean up the garbage that the people from the apartments above constantly threw onto it.

Then the worst thing of all, the Aunties who came to inspect the apartment and satisfy their curiosity about me. Without fail, they would head straight to the kitchen and look through my cupboards and refrigerator to see what food was there. (Indians have trouble believing that an educated white girl can cook and take care of a home). Nothing was off limits to them, including the bedroom.

I couldn’t relax. I felt like I had to be properly dressed and ready to receive whoever came a knocking at any time. I felt like I had no privacy at all. It was made worse because I come from a very small family, with no brothers and sisters, who live in the country. I’ve been used to having a lot of privacy and personal space.

The only way to deal with it was to stop answering the door.

Fortunately, I’m more settled and a lot better at handling all this now. In a way, it’s even been good for me. I’ve learned to become more open, more flexible, and less caring about what people think of me. However, there are days when I still need solitude. Those are the days that the door doesn’t get opened.

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Tagged as: adjusting to India, challenges in India