Chapter 30: December

December in Mumbai is not winter. December in Mumbai is: the city's exhale. The months of monsoon and heat and Navratri and Diwali have passed, and what remains is: a gentleness. The temperature drops to twenty-three degrees, which Mumbaikars treat as: arctic, pulling out sweaters and shawls and the one jacket that every Mumbaikar owns and wears for exactly six weeks before it returns to the back of the cupboard where it lives for the remaining: forty-six weeks.

I've been in Mumbai for eleven months.

Eleven months since the salwar kameez and the auto-rickshaw and the building with the name that wasn't mine on the mailbox. Eleven months since the first Zumba class and the first vada pav and the first time Vandana said "it will be fine" and I believed her because believing was: easier than thinking.

The apartment mailbox now has: my name. Madhuri Srivastava. 4B. The name in the building's register. The name on the electricity bill, the gas bill, the Swiggy account, the Amazon account, the gym membership, the LinkedIn profile that Zoya set up for me ("You need a digital presence, didi — you're a Gold Abby winner, you can't be: invisible"). The name that is: mine. Not Mrs. Harsh Khanna. Not "Harsh ki wife." Madhuri Srivastava.

The morning routine has become: a routine. Not the deadening routine of Lucknow (wake, chai, household, theek hai, repeat) but the routine of: a life chosen. Five-thirty: wake. Not to an alarm — to the light that enters through the sea-sliver window, the light that is different every morning because the sea is different every morning and the light that the sea reflects is: the sea's mood, and the sea's mood is: varied, like a person's, like mine.

Six: yoga. Not at Seaside (too early for Sunaina) — at home. The practice that Sunaina taught me and that I now do: alone. In my living room, on the mat that Sunaina gave me after three months ("You're ready to practise without me. This mat is: your teacher now"). Sun salutations facing the window. The sea-sliver catching the first light. My body moving through poses that my body now: knows, the way my body knows how to make chai — not from thinking but from: repetition that has become instinct.

Six-forty-five: chai. Cardamom crushed. Ginger sliced. One cup. The correct amount of water. The correct amount of milk. The chai that is: mine.

Seven: the walk. Not Marine Drive (that's Chetan's; I don't intrude on his morning conversation with Meera). Carter Road. The walk that I do alone, with music (a playlist that Aditi curated called "Mar Didi's Morning Energy" which contains: film songs from the '90s that I grew up with, mixed with contemporary Hindi indie that I'm: learning to love), the walk that takes thirty minutes and that produces: the thinking that the day requires.

Seven-thirty: shower. Dress. Not the salwar kameez of January (I still own them; I wear them on Sundays, the way you wear comfortable things when comfortable is: the point). The work clothes — kurtas with trousers, the compromise that has become: my style, the style that says: I am Indian and professional and fifty and I dress for: myself.

Eight-fifteen: auto-rickshaw to Lower Parel. The ride that I've memorised — every pothole, every traffic signal, every chai stall that my auto passes and that produces a smell that says: Mumbai is awake.

Eight-forty-five: Spark & Co. The desk. The Saraswati. The monitor. Zoya arriving at nine with cold coffee and complaints about her Bumble matches ("He said his hobby is 'vibing.' That's not a hobby. That's: a state of being. I have: standards").

The routine of a life. My life. The life that I built in eleven months in a city that I moved to because I had: nowhere else to go and that has become: the only place I want to be.

The December project at Spark & Co is: different. Not a client campaign — an internal project. Prerna's idea.

"We're creating a brand film," Prerna says. Monday morning team meeting, the meeting where twenty-two people sit in the glass conference room and pretend to be: alert, while actually being: under-caffeinated and over-Slacked. "Not for a client. For us. For Spark & Co. Our story. Who we are. Why we exist. What we believe."

"What's the budget?" asks Sneha, the account manager, because account managers ask about budgets the way doctors ask about symptoms — reflexively, diagnostically.

"Zero."

"Zero."

"Zero. We're an advertising agency. We can make a brand film with: zero budget and maximum talent. Which we have." She looks at me. "Mar, I want you to write it."

"The Spark & Co brand film."

"The Spark & Co brand film. Our manifesto. On screen."

I write it. Not at the office — at home, on a Sunday, with chai, the way all good writing happens: in solitude, with caffeine, without the pressure of: a deadline (the deadline is next Friday; I ignore it because deadlines are: imaginary, and good writing happens when the writing is: ready, not when the calendar says it should be).

The manifesto:

We started because we got tired of asking permission to have ideas.

Two women. One office. Zero clients. A belief that the best advertising doesn't sell — it sees. It sees the woman making chai for one. The photographer hiding masterpieces. The mother who dances at Navratri. The son who cooks for his mother on Diwali.

We believe that every brand is a person. And every person deserves to be: seen.

Not targeted. Not segmented. Not reduced to a demographic. Seen.

We are Spark & Co. We make the work that makes people say: that's me.

That's always been the point. Not awareness. Not reach. Not ROI.

Recognition.

The moment someone sees your ad and says: they know me. They see me. They understand.

That's the spark.

I send it to Prerna. Prerna reads it. Prerna calls me.

"You've put our friends in the manifesto."

"I've put truth in the manifesto. Our friends happen to be: true."

"The woman making chai for one."

"Me."

"The photographer hiding masterpieces."

"Jai."

"The mother who dances at Navratri."

"Kamini."

"The son who cooks."

"Karan."

Silence. The Prerna-silence — rare, significant, the silence of a woman who speaks for a living and who is rendered: speechless by good writing, which is: the highest compliment a writer can receive.

"Keep it," she says. "Every word."

The year ends. The year that began with: a divorce, a flat, a gym, a salwar kameez. The year that produced: a community, a career, a relationship, a gold Abby, a son who cooks, a man who pours chai into the sea, a photographer who said yes, a blogger who said yes, a mother who danced, a friend who cried, a pool at midnight, a monsoon that trapped us, a changing room that held us, a lobby that became a gallery that became a dance floor that became: home.

On the thirty-first of December, we gather. Not at the gym — at my apartment. The apartment that was too small for a party but that has become: exactly the right size for the people I love.

They come. Vandana in sequins ("It's New Year's Eve, Mar — sequins are: mandatory"). Jaya in black with silver ("I'm consistent"). Cheryl in Doug's Hawaiian shirt over a dress ("Doug loved New Year's. He'd count down from thirty instead of ten because 'ten seconds isn't enough to say goodbye to a year'"). Aditi in gold ("Same outfit as the Abbys because: it's my lucky outfit"). Sunaina in white ("Consistency is: my practice"). Jai in his black shirt and dark jeans ("I don't have other clothes"). Nikhil in a blazer ("I dress for occasions because occasions deserve: effort").

And Chetan. Chetan in a white kurta — the same kurta from the Abbys, because Chetan is: a man of rituals, and the rituals include: wearing the same clothes to important events because the clothes become: part of the memory, and the memory is: what matters, not the fashion.

Karan is not here — he's in Pune with friends, which is: correct. Twenty-four-year-olds spend New Year's Eve with friends, not mothers. He called at six. "Happy New Year, Ma. I'm proud of you. Say that to yourself from me."

The apartment is: warm. Not from heating (Mumbai doesn't need heating in December; Mumbai needs heating in never) — from people. Nine people in a small apartment produce: warmth. The thermodynamic warmth of bodies in proximity and the emotional warmth of people who have chosen to spend the last hours of the year with: each other.

I've cooked. Not alone — Cheryl helped (her contribution: a salad that she calls "the American contribution to Indian hospitality, which is: the only contribution we're qualified to make"). Vandana helped ("I don't cook. I supervise. Supervision is: a form of cooking"). Jaya brought wine ("from the same place Nikhil took you — The Grape Escape, which is: overpriced but worth it, because good wine on New Year's Eve is: not a luxury but a necessity").

The food: biryani (my version, learned in eleven months of Mumbai living, the Lucknow girl's attempt at Mumbai biryani which is: neither Lucknow nor Mumbai but somewhere in between, the in-between that I am). Paneer tikka. Dal makhani. Naan from the tandoor at the corner restaurant because making naan in an apartment kitchen is: insanity. And: chai. Always chai.

We eat on the floor. Not because the apartment lacks chairs (it has: four chairs, which is insufficient for nine people) but because eating on the floor is: what we do. The floor-sitting of Indian hospitality, the sitting that says: formality is for strangers, and we are not: strangers.

At eleven-fifty, we move to the window. The five windows that face the sea. The sea-sliver that is, tonight, not a sliver but: a mirror. The sea reflecting the city's lights — the lights of a Mumbai that is counting down, the lights of apartments and buildings and cars and the string lights that every balcony in Bandra has hung for the occasion.

"Ten," Vandana starts.

"Thirty," Cheryl corrects. "We count from thirty. Doug's rules."

"Doug's not —"

"Doug's rules transcend: his physical presence. Thirty."

We count from thirty. Thirty seconds of countdown — thirty seconds of a year ending, a year that was: the hardest and best year of my life, the year where I lost: everything I thought I was and gained: everything I actually am.

"Three. Two. One."

"Happy New Year."

The cheering. The hugging. The particular chaos of nine people in a small apartment trying to hug each other simultaneously, the geometry of nine-person hugging being: impossible and therefore: perfect.

Chetan finds me in the chaos. His arms around me. His mouth near my ear.

"Happy New Year, Madhuri."

"Happy New Year, Chetan."

"This was a good year."

"This was: the year."

"What's next year?"

"Next year is: next year. I don't plan years anymore. I plan: mornings."

He kisses me. At midnight. In my apartment. With seven friends cheering and the sea reflecting Mumbai's lights and the year turning from old to new and the world continuing its rotation and the chai cooling on the counter and the biryani half-eaten and the Saraswati gleaming on the shelf and the baby shoes on the wall and the life that I built — from wreckage, from salwar kameez, from vada pav and Zumba and a woman named Vandana who said "it will be fine" — the life that is: mine.

Mine.