Mumbai hummed, a constant, shifting melody of horns and hurried feet. In this relentless rhythm, Joseph D’Costa, all of 14 years old, found his own erratic beat. He was a boy built of contradictions: a skinny frame that moved with the promise of future athleticism, and a mind that drifted across half-formed ambitions. Today, as he leaned against the sun-warmed wall of his Wadala school, he was a future football star.
“You’re mad,” Zubin Bhatena, his friend and occasional co-conspirator in adolescent mischief, said, his voice a dry counterpoint to Joseph’s grandiose proclamations. “A professional football player? Have you even kicked a ball that wasn’t a crumpled-up paper a**?”
Joseph pushed himself off the wall, a dramatic gesture. “The passion is what matters, Zubin. The josh! I feel it in my soul.” He mimed kicking a goal, a graceful, if slightly uncoordinated, sweep of his leg. “Besides, the Brazilians started on the streets. We’ve got the spirit.”
Zubin, with the quiet composure of a Parsi boy from Dadar’s Parsi Colony, adjusted the strap of his backpack. He was a year older than Joseph, and carried his 15 years with a preternatural wisdom that Joseph often mistook for cynicism. “The Brazilians also had a proper field, not a patch of broken pavement. And they didn’t have to deal with traffic that would make a saint curse.”
“Details, my friend, details,” Joseph said, a breezy wave of his hand dismissing the practicalities. “It’s about the dream. You wouldn't understand.”
“I understand that my dream is not to break my ankle on a pothole,” Zubin shot back.
The last of their classmates drifted away, their chatter fading into the urban white noise. Joseph and Zubin began their familiar walk, a meandering journey that took them from the relative quiet of their school to the vibrant chaos of the Wadala railway station. The air thickened with the smells of the city: exhaust fumes, frying snacks, the faint, sweet scent of jasmine from a vendor’s stall.
“Speaking of dreams,” Zubin said, stepping around a vendor arranging colourful plastic toys on a sheet, “did you tell your father about your new ambition?”
Joseph’s smile faltered. His father, a man of quiet, unwavering faith and meticulous habits, had very specific ideas about a son’s future. “Not exactly. I told him I’m thinking of becoming a pilot.”
Zubin stopped dead in his tracks, a look of genuine disbelief on his face. “A pilot? Joseph, you get dizzy on the top floor of our school building.”
“Not a pilot, a helicopter pilot,” Joseph clarified, as if this was a crucial distinction. “It’s different. They’re cooler. More… focused. And you get to see the city from the sky. No traffic.”
“So, you’ll trade potholes for power lines?” Zubin said, resuming his walk, a slight shake of his head. “And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Joseph, a helicopter pilot? We don’t even have a fan that works properly at home.’ It was a very short conversation,” Joseph admitted, a hint of dejection in his voice.
They crossed the bridge over the railway tracks, a vantage point from which they could watch the city’s lifeblood flow. The trains, packed to the doors, were iron serpents slithering into the heart of Mumbai. The platform below was a teeming mass of people, a beautiful, terrifying mosaic of humanity.
“Maybe I’ll just be a taxi driver,” Joseph mused, more to himself than to Zubin. “Easy, right? You just… drive. And you get to meet all sorts of people. And you get paid every day. A steady income. That’s what my dad wants.”
Zubin looked at him, his brow furrowed. “So, from professional footballer to helicopter pilot to… taxi driver. Joseph, are you a person or a multiple-choice question?”
“I’m eclectic!” Joseph declared, raising his hands in a gesture of triumph. “I contain multitudes, Zubin. It’s a very Mumbai thing. One day you’re a chaiwallah, the next you’re a movie star. The city lets you be anything.”
They navigated the crowded streets, their conversation a thread weaving through the tapestry of the city. They passed a bustling vegetable market, its colours a riot against the grey of the buildings. A man with a handcart piled high with bright, yellow coconuts called out to them, his voice a familiar part of the soundscape.
“You know, my dad says I should learn business,” Zubin said, his voice softer, more thoughtful. “Take over the family shop. We’ve been selling textiles for generations. He says there’s a certain honour in it.”
Joseph considered this. He knew Zubin’s father, a kind, well-dressed man who always gave Joseph a small bag of sweets when he visited. “Honour is good. It’s solid. Like a brick.”
“But it’s a brick that doesn’t fly, or score goals, or take you on an adventure,” Zubin said, a rare note of wistfulness in his voice.
They continued their walk, turning off the main road and heading towards Antop Hill, a quieter, more residential area. The air grew slightly cleaner, and the sounds of the city were muffled by the dense canopy of trees and the narrower lanes. They passed a small, brightly painted Catholic church, its bell tower a landmark against the afternoon sky.
“Maybe I’ll be an artist,” Joseph said, a sudden inspiration striking him. “A painter. Like Husain. Paint horses. No, not horses. Paint… the sea. The sea is always changing. Like me.”
“Joseph, you can’t draw a straight line with a ruler,” Zubin said, a tired sigh in his voice.
They reached the top of a small rise, a secluded spot with a bench overlooking a small, untended garden. They sat down, the quiet a welcome relief. The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
“You know, I don’t think any of it matters,” Joseph said, his voice now stripped of its bravado. “The job, the money. It’s all just… stuff. I think what matters is the story. The one we tell ourselves.”
Zubin looked at his friend, a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “So what’s your story, Joseph? The one you tell yourself when no one is listening?”
Joseph thought for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fading light. “My story… is that I’m a boy from Wadala who is going to find his way. And that I’m going to do it my way. And that it’s going to be a good story. A really good one. Even if it’s a bit messy and doesn’t make sense to anyone else.”
He turned to Zubin, a wide, genuine smile on his face. “And my story has you in it. And all of this. This city, this walk, this conversation. It’s all part of it.”
Zubin didn’t say anything. He just looked at his friend, and then at the city spread out below them, a city of a million stories, each one as rambling and wayward and serendipitous as the next. He knew, instinctively, that this was just the beginning. The story had no end, just a new page, a new day, and a new ambition for Joseph to chase, a new path for them to wander down.
As the first streetlights flickered on below, illuminating the city in a soft, golden glow, Zubin knew that his own story was a simple one. It was the story of a boy from Dadar who was happy to just walk alongside his friend, and watch. Because in a city as eclectic as Mumbai, sometimes, just being a witness was the most serendipitous adventure of all.
Bharat Bhushan
21 August 2025
