Monday, 25 May 2026
In May, the parched neighbourhood of Parel looks forward to being quenched by the Mumbai Monsoon.
Gul Dom satisfies her thirst with a Kingfisher. This private luxury afforded to her taste buds is an escape from the public aromatics of spice, concrete, incense and street food grease.
She has seen many a change in Parel and Parel in her.
Today, the neighbourhood also smells of money. To many, this is a welcome scent. But this is money borne from mill land where workers’ once white handkerchiefs became blackened by coughed-up black dust. This was a historical low for locals but now valet boys park imported cars beneath erections named The Imperial Towers.
From the vantage point of the tenth floor of a half-finished commercial high-rise, Gul sees the neighbourhood sweating below a pale and stubborn sky that has forgotten how to rain. Clothes cling to backs. Construction workers sleep in slices of shadow. Hawkers shade fruit with torn cardboard. Traffic moves with a combination of irritation and purpose.
Gul’s mobile vibrates.
Jignesh is calling.
She let it ring twice before answering.
“Is she there?” he asks.
Gul hesitates and waits for the impatient sighs and sharp draws of breath. She smiles to herself.
“Gul? Is she there?”
Gul mutes him and looks across the room at the woman sat on a plastic chair by the window. She’s brunette, bored and kind of beautiful, like a once carefully painted picture that has been ruined by an artist whose touch up lacks care. Her body has been rented out so often she’s lost interest in herself and life.
“You want water?” Gul asks her.
She reaches down to her left and lifts aloft a full bottle of unopened water.
“Is it cold?”
“No, but it’s OK.”
To Gul the accent sounds Eastern European. Or is it Russian? It could be from anywhere. Gul has stopped guessing. She unmutes.
“She’s here.”
“Send a pic.”
“You asked for discretion.”
“I asked for white.”
“She’s white.”
Gul muted the phone. She let the silence speak for itself. Jignesh liked to keep his requests simple. White. Young. Girl. Innocent. Words that made the world easier to control. A woman would be too much for him. A woman wouldn’t want him.
The first time she met Jignesh he had a man beaten because he didn’t find his jokes funny. That same night he tipped a waiter 50,000 rupees for not forgetting to keep the “fucking Chivas Regal coming”.
He was the son of a mill worker from Parel. He was proud of it and was happy for it to explain everything and provide license for everything.
When the mills closed, it didn’t happen like a collapse. It happened slowly enough to feel personal. Gul’s father came home talking about “cuts.” Then “temporary suspension.” Then he stopped talking altogether.
The loom sheds that had once swallowed men whole with noise and heat became empty brick shells.
After that came loans. Then furniture disappeared. Then silence at dinner. Then jewellery left homes one piece at a time.
Glass towers rose where union offices had stood. Coffee shops appeared where workers once queued for wages. The usual conversations about survival turned into the unknown subject matter of redevelopment and revitalisation.
Gul ended up in a chawl in Delisle Road. Life happened through concrete. Arguments, televisions, pressure cookers, laughter and tears that belonged to someone else’s day.
She didn’t hate it or romanticise it. It was just where she lived. She was good at living this life.
At twenty-six, Gul’s dress sense is a decision. Today she wore a bright mustard kurti with blue embroidery, fitted just enough to suggest shape. Small gold hoops caught the light when she moved. Her lipstick was the kind of shade men never described correctly.
She understood gaze. She worked with it the way other people worked with tools. Men looked at her. She let them. It cost them nothing and gave her information, sometimes power.
She knew exactly what she was when working for Jignesh. Visible, useful and underestimated in the ways that mattered.
But she was not ashamed. She made good money. Better than most. Enough to keep her mother’s medical needs covered, enough to never ask relatives for anything, enough to move through Mumbai without borrowing dignity.
That was enough.
“Are you sending a pic?”
“No, trust me, she’s white, young and innocent looking. “Relax. She’s exactly what you wanted.”
“What do you mean young?”
“Young but not that young that we have to worry about breaking criminal law.”
“You think too much.”
“You don’t think at all. Get here, be quick, she’s waiting.”
Gul walked over to the brunette. She offered her the bottle of Kingfisher she’d opened for herself. The brunette accepted with thanks.
“Is there a problem?”
“No,” Gul said. “Just work.”
The woman nodded slowly. “I wish I had other work.”
Gul looked out over Parel. “So do I,” she said quietly.
Jignesh Mathur sits in a private room above a permit bar. The air-conditioning struggles against the May heat.
A bottle of Chivas Regal sits between him and an old friend. On the table are plain salted almonds and stale wafers.
“What is this?”
His friend didn’t look up. “Today’s snacks my friend.”
“I asked for masala peanuts, kaju fry, spicy makhana. Specifically spicy makhana. Maybe I need to send a hand written note instead of relying on word of mouth. I hate people who say do you know who I am, but do you know who I am? This is not a railway station lounge. This is a serious place.”
“Sorry, sir…” began the waiter before retreating quickly, making sure not to turn his back on Jignesh Mathur.
Jignesh poured himself another drink, irritation still present in his posture even after the room emptied slightly around him.
His friend threw a handful of almonds into his mouth before offering to placate his drinking buddy with a refill. “Find something to channel your energy towards. Maybe not waiters who fail you with the wrong snacks.”
“Before my dad died, he sat me down and told me what life was like working in a mill. I don’t work in a mill. I’m better than that. I got to where I am with hard work. I want people to do the same. Whatever you are, even a waiter. Do your job properly.”
His friend nodded along. After enough whisky, Jignesh could make resentment sound like wisdom.
Back in Parel, Gul’s phone rings again. It’s an unknown number but she answers it anyway.
“You work for Mathur?” The man’s voice was calm and measured.
Gul didn’t respond. She forgot his surname was Mathur.
“That’s fine,” he said. “I know you do.”
“Who is this?”
“You’ll find out. I need him removed.”
Gul uses her bike key to open another bottle of Kingfisher.
“Why have you called me?” she asks.
“Because you want him removed too.”
