Bappa Carried Bombay Home

Part 1: The Girl in the Red Saree

Bombay had not yet seen the sun, but it had already begun preparing to welcome its most beloved guest.

The darkness above the city was slowly turning blue when the first dhol echoed through the narrow street outside Shree Siddhi Heights. It was not a complete rhythm yet. The drummers were only testing the stretched leather, tightening ropes and striking tentative beats that rolled between sleeping apartment buildings. Nevertheless, one window opened after another. Children leaned over balconies with untidy hair, elderly women stepped outside holding steel tumblers of morning coffee, and men carrying bamboo poles shouted instructions while strings of saffron and yellow flags were raised across the street.

Temporary lights still glowed beneath the enormous neighbourhood pandal. Volunteers climbed ladders to finish the floral decorations, vendors arranged pyramids of coconuts beside heaps of marigolds, and somewhere beyond the building, a recorded chant began playing through a speaker that was much too loud for four in the morning.

“Ganpati Bappa”

A sleepy child from one of the balconies completed it without opening his eyes.

“Morya!”

The response travelled down the street, answered by laughter from the volunteers below.

On the fourth floor of Shree Siddhi Heights, the Krishnamurthy family had been awake for nearly two hours.

Their apartment no longer resembled the peaceful home in which they had gone to sleep the previous night. Flower baskets occupied the dining table. Brass lamps stood in a row near the kitchen. Mango leaves waited to be tied above the front door, and packets containing sandalwood paste, kumkum, incense sticks, cotton wicks, turmeric, camphor and sacred thread had been arranged across the sofa. A large wooden platform, freshly painted and covered with a red cloth, stood against the eastern wall of the living room beneath an arch of banana leaves and jasmine.

In the middle of this beautiful preparation, Kavin Krishnamurthy was lying flat on the floor with half his body beneath the sofa.

“Amma, it is not here,” he announced, his voice muffled by the cushions above his head. “I have checked properly. There is dust, one hair clip, three coins and an ancient peanut, but there is no bell.”

From the kitchen, Meenakshi Krishnamurthy closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She was wearing a green cotton saree with the end tucked securely at her waist, and her forehead was already marked with a neat red kumkum. A large vessel of sweet filling for modaks simmered before her, releasing the warm fragrance of coconut, jaggery and cardamom throughout the apartment.

“Kavin, I gave you one responsibility last night,” she called. “Only one. I asked you to polish the puja bell and place it beside the lamps.”

“I polished it beautifully.”

“And where did you place it?”

Kavin slid out from beneath the sofa and sat upright. His hair stood in several directions, and a grey line of dust crossed his cheek like war paint.

“That,” he replied solemnly, “is the mystery we are currently investigating.”

His father stopped tying flowers around the wooden arch and stared at him.

“Do not use the word ‘we,’” Raghavan said. “Nobody else lost it.”

“I did not lose it, Appa. I merely placed it somewhere extremely safe.”

“So safe that even you cannot find it?”

“That proves the quality of my work.”

Raghavan looked toward the ceiling as if asking Lord Ganesha for patience before the deity had even entered their home.

At the far end of the corridor, a bedroom door remained closed.

Two of Nila’s college friends stood beside it, repeatedly looking at the time. Ayesha Khan, dressed in a simple peach salwar, was holding a tray containing jasmine garlands. Beside her, Rhea D’Souza leaned against the wall in a blue kurta, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“I still believe she is asleep,” Rhea whispered.

Ayesha shook her head. “Aunty said Nila woke up at three.”

“Nila does not wake up at three. Nila returns home at three.”

“She told us this festival is different.”

“She also told us she would wear traditional clothes today. Last month, she called a long skirt traditional because it reached her knees.”

Ayesha suppressed a laugh and glanced cautiously toward the kitchen, making certain Meenakshi had not heard them.

The Nila they knew could transform an ordinary college corridor into a fashion runway without appearing to try. She wore fitted dresses, high-waisted trousers, cropped jackets, dramatic earrings and boots that announced her arrival before she spoke. She loved music, late-night cafés, parties and photographs taken beneath neon lights. Even when she attended morning lectures after sleeping for barely two hours, her eyeliner remained sharper than the professor’s attendance warnings.

No one at college associated her with waking before dawn to polish brass lamps.

When she had invited Ayesha and Rhea to join her family for the arrival of their Ganesha murti, they had expected the same Nila in a slightly festive outfit perhaps an embroidered crop top, a flowing skirt and enough jewellery to produce twenty photographs for social media.

Instead, the bedroom door opened, and both women became completely silent.

Nila stepped into the corridor wearing a deep vermilion-red Kanchipuram silk saree bordered with antique gold. The pleats fell perfectly from her waist, and the pallu crossed her shoulder with quiet elegance. Her thick black hair, usually left loose or styled in soft waves, had been braided almost to her waist and decorated with fresh jasmine. She wore traditional gold jhumkas, a delicate necklace, glass bangles that chimed when she moved, and a small red bindi between her eyebrows. A line of sacred ash and sandalwood rested just above it.

There was no dramatic makeup, no glittering clutch and no high heels. Her bare feet were stained lightly with turmeric near the toes, and she carried a brass plate containing a coconut, betel leaves and a small oil lamp.

Yet it was not merely her appearance that startled her friends.

The restless energy usually surrounding Nila had changed. She was still confident, still unmistakably herself, but a deep calm had settled over her. The woman who entered every room as though challenging it to keep up with her now walked slowly because she was carrying a flame. Her eyes, usually bright with mischief, held a tenderness neither friend had seen before.

Rhea stared at her for several seconds before whispering, “Who are you, and what have you done with Nila?”

Nila looked down at herself, pretending to be confused.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“Something is extremely wrong,” Rhea replied. “Yesterday, you sent me photographs of three black dresses and asked which one looked dangerous enough for Saturday night. Today, you look as if you stepped out of a temple painting.”

Ayesha moved around Nila, examining the saree in disbelief.

“You draped this yourself?”

“Amma helped with the first pleat. I did the rest.”

“You woke up at three in the morning?”

“At two forty-five.”

Rhea placed one hand against the wall for support.

“She has been replaced. We need to call the police.”

From the kitchen, Meenakshi smiled without turning around.

“This is also my daughter,” she said. “You have only met the version of her that argues with security guards and comes home carrying shoes because her feet hurt.”

Nila walked into the living room and placed the brass plate carefully beside the decorated platform.

“I do not argue with security guards without a reason.”

“You argued because he said the building terrace closed at ten.”

“It was ten-oh-two, Amma. That is an abuse of authority.”

Rhea pointed triumphantly at her. “There she is. I was worried for a moment.”

Nila laughed, and the familiar sound filled the apartment. However, when she looked at the empty wooden platform, her expression softened again.

For as long as she could remember, Ganesh Chaturthi had belonged to a different rhythm of her life.

As a child in Chennai, she had watched her mother draw a fresh kolam outside their door before sunrise. Her father had lifted her so she could place flowers near the little clay Ganesha they welcomed home. She had whispered secrets into the murti’s wide ears because her grandmother told her that Bappa listened more patiently than human beings ever could. Even after the family moved to Bombay, where the festival possessed the scale and heartbeat of an entire city, Nila had preserved the intimacy of those childhood mornings.

Bombay gave Bappa drums, towering pandals, oceans of flowers and processions that shook the streets. Nila gave him her complaints, stubborn promises, exam fears, ridiculous wishes and every truth she could not tell anybody else.

Kavin approached her with both hands held behind his back.

“Akka,” he began sweetly, using a tone that immediately made her suspicious. “You look very beautiful today.”

“What did you break?”

“Why does everybody assume affection from me has criminal motivation?”

“Because I have known you for nineteen years.”

He glanced toward their mother before lowering his voice.

“Do you remember where the puja bell is?”

Nila narrowed her eyes.

“The one Amma asked you to polish?”

“I completed the polishing portion of the assignment successfully.”

“And failed the part involving basic object permanence?”

Kavin pressed his palms together.

“If you save me, I will take excellent photographs of you today.”

“You already owe me photographs from my birthday.”

“I will edit those too.”

“You said that last week.”

“I was younger and irresponsible then. I have changed.”

“You said it four days ago.”

“A person can experience tremendous growth in four days.”

Nila tried not to laugh. She turned toward the crowded room, studying every surface.

“Where were you standing when you polished it?”

“Near the balcony.”

“What were you doing after that?”

“I was filming the decorations.”

“And after that?”

“I helped Appa with the lights.”

Raghavan immediately objected. “You held the wire for eleven seconds and then disappeared.”

“I was supervising.”

Nila folded her arms. “Did you film anything after polishing the bell?”

Kavin’s expression changed. He took his phone from his pocket and opened the gallery. A row of videos from the previous night appeared on the screen. Nila stood beside him as he played one showing the unfinished decorations.

The camera moved shakily across the living room. It captured Raghavan on a ladder, Meenakshi sorting flowers, and the puja bell shining on the balcony ledge.

“There,” Nila said. “You left it on the ledge.”

“I checked the balcony.”

“Continue the video.”

Kavin dragged the recording forward. A moment later, the camera swung back toward the balcony. The bell was no longer on the ledge.

His mouth fell open.

“Somebody stole it.”

“Inside our locked apartment?”

“Exactly. This is an inside job.”

“You watch too many crime series.”

Nila replayed the section slowly. Just before the bell disappeared, the footage briefly captured Kavin lifting a basket of artificial flowers from the balcony and carrying it toward the corridor. Something metallic gleamed between the flowers.

She paused the video and enlarged the frame.

“You dropped the bell into the flower basket.”

Kavin ran toward the corridor, grabbed the basket and turned it upside down. Red and yellow artificial flowers scattered across the floor, followed by the missing brass bell. It landed with a bright, accusing ring.

Everyone in the apartment turned toward him.

Kavin lifted it and smiled weakly.

“Bappa has removed the first obstacle.”

Meenakshi pointed toward the kitchen sink. “Wash the bell again.”

“Yes, Amma.”

“And wash your face.”

“Yes, Amma.”

“And remove that ancient peanut from beneath my sofa.”

Kavin stopped walking.

“Can we not allow history to remain undisturbed?”

“Kavin.”

“I am going.”

The apartment erupted in laughter as he hurried away carrying the recovered bell.

Shortly before sunrise, the family gathered near the front door. Nila checked the items on the brass plate again, making certain nothing had been forgotten. The murti was waiting at the nearby artisan’s workshop, and they would carry Bappa home themselves as they had done every year.

Raghavan came from the bedroom wearing a white silk veshti and cream kurta. He adjusted his spectacles while inspecting the decorations for the tenth time.

“Nila, the place is ready?”

“Yes, Appa.”

“The cloth is fixed properly?”

“I pinned it.”

“The lamps are away from the curtains?”

“I moved them.”

“The flowers—”

“Appa,” Nila interrupted gently, “everything is ready. You have checked it so many times that even Bappa may become nervous about entering.”

Raghavan exhaled and looked at the empty platform.

“I only want this year to go peacefully.”

Nila noticed the unusual weight in his voice.

Every parent wished for peace, particularly while welcoming a deity known for removing obstacles. Yet Raghavan was not generally an anxious man. Since the previous evening, he had checked the locks twice, questioned the security guard about unfamiliar visitors and insisted that Kavin avoid wandering alone during the processions.

“Why wouldn’t it be peaceful?” Nila asked.

Raghavan looked toward the television, which was showing an early news report about the city’s festival security arrangements. Images of police barricades, crowded markets and giant murtis moving through the streets flashed across the screen.

“Bombay becomes another world during these ten days,” he said. “It is beautiful, but the crowds are larger every year. Everyone must be careful.”

“We will be careful,” Nila assured him. “I promise.”

Meenakshi emerged from the kitchen carrying a small vessel covered with a banana leaf. Her expression brightened the moment she saw the family gathered together.

“Then why are we standing here as though we are attending a meeting?” she asked. “Our Bappa is waiting.”

They descended the stairs because the lift had been temporarily reserved for transporting festival decorations. As Nila reached the second floor, the door of another apartment opened, and an elderly Maharashtrian woman stepped outside carrying a plate of marigolds.

“Savitri Aaji!” Nila greeted warmly.

Savitri Deshmukh’s wrinkled face broke into a delighted smile.

“Nila, is that truly you?” she asked, touching the young woman’s cheek affectionately. “Whenever I see you, you are wearing black clothes and running somewhere as though the entire city is chasing you.”

“Today, I decided to confuse everyone.”

“You look beautiful. Bappa will be very happy.”

“He had better be,” Nila said with mock seriousness. “Do you know how long Amma made me stand while she fixed this saree?”

Meenakshi tapped her daughter’s shoulder.

“Do not bargain with God before bringing him home.”

Savitri laughed. “Let her speak. Bappa likes children who speak honestly.”

A man’s voice came through Savitri’s open doorway.

“Aaji, your medicine is on the table. Please take it after breakfast, not whenever you remember.”

Nila could see only the shadow of a tall man moving inside the apartment. He appeared to be speaking on the phone while searching for something. His voice was firm, controlled and faintly irritated.

Savitri sighed dramatically. “My grandson believes becoming a police officer has given him authority over his grandmother.”

“Then you should arrest him,” Kavin suggested.

“I am considering it.”

The unseen man came closer to the doorway, but his phone rang again before he reached them. He turned away, answering with a sharp, “Deshmukh speaking.”

Nila paid little attention. She touched Savitri’s feet, received her blessing, and continued downstairs with her family.

Outside, the street had completely awakened.

The first light of morning spread across balconies covered in flower garlands. Auto-rickshaws moved slowly between groups of volunteers. Women carried puja baskets, children waved small saffron flags, and young men in matching T-shirts directed vehicles around a procession approaching from the end of the road. The air smelled of wet earth, incense, jasmine, hot tea and the faint salt carried inland from the sea.

As the Krishnamurthy family entered the artisan’s lane, Nila slowed involuntarily.

Rows of Ganesha murtis waited beneath colourful cloth canopies.

Some were small enough to rest in a person’s hands. Others rose above the people walking around them. Bappa appeared in countless colours and forms seated upon lotuses, holding modaks, raising one hand in blessing, surrounded by hand-painted flowers or accompanied by Mooshak near his feet. Families moved between them with reverence, searching for the particular face that somehow felt as though it had been waiting only for them.

At the back of the workshop sat the Krishnamurthy family’s murti.

It had been sculpted from natural clay and painted with gentle, eco-friendly colours. Bappa wore a simple golden crown and a crimson dhoti. His trunk curved toward a small modak held in one hand, while another hand remained raised in blessing. At his feet sat a tiny Mooshak, painted grey, looking upward with an expression that appeared almost mischievous.

The murti was not enormous, but Nila stopped as though she had come before a king.

For one silent moment, the festival noises receded around her.

“You came,” she whispered.

Ayesha, standing behind her, heard the tenderness in those two words and lowered her phone without taking a photograph.

The artisan approached with folded hands. Raghavan completed the final formalities while Meenakshi lit the small lamp on Nila’s plate. Kavin held the recovered bell with exaggerated responsibility. As the family prepared to lift the murti, Nila stepped forward and placed a fresh red flower near Bappa’s feet.

“I have several complaints this year,” she murmured where only the deity could hear. “Do not smile like that. You already know.”

The painted eyes of the murti seemed filled with quiet amusement.

Raghavan and two volunteers carefully lifted the platform on which Bappa sat. Nila and Meenakshi held the welcoming plate before them, while Kavin finally rang the bell without losing it. Drums sounded at the entrance to the lane.

“Ganpati Bappa!” one of the volunteers shouted.

The entire family answered together.

“Morya!”

Their journey home began beneath a shower of marigold petals.

People stepped aside with smiles as the murti was carried through the decorated street. Children joined the chant. A shopkeeper left his counter to bow his head, and a flower seller offered a handful of petals without asking for payment. Rhea filmed the procession, while Ayesha walked beside Meenakshi carrying the additional garlands.

Nila walked backward before Bappa, holding the aarti flame steady despite the movement around her. Her bangles chimed with every step. The vermilion silk of her saree caught the morning light, and the calm in her expression made her seem like a different woman from the one Bombay usually knew.

Halfway to the apartment, a small grey mouse appeared beneath a parked vehicle.

It emerged without fear, sat upon its hind legs and watched the approaching murti.

Nila noticed it immediately.

“Amma, look.”

Meenakshi followed her gaze and smiled. “Mooshak has come before Bappa.”

The little mouse remained still until the murti passed. Then it ran alongside the procession, disappearing beneath flower carts and reappearing several feet ahead as though it knew exactly where the family was going.

Kavin pointed his camera toward it.

“We have our first guest.”

“Do not frighten him,” Nila warned.

“I am documenting him.”

“You document everything.”

“That is why future generations will understand our history.”

“Future generations will mostly see videos of your own face.”

When they reached Shree Siddhi Heights, the residents waiting outside welcomed Bappa with cheers. A coconut was broken near the entrance, the doorway was blessed, and the murti was carried carefully upstairs. Every movement became slower once they entered the apartment. The joyous street procession gave way to the sacred stillness of bringing the deity across the threshold.

Nila stood before the platform, guiding the volunteers as they lowered Bappa into his place beneath the decorated arch. Raghavan adjusted the base. Meenakshi placed the first garland around the murti, and Kavin rang the bell while the family began the welcoming prayer.

The morning light entered through the balcony and touched Bappa’s painted crown.

For the next ten days, he would live in their home not as a distant god hidden beyond temple doors, but as a beloved member of the family. He would hear their laughter from the dining table, their arguments from the kitchen, Kavin’s terrible singing, Raghavan’s worried instructions, Meenakshi’s prayers, and every secret Nila intended to whisper after the rest of the apartment had fallen asleep.

Nila knelt before the murti and pressed her palms together.

“Welcome home, Bappa,” she said.

Behind the wooden platform, unseen by the family, the small grey mouse slipped through the balcony door. It paused beneath the red cloth and looked up at the painted Mooshak resting near Ganesha’s feet.

The mouse’s whiskers trembled.

Then the tiny painted companion seemed to turn its head and look back at him.