The road trip was fun — swathes of salt pans, stretches of greenery, and then to remind us that we lived in a city, sooty dust balls, honking cars and endless traffic jams as we neared Sion. I also recall the stench that greeted us each time the bus wormed its way through Dharavi; us kids would wrinkle our noses in unison. By this last leg, we'd also get restless. Once the autorickshaw would drop us near the base of the steps, the heady aroma of fried snacks, ear-piercing whistles, and the non-stop shouts of hawkers meant our Everest was near. Adults were assigned the task of escorting [read: tightly clasping the hand at all times] the kids in the group. We bachchas would be riveted by the mind-boggling array — from the pink candy floss (buddhe ka baal) and shengdana to the chicken patties and buttery bhutta. With every passing year, the crowds would increase. En route were all kinds of worshippers – young, old, middle-aged, crippled, wheelchair-bound, and a scattering or 'foreigners'; many would say a prayer or sing hymns during the uphill climb.

I recall this one year when a film star had come by to visit the fair and pray at the Mount; the commotion was unprecedented. In my eagerness to see who it was, I slipped away when my mum let go of my hand for a moment to pay a vendor for my pink toy car. Panic struck as I found myself surrounded by strangers. Luckily, I didn't follow the superstar-crazed crowd who began to move in his direction. Those were the longest two minutes of my 10-year-old life; I froze as I stood on the pavement, hoping for my mother to trace me. She did, and the relief on both our faces meant an extra prayer had to be offered to Mother Mary once we reached the sanctum sanctorum.

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When we stepped in, the beautiful stone façade building and its interiors struck me with its magnificence and calm, despite the chaos. Somewhere amidst the buzz, strains of the choir signing a hymn in Mother Mary's praise would envelope the air. During mass, my distracted self would gaze at the congregation and pray and sing in unbelievable unison, as my stern aunt would roll her eyes, reminding me to pray in the house of God. Soon enough, it was time to leave, not before making the long, slow walk towards the altar to seek Mother's blessings; a site that continues to draw in worshippers from all faiths and walks of life.

The bus ride home had its share of drama — crabby cousins sparring over who got the cooler toy; dozing uncles snoring their heads off, aunts arguing with bus conductors over loose change. Dead tired, I'd turn in early but it was with a smile on the face. There'd be tonnes to chat about during the next day's lunch break in school!

As the years rolled by, my visits to the feast and fair lessened. The essence and soul too seems to have changed, as regulars rue but there's something magnetic about the trail all the way up to the Mount that will always reassure me of a simpler Bombay.

mid-day's Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city's sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. She tweets @bombayana
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