On a warm April evening this year, I was taking a stroll down the street with my sister. A furry object suddenly zoomed past the space between my legs. We caught a glimpse of it only when it stopped at a distance – a cat with the most beautiful coat patterned with orange and black patches. She returned and started rubbing herself against my ankle. Never had I ever received the least bit of attention from a cat, and so this unexpected gesture of affection from one melted my heart. It was love at first belly rub. I am the chosen one, I thought. The cat had successfully adopted us.
We called her Kitkit. In the weeks that followed, I would meet her downstairs daily on my way to work and back. She and I formed a ritual of exchanging warm milk for a dose of animal therapy – a satisfying transaction without which my day felt incomplete.
While Kitkit and I were hitting new levels in our friendship, I was progressing through the application process for the AIF fellowship program. After studying urban planning in my undergrad, I was working with a research- and advocacy-based urban practice in Delhi for the last one year. We had recently wrapped up our engagement with women informal workers and were in the process of involving other marginalized communities to co-develop a public space inventory of the city. I was curious to expand my understanding of operating at the grassroots while combining it with my core urban planning skills, and the fellowship offered the perfect platform.
I soon found out that I had been selected as part of the upcoming cohort of AIF fellows. This meant I was to move to Mumbai in roughly two months. I was going to be joining YUVA, a non-profit I deeply admired for its participatory approaches towards urban development. As exciting as this news was, it also meant readying myself for a series of goodbyes – to work, friends, family, and Kitkit.
The evening I was leaving for the fellowship orientation, I rolled down the car window to say one final goodbye to Kitkit. The next thing I knew, she had jumped in and settled comfortably in the middle seat.
Having lived in Delhi all my life, I would often yearn to live independently. Yet, moving cities was daunting. This was the first time I was leaving the comfort of home. Finding my footing in an unknown, unfamiliar place was more challenging than I had imagined.
My first two weeks in Navi Mumbai were a rollercoaster ride. I was trying to adapt to a new work environment while also house hunting amid the complex rental markets of the city. To make things worse, Mumbai’s AQI surpassed Delhi’s during that time, causing me to catch a relentless cold and run a high temperature for several days.
Things were looking bleak; I was at an all-time low. I was sick, homesick, and had lost my appetite. With the rule of 3s (for dogs but applies to humans in a sense as well) in mind, I was waiting for things to get better.
It took me some time to feel settled in. Learning to navigate the Mumbai Local Train let me feel greater freedom to move around the city. During my travels, I had some sweet encounters with strangers. One time, a girl on the train helped me with the overwhelming interchange at the crowded Thane station and later offered me her lunchbox with lemon rice her mother had cooked. Another time, I was treated to a cup of hot chocolate after a long, candid conversation with Cafe Mondegar’s manager Mr Huxley.
These unexpected interactions with strangers made the city feel less strange and me less alone. I echo Olivia Laing’s sentiments when she writes, “I was struck by how easily I slipped into the communal rhythm of the city, my movements folding into those of the strangers around me, creating a sense of belonging that was both fleeting and profound.”
I returned home for Diwali and found out that Kitkit had given birth to two small kittens. “My baby cat has baby cats”, I tweeted to commemorate this major update in my life. In a catch-up call with my AIF cohort where everyone was sharing their festival highlights, mine was this.
It was heartwarming to see Kitkit transition into a family cat. I had only always seen her walking around solo. Now she had two tiny skittish kittens trailing behind her at all times. However, her motherly instincts did not kick in immediately. The first few times that I offered her cat food, she ate it up herself, forgetting about her babies. But after a few days, she began calling her kittens with meows, and they would eat and drink together.
A week and a half later, her kitten lay dead in the middle of the street. Most likely she was run over by a car. It was a bloody scene. And so, so heartbreaking.
We picked up her delicate body and buried her in the park. I said a small prayer for her. I sat with Kitkit for some time afterwards. She was confused and grieving.
Over the last few weeks of transitioning and witnessing transitions, I have learned that life is an unending cycle of growing and saying goodbyes. Familiarity grows from strangeness and leaves without warning. But the search for community persists—and shows up unexpectedly, like when taking a walk down the road or feeling lost on the train.
This is both a goodbye note to the kitten and a reminder (equally to Kitkit, myself, and the reader of this piece) to stay strong in the most challenging of times.
