Under one umbrella in monsoon rain, the Queen's Necklace curves gold across the bay and doubles itself in every puddle.
Our hour there
The rain came sideways off the bay, and our one black umbrella was not enough for two. I held it and you held the corn, charred in places, lime and chilli rubbed in so hard it made you cough. We walked south on the wet paving, the tetrapods on our right, the sea slapping somewhere under them. I kept tilting the umbrella toward you and pouring water down my own back, and you laughed every time. Then the curve ahead was all amber, out to the towers at the point, the lamps shaking in the puddles at our feet. I saw it for a second. Then I looked at you, chilli on your lip, and stayed there.
Come in the monsoon, at blue hour, when the sky still holds some blue and the lamps are already on. The promenade is long enough to walk slowly. The light is gold, not white: the city brought the yellow lamps back after people protested the white ones. From the tetrapods at the south end, you two can turn north and watch the whole Necklace bend away toward Chowpatty.
The honest part: the sea here is not scenery. On the big high-tide days the waves come over, and people are swept off Marine Drive every monsoon. Check the city's tide list, stay behind the barriers, and never climb the tetrapods, however good the picture looks. And bring a bigger umbrella than ours.
♡ We bet on which car in the crawling traffic would honk next, and you won the last bite of corn by picking a taxi that never once went quiet.