Fear Factor

I scope out the scene at sea level: There are families sitting around on plastic chairs, a young-looking doctor on call, and some techno-pop playing over the loud speakers. A twenty-strong group of nuns, who’ve been drawn into the Extreme Zone, watch with wonder, their fawn saris a little sandy as a result of their tour around one of Mumbai’s great public spaces.

The girl, now a speck in the sky, is poised to spring from the cage. She takes off suddenly, plunging for a few thrilling moments, before the bungee chord kicks in, yo-yoing her back to the sky. The nuns clap with joy and I scream with the vicarious rush.

“Have a jump,” says Priya Raheja, Extreme Zone manager. I flash her a smile and walk up to the doctor’s tent, to have my weight taken, answer questions about my medical history and sign a liability waiver form—in case I cease to exist.

“The first jump’s always the best,” says the soft-spoken Dr Santosh, “take a deep breath, stop thinking totally and jump,” adds the 25-year-old, who’s doing his residency at the OPD of a local government hospital.

Please keep me alive if something happens, I say. “I’m a survivor and I’ll keep anybody living,” says Santosh who, since working this job, has been bitten by the bungee bug.

Checks complete, I walk into the red cage, where two instructors strap me onto a harness, then wrap my legs with all-important pads, which latch onto the main bungee chord. I’m joined by my instructor Lokesh, who’s sporting a blood red bandana and a small walkie-talkie around his neck.

The crane starts lifting the cage and Lokesh starts his monologue—never breaking eye contact with me. As we rise past a hundred metres, I start laughing, but Lokesh won’t stop talking. It’s something about taking full advantage of the opportunity that lies before me. I keep laughing, as the people turn into ants, cars into bugs and the Extreme Zone a narrow patch of beach.

When we reach the summit, I savour the panoramic view: It’s dusk and I can see most of Mumbai’s stunning Western coastline. The JW Marriott Hotel, which dominates Juhu beach, appears like a miniature Mediterranean fort. As I look around in amazement, Lokesh doesn’t let up on the verbal barrage, trying to take control of my psyche. “In life, we’re always held back by fear; this is how you can take back control,” he says, “just do it.” My legs feel like lead as I walk to the edge of the cage. I look down at Juhu beach, at the thousands of visitors—and each one seems to be starting at me and waiting for the jump. The token headline flashes through my mind’s eye: “Young Journalist is Mumbai’s First Bungee Victim.” “Ready?” shouts Lokesh. I nod. He gives me a count and I leap out at 3.

I shoot downwards, everything a blur. I’m conscious of nothing but the adrenaline-flowing experience of a free fall. Yet at some point, it occurs to me that I’ve been dropping for a few seconds and that I’m getting closer to ground. Worry threatens to strike, but I’m yanked back up by the bungee chord and the world flips upside down and starts to twirl. I scream with pleasure!

The bungee rope bounces me around with the momentum, also spinning me like on an upside-down merry-go-round. It’s a whole new way of looking at Juhu beach—and strangely empowering. I’d seen bungee jumping off bridges and dams, but in the heart of Mumbai city? That’s fresh.

As I’m being lowered, Santosh welcomes me back to earth. “How was it?” he asks. “I jumped without thinking,” I say, my body still flowing with the rush.

“Always listen to the doctor’s advice,” he chuckles.