Thames vs The Arabian Sea: Love Letters to Water

Or: How I Learned to Love Two Very Different Water Bodies

I've fallen in love with two completely different bodies of water, neither of which asked for my opinion, and I'm starting to think this says something deeply concerning about my relationship patterns.

The Thames flows through London like a middle-aged accountant who's made peace with life. Steady, predictable, occasionally contemplative, but ultimately safe to introduce to your parents. The Arabian Sea crashes against Mumbai's Marine Drive like my daughter after I've told her she can't go to a party unless she has done her chores - loud, dramatic, beautiful in its fury, and completely immune to reason.

Mumbai: Where Water Has Anger Management Issues

The Arabian Sea doesn't just exist near Mumbai – it ‘performs.’ It has moods, opinions, and the emotional regulation of a soap opera character. During monsoon, it throws tantrums that turn perfectly reasonable roads into rivers, because apparently Wednesday felt like a good day to remind everyone who's really in charge.

I spent years driving the kids to school through what can only be described as the Arabian Sea's aggressive morning routine. Water up to the car doors, engine making sounds that definitely weren't in the manual, while the kids placed bets from the back seat on whether we'd make it to school or become another cautionary tale about Mumbai monsoons.

"Mum, is the car supposed to sound like it's crying?" they would ask, while I navigated what used to be a main road and was now auditioning to be a poor cousin of the great river Ganga.

The sea was always there, lurking. Not as scenery - as the neighbourhood drama queen who could single-handedly cancel everyone's plans if she woke up feeling particularly emotional.

My daughter, still in Mumbai, sends me photos from Marine Drive at sunset. The sea looking absolutely stunning and completely untrustworthy, like an ex who looks amazing but you know will steal your Netflix password. "The sea says hi," she texts, as if it's a mutual acquaintance with boundary issues.

London: Water That Went to Therapy

The Thames, meanwhile, has clearly done some serious work on itself. It flows through London with the kind of emotional stability I aspire to but will probably never achieve. It stays in its lane, respects personal boundaries, and has never once threatened to flood anyone's commute just because it was having feelings.

During lunch breaks from Flame Tree Publishing, I walk along its banks watching it do its thing - which is mostly just existing without creating international incidents. It's bordered by neat walkways and crossed by bridges designed by people who actually believed water and humans could coexist peacefully. Revolutionary concept.

My husband joins me sometimes on these therapeutic river walks. He'll stare at the Thames doing its gentle flowing thing and say, "I finally understand why English people write so much poetry about rivers." Then he'll pause and add, "Though the Arabian Sea would absolutely destroy this in a fight. Just saying."

He's not wrong. The Thames would probably apologise before drowning you.

The Great Water Personality Assessment

These two bodies of water are basically a liquid personality test, and I've somehow managed to fall for both the emotionally unavailable drama queen and the overly stable nice guy.

The Arabian Sea asks: Can you love something that might ruin your carefully planned day? Can you handle beauty that comes with a side of potential destruction? Can you find romance in complete chaos?

The Thames asks: Can you appreciate reliability? Can you love something that won't break your heart but also won't make you write terrible poetry at 2 AM?

Apparently, I can do both, which either makes me wonderfully adaptable or suggests I have serious commitment issues with water bodies.

Family Updates from the Water Wars

Mum sends voice notes from her evening walks along Versova beach, where the Arabian Sea performs its daily drama for an audience of evening joggers and couples who clearly haven't learned not to sit too close during wave-crashing season.

"Waves are massive today," she'll say, her voice competing with wind that sounds personally offended by her attempt at conversation. "Made me think of you."

I'm not sure if being compared to massive waves is flattering or deeply concerning, but I'll take it.

I send her photos of the Thames on those rare London mornings when it looks like someone's Instagram filter come to life. "Very peaceful," she responds. "Very… controlled."

Yes. That's exactly what it is. Water with impulse control.

The Cultural Divide (Literally)

The difference isn't just geographical - it's philosophical. In Mumbai, the sea is family. The kind of family member who has strong opinions, shows up uninvited, and occasionally destroys your furniture but you love them anyway because life would be boring without them.

The Thames is more like a well-designed public service that happens to be photogenic. Londoners jog past it, eat lunch beside it, cross it without dramatic declarations of love or fear. It's water as infrastructure rather than water as force of nature with personality disorders.

Raising Bilingual Water Children

My 18-year-old son, who's spent his formative years between these two aquatic personalities, has developed diplomatic opinions about both. "The Thames is nice," he says with the careful neutrality of someone preparing for a career in international relations. "But the Arabian Sea has more… character."

Character. That's one way to describe something that regularly holds an entire city hostage during monsoon season.

Two Different Love Languages

I've learned to love both these waters in completely different languages. The Thames gets my gratitude for being the emotional support water - always there, never demanding, perfect for contemplative walks when I need to think without fear of sudden tsunamis.

The Arabian Sea gets my nostalgia and that specific kind of longing you feel for something beautiful and impossible. It taught me that love doesn't have to be comfortable to be real, that sometimes the things that scare you a little are the ones that make you feel most alive.

The Verdict I'm Refusing to Give

My daughter told me she's started watching the Arabian Sea more since I left. "I think about how you used to stare at it during evening walks," she said. "Now I understand why you looked like you were having a conversation with it."

Was I having conversations with the sea? Probably. It seemed rude not to acknowledge something that dramatic.

My husband has a theory that your water preference reveals your approach to relationships. "Thames people want their love predictable," he says. "Arabian Sea people want their love honest, even if it occasionally tries to drown them."

When I asked which category I fall into, he grinned. "You're both. Which explains why living with you is never boring."

Between the Waters

These days I carry both with me. On grey London afternoons when the Thames looks particularly thoughtful, I remember the Arabian Sea's ability to shift from mirror-calm to monsoon-furious in the space of an hour. When Mumbai friends send videos of flooded streets, I appreciate the Thames's British commitment to staying within reasonable boundaries.

But here's the thing - when mum sends me videos of the Arabian Sea during peak monsoon, crashing over Marine Drive with the kind of theatrical flair that would make West End jealous, something in my chest does this weird flip. The Thames, for all its lovely emotional stability, has never made me feel like I might spontaneously burst into a song.

And sometimes you need water that inspires spontaneous musical numbers, even if you've learned to love the kind that doesn't.

Though I suspect the Thames would be mortified by public displays of musical emotion. Some things are just too British, even for reformed water.