Mumbai means a hundred things to a hundred people. It is the City of Dreams, the land of hustle, the place you come to find your break, or yourself. Every year, thousands arrive chasing a new start, pulled by its promise of anonymity, ambition, and some version of freedom. It is where people say you can discover your identity, your kink, your person. Maybe that is why, in Time Out’s recent global survey, Mumbai was named the best city in the world for dating, with 72% of locals saying it is easy to find love here. But in a city where friendships blur into networking and meet-cutes are sidelined by side hustles, relationships can start to feel like one more thing to optimise. Here, even intimacy is scheduled between meetings. And yet, despite it all, people still believe in the possibility of connection. Maybe that is Mumbai’s greatest trick — it wears you down, yet keeps you open.
Take, for instance, Kim Thomas, a 31-year-old pastry chef in Andheri. She describes her twenties in Mumbai as a dopamine-fuelled blur of late-night swipes and midnight texts. “Swiping right at a remotely cute, unavailable South Bombay (SoBo)/struggling artist and instantly getting a match was a welcome validation for this wandering, low self-esteemed, egoistic alt girl,” she recalls. “The anticipation of a first date, the ones that followed, the constant buzz of connection, it felt intoxicating.”
But that euphoria did not last. “The longing for something real almost always turns out to be a disguise for situationships or just hollow sex and alcohol-driven nights,” Kim says. “By the end of my twenties, I’d stopped looking for a real connection entirely.” Today, she sees dating as more performative than ever: “The available men are probably already in healthy relationships, trying to be emotionally present. Until then, I’ll take my life lessons from Mumbai’s subpar dating void and grow.”
A couple sitting along Marine drive
| Photo Credit:
s_batavia
Love in the fast lane
Also, Mumbai, not Bombay. Because this version of the city, one that today’s daters navigate, is shifting. In contrast to the stereotype of the chronically non-committal urban millennial, young singles in Mumbai are surprisingly intentional. According to Tinder’s Future of Dating report, the city’s most popular relationship goal is “short-term, open to long” — a choice that reflects flexibility, not flippancy. Nearly 48% of young Mumbaikars say situationships are their current preference, as they offer connection without the heavy pressure of long-term expectations. But make no mistake: this is not about emotional detachment. 60% say that being upfront about dating intentions actually makes someone more attractive. It is not a fear of commitment; it is a desire for clarity.
And yet, love in Mumbai still demands stamina. The city moves fast, both literally and emotionally. According to an IDFC Institute and Uber report, the average Mumbaikar spends nearly two hours a day commuting, losing up to 11 days a year just in transit. Even basic logistics — like planning a date — become monumental tasks when your weekday ends with a 90-minute train ride and a delayed dinner.
Public relations professional Kabeer Khan, who lived in Mumbai for a decade before moving to Bengaluru around six months ago, knows this all too well. “Mumbai is intense,” he says. “Even if you want to date, the city demands a lot — your time, your energy just to cross town. You could really like someone, but meeting them for dinner might still involve a sweaty train ride and a long walk. That adds pressure.”
And yet, Kabeer does not believe people in the city deprioritise dating. Quite the opposite. “Especially folks in their late twenties, like me, are looking for something serious now,” he says. “You just want someone who understands the hustle. That’s why so many people end up dating within their workplace or social ecosystem.” But over the years, he has noticed a shift. “When I first moved here, things were slower. You’d spend weeks, even months, in a talking stage. Now, with dating apps, it feels programmed — match, chat, move on. The accessibility is great, but it’s also changed how we approach connection. It’s quicker, but more transactional.”
That sense of performative connection — and the pressure to always be ‘on’ — is especially magnified for assigned male at birth (Amab) folks navigating visibility, desire, and burnout. Delhi born Vidur Sethi, a performing artist and curator living in Bandra, is candid about how that plays out. “Casual dating and sex feel more accessible in Mumbai. It’s safer, and there are parties and events with beautiful queer performances everywhere,” they say. “But it’s great for quick encounters, not for building something that lasts.”
Dating apps are still probably the only way to find love in the city
| Photo Credit:
LaylaBird
The illusion of radical openness, Vidur says, often hides the emotional labour required to actually sustain love. “People confuse Mumbai’s surface-level openness with a radical sense of queerness. But real love needs effort, repair, maintenance, joy. Even in polycules or open relationships, the ethics are often missing because sex and social capital are easier to access than care.” In a city that sells freedom as a product, the line between liberation and commodification often blurs.
Can we just hang?
Tejaswi Subramanian, a journalist and researcher associated with Gaysi Family (a queer community platform) who moved to Mumbai just over a year ago, sees dating here as “a structured escape.” “People in Mumbai are exhausted. Everyone’s holding together jobs, families, emotional survival. So dating becomes this pocket of fantasy. But many don’t have the relational skills to do more than that.”
In earlier cities she called home — like Goa or Bengaluru — Tejaswi describes a culture of casual, spontaneous bonding. “You could just say, ‘Come over, let’s hang.’ There didn’t need to be an agenda. But in Mumbai, no one does unstructured hangs. It’s like, ‘Let’s meet for game night,’ or ‘Let’s talk about this idea.’ If you invite someone to just be, they get thrown off.”
That structuring seeps into dating too. “There’s a whole grammar now around soft-launching relationships on Instagram, how you introduce someone to your friends. It feels performative. People talk about wanting long-term relationships, but when one comes their way, they panic. They’re not emotionally equipped to show up.”
Among queer folks especially, Tejaswi notes, there is a hunger for connection — but a lack of imagination about what that might look like long-term. “Many of us weren’t allowed to explore romantic or emotional possibilities growing up. So even now, we default to experimentation. That’s not necessarily bad — but it does mean that building something substantial often feels unfamiliar. People want love. They just don’t always know what to do with it when it arrives.”