Into Mumbai out of India:12 to 15 March

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We returned to Mumbai, our Indian hometown, at 7am, Sunday, March 12. I was a little the worst for wear, because I had been in and out of my bunk bed on the train all night, tending a tender tummy. In the circumstance, we climbed off the train from Ahmedabad and fell unwittingly into the greedy grasp of a scoundrel tout. He escorted us to a taxi, loaded us into it, joined us on the ride to our hotel; and opened conversation with the tit-bit, that the ride to our hotel was going to cost 540 rupees. From our previous Mumbai visit, we knew this was nine times the going rate. Of course, the tout did not know we knew this. So, first Penny, and then I, made clear to him that 540 rupees was not going to happen; but he persisted. So, to his wide-eyed surprise, I followed up with an excitable elaboration of just why 540 rupees were not on. He changed the discourse to enquiries about my origins, nationality and family. For my part, I engaged on these matters with much better humor.

In all of this, the taxi driver said nary a word. When we arrived at the hotel, Penny left saying she was going to verify with the desk the asking price of 540 rupees. The tout vanished. Meanwhile, the long suffering taxi-driver was visibly shaken as the hotel staff wrote down his vehicle ID; and mumbled about calling over the police at the street corner for a chat on his enterprising pricing scheme. Seeking to put this quaint episode to rest, I tendered the taxi driver the 60 rupees he was due, plus 20 rupees for handling our luggage at the station; he accepted with relief and was unceremoniously gone.

None of this diminished our second captivating entrance to Mumbai. This time, approaching from Central Station in the northeast, in the still of early morning, we glided by The Towers of Silence, where the small Parsi community of Zoastrian faith leaves its dead to be scavenged by vultures, so the details of death do not defile fire, earth or water. Then, we eased quietly past the Hanging Gardens, where foliage is said to cascade off the reservoir that is Mumbai’s water source; and where we knew, from our earlier visit, courting couples will be promenading later in the day.

Along this route, we skirted the posh mansions of Malabar Hill; and went directly through the welter of small business places, still unopened: jewelry shops, chemists, druggists, there is an Indian difference, boutiques, beauty salons, cyber cafes; and past an optician who had provided me with new frames in January, averting the disaster of my having to visit diverse India in a state of indifferent sight.

Presently, Chowpatty Beach bursts into view. It is Mumbai’s place to be, and be seen, but, for now, empty of people; sand at rest, surf quiet, sun up at our backs, moon down-sight, drifting away, jilted; rocks in bold relief, tide out; there will be a full moon tonight.

Then, we are cruising down Marine Drive, a wide, gray ribbon of empty avenue; street lights, close to the end of their shift, cast a dim glow; driveways, still at rest, free of idling autos, receive their morning baths; health conscious city-folk do their morning constitutionals on the path beside the expansive Arabian Sea, ever-present, everywhere in the west, framing the morning calm, seemingly all-knowing.

Contented, we arrive at our home-stay hotel. We will rest for the day.

On Monday, our visit winding down, Penny sets out on a shopping foray and a visit to India Rail for a refund.One was due, because we changed to taxi from train between Udaipur and Ahmedabad; pretty straight forward stuff. But, the trouble with Mumbai is that it demands you engage, not merely visit it. True, there are many places to see and many things to do; but it is what happens as you go about your day that defines the city. So, aiming to pick up her refund, Penny attempts to cross the street, at a place where she has done so before; except that a policeman focuses on her, whistle piercing the air, arms gesturing furiously. Perplexed, she wonders why she has become the policeman’s interest of the moment, when scores of people are crossing everywhere? Into the breach, a few helpful Mumbaiites explain that, at this hour of today, this policeman will not let her cross, at the point for which she is aiming, even though there is a gap in the road divider to allow crossing. One of them virtually takes her by the hand and leads her to a wide passageway. It is carrying hundreds of commuters from the train station platform; thence, under the street and up to its other side; except that another policeman is holding a rope across the exit from the passageway, impeding all who would wish egress to the street. The rope stays put until he judges that the mass of people is greater than the flow of vehicles.

The refund was successfully processed, thanks to the efforts of amiable India Rail staffers in the lesser ranks, who were in the middle of office fun on this first official day of the Holi festival; the actual statutory holiday is tomorrow, the second official day of the festival. So, between dusting each other with coloured powders, in the mood of Holi, and offering to share their lunches with Penny, there were forms to fill and letters to compose, attesting to our status as departing visitors; and trips to the offices of management in our role as strange people, who genuinely thought a refund could actually be handled in one working day.

Tuesday was the day to taxi over to Colaba district in search of one item we had promised ourselves to purchase in India. We had looked at versions of it all over the country and now were determined to acquire it in Mumbai. This gave rise to a day of roaming the streets, not so aimlessly, keeping the item we desired in mind.

Along the way, we tramped in and out of bookstores, which abound here. Books are plentiful in Mumbai, an international cast of authors is available and prices are real value for money. These bookstores must have pioneered the custom of leaving clients to browse to their heart’s content. Given the meals we have had on this trip, it is no surprise that we picked up three cookbooks. But, my cherished selection was “The Argumentative Indian: Writings on Indian Culture, History and Identity”. I feel like I have been traveling with herhim.

The storekeeper who had outfitted Penny for the trip with shalwars, a modern form of Indian wear, was keenly interested in how she fared dressing Eastern for her trip. I told him she looked striking; but he was much more intrigued by her feeling that shalwars allowed her easier interactions and keener insights into Indian life, than would have been forthcoming in Western dress. During the trip, I too had taken to wearing the lungi, a South Indian loin cloth, but could not report any enhanced interactions, perceived or real. I had confined my use of the lungi to sleep wear on the trains; and other patrons, who went by me in passageways, seemed too sleepy, and otherwise anxious, to register any interest in me or my dress. That said, our hotel manager was impressed I could properly tie the knot that kept the lungi in place. Penny purchased three more for me to wear at home and, be prepared, I have agreed to do so.

There were other purchases, to be sure: cotton and linen spreads for tables and beds; and, get this, a pair of silver ankle chains for Penny. We continued to walk in leisure, past Police Head Quarters, where there is a huge mural on the grounds revealing the preamble to the Indian Constitution, with the primary rights and responsibilities, attendant; then, past old City Hall, all white, neo-classical and colonnaded and housing the Asiatic Society’s huge library collection. And, before the day was done, we were rewarded with the item for which we were searching. Simple enough, it was a room divider, some call it a blind, others a screen. It is made of teak from the Punjab and comprises four wings, each delicately hand worked with intricate floral designs, inlaid, overlaid and cut clear through; thirty-six patterns on each wing, one hundred and forty-four patterns in all; standing upright and fully opened, the screen lets light into the space it shelters, while preserving privacy; very Indian. Tuesday was in the can as a done day.

At Wednesday’s dawn, I did an early wake-up and stepped onto our 4th floor verandah to take a last look at the necklace of lights, strung along the arc that defines the Arabian Sea as it comes ashore at Mumbai. The city skyline was dozing on dim at the six o’clock hour, stirring only enough to acknowledge a warming glow from the sun, reborn for today.

Across the way from my 4th floor perch, on a wide swath of graveled ground at sea side, are walkers, strollers, joggers and runners of the Mumbai morning, doing their daily exercise routines. There are hundreds of people, with only the occasional wheeled creature moving along, hesitantly; because at this hour the pedestrian parade owns even the fast traffic lane on Marine Drive. On and on they come, in groups, as couplets, single file. For wear, they have retrieved every imaginable item of discarded clothing, except jeans, from deserted trunks and closets; and yet a certain fashionable élan pervades the overall scene. On display, cloths flowing, arms swinging, backs erect, are shawls: over-head, over-shoulder, side-knotted; shalwars, sarees, knee-length tops, baggy cotton bottoms; fezzes, fedoras, boat-shaped hats, turbans; shoes, sandals, slippers, sneakers. It is a veritable fashion runway down there; just that the styles are from yesteryear. Eventually, the flow of humanity dissipates, daylight takes firm control, as do double-decker city buses; the street lights go out in unison up and down the arc; the necklace of light is no more and it is time to pack our bags.

Packing done, an all morning affair, we walk along Veer Nariman Road in Churchgate, our Mumbai neighbourhood, where we have a chance meeting with an Edmonton couple who had been fellow travelers in Udaipur. We treat ourselves to a final, leisurely lunch, buffet style, all delicacies present for the taking, and we partook. Back at our modest hotel, our car with driver for the day has arrived, there are overtones of ceremony to the manner in which the staff loads our bags into the car; there is an air of poignancy over our parting; we had visited with them on our way in and out; we had spent some ten nights in their care; we had become their wards; they saw themselves as our stewards in India.

We spent the afternoon collecting items we had purchased the previous day, now packaged for plane travel. Our teak screen was the most challenging to corral, since all six feet of it had to be affixed to the roof of our taxi for transporting to the airport. I had my doubts, but between our enterprising taxi driver and the extremely accommodating store staff, it was firmly bound to the car roof, sporting a jaunty over hang, front and back. “It will be alright”, says the storekeeper, “just show these government-store forms to any police officer, or airport guard or airline staff; and all will go fine.”

After a quick paced walk through some rough and ready port sectors of the Colaba district, we repaired to the quiet of a lounge, in a five-star to end all five-stars, overlooking appealing vista at the Mumbai harbour front. Of passing note, this particular hostelry was built early nineteen hundreds by an Indian of Parsi heritage, in response to his being denied entry to an up-scale hotel. From our lounge, alone with a chilled 750 of Chablis, we had a clear view of the Gateway to India. It was through a cardboard version of the Gateway that George V and Mary had entered India on their visit in 1911; and it was from the Gateway, all completed in yellow basalt, that the last British regiment had left in 1948, when India became a full member of the Commonwealth. Of course our credentials were no match, but we could reminisce that it was through these gates we had passed on the first excursion of our Indian trip. Two months ago, upon arrival in Mumbai, we had gone from the Gateway to Elephanta Island, offshore, to visit a most impressive set of rock carvings. They capture images from the Hindu faith, circa 500AD, according to the rituals of Shiva, a deity of the Hindu Trinity. A three-headed Shiva sculpture we viewed in a cave on the island remains the most serene depiction we saw of any Hindu deity on the entire trip. A fitting memory of our visit, we thought, as the final hours ebbed.

The time had come to leave downtown Mumbai and make our way across the isthmus of seven islands that geographically defines the city. We drive past the feet of modern office towers that somehow manage to be at ease with single story shops and store fronts. We enjoy, once again, the imaginative stylings of Victoria Station and other 19th century buildings; Gothic renditions of European architectural designs in the hands of Indian craftspeople working in the Indo-Saracenic genre. We take in one more patently Indian vignette, a Japanese Buddhist Temple, wedged between two automobile dealerships. As we press on through the outlying districts of Mumbai, wood fires are a blazing in the dusk of the evening, this being the public holiday celebrating the 2nd official day of the Holi festival, in honour of Krishna, the 22nd incarnation of Vishnu.

Before long, we are on the autoroute to Sahar International airport. We fittingly, but by chance, have an escort party of outriders in the form of ubiquitous auto rickshaws, the likes of which had taken us to so many hard-to-reach places on our trip; but are banned from Mumbai city proper. Passage through the airport is smooth, our cherished screen withstanding all security, weight and shape tests, aided and abetted by the handy government-forms. Before we could ask, “was this a thought altering trip or what?” our plane takes off and banks northwest in a nod to the Arabian Sea. We are on our way home.

Vernon

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Photos

Mumbai - March 12, 2006
The Arabian Sea framing the skyline, early morning, lights out.

Mumbai - March 13, 2006
Sidewalks of our Mumbai neighbourhood, Veer Nariman Road in Churchgate.

Mumbai - March 14, 2006
The sun is setting as we pack our bags and head for the airport.

Mumbai - March 14, 2006
View from hotel 4th floor, Marine Drive, pedestrian way and city skyline