Mumbai - CST, Here I come!

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One thing I had promised myself about this trip to India was that I would do my best to experience it as a native Indian does. I would travel as they travel and, as much as possible, eat what they eat. So, no McDonalds, KFC, or ham and cheese sandwiches and more Guajarati Thali, biryanis, lentil dahls and the like. (I have eaten at Subway but that was a Chicken Tandoori sub so that doesn’t count, right?) Indian food at the source is nothing like the westernized versions we taste every day in the UK and America; not every curry burns your mouth and every region has its own distinct flavours and textures. Some I’ve loved, others have just been a little too strange for me like the sweets made of chickpeas and the restaurants where they ask you if you would like some lard for your roti or chapati, but hey, it’s all part of the experience. I feel sometimes that we have the basic menu available to us, changed and bastardized to fit the western palate, but here I would be able to try it all.

In Mumbai, I wanted to try, do and experience everything. I began by visiting Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, the busiest train station in Mumbai, and referred to by locals as CST or its original name, Victoria Terminus. Built in 1887, steam trains of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway travelled as far as Delhi, Kolkata and Chennai from this gothic architectural masterpiece.

(A short aside: After Independence from the British in 1947, many cities, railways stations and government buildings received a swift name change – Calcutta reverted to its original name Kolkata, Madras became Chennai and Victoria Terminus was renamed in honour of Chhatrapati Shivaji, a famous Maratha hero. The international airport also bears his name.)

With many long-distance trains now departing from Mumbai Central, this is the commuter hub for the city and the trains are packed fuller than any I have ever seen. While Tokyo subways cram their passengers into compartments with long sticks before the doors slide shut, here they leave the doors open and people hang from the sides to cool down during their trips. It’s a dangerous way to travel but once you’ve been stuck in the middle of crowded compartment with no air conditioning, you’ll understand why they take the risk … and why every passenger carries a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat. Did I tell you that it was hot here?

(A short aside: I know what you’re saying. With centuries of history surrounding me, why would I close a railway station as my first port of call. While stating categorically that I am not a trainspotter nerd, I am fascinated with the trains here which despite being elderly and very well used, manage to run efficiently and mostly on time. Most large train stations here have a fabrication shop either on site or close by where parts are manufactured from scratch for these behemoths. The spare parts for these antiques are no longer being made in the west so when they need something, they crank up the metal lathe and make one. The trains are being modernized now across India but I still feel there’s a certain romance with an engine which just keeps on working despite the fact that it is thousands of miles from the factory where it was first created and the spare parts it needs are found more in museums than hardware stores.)

I made my way through the crowds and traffic and entered the station through the original massive, carved wood doors which just seemed to welcome me in. I was dazzled, first by the people streaming by me and then, when I had found a quiet place just to people watch, the architecture and stained glass of the booking hall. It reminded me of St. Pancras Station in London, and for some reason, it fitted right into its surroundings. I bought my platform ticket and strode inside. I was hoping to find some original signs from the early days but they were all covered up with billboards and flashing neon timetables and adverts. It was while waiting here that I experienced my first thimble-sized cup of chai. This spiced black tea, infused with spices and mixed with hot milk, appeared to me to be the Indian staple drink when locals are out on the streets. Everywhere I went there were little stands where the men sipped the chai and conversed with friends next to stands serving samosas and other fried foods. The aromas were intoxicating but I wasn’t quite ready to experience street food until I found out just exactly what it was.

(A short aside: I was reliably informed before this trip that everyone in Mumbai spoke English. Let me just clarify that statement. Most people speak English but I have yet to find a street trader who understands a single word I say. I tried to learn some basic Hindi before I came but please, thank you, my name is tim, how are you, I’m fine, and which way to the closest restroom don’t really get you that far. Perhaps it’s my accent…)

Anyway, a chai wallah was walking through the station and I motioned him over, gesturing that I would like one. He poured it into the smallest plastic cup I have ever seen and charged me five rupees, or about 6P or a dime. It was an experience, the incredible flavour nothing like the chai lattes we have back at home. This had ginger, cardamom, pepper and about a dozen other contrasting tastes I couldn’t identify but which all came together to make the perfect drink. I was hooked. The only downsize was the size of the cup and when I finished mine and looked around for more, he was gone.

Anyway, back to the station and why I wanted to come here. I wandered down to the platform, the only European in sight, getting loads of sideways glances but lots of smiles and hellos so that was cool. The 535 to Kurla was about to depart so I said hello to the driver and asked him about his journey. Luckily, he spoke English and told me his name was Sayed and that he’d been a driver for over twenty years. First employed with the Hill Railways which serviced Simla, a resort town in the north, he had transferred to Mumbai only three weeks ago so his daughter could attend university. He was saddled with the commuter run so he missed the open countryside but he said that he was enjoying it. Indians take education very seriously and most people have a degree … or several. With jobs at a premium, it’s not a surprise to find a barista at a local coffee shop with several degrees just waiting for a graduate position to open up somewhere.( So, no different to the west then, eh?)

He was about to leave but he let me sound the whistle (yeah, I’m just a big kid at heart) and the train pulled away only to be replaced by another just minutes later. After walking around the station for awhile, I decided it was time to visit The Gateway of India just a short walk away. This iconic landmark was built on the quayside in 1924 to commemorate the visit of a British Monarch but also to glorify the permanence of the British Empire. Little did they know that just a few decades later, a little man in a loincloth known as Gandhi-ji would inspire his people to restore their homeland to home rule, sending the British packing but leaving this arch as a reminder of their presence.

The place was packed but with Indian tourists rather than Europeans or Americans. Again, I was the only white face there but I wasn’t intimidated, I was welcomed and the street vendors surrounded me. Buy a balloon? Have your picture taken? Have some chai? So, no balloons for me but I took them up on their offer of chai and a photograph by the Arch. It was actually quite cool; the photographers carried portable printers in their bags and for 40 rupees you could walk away with a small souvenir of your visit. I told the photographer that he could take my picture if I could take one of him in return. He smiled and said yes, laughing when I told him that I would only charge him 80 rupees for the privilege! All around, tourists were eating ice creams, sipping chai, chomping on peanuts … and then the heavens opened! I was lucky that I came at the end of the monsoon season, a rainy deluge across the Summer which at times is fierce and unending, at other times a short five minute burst followed by blazing sunshine which makes you feel like a damp cloth. This was one of the latter and everyone, and I mean everyone, ran for cover … only to be surrounded by umbrella salesmen who appeared as if from nowhere. A girl standing at my side told me not to buy one, I wouldn’t need it, and she was right. It was a crazy end to the day but I made my way back to my apartment, resembling a drowned rat, and began to think of the next day. What would I do to top this? You’ll have to wait to find out.

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Comments

[Valerie Sellars]

I am loving your time in India! I had no idea how absolutely fascinating it would be! The appearance of the umbrella salesmen made me laugh! I love your way with words and how it makes me feel like I am right there. I am not a fan of chai tea, but now I'm curious about the real thing! Can't wait for the next installment!

[Jane C]

Our man in Mumbai
Tim, this is a captivating read, thanks for sharing and bring back those drink ideas!!