Into Mumbai

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WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 11

As our plane circles and dips on its final approach into Mumbai, at around 12:40 am local time, with my own body clock all shot, ten and a half hours behind and out of kilter, I resolved to let India teach me, over the next two months, as much as I can absorb of its arts, including architecture, its spiritual and religious life, its sheer geography and the relics of its recent and ancient experiences with foreign influences, all of which it has subsumed over the years to emerge as the largest democracy in the world.

Our reception through the Mumbai airport terminal was reassuringly smooth: immigration, baggage pickup, customs, currency exchange and my first exposure to local toilets went just like they were expecting and prepared for us, including our waiting taxi driver, with sign held aloft. He whisked us off on the one-hour drive to our hotel in the still of the big-city morning. Two am, I will now always argue, is the desired time of day at which to enter a large city. Its outlines, rich neighborhoods on the hills, poor in the valleys are clearer; its initial sounds are in a softer, calmer voice, no horns; and its taxi drivers, at least ours, are more inclined to give lessons in history and current affairs: The Congress Party held its first political conference in Mumbai in the eighteen nineties, it was from Mumbai that Britain in the early nineteen forties was first asked to depart, Sonia Gandhi is in town while we are, Mumbai’s residents number over sixteen million, so said our driver. My own sense was of the sure presence of water, an innate
feel that there was a mighty sea to this city, and sure enough, as our taxi turned onto Marine Drive where our hotel is situated, the majesty of the Arabian Sea was upon us, foregrounding a wide arc of luminous cityscape, which Mumbaikans call the golden necklace and whose beauty advances to the power of four, seen from our fourth floor balcony, on which we lingered for the rest of the morning, taking in this breathless commanding view, until the city begun to come alive, whereupon we went contently to bed; we had arrived.

Caringly assured by the thoughtful staff at our clean and charming small hotel, that scrambled eggs, bacon and toast were on tap later that morning, we graciously demurred; and set off in search of an Indian-style breakfast which, in gently irony, we found at the five star a block over.

Today, Bakri Eid is being observed as a national holiday in these parts, giving us an unexpected glimpse of this multi-religious populace in repose with significant numbers at prayer, and affording us a chance to view the city slowly and un-rushed. With room to move, we cased the railway station and pedestrian tunnels, supermarketed to the merriment of the young staff, who taught us how to say hello and thank-you in Hindi; and made passing acquaintance with pavement dwellers in the district. Lunch was lamb masala in lentils, accompanied by stuffed paratha, mango chutney and shredded red onions. This was setup by Bombay gin and mellowed-out by Kingfisher beer. We practiced traffic etiquette, clearly needed for survival here, tested that ATM and credit card swiping machines would recognize us; and that the internet and on-line banking would be available to us. They all worked just fine, like I had gambled big they would. We rounded out our walk through Churchgate, our residential area until Sunday, with a spontaneous drop-in to the members only All India Cricket club, where an internal league match was in progress, cream flannels and teatime to the hilt. We could have been in Bridgetown or Old Trafford, if we never returned to the street; but we did and went to bed for the second time today.

Vernon

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