Mumbai

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Dad has left now. For the few days after Kathmandu, the two of us lounged around our luxurious hotel room at the Grand Goodwin in Ram Nagar. For one of the days, my Dad went to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort, while I ordered room service and watched “Mortal Kombat” and “Get Me Out of Here, I’m a Celebrity!” reruns on television.
We had a great time, and more than anything else, I enjoyed just having my father there to talk with. It seemed almost egregious that we set our final weekend in Mumbai, an Indian city unlike any I have visited.
Mumbai is like New York, Miami, Hollywood, and London all rolled into one and thrown onto a small rock jutting into the Arabian Sea. And yet it’s nothing like those cities because it’s Mumbai. I only offer the formers because I was trying to categorize it for the entirety of our short visit. Now I realize that I cam up empty.
We arrived very late, and I was trying to fight off a cold I had acquired on the plane. I was also still recovering from the plane food. Somehow, every meal that I have had on a plane in India has involved a morbidly brown and yellow amorphous soft blob that sits and glares at me from its position on the tray, flanked by two rubbery green beans and an omelette. It’s disgusting, and yet I am always starving and so I eat it. Anyways, if you see this devious character prowling the food cart on Jet Airways, don’t touch it. Its name is trauma and its game is indigestion.
But as soon as we stepped off of the plane, I knew that Mumbai would be different. Maybe even refreshing. At least brisk. The airport was clean and bright, the street lamps on the highway were glowy, and the air smelled like salt. My Dad had read the Mumbai chapter in the Rough Guide, and he told me that there was a slum near the airport that was home to about one million people, and was one of the most efficient production centers on the planet. I stewed on this as we sped along the freeway, which was the first real freeway I had seen in India, on our way to the end of the Mumbai peninsula: Colaba, situated at the southern tip of the gargantuan port city, and about as far away from the million-person slum as one could get while still being in Mumbai.
Colaba has become somewhat of the tourist center in Mumbai. It’s home to the Gateway of India, a giant art-deco structure reminiscent of the Arc de Triumph, and the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower Hotel, a quintessential Indian institution and one of the most famous hotels in the subcontinent. The hotel was supposedly built after Jamset Tata, of Tata Motors fame, was refused from the prestigious British institution, Parke’s Apollo Hotel, because he was not white. The Taj Mahal Palace and Tower quickly grew in popularity among Indians, and is still going strong, long after Parke’s went defunct. Colaba is also in close proximity to Mumbai’s museums, the famous Victoria Terminus, and Marine Drive, a road that runs along the stretch of coast facing the Arabian Sea. We had a room at the Strand Hotel, in a fantastic location, but a little bland for the money we paid. At least, it was not luxury for under fifty dollars a night, as the Grand Goodwin was. But the prices rise with the skirt lines in Mumbai, and we were close to the hottest clubs in town. Not that Pops and I did any star-gazing at Indigo, but it was fun to know that India’s Bollywood A-List frequented the scene we were sleeping in.
It was wonderful to be near the ocean again. I could actually smell the salt in the air, and not just shipping grime, as Dad and I passed the water on our way through Colaba the next morning. We stopped at the Gateway of India monument, which was smaller than I had imagined, and gazed up at the Taj Mahal Palace and Tower Hotel. Dad told me that that was the hotel the terrorists had taken hostage not even a year earlier. I said he was full of it, and we continued on.
We ate breakfast at a place called Leopold’s Café, which offered bland European and American food, yet was inexplicably comforting. My egg sandwich on cardboard-like toast was a very boring egg sandwich, but it was an egg sandwich nonetheless. The place itself was something like an open dining hall with square tables, and was not especially attractive. This could have been due to the fact that it was over 120 years old, or to the owner’s lack of flair for decorating. Some of the walls were old and falling down, and Dad and I joked we saw a bullet hole in the mirror. But the place was chock-full of tourists, and it did have good coffee.
After breakfast, Dad and I went to the marvelous Prince of Wales Museum, probably the best historical museum I have seen in India (more interesting than the National Museum in Delhi, and less archaic than the Indian Museum in Calcutta). The collections ranged from Tibetan culture to stone carvings to the impressive personal art collection of the Tata brothers. The building itself was also very beautiful, much like, as we would soon find out, the rest of the buildings in downtown Mumbai. On every corner stood a gargantuan hunk of Victorian indulgence, beckoning tourists to stop and snap hundreds of photos. The whole of downtown was an unfolding overhead presentation of nineteenth century British architecture.
We took a break from our explorations at one point to eat at Apoorva, an absolutely delicious Gujarati restaurant with succulent seafood and Budweisers. It was located one block up a street running north from Horniman Circle and St. Thomas Cathedral (the oldest standing British structure in Mumbai), and is a little difficult to find.
Another highlight was Victoria Terminus, another bold piece of colonial grandeur, and probably the most beautiful station I have seen next to Grand Central Railway. Sadly, though, the outside of the building was covered in green cloths, and all we could do was guess what the building would look like if seen as a whole.
We eventually made our way back to the Strand to take a quick nap. After an hour or so, Dad and I got back up and decided to go get a drink. There are restaurant bars all over downtown Mumbai (in Colaba, and the areas known as Churchgate and the Fort), and so choosing the best-looking one would be like picking out the best straw in a haystack. We relied heavily on the Rough Guide, but we also looked for places with the most people. We settled on Café Mondegar, a corner joint with wide open doors and good rock music. The place was packed full of tourists, expats, and students, and we took a table near the back, where we could watch the scene unfold. It was oddly comforting to watch four young adults, gathered around a table, clink their beer mugs together merrily and then down them whole. The menu tackled all the “continental” favorites, yet the food was nothing spectacular, and even a little gross. I would have bet money that my tartar sauce was full of live cultures. Either way, the draught Kingfisher was crisp and delicious, and the atmosphere was very welcoming and fun. After we had had our fill of carbonara and fish and chips, we stumbled out of the bar and headed to the internet café, where I proceeded to get angry and rather emo while answering emails. All part of the product description. I finally sauntered out and met my Dad, and the two of us headed back to the hotel.
My spirits were restored from their brief Indian fuzz on the walk back. When we checked into our hotel, Dad asked our doorman about the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, and whether or not it was the scene of the terrorist debacle. He said it was, and that he had lost several friends in the attacks. Far from the response I had expected, both Dad and I grew somber and nodded awfully. The doorman proceeded to tell us the path of carnage that the ten terrorists had left, including close to one hundred and fifty deaths. Then we trudged up to our rooms and went to bed. The cracks we had seen in the mirrors at Leopold’s were bullet holes.
We returned to Leopald’s for breakfast the next morning. It was Diwali that day, but the café was still full of tourists. The counter at Leopald’s was selling two books. The first was “Shantaram,” David Gregory Roberts’ semi-autobiographical novel about his escape from an Australian prison and his escapades working for the Mumbai mafia. Apparently, Roberts still frequents Leopald’s, a primary setting in his book. The second was “26/11 Mumbai,” an account of the terrorist attacks less than a year ago. Dad bought the latter (David Gregory Roberts, I’m sorry to say, sounds like kind of a douche), and we perused over its introductory map, which showed the path of the terrorists and an explanatory timeline. Apparently, they hit the Oberai Towers, another fancy tourist hotel, and Victoria Terminus (which may have had something to do with the station’s renovation), in addition to shooting up Leopald’s Café indiscriminantly. The attacks began from five different points around the city at almost exactly the same time. Of all the terrorists, only one survived. Four of the remaining terrorists took refuge in the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, where they remained for something like forty-eight hours. As we were reading, a few defeaning firecrackers went off outside of the restaurant, and many of Leopold’s patrons (some of whom, no doubt, had overheard Dad and my conversation regarding how Leopald’s was shot up) quickly ducked, then grinned sheepishly. It was an unnerving experience, and my neck definitely felt a little hot. We left shortly after.
We took a taxi to Chowpatty Beach, on the northernmost stretch of Marine Drive. We had expected the town to be shut down for Diwali. That’s, at least, how Indian cities were on Gandhi’s birthday and Independence Day. But apparently, Diwali is not that kind of holiday, because everything was still very much open.
Chowpatty Beach was a nice place to stroll. It was a little dirty, but no dirtier than Manhattan Beach or Venice Beach. Plus, the weather was nice, and we later saw a few people getting in the water. The oceanfront cityscape of Mumbai looks a lot like pictures I have seen of Miami, and I could imagine how plush some of the high-rise flats were that towered above us. We walked north fo Chowpatty Beach and into the thick of Malabar Hill, perhaps the “Beverly Hills” of Mumbai. It was easily the nicest area of India that I have seen, and thus a far cry from the Indian reality. The streets were shady, the houses grand, and the car honking was kept to a minimum. We then caught a taxi back down to Marine Drive, where we walked the length of its three or four kilometer stretch. It was a fantastic place to walk, and was full of people with similar ideas.
At the end of the walk, Dad and I popped into some pizzeria for a beer. It was situated on the corner of Marine Drive and VN Road, and its glass front had a commanding view of the action outside. We didn’t eat, but I got a Kingfisher draught and we sat and talked, enjoying the atmosphere. The pizza looked good, too. I can’t remember the name of the place, but there was a jazz club connected to its lobby.
We left the pizzeria and strolled down VN Road, where we stopped at Gaylord’s, a posh restaurant with a divine bakery attached. I feasted on donuts, baguette, and croissants until I was sick. I have never enjoyed baked goods so much as since I have been in India, probably because I can’t find them anywhere. A good donut is a beautiful thing. It was no Kingpin or Colonial, but Gaylord’s was close enough for then and there. From Gaylord’s we walked to Mumbai University, probably the most beautiful collection of British buildings I have seen in India. The Hogwarts-like exterior was full of spires, long walkways, and grassy lawns. It was a very small campus from what I could tell, but its handsome brown color and ornate gargoyles were intoxicating. The whole scene made me wish I had attended Oxford or Harvard or, dare I say it, Mumbai University, if only so I could get lost in the spiral staircases and cathedral-like reading rooms.
We dropped a few things off at the hotel and then headed back out to the pizzeria we had been to earlier. The food was excellent: the best pizza and past I have had in India, hands down. I’m pretty sure the restaurant was owned by Mars company, and probably a chain, but I didn’t care. It was damn good. I got a pizza primavera, and Dad got a good chicken pasta. I was in heaven, and the two of us threw back a few pitchers.
Then the madness started. Diwali. People gathered out on Marine Drive in droves, and suddenly there were firecrackers everywhere, erupting from thick crowds of people like angry packs of neon bees, only to fall back to earth in a flurry of smoke and screams. I wondered how many people died from third-degree burns on Diwali, especially after I saw one faulty firework blast off down VN road and into a building. But the whole city was in terrific spirits, and the mood was infectious. After dinner, we stepped outside and watched the celebration, but only for a few moments. Neither of us are chickens, but I did not want light in places that don’t need it, if you catch my drift. No? I didn’t want a firecracker up my ass. So we caught a rickshaw back, the booms and laughter still ringing in our ears.
We had to get up early the next morning to catch a flight back to Delhi. The flight was uneventful, save for an Indian man to my left who put three packs of butter on his tiny breakfast roll, and sat carving the bulbous mound with a knife until it was a fully-fledged mountain, at which point he stuffed it in his mouth. I watched him with an open jaw for some time before falling asleep.
It was really sad to see Dad go. I know it will not be long before I’m back at home, but something about a parent leaving you in a foreign place is always a little wrenching. I wanted to jump in his suitcase and go back home in the overhead compartment, at which point my Mom, Dad, and I could sit around the kitchen table and eat apple pie, while my dog Cody nudged at my leg. Alas, this was only a fleeting and impulsive desire, and soon after my Dad left, I was left only with the elated and fulfilling memories of having just spent two weeks alone with my Dad, probably the best guy I know. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience perhaps, and I feel blessed to have enjoyed it.

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