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Published: August 9th 2010
Mumbai
Our plane, bucking and twitching wildly, finally dropped out from the thick monsoon clouds that cloaked the city to reveal a sodden mess of concrete and tin. Lurching ever closer to the ground we flew above an untidy unity of beige tower blocks, gleaming malls and, filling the spaces, tin shack villages, shanty towns, slums. As we neared the runway the turbulence subsided and we smoothly cruised above another slum, so low now that the tumble of individual shacks, hovels, homes that formed the confused whole could be seen, most with blue corrugated roofs, some with less. Narrow, convoluted and muddy alleys, sewers, streets could be seen veining the whole; carrying rickshaws, cows, dogs, shit, people. Two minutes later, landing gear down and barely feet above the ground, we skimmed the last shack and made our long awaited landing onto Indian soil.
After the usual arrival rubbish of passport check collect bags change money and pee we stepped outside into the sticky moist air, to immediately recognise the broadly smiling face of Vyne, our couchsurfing host for the next two nights. We hugged, we all spoke at the same time, we all laughed nervously, reassuringly, we all
smiled, relaxed. Vyne called his driver, our bags were loaded in the boot and we were personally driven in air conditioned, patent leather cocoonment through the mental streets of Mumbai to his penthouse flat in an apartment complex in North Mumbai. We entered the lift, had the lift-wallah push number 18 (I did ask, and yes, his entire remit is to sit on a chair in a lift and press the required buttons) and stepped into a flat of some serious luxury, comfort and beauty. It was at that exact moment when we realised how exceptionally, unbelievably lucky we had got.
We spent the following two days entirely in the voluptuous care of, and receiving the unremitting hospitality from, the incomparable Vyne. This was travelling in style, a whole new concept; not once did we have a decision to make, no hardships experienced, no dangers to negotiate, not once was the Lonely Planet consulted. Our day a seamless transition from restaurant to temple to monument to friend to bed to breakfast to puja to ticket procurement to dinner to home. All with our own driver, all with educational commentary, all with grace, patience, humour and love. All for us
and all quite overwhelming.
One of the most rewarding aspects (out of several) of our time with Vyne was his insiders knowledge of incredible local Dhabas and eateries. Having travelled in India previously I thought I knew how tasty the food here could be; perhaps I'd just forgotten. We ate out four times and each was both an (re)education and a revelation. Though I'd be happy to I'll not describe every last delicious dish, but I have to recommend the place where we ate lunch on our final day with Vyne. He took us to a joint called "Prakesh" in Dadar, a small Dhaba that has been operating in the same place, by the same family, for over fifty years. All the food here is traditional Maharashtrian fare, all justifiably famous amongst Mumbaikars and all just stupefyingly tasty.
We masticated our way through a small selection including; Subudana Wada (the house speciality of peanut, sago, cumin and chilli balls fried, served with coconut chutney); Batale Pohe (puffed rice, potatoes and spices); Misal (an incredible mix, similar to Bhelpuri but with pulses) and, the coup de grace, Piyush Lassi. A quite stunning version of an incredible drink. I challenge
the greatest Indiaphiles amongst you to go to Prakesh's, try his Piyush Lassi and to then look me in the eye and say, in all sincerity, that that was not the greatest Lassi ever. You will not be able to. Never before has a drink been able to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. Never without touching her has something that I've given Anny made her groan with quite such obvious pleasure. A lifechanging experience, seriously. Oh, and each dish cost but 30 INR (about 40 pence).
Mumbai is not a pretty city. Concrete predominates, generally in the form of chunky high-rises but also as formless squat, commercial boxes. Glass and steel can be found, both rising clinically out of the dross in some unlovely designs and styles and also, lower down, as malls. Mumbai's obsession with malls creates huge alternative urban environments, hermetically sealed from the chaos outside, allowing the new young urban elite a safe haven within which to spend their wages on ultra desirable, modern consumables. The other architectural constant in Mumbai are the shacks and hovels that make up the notorious slums. These fill each and every gap not
already taken by the above and are, themselves, filled to the brim with a hopeful migrant population drawn to Mumbai and its fiscal Renaissance, like flies to a steaming turd. The huts are so tightly squeezed together, each so enmeshed with its neighbour, that each slum is more like one large single story building, bisected and crossed by tracks and paths. The edges of the slums bulge outwards, leaning out over roads, railway tracks and parks like a dangerously distended water-balloon that, should it rupture, would spill its entire contents out in a single fetid wave.
Buildings here seem old before their time. The ubiquitous beige tower blocks barely ten years old are all mottled with mould and streaked by sludge. They seem so saturated by the rains of accumulated monsoons that they appear more like forgotten sponges in a long vacated flat. Ferns, grasses and sizeable trees cover many of these building's flanks lending Mumbai a strange, lost world feel; as though the swamps are now slowly reclaiming that which was once reclaimed from them. Adding to the greenery actually on the buildings are the numerous trees that line Mumbai's roads, the large maidens, and the thousands of
planter boxes , all pulling together to help temper the concrete's crumbly grip.
I actually quite like Mumbai, it has a vibrancy,an edge and, especially North of Fort, a really special heart, which is, of course, a product of its populace. In a city of teeming millions we were always treated with courtesy, humour and friendliness making the city feel, as in so many ways it truly is, like the worlds largest village. Unfortunately our time here had to end at some stage and, after two and a half glorious days of luxury and care, we had to break free of Vyne's oh so comfortable embrace and strike out on our own. Our driver drove us one last time across Mumbai to drop us at Dadar station from where, after some genuinely heartfelt goodbye's, we were to catch the night train to Kolhapur.
Kolhapur
Our train was due to arrive at 6:05am, so when I looked out of the window shortly after waking at 5:30am to see a sign reading "Kolhapur Station", I was pretty damn startled to say the least. I have taken plenty twenty thirty forty lots of trains before in India and not once,
not a single sole time, has one ever been so keen as to be early! I mean, I've had one or two that had arrived close enough just after their stated time to make a loose claim to punctuality, but never before has one deigned to arrive a full half hour early. Reeling both from the not unincredible shock of earliness and the very credible shock engendered by the hour, I weaved down the platform towards the exit, that was guarded, as ever, by a platoon of black and yellow rickshaws.
With shoulders hunched and my hat pulled down low above my resolutely downcast eyes, I stepped bravely off the platform expecting the worst. What I received floored me with ease. Only three out of the four dozen drivers enquired as to whether I'd like a rickshaw and all of those, when I answered in the negative, smiled, wobbled their head and retreated. I was defeated; overwhelmed by a tactical niceness, outmaneuvered by decency. I had to sit down to take stock, try and make sense of the strange happenings that had started this day: first an early train, then a mass of honest, pleasant rickshaw-wallahs and
also, whilst looking to the heavens for answers, the first blue skies of this trip.
So, the day started with the denying of the validity of two classic Indian stereotypes, it was to continue with the affirmation of a couple more. After checking in to a hotel we made our way back to the station to book ourselves a couple of train tickets. Those who have travelled India before will know the sometimes pain and frustration this can cause, those that haven't are lucky. Kolhapur is not a large station and the info boards gave departure and destination stations only, not all the little stops in between. This then necessitated the purchase of that wonderful resource for Indian rail travellers: "Trains at a glance".
We achieved this (in a typically convoluted, beautifully Indian fashion) as follows: We stare at train information board obviously confused; grandly mustachioed man sidles up to us and offers assistance; he understands our predicament perfectly and sends us up the road to a bookstore to purchase aforementioned manual; bookstore is not in mentioned location; passerby is asked and we are sent off in another direction to another bookstore; this one, of course, proves a
slippery bugger to locate; young businessman offers unsolicited help, sends us in another direction; we hesitatingly follow this route but become confused; business man reappears (having clearly followed us) and offers to show us a short cut; when this short cut takes us over the rail tracks we remark how handy as, once our purchase is made, we will be using it to book a train, yonder at the station down the tracks; businessman says well, in that case, why not purchase "Trains in a Glance" there. After a one hour round trip on foot, we do just that!
It is almost impossible to let such an impossible situation rankle. All the mistakes were ours and all the attempts at assistance genuine, if perhaps occasionally wayward. Next we hailed a rickshaw to take us into the old part of town where we wanted to visit the Mahalaxmi temple and purchase Anny a Salwar Kameez. Remembering the uncommon behavior of the rickshaw-wallahs earlier I entered the battered, buzzing, bumblebee-like contraption with something approaching goodwill. Again I was confounded; he knew the location, he drove directly there and he - I can't quite believe this, but he really did - he
actually used the meter. Fifteen minutes later I gave him 40INR for the 30INR fare and woozily swooned from the cab. luckily no injury ensued as we were outside the temple, so I was gently caught by the smell of jasmine and incense and then propped up by the sound of a tabla.
We decided to shop first and pray later as our puja the day before with Vyne at a Ganesh Temple seemed to really be paying dividends; our luck was truly in, Laxmi could wait. Anny made some tentative forays into some clothes shops whilst I waited outside watching the people watching Anny. A cute blond attempting an ethnic makeover is apparently quite entertaining. The small crowds were all of women and all good natured and all wanted to speak to me. I was, as always where massed ladies are concerned, happy to oblige. Upon explaining to one particularly charming pair the difficulties Anny was having in finding a garment to match the one she envisioned, they immediately offered to be our personal shoppers and guide us around the tailors of Kolhapur. Indian eyes for a white guys girl.
Anny now has what she wanted, but
much greater gifts were to follow. By way of thanks we took Arundhati and her friend for some ice cream in a small but modern smoothie joint, run with brusk efficiency by a little big boss who must have been all of 12 years old! After leaving, on the point of saying goodbye, Arundhathi tentatively asked, with such hope and sincerity, if we'd like to travel to her village to meet her family. These are the kinds of invitations that are to be cherished when travelling, so it was an easy decision to happily agree. A half hour bus ride into the country later and we were sat, moong dhal and chappattis in front of us, in the simple but beautifully atmospheric front room of Arundhati's father's house.
In the five hours we were there we met all the members of Arundhati's extended family as well as what must have been just about the entire population of Panchgoan. Families ambled in, "Namaskaars" were exchanged, babies proffered and smiles mirrored. I was whisked round the village by a group of young men who lead me into house after house to introduce me to friends and relations. I felt like a
politician as I shook numerous hands, kissed babies and made short speeches to appreciative audiences. Anny was taken by Arundhati and given the full Indian treatment; she had Mehandi (henna) applied to her arm, she was dressed in a sari, she was given (to keep) several gorgeous bangles and a Kum Kum (tika, bindi) was applied to her forehead. The women all had so much fun with this transformation that just watching them cluck and fuss over Anny was an experience in itself.
When it came it was, again, a genuinely emotional goodbye; Arundhati's tears after such a short acquaintance did not seem odd, but rather an honest reaction to the termination of a short, but perfectly formed relationship. For me, the day was coloured by a mild but persistent melancholy whose provenance I could not quite determine. I thought perhaps it was the overwhelmingly intense expression of friendship shown by Arundhati that had upset my western reserve, or maybe it was the difficulty I have with accepting generosity from such obviously very poor people, but really I think it was engendered by baring witness to a more honest, inclusive and open method of living, one so alien from
my personal, western conditioning, that though I received the gift of its joy, it was wrapped in the sadness of spectating.
Our last day in Kolhapur was spent visiting Panhala Fort. We learned of this small hill station from one of Vynes friends and were well glad we followed his advice. I am not sure as to who built the fort (it's not in the Lonely Planet) but can report that it is a hugely atmospheric (especially when surrounded by dark monsoon clouds), obviously untouristed, little slice of rural India. Crumbling, foliage ridden ramparts sit atop huge cliffs that surround the town, affording fantastic views over the Maharastrian plains below. The town itself has several tanks where women can be seen beating their sari's against the ancient stones to clean and a couple of stoically declining, blackened temples. We spent our time lazily clambering over the ruins or sitting in quiet contemplation, admiring the views whilst parakeets flew overhead and long horned buffalo chewed the cud at our side. For lunch we used our fingers to eat a majestic Thali (watching Anny attempt this was very fun indeed!) in a simple Dhaba by the bus stand, all the while
exchanging "Namaskaars" with the politely curious locals, before boarding the bus for the scenic return to Kolhapur.
At the end of my fourth full day back in India, after a beautifully simple dinner of Batada Wada, Patal Bhaji and Lassi, I take a short walk through town to think and reflect. The first thing I acknowledge is the relaxed smile that comfortably curls my lips; a grin I've been acknowledging practically every minute of every day. The second is the smiles I've been constantly witnessing and returning, the ones which often wiggle bushy mustaches, or crease almond eyes. The unsolicited ones, the sneaky ones, the ones returned, the ones earned but never one that's spurned. Thirdly I remember some unique Indian pleasures that I've reacquainted myself with: a shave massage combo, lassi, Massala Dosa, sleeper trains, cows in streets, head wobbles and unexpected friendships; I also look forward to those to come. As I pass roadside stalls selling fruit sweets paper paan lottery tickets pictures puri, whilst giant fruit bats dot the sky, cows stand sacred, immobile and rickshaws buzz my thighs, I well up with a genuine emotion, near as damn it to that of love, and make
a serious resolution to embrace every second, every experience and every precious moment left to me in this uniquely beautiful country.
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David Fossey
non-member comment
Beautifully written
I love you account of your travels - to one of those countries still on my wish list in this one off life, getting shorter by the day. David - Grey haired nomads