Gandhi is with us always - staring out from every paper currency, and here, from this banner along a Mumbai Street
Arrival in Mumbai in some ways, like arriving in any developing country. The telltale smell of diesel. The cacaphony of honking car horns. And, of course, the slums, the millions of people making lives amidst corrugated metal, cardboard, and whatever of other people's flotsam and jetsam they can scrape together to support their day to day existence.
We got an "air-conditioned" taxi from the airport. Like most of the cabs here, it looked like the taxi from Toon Town in "Who Framed Roger Rabbit," only about 20 years old.
It kinda sorta had air conditioning (in a semi-broken way) but also a half-dozen mosquitoes in the cab. The mosquitoes immediately brought back memories of my bout with malaria in Africa. How to get the mosquitoes out?
"Open the glass," said the driver. So we opened the windows (so much for the air conditioning) and tried to shoo the mosquitoes out of the car.
Shooing mosquitoes away from veins with warm human blood coursing through them is never a simple task, but I was highly motivated.
It is always disconcerting to give a taxi driver an address and then watch him just stare blankly at it for 30 seconds.
"Umm, you don't know where that is, do you?" I ask in trepidation, already anticipating the inevitable -
"No problem, no problem"
(Why am I not convinced, as we pass the Intercontinental, which even I know is past our hotel?)
Of course he got lost. He ended up pulling into The Ambassador Hotel.
"This is the wrong hotel."
"West End," the driver proudly proclaimed. The big sign on the front said otherwise.
The turbaned bell man approached to open the door and take our bags.
Practically winking, I inquired in a loud voice - "West End Hotel?"
"No, no - this is Ambassador." Then he proceeded to give directions in Hindi to our hotel.
Eventually, we arrived.
Given the British influence here, and the fact that several of the world's great English-language writers are from India, one imagines that everyone is fluent in English. But it is not so. There are over 200 major languages and dialects and even in Mumbai we meet people who don't speak English.
Speaking of people. When your country has over a billion people, the first question that comes to mind is - where do you put them?
Everywhere. One does not come to Mumbai for solitude. After an afternoon stroll the concept "deserted street" does not exist. Rather, one cannot truly grasp the concept of "teeming masses" without experiencing this.
Walking around Mumbai, I would describe the general street scene as "controlled chaos," however that suggests control, and I witnessed none. Just "chaos" suggests mayhem and there was none of that either. More a sort of benign chaos - no order, no control, no problem.
By no order or control, I mean that, in a sense, anything goes. Wanna leave a ton of metal or wood or sand or bricks on the sidewalk or street - go right ahead. No one will stop you or try to do anything about it.
People would set up shop anywhere, selling clothes, fabric, rags, shoes, you name it.
And, of course, people - sitting, lying, sleeping, peeing pretty much anywhere.
Raphael and I walked to Chhapatrati Shivajia, aka Victoria Terminus (VT) - the central train station.
Built in late 19th century, it is a magnificent structure, fusing Victorian gothic with Islamic and South Asian architectural influences - and it works. One observer rote - "what the Taj Mahal is to the Moghuls, Victoria Terminus represents to the British Raj."
Chhapatrati Shivajia, aka Victoria Terminus (reopened after terrorist attack)
VT was hit by the terrorists 10 days ago, but the building weathered the attack and the station seems back to its hustle-bustle self.
Our neighborhood - Fort/Churchgate - seems an interesting blend of stately majestic colonial mansions and structures - occasionally with Art Deco and Islamic features, along with grime and grunge and poverty and decay. A park with a beautiful colonial structure, guys playing cricket, and trash and litter strewn everywhere.
Raphael enjoying street vendor food at outdoor market
Becky showed up after our walk - she flew in from Varanasi. Looking as if she's gone a bit native - wearing Indian clothes and her arms covered with an Indian henna pattern - her host mom did it for her in honor of her program's farewell party (Becky was living in Madurai, a more traditional town - women simply could not go out in the street without wearing a sari and a dupata).
We went to Chowpatty Beach (a popular area for dining and hanging out) for dinner. A fusion place - after 4 months, becky was interested in non-indian fare, but I got a veg thali dinner and still had some delicious food I'd never seen before (and some less delicious).
We shared an ice cream Sundae dessert which was perfect.
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