The City

Downtown Mumbai is a very different beast to the suburbs. The roads are wider and there are fewer beggars, but the pace is massively increased – it’s definitely not a place to stand still. It’s also a lot more Western, with high-end tech and jewellery stores, and markets full of Levi’s and Calvin Klein knock-offs. Still, though, I am a very conspicuous outsider, having only seen a couple of white faces all day. Most of the crowd gives me at least a quick glance, if not a prolonged stare.

The earlier rain ended up coming down much harder as the day progressed, inducing me to buy an umbrella (vaguely functional, but liable to try and spring open at inopportune moments), but at least preventing me from looking quite so sweaty. The humidity is still much higher than I’m used to, so long walks – my preferred way of exploring cities – are just as tiring.

I’m not being hassled nearly as much as I was led to believe I would be. Apart from the beggars, who don’t discern between me and the suited businessmen, I’m more of a curiosity than a target. Nobody shouts at me to sell their wares, though perhaps that’s because the experienced street-vendors know better than to hope for a purchase from such a scruffy-looking backpacker. Generally, I’ve found that those approaching me with postcards or other tourist kitsch are only using it to hide the hashish secretly cupped in their fists, which, though stupidly cheap, is not really what I’m after.

Having to fight to get onto a rush-hour local train here is quite a fun experience, though I doubt I’d like to have to do it every day. Since there are no doors, just holes in the side, the first few passengers begin leaping out as the train is still moving, aiming for the small (to me, imperceptible) gaps between others now running along the platform to get on board, before the scrum intensifies as the carriage comes to a halt. It’s every man for himself (the women have different carriages reserved – where apparently the fighting for space can get even more vicious) as passengers are pouring into and out of the train in the few seconds before it moves off again. Stragglers and the overflow simply have to wait for the next one. The best spots, on account of the breeze, are those hanging out the side, so there’s another squirming match as the train departs, before it settles down and the victors get to enjoy their hard-won ventilation while those in the interior sweat.

I ended up wedged next to a very friendly local called Binoh, and we chatted in broken English between stops (where the main activity was to not get swept out by the tide of those exiting). He was a map-seller at one of the museums, and had only learned English from talking to tourists, so had a surprisingly good grasp of the language. He, along with much of the Hindu community of Mumbai, was in the middle of Navratri, a 10-day festival dedicated to Ganesh, the elephant-headed remover of obstacles., who is wildly popular throughout the city and the state of Maharashtra. Just before my stop, though, came a moment of particular sadness when I asked him about his family. Looking pleased with himself for knowing the words, he said “I have one children”, then, smile disappearing, “He is dead”.