Mehta's Maximum City

21 March 2006 – Day 2

Today we set off early to catch the train from Santa Cruz to Churchgate, before the crowds built up. Churchgate is a station smack in the middle of the downtown area. I had an idea of what to expect from an Indian train and soon the platform was packed after we’d bought our 7 rupee ticket. A mad pushing and shoving ensued, as passengers got off the train before it stopped and people crushed together to take their places. The trains themselves were old, but in a reasonable enough state of repair. James and I fought our way on, but there was precious little room to move with other passengers hanging out of the open train doors. The suburban stopper train we were on took thirty minutes to get to Churgate as we absorbed and deposited other passengers. The commuters weren’t interested in us; it was here that I first noticed what I call ‘Mumbai Indifference’. We travelled past slum housing, the cricket ground (where at that moment England were playing a test series against India), new corporate headquarters and flats.

Eventually we arrived in the centre. It didn’t take long for me to lose my sense of direction and cool, but again the locals picked up on the bad vibes and helped us make sense of the municipal gardens, choc-a-bloc roads and chowks (circles). By the same token we were easy prey for the tour guides with out white flesh glinting in the sun. One chap picked up on us as we walked to the Gateway of India and was insistent that we follow him to go on a city tour for 450 rupees each. Not impressed by his pushy manner, we let him lead us to a place for cheap breakfast and then gave him the slip.

When we reached the Gateway of India, beggars, touts and religious individuals crowded us. We tried to resist an elderly Hindu tying bands around our wrists and giving us sweets, but he caught us unawares and ignored our complaints. At this point we met Ramesh. Ramesh was much like the other people we’d met in this section of town, Colaba: slight, polite and clean shaven other than for a proudly sported moustache. Ramesh was another guide, but he was far less pushy and was willing to give us time to consider his proposal: an extensive car tour costing 850 rupees each: expensive but he would stop anywhere and pay for entrance fees to museums. After a few snaps of the Gateway of India, we decided it was time to let Ramesh take over. We jumped into a clapped out white Truimph, a similar looking vehicle to yellow and black Fait taxi cabs ubiquitous in Mumbai. Ramesh said he was at our service, so we decided to stop at: Nariman Point, Chowpatty Beach, Malabar Hill, the Jain Temple, the Hanging Gardens, the Towers of Silence, the MG museum, Crawford Market, an Art Gallery and the Fisherman’s village.
The most interesting section was of Malabar Hill, full of exclusive film stars and wealthy bankers. Incongruously, the Jain temple nestles amongst the other buildings. It was a holy day for the Jain's and we were brought in at Ramesh’s own risk. This branch of Hinduism was formed about 1000 years ago, banning marriage (originally, Ramesh explained, when a Hindi man died, his wife was cremated along side him) and insisting on pure vegetarianism. We were careful to bow and pray to the exquisite silver and marble idols. We then picked up some rich and inedible dairy curd sweets which tasted too farm-yard like for comfort. Ramesh wisely opted for a chapatti breakfast.
We then wandered into the hanging gardens, which are built over a massive water reservoir and saw the mango and jack-fruit trees in the adjacent public park. We discovered Ramesh has three children and he said that he only works for them. He has been a tour guide for 10 years and was born and brought up in Colaba.
On Ramesh’s request we did not take pictures of the Towers of Silence, the place where the Zooastrians leave their dead for the Wildlife to pick clean. We were also privileged to visit Mahatma Gandhi’s house.

Before leaving Churchgate/Fort/Colaba, we went along the increasingly fraught and bustling streets behind the Gateway of India. Here we met a 15-year-old girl beggar, who walked with us and told us about her young brother and sister. It was impossible to refuse her money after establishing an emotional connection and she took us to a grocers so that we could see she was genuinely going to buy food with the 500 rupees each that James and I gave her. Whilst this sum might have been generous from a beggar’s point of view, it was a drop in the ocean to us. I walked away feeling rotten and privileged. The crazy driving, incessant horn-blowing and heat had got to us, so we left town at 5pm for a dusty, slow ride back to Santa Cruz.