i drew more than a few stares when i walked around Churchgate station, trying to find a decent angle from which i could shoot a photograph. how could i explain to all the curious people rushing past to catch their train that this was the very station that once merited a beautiful black-and-white-photograph often held up as a representation of Bombay’s train stations? i couldn’t manage anything even remotely close – between clutching my bag, running after my cousin (who was also my companion/guide), and trying to make sure i was not pushed down by the crowd coming by, i could only snap a photo of the metal board that said Churchgate – a small effort, but one that will jog back some vivid memories of a city that draws me.
a glimpse of what life must be like in India’s busiest city was afforded to me even before i left Singapore. the moment i stepped onto the flight, i could hear a dozen voices chattering away in ‘Bombay Hindi’ telling an invisible listener back home that they would reach by about 9.45 pm, and yes, they will take a cab back, and of course, they will settle the outstanding issues once they reach. residents of Bombay must be every telecom company’s cherished customers. the handphones settled in once the plane started to move. (as if to make up for its loss, the man next to me plugged his earphones to the phone and started singing along with the songs.)
on the connecting buses that took us from the plane to the Shivaji International airport, almost everyone on board whipped out their handphones and started talking. one man was telling some one to order pav bhaji, an elderly gentleman was discussing doctor’s appointments, yet another was wondering just where to go – either his own home or his friend’s – being a saturday night, there was still time to party. in the days to follow, i would observe how everyone seemed to be obsessed with their handphones – calling or messaging constantly – in a city that measures time by seconds, it is but a small effort to ensure ties are kept strong and friendships alive.
i made my way through the airport’s doors. the immigration-clearance line was, as expected, extremely long – snaking its way through a room hardly suited to handle crowds. as i struggled to push past the hordes to join a queue, i saw ‘mr. pav bhaji‘ several paces ahead of me, still talking on the phone. a couple of American tourists stood around looking shell shocked at the crowd. the sing-along-diva who was earlier sitting next to me was in another line, asking everyone around him if they worked in Singapore and swapping numbers with those who did.
to my surprise, the queue moved fast. unlike the many hours when i had been stuck in similar lines in other indian cities, i found myself heading to the end of the queue in just ten minutes. i wondered if it was new found inner zen, later i found out it was just very fast-working officials, with one man whose only job was to swivel around in his chair and guide people to different counters.
step out. Bombay engulfs you. ratty taxis with their faded, wildly floral seats, and bright blue/red-lighted interiors beckon, almost looking like a movie-set on wheels. you walk over and tell the taxi-wallah where you want to go; he grunts, gives you a nod, reaches out to flick the meter and then spits out some of his paan before starting the car.
lights were ablaze all through the city. for Navaratri and Eid – and even as Hindi devotional songs blared from loudspeakers tied to poles along the road, so did the Muzzein’s call to prayer from the mosques nearby. the radio DJs kept urging everyone to go for the many ‘dandia dances’ around the city. i drove through the Bandstand on Eid, watching crowds waiting to wish the famous Khan (Shah Rukh, just in case you wondered) of Bollywood who lives along that stretch. they had been standing there for hours, and would stand for many more, with no guarantee that they might even get a glimpse of their idol.
after the first three days, i realised that the heart of Bombay is in its streets. i walked along Linking road in Bandra, looking at the stretch of shops with shoes and clothes – and bought a couple of pairs of sandals for less than a quarter of the price the guy quoted initially. bargaining is the culture here. the key – if the shopkeeper asks you to come back when you pretend to walk away, it means he will go lower. it is all in good spirit, and even as i chattered away about my newly acquired sandals, i caught the shopkeeper smiling at my excitement. shopkeepers were less inclined to bargain along the Colaba causeway stretch, preferring to let go of our sales for the easy western tourists that throng the area. selling Indian kitsch and antiques, mini sculptures and t-shirts emblazoned with images of the Hindu gods, they beckon passers-by to stop and admire. i tried to do the “not-interested-so-i-will-walk-away” trick with a man who was selling faux vintage cameras, but he just waved me away. i hoped to find some other shop with similar merchandise, but realised he was the only one with stock. i had no choice but to go back and get the cameras at the inflated prices he quoted me.
Leopold’s and Cafe Mondegar’s are the watering holes of choice here, with a brand new McDonalds hovering nearby. ‘local’ favourites apparently never lose their appeal here. a friend who took me out to lunch stressed it further by saying that Starbucks had tried to enter the market by buying over an ailing coffee-house chain called Barista, but a prominent industrialist pumped in enough millions to keep Barista afloat and the Starbucks mermaid at bay – rumour or not, it seemed impressive enough. i forced my cousins to go to Leopold’s to absorb the ambience of the now-famous cafe mentioned in Shantaram. they weren’t impressed, i didn’t get to see Gregory David Roberts – but i could atleast visualise the setting of Roberts’ meetings when i would read the book again back home in Singapore.
unable to find any shops that afford retail therapy, we ask passing taxi-wallahs for directions, they shout an answer back as they whizz by. we finally give in to exhaustion and catch a taxi back home (calling a taxi a ‘cab’ here just doesn’t sound right). we pass by the strip of lights famously known as the ‘queen’s necklace’. i ask the taxi-wallah to stop for a little while. he obliges. i walk over, climb onto the ledge, and face the seafront.
i try to take a photograph, but my attempts yield miserable results. i put away the camera and gaze out to the horizon. feeling the salt-tinted breeze run its fingers gently though my hair, i look on the skyline of lights, one that has drawn many to its shores. lights that hold the promise many come seeking.
it is a scene that can never be described enough. or even described.