An Untourist Look at Mumbai

April 7, 2018

The two excursions I was on in Mumbai were not about seeing the sights, though we did pass by a few on the bus: the vast Victorian-ornate administrative offices and Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus, leftovers from the Raj that all looked like huge dribbly sand castles.

When I have the option, wherever I am, I go on a walking tour... it’s always better than a bus tour. In Mumbai, that was absolutely the right choice.

My back-to-back explorations gave me a full day, with the especially wonderful guide, Jasmina, to ‘meander through picturesque narrow streets’ in the hidden neighborhoods of Old Mumbai. I never would have thought I’d take to a city of 23 million people. It was remarkable. I doubt I’ll ever go back, so I want to read more about it, and I’ve Kindled The Storyteller’s Secret: A Novel, by Sejal Badani and Shantaram: A Novel, by Gregory David Roberts. And I must watch Slumdog Millionaire again — it exposes more of the underbelly of India, not the sanitized parts I have seen.

This is Mumbai. A ‘shanty town’ (our guide’s term) where families live under corrugated metal roofs. Evidently, they at least have electricity. Plumbing? Doubtful.

And this... most of the cows I saw were better fed than this.

And this...

But it wasn’t all sad and depressing. Note how clean the streets are. ‘Let’s put a stop to littering’ is a big public campaign in Mumbai that they hope will spread to the rest of India.

This woman is lucky to have a job. The education level in India is very high... but there aren’t enough jobs. A guide told us that thousands of people, many with high degrees, applied for one job opening: as a rat catcher.

Waiting for the market to open... the lady is the only one without a smart phone.

State Institute for Administrative Careers. Indians are ‘fastidious record keepers,’ and the bureaucracy is, apparently, stupifying.

Finally off the bus and on foot, with Jasmina in the lead. I always shoot laundry.

I didn’t know what was coming next, at the famous Dhobi Ghat...

Ready for delivery...

This was all in the area surrounding the Banganga, a sacred, spring-fed water tank, site of personal laundering and family rituals.

Waiting for customers for her bean selection...

Making rice deliveries...

Handsome boy in a U.S. Air Force shirt...

Holy cow. Assume the metal box chained to the pillar is where the rupee offerings go.

Shoe repair while you wait...

About 80% of Indians are Hindu. Contrary to what I had thought, they are not by necessity vegetarians. Many do eat meat — just not beef. (In Goa they do.) That said, next time you’re in an Indian restaurant, try one of the vegetarian vegetable dishes. They are much tastier than most western-style veggies.

Jeff Bezos delivers to doorsteps around the globe.

Next stop was a visit to the Girgaum part of the city, to a Christian neighborhood called Khotachiwadi, with narrow passageways (watch out for short-cutting motorcyclists!) between charming Portuguese-style wooden houses. These Christians came here from Goa (formerly Portuguese) and Maharashtra.

We were there — about 25 of us — to visit a private home for chai tea and cookies, and were welcomed by the charming owner. The upstairs of his home had been converted into a shop where he sold vintage clothing and heirloom items from his own family. A dear shipboard friend of mine was trundling around looking at the merchandise when she bumped into a glass-top table she didn't see, and the glass bowl on top crashed to the floor and broke. The man immediately came over to her, ‘Are you all right, madam? Are you hurt? Would you like a glass of water?’ She wasn’t hurt, but she was mortified that she had broken this family objet. When we were ready to leave the man’s home she went up to him and said, ‘I want to pay you for the bowl I broke.’ He put his arms around her shoulders and graciously said, ‘Absolutely not. Do you know how many of my own people would have broken that bowl and never said a word about it?’ He looked into her eyes: ‘You are a good person. I know you are a good person.’ Neither Barbara nor I will forget that moment.

Along a passageway, post-chai...