bloggin in bombay

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 (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.

the streets of Bombay seem to run on a caffeine-buzz. there is a pulse to the constant stream of traffic and people, one that the un-oriented might find invigorating or disturbing. traffic jams are said to be the worst time consumers – and yet, a friend tells me the level of coordination here makes them a cakewalk compared to Dubai’s overpopulated roads. i hear that the latest in luxury cars are often spotted first on Bombay's streets, with resident millionaires eager to show off their latest acquisitions. after all, when real estate is scarce, and the country's top cricketer has to put up with an appartment (he is apparently building himself a bungalow after all these years), it is only fair that they indulge in other luxuries befitting their millions.

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. Leopold's and Cafe Mondegar's are the watering holes of choice here, with a brand new McDonalds hovering nearby. 'local' favourites never lose their appeal here. i heard a rumour 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.

as with everything else, food aficionados are spoilt for choice here – every cuisine is well represented. i got a taste of italian with a creamy cannelloni and spicy arabiatta at a place called Red Box and had excellent indian food at Copper Chimney where the buffet included miniature cups with bite-size chaat portions and wonderful eggless cakes. but the best food was at roadside stalls. i stopped at Jay's Sandwich Stall in Bandra for the best grilled sandwich i have ever eaten – made with a dollop of chutney, butter, cheese and vegetables – they make Subway look like amateurs. i ate bhelpuri while watching Rock On in a cinema, turning to taking a few bites from a paneer roll and regretting buying popcorn. on a drizzly evening outside the Sterling theater, a man with a push-cart stall and a plastic sheet for a roof made us sandwiches in a hand-held toaster heated over a bucket of burning coals. he then coated the sandwich with ketchup and sprinkled sev over it – it was amazing. and i got to satisfy my love for tea with two tiny cups of 'cutting chai' at a stall on the outskirts of Dharavi

a mini city more than a slum, Dharavi's narrow streets lead into a maze of two-storey tin shambles that house probably half the city's population. within, entire families live, work and build a life. it is the barest of the bare, but Dharavi is said to ensconce an economy that is half in size of Bombay's 'legal' one. everything from jewellery to custom-made leather cases and illegal passports is said to be available here – it is the stuff of mafia-inspired movies and semi-biographic novels. even as it cheekily sits alongside Bombay's multi-million properties, Dharavi seems to challenge notions of contemporary well-being and satisfaction – i heard that some executives live there as rents are too high elsewhere. i walked a few paces inside the narrow alley. a group of children pushed past, running and laughing. the narrow streets are one reason why fires are the worst disasters in these areas. and yet, despite the many fires, life is rebuilt. bit by bit, every time.

and a visit to probably the most touted historical landmark was inevitable. the Gateway of India, built to welcome Queen Victoria. even as i walked towards it, i was filled with an emotion i can remotely describe as awe. the passage way to the city, an entrance to a new world. seen beyond its walls, the seashores acquire a new meaning. a magnificent structure, one now swathed in nets and propped up by bamboo poles for what many say is a stab at renovation.

opposite is the opulent Taj hotel, housing some of the biggest brands and the richest guests in town. a story goes that the Taj was designed such that the entrance was to face the Gateway, so that guests who used the swimming pool within could look out at the magnificent Gate and the seas beyond. unfortunately, the architect was away when construction was underway and the only time he did get to see the irremediable error was when it was fully completed. upon seeing the walled back of the hotel from his boat at the entrance of the Gate, the architect suffered a heart attack and died on the spot. while it is a good enough story, it is just fiction - or so they say.

the Taj is only one of the many colonial-style buildings that give Bombay its distinct character. now housing offices and hotels, these buildings reflect a time when intricate architecture was still desired. in line with the culture of contrasts, they stand staidly alongside square flats and small ratty shambles that cram people within a few inches of space.

along the busier roads off the serene streets, small shops elbow each other along the pavement – watch repair, drycleaners, grocery stores and many others that offer day-to-day services – when in view is a big ‘sweet shop’ that is more a restaurant. i walk in there, take a winding staircase up to their a/c room and indulge in chaat, pepsi and an Indian sweet. i need my sugar rush. i start walking again. but this time, the traffic has swollen and i have to keep a look out to ensure that i don't get in the way of the huge lorries and buses, as well as the smaller taxis and autos.

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.