Mumbai-gia

I was responding to Sunny, a fellow Bolly-whater, to his question on what Mumbai is like, really. I'm no Suketu Mehta ( though you're a great read, mate ), but I attempt to crystallise my two Mumbai experiences in a small passage below.

Note: - it's angled to Sunny's query after seeing footage of some serious party girls in Mumbai, which seemed straight out of any American nightclub.

I might get to a part 2 of this series covering other aspects, who knows.

Here goes.

I went to Mumbai twice, once in 1999 ( was there and in Goa for the millennium new year party ), and another in 2000.

I’d been to India many times before, and travelled mostly in the South, and a couple of times in the North, including Delhi. Mumbai seemed to conform with the rest of the urban situation in India – utter poverty, incredibly large shantytowns right in the midst of office building clusters, beggars, pedlars, pollution, traffic, corruption, the works.

But I also felt Mumbai had a different ‘feel’. It was a faster pace than Chennai, but also, dare I say it, came across as a trifle more organised. ( Not that someone fresh off US would see that, though ). And, to my untrained eye, amidst the chaos and dirt, you spotted ‘western wannabes’ more frequently. It was such a jarring thing for me.

Initially, I’d be a little tickled by the complete difference in ambience, from say the inside of Pyramids ( a large, famed shopping mall that’s been in every BW movie set in Mumbai, from PBDHH, 1 2 ka 4 to Bluffmaster ) which is pristine and chock a block with designer stores, to just five feet outside of it which had roadside muck drying on the footpath. But then again that’s a clichéd contrast that you come across in almost every Asian city nowadays ( though Indian cities showcase that a bit more starkly ).

So, spotting ‘dudes’ and ‘babes’ in CK jeans, Gucci sunglasses and possibly a Manish Malhotra top wandering around Pyramid and then stopping off at its adjacent McDonald’s to grab a Big Mac ( made from mutton ) was kinda expected.

But it’s a different thing, though, when you’re walking from the YMCA women’s hostel, to Churchgate station, saying no to children selling you plastic toys and bindis, people around you clad fast in sarees, salwar kameezes or obviously street-tailored shirts and pants, and suddenly you see a babelicious belly button passing you by, you don’t really know what to think.

After a while, though, it kinda struck me as being a little hypocritical. I mean, I suppose I was fortunate in a way to mingle with a group of friends who were considered the ‘corporate elite’- they were a large group of mostly merchant/investment bankers, with a girl who was about to go to the UK to Masters in Fashion Designing. My farewell party was held at no less than the Taj, around the same time that Abhishek Bachchan ( at that time riding his Refugee high ) celebrated his birthday party there, though at a different floor. When we were tipsy enough we wanted to crash that, but it was too late, he’d already left.

But anyway – as I said – when I was with this group, it was as if no other universe existed, the ‘other’ India was an inconvenience that was just tolerated when it intercepted with theirs. The only time that world was acknowledged was when it proved useful – in terms of manual labour. Servants, cooks, etc. My host had a male servant who pretty much stayed at the flat 24/7, cooking and cleaning. He also made the best khana I’ve ever had, and was very conscientious of me as a guest. I was travelling quite by myself a lot that time, getting home about 3pm everyday, and by the time I change and come to the living room, he’s got a glass of cold milk all ready ( I never understood the great necessity of cold milk at 3pm, but my host insisted it was good for my health ), and always asked me for an order of food ( which always embarrassed me ). This servant ( called Sunil ) was obviously very attached to my host, who IMO treated him with humorous/affectionate contempt. Sunil felt that his ‘sahib’ was very understanding and accommodating, and treated him well – compared to some other ‘sahibs’, who were constantly abusing their servants, verbally and occasionally even physically.

The other quintessentially Mumbai thing were the trains. They literally are the life-blood of Mumbai, transporting entire masses of people on a daily basis. My ex taught me to take them, from Churchgate station – we literally had to wait and watch a couple of trains pass by before he felt I was ready to try it. You had to literally first push your way INTO the crowd, then just wait for the crowd to push YOU into the train. Apparently that’s the easiest, most painless way to do it. Oh, and of course, I had no help – since I needed to board the Ladies Only coach. My ex entered a common coach, and I literally had to hop on to the Ladies one as it started to move ( scary! ) Later, I braved an attempt to board a First Class but common coach ( there are First Class women’s coaches too ) but regretted instantly as I felt ALL eyes on me – and I realised I was the ONLY woman there in jeans and blouse, the rest were all in sarees etc. How I wished for an elite outsider there right then!

Marine Drive, just by Nariman Point ( which is the main corporate area of Mumbai ) is always a fascination. It’s most recently been showcased in Bluffmaster ( where Boman pleads with Abhishek about his 30 good memories in 30 years ) and also Munnabhai MBBS. During office hours, the place is hell incarnate, but in the evenings, couples are everywhere ( which is another odd thing about Mumbai – public displays of affection are more commonplace. Not in the sense of kissing, but just walking together, PERHAPS holding hands ). So immediately there’ll be a big heap of pedlars hawking hot channa and thandai, and also balloons and soft toys ( I find some of the ‘romance’ there quite childlike, which is fascinating ). And lots of buggy rides. The Gateway of India is a great place to sit and relax, taking in the view of either the sun setting over the Arabian sea, or the gigantic Taj hotel. And the lights on Marine Drive, visible from any high-rise building, curves like a half moon framing the sea, and known as "The Queen's Necklance" to honour Q Victoria, to this day. That was a sight to behold from one of the apartments we went to, and I was always far more interested in that view than in the Hindi karaoke going on that night.

Clubbing – now I’m sure these places have really grown and mushroomed everywhere from the last time I was there, but it was pretty scarily Western when I was there as well. I can’t remember the name of the club now, I think it may have been called ‘The Tunnel’ or something, since we had to go through a man-built tunnel to reach its entrance. It had a house band, that sang ONLY English rock, and filled with nubile nothings that looked straight out of Vogue. I’d spent that day talking to a lot of college kids and staff at Mumbai College which was on the outskirts of Mumbai, where most of them looked half-starved and daggy-cool, so this was a bit of a shock come night.

I don’t know about accents, but I do know all the ‘in’ words were always used. And it was funny hearing things like ‘cool’ and ‘yo’ and ‘check this out’ in a heavy Indian accent at times.

One thing though – despite all this superficial ‘modernity’, the values held are still quite Indian, and none more so than when it comes to marriage. True there was ‘dating’ as I said, although that too seemed more the prerogative of the high and mighty, and seemed to be in quite a childlike form. But arranged marriages were still quite the order of the day. What remains most clearly in my memory was when we were all in this supposedly ‘hip’ Mexican ice-cream parlour which looked like something straight out of TGIF, when one of us took a call on their mobile – and after a while had to get up and go outside for a long conversation. I asked another what that was about and was chilled at the answer – a mutual guy friend of theirs was getting married, arranged, and the girl he’d picked was calling this friend just to find out more about him, ie whether he’s a ‘nice’ guy ( HOW do you discover that from a call to his friend, I don’t know. I mean, what’s he gonna say, “No, he’s not a nice guy, he’s a serial killer”? ), whether he smokes/drinks, what are his favourite foods/movies etc. I inadvertently said “Oh God that’s sad” cuz I couldn’t imagine that scenario in the place we were. And though I was immediately sorry for it, I was very surprised by the guy’s response – “Yes, it is, very sad.” I expected some sort of defence, and didn’t expect not to get any.

Other than that, there are just general memories of Mumbai that I treasure – the wonderful taxis, which are refreshing after travelling in autos in the rest of the country, and the half-English half-Hindi dance I always do with the drivers to tell them where I need to go. Being taken to the Strand bookstore, which is not like any other bookstore I’ve ever been to – books literally coming out of its ears, from wooden pigeon-holes built from ceiling to floor, on just about any damn subject you can think of, crammed into a dark, dingy, paint-peeling, underdeveloped excuse of space. I totally loved it.

Browsing by Crosswords, a newer, more upmarket bookstore that looked like a Borders prototype, attending the launch of Manil Suri’s Death of Vishnu, making small talk with the author who came off as a super-intelligent snobbish Machiavellan. Walking by Chowpatty beach at night, marvelling at how different the sand felt. Braving the ubiquitous pani puri at a Gujarati restaurant, and being the brunt of jokes at my reaction. Falling unconditionally in love with pav bhaji. Eating ‘Chinese food’ that was a sorry excuse for the real thing, inundated in masala and chilli. Shopping at Benzer, where you pick the item at one place, pay for it at another, then collect it ( after ‘parcelling’ ) from yet another.

Mumbai, how I miss you right now.