Mumbai, India

GONE BOLLYWOOD
It was one of those nights that last all morning. The signs were poor from the moment we boarded our 'luxury' overnight bus to Mumbai. The stench of warm, sweaty feet and fetid armpits lurked in the air. It oozed from the seats and slowly worked its way into our clothes as the night dragged on. It was a terrible lingering kind of smell that not even the open windows could disguise. After three hours we had already made two dinner stops and when we set out again at 7pm the driver said that it would be after 1am before we stopped again so best get some sleep. I would have liked to but the music kept me, and most of the others, up. During the night we stopped for the compulsory flat tire change but most people stayed on the bus and opted for sleep. Georg, fed up with the smell, left the bus and stood outside for some fresh air but the smell was so intense that it leaked out of the windows and ambushed him while he stood there.

Only two things need to function on an Indian bus - the horn is the most important and the stereo is a close second. Peripheral stuff like headlights and brakes are seldom required to be in any kind of working order and few buses can boast both in good condition. The horn must be ear shattering, particularly in the passenger cabin where it can do the most damage. It should only be used when overtaking, braking, accelerating, pulling out, pulling over or any random moment as deemed necessary by the driver. The stereo should be functioning but the speakers should be in the worst possible state to ensure perfect distortion at any volume, particularly the highest one, which is where the knob finds its way eventually. All foreign tourists should be placed in the seats closest the speakers. At rest stops the front windows should be thoroughly cleaned by the cabin assistant with screwed up pages of dry newspaper.

At 11am, four hours behind schedule, I peeled myself off the seat and onto the streets of Mumbai's northern suburbs. My oldest brother Jeff and Dad came to the city formally known as Bombay in 1984 and returned with horror stories of filth and poverty so I didn't have high expectations about my time here. For the past hour we had driven past slums next to expensive high rises, and watched as people lived the intimate moments of their lives in public view. Bathing, cooking, weaning the young, playing, arguing, smoking but most of the time doing nothing but abstract busy-ness. These are reported to be Asia's largest slums.
Indians have a great knack for doing very little but creating the illusion that they are actually working very hard. I'm not sure if they are trying hard to look busy or if just comes naturally to them. No one however, is ever too busy to take the time to stare at a foreigner. I can get used to cows walking in the streets, and tourist prices at all the attractions, and extra charges for cameras, and maybe the heat but I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with the staring. In Russia I responded to people staring by picking my nose and usually they stopped, but here that just whips the crowd into a frenzy. "Look Ajit, he's picking his nose. I wonder what he'll do next. He's reading... look everyone! He's reading the newspaper. I wonder what he's reading." Sometimes I'll pick up a Hindi newspaper and pretend to read it, even though I just look at the pictures, to try and create the illusion that I know what they're talking about. It never works.

I'm uncertain exactly where we were let off the bus but after a short taxi ride to the southern peninsular, past Chowpatty Beach and Wankhede Stadium, a different Mumbai appeared. This was the heart of the old colonial settlement, where the dismantled city Fort once stood, home to many fine colonial buildings and the Gateway of India. The Gateway is a massive basalt arch of triumph facing out into Mumbai Harbour and the ceremonial departure point of the last British regiment in 1948. We chose a cheap hotel very close to the Gateway in Colaba right next door to the massive Taj Mahal hotel - we didn't plan staying in town long so we needed to be in a good location. I found the Fort area very refreshing; no cows on the streets, the cars seemed to be obeying a few traffic laws and the streets were nice and wide. In the middle of it all was the Oval Maidan - a massive grassy park flanked by the High Court building and the beautiful University of Mumbai. At one end was a serious game of cricket with umpires and sight screens and all around the perimeter kids were playing their own games with tennis balls and typical enthusiasm. It was a wonderful sight so I lay in the park for a while wishing that I had either Sara or my Discman with me. I looked in my bag and found neither. I wandered up to Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai's international cricket ground, to see if I could get inside and take some photographs. Like Eden Gardens in Calcutta I wasn't allowed into the ground so I had to satisfy myself by taking a photo of the outside of the stadium, with the security guard standing in front of me.

Myself and Georg at the Gateway of India

For the next couple of days we slowly made our way to a few tourist spots - the busy Chowpatty beach at sunset, the Dhobi ghats where hundreds of men wash laundry from all over the city and of course a Bollywood film. We chose a new release called 'The Hero - Love Story of a Spy'. I was expecting a dreadful production but it turned out to be quite good. It was in Hindi for the most part but the plot of any Bollywood film is usually so simple that it doesn't take much to figure out what is going on. The singing and dancing was typically farcical as were the absurdly superhuman stunts but the audience loved every minute of it. The Hero was helping to defend Kashmir from the evil Pakistani invaders and with every Pakistani shot dead (of which there were close to 1,00) the crowd cheered wildly. Often before an important kill the Indian Hero would say something profound about Hindustan or the glory of Kashmir and the crowd would erupt with massive applause and cheering. I had felt much anti-Pakistani sentiment over the last few weeks, beginning the day that India defeated Pakistan in the cricket world cup, but that evening I realised that there is a deep sense of hatred for Pakistan that runs much deeper than cricket. In India they are truly despised. The dancing and singing brought some light hearted and sentimental moments to the film but its prime message was to underline the menacing nature of Pakistan and its leaders; and everyone loved it.

Dhobi ghat