This is the face of today.
She is bright, chirpy, articulate in which language is no barrier. She is opinionated, well mannered, full spirited and positive. She is my Mumbai.
I woke to the hypnotic pipes of a bamboo flute, sent out rising to my second floor flat in the middle of Santa Cruz West by an early riser of a flute seller. Gazing out, the street was already filled with the cart sellers of today's fruits in season - voluptuous papayas and spiky golden pineapples, walled by spring green limes. The buses and autos were ringing off like a dutiful alarm clock, signalling the madness from the night before had taken enough of a rest to begin the cycle all over again. It's an energy giving marathon of taking on a day filled with school, work, a chat here, a chai there, some post-lunch phone calls, a trip to Crossword to send home another DHL-sped 55kg box of fantastic Indian literature, watching the humid hot smoldering day churned her fruitful hips along the many arteries of trains and vehicles funneling the city's millions turning into a mistress of the evening, cooling you down with her breathy windy whispers and tantalizing you with her erotic virile mix of the modern, old, industrious and a whole lot other bag of gastronomical, sensational hybrid of smells, sounds, thumping scattering of feet, many in that count, until you fall flat on your mattress, hot and sweaty, itching for that calming wash before you close your eyes to another unforgettable day.
This is my Mumbai. We crossed a rusty train railway off Bandra station, after the customary photo session with some young college Punjabi lads (off to a weekend away from parents at Goa) and fighting for a "cab by the meter", we arrived at Juhu Beach. It turned into a week of living with a friend's family, doing it the local Mumbai way. We were privileged into a world of three generations co-existing in a home of love. Nights of small whisky caps before dinner, many unique home cooked meals, stories of how our home's patriarch left with his grandfather at a tender age of almost two during the 1947 Separation on a flight chartered by the then Jodhpur Maharaja - narrowly escaping death due to his family's dedication as the Royal Tailor to His Highness. Stories of rags to riches yet one would be hard pressed to see this family behaving in anything but honourable. Yes, you have heard the stories, watched some Bollywood, reviled by the nouveau riche's gaudy behavior, but Mumbai doesn't have the time, not because everyone is too rude, but more of "what's the issue? Let's move on" attitude that had propelled Mumbai to leap ahead, despite the many Doom's Day proclamation on the 26/11 anniversary on the major papers.
Millions get transacted here, daily. Even Dharavi, the infamous slums (thrown into the eyes of the world unfortunately to the distaste of many locals, by the movie Slumdog Millionaire) generate a profitable close of US2million industry of leather, pottery and labour. A walk down the many winding labyrinth of houses and dwellings revealed people of pride, just like you and me - homes were garlanded with the Hindu offerings, front yards of a few square meters were swept clean, children did not ask for anything except that you pause and play a few English number counting games with them, a potter invited us to study their trade through observation. Should you be so inclined to offer a Namaste, it will be accepted with smiles and nods. You will be left in your own time and space to wander. Here, it swelled with positivity, a way upwards. We compared Dharavi with Colaba Causeway, the "poorer" side of dwellers in the old city. "So what?" they may ask. You see nets that had been tried out in the seas just this morning, hung to dry for another day's work tomorrow while the fishermen went to work and dry the "sea duck", a fish that dried to perfection reminded me of the salty seas of East Coast fishermen back in Malaysia. You'll pass by at least ten weddings all adorned in circus fashion just that very night, along Queen's Necklace.
Here, weddings are big business but you'll see that the money obviously flowed through hands that worked tirelessly to build, arrange, negotiate, all making that very bride's dream come true, the many friends dancing off the night, the groom's desire for sleep to come soon, and very proud parents happy - just that - one big happy family
And you head on to Haji Ali's tomb. The onslaught of people smashed your arms, face, back as if you've been thrown into a washing machine on full spin. The air burst with smells of popcorn, lime juice and rang high with shouts to come grab the best priced carpets and holy books in town. The march to the saint's tomb is long, but the sight is even longer. You will see people co-existing in different mashes of dirt, pooja offerings (here, they don't believe in throwing offerings post-worship into dustbin, hence the sea became the natural site) and an odd wedding card (perhaps a jilted ex?) with families - be it Hindu or Muslim - stucked, yes with possibly no way out in this lifetime, sleeping amongst the many mattresses of plastic bags, papers, rocks, filth, byproducts, burnt rubbish, coconut shells - only perhaps a deliverance will come in the break of your rebirth cycle, through karma wishful thinking or fervent prayers.
But then again, the "beggar community" pays "rent" to "beggar mafia" to suffice (I have no idea how to arrive at this number but you just have to trust the locals) a million if not millions dollar industry. Yes, the popular saying that no beggar in Mumbai goes to bed hungry. Some even tucked in a tandoori chicken with a couple of naan at it. Doubt it? Take a closer look, study the moves, body language - maybe it's not that far fetched a truth.?
If time could sweep you off without the limitation of 24 hours, you would float above the traffic again, mindless of night or day, stopping by a "since 1960s" Malai Kulfi shop (I indulged myself crazy on a 200g "just-for-me" ice cream, undeniably the best one in my entire life I have ever eaten and I had tasted a lot of ice cream everywhere!), and head off to Gateway Of India, passing the Victorian remnants of the government buildings and train stations, funnily gargoyles and lion statues "guarded" the lines of the sky covering the criss-cross traffic mash, while dots of saree and dhoti pedestrians walk around at their own pace, oblivious to the hurry of other hand gesticulating drivers and policemen. Stopping by the Crawford Market and bazaars, a mix of Muslim and Hindu traders - identified only by the henna brightened Muslim fashioned beard and hair, made only more eccentric by the Hijaada, eunuchs, all sipping chai together in dirt cheap stalls. Overhearing some conversations about some traders cutting cheaper at the other bazaar zones around the Muslim dominant areas lovingly nicknamed "Little Pakistan", I tried to avert my gaze but my curiosity got the better of me of the Hijaada. They drank their tea in the dark shadows of the stairs, but I could feel their eyes pawing down at me, as vulnerable as a gazelle I felt, in the open plains while the lion crouched nearby in the depth of cover.
And suddenly, I was brought back to the sunny decks of Dhobi Ghat, where hundreds of men, all slicked up hair and glistening muscles in a common motion, hitting out and spinning dry one man's work shirt, a student's pinafore, a government servant's pants. Nothing is lost in the supply chain, very much deserving a Six Sigma study equivalent to the Tiffin-wallahs.
Again, we flew away, above another day looking down from the circling eagles on the coast of Mumbai. A vantage view of a normal day's churn of Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Parsi, and other anyone, anybody, anything. Forget about Bombay Dreams - here, you will finally see how that dreams do come true.
