6th May – Mumbai

Song of the Day: Jai Ho! (You Are My Destiny) by A.R.Rahman and the Pussycat Dolls. Why? It reminds me of the film Slumdog Millionaire (Luke would like to point out that he does not like this song, but reluctantly agrees that it is a good choice because of it’s connections with Mumbai.)
My first night’s kip at the Mumbai Central Guesthouse wasn’t good. Perhaps it was the whirring of the fan, or the distant sound of traffic horns, or the too-close-for-comfort squeaking and scrabbling of rats in the roof above. Luke managed to get a full night’s kip, and it seems to have been a feature of this trip that one of us sleeps like a log, and the other lies awake for hours. We lay in for once and had a kind of brunch at the Sai Samrat restaurant, which was next door to our lodgings. The dhosas were divine and the chai – well, I’ve had one bad cup in the whole time we’ve been out here – it rarely fails to revive and revitalise.
On first appearance, this city is more orderly and affluent than previous destinations. This is an illusion – after all, this is India. Apparently, 60% of the population of Mumbai live in slums. For every skyscraper, gated community and speedboat in the harbour, there are a thousand people living in poverty. It sounds grim, but, many of these people have migrated from elsewhere in India to be here. There are jobs to be had and money to be made, and relatively speaking, many of these people would rather be here than anywhere else. The term “slum” is in some ways quite degrading, and does a diservice to a large portion of these resourceful people, who in the absence of proper housing have built their own shelters out of whatever materials they can find. They operate trades out of their little corrugted shacks – tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, butchers, you name it. Theyre all here, earning a relatively honest rupee from providing a service to their makeshift communities.

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We spent the early afternoon walking around, getting quite hot and bothered and not seeing all that much. Though the temperature is a bit cooler than Varanasi and Kolkata  – 35 instead of 40, the heat here seems to suffocate you in exactly the same way. In spite of the heat we covered some serious ground and came to our first sight of the day – the impressive Crawford Market. This grand colonial building of a slightly gothic look was purpose-built to house the market by none other than Rudyard Kipling’s Dad, Lockwood Kipling. The dimly-lit market that the building was constructed for is quite opposite to the orderly, pompous regime who built it. It’s a pungent, humid, throbbing throng of hard bargaining. Mangoes piled as high as people teeter in impossible piles, whilst watermelons as big as beach balls are hacked into managable portions by murderous-looking machete men. A menagerie of caged animals barked, scratched, squawked, and croaked at each other from opposite sides of the narrow gangway between two shops. This is something I don’t get about Indian businesses – instead of setting up shop in a unique area which might require the services of that particular business, it seems that tradesmen selling the same wares will congregate together. Surely there would be more money to be made from finding your own patch, instead of becoming the fifteenth pet shop in the same square mile of Mumbai? A peculiar habit.

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After another hour of hot, sweaty walking the huge, looming presence of the Wankhede Stadium (no sniggering) came into view. The Wankhede Stadium is Mumbai’s main cricket ground – host to the odd international test match, and home of the Mumbai Indians, the city’s IPL team. As soon as we knew we were coming to Mumbai we got excited at the prospect of watching a 20/20 game. We checked the fixtures and discovered that there was a home game on the Sunday – our last night in Mumbai. Armed with this information we set out for the stadium with the intention of booking tickets. We walked along a glorious sun-baked promenade that overlooked the Arabian Sea, and attempted to enter the ground to buy tickets. Several security personell blocked our way and said “It is not possible. There is no game here.” Then something that we’d read weeks ago suddenly dawned on us! Because of the intense heatwave and drought that parts of India are currently suffering, the Mumbai Indians were banned from playing at their home ground because it would drain precious water supplies from the city in order to keep the pitch in a playable condition. The “home game” that was advertised was due to be played in Jaipur, some 900 odd kilometres away! This, along with the fog which obscured the mountains in Darjeeling, is the second time that the weather has denied us. For all the cricket matches in England that are called off due to rain, we came all the way to India to have the opposite issue.

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We went back to the hotel to cool down and rehydrate before one last foray into the unknown. The beach at Girgaum Chowpatty is an incredibly popular location, and we thought it’d be a great place to watch the sunset. Crawling with holidaymakers, chaiwallers and nine to fivers looking to relax after a hard day at the office, Chowpatty is a great place to spend a few hours peoplewatching. Up until this point, we’d gotten used to seeing the everyday people of India with their nose to the grindstone. Whether driving, selling, crafting, building, begging, hustling or farming, we had seen people occupied in the act of getting by. How nice it was to see kids playing, couples courting and families united in having a good time. We sat down at a beach cafe and each had one of Mumbai’s legendary Belhapuris. A belhapuri is a mound of puffed rice, dough, chutney, onion, tomato, chilli, coriander and anything else the chef can think of. The puffed rice gives it the same audible “snap crackle and pop” as rice crispies, and the chutney and chilli make it a slightly spicy sweet and sour treat. We rounded the evening off with a couple of Kingfisher strong and a curry in one of Mumbai’s very trendy, up and coming bars.
That’s all for today.
Have a good day, whatever your endeavour
Tommy and Lukey

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