Mumbai Reflections
By Rohit Gupta and Ben Arnoldy
Rohit Gupta: A friend of mine once asked my opinion on a business matter, a potential idea that he needed my endorsement on. It was a festive occasion and our spirits were high, at least mine were, buoyant with my fresh employment at a magazine with good brand equity and a card that officially declared me a bona fide "writer."
His idea was simple: What if he could sell something to one out of every 10 people that traverse Churchgate station everyday? We all knew the implications, and I had heard vague rumours of millionaire vada pao vendors already. Though naïve (and we could never find what to sell to those lakhs of people in transit), the idea illustrated the nature of this metropolis to a new occupant of its scant spaces. I had begun to sense my loneliness in a crowd.
More stuff that I have come across in data sheets and other claims: about 35 percent of taxes in the country are paid by residents of this city, and by 2020 it may be the largest city in the world, notwithstanding natural disaster. Half the population of Mumbai is homeless, and at the time I was occupied with this realization, the statistics included me — a presumptuous, cocky engineer harboring dreams in a city by the great wide sea. The Arabian Sea is Mumbai's personal shrink, appointed by the almighty to calm the vigour of jobless, loveless, clueless, homeless individuals of a city teeming with chaos, echoing the nature of the beating tide. Mumbai is a sea of people; one can feel the rush of the human tsunami in places like Churchgate Station and feel so very small and insignificant. In this city of dreams, I eventually learned how to just be, minus the angst that drove me to it — but not until much later.
Ben Arnoldy: Standing in the bathwater-warm Arabian Sea off the Goa coast, I relaxed for the first time since arriving in Mumbai. I exhaled out of my lungs all the oppressive heat, the swarms of humanity, the women with sticks piling street litter, the cows feeding off the piles, the smell. Ten feet from land, I felt closer to home as the western waters held my tiptoes above the sand.
On the shore, palm trees tossed in the wind and mango lassis were ready for me in the shoreline tiki bars. If it weren't for the strolling cows, I could have been on any private Florida beach. For the first time, I had the space to put the city in perspective. Did I need this luxurious setting to feel in control again, I wondered pessimistically. One of my chief reasons for the trip was to prove to myself that I could grow as a thinker and a writer only by avoiding the usual paths and softer living.
Like you, I eschewed a career path that destined me for a comfortable life. First, I shunned my family's path in the sciences after a Catholic nun convinced me that humanity was ahead of itself in the sciences. She pointed to the atomic bomb as an example of how science had given us power, but religion and the humanities had not advanced enough to give us wisdom. This was during Reagan's administration, and nuclear war seemed more imminent.
And the year before, I had abandoned my university's School of Foreign Service. They had me studying economics and government, and I despised their approach and focus. Social science suffices for our diplomats apparently, but the humanities (particularly literature) seemed to be the real arena for cross-cultural progress.
While studying literature, theology and history didn't threaten to make me homeless, it did threaten to make me irrelevant in the Work of America — hopelessly an outsider to the innovation and wealth of my culture. Not sure of this renunciation, I took the trip to the one place that seemed the strongest alternative to the American way...
RG: So I was homeless, and working. Many a time I slept at the office pretending to have more work on my hands than hours. I would consume quantities of alcohol I still can't remember, and sleep like a baby on brandy, only to wake up bleary eyed to a demanding dawn. Those who inquired would hear my favorite line — "There is no blood in my alcohol..."
My brother, who was living in a hostel at the time, suggested I try getting a paying guest, but I mumbled something that may have meant yes in some primitive dialect and pushed the issue under the carpet. It was to good, sensible and logical advice what Indian bureaucracy is to innovation and efficiency — immune, evasive, even hostile. I have somehow avoided sensibility to invite adventure in my life, and sometimes confused trouble and turmoil with it.
One of those evenings, a business meeting ended in the suggestion of "a drink," and one thing led to another, since money is not an issue at Gokul Bar at Colaba, drinks being at almost-retail prices. There is no designed ambience to charge for. Soon enough, one of the gang had guzzled enough whisky to deep-fry his brain, and I couldn't help noticing the humour when he ordered bheja fry at Badey Miyan.
Half an hour later, when all the wobbly feet had left for their respective and respectable lodgings, I found myself at Marine Drive. I wasn't sure, and I decided not to decide anything. I watched the waves beat against the culvert for about an hour, wishing the sun would hasten and kill another day. Actually, I dozed off quite a few times, recovering in time to keep myself from falling on the array of tetrahedrons beneath. I was sure they had tasted blood before. Scared by my own thoughts, I came to and turned around to face Hotel Marine Plaza.
I had some money left that needed urgent splurging, and expensive coffee sounded like a nice idea at two in the morning. I walked in and found a seat next to the window in a dimly lit coffee shop on the first floor of the hotel, which was drenched in the smell of easy money. There were only two other occupants, friends having a very animated discussion over something. They were sitting on a table behind me, so I could not see them at all after the first glimpse while walking in. A waiter came and stood beside my table expectantly, smartly handing me a swank menu card. As if!
BA: My first morning in Mumbai: A loose ceiling fan swiveled violently above me, bringing my eyes to focus on it through the mosquito netting. The air was cool and inviting and quiet. Had I been spooked by the logistics of travelling at night? The day would bring light, and orderly business.
The moment I stepped out of the hotel lobby, the finessed air and ambience of the hotel was clubbed back by pounding tropical heat and street cacophony. Instantly the morning's bath was old as my sweat made mud with the dusty air.
Life in Mumbai was carried out on the street, and the buildings just got in everybody's way. A nearby market was crammed down one street corridor, overflowing onto the sidewalks so that I couldn't walk without dodging jade elephants, umbrellas, and silk shawls. I headed away from the dusty congestion, toward Marine Drive.
Wandering along the waterfront, the Taj Mahal Hotel rose above the surroundings with its 19th Century imperial masonry, topped with domes in the center and four corners. If it was located in downtown Boston or Washington, I would have considered myself underdressed and underfunded to walk inside. My T-shirt was stained with sweat and dirt and my shorts and sneakers didn't fit the business suit dress code usually associated with these places.
But I desperately wanted to walk inside and feel the air conditioning, see people who were relaxed and orderly, watch them attending to the day's business behind desks. I walked past the valet and through the doors. No one challenged me, and I was relieved. My skin announced that I was a Western tourist, and therefore my dress was forgiven.
The doors opened into a palatial lobby of marbled opulence. Hallways had windows with fine jewels glittering for sale. There were briefcases, moussed hair, cell phones — the symbols of a business culture that disgusted me at home but now seemed comforting (yet somehow even more disgusting...)
Next: You See My Cobra?
