I am an
Australian who lives now in the ordered life of Singapore. It is uber ordered.
Singapore runs like a well oiled machine. It hums with efficiency. Although
nothing is broken much needs to be fixed. My working life takes me to many
places in Asia. I often flit through countries and when I wake up in hotel
rooms I sometimes forget where I am. Occasionally though I have the opportunity
to stay for a while.
Amongst my
very favourite cities in the world is Mumbai in India.
It was once
Bombay. The name changed but the place didn't. The magic of Mumbai always gets
my heart racing. It is almost mindboggling how this city of nearly 20 million
people (a shade under the population of my entire home country) manages to
function. Despite the chaos that prevails at almost every single turn the city
functions. It throbs.
It Pulsates.
There is a
vibrancy and potency in Bombay that is unique to Asia.
The sounds of
Mumbai are overwhelming. It seems no driver can resist honking his horn. I'm
not sure if the honking is to warn of an advance or it is just to announce the
driver’s presence. Each morning I cross the main road adjacent to my office in
the Worli district to buy myself a cold drink. I drink a freshly squeezed lime
juice. Hold the ice. There is no pedestrian crossing – such luxuries do not
exist in the city of Mumbai.
A very large,
imposing, and heavily-mustached policeman seems to delight in assisting me. He
boldly marches through the teeming traffic, both hands raised with great
authority - all the time blowing on a large brass whistle. Upon reaching the
centre of the road he holds up his enormous mitts. Each wrapped in snow white
gloves.
He commands
the traffic to halt.
He then
gestures to me to cross the road. He does this brazenly and with authority.
Every step I take is accompanied by a loud toot of his whistle as he keeps
rhythm with each pace. I've tried the brisk walk, the quick step and the slow
crawl.
Miraculously
and musically his whistles match each of my treads. This morning I paused mid-stride.
I was hoping to catch him out - just to see how he would handle it. A momentary
look of puzzlement crossed his face before he broke into a broad grin. He
quickly become attuned to the game that I was playing.
I’m not sure
who was the more delighted.
My drive to
and from the office each day is an experience for all the senses. It certainly
wakes me up. I have quickly learned that red lights mean much the same as green
ones here in Mumbai. One just blows their horn with a little more urgency when
dashing through the reds. Amber does not exist. It is pointless.
The line
markings on the roads are simply wasted paint as every driver tries to create
six or seven lines of traffic even when only two technically exist. Signaling
for turns is achieved by flapping one’s arms wildly out the window.
Sometimes legs
as well.
Rickshaw
drivers in particular sometimes appear to be doing the splits as first one
sandaled leg shoots out the right side of the vehicle and then, almost
simultaneously - when U-turns are undertaken - the left leg shoots out the left
side. It is like a body disconnected. It is not uncommon to see a family of
three or four perched on a rickety old motorcycle weaving in and out of
traffic.
Yesterday I
saw a little boy sitting on the rear of his father's motorcycle with a plastic
whistle in his mouth. His father nudged him gently with his elbow to blow on
the whistle whenever they turned corners. I assumed that their horn was not
functioning.
The surviving
chrome on the banged up old yellow and black Ambassador taxis is polished to a
high sheen by the drivers. Their taxis are obviously a source of great pride
for these men who drive them for up to 16 hours a day.
At 4 pm sharp
each day Bolah the Nut Boy sets up shop on the curb at the front of my office
in Worli. Bolah is one of tens of thousands of such child merchants in this
city. He is no more than 12 years of age. Bolah squats on the dusty ground and he
perches a rusty old oil can atop some burning embers. He then gently roasts a
pan of mixed dried nuts that he sells to passersby.
I have watched
him ever so carefully fold roughly cut pieces of newspaper into long
cylindrical cones which he then fills to the brim with his product. He sells
these cones for five rupees each. I find it impossible to resist his business
endeavour and buy two cones each afternoon and I give him 50 rupees. This is a
little over one US dollar. Such extravagance has apparently endeared me to him
and last night, before I even realized it - and before his business got busy,
he took out a dirty rag and began wiping my dusty shoes.
I tried to
stop him but such a look of hurt and disappointment appeared on his face that I
felt obliged to let him continue. An old beggar then appeared with a somewhat
crazed look on his face and he was muttering something incomprehensible. Bolah
promptly leapt to his feet, yelling and chasing him away.
The guys in my
office have told me that the name Bolah means the "innocent one.”
While he has
the body of a frail and undernourished child, Bolah has eyes that shine with
the wisdom and guile of an old man.
Indian men
love their uniforms. They are kept immaculately clean and are worn with
great pride. The streets of Mumbai are filled with policemen, postmen and other
government workers who wear elaborate khaki or green jackets and trousers
emblazoned with bright badges and huge brass buttons that are polished to a
high sheen. My office has dozens of security guards and is serviced by four
lifts. In each lift a uniformed operator is seated. Their sole responsibility
is to press the floor buttons to where you need to go.
On my first
day I made the dreadful mistake of actually pushing the button myself.
I received
such a look of hurt and devastation that I haven’t dared to press one
since.
The women of
Mumbai wear brightly coloured and beautiful saris. Most have traditional Hindi
nose piercings – many of which are ornamented with tiny silver bells. If the
road traffic wasn’t so loud, I am sure passersby could hear tiny tinkles as
these women go about their business.
No visit to
Mumbai would be complete without a trip to a ghat. These are the laundries of
Mumbai and they have been around for more than a thousand years.
Hundreds of
these ghats can be found in the back streets of Mumbai where whole families are
engaged in a ritual of hand washing, drying and ironing clothes and
linen.
A dhobi is a
laundry man or woman. One is typically born into the occupation. Multiple
generations live in tight-knit communities. When visiting such establishments,
I would recommend that you first of all
ask to meet with the Head Dhobi.
The gentleman
I visited at the Saat Rasta ghat – Mr. Dhavala Singh - was a most obliging
fellow and he was extremely proud in showing me how the place functions. More
than 300 dhobis, ranging in age from 8 to 75 years of age, work and live in his
establishment. Labor is divided in teams of workers who first diligently sort
the whites from the colours in large piles. Groups of washers then rinse the
items while standing ankle deep in long rows of narrow concrete baths.
When
appropriately soaked, both men and women “thwack” the clothing against large
“flogging stones.” Looking closely one can see that these are worn smooth from
centuries of use. I heard the “thwumping” of the flogging even above the noise
of the Mumbai traffic and long before I entered the ghat. The noise was
hypnotic and magnetic. It was alluring.
Female dhobis
sang as they went about their washing duties, adding an almost poetic beauty to
the rigorous tasks they were undertaking. They were most graceful in their
labour.
From the
washing baths young boys carried the soaked bundles of clothes to massive vats
of boiling water mixed with diluted starch. I guess that this is the equivalent
of the rinse cycle of modern washing machines. Then the shirts, trousers and
saris were hung on long lines to dry in the sun and wind. The sight of colorful
saris and pure white sheets flapping in the breeze provided a stark contrast to
the drab grey concrete of the washing baths. They were like a rainbow radiating
across an arctic snow land.
Mr. Singh told
me that his name meant “pure white” - which was how he demanded that all his
linen be washed. Mr. Singh told me that he was most honoured to be washing all of
the linen and towels for some of India’s finest hotel establishments.
The final part
of the laundering process was undertaken by the ironing ladies. These women
went about their jobs using huge metal plate irons. The heat source for these
irons is hot coals and charcoals that are carefully layered on the upper
plates. Chatting endlessly amongst themselves, the ironing dhobis work
tirelessly from before dawn until well after dusk, pressing perfect seams and
creases before folding each item and sorting them into bundles for delivery.
Small teams of delivery ghats somehow manage to make sense of what to the naked
eye is chaos – and deliver the items to their owners.
Charging them
the correct per item fee.
They
hustle.
They
bustle.
It is a
delight to behold.
“Never an
item is lost,” Mr. Singh told me.
“It would
be to the shame of the ghat if such an event were to occur.”
He seemed
aghast at the thought. Traumatized. When I asked whether his business is
jeopardized by modern washing machines and dryers, his response seemed both
angry and concerned.
He muttered, “Those
accursed contraptions will be the end of us all.”
For all of our
sakes I truly hope not.
I’m taking my
washing there tomorrow.
I went to a
bookstore this morning to find something to read. Upon seeing Aravind Adiga’s
novels "The White Tiger", "Between the Assassinations" and
“Last Man in Tower” displayed prominently on the main display shelf.
I told the
proprietor that Adiga was among my favourite authors and enquired whether he
had written any other works.
I received a
polite "No,"
I then asked
the proprietor whether he had in fact read either book. The Proprietor nodded
and wobbled his head in the negative but he asked me what the books were
about.
I informed him
that they were beautiful works of literature about the life of the common man
in India and the hardships of surviving.
He chuckled
softly and nodded knowingly and said, "I don't need to read them then
as this is something that most Indians are living every day in Mumbai."
My response
was that he should be very proud to be an Indian. I told him that for me there was
so much beautiful art and talent and life in his city and country that he
should in fact be bursting with pride. He told me, almost blushing, that my
words made his heart sing.
This is
Mumbai.
This is
India.
It
makes my heart sing too.
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