Mumbai was in full swing. It was 7 a.m. by the time our taxi left the airport. First impressions were stunning, a perpetual zigzagging of cars, rickshaw-scooters, and bicycles with shacks, pedestrians, and the odd roaming of livestock filling the periphery.
The air consisted of a hazy, filthy, neon green and smelled of burning rubber. The taxis were so small and their ceilings so low, it was impossible to get a sense of what might lie above. Our eyes feasted on all that passed by.
An awful squawking sound echoed against the constant beeping traffic. I’m not sure why but the Mumbai birds made a subtle though distinct impression on me. They dipped in and out of our field of view, almost like subliminal messages.
The ride to our hotel was a patchwork woven through overpasses, expressways, small neighborhood roads and tight alleyways. Truly an intimate view of Indian street life. As we meandered through the small, confining city streets — the vast industrial roads behind us — motorbikes abounded. They were everywhere; often carrying up to three, and in some cases four, people. Red lights were optional, though it all worked out. Somehow.
Snapping photos was futile for my jetlagged synapses. The four or five steps needed to get my iPhone into camera mode thwarted me every time. I missed shot after shot. I gave up after realizing capturing moments was coming at the price of experiencing them.
There was one image I regret not capturing: A little girl dressed in a school uniform sandwiched between her father and likely her grandmother on a moped. Properly side-saddled on the back, the grandmother was dressed in a traditional Indian sari garment. As we rode along aside them, the girl became aware of our attention and grew delighted in our fascination with her commute to school. They slowed, pulled to the side of a heavily gated entrance of what appeared to be an all-girls, religious school — and in she went.
About ten minutes later I realized the moisture that accompanies dawn had lifted. The sun was in full beam; the day had arrived. In the next moment, our taxi slowed to a complete stop as three armed men surrounded it. One man knocked on the hood of the car as the other walked back to the trunk. The third walked a complete circle around the taxi.
Startled, I couldn’t help but feel like a freedom-fighting female journalist who realizes she just landed herself in a heap of shit. Thankfully, we had arrived at our hotel and this was a mere matter of standard security. (Just call me Walter Mitty.)
Our hotel, the Vivanta by Taj – President, was the sister hotel to the infamous Taj Mahal Palace just down the street. You may recall The Taj Mahal Palace was part of a series of terrorist attacks that fell upon Mumbai in November of 2008, leaving 167 people dead.
We were cleared and beckoned to proceed. An imposing 15-foot iron gate of elaborate (though elegant) design opened as three sturdy poles magically dropped into the street, encouraging us to drive into the hotel courtyard. We were greeted by friendly and utmost professional staff as we were taken through a final security check of walking through metal detectors while our luggage was screened.
Chai as I might
We decided to enjoy our first meal at the hotel, opting for the buffet breakfast, as our rooms wouldn’t be ready for a few hours. With the exception of a few Indian dishes, it was a fairly standard hotel buffet experience with the exception of the Chai tea. The tea was proffered by a woman who circulated the dining room with a kettle of the tea in one hand and a small basket of short glasses in the other. Think “shot girl” like you’d find in a night club in the U.S., minus the dollar bills protruding from her cleavage. Minus any cleavage, in fact. Indian culture is very conservative and skin-baring is looked down upon. As for the tea, if you’ve ever boiled potpourri, decided to add milk and then drink it, well you know exactly what Chai tea tastes like.
After a few hours of rest we headed out on foot around 4 p.m. We marveled at the street-level activities. We ducked into a back alley that was host to a local marketplace. The sounds of bartering, bicycle bells and ever-present beeping in the background filled our ears as we feasted on visuals of brilliantly colored spices, vegetables, and the horror of live chickens sliced at the neck as they were sold.
Gandhi slept here
The following day, we arranged a taxi through the hotel to show us around Mumbai. The first stop was a townhouse-turned-museum because of its historical significance. Gandhi had spent quite a bit of time there as he campaigned for Indian independence. It contained collections of his reading material, several dioramas depicting his journey to become India’s founding father of independence, and several letters he had written his contemporaries.
I was struck most by his letter to Adolf Hitler in 1939, pleading to him to reconsider his plans for the sake of humanity. If only.
“It is quite clear that you are the one person in the world who can prevent a war which may reduce humanity to the savage state.”
I remain,
Your sincere friend,
M K Ghandhi.
Right in the temple
It wouldn’t be a complete trip to India without hitting a religious temple, so this was our next stop. The temple was brightly colored and filled with lots of elephant statues — a purely religious symbol in Asia that represents royalty, power, wisdom, fertility, longevity and more.
And it was a good thing I wasn’t “in [my] monthly period” or I wouldn’t have been permitted on premises. See Rule #1.
This temple was conveniently around the corner from a pashmina/shawl dealer who carried “Mumbai’s finest, straight from Kashmir” (the mecca of primo wools). It became apparent that our taxi driver, (who couldn’t have been over the age of 26, and reminded me of a younger, Indian version of Manuel from Fawlty Towers — well-meaning, harmless, but severely confused), had some sort of relationship with this guy.
Perhaps they shared their alma matter because when I asked this vendor about his prices, he started with his basement pricing. When I pressed him for how-low-can-you-go volume pricing, his prices went up! Umm, hello? I felt like I was negotiating with my five-year-old nephew.
Sari, but we have to go
Things just went south from there, and with our collective blood sugar dropping against our mind-bending jetlag, it was time to go. We required lunch to think straight. We told the vendor we’d be back after lunch. Not good. Our infuriated would-be vendor saw us out to the car chastened with threats to buy now because prices were going up in 30 minutes.
Our poor little Manuel didn’t know at whose hands he was going to suffer a slower death — ours or the vendors. We piled back into the car and assured him everything was fine. We implored, “Please just take us for quality Indian food — and we want this curry in a HURRY!”
Close to two hours later, after what became a smog-ridden and traffic-laden drive in Manuel’s jack-rabbiting car (it stalled every 10 to 15 minutes), we arrived to an extremely local locale for some traditional south Indian cuisine — only to be told they had stopped serving at 3 p.m.
Now, we were thinking about how to kill our little Manuel.
Peace upon you
Manuel lived. We needed him. With frustration and raging appetites, we piled back into the car as we started-stalled-and-stopped around the corner to an unassuming eatery mostly filled with Muslim men dressed in all-white and wearing beanies, or kufi hats, on their heads. The place had zero decor. It was made mainly of steel and concrete. Despite a sign that read: “women and family seating downstairs,” we were ushered to the balcony seating of the second floor.
Lunch consisted of several single giant-sized crackers, bowls of rice, breads, a half-dozen dipping sauces and water. We finished with amazingly tasty coffee in which we had to share sips by passing it around. Hardly what I would have considered a “meal,” this was more of a snack to me and my jetlagged appetite. However, I was somehow sated when we paid the bill.
The last thing I wanted to do at that stage was go shopping but I did want to find a sari, the traditional female garment in India. So did the two other women I was traveling with. It was unanimous when the lone male in our group graciously agreed to help us find saris. Manuel knew just the place! (Of course he did.)
Human Tootsie Pops
We traveled a short distance by car and pulled up to a busy sidewalk with lots of active storefronts. We walked into a store of pure chaos with brightly colored fabrics stacked floor-to -ceiling on both sides of the store. We clearly had blinking signs across our foreheads reading “SUCKERS” and were instantly ushered up three flights of stairs to the pinnacle of price.
Mannequins were draped in very extravagant saris, which I was told were reserved for the elite and/or wedding ceremonies. If you will, picture the scene from Cinderella where all the animals in the attic conspire to create the most magical dress by draping Cinderella in an assortment of beads and fabrics. In this moment, I was Cinderella. The only difference being that instead of precious little animals dressing us, it was charming but money-hungry Indian men rushing to wrap us in sari after sari. Because each one was “just the perfect one for you, Madam.”
When it comes to fashion and design, I’m a decisive creature. I know what I like and rarely call on second opinions. As my attic animals continued to push more and more saris on me (even though I knew the third one I tried was the one) I was reminded of a comment my mom made when we shopped for my wedding dress years ago. She said, “when you find it, you’ll just know.”
Mumbai had found me, and I had found Mumbai.
Jacqueline
Jacqueline Botting is the founder and a contributing writer to WiseTribe. She is a technology business developer in the U.S. and overseas for start-ups and Fortune 1000s. She’s a proponent of owning less to live more and believes greater contemplative practices in our daily lives and social institutions make our world a better place. She splits her time between LA, NYC and Florida. Connect with Jacqueline on LinkedIn, Twitter or Google +.
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