If You Loved “Slumdog Millionaire,” You’ll Love Mumbai

Everyone tried to prepare us for Mumbai (Bombay). “It will change you.” “You’ll see stuff you’ll never forget.” “It’s beyond pity.” But, like childbirth, they swear it’s something you need to personally experience. Poverty in Mumbai is like the weather—it surrounds you, envelopes you. There’s no place to look that you don’t get a whiff of the wretchedness. And it’s not just a couple of beggar kids whose eyes have been gouged out by their pimp. Oh no. Here, poverty is big-time. The Super Bowl of poverty. It’s like the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard; a stiff breeze and a hurricane. But, amazingly, the horror of the poverty is nearly completely offset by the friendliness and good cheer of the people. It was a lot like the Slumdog movie, where the guy had endured a totally miserable childhood, yet he kept his hope alive and in the end, he triumphed. Okay, I’ll forgo more “English major” description of the place and instead, I’ll tell you about our day in Mumbai.
We cruised into a crowded port (ships of all sizes everywhere) about 7am. The temperature was already hovering at 32 degrees C. (that’s around 90F.) And humid. Of course humid. Mumbai is gearing up for their monsoon, so the days drip by, threatening rain but the rain won’t come until mid-May. We had to go through immigration. A bunch of Indian guys in uniform came onto the ship and we trudged past them, passports in hand, so they could give us the stink eye and stamp our passports, and our visas and then our entry cards, and then give a good look at our passport copies, and on and on. These guys were ostensibly there because of the events of “26/11.” At first, I thought they’d gotten the date wrong: 26? Nope, it’s 9/11, isn’t it? But then I realized in India they are referring to their “day of terror” which happened on November 26 when the Taj Hotel and a bunch of other places were bombed by extremists who arrived by boat (not cruise ship, however). Anyway, we endured lots of what the Australian Sydney Herald (newspaper) referred to as “protracted security activity masquerading as effectiveness” before we could even get off our ship.
We went on the Princess-sponsored “Mumbai City Highlights” tour. We usually forego the ship’s excursions because it’s just as easy to snag a cab and go to all the places the bus goes for half the money. But as Mumbai novices we decided we needed the extra layer of support (kind of like wearing a Spanx instead of mere pantyhose) that the bus provides. The bus wound its way out of the port area, through stacks and stacks of ship containers and everywhere I saw groups of young men sleeping on the ground. Right on the ground, at 8:30 in the morning. They looked too healthy to be druggies, but there they were, fast asleep as the sun baked them like so many cookies on a sheet.
Once into the city proper I noticed all the old colonial buildings (the British built a ton of “London-style” buildings here—the train station, the library, the university, and so on) were in pretty sad shape. They are streaked and stained by hundreds of years of overuse, monsoon and pollution. There were people out and about, but not that many. The guide told us since it was Saturday (we’re still a day ahead of back home) most of the businesses are closed, thus fewer people in the central city. As the day wore on, many more people came out. What I did notice was that people on the street smiled and waved as our bus went by. They seemed genuinely pleased to see us.
First, we went to the “laundry.” This is an outdoor laundry where men (and only men) wash clothes for pennies an hour in vast tubs and then hang the clothes on lines to dry in the sun. It’s immense. It’s also in a poor area of town (not the slums, exactly, but sort of a semi-slum). Once we got off the bus to take a picture, the beggars pounced on us like flies on a carcass. There were three kinds of beggars at this stop: women in saris holding babies and toddlers (usually naked) who were outright begging or asking for money to take their photo; men selling stuff you didn’t want or need (roll-up maps of India or peacock feather fans); or little kids, a la Slumdog Millionaire, selling stuff you didn’t want or need (ratty-looking beaded bags, for instance). The guide told us if we wanted to buy anything to wait until we were near the bus door because the others would crowd around us making it impossible to move. (She was right).
Next, we went to Ghandi’s home in Bombay (the guide called it Bombay, so I’ll call it Bombay. It’s easier to say and I think it’s a more melodic word). We trudged up six flights of marble stairs in the heat (nothing, except the bus, has A/C in Bombay). At the top, there was a little museum showing the life and times of Mahatma Ghandi. He was an amazing man, and he was pretty much solely responsible for driving the British out of India. That’s probably why his face is on their money.
Then we went to a Jain Temple. Now, this is the India I was waiting for. The Jains are a religious sect who practices what the guide referred to as “extreme penance.” They are into long fasts, self-flagellation and denial, all kinds of self-deprivation while believing it is evil to kill or harm anything else (they don’t kill insects and they are strict vegans). The temple was one of those “overly adorned” places with every single inch of wall and ceiling brightly painted with people, elephants, tigers, and so on. Inside, it was prayer time so the Jains were there making offerings and doing their thing. We had to remove any leather (no belts, no purses) and take off our shoes before entering the temple. Ironically, the Jains are also the diamond brokers and gold and silver commodity brokers in India. They are the go-to guys for millions of dollars worth of stuff, yet they believe in a strictly ascetic way of life. I’m not sure how that all works out.
Next, we went to the Hanging Gardens. They aren’t hanging at all, simply a garden that was built on top of a huge water reservoir. (Oh, and in the interest of space and time, I’m not mentioning the beggars at every stop—but rest assured, they were front and center everywhere, even the temple.) The interesting thing about the gardens is that they were built as a buffer for the Place of Silence, the beyond-weird spot right next to the reservoir where the Farsis take their dead. Okay, here’s where it really gets strange: the Farsis don’t bury their dead; they don’t cremate them; and they don’t throw them in the sea. What they do is lay them out for the birds to eat. That’s right, folks, Grandma becomes bird food. So, since the Place of Silence was so near to the reservoir the Indian Government (or perhaps it was the British Colonial Government) came up with the good idea of planting a garden over the reservoir to keep any contamination out of the water supply. Well, turns out that was a great idea because the primary “body removal” bird was the vulture and there are no vultures anymore since an antibiotic or hormone or some such thing (I wasn’t completely sure what the guide said here) was introduced into the food supply and it killed all the vultures. It used to take 2 days for a body to be essentially “gone”. Now it takes 2 to 3 WEEKS—in really hot weather. I can only imagine…
On to the Prince of Wales Museum (actually, all these places have new, Indian names. But everyone still calls them by their “colonial” names). The museum was a beautiful, domed building (actually many buildings) and was about the best-preserved building we saw all day. We went inside for a while and looked at all kinds of Indian deities (they have statues and paintings and so on of their gods like the Louvre has statues and paintings of Mary and Jesus.) In other words, a LOT of them.
Then we finally made our way to the Gateway of India (a huge arch built to commemorate the visit of King George V of England in 1911) and the Taj Hotel. The old hotel is still closed from the terrorist attacks, but the new “tower” is open for business. The Gateway stands in a beautiful square near the harbor, but it’s “Beggar Central.” It’s hard to stick around long because of the constant harassment. Every time we’d try to snap a photo, some stick-skinny woman with an eerily quiet child in her arms would swoop into the shot and, with a big smile, ask for money to “take picture with the baby.”
There is a whole blog-post of stuff I could write about male/female relations in India. Maybe another time. Our guide was very forthcoming about her arranged marriage and about the changing landscape of women’s rights in India. But, as I said, I’ll spare you the details for now.
Bombay was everything we were expecting; yet nothing we expected. The pundits are right: you have to see it for yourself. But all in all, I thought it was fantastic.