One Day in Mumbai

When you only have half a day in Mumbai, what do you do with it? Aaron and I weren't sure how to answer that question, as it seemed like no matter what we chose, we would be missing out on so much. You can live in a huge city for months, or years, and not experience everything you would like to, so how can you really get anything out of half a day? We were determined to try.

Although we had enjoyed the hotel's breakfast buffet the previous morning, our second breakfast in India consisted of Aldi toaster pastries, canned chicken, and raisins. It was cheap, fast, easy, and there was less of a chance we would be paying for it later in the form of traveler's diarrhea, which would have been even more unpleasant to deal with while walking around the city.

We repeated the previous day's going-out routine: slathering on sunscreen and mosquito repellent, wearing long sleeves and pants, brushing our teeth with bottled water. Since the hotel provided free bottled water, we each loaded Aaron's backpack with a few big bottles, as well as some snacks. We packed everything else, checked our luggage at the bell desk, and checked out of our room so that we could walk around the city without having to worry about coming back before the checkout time. Our plan was to meet Rob in the lobby around 2:00 so we could take a taxi to the airport together, with plenty of time to eat at the airport before catching our flight to Hyderabad.

With one tripod, both camera bodies and all of our lenses, we headed out of the hotel alone for the first time. It was a little overwhelming to have the freedom to wander where we wished, but it was also overwhelming because we felt very exposed. I had learned the previous day that no matter where I was, people would stare at me. I'm not comfortable being an object of curiosity, so I tended to make eye contact and smile a lot. It disarmed people, and made me feel less nervous about being in India (it turned into a game later in Hyderabad).

I knew I was staring at people, though. Everything was absolutely fascinating to me, from the way people dressed to the way they spoke down to the way they walked and interacted with each other. People were reserved, modest, yet very affectionate. It felt like everyone regarded the people near them as family in the larger sense. The people were absolutely beautiful to me, and not just in terms of physical appearance: they radiated this sense of good, even though we were obviously strangers.

We walked around the barricade and plaza surrounding the Gateway, where there were quite a few items for sale.

This was a common sight: men selling chai from a thermos, poured into tiny paper cups.

Several people sold fresh fruit and vegetables. To the right of the chai man, there was a guy selling plastic packs of strawberries that smelled amazing. This kid sold peeled cucumbers, using the leaves and a bowl of water to keep them cool.

The balloon vendors were relatively aggressive, and they were everywhere. The smell of the latex was a little overwhelming at times. And what would you do with these? The only think I can think of of is hit people with them.

This guy roasted peanuts, dispensing them in rolled paper cones. Some vendors had trays balanced on their heads.




















There was a line of waiting taxis, with drivers ready to take tourists on city tours. We kept using the excuse that we were leaving in a few hours and didn't have time, which was unfortunately true. It was important to us that we saw some of the city, but we couldn't risk getting into a cab with someone who may not understand that we needed to get back to the hotel at a certain time so we could meet Rob and catch our flight to Hyderabad. I've only taken taxis in big cities a few times, and it was usually to get to/from an airport, and those rides showed me that not only is it hard to see a city from a taxi window, it's also nearly impossible to have an accurate sense of how long it will take.

So we just started walking down a street until we found a huge intersection. Aaron set up his tripod to take video, and I took photos of anything passing by. It might be weird, but watching traffic was one of the most enjoyable parts of being in India, because everything about it was different from home.

For at least an hour, we set up shop at this intersection. There were quite a few corners, and a median with a statue from which we had a good view of multiple angles of the roundabout. Oh, how I wanted to go to that art museum! The nerd in me groaned at the idea of being so close to it but not being able to go.

 

And look at that architecture!

I was fascinated by the flow of traffic: how every vehicle and pedestrian occupied his or her own space, and all of it flowed in one controlled motion, seemingly choreographed. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. The traffic in Rome is the closest analogue, but the Italians whizzing by on motorini were somehow more insistent. Staccato. Frenzied. A bit reckless. Indians exhibited what I think of as "traffic trust," knowing everyone would get where they were trying to go eventually, and that cooperation would help them along.

When the lights changed, it was exhilarating to watch everyone move, and navigate the laneless intersections without colliding. The key is the way Indian drivers use their horns more than their mirrors and turn signals combined. And yes, those cars are coming right at me. I was on the very edge of the sidewalk, crouched low and shaking a little in anticipation.

I loved how open and friendly people were--especially the young. Our equipment was a way into a conversation, and we tried to be as polite as possible because we felt like these people were giving us the gift of a tiny slice of their lives, captured digitally.

These kids were great. The one in the middle was obviously the leader in the situation, and he asked to have us take their pictures with our cameras and with their cell phones. But even truck, bus, and cab drivers waved or even stopped for us.

And these boys were heartbreakingly adorable. They kept stopping in the street because they wanted us to take their pictures so badly.

And as they walked away, you can see how much they cared for each other, helping each other cross at least four lanes of traffic, not at a crosswalk, to get to the center of the roundabout and on with their day. (I really, really love that lens for portraits. So nice.)

I loved taking pictures of everyone who would let us, but at times, it felt exploitative. Sure, I wanted to document our trip, and be able to show my family and friends what we had done and seen while in India, but I didn't want to feel like I was taking advantage of the people whose photos I was taking. By composing the shots, choosing what to show and what to ignore, I was passing a sort of judgment on them--however much I didn't want to do that, it was unavoidable.

Then two men stopped my heart dead in my chest. They were lugging a cart with huge water barrels. They were drenched with sweat. They were doing more work than seemed humanly possible. And the second man was not only drenched in sweat--he was missing an arm.

I felt so incredibly conflicted. Do I take the photo? How could I not take the photo? Would they feel like I was robbing them of their dignity? Did I need to explain to them that by taking the photos, I was trying to capture life in Mumbai just as it was that January day?

The man at the front of the cart answered my questions for me when he stopped, smiled, and then posed for me. He wanted his picture taken. I still felt incredibly conflicted, but also so grateful to him.

I thanked them several times, and they went on their way.

We were continually amazed at how people were able to move large quantities of goods on vehicles seemingly too small for the tasks at hand, or with far fewer people than simple physics should necessitate. By the time we saw two men carrying a full-grown goat between them on a motorcycle in Hyderabad, we were almost used to it.

Every man I saw reminded me of my dad's work ethic, and his penchant for "build your own" trailers. He'd do fine in India.

After seeing this, how can I honestly say I have ever worked a day in my life? I know it's all relative, but I felt sick inside at just how hard people worked, and here I was, taking pictures on a street corner. I was being paid to take those pictures. I was "working."

We eventually moved from the roundabout down a side street.Though we could have easily asked for directions, we didn't want to get too far from the hotel because we didn't know where we would be "safe." We weren't too concerned for our safety, to be honest--it was more an issue of being able to keep track of each other and our equipment, since we still had a lot of shooting to do in Hyderabad and we absolutely could not afford to lose a camera, a bag, a tripod, or anything else.

The side street we chose was home to the Leopold Cafe, which was popular with tourists but also among the sites attacked by terrorists in 2008. This street also had some rather aggressive vendors, one of whom followed me for a block and a half in the hopes that I would buy a book of his postcards because I showed the slightest amount of interest. I did end up bargaining for a refrigerator magnet depicting the Taj and Gateway of India. Although the picture on the magnet is incorrect, I think it adds to the charm. What do you expect for 50 rupees?

I have a sensitive nose as it is, and India allowed me to play Toucan Sam's "Follow Your Nose" game like a professional. Delicious food smells came out of nowhere, carried from open doorways and windows or from atop the heads of street vendors.

Samosa Man! I wanted to follow him down the block. Imagine a cartoon-like white tendril of delicious aroma beckoning to me with come-hither fingers, and me following him down the street, balanced and moving forward on my rapidly-tapping toes, eyes closed in sheer ecstasy at each whiff. Yes. That's what it was like. It smelled so good.




We kept walking, stopping to take photos and look at wares arranged on tables. Eventually, we turned left again, back towards the Taj. I didn't really want to go back, so I dawdled, taking Aaron down side streets and stopping as often as possible, despite my growling stomach and aching feet. There was so much more to see.

And that's when I met Ganesh. While Aaron was taking photos, I ended up in the center of the street with two teenage boys. We started a conversation about why we were in India, and why we were taking pictures. Then Ganesh showed me just how ugly tourists are: he offered to show me the slums, just like in Slumdog Millionaire, which is apparently what all the white tourists want to see when they visit Mumbai. It made me so angry and uncomfortable that that's what tourists expect, and ask for--to take a taxi to the slums and then go back to their expensive hotels where they can wash away all traces of the lives they have just exploited.

 I didn't say this to Ganesh. I thanked him but politely declined, explaining that we would be leaving Mumbai later that day and were happy to walk around a little on our own, to see what we could. We were less than a block from the Taj, so he may have figured we were staying there (and thus had money).

Then he asked me to buy him some rice from a nearby stand. I am not a hard-hearted person, and I honestly wanted to buy him that rice. I could afford it. I could have bought rice for everyone standing on that street for the cost of a dinner for two at Denny's back home. I struggled to say no to him, explaining that if I bought it for him and his friend, I would want to buy it for everyone, and I couldn't do that because my husband would be angry with me. I felt like an absolute moron, and I struggled not to cry in front of him, because I felt that guilty. How do you say now to a soft-spoken, polite boy who speaks impeccable English and is blind in one eye? How do you say no to a boy who, truthfully or not, calls himself Ganesh, and whose namesake is the Remover of Obstacles?

When it was clear that I wasn't going to buy them food, Ganesh and his friend walked away. I felt terrible, until I saw Ganesh pull a wad of bills out of his back pocket and buy himself some rice. Not that it means he couldn't have used some help.

On that side street, we photographed a man I later dubbed the only sour man in all of Mumbai:

 I didn't try to smile at him.













The rest of that street, however, was so pleasant. It felt like a microcosm for what India was for us.

The shabby but pleasant.

The constant motion and endless urban growth. The city was so completely alive.

 

And the juxtapositions of delicate, beautiful, expensive things with the old, gritty, rough realities of Mumbai.

There was a dead rat on the sidewalk directly below the dress on the right. It was like what a pretentious art student would assemble to make a statement, except it was just there.

Outside the hotel, I managed to buy a book of postcards from a vendor. I was glad I did, because I didn't have much of a chance to buy them in Hyderabad. (Now, I promise, I did write all 12 postcards--I just have no idea if they were actually sent, because I was unable to buy stamps in Hyderabad and had to leave them with the man who took us to the airport to fly back home.)

I wish I had another word to describe how I felt about going back to the Taj, but conflicted is the one that remains lodged in my brain. I welcomed the air conditioned lobby, the comfortable couches, the privacy of our 4th floor room. I was happy to be able to wash my face and breathe clean air (when I blew my nose, my snot was black.) I also felt extremely ashamed at my behavior: for having taken photographs, for having bargained for already inexpensive souvenirs, for having denied beggars, for having said no to Ganesh.

While we waited for Rob in the lobby, I couldn't sit still. I walked around the hotel a bit, looking around at the pool, the shops, the restaurants. I stood in front of the window of a jewelry shop, looking at earrings and necklaces I certainly couldn't afford. The price tags were tactfully turned facedown. There was a store that sold nothing but pashmina scarves; another with silk ties. I lingered too long in front of yet another jewelry store, causing the proprietor to get up from his stool and abandon his newspaper to approach the door. I was in the hotel, I was white, so that meant I had money to spend on luxury goods. Obviously. The assumptions hurt, and were ill-fitting. Seeing my tired face reflected back at me, studded with the glitter of gemstones in the shape of peacocks and elephants, I couldn't tell if I belonged inside the hotel or outside of it.