Mumbai Day 4 - things I have seen and lessons I have learned

March 15, 2010

Whistles and Horns

The sounds of Mumbai are overwhelming. No driver it seems can resist honking their horn. I’m not sure if it is to warn of an advance of just to announce their presence. I cross the main road adjacent to our office in the Worli district each morning to buy a cold drink where a large, imposing and heavily mustached & extravagant policeman seems to delight in assisting me. He boldly marches amongst the teeming traffic with both hands raised with great authority - all the while blowing on a large brass whistle. Upon reaching the centre he holds up his enormous mitts somehow commanding the traffic to a halt - and then gestures me to cross the road. Each step I take is accompanied by a loud toot of his whistle and he keeps rhythm with each pace. I’ve tried the brisk walk, the quick step and the slow crawl - and miraculously - and almost musically his whistles match each of my treads. This morning I paused mid-stride - hoping to catch him out and just to see how he would handle it. A brief look of puzzlement crossed his face before he broke into a broad grin - attuned to what game I was playing.

The driving Experience - seven lanes into two

My drive to and from the office each day is an experience for all the senses and certainly wakes one up. I’ve learned that red lights mean much the same as green ones - one just blows their horn with a little more urgency when dashing through the reds. Amber does not exist. The line markings on the roads are simply wasted paint as every effort is made to create six or seven lines of traffic even when only two may exist. Signaling for turns can be achieved through arms wildly flapping out of windows - and as I’ve noticed too - sometimes also with legs. Rickshaw drivers in particular can sometime appear to be doing the splits as first one sandled leg shoots out the right side of the vehicle then almost simultaneously (when u-turns are undertaken) the left leg shoots out the left side. Like a body disconnected. It’s not uncommon to see a family of three perched upon rickety old motorcycles 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 nudging him gently with his elbow to blow when they turned corners. I assumed I think correctly that his horn was not functioning. The surviving chrome on banged up old ambassador taxis are polished to a high sheen by the drivers when they are not carrying passengers - and they are obviously a source of great pride for the men who drive them for up to 16 hours a day.

Bolah the nut boy

At 4.00pm sharp each day Bolah the nut boy sets up shop on the curb at the front of our office. One of tens of thousands of such child merchants and no more than 12 years of age - he squats on the dusty ground and perches a rusty old oil can atop some burning embers and gently roasts a pan of mixed dried nuts for sale to passers by. Using rough cut pieces of newspaper he folds them into long cylindrical cones which he fills to the brim with his product and sells for 5 rupees a go. I find it impossible to resist his very serious business approach and endeavor and buy 2 cones each afternoon - giving him 50 rupees (US$1.20). This 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 was almost obliged to let him go for it. An old beggar then appeared with a somewhat crazed look on his face and muttering something incomprehensible - and Bolah promptly leapt to his feet - yelling and chasing him away. The guys in my office have told me that the name Bolah means “innocent one” - and whilst he has the body of a frail and undernourished child - he has eyes that shine with the wisdom and guile of an old man.

Uniforms

Indian men love their uniforms. They are kept immaculately clean and are worn with great pride. Our office has literally dozens of security guards in situ and the streets of Mumbai are filled with policemen, postmen and other government workers - all of whom 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 is serviced with 4 lifts - and in each of these are seated individual lift operators whose sole responsibility is to press the floor buttons to where you need to go. On day one here I made the dreadful mistake of actually pushing the button myself - where again there was such a look of hurt and devastation from the guy that I have dared not to press one since. The ladies on the street wear bright and almost garish saris - many with traditional Hindi pierced noses ornated with tiny bells made of silver. If the road traffic weren’t so loud I’m sure you could hear tiny tinkles from these as they stroll about their business.

National Pride

I went to a book store this morning to find something to read. Seeing the novels “The White Tiger” and “Between the Assassinations” by Aravind Adiga displayed prominently on the main display shelf I told the proprietor that he was amongst my favorite authors and enquired whether he had written any other works. After saying a polite “no” I then asked whether he had in fact read either book. He wobbled his head in the negative but asked me what the books were about. When I informed him that they were beautiful works of literature about life of the common man in India and the hardship of just surviving he chuckled softly and told me that “I don’t need to read them then as this is something that most Indians are living every day in Mumbai” My retort was that he should be very proud to be an Indian for to me there was so much beautiful art and talent and life in his city and country. He told me - almost blushing - that my words made his heart sing.

This is Mumbai. This is India. It makes my heart sing too.

Peter Hepenstall is currently based in Singapore and frequently travels in South East Asia.