I had a day in Mumbai, the city formally know as Bombay. Friends were putting me up in their flat and offered to take me sightseeing for the day, complete with Darren, my tour guide. I was glad to have a local with me and I’m certain he wanted to spend his school holiday with me, what 11th grader wouldn’t? Oh, want to know an added benefit of bringing along a teenager? After our introduction, he asked for my phone. A click here, a swipe there and a minute later, he handed it back to me. “You have wifi now. You’re using my phone as a hot spot. Don’t worry, it’s free and really fast.” Sweet. The cab picked us up and we set out.
“What do you want to see?”
“Show me your Bombay.”
His Mumbai. The first landmark we drove by was his church. India is such a religious country. Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh, Jain, Christian, Muslim… If you can think of a religion, it’s probably here. Goa was colonized by the Portuguese, so there’s a strong Catholic presence there and it spread to Mumbai. We saw a lot of churches and temples, it’s nice how they all coexist; Muslims treat Christians like Methodists treat Episcopalians and vice versa. Our first stop was a church, one of the older ones. Even midday it was occupied by the faithful, the stalls outside were in full swing, selling trinkets and candles. Mumbai was the first time in India I’d seen the western trappings of wealth. The expensive cars, the high end stores, the homes; it could be Los Angeles or any big city except for the proximity of the destitute. In the states, our poor and wealthy are kept at a distance, but in Mumbai they’re neighbors. We stopped at the beach and I walked down the steps to take in the view. I passed a shack and didn’t even look at it, my peripheral vision saw a snack stand on the beach, nothing more. I walked down a few steps and stood there. When I turned around, I noticed the shack and saw a home. Corrugated steel lashed to scraps of wood, tarps covering the gaps in the roof and walls, all held in place by rope and stones. There were two young girls in front, one washing clothes and the other waiting for the hose that was being used by some boys to clean themselves. The young girl washing the clothes looked up and stared at me with such dignity. Not an ounce of shame or self pity. She had a job to do, this was her life. She smiled, giving me a nod when I motioned to take her picture, then put her head down and went back to work. Just past her shack, slotted into the skyline and mingling with the skyscrapers, was our next stop; the Ambani house, Antilia. The largest and most expensive house on earth. It’s so tall, you can catch glimpses of it from various spots around the city. Three helipads, a garage for 168 cars, a staff of 600 and 4 million square feet of living space. For a family of five. After, we cruised the neighborhood and looked at the walls surrounding the homes of various Bollywood stars. We ended the day on the beach. Packed full of locals escaping the heat, there were people as far as I could see. Everyone was with a group; families, friends, hawkers and couples spilled out of the taxis that lined the street. Heading to the water’s edge, some were cautiously keeping their distance from the water, some stripped down to their underwear and raced in, others just walked in wearing their clothes. Be it a sari or a burka or business casual, the just walked and didn’t stop until the water was up to their knees. On the way back to the cab, I noticed a shack on the beach. Goat in the front yard, laundry hanging up and drying on the roof, I wondered who lived there and what their life was like. I took a quick picture and as I was walking away, a man came out. Somehow he noticed the big white guy standing in his yard and waved. I waved back, “Namaste.” He smiled, waved back and said, “Namaste.” It had been a long day, the cab driver dropped me off, I grabbed my camera bag and walked up the street past the kids playing cricket. Time for a cold Kingfisher.