[quote]People were all smiles and "Welcome to India only" until I took out my Pakistani passport[/quote]
I’ve never entered India through Mumbai and, considering the awful attacks on the Taj a few years ago, I wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Everything was going so well until I got to Immigration, as is so often the case. People were all smiles and “Welcome to India only” until I took out my Pakistani passport, and it was like an axe murderer had announced himself. I exaggerate: it wasn’t that they were mean to me, it’s that they just didn’t know what to do with me.
The poor lady at the counter had only started her job that day (a fact she repeated ad nauseum), and this was the first time she had seen a Pakistani passport. She sent me to counter B, which sent me to office A, whose keeper scoffed and sent me to room C until I was back in front of the lady. It had been an hour and I still hadn’t made it past the first checkpoint. As a Pakistani, I needed some form which they didn’t have because the airport is so new that even the phone lines don’t work. Eventually a sagely old officer came out with an old-school register, took down my particulars and sent me on.
“Sorry for the delay but what do you expect, being Pakistani?”
“Perchance a thaali with some meat dishes?” was my answer, but the joke didn’t fly.
After about an hour and some very charming flirting by yours truly, I was out in the, well, if not fragrant than heady aroma of Mumbai. Even on the plane you could tell this was a massive, truly gargantuan city. Usually, as you’re landing, you’ll see the flickering fairy lights of the city roads and neighborhoods below, but eventually they give way to darkness and a runway. Not here. The city began a full 20 minutes before we even began to land, and it didn’t end for as far as I could see on either side.
[quote]Slums, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, have lots of people who are capable of casting votes[/quote]
The people who called me over here put me in a hotel for the first night, which as fate would have it is a cozy little place right next to the Taj. (Oh God.) I took a walk around Marine Drive, that long strip of road next to the ocean here that makes a cameo in every movie that is trying to make Mumbai look like Malibu. It does not look like Malibu. And it certainly doesn’t smell like Malibu. (I want to say Mali bu...) I saw the Gateway of India (they get really upset if you call it India Gate, which is in Delhi and apparently entirely, crucially separate). I ended up in a really nice rooftop restaurant were I had some dubious calamari and a drink, a thrilling experience for obvious reasons.?There were all sorts of people out for walks and the beachfront promenade was filled with grubby European backpackers, sari-clad women leading families of children and dozens of Indian couples making out with each other. That’s the great thing about this city: you don’t for a minute feel judged, or the impulse to judge. Everyone is doing their own thing, going about their business. Mostly everyone. Occasionally during my walk I would step aside to avoid a garbage bag on the floor, only to realize after some rustling that it was a family fast asleep. This is something that happens all over Mumbai. One second you’re surrounded by beautiful colonial-era buildings, up-lit storefronts and chic cafes, and then suddenly you’re face to face with dozens of slum dwellings or makeshift tents on footpaths. Mumbai takes this dissonance in its stride, as it does so much else. The slums are less noticeable than I had thought, but I’ve only been here a few days. You can see a few hovels on the street, but apparently the extensive network of slumtowns unfolds behind them. Most of the time they are near high-end real estate (Mumbai property prices are similar to Hong Kong’s, I am told) and the reason they aren’t demolished is because, slum resident or not, people want their votes. Slums, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, have lots of people who are capable of casting votes, and therefore lots of people who are devoted to preserving their way of life.
The next day I woke bright and early to a procession of Ganesh-worshippers going past my window (yay, diversity!). The weather right now is beautiful; it’s warm in the day and cool at night with roaming sea breezes. This becomes less true the further into the city you get. The place where I’ll be working is in an area called Mazagaon, which despite its name (translates as ‘fun village’) is literally on the wrong side of the tracks in an area with docks, warehouses, and an alarming number of black-clad hijabans (apparently it’s a Bohra neighborhood).
Literally everyone I’ve met has been lovely, warm, welcoming and friendly, especially when they find out I’m from Pakistan. Why, just mere minutes ago I got chatting to the guy selling me my local SIM – a legally blind Chinese-Indian man called George. While my phone was being activated, George asked me intelligent questions about Pakistan and then took me on a walking tour of Colaba and we ended up having coffee at Café Leopold (a famous ex-pat destination, it feautres prominently in the book Shantaram and was one of the places the Mumbai terrorists attacked along with the Taj; you can still see the bullet holes in the walls from the machine guns).
I’m here for another few weeks, but I can tell you already I’m falling for the place. Where I land is still up for debate, but rest assured I’ll keep you posted.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter