Glimpses of Mumbai – By Night

Mumbai means many things to many people. It’s the city of dreams, a magnet for millions hoping to make it big in every industry from textiles and software to cinema. It’s the city that’s home to Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum. A city where an obscenely promiscuous display of wealth exists right beside what can be termed only as grinding poverty. It can be, as an Aussie friend flying in from Melbourne said, "A culture shock. I didn’t know what hit me."

And yet- Mumbai can be charming, exciting, friendly. Its restaurants and pubs are among the best in India, it actually possesses a nightlife (unlike Delhi, which more or less downs shutters by midnight), and though the sights are few, they’re good.

My favourite area is the heart of Mumbai—the area around the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (CST- still known to most locals as VT, an abbreviation of its earlier name, Victoria Terminus). The entire area consists of buildings dating back to the days of the British Raj: sold grey stone, sloping roofs, gables, ornate carving- even VT looks straight out of Victorian England. You can’t, unfortunately, visit most of the colonial buildings in the heart of Mumbai: nearly all of are government offices.

But not too far is another reminder of colonial times. Mumbai’s best-known landmark, The Gateway of India, stands looking out over the seafront, and is not just a good place for photographs but also a starting point for harbour cruises and rides in quaint horse-drawn carriages known as Victorias.

There are other attractions: the Hanging Gardens (in my personal opinion, extremely disappointing: I’d visited them years ago, and couldn’t find anything interesting about them); the Prince of Wales Museum (now the Chhatrapati Shivaji Museum- I must admit I haven’t visited it, but I believe it’s very good); and the Elephanta Caves.

But where Mumbai scores is in places to eat. From spicy street food like the batata vada (a spicy potato cake), pao bhaji (curried vegetables served with soft bun-like bread), and bhelpuri (puffed rice, tossed with just about everything- chopped onions, green coriander, tamarind chutney) to awesome fusion cuisine and very good Oriental grub: it’s all here. Eat your fill, wash it down with beer, and go for a midnight stroll down Marine Drive, its twinkling stream of lights earning it the very apt sobriquet of `the Queen’s Necklace’. Life doesn’t get more relaxed!

Quick Tips:

I’ve always been of the opinion that Mumbai beats Delhi when it comes to being friendly to strangers. The major sights to see are mostly close together, and the transport system is better (though the traffic, if you aren’t using the Local, can be horrendous). There are plenty of options to eat out, booze all you want, and party into the wee hours of the morning. And a larger proportion of those in hospitality and related services are, by and large, not out to squeeze the last hard-earned dollar out of you. A nice city, on the whole.

What’s also good is that on the whole Mumbai is a safer, more comfortable place for a woman on her own. In Delhi, even a glimpse of bare leg invites stares (at the very least); in Mumbai, skirts are commonplace. A woman can travel all by herself even at midnight on a Local- unthinkable in Delhi. I took a taxi from Mumbai to Vashi, getting back to my hotel at 11 PM- and not once did I feel even slightly nervous. Had I been in Delhi, I’d not have taken public transport on my own after about 9 PM.

So you can afford to let your hair down a bit in Mumbai. But do remember that liberal though it may be, Mumbai is still part of India. And all the pan-Indian do’s and don’ts apply here as well. Haggle when you’re buying your souvenirs; always ask around before you part with your money (and this applies from buying souvenirs to taking a harbour cruise). If you’re visiting a temple, a mosque or another place of worship, make sure you’re well clad: tank tops and shorts are a definite no-no. Steer clear of tap water, and if you have a sensitive tummy, avoid the chaat, bhelpuri, pao bhaji and other snacks sold along Chowpatty.

And lastly: try not to visit Mumbai during the monsoon (approximately June- September). The city has been inundated by rainwater in the past few seasons, and the floods have recently been severe enough to stop almost all traffic for a week or so. If you can’t avoid visiting Mumbai in the monsoon, carry your umbrella, raincoat, lifejacket, survival pack, and inflatable rubber dinghy. I’m not joking!

Best Way To Get Around:

I’ve always been of the opinion that Mumbai beats Delhi when it comes to being friendly to strangers. The major sights to see are mostly close together, and the transport system is better (though the traffic, if you aren’t using the Local, can be horrendous). There are plenty of options to eat out, booze all you want, and party into the wee hours of the morning. And a larger proportion of those in hospitality and related services are, by and large, not out to squeeze the last hard-earned dollar out of you. A nice city, on the whole.

What’s also good is that on the whole Mumbai is a safer, more comfortable place for a woman on her own. In Delhi, even a glimpse of bare leg invites stares (at the very least); in Mumbai, skirts are commonplace. A woman can travel all by herself even at midnight on a Local- unthinkable in Delhi. I took a taxi from Mumbai to Vashi, getting back to my hotel at 11 PM- and not once did I feel even slightly nervous. Had I been in Delhi, I’d not have taken public transport on my own after about 9 PM.

So you can afford to let your hair down a bit in Mumbai. But do remember that liberal though it may be, Mumbai is still part of India. And all the pan-Indian do’s and don’ts apply here as well. Haggle when you’re buying your souvenirs; always ask around before you part with your money (and this applies from buying souvenirs to taking a harbour cruise). If you’re visiting a temple, a mosque or another place of worship, make sure you’re well clad: tank tops and shorts are a definite no-no. Steer clear of tap water, and if you have a sensitive tummy, avoid the chaat, bhelpuri, pao bhaji and other snacks sold along Chowpatty.

And lastly: try not to visit Mumbai during the monsoon (approximately June- September). The city has been inundated by rainwater in the past few seasons, and the floods have recently been severe enough to stop almost all traffic for a week or so. If you can’t avoid visiting Mumbai in the monsoon, carry your umbrella, raincoat, lifejacket, survival pack, and inflatable rubber dinghy. I’m not joking!

My client’s office was in Vashi, and if I’d stayed in Mumbai city, I’d have spent at least four hours daily travelling to and from the office. So I had to find a hotel in Vashi- and the two hotels my client suggested were both booked up. No room at all. A colleague mentioned the Blue Diamond Hotel, but admitted he didn’t know if it was any good. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I booked a single room, airconditioned, at the Blue Diamond.

My misgivings began as soon as I stepped in. The reception was tiny and dingy, the lift shielded by those ancient `pull to one side’ iron grills. My room, which was on the third floor and overlooked the extremely noisy and crowded street, was small. The double bed had a firm mattress, but no sheet under the blanket, and the bed linen looked as if it hadn’t been scrubbed too vigorously when it was last laundered. The TV- which I never did watch- was seated on a stand made of shabby plywood, so tatty that the manufacturer’s stamp could still be seen on it. There were two bedside tables (and two lamps- one crooked, the other without a lampshade). Two chairs, a dressing table and mirror, and a coffee table. And a hanging wardrobe so narrow, it could hardly accommodate my stuff.

The bathroom was proportionately small and spartan. There was a shower (no shower stall, though; every time I bathed, I ended up with a very drippy bathroom). There was a plastic bucket and mug, for the many Indian guests who aren’t used to showers. There was a miniscule bar of soap, a sachet of shampoo, and no loo paper. The bath towel, though clean, was badly frayed along one edge. Not a place for long luxurious baths at all.

Fortunately enough, since I was at work all the day long, I didn’t spend much time at the hotel. I ordered from room service one evening, though- a mixed rice with peas, cashewnuts, raisins and cumin seeds; a Mangalorean fish curry (with a hefty dose of coconut); and a cold coffee, which was ghastly. Room service was rather laid back, and I waited well over half an hour for the food, which was passable but not great, to arrive. The hotel’s restaurant offers the same menu, a hotchpotch of Indian and Chinese dishes.

On the whole, not a nice experience. The only silver lining was the fact that my client’s office was only ten minutes away. And the staff, from the receptionist down to the room service waiter, was extremely helpful. They helped me figure out how to unlock my room door (I struggled with it most shamefully on my first day!), offered to get me a taxi, and generally treated me in a respectful yet somewhat protective way. They, and the hotel’s location with reference to where I worked, are about all I can recommend for the Blue Diamond. Otherwise, it’s best avoided.

I’d been to Café Mondegar (or Mondy’s, as those in the know refer to it) 13 years ago, when I’d been in college. A bunch of college pals dragged me off to Mondy’s, to an evening consisting largely of beer, wet coasters and great Irish coffee. Finding myself in Mumbai—even though I was 2 hours away from Colaba Causeway—I couldn’t resist the temptation to make my way to Mondy’s again. No friends, no beer (I have to admit, I’m not a beer fan), but perhaps a bit of nostalgia, at any rate.

I entered just past 8 in the evening, and blinked in dismay when I saw the inside: people were packed like sardines. The jukebox, which I’d forgotten, was belting out everything from The House of the Rising Sun to newer hits, the walls were ablaze with the most amazing caricatures ever (more on this later), and beer was flowing. The manager, a greying and kindly gent called Huxley, took me under his wing immediately, and sent a waiter off to escort me to a table in the second room, which is slightly quieter, slightly less crowded- but as much fun as the main room.

Waiters in green and yellow T-shirts emblazoned with the `Mondy’s Crew’ logo (Mondy’s T-shirts can be bought for Rs 200) scurried around, dispensing everything from kababs to burgers, bruschetta, chowmein, grills, sizzlers- the works. The menu is eclectic, and after a bit of thought, I ordered a Pomfret Cardinale, followed by an Irish coffee. The food was a disappointment; the fish was overcooked, and smothered in a cloyingly sweet, bright orange sauce. The fries on the side were limp and oily, the sautéed vegetables (carrot, beans and broccoli) sadly overdone. The Irish coffee, though the cream had a faint tinge of sourness, was good and strong, and came with a hefty dose of whisky. Almost certainly not Irish whiskey, but heartening nevertheless.

I paid my bill (Rs 290 in all; if I’d had a glass of beer, it would’ve cost an additional Rs 80. A medium pitcher of beer is Rs 300; most dishes are Rs 100-150), and then I headed out- only to be accosted by Huxley, who spent about ten minutes chatting with me and telling me all about Mondy’s.

Mondegar began as a tea-coffee-and-bun shop where Huxley and his schoolmates came to play `table football’; about 30 years back, it was converted into a regular café, but with an emphasis on beer. Around the same time- in the 70’s- the famous cartoonist Mario Miranda painted Mondy’s interiors. The pictures, predominantly in black and white, are evocative of Goa (Miranda’s home state), and are one of the biggest draws of Mondy’s. As, of course, are the beer, the friendly staff, the crowd, and the music. If not for the food, come here for all of that- and for the fact that this is really nothing short of an institution as far as Mumbai is concerned.

If there’s one sight that’s almost representative of Mumbai, it’s the Gateway of India. Not the prettiest or the most impressive of monuments in India, but definitely one of the best-known. The Gateway of India stands sentinel, perched at an awkward angle on the edge of the land. A low parapet—with uncomfortable narrow stone benches built all along it—surrounds the basalt Gateway on three sides, with a wide gap on the seaward side, where a flight of broad steps leads down to where the murky waters of the Arabian Sea wash the lowest stairs. This is where large and shabby boats offer cruises around the harbour; and this is where families from all across India, babies, and grandparents and toddlers in tow, line up to gape at the Gateway. The stone benches are almost always occupied, by groups of youths; families; and the odd young couple holding hands. Hawkers wander round, selling ice cream and its Indian equivalent, the cardamom and pistachio scented kulfi. And there are the ubiquitous photographers, offering to take the best ever photos of tourists against a backdrop of the gateway. They’re there even long after sunset, when the Gateway’s beautifully lit up—the illuminated monument is quite a sight. And it’s a busy place.

I couldn’t find space to sit, and had to content myself with strolling around the structure. The Gateway of India dominates the seafront, but once you get close to it, it doesn’t feel overwhelmingly large- only, if my research is right, 83 feet tall at its highest point, and 48 feet in diameter. The building was designed by the Scottish architect George Wittet, who was Assistant to the Consulting Architect to Bombay in the early years of the 20th century.

Wittet designed the Gateway in an Indo-Saracenic style- which translates into somewhat conical arches, solid columns, and heavy square grills carved from stone. The building was built to commemorate the visit, in December 1911, of King George V to India- but the Gateway itself was completed only in 1924. Considering the fact that the Gateway was built in honour of the British monarch, it’s rather ironic that after India became independent, the last British troops to leave the country passed through the Gateway. The 1st Battalion of the Somerset Light Infantry marched out under the gate in a special ceremony on February 28, 1948.

Entry to the Gateway is free- there’s actually no `entry’ as such, since it’s more or less open, and you can wander in just about when you want. Try to go early in the morning, when it’s not too crowded. This is also about the best time to explore the area around the Gateway- in particular, the impressive Taj Mahal hotel, which stands right behind the Gateway.

It’s just a little past 6.30pm. The sun’s setting, and I, after a 20-minute autorickshaw ride from my client’s plush office, have managed to make it to Vashi station. It’s been raining during the day, and the station is dark, muddy, and wet. Involuntarily, I find myself comparing it to the Metro stations, clean and uncrowded, in Delhi. This place looks, in comparison, horrendous. There are no signs to indicate which trains come and go from which platforms. There don’t seem to be any helpful employees I can ask. And all around me there’s a madly rushing crowd of people, racing towards the trains.

It’s rush hour.

And rush hour, on the Mumbai Local, isn’t a nice time. But my guardian angel is working overtime, and I find myself, without any trouble, at a platform where a train’s about to leave. An anorexic girl in jeans is blowing kisses to a young man on the platform, and she confirms that the train’s headed for CST. I hop in, relieved. Just getting into the right train has been a minor achievement in itself.

The compartment I’m in is the Ladies’ Compartment. Mere coincidence, but I’m not complaining. It isn’t terribly crowded: there’s no room for me to sit, but there’s plenty of standing space, enough for me to lean back against a rhythmically lurching metal wall and gaze out of the wide doors- which, by the way, are simply doorways; there are no leaves to these doors. One push, and out you go, hurtling on to the tracks.

The train moves on, first at high speed as it crosses the relatively uninhabited stretch between Vashi and Mumbai. This is a place of marshes—glittering expanses of water, reflecting the swollen grey monsoon clouds above. There are trees, shrubs, grasslands, wild flowers, and water birds. A pretty, tranquil non-city scene.

The scene inside the Ladies’ Compartment is equally absorbing. Sitting on the floor, just a few feet away from me, is a trio of young village girls, in bright ankle-length skirts and cotton blouses. Bright-eyed, dark-skinned, maybe about twelve or thirteen years old. They’re selling long, fibrous green pod-like vegetables known in India as drumsticks: not a personal favourite of mine, but much adored by those who find them deliciously chewy. The girls are soon joined by another hawker: a grey-haired woman, her sari draped knee-length in the traditional Maharastrian style, with a long, broad loop of cloth gathering up the sari between her legs. The wares in her basket are more appetising than the drumsticks: savoury crisps made of gram flour, rice flour, sesame seeds, and a light sprinkling of seasonings ranging from red chillies to sugar, tamarind, and fried curry leaves.

Behind me- and soon beside me, for I manage to find a place to sit- is seated a bunch of young women, laughing and talking in an easy blend of English, Hindi and Marathi. They’re obviously colleagues- some of them in jeans and shirts, some in salwar-kurtas. Cosmopolitan to the core.

The train crosses into Mumbai city and whizzes past stations: Kurla, Dadra, Reay Road, Cotton Green… the names are evocative enough- most typically Marathi, some a throwback to colonial days. Finally, about an hour and a half later, I’m there. I’ve arrived at my destination. Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminal, or as everybody seems to refer to it, VT- Victoria Terminal. It’s muggy, so crowded and stuffy and confusing that I just stand still for about ten seconds, trying desperately to figure out which side I should be headed.

By the end of ten seconds, that decision’s been wrenched out of my hands. I find myself pulled and pushed, willy-nilly, by the mob that’s surging all around me, rushing towards the main gate. Everybody’s walking as if their lives depended on it: old ladies, toddlers, people who look as if they barely get one square meal a day- all are swirling past, and I’m getting caught up and carried along on the wave of humanity.

Outside the station, I stop, move swiftly to the fence that blocks off the station from the main road, and look up at the bulk of VT. Grey stone, colonial in every line and column and arch. The buildings around, I notice, are also much the same. All beautifully lit up, enabling me to get some shots on my camera. In Delhi, a lone woman standing outside a mundane building like a railway station, taking photographs at night, would invite stares and quite possibly even questions. Here, everybody around is just too hurried to notice.

I shove my camera back into its bag and take a taxi to Gateway of India. Another thing I wouldn’t have attempted in Delhi, because taxi drivers in Delhi have a tendency to throw their weight around if you want to go a short distance. Here, the cabbie simply puts the meter down and takes me the couple of kilometres to the monument. It’s illuminated, too, and crowded. I make a leisurely circuit around the Gateway, fending off hawkers of ice cream and kulfi, brandishing my camera significantly at photographers offering to take pictures of me against the building.

It’s past 8, and the thought of the journey back to my hotel in Vashi- at least an hour and a half away- is already looming large in my mind. I’ve got to get back- but not before dinner at a place I remember fondly: Café Mondegar. I don’t, unfortunately, recall its location too well; all I remember is that it’s somewhere at the back of the Taj Mahal Hotel. But a little bit of slightly lost walking about, and I find it. Dinner’s quick, slightly awkward because I’m the only person sitting solo in a café occupied almost completely by couples, families, and groups of backpackers. Nobody pays much attention to me (except the wait staff, who have an almost protective air about them), and I’m out of Mondy’s by 9.

It doesn’t take brains to figure out that if I catch a Local back to Vashi I’m hardly likely to get to my hotel before around 11. And despite everything people may say about the Local being safe for women any hour of the day, I have my qualms. How safe? Really safe, or safe just in name? I give in to my cowardly urges, and take a taxi.

The ride back is long. Very, very long. I’d have thought there’d be less traffic on the roads, but Mumbai, I realise, is not Delhi. Traffic in Delhi is significantly thin after about 9; here in Mumbai, it’s bumper to bumper even at 10.30. The taxi crawls along, and every now and then, a sudden sharp downpour brings home to me the fact that the weather in Mumbai, especially during the monsoon, is thoroughly unpredictable.

We finally reach Vashi close to 11. I’m not the sharpest pencil in the pack when it comes to directions, and the cabbie doesn’t know Vashi too well. "Never mind, madam", he assures me- and hops out every couple of kilometres to check with passersby about the location of the Blue Diamond Hotel. We get there just at 11, and I see that the hotel’s restaurant, on the ground floor, is packed with diners. But I’m really too tired to dawdle; I pay off the taxi, grab my room key from the reception, and head upstairs to a cold bath, followed by bed. Outside, neon lights twinkle, cars vroom past, the seemingly incessant activity of Mumbai continues.

The city never sleeps at night.