Dispatches from the Front: On My Own in Mumbai

My hotel cubbyhole has a little sign on the inside of the door, with a list of do's and don'ts for guests. Second on the list is something puzzling: Lady guest not allowed in the room. Okay, so what am I? Do I not count as a lady? (How insulting!) Or did I have them fooled with my jeans and shirt? Will the day I wear something more feminine result in me being asked to leave?

Some deep thought, and I'm guessing it means that if you're male, you can't get in someone (don't know if you'd call that someone a lady, really) for a tumble. Which, since there are no instructions to the contrary, means that I am free to invite gentlemen to my cubbyhole. Where I'd accommodate the gentlemen is a point in question - room number 504 is so small, I can't even stand in the room and open my suitcase at the same time. I end up having to shove my suitcase into the wardrobe, bend over, half get into the wardrobe myself, and then open the suitcase.

Hotel Highway Residency has been booked for me by my company, and the two saving graces seem to be that it's very close to my office - just about 15 minutes by autorickshaw - and the front desk staff are helpful. Other than that, it's a litany of horrors. The neighbourhood, for starters, is just slightly more upmarket than a slum, and I'm sure the nearby cigarette factory isn't good for my lungs.

My room is minuscule, but crammed with a bed that's too large for a single; a table and chair; a bedside table with phone and directory; and a television seated atop the wardrobe. The bed linen isn't spotless, and the blanket -- ugh -- doesn't have a sheet under it. The bathroom is proportionately small and equally iffy. Waterstains bespatter the taps, the door knob, and just about everything that's metal. There's no loo paper (just as well I wasn't expecting any) and the teensy bar of soap that's provided is some vague herbal brand that looks most yucky.

As far as other facilities go, there's room service. Fairly oily stuff, most of it Indian, but also some sandwiches, soup, and faux Chinese. But you have to pay cash; they won't charge it to your room. There's a laundry, Internet service (Rs 30 for an hour of surfing), free airport pickup, and cab bookings. There's a restaurant, with silvery upholstery, five tables, a very loud TV, and the same food as on the room service menu. Workmen are renovating the restaurant when I arrive, and since I have to pass through the restaurant to get to my room, I end up constantly begging the workmen to quit splashing on the cement while I walk below their stepladders.

I hadn't realised Mumbai could be such an adventure. What next?

A colleague of mine had recommended Café Churchill, but truth to tell, I’d forgotten where she’d said it was. It’s therefore a stroke of sheer good luck that, wandering around Colaba looking for a place for lunch, I glance left – and look straight at a striking black and white portrait of Winston Churchill. Even though I end up waiting half an hour for a table (Café Churchill seats only about 35 – a tight squeeze!), I am finally forced to share a table with two young men who look vaguely leery. We studiously ignore each other, and I get down to ordering my meal.

The fare at Churchill is meat-heavy. Lots of lamb, chicken, seafood – even beef. The menu (which forms a major part of the nondescript decor) covers much of the wall opposite me. The rest of the interior is covered with a picture of London’s Tower Bridge; promotions of Georgia Coffee; and more menus, including house specials spelled out in large, bold computer printouts. Not pretty.

But the food, thankfully, is pretty good. The pound steak I’ve ordered comes well done (the way I like it, though they never asked me). It’s smothered with a delicious brown sauce with crushed peppercorns and loads of sautéed mushrooms. The mashed potatoes on the side are good, though the vegetables – carrots and green beans – are average. The iced tea I order is okay, perhaps a tad too sweet and with not a hint of lemon, despite the fact that it’s supposed to be lemon tea.

By the time I finish, I’m close to full, but the desserts on display – cheesecakes, mousses, tiramisu, and apple pie included – look too tempting to pass up. The Irish coffee cheesecake I finally end up ordering is a smallish portion, but the filling, creamy and with a heavenly coffee-and-whiskey flavour, is delicious. And for the Rs 390 (gratuity included) that I shell out, I think I’ve got fairly good value for money.

True, the staff could’ve been more attentive (I spent a lot of time trying to catch the waiter’s eye, and the cashier disappearing just as three tables asked for their bills meant all of us waiting until he returned from wherever he’d gone). The decor could’ve been nicer, and there could have been a lot more space. But with the wide selection of sandwiches, melts, pastas, starters, main courses (stews and steaks included) and desserts they offer, Café Churchill seems to be doing brisk business despite all the drawbacks.

My luck, never good at the best of times, peters out by the time I get to the Afghan Church. The map I’ve been using shows the church as being a hop, skip and jump from the Gateway of India, but after having walked a couple of kilometers, I’m sweaty, tired, fed up with the traffic, and can’t see the church anywhere in sight. Finally, at the quaint entrance to the Sassoon Docks, deep into the green, uncrowded, and military-precise environs of Navy Nagar, I hail a taxi. The cabbie, knowing only that I need to get to a church, drops me off at the Roman Catholic Church, half a kilometer or so from the Afghan Church. By the time I walk to the Afghan Church, the sky’s grey, swollen, and angry, and the church is closed.

I make the best of my rotten luck, and wander around the churchyard. Dutch comfort, perhaps, but the Afghan Church, fortunately enough, is interesting even on the outside. It’s an impressive stone church, built in a distinctively English style. The church began life as a thatched chapel in the Sick Bungalows (the erstwhile name of the INHS Asvini, the Navy Hospital opposite the Afghan Church). When the government finally released the land for the church, it did so on the condition that the spire be lofty enough for it to be seen from ships in Bombay Harbor. The church was subsequently designed in 1847 by Bombay’s city-engineer, Henry Conbeare, and the architect William Butterfield. Constructed from buff basalt and limestone (which was used for the spire), the church also included floor tiles imported from England, and stained glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible. The spire, incidentally, was built at a cost of Rs5,65,000, much of it donated by the interestingly-named Parsi businessman and philanthropist Sir Cowasjee Jehangir Readymoney (1812-78), the first baronet of Bombay.

Also very interesting is the reason for the church’s own unofficial name. It’s called the Afghan Church because it was built in memory of the British soldiers who died in the First Afghan War, in 1938.

I wander round the churchyard, admiring the flowering shrubs in the garden and the large commemorative plaque, shaped like a stone crucifix, on the left of the church. I walk around to the back of the church, hoping to see a rose window or something equally interesting, but renovations seem to be going on; everything’s shrouded in tarpaulin. The sides of the church, however, have narrow windows with some pretty stained glass. This isn’t the best way to appreciate stained glass, I think, as I stand outside looking in, but it’s better than nothing.

By the time I’m done (simply because I cannot find anything else to explore in the churchyard), the clouds have begun to turn threateningly grey. I catch a taxi from the bus stand outside the church and think regretfully that I should have come on Sunday. I’d have got to see that stained glass.

Thankfully still known as the Prince of Wales Museum, this museum dates to 1914, and is an opulently domed Indo-Saracenic building. I arrived in time for the museum’s opening (10:30am; it’s open till 6pm, closed Mondays. Tickets are Rs 15 per Indian, Rs 300 per foreigner; for foreigners, the price includes an audio guide. Camera charges are extra). Sunday, I realise soon, isn’t a good day to visit; the museum’s inundated with families, mostly with noisy toddlers in squeaky shoes.

The exhibits are often poorly labelled, badly lit and ill-maintained. The Indian and Burmese silverware around the central foyer on the first floor is badly tarnished. But, despite that, there’s a lot to admire here:

1. The House of Lakshmi: This informative and well-kept gallery of coins is delightful. There are models to show how coins were minted; interesting details on Indian dynasties; and a great collection. Included are the Mughal emperor Jahangir’s 'Zodiac coins’, each stamped with a sunsign; coins struck by the Greek satraps in India (600 BC); intricate coins by Hyder Ali; and even a 'forced currency’ coin introduced by Mohammad bin Tughlaq, leading to an economic crisis. There are plenty of other coins – including gold ones – from just about every era in Indian history right up to 2006.

2. The Galleries of Indian Miniatures and Everyday Art: These are my own appellations – I couldn’t see any names. The former’s a showcase of miniatures from traditional styles such as Mughal, Deccani, Pahari and Rajasthani schools. Most are 17th or 18th century and depict religious or regal themes. Among my favourites are Nayika Bheda (a Kangra miniature illustrating part of the epic Geet Govind) and a set of bird paintings commissioned by Jahangir for his autobiography, Tuzuk-e-Jahangiri. The Gallery of Everyday Art next door contains jade, bidri (gunmetal inlaid with silver), jewellery, ivory, glassware, and more. There’s some fabulous stuff here: look out for the impossibly finely carved ivory jewel box near the entrance.

3. The Weapons Gallery: This is a small but informative collection of maces, bows and arrows, swords, shields, guns and armour. The highlight is the personal armour and shield of the Mughal emperor Akbar, and an array of well-preserved swords.

4. The Chinese and Japanese Galleries: Probably the largest (and worst labeled) section, these galleries contain a huge collection of Oriental porcelain, cloisonné, celadon, lacquer, and even a few Japanese embroideries and paintings. Nothing exceptionally old (most is 18th or 19th century), but plenty that’s pretty. Check out the all-white female figures in beribboned, beaded robes – all porcelain – and the delightful fist-sized jade bullock cart.

Other odd sections merit a visit. In the second floor central foyer are dozens of Chinese and Japanese porcelain snuff bottles, all painted with flowers, figures, landscapes, and colourful crickets. In the Karl and Meherbai Khandalavala Gallery, check out the 300 year old paintings Shoeing a Horse and Elephant in Musth; and on the ground floor, the Hindu and Buddhist stone statues, nearly all 1,000 – 2,000 years old.

I’ve been in Mumbai before (admittedly always with no time to spare), but visiting the Elephanta Caves has never been top priority. I’ve always been rather put off by the name; there’s something so corny about it that’s the temptation to see for myself is easily avoided. This time in Mumbai, I have a weekend all to myself, and the seedy little Mumbai City brochure in my hotel room bills it (Elephanta, not the hotel) as a UNESCO World Heritage site. Hmm. Something there?

So I decide to check it out for myself – in the nick of time, as it happens, since today is June 2, the monsoon is expected to arrive on June 7, and you can’t get to Elephanta all through the monsoon.

I arrive at the Gateway of India, and have barely stepped out of the taxi from Churchgate Station when I’m accosted by a man offering me a ticket on the ferry to Elephanta Island. The details are straightforward enough: a return ticket costs Rs 120 (deluxe ferry) or Rs 100 (economy ferry); the ride is an hour, each way; and ferries to Elephanta Island leave from the Gateway every half-hour. I opt for the deluxe (nothing luxurious about it) ferry, and find myself in a motley crowd. In front of me are two women – probably European – one in a pretty crocheted top, pearls, and delicate sandals. On my right is a large and happy Maharashtrian family who seem to be headed for a picnic: mango juice, Coke, and wedges of lime – the latter supposedly a preventive for seasickness – emerge from large bags shortly after we embark.

The ride through the muddy waters to Elephanta Island is uneventful; we pass naval vessels, merchant vessels, research and scientific craft – but that’s about all. Elephanta comes soon enough, but (since I’m all by myself), I’m feeling a wee bit lonely and bored by the time I get off the ferry at Elephanta.

I buy a Rs 10 return ticket on the mini train that chugs along to the foot of the hill; it isn’t a long trip, and would probably take less than ten minutes on foot. Off the train, I pay Rs 5 as tourist tax at the village of Gharapuri, then wrestle my way past sun-darkened, wrinkled old women selling a variety of exceptionally tart fruit: star fruit, semi-ripe mangoes, and small crimson berries known as faalsa. The stone path up to Elephanta Caves rises up a hill and is flanked by scores of souvenir sellers hawking everything from postcards, trinkets, coasters and little carved elephants to maps and guidebooks. By the time I arrive at the caves, I’m hot and breathless (okay, probably because I’m woefully out of shape). A bottle of mineral water cools me down; I buy a ticket (Rs 10 for Indians; Rs 250 or $5 for foreigners) and then go to the first of the caves.

Time to step back for a little background now. The original name of Elephanta (also the name of the village that still exists at the foot of the hill) is Gharapuri. The Portuguese are said to have bestowed the current name because of a huge statue of an elephant which was found here. Elephanta is today famous for its complex of ancient rock-cut cave temples. Although there are five rock-cut caves, only three of these are temples, and the fact that they date back almost to the 7th century AD makes them historically very significant. The sculptures in these caves are considered representative of ancient art forms – especially that of the Chalukyan empire and the Gupta kingdom. Little is known about the history of the caves, so it’s difficult to put a precise date to them, but art forms – such as the stylised hairstyles of the women; the depiction of mountains and clouds in the sculpture – correspond to Gupta carving. Most probably, the caves date back to the mid 7th century.

The three temples stretch out from Stupa Hill to Canon Hill, but it is the temple in the centre – the Main Temple – that is truly impressive. It’s dedicated to the Hindu god Shiv (the Destroyer in the Hindu Trinity), and showcases Shiv in all his different forms: the destroyer, the ascetic, the lover and husband, entranced by the devotion of his wife, Parvati. Massive square-sided pillars support a ceiling that is believed to have originally been painted; and as I slip into the gloom of the cave temples from the bright sunshine outside, it takes me a minute or so to adjust – and then I gawp.

Okay, I have seen photographs of this over the years, in school textbooks and travel brochures. But the reality is much more awe-inspiring than I could’ve imagined. Right opposite the entrance, dominating the wall, is a huge sculpture that depicts Sadashiv, the three faces or embodiments of Shiv. The one on the left, eyes wide and eyebrows lowered terrifyingly, is the fiercely destructive Aghora. The one in the centre, gazing benignly down at the handful of snowy plumeria flowers placed as an offering below, is Tatpurusha, the embodiment of absolute knowledge. And the one on the right, demure and gentle, is Vamadeva or Uma – the feminine side of Shiv.

Vamadeva is more obvious in the sculpture of Ardhanarishvara (literally, `half-woman deity’) on the left of Sadashiv. Shiv here is depicted as half man and half woman. The masculine half, strong and lean, leans on the back of Nandi, the bull that is traditionally the mount of Shiv. The feminine half – its face more gentle, more delicate, its figure voluptuous and curvy (down to the single breast) – holds a mirror and is surrounded by female attendants.

There are other depictions of Shiv too – as Nataraj, performing the cosmic dance of destruction; as Yogeshwar, the lord of yoga; and – in his most romantic form – as Kalyanasundara, the loving and gentle bridegroom in his wedding with Parvati. All of the sculptures, including those of the eight dwarapalas (guards of the gate) surrounding the garbha griha (the sanctum sanctorum) with its shivlinga, the phallic symbol of Shiv – are intricate and beautifully evocative. Dusty, broken in places, of course – but quite awesome nevertheless. Especially when you remember that they’re probably around 13 centuries old.

A couple of tips, now – mostly gleaned from my own experiences. Firstly, wear good walking shoes. Getting up the hill is not something you want to do in high heels. By the way, there are men who’ll carry you up the hill to the caves in rough palanquins, if you need the help. Only the Main Temple is wheelchair accessible – but I couldn’t see how a wheelchair could get up there in the first place.

Secondly, watch out for the monkeys; there are a number of them around outside the caves, and they snatch at any food or drink they see in your hand. One of them made a swipe at my bottle of water. And lastly, do take out ten minutes or so to visit the Archaeological Survey of India (ASI) Site Museum outside the Main Temple; do this before you enter the caves. The museum isn’t great, but it does explain a lot of the significance of the sculpture in the caves, so is a good way to appreciate what you’ll get to see later on.