Happy #100 Mr. Sachin!

A hundred hundreds for Sachin Tendulkar and it was bound to be celebrated. I admit I didn't have my ears open enough but here's to it nevertheless.

*Update: I forgot to link to the (un)official celebratory webpage. It's www.thecenturion.in and you can be part of the legend! Thanks Parag.

Back to Base!

After another longish hiatus, this is the conclusion of the Indian adventures.

Returning to Bombay from the desert, the salt flats and a pseudo-Mediterranean island in the Arabian Sea was strange. In all honesty it felt like going back home and that says a lot. The surge of bustling traffic, humidity and a wholly different kind of heat, the crowds and concrete was strangely welcome. A few days of navigating the urban jungle and making new friends could be nothing less. Back to base then.

Two Pilgrims And a Dog.

My first pilgrimage was on a Monday night. The big temple of Shri Ganesh at Dadar is where thousands of people gather to pray, offer flowers and ask for favors in return. You're meant to walk there, barefoot, from wherever you are and then wait in line for the 3am opening. Once the doors open everybody races through the grounds for an extra quick praying and offering session.

And this is exactly what we did. Walked for nearly three hours from just before midnight and waited patiently for the signal. Got offered rose water like marathon runners from roadside stalls, bumped into a double wedding by a slum, made good friends with a brave, cute dog that followed us, walked under flyways and through clouds of burning rubbish, passed a beautifully lit mosque and praying youngsters and merged with the streams of pilgrims from every direction. The temple unfortunately I didn't see but that's another story. Nevertheless, after 5 hours, black footed and knackered we dropped dead for a long dreamless sleep. A beautiful night is was.

Low Tide.

The tomb of the Muslim saint Haji Ali lies on a small rocky island connected to the land with a narrow concrete strip. Pilgrims flock to pray from all over the city and especially on Fridays the place gets swamped. The rocks surrounding the mosque is a popular spot for a bite and during low tide the faithful brave the slipperiness for a photo in front of the holy island and the skyscrapers in the background. Fishing boats lying lopsided, stalls selling mementos with the auspicious number 786, toys or fake jewelery, the beggars filling the gaps, walking to the mosque is a psychedelic ride.
The mosque itself is quite humble but extremely busy. There's singing praising the saint on the courtyard and praying throughout the day, a good place to meet people and a place to eat. Despite the noisiness I found it a welcome escape and stimulating meditation spot.

The Most Important Day of Your Life!

Indian weddings are famous for their intricate proceedings and deep symbolism, their length extending for days and of course the hundreds of guests and their extravagance. I've had some experience of such events in London but none was as opulent as implied by the cliche. Talking with friends the other night I heard about staggering numbers and expenses but was still skeptical.

And then I took a walk around Marine Drive's wedding reception dens. Usually cricket grounds, college or associations' common grounds they moonwalk as luxurious and gold-dressed stages of epics. More than a few lined up against the sunset lit bay, with hundreds of people in all attires and headgear tending the endless flowers, innumerable chairs, tables and sofas, dozens of types of food in individual stalls, hi-tech camera cranes and sophisticated lighting gear, elaborate shrines to the Gods and Ganesh in particular. My head was spinning! Each one was a Bollywood super-production in itself and there were many. One thousand guests each and as much gold as one can eat!

Backstage, the already tired waiters and MCs were watching a cricket game on the nearby ground. In playful mood in front of the camera they offered an oasis of real world and a slice of humour to the pilgrim. I'm grateful.

Towers of Silence.

Mumbai has a strong (albeit declining) Parsee community, Zoroastrians that moved to India centuries back fleeing persecution in Persia. They have integrated extensively to the Indian society but have maintained their religious and some cultural distinctions.
One of them is the traditional way of treating the deceased. On Malabar Hill, Mumbai lie the Towers of Silence. Since in Zoroastrianism the sacred elements (fire, water and earth) cannot be defiled by the dead,burial or cremation are out of the question. The dead are brought to the Towers where they are lined in a cyclical fashion on top of the tower to be eaten by vultures. Soon after the bones would be collected and stored in an ossuary.
The fast declining population of vultures in the city during the last decades, mostly due to poisoning by the use of anti-infammatories drugs by humans and cattle, has left the Towers congested and unable to deal with non consumed bodies. And the community facing calls to allow burial for the first time in centuries.

* Disclaimer: Understandably, entry to the Towers of Silence is restricted for non-Parsees. For further info on the community and the Towers, try here and here.

The Queen's Necklace.

The southern tip of the peninsula housing the metropolis is flanked on the west by a magnificent bay. Starting with Chaupati beach on the north edge, a few thousand sandy footsteps will take you to Nariman Point and the end of what the locals call the Queen's Necklace.
Of course this refers to the lights at night along Marine Drive, the fast-paced, seafront highway. I reckon you can visualize it somehow. I also bet you guessed it, I have no photos of the lights, the necklace or any queen. I was busy strolling aimlessly and people watching.

My Stool.

This morning I was waiting for a pick up by SV Road, a super bustling central traffic artery of Mumbai. And being early for once, I sat on the edge of a side-walk flower bed. Two puffs into my morning cigarette and the security guard of the construction plot behind me taps me on the shoulder and nods his disapproval. And I'm baffled! Everybody sits anywhere here, you can practically find everything you imagine on the streets, and then some more. What's wrong with my cozy spot?
Before I could answer my naive question though, another tap on the shoulder and the same guard wearing his brightest smile has fetched me a stool. A stool to sit on the pavement while I wait! Now I'm confused. And humbled and blushing. The surreal and the kind in the length of a cigarette.

Washing Day.

Looking over the bridge at Mahalaxmi Station and facing west early in the morning, the hazy horizon punctured by newly built highrise residential buildings among slums and disused colonial textile factories, is Dhobi Ghat. Rooftops lined with clothes, labyrinthine networks of stings and poles and consecutive cubicles dotted with people slamming fabrics against the concrete. These are the dhobis at work. The men and women doing most of the city's laundry in the municipal washing neighborhood.

They each rent their little concrete vats for a few hundred rupees and are the collectors of the washing brought from houses, hotels and even freshly sewn garments from the clothing factories. They'll wash, dry and iron everything before sending it back like new. They also live here, generation after generation in the trade. And so early in the day they'll be cooking or getting ready for school, stop for a chat or because you're in their way, wash tirelessly or buy you a chai. It's just another way of doing things.

Fans And Speakers.

Juhu!

A northwestern suburb of Bombay and and flanked by a marvelous beach, Juhu is the place to park your bungalow if you're some Bollywood film star or big name cricketer. There's a throng of fancy hotels too. And then there's the weekend destination of many a Mumbaikar family. With kids going berserk, a minefield of food stalls and the omnipresent photographers, sadly decorated with rubbish and stray dogs this is obviously my kind of place for a Saturday stroll.
The little square arrangement of food stalls in flashy pop colours, dubious quality and aggressively animated customer hunters (menu in hand) complete the crazy cornucopia of the suburban family day out. Immensely enjoyable place.

Street Food.

I'm a sucker when it comes to street food. Can't help it. When I spot a stall, burning gas lamp, fruit loaded cart or anything I have to stop. And try. And put everything inside, my mother and father.
This is how street food paradise must look like, India. Sandwiches and curries, impromptu smoothies and minty lime drinks, spicy puffed rice with I-don't-know-what-else-in-there and names I haven't managed to decipher yet. You name it, it's here. Might start compiling a street food compendium these days if I clean that grease off my busy fingers.

Cricket's the Word.

I don't need to say much about this. You know how it goes, you can imagine.

Hunting For Silk.

India being famous for its fabrics and me having a commission to find some silk led me to Crawford market and the flyway-shaded Mohamed Ali Road. They say you can find everything here and I found my silk alright.
In busy alleys and frantic traffic, indoors and on the streets, thousands of people trading, carrying and shopping for housewares, clothes and food or anything imaginable. The nearby bazaar has second hand safes, cannibalized cars and antiques. And the occasional goat or cow roaming around. A slide of the Apollo 11 crew and old Bollywood posters for example rub shoulders with star-shaped pineapple slices and sugarcane juice. One needs to mind his toes from the ever present mopeds and train his ears for the cacophony of beeping but you new that already didn't you?

Time Travel.

The Traffic!

The traffic is out of this world in this city. The amount of cars, taxis, buses and motorized rickshaws is overwhelming. There are bicycles too and some of the worst offenders are pedestrians. Cross anywhere and anytime. At least the latter ones don't keep beeping their way through the ocean of steel ahead. Ah, the beeping...
All round there's a thick gravy of urgency in the air. It's a huge city of course, a frenetic pace is part of the ecology and from a practical point of view there are all too many obstacles to get in your way. But here is a rush to move like there's no tomorrow. As if standing still or waiting for the traffic lights will turn someone into stone.

Alas, it all works somehow. After all I've only seen a car hitting a precariously-crossing-over pedestrian once and he was dazed but standing.