Towards the Within

by Reece Willis

  'Gateway of India was built during British rule in 1924,' Chinmay explained. 'The structure is twenty-six metres in height and is known as the Taj Mahal of Mumbai.' He pointed opposite the gateway to two buildings: one large hotel with pink domes on four corners and a tall building with arched windows, 'To the left are the Taj Mahal Palace Hotels. The first opened its doors to guests in 1903 and due to its popularity, the palace needed extra room and so the twenty-storey tower alongside was added in 1973. Guests have included royalty, presidents, performers and religious figures; such names as Margaret Thatcher, Prince Charles, Mick Jagger and The Beatles. Please take twenty minutes to enjoy the area and then return to bus.'

  Stepping down we were approached by salesmen and chai wallahs alike. I ploughed my way through, bought some tea and stood alone watching the small boats bobbing in the harbour. I was tapped on the arm by a toothless man with one arm, the other missing at the shoulder. He tilted his head to the side and held out a gnarled hand which I filled before returning my glass and heading back to the bus.

  'We will shortly be stopping at the Ferozeshah Mehta Gardens. These magnificent grounds are known as the Hanging Gardens due to their location on the western side and top of Malabar Hill.'

  I strolled for a short while, looking at trimmed hedges shaped like animals and people, but found the heat a little overbearing. Beneath the shade of a bougainvillea tree, I drank a Limca and watched two green parrots hopping from one branch to another. Chinmay came over and asked if he could join me.

  'How are you liking the tour?' he said, sipping from a bottle of Coke.

  'Yeah, it's okay. I wouldn't usually go for something like this, but somebody else booked it for me. I guess it's a good way to take in all the main sights.'

  'I'm glad you like. Sometimes I find it tedious; the same thing day in and day out,' he laughed.

  'How long have you been a guide?'

  'Just over a year now. It is a good job, so no real complaints. I better round up the rest of the passengers; that is a job in itself. We will catch up later, yaar?'

  By a heavily wooded area at the roadside, we pulled over so Chinmay could provide us with information about the next place on our itinerary: The Towers of Silence.

  'We are situated outside the fifty-seven acres of forest that house the Parsi Dakhma or Towers of Silence. Parsis are followers of the Iranian prophet Zoroaster. In Parsi tradition, Zoroastrians believe that as soon as a person dies, the body becomes impure. The earth and all that is good is the work of God, and death is evil. A corpse is said to contaminate the elements, so huge towers were constructed where bodies are laid out, exposed to the sun and pecked away by vultures.'

  He paced the aisle slowly as everyone hung on his words, 'It is considered an individual's final gift to provide the birds with what would otherwise be destroyed and so the bodies are arranged onto rings that surround a central pit. The outer ring is for men and the inner ring is for the women and children. Remains of the dead are left for one year before the skeletons are swept away into the pit underneath.' He lightened his tone and smiled, 'Now we will go to Mahalakshmi Temple.'

  A sprinkling of rain fell as we skirted along Marine Drive before coming to a stop. 'This temple is dedicated to Lakshmi, the Hindu Goddess of wealth, health, fortune and prosperity. Please enjoy and return to the bus in thirty minutes’ time.' Chinmay sat down and put his feet up as we piled off.

  I followed the other passengers along a teeming avenue flanked either side by stalls selling orange garlands and other offerings to the deities. A single shikhara pointed to the sky to the right of the entrance and I walked inside to find vibrant idols of the goddesses Mahakali, Mahalakshmi, and Mahasaraswati adorned with nose rings, gold bangles, necklaces and flowers. The ornamented halls were filled with worshippers deep in prayer as the wisp of incense floated above their heads. Outside, a sadhu approached me and blessed me by painting a red stripe in the centre of my forehead – for a small fee naturally.

  Next on route was Taraporewala Aquarium, housing over one hundred species of marine and fresh water fish from the Arabian Sea and Indian Ocean. We were to stop here for an hour for lunch. I had no interest in the aquarium really. There were three other coaches and I expected it to be busy. The thought of all the noise, the mass of people and wall to wall fish staring at me made me feel claustrophobic. I wanted a cigarette. I lit up on a wall opposite looking at the high-rises curving away either side as if a bite had been taken out of the city. A shuffle beside me broke my gaze from a dark stretch of cloud menacing two fishing boats on the horizon. Sitting down, a white guy with long retiring blond hair in a pony-tail, said nothing at first, but just stared at me. I drew on the last of my cigarette, stubbed it out, lit another and looked out to the sea again.

  'So, you're new here kid, huh?' he eventually rasped in an Australian accent.

  I glanced over, 'Yeah, arrived a couple of days ago.'

  Maybe in his early thirties, he looked a lot older. His face was withdrawn, with rat like features and his body was undernourished. 'You going to give me one of those or not?' he said, pointing at my cigarette.

  'Sure.' I flipped the lid and slid one up from the centre.

  He took it, handed it back to me and grabbed the packet for himself, 'You can't be too careful, kid. You can't trust anyone.' He looked around suspiciously, as if he was being watched and lowered his voice, 'I may have a lot of connections, but I have a lot of enemies too.'

  'Oh right,' I murmured back.

  'You better watch yourself, I'm high up in the biggest criminal organisation in Bombay.'

  He accepted my lighter, 'I hear it’s Mumbai now?'

  ‘Huh?’ His sunken eyes disconnected and glazed through me. Judging by the grey lines and needle marks in his arms, he was high up in something, but I wasn't sure if it was a criminal organisation.

  'Wait for it...’ he suddenly whispered.

  I sat rigid in anticipation.

  ‘Bam!’ he hollered and shot out his arm.

  I flew to my feet and span to face him, ‘For Christ’s sake, mate.’

  Slowly unrolling his fingers, he revealed a lump of charas in the palm of his hand, ‘You need hashish or girls? I can hook you up with the right people you know.'

  ‘Thanks, but I’m good.’

  'Then maybe you need protection? I can protect you. India can be a tough place, kid.'

  'Honestly, I'm fine thanks.'

  'Then maybe you can spare a little money for food?'

  'Food, eh?' I gave him twenty rupees, if only for him to leave, and got up as Chinmay came from across the road. He moved off, keeping watch around him, should the enemy be on his tail ready to attack.

  'So, how were the fish?' Chinmay asked.

  'I didn't go in. We have quite a few of these places in England, so I've kind of seen it all before. Is there much more of the tour left?'

  'Not much, no. We will go through Bollywood and then onto Juhu. There I finish my day. You will then be returned to your drop off points via a few temples, a race course and the airport by the driver only.' I asked what his plans were for the future. He said he hoped to save enough money so one day he could see the world, 'It is extremely difficult for an Indian to obtain a passport. Like everything, you have to have money.' Again, I was reminded how lucky I was to have the freedom granted by living in the west. A passport was something I took for granted.

  Re-joining the bus we drove off as Chinmay continued his commentary, 'We are now passing Chota Kashmir, a pleasant picnic spot with beautiful gardens and boating lakes. Chota Kashmir is famous for being the location of many Hindi movies and music videos. Any Bollywood fans on the bus?' The crowd erupted with surprising excitement, 'Then you will enjoy the next section of our tour. We will pass by some of the most famous Bollywood studios on route to Juhu Beach.'

  As we travelled past the various studios, the bus filled with enthusiastic chatter and the sound of clicking cameras. This seemed to be the highlight of the tour; everyone
had a sharp eye out for the slightest glimpse of the Indian version of Mel Gibson or Goldie Hawn. For me, they were merely buildings of no real interest.

  Arriving at Juhu Beach, the afternoon sun split the clouds and illuminated the littered sands. I strolled with Chinmay, watching others enjoy the water; children taking donkey rides and trained monkeys performing tricks. 'Have you tried panipuri?' he asked.

  'Can't say I have.'

  'Then you must, come.' He directed me to a stall with a man frying small crisp balls and serving them onto paper plates.

  Chinmay put four fingers up and the man nodded, 'What are they?' I enquired.

  'The hollow puri is fried and filled with water, then mixed with chutney, chilli, masala, chopped potato, onions and chickpeas. You are in for a real treat, my friend.'

  He instructed me to place the whole ball in my mouth and bite down. I did, and the crisp puri burst with savoury flavours. A second later a fiery spice kicked in and had me fanning my mouth. We did one more each and laughed at my watering eyes as we walked the soft sand a little further.

  'Chinmay, Chinmay,' a voice called and we turned to see a young man running towards us. 'Chinmay, how's it going man?'

  'Hey Diwan, yeah cool. Diwan, this is Sam, he's from England. Sam, this is Diwan, he's from Mumbai.'

  'Hey, do you guys want to join us for cricket?' Diwan asked.

  Chinmay looked to me, 'It's up to you, Sam. You can go back to the tour or you can hang with us.'

  'I'm up for a spot of cricket. Though I must warn you, I haven’t really got a clue how to play.'

  They looked at each other as if I'd said the strangest of things and Chinmay smiled, put his arm around my shoulder and said, 'No problems brother, we will look after you. It's only for fun anyway.'

  We were joined by two other friends along the way and I was handed a bat. I missed two shots, but on the third I whacked the ball so hard it went into the sea. Diwan ran into the water laughing and retrieved the floating tennis ball. Play continued for an hour until exhausted, the five of us tumbled to a sand bank and listened to a Bollywood soundtrack on a portable cassette player.

  'Shall we grab a bite?' Chinmay asked. The two others declined due to work commitments. Chinmay and Diwan invited me to their favourite restaurant. I accepted, but first I gave a quick call to Mrs Reveredo and apologised for not being able to attend the evening supper. She was fine and told me to enjoy myself, but to be careful.

  Not far from the beach, we strolled into a small, but busy restaurant with cooling fans swaying overhead. Sitting at a long table with other diners, Diwan ordered for the three of us. 'You like fish, right?' Chinmay shouted at me above the din. I nodded. 'Then you will love the surmai curry here, it is sooo good! Oh, yeah, sorry, surmai is kingfish, the king of all fishes, haha.'

  Served with white rice, the curry smelt out of this world, and although the sauce was a little hot for my tastes, it was amazing nonetheless– the fish tender and fresh, the rice so soft, and the serving so large I was left hardly able to move when I’d finished. I insisted on paying, but my money was refused. The two guys told me I was their guest.

  'Thanks so much for everything, I've had a great time,' I said, as we went outside.

  'You are going?' Chinmay asked.

  'I don't want to outstay my welcome.'

  Chinmay tilted his head, 'What are you talking about, man? You said you are having a great time, yaar? How would you like to see a city within a city?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Hang out with us more and you will see,' Diwan answered. 'It's about eleven kilometres from here though.'

  The thought of walking another step feeling so full was enough to insist on me paying for a taxi. It was the least I could do. The guys hailed one and negotiated a price and we travelled the jammed streets of worn grey buildings until we stopped at some newly built high-rise apartments. The ground was lined with flattened garbage and a sweet and sour smell of decaying waste assaulted my senses.

  'Do you guys live in one of these apartments?'

  'No, my friend,' Diwan said. 'We live in a city of dreams.'

  Walking behind the tall buildings we emerged into an astonishing sight. Thousands of tiny shacks crammed together and mounds of trash serving as both a children’s playground and feeding spot for stray dogs and cattle. People milled about the squalor. Some worked, beating wet clothes on the ground or carrying impossibly heavy loads on their backs. The roar of low flying aircraft and whipping of overhead railway electricity cables were heard nearby. 'Welcome to Dharavi,' Chinmay said as I stood trying to take it all in.

  Taking a bridge over a stinking garbage-strewn river we entered one of many lanes leading into the slum. The alleyways were a shallow stream of monsoon water. We splashed through, passing homes, food houses and businesses. It really was a city within a city, though every shack looked as if it might topple at any given moment. Chinmay alerted me to what I was already noticing, 'You do not get many tourists around here, Sam. You may find people looking at you, but they are only wondering what you are doing here. You will be okay, you are with us.' From each dwelling, eyes followed. Many doors were open and inside the homes families cooked or watched television, talked or argued, and children laughed and cried. Some shacks had two levels, and most had raw sewage running in ditches underneath. It was overwhelming to say the least.

  They led me to a small building and unlocked the door. Diwan leant forward and hugged me, 'I must be going now, Sam. I am working late nights at the airport and now it is time for my sleep. It has been wonderful to meet you.'

  He turned a corner whistling as he walked, kicking a flattened football, returning it to the boy who owned it. Chinmay opened the rusty door, 'Welcome to my home. This is where I live with my mother, father and younger sister. They are away visiting my aunt who is very ill. Please come inside and make yourself comfortable. I will make us some tea.'

  I sat on a rug laid across the warm concrete floor and looked around the immaculate room. There was a wooden double bed with two thin rolled mattresses beneath. Three shelves held tins and pots, utensils and a small statue of Ganesh. Hung upon the walls were black and white family photos in frames. A portable gas stove and a television set rested upon a dented refrigerator and a cassette player sat next to a small, but surprisingly strong fan at the end of the bed. The room for four people was the size of my bedroom back in England, yet it contained everything of a fully functioning home.

  'How long have you lived here?' I asked.

  'All of my life. I was born in this very room.'

  'Do you like it here? I mean, are you happy?'

  'I like it here and yes, I am happy I guess.' He looked over his shoulder and smiled, 'We all want more in life, but I am content because I love my family and they love me. That is all that matters, no?' He switched on the TV and surfed the channels with a taped up remote control. 'You see, we are a tight community here. In the evenings, we sit outside our homes and talk with our neighbours and mostly get along. Sometimes there is quarrel, but usually it is sorted out soon enough. We help each other in times of trouble and pull together when in need. We are all in the same boat and to an extent, accept our fate, although we all have our dreams. But it can be very hard at times, especially when friends get ill or die. There is too much disease here and not enough medical attention, plus, it is hard not knowing where the next meal might come from.'

  He poured the tea and passed me a glass and found something to watch. His eyes lit up as he realised what it was. 'Kabhi Haan Kabhi Naa, I love this film, it has only just begun. It stars Shahrukh Khan, a very good actor, have you heard of him?'

  'No. In fact, I've never watched an Indian film before,' I replied, not understanding a word that was coming from the box.

  'Ah, okay. I will tell you what is happening as it goes along. It is such a great film with very good soundtrack.'

  It was a romantic comedy, and although a little hard to keep up with, it made me happy to see Chinmay enj
oying himself so much. As each song played he'd get up and dance, at some points showing me some steps. We laughed a lot and as the credits rolled he asked if I would like to stay the night, 'You could tell me of your travels in India. I have never left Mumbai and would love to hear more.'

  'That's very kind of you Chinmay.'

  'First I must use the toilet. Do you need to?'

  I nodded and he grabbed a bar of soap and two plastic jugs. It was heart wrenching to see so many people living this life, but there were so many smiles and a great deal of spirit. They worked hard doing jobs others would never contemplate. I stopped to look in one building and saw five children no older than ten on a mound of plastics sorting through for what could be used again. Around their bare feet were old hypodermic needles, the casings of which would be used for recycling. Next door, a baby cried alongside a pile of rotting animal innards leaning against a wall. The fetid stench was hideous. I peeked through the doorway to find an old man stirring a large boiling pot. 'He is producing animal fat for cosmetics to the rich around the world,' Chinmay informed me. 'He is not very popular here. Many people complain about the smell.

  'Dharavi has over five hundred thousand residents and over five hundred businesses. Many things are made here for companies all over the globe: textiles and pottery and as you have seen for yourself, cosmetics and recycled goods. Dharavi has everything a city has; doctors, schools, temples and shops.'

  I was beginning to forget the rest of Mumbai existed outside of this fascinating, almost medieval labyrinth. Reaching a long line of people – all looking over their shoulders at me – we stood in the queue for over twenty minutes waiting to fill our jugs from a communal tap. When our turn came Chinmay asked if I would like to go to the shared toilet huts or relieve myself at the side of the railway. As I was only in need of a wee, I chose the latter option. Working our way back the way we came and up a side alley we proceeded out to the railway line where trains shot past inches from where children played and others squatted to go to the toilet. 'It is okay,' Chinmay said, spotting my nervousness of where to go, and in front of so many people. 'Everybody has to go. It is life.'