Slums, a golden beach... and vibrant Bombay

By Shyam Selvadurai

In Khajuraho I ran into an old Sri Lankan friend in a bank, both of us changing traveller's cheques. After we had screamed in surprise, jumped up and down and hugged each other, much to the consternation of the uptight Indian bank clerks, she looked at me and said, her eyes shining, "Isn't India fantastic? Why is it that all the years I lived in Sri Lanka it never struck me to visit this country? Why did I have to go abroad to think of coming here?"

It was a question I have often pondered. Most of my friends in Sri Lanka have not visited India nor really intend to (beyond perhaps flying into Madras to shop for saris). In fact they are quite bemused by my desire to go back to India again and again.

To be sure, India is not an easy country to travel in, but the rewards are fully worth any inconvenience. For on this trip, within a short span of three weeks, I felt as if I had travelled through centuries and cultures, from urban to rural, from 2nd century B.C. Buddhism, to 17th century Moghul influenced splendour.

My partner and I began our trip in Bombay. From all I had read about Bombay, and whatever I had seen of it in various documentaries, I had expected the city, with its reputation for having one of the largest slums in the world, to be ugly and depressing. This impression was confirmed as we headed out from the airport for downtown and passed unremitting miles of shacks. Then abruptly the landscape opened out, and there before us was a vast stretch of golden beach curving off into the distance with skyscrapers and greenery, the water a bright turquoise blue, looking for all the world like any Western city by the sea.

It is hard to imagine that Bombay, the economic powerhouse of India, was once a group of swampy, malaria-filled little islands which the Portuguese gladly passed on to the British as a wedding dowry. For a long time, Bombay remained on the fringes of the Empire, falling far behind Calcutta from which the British ruled. It was only in the mid-1800s that Bombay began its boom when the American Civil War led to the loss of Britain's cotton supplies. Bombay's young cotton and textile industry stepped in to fill the gap and the city has not looked back since then.

Our hotel was in the Colaba area, a two-minute walk to the sea. The architecture of Colaba belongs to the early decades of this century. The buildings showcased the growing wealth and prestige of colonial Bombay, signified most prominently by the triumphant Gateway to India, which stands on a promontory at Colaba overlooking the ocean. This Arch of Triumph was built as a symbol of the Empire, but has ironically come to be known as the place from which the British were ceremoniously booted out of India.

The streets just behind the Gateway to India have on them a collection of low-rise apartment buildings along tree-shaded streets, the architecture of which is a whimsical combination of the Victorian and the "East", with lattice worked balconies, ornate fretwork and some extremely well done stained glass windows. It is true that the buildings themselves are past their prime and some of them are in great disrepair; these days the tree-lined streets stink of urine and one has to watch very carefully where one treads. Yet, despite all this I found myself charmed. For Colaba was vibrantly alive in a way that cities around the world are ceasing to be. In the times we live, the downtowns of cities simply serve as commercial centres into which workers pour during the day, leaving the buildings and streets an empty echoing shell at night. Colaba, like New York's Greenwich Village has a population of inhabitants who give the area its vibrant, urban life.

Waking early, I would stand at my window watching Colaba's morning face — children in white uniforms and ties straggling off to school; women in salwar kameez and running shoes, men in jogging suits returning from their morning exercise around the Gateway to India; dogs being walked; and, yes of course, the homeless using the pavement as toilets. Then gradually, as the slight mist that had come off the sea cleared, as cars pulled out of the apartment blocks and the same people whom I had seen in their exercise clothes now left in formal suits and starched saris, it would almost feel as if the inhabitants were surrendering their Colaba to the outsiders.

The sounds of traffic increased, the roads began to fill with cars and trucks and carts and cycles, shops opened and businesses commenced.

In the evening the residents would return, traffic would slow down, a game of cricket would begin on the road. As the sun set, once again the inhabitants would take over the streets, shopping, walking dogs, just standing on the corner chatting to a neighbour or going to see a film.

Part of the vibrancy of the main street in this area, the Colaba Causeway, was its interesting cafe life. In Colombo, various restaurants promote themselves as "cafes", but to be a true cafe, I feel that an establishment must be on street level, open to the street. For the pleasure of being in a cafe is watching the life outside.

This blurring of inner and outer was particularly fascinating in Bombay, where we spent long hours in a cafe having a beer and just watching the vibrant variety of life out, that is Bombay.

In retrospect, I wonder now if I would have felt as exhilarated by Bombay if I had come to it from Toronto rather than from Colombo, where I had passed a month. Returning after two years, I was saddened to find Colombo so under siege with bus bombs and suicide attacks, the streets deserted after dark.

As always I find the checkpoints particularly disturbing, where unfortunately as a Tamil, one is assumed to be guilty before innocent, (and which has led to a sort of voluntary incarceration by many Tamils, once darkness falls). As we walked the streets of Bombay late into the night, I felt how heavenly this freedom was, yet at the same time I felt sad at the thought of poor, much embattled Colombo.

One night, our ramblings brought us to the nearby Regal Cinema. A crowd was gathering on the pavement for a nine o'clock film. As I stood amongst them, I could not help wondering when our Regal would be able to attract a nine o'clock crowd again.

Continued next week

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