Let the madness begin.
All the insanity I thought I’d experienced during my last 3 months in Southeast Asia was but a pre-season exhibition for the chaos I was about to get myself into in India. I was ready. Mentally prepared to see, hear, smell, and taste the best and the worst this world has to offer, I landed in Mumbai with every defense I’d ever learned as a traveler switched on. Nobody was going to scam me, the poverty wasn’t going to drain me, the horn noise wasn’t going to annoy me, and the traffic wasn’t going to scare me.
Then, something strange happened.
I walked around on a lazy Sunday morning and wasn’t overwhelmed at all. Traffic was manageable, the horns weren’t all that loud, and the touts didn’t harass me too much. Sure, there were cows wandering the streets, crippled beggars, nude junkies, and a few smells here and there, but in general it was all somewhat subdued. I took an Uber to the largest outdoor laundry in the world and ended up getting my very own guardian angel in the form of the young driver who promised that if I was in trouble anywhere in the city I could call him and he would come. Same went for my future travels in Varanasi, where his brother lived. He taught me Hindi and Marathi, and did his best to tell me all the ins and outs of the city, never asking for anything or suggesting we go anywhere I hadn’t previously planned. There was genuine care and concern in his voice and demeanor, as evidenced by the universal Indian headbob of affirmation as I left the car after telling him I appreciated all his help.
My guards were dropping by the hour. Walking around the giant laundry, with clothes of all shapes and sizes drying from rooftops as far as I could see, I was almost attacked by a dog, before being saved by another paraplegic man who invited me through the “facilities,” for a small fee of course. I obliged and climbed to the rooftops, up sets of stairs that weren’t quite up to code. My defenses were up yet again as we walked deeper and deeper into the maze of wash basins, ironing boards, and clotheslines. With each step, I memorized our path in case I needed to escape a sneak attack. Silly me, the man took me right to the exit, no hassles, aside from a plea for a few more rupees, which I politely declined.
I took my usual detours through the city, still surprised by how calm everything seemed to be compared to my expectations. I bought a ticket to see the Bollywood movie, Sultan, and ended up meeting a film writer taking his usual Sunday stroll through the city, looking for inspiration. He treated me to lunch, exuding the warm, genuine concern I’ve now come to expect with my interactions in this country. We learned a bit about each other’s countries and travels, and I went on my way to one of the more entertaining movie experiences of my life. Aside from the built in musical dance performances that are essential parts of every Bollywood movie, the paid attendance is a part of the show as well. As the main character, a persona similar to Rocky Balboa, triumphed throughout the movie, there were whistles, cheers, and standing ovations erupting from the crowd. We were all in it together, cheering the hero on, reacting to every heartbreak and heroic act. I found myself both laughing hysterically and investing myself emotionally in the whole situation. It was exhilarating. The Indian people have an expression of emotions, a sense of style, and warmth of interaction that’s all their own. The culture is uniquely theirs, and it’s quite captivating. Much like the Italians, the Indians know how to eat, how to dress, and how to love.
Reflecting on the day back at the hostel I commiserated with some fellow travelers about the lack of craziness I’d experienced walking around the city, as they too were expecting a whole new level of insanity.
Then Monday happened.
I walked the city for hours trying to find a back street that wasn’t filled with cows, bikes, taxis, rickshaws, beggars, horns, and throngs of people. I couldn’t do it. The horns were absolutely deafening, the livestock would have outnumbered any street full of people in the United States, save for maybe New York City. The sheer number of street stalls made me wonder how anybody could sell anything, yet they were all full. People went about their daily lives, whether that meant commuting, hauling supplies by rickshaw, having a morning or afternoon chai, or just honking their horn for the hell of it. All the madness I was hoping to find on the streets of Bombay, I found. And then some. I made an escape to Chowpatty beach, which is flanked by opposite ends of the city, separated by a large bay. The less than stellar sands were filled with city dwellers battling waves in full clothing, along with Muslim women in full black Burqas taking selfies on the shore. It was quite a sight. So was I, apparently, as the selfie requests came piling in.
At one point, the city nearly got the best of me, as walking through the streets I stumbled upon a dog clearly suffering from disease, bloated to nearly 3 times its normal size, lying on the streets, struggling to breathe. That dog was going to die there, it was only a matter of time. I’m not sure why, after all the poverty I’ve seen on this trip, including sickly dogs, that this helpless animal nearly broke me. Perhaps I realized that the unrelenting happiness that every dog exudes, no matter how they look on the outside, or what sickness they’re battling, was gone. Helpless and ignored, there was no hope. I imagined that the dog shared the same fate as many people living within the city and its slums. I had to take a break from it all, so I ventured into a book store and began reading Shantaram, an incredible look into life on the streets of Bombay. I smiled as the characters in the book were brought to life in front of me, with the conversations I heard around me and in the streets earlier that day. The quirkiness, the charm, the passion, the determination, the positivity. It’s everywhere.
As I left Mumbai, I couldn’t help but love the place. Not for what it offered for a traveler, but for how it captivated me, drew me into the intrigue that is India. The poverty is real, and quite disturbing, but so too is the love and generosity, and a certain something else that I still haven’t quite put my finger on. Something that entices, surprises, entertains, and can’t help but be admired.
Whatever it is, I dig it.