So the flight was fairly chilled. The meals got progressively better as we ventured East. The first between London and Doha; a myriad of suprirsingly succulent fruits, yogurt and some sapid, sloppy sweet crepes.
Followed many hours later by a paneer tikka massala between Doha and Mumbai with delectable dashings of piquant pickles and some enigmatic almond gloop. A rather tasty prelud to the next few months. Then came the long overdue realisation that long haul flights come with complimentary booze... Cue several pops at the Chilean merlot, which partially impaired my ablity to absorb the yogic anatomy anthology I have in my inventory.
Luckily for me, an amible Spaniard on his fifth trip to India, to inaugrate a repspectable route of reliable mango retail between Mumbai and his motherland (they have the best in the world in India it turns out - can't wait), helped me discover some stashed immigration cards behind an unmanned desk - as of course, I'd missed inexplicably missed that mandate during the flight
After a 2 hour snooze on an uncomfrotable marble block, I rose wearily at day break to take on the trek into town. Skillfully circumventing the undulating sea of taxi touts, despite the alluring allusion to 'speed' promised in semi-legible, shaggy vinyl on every spare inch of the beaten chassis, I bounced forth on good advice from a severely good-vibes guru from the airport, to bump shoulders with Bombayians on the barborous public transport.
During a tense exchange experienced when asking for advice from the belligerent bus ballot bloke on the 308, I found salvation in a beautiful Indian girl who gave mevague direction in broken English and directed me to the front 'ladies only' carrige. I felt more at ease in the company of females. Most were travelling in small family cohorts and here I was more likely to steal a surreptitious smile, once the short-lived scruitiniy is over and she suddenly realises that are simply someone's harmless sister or daughter.
Touchdown in town, sweating to the nines. Even the meagre 11 kilos on my back has become somewhat of an immediate burden due to the wall of heat which sweeps over the city as the sun rises. So it's an uncharacteristic quick decision, motivated by a desire to shower with a level of immediacy, following some guidance from a tiny ginger gentleman (a staggering proportion of Indian gentlemen opt for this perplexing shape), to lodge at the Delight Hotel, a delightfully overdressed description of what turns out to in fact be; some ridiculously rudimentary rooms. But passable no doubt.
Creepy puppets at Gandhi's house.
I learned that Gandhi's real name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, and Mahatma means simply the High-Souled one, or Venerable in Sanskrit which came to be his name naturally in honour of his services to the people. It was so interesting to learn about his many acts of peaceful civil disobedience in favour of India's independence and think about the implications from within the country. And I had randomly learned shortly before that Mumbai is named after Koli Goddess Mumba, or Maha Amba, the Great Amba, who was patron of salt, the subject of one of Gandhi's epic marches.
The rest of the day is spent battling the crowds during a Jain holy day, agreeing to accompany a tiny native called Ashak on an auspicious expedition of the city, and trying to avoid the attention of a mass of misguided Mumbaians at the Gate of India, who seem convinced I'm some sort of glorious, glamarous celebrity and insist on photographing me with every member of accompanying friends and family units. Worst things have happened at sea.
I ate at the infamous Leopald's Cafe, a location of the 2008 Mumbai bombings, and featured heavily in Shantaram as the criminal convene for the cities baddest. They do a lovely garlic naan incidentally, and I saw no obvious drug deals. Spot of shopping, then bed!
First impressions of India? Aflame with radiant sunshine, gorged with 11.98 million friendly faces, scented by the ambrosial agreeability of inscence billowing out of every entrance, with a reprehensible landscape wrought in relentless realms of rubbish, all accompanied by a deafening cacophany of incessant car horns; I can't help but conclude that the attack on the senses is simply sublime.
Still, southward bound to the beautiful beaches.....
Yea! So happy x
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