While we were walking through the streets on our way to the bus stop, my friend stopped and pointed to an undistinguished storefront across the street. A sloping red awning hung over the name, so I couldn't read it.
"That's the Modern Hotel," she said. "There was a big explosion there."
At first I didn't understand the Hindi word she used for "explosion," so we spent a few minutes using creative descriptions and sign language, as is our habit. When she said, "arms and legs were everywhere, people were hurt" then I got it.
I didn't know about the bomb blasts at that location, in a nice neighborhood where luxury apartment buildings stand next to wide sidewalks, cafes and greenery. This is one of the nicest residential areas in Mumbai.
We got on the public bus. I was glad for her company, since I wouldn't have gone on the public bus alone, yet. Most people I know avoid buses like they avoid unfiltered drinking water, largely because of the intense crowds but partly, I suspect, because they don't really trust the rest of the bus-riding populace. (This happens in the States, too. I know a friend of mine wasn't allowed to take Montgomery County public buses because her parents were worried about "weirdos." This may be valid, I don't know.)
We got off at the Gateway of India, where whole crowds of tourists (mainly Indian) walked back and forth across the wide stone courtyard in front of the carved, rose-colored gate. Around the back we leaped from a stone dock onto a peeling white passenger boat. It set off for a quick jaunt around the gray harbor. Behind us, the orange sun set over the Gateway, turning it pink. In the other side of the sky, the bright white moon had already come up. Without intending to, we had come at the most beautiful time of day.
When we got off a crowd had gathered in the square, on one side of which stand the two columns of the Taj Hotel. I had come partly to see the Taj, which is as much a tourist attraction as the Gateway. (The Taj was built before independence by a Parsi industrialist after he was denied entry to an exclusive whites-only hotel. He swore that his hotel would one day be one of the grandest in India, and that people would forget the name of the hotel that had once denied him entry. His revenge has certainly come to pass.)
When we first arrived I was unimpressed by the two towers, one squat and one tall, faced with lacy-white windows and dull paint. But afterwards, at night, I saw the Taj's beauty. The waterfall in the main courtyard lit up with yellow light, and small lights in each of the windows blinked through the patterns in the carvings.
"That's the Modern Hotel," she said. "There was a big explosion there."
At first I didn't understand the Hindi word she used for "explosion," so we spent a few minutes using creative descriptions and sign language, as is our habit. When she said, "arms and legs were everywhere, people were hurt" then I got it.
I didn't know about the bomb blasts at that location, in a nice neighborhood where luxury apartment buildings stand next to wide sidewalks, cafes and greenery. This is one of the nicest residential areas in Mumbai.
We got on the public bus. I was glad for her company, since I wouldn't have gone on the public bus alone, yet. Most people I know avoid buses like they avoid unfiltered drinking water, largely because of the intense crowds but partly, I suspect, because they don't really trust the rest of the bus-riding populace. (This happens in the States, too. I know a friend of mine wasn't allowed to take Montgomery County public buses because her parents were worried about "weirdos." This may be valid, I don't know.)
We got off at the Gateway of India, where whole crowds of tourists (mainly Indian) walked back and forth across the wide stone courtyard in front of the carved, rose-colored gate. Around the back we leaped from a stone dock onto a peeling white passenger boat. It set off for a quick jaunt around the gray harbor. Behind us, the orange sun set over the Gateway, turning it pink. In the other side of the sky, the bright white moon had already come up. Without intending to, we had come at the most beautiful time of day.
When we got off a crowd had gathered in the square, on one side of which stand the two columns of the Taj Hotel. I had come partly to see the Taj, which is as much a tourist attraction as the Gateway. (The Taj was built before independence by a Parsi industrialist after he was denied entry to an exclusive whites-only hotel. He swore that his hotel would one day be one of the grandest in India, and that people would forget the name of the hotel that had once denied him entry. His revenge has certainly come to pass.)
When we first arrived I was unimpressed by the two towers, one squat and one tall, faced with lacy-white windows and dull paint. But afterwards, at night, I saw the Taj's beauty. The waterfall in the main courtyard lit up with yellow light, and small lights in each of the windows blinked through the patterns in the carvings.
There are many beautiful buildings in Mumbai. Some of them, like the Taj, are newly built. Others, like the dilapidated but still magnificent hospitals and schools in old Mumbai, have been here for a very long time. Although I have seen a lot of spectacular buildings in the United States (the US Capitol, etc) they all have a New Money feel to them. They are lovely imitations of their more ancient Greek or Persian counterparts.
In old Mumbai, nothing is an imitation of anything else. It is the original. In new Mumbai, which exists on top of old Mumbai, everything is an imitation of something else, usually the corporate affluence of the West (traffic bridges, skyscrapers).
"The Taj is where the bomb blasts were," said my friend. I remembered. We'd just gone for a walk through the city, but we'd passed two sites of devastating terrorism. The way someone says, "that's where my cousin had her 21st birthday," she said "that's where a bomb went off."
A crowd had gathered in the square outside the Taj. We thought a film was shooting, but it was just a speech. The organizers had roped off the main area, but they didn't even bother trying to beat back the silent and respectful crowd of gawkers around them.
In India, neither luxury nor poverty is a private affair. The rich can see how the poor live and vice versa. It means that everyone is always aware of their own social class. I have never lived in such a class-conscious city before in my life. (This awareness is not necessarily negative, but it is pervasive.) Even in the Taj - especially in the Taj - lunch at the hotel restaurant costs more money than the average Indian earns in a month. The hotel was once a monument to the Indian spirit, now it is a haven for rich foreigners. The boat ride around the Gateway of India cost me $1. The bus ticket was 10 cents. A night in a standard room at the Taj costs $250, the same as the Beverly Hills Hilton.
We took a taxi back home, going nearly half the length of the city. Taxis in Mumbai are almost scarily cheap. Most cab rides cost less than a quarter, this one was $3. For $20 you can go from one end of Mumbai to the other in a luxury air-conditioned taxi.
In old Mumbai, nothing is an imitation of anything else. It is the original. In new Mumbai, which exists on top of old Mumbai, everything is an imitation of something else, usually the corporate affluence of the West (traffic bridges, skyscrapers).
"The Taj is where the bomb blasts were," said my friend. I remembered. We'd just gone for a walk through the city, but we'd passed two sites of devastating terrorism. The way someone says, "that's where my cousin had her 21st birthday," she said "that's where a bomb went off."
A crowd had gathered in the square outside the Taj. We thought a film was shooting, but it was just a speech. The organizers had roped off the main area, but they didn't even bother trying to beat back the silent and respectful crowd of gawkers around them.
In India, neither luxury nor poverty is a private affair. The rich can see how the poor live and vice versa. It means that everyone is always aware of their own social class. I have never lived in such a class-conscious city before in my life. (This awareness is not necessarily negative, but it is pervasive.) Even in the Taj - especially in the Taj - lunch at the hotel restaurant costs more money than the average Indian earns in a month. The hotel was once a monument to the Indian spirit, now it is a haven for rich foreigners. The boat ride around the Gateway of India cost me $1. The bus ticket was 10 cents. A night in a standard room at the Taj costs $250, the same as the Beverly Hills Hilton.
We took a taxi back home, going nearly half the length of the city. Taxis in Mumbai are almost scarily cheap. Most cab rides cost less than a quarter, this one was $3. For $20 you can go from one end of Mumbai to the other in a luxury air-conditioned taxi.
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