I was catching the 13.40 Karnavati Express from Mumbai Central, and was advised to take a taxi at 11.30 because of the traffic. Good advice, I’m glad I took it. Again we went at honking breakneck speed, with me being very touristy and trying to take photos whenever we paused. It wasn’t often enough. I couldn’t get good pictures of the rickety pole scaffolds, tied together with sisal binder twine, and none of the tree boughs which had been built through various walls, rather than cut them off. Nor of all the rubble, or the brick upper stories built on top of the tin roofs. Then again I missed the motorbikes carrying whole families, or a passenger holding a ladder aloft, and the riders carrying a load in one hand - sweving madly but staying on, or the sari-clad ladies sitting side-saddle.
Probably all the Indian cities are like this – I’ll know in five weeks time. There is mayhem on the roads and grinding poverty at the roadside. I never realized what dirt poor really meant. Wherever there’s somewhere to put a tarpaulin or a corrugated sheet, there’s a corrugated sheet and a bit of tarpaulin; and under that lives a family. They line the streets and the railway track, and at every opportunity they sell wares or services to someone else. There are roadside barbers and cobblers, and vendors of fruit and vegetables. They are also selling great bunches of greenery – goodness knows what it is or what it’s for. It is incredible entrepreneurship.
But Mumbai is also one vast building site. There are huge modern skyscrapers and opulent buildings. This place is certainly intending to go somewhere. There doesn't seem to be separate areas for rich and poor though. The painted walls and wrought iron gates behind which live the wealthy, front the rubble-lined streets with their attendant population of destitution.
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