From Hampi I rode a night bus to Mumbai, and at 6:30am hopped off onto the shoulder of an offramp, set adrift into a frenzy of taxi drivers in an Indian jungle yet unknown to me. Two drivers distinguished themselves with ambition for the fare, and a quarrel ensued... It escalated to the point of a schoolyard grapple, both men boiling with anger but neither inclined to physically harm the other. Indians I’ve found to be rather harmless. They’re nosy bastards - don’t get me wrong – peering over your shoulder at the ATM, asking you where you’re staying and how much money you make. But all in benign inquisitiveness, nothing more…
Mumbai didn’t quite resonate, so my visit was relatively brief. What I did do is ride a few local buses and trains around and wander on foot for too many hours. The fish market at Sassoon Dock was the most repulsive place I’ve seen in India. The harbour water was as black as crude oil, and the smells were nearly unbearable. I followed a group of workers (women in lovely saris, graceful gait, and reeking of fish) leaving the dock back to their home, the infamous WTC slum from the book Shantaram. Your entrance to the slum is highlighted by the abundance of offers for drugs and hookers. I wasn’t terribly enamored with the idea of solo slum ambling, so my tour was superficial.
After sleeping through my morning train to Ahmadabad, I earned an extra day in Mumbai so did some other stuff, too. I had a helluva time mending my departure arrangements. Another morning train; no, an afternoon bus; no, an afternoon train; no, a sleeper train; and so on… The concept of now in India is met unresponsively; on Indian time, however, everything manages to spin in chaotic efficiency, like a colony of social insects.
