It took two days at sea to move form Kochin, in Southern India, northward to Mumbai. It has been called “Maximum city,” featured in such movies as Slumdog Millionaire, countless Bollywood films and is backdrop for countless daily stories of heartbreak and hope.
Briefly leaving the ship, my brother and I made our way to Victoria Terminal (referred to as VT Station,) the main train station in Mumbai. After purchasing reserve tickets on an air conditioned express coach to Pune. With several hours to spare, we went to the Taj Hotel, of notoriety recently. That was a spectacular structure. Again, all the service staff had pressed uniforms, and immaculate grooming, a stark contrast from the streets a few paces away. It clearly highlighted the “Other India,” where everyone speaks impeccable Queen’s English, walks with shined shoes on vast colorful handmade rugs, drinks bottled water, is driven hither and yon by a personal driver and also employs a housekeeper and laundry woman.
I could not help but reflect on my last visit to this place. Fifteen years prior I had been here with my brother and sister. My brother pulled me away from a game of three-card Monty; someone bent corner of one card making it easy to track. Several of the men in the group even offered to give me money to bet with. Sensing trouble, my brother hustled me away before I was hustled or worse! My sister rented a horse for a ride on the Mumbai shore. She kicked the horse into a gallop on the beach. The problem is the beach is crowded and she knocked over someone. We left in a hurry. This trip to the beach area was far less eventful.
We took lunch at the Kaiber Restaurant, a spectacular facility with a Middle-East feel to it. On the conclusion of lunch, we returned to the ship to pick up our bags at get to the train. In an attempt to simplify our trip, we picked up a taxi from the secured area of the port near the boat. This did not help. The taxi was unable to use the closest gate, instead driving quite far afield for the official customs gate for taxies (had we gone out on foot as we did without our bags, we could have obtained a taxi very easily to VT station.) To save time, he took us to he side e
ntrance of VT terminal, but the train was not easily accessible from there. Driving to the front of the station, we had to run to the platform and hop on the train at the rear. Had we run for the AC coach, we would have missed the train. To find our seats, we had to push our way forward with all luggage in tow. Pausing for rest now and again, we made our way, seat to seat and car to car until we found the air conditioned car. Stowing our luggage, we collapsed into our seats for the trip.
Briefly leaving the ship, my brother and I made our way to Victoria Terminal (referred to as VT Station,) the main train station in Mumbai. After purchasing reserve tickets on an air conditioned express coach to Pune. With several hours to spare, we went to the Taj Hotel, of notoriety recently. That was a spectacular structure. Again, all the service staff had pressed uniforms, and immaculate grooming, a stark contrast from the streets a few paces away. It clearly highlighted the “Other India,” where everyone speaks impeccable Queen’s English, walks with shined shoes on vast colorful handmade rugs, drinks bottled water, is driven hither and yon by a personal driver and also employs a housekeeper and laundry woman.
I could not help but reflect on my last visit to this place. Fifteen years prior I had been here with my brother and sister. My brother pulled me away from a game of three-card Monty; someone bent corner of one card making it easy to track. Several of the men in the group even offered to give me money to bet with. Sensing trouble, my brother hustled me away before I was hustled or worse! My sister rented a horse for a ride on the Mumbai shore. She kicked the horse into a gallop on the beach. The problem is the beach is crowded and she knocked over someone. We left in a hurry. This trip to the beach area was far less eventful.
We took lunch at the Kaiber Restaurant, a spectacular facility with a Middle-East feel to it. On the conclusion of lunch, we returned to the ship to pick up our bags at get to the train. In an attempt to simplify our trip, we picked up a taxi from the secured area of the port near the boat. This did not help. The taxi was unable to use the closest gate, instead driving quite far afield for the official customs gate for taxies (had we gone out on foot as we did without our bags, we could have obtained a taxi very easily to VT station.) To save time, he took us to he side e
ntrance of VT terminal, but the train was not easily accessible from there. Driving to the front of the station, we had to run to the platform and hop on the train at the rear. Had we run for the AC coach, we would have missed the train. To find our seats, we had to push our way forward with all luggage in tow. Pausing for rest now and again, we made our way, seat to seat and car to car until we found the air conditioned car. Stowing our luggage, we collapsed into our seats for the trip. Vendors circulated selling tea (tea bags made by Tata, the same company that owns Jaguar!), coffee, cold drinks, snacks, books, fruits and even shoe shines. Notably absent was the army of red-clad coolies which had mobbed trains in the past, seeking to help anyone with bags off the train. But present was armed Indian guards some patrolling and some in sand-bag fortifications. Ironically the guards were a chilling reminder of the darker side of this beautiful city, yet their presence was quite comforting.
I had heard repeatedly that India had changed in the past fifteen years since my last visit. Of this I have no doubt. My memories of this place were at times wild and bewildering and frequently spiced with a feeling of being out of control. Not so this trip. I have found the people polite, well spoken and generally tolerant. But the most stark reminder of changes was yet to come.
On arrival at Chinchwad station, outside of Pune, I was met by the family that I both knew and yet did not know. My cousin and his son met us. When last I has visited, my cousin was recently married and they had no children. He had aged, and I have no doubt that he thought the same of me. Standing on the train platform regarding him, I felt like Rip VanWinkle. It did not seem like fifteen years. The smells and sounds were the same, and the family I care so much for was here greeting me with smiles and open arms. But everything had changed. The roads were nicely paved, cars are far more prevalent, and my cousin and his beloved wife, entrepreneur and businesswoman, have their own flat and two beautiful children in private school. He had certainly aged, but did not appear worse for the years.
It is so difficult to reconcile that this world exists simultaneously with the world of America. People live and die in each place, living day in and day out, but it seems like a different planet.
It is so difficult to reconcile that this world exists simultaneously with the world of America. People live and die in each place, living day in and day out, but it seems like a different planet.
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