“How do you love Mumbai?” I asked Vinay, native Mumbaikar and walk
ing-talking Encyclopaedia Mumbaia. He looked out of our car window, considering my question. Dadar East was bustling all around us.
Perhaps it was a tough question to ask anyone. How does one love this mad, madding metropolis? Sometimes it feels as though, like the concept of infinity, it is difficult to gather it in the words known to us.
Our car was moving inexorably into the mill country. Old apartments and tenements loomed on to us from both sides, remnants of the most significant era of Mumbai’s history, now struggling for survival.
“The Mumbai I knew is dying,” he said finally. “It’s become unlivable and ugly.”
We both silently looked at the crowded alleys, crumbling mills, and lines of clothes hanging from every conceivable dusty balcony and window. Grand Central Hotel did look a little incongruous in the midst of this all.
“Show me your Mumbai,” I said, feeling a crazy sense of urgency.
What could’ve been a more poignant starting point other than the dilapidated Veer Mata Jijabai Bhosale Udyan (erstwhile Byculla Zoo) which also houses the newly spruced up Bhau Daji Lad Museum (erstwhile Victoria and Albert Museum)? Maybe only in Mumbai can the contradiction of a painstakingly renovated heritage building can co-exist with a gone-to dust-heritage garden side by side.
Nothing had prepared me for the luxurious art-deco splendour of the Museum. I stood at the entrance, transfixed by the graceful gilt edged columns supporting the richly painted and detailed high ceiling, beautiful chandeliers, sweeping staircase, and lovely painted floor tiles. I was surprised to learn that it is the oldest museum in Mumbai.
The exhibits reeked of the Raj, of the pointless variety. Where else would on
e find exhibits such as “Lord Krishna’s Embassy to the Kaurava Court”, “A Weaver’s House”, and “Peoples of Mumbai”, and “Coffee Set Made of Coconut Shell from Ceylon”?
Vinay insisted on watching the video made on the renovation project. It’s a must see, with its regulation montage of Gandhi at the beginning, the sonorous voice over, and the stock music one has come to expect as de rigueur in Films Division documentaries .
I insisted on visiting the zoo. It’s clearly the stuff nightmares are made of. I don’t think any decent human being can sleep peacefully for nights after seeing the state of the enclosures and the hapless animals subjected to continuous teasing by onlookers. I’m sure the place is haunted by the troubled souls of the 11 antelopes which died of stress there.
We walked out, disturbed and enraged.
Our spirits were still low as we drove over the JJ Flyover, an engineering marvel. “The snake-like flyover twists and turns its way through a labyrinth of old buildings on either side. It traverses through 22 small and big junctions and six curves. What is amazing about the flyover, the longest in Mumbai so far, is not its unique design but that Gammon India managed to build it in a locality that never goes to sleep,” claims Project Monitor.
“Hey look, that building has Star of David all over it!” I exclaimed when I spied a lone building amidst many mosques that dotted the skyline.
Vinay looked at me nonplussed. “So?” he asked.
“Well, this seems to be a heavily Islamic area,” I replied.
His face broke into a grin. “Well, this is Mumbai,” he said.
We smiled at each other, revived and ready for town.
“A pointless visit to Rhythm House is a must,” Vinay said, after we walked out of Jehangir Art Gallery, too depressed at the sight of Samovar to look at the exhibits. I acquiesced, although I’ve always found it too claustrophobic for comfort.
From there, we sped to a nostalgic drive-through Navy Nagar replete with tales of youthful love,
make-out alleys, and golfing in the afternoons. Those definitely seemed to have been the days.
“So did you make out here?” I asked curiously, eyeing the shaded alleys – they did seem appropriate for the purpose.
“No, I was more interested in the booze,” he twinkled.
We ended up in a tiny park clinging to the land’s end at Cuff Parade, behind World Trade Centre. The sun was a big orange ball, dipping into the horizon over the bay. Mumbai skyline loomed on our right. A lone fishing boat was moored at a distance.
We followed what seemed to be the tradition of the place and sat on the par
apet, our legs dangling on the sea side, over the rocks that were shoring it up. We sat there in companionable silence, enjoying the breeze and the view. The seething city with its people, problems, and craziness was literally behind us.
It seemed pretty close to perfection.
ing-talking Encyclopaedia Mumbaia. He looked out of our car window, considering my question. Dadar East was bustling all around us.Perhaps it was a tough question to ask anyone. How does one love this mad, madding metropolis? Sometimes it feels as though, like the concept of infinity, it is difficult to gather it in the words known to us.
Our car was moving inexorably into the mill country. Old apartments and tenements loomed on to us from both sides, remnants of the most significant era of Mumbai’s history, now struggling for survival.
“The Mumbai I knew is dying,” he said finally. “It’s become unlivable and ugly.”
We both silently looked at the crowded alleys, crumbling mills, and lines of clothes hanging from every conceivable dusty balcony and window. Grand Central Hotel did look a little incongruous in the midst of this all.
“Show me your Mumbai,” I said, feeling a crazy sense of urgency.What could’ve been a more poignant starting point other than the dilapidated Veer Mata Jijabai Bhosale Udyan (erstwhile Byculla Zoo) which also houses the newly spruced up Bhau Daji Lad Museum (erstwhile Victoria and Albert Museum)? Maybe only in Mumbai can the contradiction of a painstakingly renovated heritage building can co-exist with a gone-to dust-heritage garden side by side.
Nothing had prepared me for the luxurious art-deco splendour of the Museum. I stood at the entrance, transfixed by the graceful gilt edged columns supporting the richly painted and detailed high ceiling, beautiful chandeliers, sweeping staircase, and lovely painted floor tiles. I was surprised to learn that it is the oldest museum in Mumbai.
The exhibits reeked of the Raj, of the pointless variety. Where else would on
e find exhibits such as “Lord Krishna’s Embassy to the Kaurava Court”, “A Weaver’s House”, and “Peoples of Mumbai”, and “Coffee Set Made of Coconut Shell from Ceylon”?Vinay insisted on watching the video made on the renovation project. It’s a must see, with its regulation montage of Gandhi at the beginning, the sonorous voice over, and the stock music one has come to expect as de rigueur in Films Division documentaries .
I insisted on visiting the zoo. It’s clearly the stuff nightmares are made of. I don’t think any decent human being can sleep peacefully for nights after seeing the state of the enclosures and the hapless animals subjected to continuous teasing by onlookers. I’m sure the place is haunted by the troubled souls of the 11 antelopes which died of stress there.
We walked out, disturbed and enraged.Our spirits were still low as we drove over the JJ Flyover, an engineering marvel. “The snake-like flyover twists and turns its way through a labyrinth of old buildings on either side. It traverses through 22 small and big junctions and six curves. What is amazing about the flyover, the longest in Mumbai so far, is not its unique design but that Gammon India managed to build it in a locality that never goes to sleep,” claims Project Monitor.
“Hey look, that building has Star of David all over it!” I exclaimed when I spied a lone building amidst many mosques that dotted the skyline.
Vinay looked at me nonplussed. “So?” he asked.
“Well, this seems to be a heavily Islamic area,” I replied.
His face broke into a grin. “Well, this is Mumbai,” he said.
We smiled at each other, revived and ready for town.
“A pointless visit to Rhythm House is a must,” Vinay said, after we walked out of Jehangir Art Gallery, too depressed at the sight of Samovar to look at the exhibits. I acquiesced, although I’ve always found it too claustrophobic for comfort.
From there, we sped to a nostalgic drive-through Navy Nagar replete with tales of youthful love,
make-out alleys, and golfing in the afternoons. Those definitely seemed to have been the days.“So did you make out here?” I asked curiously, eyeing the shaded alleys – they did seem appropriate for the purpose.
“No, I was more interested in the booze,” he twinkled.
We ended up in a tiny park clinging to the land’s end at Cuff Parade, behind World Trade Centre. The sun was a big orange ball, dipping into the horizon over the bay. Mumbai skyline loomed on our right. A lone fishing boat was moored at a distance.
We followed what seemed to be the tradition of the place and sat on the par
apet, our legs dangling on the sea side, over the rocks that were shoring it up. We sat there in companionable silence, enjoying the breeze and the view. The seething city with its people, problems, and craziness was literally behind us.It seemed pretty close to perfection.
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