At one end of Mumbai’s great metropolis is a park known as the Hanging Gardens. It is an oasis in a city bursting at the seams with sights and sounds that have to be seen to be believed. At night, a cast of suburbanites come to promenade and enjoy the views that the park offers and bask in the cooling airs from the day’s heat.
At the entrance to the park is a sign that reads, “No strenuous activities, no walking, no jogging, no cycling, no eating, no drinking, no picking the flowers, no walking on the grass, no sleeping, no dogs, no animals, no reading, no music” and in a country where to save power, the cars drive at night without their headlights, you can expect that every one of these regulations would be completely ignored if not flagrantly flouted.
The park at dusk is a refuge from the toils and strains of the city and is positively bulging to the gills with couples doing exactly as they are requested not to do. The result is fabulous. People are power-walking in suits and women in the Indian form of the Burka, are laughing and dancing to the music from the fountains while older men dressed in “Kurta" perform Tai Chi. Couples sit in the grass enjoying the cool and families watch their children laugh and play amongst the topiary bushes carved into of all things, Zebra, Peacocks and Kangaroos. It is as India is, a total contradiction; but sums up for me this visit of a few short days in this amazing country. A place full of inconsistencies and yet somehow, even though no one takes notice of rules and regulations, this place works, in fact, not only does it work, but it thrives.
I’ve been to this land of the Moguls before, so on the second day of this visit, I hired a guide, Vassant, who began the day by driving me from one side of the city to the other in search of a typically Indian suit called a Sherwani. The formal Indian outfit. Covered in sequins, pearls and Swarovski crystals, this understated piece of Bollywood elegance is usually worn by Bridegrooms or kiwis with illusions clearly above their station. In the end, after a few hours of driving and out of sheer frustration of continually looking for a car-park, we left our vehicle in the tender care of a street urchin, grateful for the offer of a “tip” to ensure its safety, to commandeer our own taxi.
Of course I am well versed in the art of picking the craziest taxi drivers and today proved to be no exception after managing to flag down one of the many yellow and black Hindustan Ambassadors that swarm around the streets. The dash was decorated with a large six-armed elephant and the driver looked like he had escaped from a local institution, after gingerly getting in we lurched into the traffic of Mumbai. Hindi Music blaring out of one end and black smoke belching out of the other, the arms and head on the Dash’s “Ganesh” waving frantically and the driver screaming like a banshee, we looked just like locals.
Careering and careening, we sped along the streets of old Bombay, swaying past Victorian Architecture and ancient monuments, pedestrians fleeing and murders of crows scattering before us, our horn blaring loudly as if our life depended upon it. Which it probably did.
We barrelled down one-way streets, through red traffic lights and against the instructions of traffic police then we were suddenly bought to a complete stop as a herd of revered cattle ambled peacefully across the road. Imagine that…unable to be controlled by modern civilisation and yet bought to a complete standstill by a herd of ancient but venerable cattle.
The paradox of the situation appealing only to me and was completely lost on my companions as they sat patiently for the slight inconvenience to make ways as if it happened every day….in fact...here it does.
Mumbai is like that, somehow encompassing the twenty first century and strangely…not.
The upshot of my guide/driver finding his own guide/driver, resulted in a bill of 200 rupees, or $US5, for four hours of comedic entertainment, being driven from one side of this city to the other and a fair amount in-between resulting in the eventual purchase of a discrete and very classy Sherwani, a piece that would make Elvis proud.
At last, that perfect something to wear onboard during formal night.
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