Contrast

I’m sitting now overlooking the courtyard of my guest house. Just across the way are apartments. I can see a girl in a lit-up room. She’s rubbing her hands together, maybe cooking something. In the apartment next to her, I see another woman with steam rising in front of her, also cooking. I hear coughing, talking, babies crying, tools clinking, laughing, dishes clanging.

People are everywhere in the city. You cannot escape from others. To live here is such an acceptance of everyone else’s existence in Mumbai – of fellow humans living their lives under your nose. You hear living sounds just as much as car sounds. People work and sleep, drive and walk almost on top of eachother, squeezed in to the cramped reality of millions in one peninsula that is Mumbai. I got it wrong before, the actual population is closer to 20 million, when you include the unofficial numbers of slum-dwellers.

Sometimes though, you walk inside buildings and it is suddenly quiet. Today we went into Starbucks. It could have been any Starbucks in the world, (minus the metal detector at the entranceway). There were little displays with coffee beans explaining where they came from, a display case of pastries and paninis each with cream-colored labels, and the chalked specials specific to the season. There was even a lulling soundtrack playing familiar indie pop in the background. The green-aproned woman behind the counter asked my name and spelled it out on my soon-to-be tall soy cappuccino. It was quite the transportation, given that footsteps away was the gritty, smoggy, honks of the Mumbai streets.

Photo cred to Elana Winchester

There on the streets, there are no flavor shots or free wifi to distance coffee-goers from the reality of the city. They share the road with the hagglers, homeless beggars, stray dogs, and pet goats. (Yes, goats are pets here). On the streets, everyone is left to their own devices to share the sidewalk or brave the roadway. The cars, busses, and motorbikes whiz inches away from people as they cross the street, beggars and tourists alike, honking angrily to announce their presence.

The honking can be ironic. Even if there are no other cars on the street and pedestrian crossing, cars will honk, as if it is as essential as the gas pedal.

One of the main motorways lines the ocean in a district called Colaba. Across this motorway from the water is the Taj Hotel. The Taj Hotel is brilliant. The lobby is extravagantly beautiful, with ornate designs, waterfalls, flower arrangements, and a majestic, carpeted staircase leading up to ballrooms and guest rooms. On the ground floor, there is a Louis Vuitton store. Just on the other side of that glass are people who have no home, sleeping against the wall that holds up the display case for designer handbags – people depending on the unforgiving stone of the street and the shy money of crowds.

In Mumbai, the contrasts continue beyond what you see with your eye. Corruption meets charity, abundant prostitution meets conservative society, and essential commerce meets abounding unemployment. “Contrast” was one of the most common words I came across to describe India before I came. It is mesmerizing how the description holds. As I discover the city, "contrast" remains a constant buzzword running through my head.

Dhobi Ghat, a well-known open air laundromat 

Buildings in Colaba, a district with many British-style buildings 

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