Mumbai is a lot like Rio and a lot like New York. To a casual observer, this may not seem possible. Mumbai, like Rio and New York, has an energy. It’s greater than all the parts of the city.
In India, all things you know are turned upside down. And that’s a good thing.
It is a most daunting task documenting ten days spent in India. India, and Mumbai in particular, is chaotic. It is a mixture of sights, sounds, smells, textures, and tastes. There is much newness here, like new high-end designer hotels and boutique fashion shops catering to Bollywood’s elite. But by and large, India, and especially Mumbai, feels as though it’s from another time. By “another time,” I don’t mean centuries ago. Rather, I always feel as though I am transported back to the sixties, when Elizabeth Taylor was the world’s biggest movie star and when style was not something taught on the Internet.
The cabs in Mumbai are from the sixties. Their round shape and tacky (yet gorgeous!) patterned upholstery give the city a rather retro vibe. They putter and make noise and honk often.
People fill the streets on bikes and motorcycles and cars and taxis. Throw in more pedestrians than you’ve ever imagined, and some cows and goats, too, and you have packed streets and roads. Red lights are ignored. Fender benders are the norm. Driving is serious business.
Skin is not shown in Mumbai. But the way friends walk together, arms around one another, reminded me of groups of kids in Brazil. In the U.S., the sense of personal space extends even to our closest friends. In India, physical contact is the norm. Friends hold hands.
In Mumbai, salesmanship is a serious business, too. Everything can be sold in the markets: stainless-steal dinnerware; goats and chickens; colorful, plentiful vegetables; silks and scarves and clothing. I bought three pairs of paper-thin cotton pyjama pants. I wore them my entire trip. The fabrics in India are basic colors — beiges, khakis, and whites for men. For women, there is no limit. Women’s dress in India is striking. The colors are bold. The silhouettes play with proportions. The variety of textures is vast.
Indian women also adorn themselves with beautiful jewelry. The jewelry designer Laura Lobdell encouraged me to find glass bangles, as they chime, she said, rather than din like metal bangles. And she was right. I bought them in every color for many female friends.
The salespeople in home goods and fashions are aggressive. But while in the city of Pune, I remarked about Indians’ “aggressive niceness.” This concept was initially hard for me. Whether I was unloading my bags at the hotel or shopping the Colaba market, I found that many people in India wanted to help me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. To an American used to keeping cool and keeping to himself, this can be a rather big challenge. Ultimately, one must see it for what it is: India is a nation that celebrates hospitality. Indians are so nice, so friendly, and so sincere that it’s sometimes overwhelming. In the U.S., we’re not used to seeing such great cheer so often.
My last day in India coincided with the celebration of Holi. My colleagues and I put on our pyjamas (the must-have men’s item in India) and ventured to see some sights. On every street corner, we encountered people, young and old, painting themselves in neon powders. The inhabitants of Mumbai became walking Andy Warhol portraits: Lips were pink and faces were green and hair was yellow. And we joined in, eschewing American prudishness and giving in to pure, simple, colorful fun.
I hugged more than 100 strangers on Holi. I shook hands with 5-year-old kids and old men. I witnessed dancing in the streets and singing and joy. And it all seemed so pure.
India is full of colors. Everything — trucks, clothing, signs, doors, faces — is painted in the color of rainbows.
Those colors match the richness of Indians’ souls.
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