I got down at Churchgate station; from the fast western local I had boarded with some difficulty at Dadar, to a warm if not thunderous applause. It took me by surprise; who was clapping? And why? The second question I answered thus “probably they are applauding my heroic travel in the western line local”. Clack-clack the sound filled the station, but seeing no real people clapping, I concluded that my endeavor was not as heroic as it seemed to me; the source of the sound still remained a mystery. It was random enough to rule out mechanical origins, and loud enough to rule out a number of sources I attribute noise at railway stations to. Pondering I started walking to the central area of the station. It was there the sound was coming from, echoing in the high ceiling hall.
As I crossed the gate that separated the huge hall from the platforms, what I saw surprised me. I was greeted by an army of boot-polish soldiers, sitting in neat files, each one of them hitting their small wooden shoeboxes with shoeshine brushes. It was this war cry that I had thought to be applause.
There are numerous instances in movies where the actor stands still, alone, in a sea of people who scurry around him, like ants, rushing to unknown destinations. The place is generally the seventh ave on Times Square. I felt like that actor, as I stood there in a perpetual stream of people who alighted from locals that thundered into the station and scurried away to unknown destinations. Scenes from movies about Bombay flashed inside my head, as I stood staring at these busy-bees all of them rushing to get honey (money).
I’ve heard a lot of people comment about Bombay “ the one thing I hate about Bombay is the crowd”. Standing there, I was fast realizing “ the one thing I love about Bombay is the crowd”. I walked on, glancing jealously at people who were standing reading papers as the men at their feet busily added shine to their shoes, as if they were being given some royal treatment. I cursed my infernal sports shoes, as they had denied me the pleasure of observing an art, that movies like ‘boot polish’ had led me to associate characteristically to Bombay. I made a mental note to wear leather shoes next time, and moved on.
As I stepped out from the station gate, I was again greeted by a sight I’m not accustomed to seeing (except in movies): a road overflowing with ceaseless traffic. These overwhelming sights, the sheer volume of movement was making me feel that I belonged to a small little town, which in fact is not true; or so I thought till now.
I think it was my large backpack that gave me away; a gentleman stopped beside me and said, “There is a walk-bridge to your right”. Snapping out of my reverie, I gave the straps of my backpack a heave and started walking.
“ Which way to the Gateway?” I asked a passerby. “ Go straight, a ten minute walk”.
It took me five hours to get there. I’m not implying that the directions were wrong, or the time estimate was very very erroneous. The road that led to the gateway was littered with colonial buildings, posh and flea markets and a large number of people, justification enough for spending three hours exploring these sights( and missing my camera more than ever) than staring at a stone gate that you’ve already seen enough times in photographs and movies, and read about in books, to last you ten lifetimes.
Just across the road from the station lies an oval ground, emerald green in a sea of stone, aptly named ‘The Oval’. There were quite a few people walking through the park, on a road that was the minor axis of the ellipse. I went inside and stood at the geometric center of the park, feeling once again like the actor in the sea of people I mentioned earlier (a feeling that became almost permanent as the day progressed). This time the ants were wearing black coats as well. Black Coats!! Well, to my left was the high court building standing in it’s neo-gothic splendor. To my right were art-deco apartments, christened ‘court view’. The plaque in front of me informed me that the buildings around me were built in the period between 1890 to 1930.
As I stood there marveling at the silent splendor of these works of art, an interesting thought struck me ‘ The British consciously knew they were building history here’. I tried to imagine the state of the mind of the architects who had landed on the coast of Bombay. Coming from London, and other European cities, which were at the peak of their prosperity at that time, this place would have seemed to them like a blank canvas. The labor was free, the lords of the land rich and idle, and no critics from Paris to poke you about your expression of art. And looking at what they had done, I almost smiled as I thought ‘they must have had had the time of their lives here’.
I know nothing of architecture, so I cannot comment on that, but I sure know how to appreciate beauty. That is what I did for the next two hours. One road led to another, and each one offered newer buildings and fresh sights.
There were many places I had heard of before, like the Army and the navy building, the Prince of Wales museum, Flora Fountain and the Jehangir art gallery. But it was not the standard tourist attractions that interested me. I’d rather be inside a colonial building that was now the headquarters of LIC, marveling at the intricate stonework, partially obscured by notices, than staring at paintings in the Indian gallery of modern art.
I was surprised at how commonplace all this seemed to people who worked there. Most of them did not know, or did not want to know what these buildings were before the paan spitting babus occupied them. “Ghar ki murgi daal barabar” I guess.
Books are a weakness I have. Thus when I entered the library of Mumbai University that sported an ancient clock tower, I felt dizzy. The central hall is an oak paneled reading room, with grand heavy doors leading to stacks and stacks of books.
As I was walking around the library (a grade I heritage building), glassy eyed and almost in a trance, burning with jealousy against the people who were sitting there, studying; a loud growl from my stomach broke the heavenly silence. I realized I had been roaming around for almost three hours. I decided it was time to eat, and headed to the Causeway market; searching for a restaurant called Leopold!
