May 15th, 2024 – Wednesday
Today, rather than write my usual narration of the day’s activities, I would instead – given that the day itself was quite simple and straightforward – like to tell you about the city of Mumbai. And yes, I have been writing about Mumbai this entire time, but a city like this deserves its own moment of unshared, undivided description. I believe it impossible to properly sum up Mumbai in a thousand-odd words, but there are elements I can capture. Today, I’ll try and paint my favourite place.
Imagine a normal road, with two lanes on either side of the centre parting and a rough sidewalk that frames the concrete. Now drag sandpaper across it all; leave scratches on the grey surfaces, each slightly uneven. Now line every free inch of the sidewalk with shops – bookstores, cafes, restaurants, street stalls, clothes stores, jewellers. Everything is stacked like a massive, breathing pile of wood blocks, each one threatening to tumble over the next. And people – everywhere, people. Drinking and eating and buying and laughing and darting into traffic in a manner that leaves my heart in my throat. The air smells of cardamom and dust, an ode to the street vendors making hot chai even in the sweltering weather. This is Hill Road, one of the central shopping areas of the city – always busy, with a constant hum in the atmosphere like shared static.
But step just sideways to the left, curving through a narrow alleyway that doesn’t share its sights until you fully step through it – and suddenly, the air is silent. Leafy trees tower above me. Stray cats lounge on second-story windowsills, following the sparse waves of people with sharp eyes. Although just meters away, Waroda Road appears to be in an entirely different universe, where time moves more slowly and I can pause every few steps to stare at the colourful doors and old-town houses. There is no echo of the traffic, no imprint of the city’s business here. I can hear the sounds of people: words exchanged, pots clanging, a solo guitar drifting through a window.
This part of the city is historic, a blend of the old city and the colonial era, and when I walk through I feel that it could be ten, fifty, even a hundred years back. There are stall-shops which I cannot even stand straight in; tailors hunched over a table sewing who wave as we walk by. We stop at a bookstore which is essentially stacks of second-hand books, spilling out of the shelves and onto the sidewalks. I pick a book at random and flip through it; it’s annotated, by some previous owner, and I run my thumb over the pencil marks. They are already beginning to fade.
We search for a cafe called Subko, which people keep directing us to but we cannot seem to find. We pace up and down the roads, getting more confused by the minutes by our maps, which seem to point us into a closed-off area, until a half-dressed man calls from his windowsill – turn left! He grins at us, teeth white. We go left, his gaze following us, and within moments hit Subko, parceled away underneath a canopy of trees and an old apartment structure.
The cafe itself is deceivingly large, built next to an ancient Catholic house. From the outside, it looks narrow and cramped, but the doors give way to three stories of tables, chairs, coffee, and chocolate. I have two iced coffees; one lavender and one honey, and revel in the coolness of both the drink and the indoors. Just as Waroda Road gives me an escape from the accepted chaos, all its coffee houses and bakeries are a welcome break from the heat – which continues, despite the fact it’s nearly 9 at night. I like Subko – the unfinished wooden tables and ceramic mugs. If I lived in Mumbai, I’d come here far too frequently.
There are local vendors, too, selling fruits and vegetables on the crux of each corner. Each one I pass tempts me, I want to reach out my hand for a mango, or fresh batch of greens, or even a fire-red tomato. I photograph them, hoping to preserve their vibrance, but photos don’t capture the sheer explosion of colour that meets the eye. Every shade imaginable, shoved into a cart and priced by the pound. A seller perches at the edge of the cart, tossing coins between his hands. He, too, smiles when I meet his eyes.
The first time we go to Waroda Road, we stop at an establishment called Veronica’s - a sandwich-liquor-coffee-small bites restaurant with a reputation good enough to have people snaking out the door. The interior is painted warmly, and it seems altogether too easy to spend a few hours tucked into a corner booth – so we push on. My appa spends a good few moments staring at the building’s exterior, though, which is painted haphazardly with different colours and fonts and pictures – I can’t help but stare at it.
During my time here in Mumbai, I find myself returning to Waroda Road often. I think it reminds me the most of St Andrews – the feeling of being just removed from the world, but not so far as to be isolated. I have a favourite coffee shop and a cafe I always promise to go to when I walk by but still have not visited. Perhaps I will make it there tomorrow.
(And if you really are keen to know what I did today - I worked, slept, worked, returned to Mumbai, and slept once more.)