Notes from Mumbai

The imposing Bombay Stock Exchange building; at one of the entrances is a statue of a raging bull.

I spent three days at the Bombay Stock Exchange (BSE) building on Dalal Street this week, attending a workshop. I was delighted to be there, even if I was going to be far from the action of the trading floor, videos from which I’d seen on TV so often, growing up — men talking animatedly into their phones, staring intently at their monitors, while the numbers and percentages that contributed to their emotions scrolled at the bottom of the TV screen. Ensconced in their offices in the curved tower, they probably don’t have time to enjoy the magnificent views of the harbour or the city. I felt a surge of the emotion that comes from being in important, fancied, or ancient places. The North Sea and Yorkshire, the Brihadeeshwara Temple and Konark, Arizona and the Grand Canyon — how can you not be transported by the mere sound of their names?

Dalal Street, on its own, is underwhelming. It is quiet and hemmed in by broad streets lined with several grand British-era buildings. It is almost as if all the energy of the narrow lane is concentrated in the BSE towers, leaving the rest of it in a stupor. There is no traffic on the lane owing to construction work: few conversations and no horns, only the occasional hand raised in greeting or a smile.

On one of these days, as I waited for the lift to take me to the eighteenth floor, I saw a gaunt man walk in slowly, fold his hands and bend his head in prayer in front of the garlanded pictures of deities mounted on the walls. Prayers finished, he looked straight ahead at the screen which was relaying the state of the markets. He watched poker-faced, before moving on. This was a day before the election results were announced; maybe a little extra supplication was thrown in.

***

A few hundred metres from the BSE building lies St Thomas’ Cathedral. It celebrated its three hundredth anniversary last year and brings to mind St Mary’s Church at Fort St George, Chennai. Both the churches chart out the history of British rule in India, through memorials to those buried there.

Let not the shiny white paint (perhaps from the recent renovation) of St Thomas’ Cathedral fool you: each memorial within has a story to tell. Step in and you will travel back in time to the First World War, the 1857 Rebellion, and the Anglo-Mysore Wars, learning of a few social reforms on the way. Sample some memorials.

One of the few dedications from the 18th century mounted on the walls; there might have been others on the floor, but the stones were shiny with wear and the writing on most of them was barely legible.

Dedicated to Jonathan Duncan, who served as the Governor of Bombay and was credited with establishing the Sanskrit College in Benares and putting an end to infanticide in the town.

Dedicated to a lieutenant who died in the defence of Mangalore during the war against Tipu Sultan and the French.

There are also plaques to people who perished on the sea — in a cyclone near Port Blair or on a voyage to Malacca, or one of the other innumerable journeys young men made in pursuit of fame, wealth, and power. Suffice it to say that I was goaded into resuming The Men Who Ruled India, written by Philip Mason from a very British perspective. (Mason calls Shivaji a freebooter for his repeated conquests on Bombay — oh, the irony! Nevertheless, if you set your emotions aside, it is an interesting retelling of the British conquest of India.)

Outside, a plaque explains that the cathedral once lay on “Zero Point”: it was considered the centre and distances to other parts of the city were measured from here. Ten of the sixteen milestones commissioned in 1817 were discovered at their original locations. The city has grown beyond recognition, of course, and Zero Point is almost on one of its edges today. The church is managed by the Cathedral and John Connon School (remember them from their constant presence on the Bournvita Quiz Contest in the 90s?). The area of Churchgate also derives its name from it.

***

As my cab to Fort took me on the Worli Sea Link, I had a strong sense of déjà vu. In this case, it was justified. I was replicating my Singapore experience from over ten years ago, which was my first trip abroad. Watching the skyscrapers and the boats, then walking around South Bombay on my first trip to the city and all by myself, I was that twenty-two-year old again, feeling very much like the small-town person I am. I wanted to walk endlessly on the broad streets and stand confused at the junction, picking roads to explore impulsively. I wanted to drink in the buildings and lose myself in the libraries and the museums. I wanted to have long conversations with the Arabian Sea and imagine dhows appearing on the horizon, precious cargo and a jumble of languages on board. I was truly anonymous and in a city where people were kind, but also left me to my own devices. There was much to do and to see, but with limited time, I decided to confine myself to the vicinity of Fort.

The areas around Flora Fountain, Horniman Circle, and Churchgate bring the writing of Rohinton Mistry to life. Massive buildings rub shoulders with modest establishments. Vendors sell cell phone covers and screen guards, socks, toys, and other odds in the corridors of Davar College, flanked by blue barriers which cordon off the metro construction zone. Old, grey buildings stand in disrepair. Restaurants reminiscent of RK Narayan’s Bombay Ananda Bhavan, plain and without pretence, appear amid shops selling stationery and pizza.

In one of the lanes, I chanced upon an establishment which could have come straight out of the seventies or eighties. The cashier sat at the counter, staring straight ahead through thick glasses and guarding piles of buns, while two men drank tea at a table. Another customer read his paper, lost to time and the world. The frenetic pace of the city did not bother them. They were at peace and in the present.

Bun maska, apple pie, bread — which will you have today?

Fort and the surrounding areas are dotted with Parsi establishments. I stayed tantalisingly close to an agiary or fire temple, which was open only to people of the faith. Parsi traditions have fascinated me for years, maybe because I never had a chance to spend time with someone from the community and pepper them with questions. There is also the matter of their resilience as they migrated and set themselves up very successfully in India, but continue to hold on to traditions rigidly even as their numbers dwindle. Equally important are their antiquity and the associations they have continued to keep. Take a look at these lamassus (the winged protective deities) by the entrance, which go back to the community’s Assyrian connections.

On the road to CST

In keeping with my attempts to read a book set in a place I’m visiting, I’ve fittingly picked up Cyrus Mistry’s Chronicle of a Corpse Bearer. But I’ll save my opinions on this and other stories from my trip for later — there is more, of course, because the booksellers and the roads by the sea beckoned.