Bombay or Bust?

I’m a heavy smoker with an irrational fear of flying so I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of my long flight to Bombay. But with a full box of Nicorette patches and enough sleeping pills to sedate an army, I managed to endure the journey without too many altercations.

As I stepped off the aircraft and began the marathon pilgrimage towards passport control, baggage reclaim and beyond, I felt a Zen-like calm wash over me – I had come this far without so much as a hint of a hissy fit. I gave myself a great big mental pat on the back. This was personal growth - the perfect start to my Indian Slummer adventure.

Alas, this newfound composure wasn’t to last.

I’ve been to India before, in 1994 during a summer break from Uni. But back then I didn’t have a clue about just how poverty stricken this country was. It had taken me a good 3 weeks to acclimatise – I had never seen or smelt a place quite like it. I remember being utterly overwhelmed as I took in the sights of people brazenly shitting into open sewers and whole families living cheek-by-jowl in makeshift huts by the sides of busy roads. I thought these images would be forever etched in my psyche. But I guess 18 years is a long time.

As my Kamikaze cab driver carved a suicidal swathe through oncoming traffic and hurtled headlong into the cacophonic chaos of downtown Bombay towards my hotel, the memories of ’94 came flooding back. Suddenly, I felt bitch slapped by the reality of my situation. The idyllic India bubble had burst leaving behind a knot of anxiety and panic.

I’ve now checked in at my hotel. It’s basic, but clean. I can’t really complain. I’ve managed to calm myself down. But still, as I lie on this strange bed, coated in cold sweat and smoking like a Russian prostitute, I find myself utterly confounded. What on earth am I doing here? Who am I trying to kid? I’m too old to change. Queen of Serene? Me? My arse!