Shanti Shanti

Bombay is a bitch. Every day, she finds new ways to wind me up, piss me off or utterly let me down. Take yesterday for example – I wanted to escape the oppressive heat of the city, so I headed to Juhu, to what the Lonely Planet confidently describes as the “best beach in Bombay”. I figured a day of sunbathing and taking in the fresh sea air would be just the tonic. Unfortunately, the rest of the city had exactly the same idea and I arrived to a scene reminiscent of the D-Day landings.

Nevertheless, I rallied forth and eked out a small postage stamp of unoccupied sand. Within moments I’d managed to make myself a sitting target for every hawker in the vicinity. Normally, I relish the opportunity to haggle and bag myself a nice little bargain, but the traders on this patch came armed with an array of such meaningless tat, I was simply lost for words. I mean, who in their right mind would actually buy a ludicrously oversized balloon or a lurid coloured plastic flute, which when played sounds like a saxophone? But no amount of demurring would stop these opportunists from disturbing me. In the end, I decided to go for a stroll and throw them off that way. Bad move. I became the Pied Piper of Juhu with a stream of these bastards trailing in my wake.

It was clearly time for me to leave. So I began to scramble up the beach, not really looking at where I was going. In my haste I plunged straight into a stream of fetid water. Searching for the source, I discovered a pipe running down the length of the beach from street to sea. It was a sewer. I was standing in a honking pool of Bombay poo. I was mortified.

Soggy, smelly and stressed I flagged down a rickshaw and demanded he return me to my hotel on the double.  But what should have been a simple 10-minute ride turned into the journey from hell. Not only did the driver not have the foggiest idea of how to get around his own flipping city, he couldn’t speak a word of English. It took 2 hours before a semblance of understanding was reached, and even then, we needed to recruit several passers by into giving us directions. By the time I squelched through the lobby of the hotel I was hot-faced and harassed. And I reeked to high heaven. If this was some kind of cosmic joke, then I needed someone to come up with a better punch line.

Even so, I awoke today with renewed resolve. I was desperate to find something in the city that could endow me with a few fond memories. So I decided to indulge in some good old-fashioned tourism. I headed to Colaba, where there’s a surfeit of sights to feast on and I made my way to The Gate of India. This majestic monument overlooking the Arabian Sea commemorates the inaugural visit of King George V in 1911 and according to the Lonely Planet it was well worth a visit. But yet again, my trusty backpackers’ Bible and I did not seem to be singing from the same hymn sheet. I didn’t really understand what was so interesting about this whacking great big arch but I followed the crowd and circumnavigated it anyway. About 60 seconds later, I’d pretty much squeezed all there was to get from this landmark and hot-footed it off to escape the hoards and the sweltering heat. I was pissed off. This had been yet another pointless waste of my time and energy.  

I stomped through streets in search of an appropriate establishment to recover and rehydrate in. But most places were shut. It was the day before Diwali and many of the locals had taken the day off to stock up on the essential arsenal of fireworks expected for this “Festival of Light”.  Only the desperate few remained open for trade – and they were so filthy, you could guarantee that most of the drinks on offer came with a complementary dose of cholera.

I had been walking around in circles for what felt like an eternity and was dangerously close losing it. The expression on my face resembled something akin to a slapped arse. And that’s when I met Raol.

Beaming from ear to ear, he greeted me like we were old friends and when he found out I was from London he proceeded to completely confuse me by asking how Helen, David and Simon were. I curtly responded by saying that London was a big place and as I was in no mood for pleasantries, I attempted to sidestep him, but he was having none of it. He’d already determined to talk to me and no amount of body swerving or blanking was going to deter him. Astute enough to see that I was in distress he offered to buy me chai. Too tired and parched to resist, I shrugged off all caution and blindly followed him into a local Indian canteen.

It was a gamble worth taking as this “Romeo from Rajasthan” as I now like to refer to him, not only provided tea and sympathy, he also imparted the secret to a time honoured tradition for handling the madness of India. It goes by the name of “Shanti Shanti” and it loosely means, “just go with the flow”.

So I’ve decided to pack up my troubles and fly my flow the hell out of Bombay. I’m heading South, to a place called Pondicherry, first thing tomorrow, where I hear the weather is as sunny as the people. And I intend to shanti shanti my ass off, every step of the way.