This side of paradise
PAUL COMRIE
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For an outsider, growth in India means not only high-rise buildings, but also the people precariously perched on slender poles 15 storeys up...
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MEN on motorcycles, slipping in and out of traffic. It is nearing 2 a.m. on a weeknight and the freeway from the airport to the suburbs of Mumbai is, for all practical purposes, in rush hour still. The wind carries the smell of burning wood; in the haze of tropical steam hangs the reeking compost of an over-populated metropolis. The night air is spiced and wet. Breathing is difficult. Great clouds of silt sift through the air and fall slowly down.
The lanes are jammed with cars, yet there are no pile-ups. The bikes are moving at over 70 km an hour and some riders are wearing sandals, shorts even. Most don't wear helmets. Some cover their mouths with black kerchiefs tied at the back of their necks, makeshift filters for the leaden air. They have the look of highwaymen. Some women sit behind, side saddle, legs pressed firmly together, holding loosely onto their husbands with alarming detachment, or not at all if they are clutching a baby to their chest. Their saris slip behind them on the night wind.
The not-so-fast lane
Shanties line the road, like chaos contained. There are Tata steel pipes chained to flatbeds — the circumference is such that a grown man could walk through. Behind, shacks spread for miles. A tarpaulin overhang covers part of the sidewalk. I see maybe seven pairs of bony feet, and the bodies are touching, covered by what seems an old sheet. They are sleeping and I cannot see their faces.
We are on our way to New Bombay, my classmate's parents and I; they invited me to stay for the weekend when they heard I was travelling in India. My friend and I hung out in England for a year, and I wanted to see the East.
My friend's father, a scientist, is in the front passenger seat of the hired SUV, explaining things to me. I glimpse a dead-looking ox pulling a family down a side street on a flatbed cart. The animal's skin is grey and loose and its eyes are yellowed. "But in 10 years things will be different," my classmate's mother says, seeing me stare. I sense the father does not agree.
* * *
The father takes me to a lake every morning. We try to make it there by 7 a.m. or earlier, but sometimes I sleep too late. If we are there on time, the path that runs along the lake's circumference is filled with people getting their early morning exercise. The sun is strangely exotic to me in this climate, lifting just off the trees in the park and the apartment buildings in the distance. I think I can see a mountain range to the north.
My first morning, we start with fresh cucumber sandwiches that are cool in the heat. The fan whirs above me and my friend's mother brings an array of delicacies. She is worried that I'll be hungry. She does not understand to what degree I appreciate her culinary skills. I've had Indian food before, but never this good.
I taste dosas and idlis for the first time, dipping pieces of both in coconut and mint chutneys, made freshly at home. We drink coffee from stainless steel tumblers. We cool the drink by pouring it from the cup into a steel saucer so that the top is deep in froth. It is strong, powerful like Italian coffee, but sweet and rich. I'm told the beans are freshly roasted and ground, and that South Indian families in particular take great pride in their coffee. I can understand why.
* * *
There is a man calling out from the road; I can't see him, but it is a plaintive sad echo. I assume the man is religious, and this is ceremonious.
"He's selling vegetables," the mother tells me, smiling.
* * *
My friend's parents take me to a museum in south Mumbai. I am fascinated by the use of colour in Indian traditional painting. My companions' approach to art is logical, precise; they appear to derive more pleasure from microscopic details, the intricate weaving and brilliant designs. Mine is visceral.
The armoury section is imperious: any nation capable of forging such fine weaponry can certainly conduct business on a world scale. Nothing I've seen so far has matched this display of Indian manufacturing prowess.
* * *
We are on Marine Drive, the place they call the Queen's Necklace. High-rise properties line the shore. The sun is retreating in a ball of perfect orange. The sweetness of spring is fleeting; pollution has inflamed the chemical hypersensitivity of the atmosphere.
There are the haunted night sounds of a circus carousel and children screaming in glee as the wheel turns. Luminous food stalls are abuzz in a rush of activity: bubbling oil, the thwack of a blunt knife cutting vegetables. Families linger in hungry anticipation. Behind us, over the dark cityscape, neon lights flash for arranged online marriages and German engine parts.
Young lovers have discovered privacy in the anonymity of public places; they are embracing cheek-to-cheek, but not kissing. "Here, they can have a good time," the mother tells me. The sand is widely littered with the husks from roasted corncobs and the smell of burning charcoal is delicious and familiar. The sun is gone but for a mercurial streak on the trade winds off the Arabian Sea.
* * *
I am in an air-conditioned sedan and we are driving to the domestic airport in Santa Cruz. The freeway is relentlessly new and lined by skyscrapers. The asphalt is new and demarcations are painted in bright-perforated lines. There are billboards with beauties and midriffs on show. Everyone is driving an SUV. My friend's parents stay to ensure that I check in safely, but not getting through safely in an airport like this would take considerable effort. We say goodbye; my friend has arranged to pick me up at Chennai airport.
In a hurry
In the Departures lounge I approach a counter selling sandwiches and colas. It is the airport equivalent of a street shop. Men are waiting, hustling the vendor. Thinking it my turn, I step up to place my order. A young professional slips in front of me. He buys a soft drink and exchanges money. "There's a line," I say.
"What," he says, looking back. He mutters something in Hindi to the vendor and they both laugh. When in Rome, I think. The young man stands aside, browsing through a magazine. As I am about to pay for my coffee, he slinks back in front and buys the magazine also.
Walls of glass and stainless steel surround me; the air is cool and fresh. Everywhere wealth is evidenced.
"There's something about Eastern poverty," I remember my friend's father saying one night over a drink. "People here can be resigned to it. In the West, they are not. You have no choice but to be well off. The shame is too great, being impoverished. But that isn't the case here." But I can't agree with him, not entirely, not with the legacy I see about me. People aren't resigned here; they are moving out.
The new and the old
Beyond the slums that border the runway wall, I see high-rise complexes under construction. I know the buildings will be faultlessly modern — some out-Americanising the Americans. But the men clinging with bare hands to the outside of those buildings must be sick in this heat. They are laying the bricks, and they are hanging on to the walls some fifteen storeys up, perched on bamboo pole scaffolding. There are no security harnesses or fall ropes. I can see the poles bend under their weight, made heavier by the bricks and mortar on their shoulders. The system is ingenious, lightweight and a fast set-up.
"Two men died last week," the father told me. "The poles broke."
Current Western hype about India isn't wrong; but it is inaccurate, vulgar even. Opportunities must be created and wealth made. A huge new middleclass has risen from the hell of cinderblocks and factories, backend operations and rural-urban migration. But for most of India's unfortunate, the old rules still apply: toil, hope and bamboo poles lashed to modern engineering.
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