While the impending monsoon was teasing us and had yet to unleash its full force, I had some time to walk around the neighbourhood that surrounds our little oasis. Many of the newer highrises and shopping malls, including our own compound, are built on the sites of old mills, and Worli (where we live) together with 10 other subdistricts is part of an area collectively known as Girangaon, which translates as ‘mill village’. Mumbai’s mill industry boomed from the middle of the 19th century to the early 20th. The first mill, The Bombay Spinning Mill, opened in 1852, followed by around 130 others. By 1982 they were almost all closed following years of decline in the industry, and between then and now, most have been developed beyond all recognition.
This photo is taken from next to Dylan's site, and shows Shakti Mills, which has yet to be developed. But you can see why the land would be attractive to someone wanting it to be more profitable.
Our closest mall, the Phoenix Palladium Mall is on one such plot which has made the mill to mall transition. In the central courtyard of the mall you can still see the original mill chimney, but that seems to be all that was preserved. The street which connects IndiaBulls Blu with the mall is as bustling a city street as I’ve seen since living in downtown Yangon. Mumbai doesn’t seem to be quite as bad (or good, depending on how you look at it) as Yangon when it comes to shops and businesses setting themselves up to do exactly what their neighbours are already doing. There is a cluster of marble cutters, a couple brick merchants side by side, and arguably more pharmacies than are required, but for the most part, the street is refreshingly varied in terms of commodities.
The old mill chimney now sits above a Mc Donald's.
As I saunter out of IndiaBulls Blu (waving to the friendly but baffled security guards as I go), and walk 10 metres to my right, I reach the intersection from where I join the street in question. It’s a small intersection by Mumbai standards but one which requires me to have my wits about me; to turn a blind corner into oncoming traffic I have to choose whether to use the pavement or not. Ordinarily, a pavement would seem preferable, but this particular section is home to a stack of caged chickens, some wheelie bins, a cloud of confused flies, and rather depressingly, a popular lunch spot. If I take this inner route, I do so while holding my breath, with my feet sticking to the chai-crusted paving slabs and in fear of slipping on some discarded fruit peel. If I take the outer route, I can breathe a little easier, but on occasion have had to duck and dive as it seems to be an oddly common occurrence that there is someone (also navigating a safe route between taxis and veg carts) hand carrying some rebar or glass panelling with little concern for fellow pedestrians.
Once I am safely round the corner, I cross the road. It’s a look-both-ways-several-times situation because I never know when a scooter driver is going to appear out of nowhere. To break up my crossing, I pause in the middle of the two lanes where they have (very recently, apparently) installed a shiny new statue on a raised triangle of fake grass. I am not yet sure what or who it is a statue of, but it looks very much like a printing press and its operator. This could make sense as the name of the road is Dainik Shivner Marg (Marg = road in Hindi and Marathi), and a bit of googling tells me that there is a Marathi language newspaper called Dainik Shivner, set up “to serve the downtrodden, Dalits, labourers and to spread a message of secularism and national integrity” (Source: Wikipedia, so take it with a pinch of salt). Whatever it is for, behind the plinth is another triangle of rare and very useful would-be-road that nobody is yet using for illegal u-turns, chicken storage or parking.
The first thing I walk past on the eastern side of the road as I head south, is a well-maintained concrete area with bright turquoise walls, about the size of a badminton court, which is designated for the community to use as they please. And use it they do. Almost without fail, every time I walk past there are young people playing courtyard cricket at one end, while some oldies sleep on the stage at the other. It has the feel of a town square or school playground, with one side open to the pavement and a welcoming look. As I continue down the road, it is surprisingly lush, not only due to the enormous, sacred banyan trees around which homes, shop and pedestrians are forced to weave, but because some residents seem to be very green-fingered. There are additional pot plants, bushes and shrubs bursting out of government-issue street planters, hanging from upstairs windows and even decorating abandoned scooter carcasses. While it is nice to have this nature walk in the middle of the city, it is this particular stretch which would make it impossible to bring Jasper this way in his buggy. There are places where I have to simultaneously step over a tree root and duck under a hanging plant which is enough to navigate with legs, let alone wheels.
The lush green of the trees, and the dusty walkway before it was recently re-covered. Whether it's facelift will survive the rainy season is another matter.
The buildings that line this particular road are two storeys high, although to look at them, it’s a wonder anyone can stand up inside on the second floor. Some of the roofs are corrugated iron, while others appear to be held together with tarpaulin. In some cases the sign for the shop downstairs doubles as a makeshift wall for the upstairs, with little more than a caged, paneless window and a sheet of vinyl separating inside from out. I imagine they get a lot of weather coming straight into their homes.
With three relatively confident paces (depending on the state of the ground) I can move from one shop to the next, catching glimpses of death-defyingly steep staircases every few metres. They are angled more like ladders, really, but with solid rungs and a low ceiling to keep things interesting. I have yet to see anyone scaling them, and my assumption is that the reason the oldies sleep on the public stage is because they don’t want to risk those stairs more than twice a day. It’s very much a working street, and the noise volume is testament to that; marble is cut out in the open, motorbike engines are tested, voices yell from back to front of shops as bricks are tossed into waiting vans (called tempos), car horns honk incessantly, crows chatter on top of rubbish heaps and roti dough slaps against cast iron hot plates. I don’t know why, but somehow the heat makes everything seem louder. The walk is nothing if not an immersive sensory experience.
One thing everyone mentioned before we moved here was ‘the smell of Mumbai’. I never quite worked out if the smell was going to be something endearing or off-putting, but either way, I am a little disappointed to say I haven’t really established what, if anything specific, Mumbai smells of. On my walk I get notes of burning rubber, construction dust, bus fumes and rotting bin juice intermingled with more appealing wafts of curries, chargrilled breads, incense and chai spices. And then of course there is the public toilet, at which point on my walk I decide that I’d rather be a car than a person stuck with community urine (and worse) lining my nostrils for hours to come and take my chances on the road.
I am a little sad that I’m not really in the market for marble, bricks or motorbike parts, as I would love to be able to engage with this buzzing community. I am building up the courage to join the queue to order myself a chai from the hole-in-the-wall that makes the corner from which I turn into the shopping mall (no chickens at this one). I have never not seen it packed. Or unpacked, I suppose I should say. There is no seating, so customers from every walk of life spread across the pavement (and often the road), conversing animatedly and clutching their tiny, thimble-cups of what I can only assume is such a powerful combination of caffeine, sugar and spices that it can only be safely served in tiny cups.
Between me starting and finishing this post, the monsoon has well and truly arrived. So, sadly, no more walks for me. It would be more like wading at this stage. Or possibly even swimming. Although that would be without the regulation swimming cap, which would be a welcome change. Sadder still, it means I don’t really have any good photos of this street. Even when I have walked down it without a Jasper strapped to my chest, I focus so much of my energy on not tripping on a loose paving slab or tree root that I haven’t had much opportunity to document much of it. That, and it doesn’t really feel appropriate to take photos of ordinary folks going about their hard working day when I have clearly just waltzed out of the estate that undoubtedly flattened a similar community and likely drove away some of their trade.
I found three pictures, but for the most part, you will just have to use your imaginations.
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