Seeing India through Mumbai
Febuary 2025
Four days in Mumbai - a subjective travel report.
My flight took off on an icy cold November night in Munich. A few hours later, we approached Mumbai over the Arabian Sea. A gray-yellow shimmer slowly crept into the cloudless sky. As we banked in a curve, the mountains behind Mumbai suddenly appeared. With their jungle-like vegetation, their sight captivated me. This spell was broken immediately after landing. BOM is a large, clean metropolitan airport. The 40-minute taxi ride into the city that followed was like a mix of Mario Kart and rally racing - a combination that I would never have expected in traffic. The destination of the trip was the Fort district in the south of the city, which includes large parts of the old town.
Mumbai is shaped like a peninsula on the map, which, to be honest, looks a little small on maps. Only an hour's drive from the north to the southernmost part of the island gives a realistic sense of its size. Originally, this area consisted of seven individual islands. The swamps separating them were drained by the British in the 18th century. One of these islands was named Bombay, which probably comes from the Portuguese "Bom Bahia" for "good island". The former Portuguese colony was given to Great Britain as a dowry at a wedding between the royal families. The city's name Bombay was only changed to Mumbai much later by the Indian government - paying homage to the name of a goddess of local fishermen, in order to emphasize their own Indian culture.
The Bandra Sea Bridge connects the north and south of Mumbai on the western side of the island. From here, across the large expanse of water, you get a good view of the city's countless high-rise buildings. They seem to sprout out of the ground evenly, like a dandelion meadow, over a huge area. With this view, the number of 29 million inhabitants suddenly became tangible. A few bends and asphalt ramps later, I reached what I thought was the address of my hostel. The whole journey, my eyes were glued to the world that passed by the window. I'm making it very easy for myself when I simply say: everything is different - except that people live in houses and cars drive on roads. At motorway entrances, you often see people strolling casually along the side of the road. High-rise buildings alternate with slums.
My hostel was two blocks from Victoria Terminus, a magnificent colonial train station. My admiration for it gave way to surprise at the problem of not being able to pay the driver. All of India works on Google Pay. Bad conditions for Apple Pay users. And at the airport I was naive enough to think that it would be fine if I looked for cheaper ATMs in the city. The ATMs I found spontaneously refused to cooperate. In the end I paid him with US dollar bills, of which I had a few with me as an emergency fund.
Now I was standing fully loaded on a sidewalk in India. My adrenaline and confidence were high enough to confidently follow Google Maps around the block for 20 minutes. Standing sweating in the shade, I slowly questioned my confidence. A helpful Indian man in an office outfit showed me my hostel on a street five minutes away using another navigation app. By guiding me to the address, he casually gave me a valuable basic course in how to cross the streets. The hostel was also a stylish colonial building with lots of wood, high ceilings and matte-colored tiles.
I shared the room with two other men. One of them was a German pensioner. He was clearly amused by explaining the basics to me, a naive newcomer. I was amused by meeting a German first in India. To be honest, he made the impending culture shock much easier for me to digest. Speaking in my native language with someone who clearly knows his way around had a softening effect. On my first evening, I ate two spicy burgers at KFC.I spent the rest of the day in the hostel in long conversations with Uwe, the pensioner.
We sat opposite each other on the two walls of the makeshift kitchen. The ceiling was made of high, dark-painted beams. Uwe enjoyed telling me his stories and problems. Suddenly something gray scurried onto the shelf far above his head and disappeared between the beams. The shock of the rat in the kitchen was clearly written on my face. Without Uwe's casual reaction, I would have lost my nerve. He asked me casually with a smug smile: "What did you expect here?" That helped me to dismiss my disgust as a Western overreaction.
Later that evening, the three of us were sitting on the balcony of our room. The fact that we were on the high fifth floor did not prevent the tree in the front garden from spreading its crown right next to us. In front of us was a view of a small, densely overgrown park. It was practically like the view from the Plaza Hotel over Central Park in New York, only on a smaller scale. We sat here until I dared to smoke one of Uwe's cigarettes. The next moment, a large fruit bat joined us. It settled headfirst in the branches next to us. It had the shape of a normal, but emaciated dog, with a lot of jet-black skin. It hung there grooming its fur with the grace of a cat. These animals only use their obviously dangerous teeth to feed on fruit. In my view, this is a profoundly positive evolutionary development. Its appearance embodies a vampire who has become an animal.
The next morning I lay awake in bed for a while to digest the dreams provoked by the lecture. The restaurants I saw the night before all made me decide to cook a lot myself. Finally I went to a supermarket 30 minutes away by Churchgate Station on foot. I walked under many old tropical trees. Their extensive roots and mighty, deep crowns give the streets of Mumbai the feel of a jungle. I felt like Mowgli wandering through the jungle. All the buildings here had a reverent Victorian character, but seemed run down in their condition.
The people I met up to that point looked me in the eye without any noticeable reaction. Only one lady at the scales in the supermarket smiled as she explained to me in very good English where I should go. English turned out to be a strong indicator of education and a potential sign that people are used to contact with the western world - they understand each other, so they smile. At the same time, I later realized that Indians speak an average of three of the local languages. The educated also speak English. India reminds me vaguely of the language culture of Switzerland, where it is similarly common to speak three languages.
In the afternoon I walked south along other streets to the Gate of India. A huge, triumphant arched monument. When I got there, it was already dark. Two large projectors beamed animations onto the large surface of the arch. The entire area was filled with the audience. Unfortunately, I couldn't follow the Hindi explanations from the loudspeakers. But the animations showed unmistakably proud that they were about the founding history of India, wars between the kings and ultimately independence from Great Britain. A form of positive cultural self-perception that I don't know from Germany.
Right next to the Gate of India is the graceful Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. I walked through the security checkpoint into the hotel with confidence - it worked. The hustle and bustle of the streets disappeared in three steps through the door and gave way to a quiet atmosphere. Here I experienced the full splendor of Indian grandeur for the first time. The combination of marble and subtle colors radiated an elegance that immediately transported me to another world. In the lounge, a pianist played gentle melodies that perfectly matched the atmosphere.
Not far from the hotel I went to a rooftop bar with a view over the bay. It was only when I looked at the smoking guests that I realized that I hadn't come across a single cigarette in the crowded market streets. India seems to have implemented a very effective tobacco control policy.
The walk to Crawford Market was an impressive experience. At the end I turned off a little too early and found myself at a livestock market. It was mainly chickens that were on offer. They were languishing in large wire cages in a seemingly emaciated state. The stench was so strong in my nose that I couldn't breathe for a while. On the sides of this path there were always quietly talking traders standing quietly in the darkness. The path was muddy. Places like this must have inspired the black markets in Star Wars on remote planets. When I reached the actual market I felt relief - but the images of this alley will stay in my head for a long time.
Interactions with the staff at the hostel showed me another facet of Indian culture: communication has the main goal of harmony rather than clarity. Harmony means avoiding conflict as much as possible. Since a 'no' could trigger a conflict, people prefer to say 'yes' - even if it is not the truth. However, the harmony of the conversation is maintained. To me, these conversations seemed like strangely choreographed dances. The reason for this is probably my upbringing in German direct communication culture.
On my last day I visited the Prince of Wales Museum. It now bears the long name of Shivaji, the founder of the Maratha Kingdom. The building is another jewel of British architecture. It is surrounded by a palm garden in the middle of the city. Here I met other Europeans outside the hostel for the first time in four days. The exhibition offered fascinating insights into India's history, religious influences and cultural heritage. This experience inspired me to visit history museums in every city on my trip to Asia.
In a side corridor of the museum I came across a European art collection, which I really enjoyed. Here, a striking number of pictures had the caption: "Sir Ratan Tata Collection." I already knew the ubiquitous name from the supermarket and cars on the street. Research confirmed the impression of an industrialist. His ancestors had been active for over 100 years and played a decisive role in the industrial development of India - similar to the influence of Alfred Escher in Switzerland or Friedrich Harkort in the Ruhr area.
On the last evening in Mumbai, I listened to the wild honking and felt that I had had enough of the intensity of India. Funnily enough, Spotify suggested the song "Lost in Mumbai". Instead of traveling to Bangalore as planned, I spontaneously decided to go to Hong Kong. Three hours later, I was on the plane - the train ticket had expired.
Four days in Mumbai - a subjective travel report.
My flight took off on an icy cold November night in Munich. A few hours later, we approached Mumbai over the Arabian Sea. A gray-yellow shimmer slowly crept into the cloudless sky. As we banked in a curve, the mountains behind Mumbai suddenly appeared. With their jungle-like vegetation, their sight captivated me. This spell was broken immediately after landing. BOM is a large, clean metropolitan airport. The 40-minute taxi ride into the city that followed was like a mix of Mario Kart and rally racing - a combination that I would never have expected in traffic. The destination of the trip was the Fort district in the south of the city, which includes large parts of the old town.
Mumbai is shaped like a peninsula on the map, which, to be honest, looks a little small on maps. Only an hour's drive from the north to the southernmost part of the island gives a realistic sense of its size. Originally, this area consisted of seven individual islands. The swamps separating them were drained by the British in the 18th century. One of these islands was named Bombay, which probably comes from the Portuguese "Bom Bahia" for "good island". The former Portuguese colony was given to Great Britain as a dowry at a wedding between the royal families. The city's name Bombay was only changed to Mumbai much later by the Indian government - paying homage to the name of a goddess of local fishermen, in order to emphasize their own Indian culture.
The Bandra Sea Bridge connects the north and south of Mumbai on the western side of the island. From here, across the large expanse of water, you get a good view of the city's countless high-rise buildings. They seem to sprout out of the ground evenly, like a dandelion meadow, over a huge area. With this view, the number of 29 million inhabitants suddenly became tangible. A few bends and asphalt ramps later, I reached what I thought was the address of my hostel. The whole journey, my eyes were glued to the world that passed by the window. I'm making it very easy for myself when I simply say: everything is different - except that people live in houses and cars drive on roads. At motorway entrances, you often see people strolling casually along the side of the road. High-rise buildings alternate with slums.
My hostel was two blocks from Victoria Terminus, a magnificent colonial train station. My admiration for it gave way to surprise at the problem of not being able to pay the driver. All of India works on Google Pay. Bad conditions for Apple Pay users. And at the airport I was naive enough to think that it would be fine if I looked for cheaper ATMs in the city. The ATMs I found spontaneously refused to cooperate. In the end I paid him with US dollar bills, of which I had a few with me as an emergency fund.
Now I was standing fully loaded on a sidewalk in India. My adrenaline and confidence were high enough to confidently follow Google Maps around the block for 20 minutes. Standing sweating in the shade, I slowly questioned my confidence. A helpful Indian man in an office outfit showed me my hostel on a street five minutes away using another navigation app. By guiding me to the address, he casually gave me a valuable basic course in how to cross the streets. The hostel was also a stylish colonial building with lots of wood, high ceilings and matte-colored tiles.
I shared the room with two other men. One of them was a German pensioner. He was clearly amused by explaining the basics to me, a naive newcomer. I was amused by meeting a German first in India. To be honest, he made the impending culture shock much easier for me to digest. Speaking in my native language with someone who clearly knows his way around had a softening effect. On my first evening, I ate two spicy burgers at KFC.I spent the rest of the day in the hostel in long conversations with Uwe, the pensioner.
We sat opposite each other on the two walls of the makeshift kitchen. The ceiling was made of high, dark-painted beams. Uwe enjoyed telling me his stories and problems. Suddenly something gray scurried onto the shelf far above his head and disappeared between the beams. The shock of the rat in the kitchen was clearly written on my face. Without Uwe's casual reaction, I would have lost my nerve. He asked me casually with a smug smile: "What did you expect here?" That helped me to dismiss my disgust as a Western overreaction.
Later that evening, the three of us were sitting on the balcony of our room. The fact that we were on the high fifth floor did not prevent the tree in the front garden from spreading its crown right next to us. In front of us was a view of a small, densely overgrown park. It was practically like the view from the Plaza Hotel over Central Park in New York, only on a smaller scale. We sat here until I dared to smoke one of Uwe's cigarettes. The next moment, a large fruit bat joined us. It settled headfirst in the branches next to us. It had the shape of a normal, but emaciated dog, with a lot of jet-black skin. It hung there grooming its fur with the grace of a cat. These animals only use their obviously dangerous teeth to feed on fruit. In my view, this is a profoundly positive evolutionary development. Its appearance embodies a vampire who has become an animal.
The next morning I lay awake in bed for a while to digest the dreams provoked by the lecture. The restaurants I saw the night before all made me decide to cook a lot myself. Finally I went to a supermarket 30 minutes away by Churchgate Station on foot. I walked under many old tropical trees. Their extensive roots and mighty, deep crowns give the streets of Mumbai the feel of a jungle. I felt like Mowgli wandering through the jungle. All the buildings here had a reverent Victorian character, but seemed run down in their condition.
The people I met up to that point looked me in the eye without any noticeable reaction. Only one lady at the scales in the supermarket smiled as she explained to me in very good English where I should go. English turned out to be a strong indicator of education and a potential sign that people are used to contact with the western world - they understand each other, so they smile. At the same time, I later realized that Indians speak an average of three of the local languages. The educated also speak English. India reminds me vaguely of the language culture of Switzerland, where it is similarly common to speak three languages.
In the afternoon I walked south along other streets to the Gate of India. A huge, triumphant arched monument. When I got there, it was already dark. Two large projectors beamed animations onto the large surface of the arch. The entire area was filled with the audience. Unfortunately, I couldn't follow the Hindi explanations from the loudspeakers. But the animations showed unmistakably proud that they were about the founding history of India, wars between the kings and ultimately independence from Great Britain. A form of positive cultural self-perception that I don't know from Germany.
Right next to the Gate of India is the graceful Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. I walked through the security checkpoint into the hotel with confidence - it worked. The hustle and bustle of the streets disappeared in three steps through the door and gave way to a quiet atmosphere. Here I experienced the full splendor of Indian grandeur for the first time. The combination of marble and subtle colors radiated an elegance that immediately transported me to another world. In the lounge, a pianist played gentle melodies that perfectly matched the atmosphere.
Not far from the hotel I went to a rooftop bar with a view over the bay. It was only when I looked at the smoking guests that I realized that I hadn't come across a single cigarette in the crowded market streets. India seems to have implemented a very effective tobacco control policy.
The walk to Crawford Market was an impressive experience. At the end I turned off a little too early and found myself at a livestock market. It was mainly chickens that were on offer. They were languishing in large wire cages in a seemingly emaciated state. The stench was so strong in my nose that I couldn't breathe for a while. On the sides of this path there were always quietly talking traders standing quietly in the darkness. The path was muddy. Places like this must have inspired the black markets in Star Wars on remote planets. When I reached the actual market I felt relief - but the images of this alley will stay in my head for a long time.
Interactions with the staff at the hostel showed me another facet of Indian culture: communication has the main goal of harmony rather than clarity. Harmony means avoiding conflict as much as possible. Since a 'no' could trigger a conflict, people prefer to say 'yes' - even if it is not the truth. However, the harmony of the conversation is maintained. To me, these conversations seemed like strangely choreographed dances. The reason for this is probably my upbringing in German direct communication culture.
On my last day I visited the Prince of Wales Museum. It now bears the long name of Shivaji, the founder of the Maratha Kingdom. The building is another jewel of British architecture. It is surrounded by a palm garden in the middle of the city. Here I met other Europeans outside the hostel for the first time in four days. The exhibition offered fascinating insights into India's history, religious influences and cultural heritage. This experience inspired me to visit history museums in every city on my trip to Asia.
In a side corridor of the museum I came across a European art collection, which I really enjoyed. Here, a striking number of pictures had the caption: "Sir Ratan Tata Collection." I already knew the ubiquitous name from the supermarket and cars on the street. Research confirmed the impression of an industrialist. His ancestors had been active for over 100 years and played a decisive role in the industrial development of India - similar to the influence of Alfred Escher in Switzerland or Friedrich Harkort in the Ruhr area.
On the last evening in Mumbai, I listened to the wild honking and felt that I had had enough of the intensity of India. Funnily enough, Spotify suggested the song "Lost in Mumbai". Instead of traveling to Bangalore as planned, I spontaneously decided to go to Hong Kong. Three hours later, I was on the plane - the train ticket had expired.