Mumbai

Mumbai is smoky, black, and frightening. Mumbai smells. Mumbai is hot, sticky, monstrously loud, and overcrowded. Mumbai is rich and poor, luxurious and decayed. In it, people sleep on the street, fat rats stir in dozens on the roadside, motorcyclists don’t slow down when they see you, and drivers start moving at a red light. In it, they cook something brown on a burner right on the sidewalk, store flatbreads and sugarcane for juice on the asphalt. In it, shopkeepers know how to rule the street, shouting on the edge of pain, and throw trash a meter away from themselves. In it, cows occupy parking spots and dogs sleep on every step. In it, are beautiful people, joyful barefoot children, colorful clothes, cubic meters of pomade, and incredible characters. In it, stylish transport — from rickshaws to trains. From battered all-around black-and-yellow taxis with broken seatbelts to Air India liveries — so red and dense that upon return, one could pour water over the plane, collect what slides off the fuselage into a glass, and drink a cool masala chai.

Mumbai does not joke. If you ask a passerby where to exchange currency — he will exchange your currency himself. If you go into a small post office branch to send a postcard, they will send you to the General Post Office in a medieval castle. If you need to go outside the city — you depart from a UNESCO World Heritage building. If it’s a court case or stock trading — then the Supreme Court and the Stock Exchange are in the city of Bombay. If you need to find lodging — the railway tracks or the end of an airport runway will do.

Mumbai is crazy and cool. A great city. I recommend it.