In Mumbai, I sit drinking a cafe latte with trendy young Indians on one side of a window while tiny street children play on the other side. They hide their few precious possessions in the gap between planters on the footpath. Meanwhile, a block away, the wealthy pay a fortune to stay at the famous/infamous Taj Hotel. And a block in the other direction, thousands of university students behave like university students.
The tourist area, Colaba, is like a shabby version of St Kilda. Art Deco buildings stand defiantly beneath their worn and blackened exteriors while huge trees create boulevards and crack through the bitumen. The UNESCO protected train station shows how grand the whole city could look.
I feel less stared at here and there are women on the streets who are happy to talk to me; though the banking and court district still seems to be a man's world and I feel out of place in my pink t-shirt.
The markets give a true sense of the size of the city with seemingly endless streams of people looking for a bargain.
This place has blown my budget with expensive accommodation and shopping. My bargaining will power is waning after 4 weeks, so I've had to ban myself from buying anything that costs more than 100 rupees ($2.50). Probably should have put that in place before I bought silk fabric to make "something" with and the antique baby trumpet (which I found I can still play, impressing the hawker and other tourists).
And talent agents really do cruise Colaba looking for foreigners for Bollywood! I was finally discovered for my star potential - I was offered 500 rupees to go with a strange man to a vaguely described part of town for 12 hrs work. But I decided to hold out for the next offer. He didn't seem to mind and invited me to a big Bollywood party that night where I would be sure to mix with the beautiful people. Maybe I'll wear my new sari. It's either that or my last clean T-shirt and not so clean pants.
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