So much about Bombay needs to be understood on foot.
It's probably that way for most cities but especially for this one, I feel. You just can't fully appreciate the stench of an open drain while speeding along in a rickshaw. But walk through the thick humidity of a deadly still night and that same odour goes from mildly unpleasant to vomit-inducing faster than you can say Jesus Christ. A great way to test how long you can hold your breath. But then Bombay is so much more than unpleasant smells. Blink twice in any moving vehicle momentarily freed from the traffic and you might miss an entire family sleeping on a dusty blanket by the side of the road. You'll catch the packs of random stray dogs but then you'd miss the crud leaking from their eyes. You'd miss the little girl squatting on the beach to do her business. You'd miss the smile on the face of the maimed beggar at the train station; the experienced look of one more orphaned street kid who knows exactly what quality of eyes will tug at your heart strings most.
But then walking in this city is an invitation to sweat. You tend to plan showers around such outings. And sometimes the natural air conditioning that only a moving rickshaw can provide is often hard to turn down. So you learn to pick your battles. When in Rome, right?
But then I've also picked up some of Bombay's bad habits. I come from a city renowned for its own pedestrian's blatant disregard for traffic signals. But then this town takes j-walking to a ridiculous level. Crossing the street is very much like playing traffic Russian Roulette; the simple law of average dictates that despite everyone's best intentions, people will get run over now and then. Hesitation will probably kill you quickest. Always look right, Robbie. Right. This is my current mantra of choice.
And then nobody really ever walks on the sidewalk. Even I've come to accept that the ever-present danger of being mowed down by some random garbage truck outweighs the odds of stepping on dog shit among the mess of dead branches and garbage that litter most walkways. Maybe that's why everybody honks. Maybe that's their simple way of pre-emptively absolving themselves of any unfortunate slip-up in judgement, be it theirs or yours. There are still moments where I envision the irritated North American in me momentarily losing my cool at some honking jerk with the entire road to himself, cursing the ringing in my ear and throwing my bag of mangoes at his window in protest.
But then maybe I should be thanking my lucky stars that said random stranger in said speeding vehicle is just watching my back.
Literally.
It's probably that way for most cities but especially for this one, I feel. You just can't fully appreciate the stench of an open drain while speeding along in a rickshaw. But walk through the thick humidity of a deadly still night and that same odour goes from mildly unpleasant to vomit-inducing faster than you can say Jesus Christ. A great way to test how long you can hold your breath. But then Bombay is so much more than unpleasant smells. Blink twice in any moving vehicle momentarily freed from the traffic and you might miss an entire family sleeping on a dusty blanket by the side of the road. You'll catch the packs of random stray dogs but then you'd miss the crud leaking from their eyes. You'd miss the little girl squatting on the beach to do her business. You'd miss the smile on the face of the maimed beggar at the train station; the experienced look of one more orphaned street kid who knows exactly what quality of eyes will tug at your heart strings most.
But then walking in this city is an invitation to sweat. You tend to plan showers around such outings. And sometimes the natural air conditioning that only a moving rickshaw can provide is often hard to turn down. So you learn to pick your battles. When in Rome, right?
But then I've also picked up some of Bombay's bad habits. I come from a city renowned for its own pedestrian's blatant disregard for traffic signals. But then this town takes j-walking to a ridiculous level. Crossing the street is very much like playing traffic Russian Roulette; the simple law of average dictates that despite everyone's best intentions, people will get run over now and then. Hesitation will probably kill you quickest. Always look right, Robbie. Right. This is my current mantra of choice.
And then nobody really ever walks on the sidewalk. Even I've come to accept that the ever-present danger of being mowed down by some random garbage truck outweighs the odds of stepping on dog shit among the mess of dead branches and garbage that litter most walkways. Maybe that's why everybody honks. Maybe that's their simple way of pre-emptively absolving themselves of any unfortunate slip-up in judgement, be it theirs or yours. There are still moments where I envision the irritated North American in me momentarily losing my cool at some honking jerk with the entire road to himself, cursing the ringing in my ear and throwing my bag of mangoes at his window in protest.
But then maybe I should be thanking my lucky stars that said random stranger in said speeding vehicle is just watching my back.
Literally.
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