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On the Track of the Elusive Ghote - Mumbai |
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Mumbai is India's Wall Street to businessmen; it's Hollywood to star gazers; a place to stop en route to somewhere else for many foreign travelers.
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But for me, Mumbai is special because it is the home of inspector Ghote, erstwhile member of the Mumbai police.
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All the way in from the airport, I was looking for signs of the unassuming, disarmingly ethical bureaucrat brought to life in English writer H.R.F. Keating's elegant mystery series. Is that the hill with luxurious bungalows where Ghote solved the movie star murder? Maybe it's in one of those rather rundown government apartment buildings the inspector lives with his wife, Protima, and son, Ved…And oh, yes, I remember Ghote's visit to that tree-lined campus at Mumbai University to sort out a peculiar call-girl situation.
In order to follow my hero, it was clearly of first importance to get a map, which I did right after we'd checked into an enormous waterfront room in the old part of Mumbai's famous Taj Mahal Hotel. Only two days to see everything-a problem. We rented a taxi with an English-speaking driver, Mr. Swamy, whose long experience in driving around Mumbai made him, just the right person to pursue so elusive a target as inspector ghote. Not wanting to admit my true motives in searching out the scenes for inspector Ghote Breaks an Engg, or Bats Fly Up for inspector Ghote, I told Mr. Swamy we wanted to see the "real Mumbai" not just tourist spots and certainly not museums. (Fortunately, my husband has read enough Ghote books to be willing to go along with this latest plot, though justifiably enough, as a tather passive participant).
We went first, of course, to the headquarters of the Mumbai metropolitan police. Hmmm. No wonder Keating usually doesn't describe that in detail. Next on my list was the notorious red light district, scene of my first Ghote experience, Sheriff of Mumbai, but you'll appreciate my reticence in going there post haste. I mentioned it, though, and Mr. Swamy did not seem shocked. En route, we saw some of the sights of Mumbai, curving around Marine Drive past Chowpatty Beach (the Ghotes spent a Sunday there, watching the myriad goings on) to luxurious Malabar Hill, stopping at temple under a spreading banyan tree. I suddenly understood why the curious and humanitarian Ghote gets sidetracked from many a knotty tangle he is trying to unravel in this city. "Take all the pictures you want", encouraged Mr. Swamy. "The Jains don't care." That seemed to be true, and we got some nice shots of Jain priests with gauze masks (to avoid breathing in and killing tiny insects) polishing priceless gold and silver deity figures in the most sacred nooks and crannies of the temple.
Inspector Ghote was still with us as we continued on to the far side of Malabar from Marine Drive, just up from Chowpatty Beach, for a stroll in the so-called Hanging Gardens is a heavily-wooded space known as the Towers of Silence, where Parsis place the dead bodies of their loved ones on wooden structures to be picked clean of flesh (allegedly within half an hour) by vultures. No visitors are allowed anywhere near the Towers of Silence, but vultures are visible and there is an air of mysterious sanctity that attracts tourist photographs of the area's entrance gate.
Switching religions with an ease found only in India, we went from Jainism and the Parsi Towers of Silence, past the miracle-working Lady Fatima Church, to the Mahalaxmi Temple on a point overlooking the sea on three sides. From the point, we had a good view of the shining white Muslim tomb of Haji Ali out on a rock promontory whose causeway is covered by water at high tide and beggars at low tide.
Switching religions with an ease found only in India, we went from Jainism and the Parsi Towers of Silence, past the miracle-working Lady Fatima Church, to the Mahalaxmi Temple on a point overlooking the sea on three sides. From the point, we had a good view of the shining white Muslim tomb of Haji Ali out on a rock promontory whose causeway is covered by water at high tide and beggars at low tide.
I remember, of course, that Ghote himself was once embarrassed when caught by a superior police officer in the act of surreptitiously handing a few paise to a beggar child he knew was duping him. Feeling inspired by the Ghote example, we too, gave some money to ragged children who were using well-rehearsed lines.
At all the religious places we visited, the piles of yellow and orange flowers for sale to worshippers were the same. All but the Towers of Silence were being visited by people from a variety of faiths. Mr. Swamy, a Hindu, said he stops every Wednesday at the Lady Fatima Church to light fort candles, as he and his wife believe their first child, a son, was born due to intercession there after several fruitless years of marriage. Inspector Ghote's principle spiritual interest seems to be Yoga, but I felt he would appreciate Mr. And Mrs. Swamy's broadmindedness.
From the Mahalaxmi Temple, we went past the Mahalaxmi racecourse and golf course, remnants of the British Raj that till today have prestige and a sense of elite space in crowded Mumbai. Going over a railway cross-over, Mr. Swamy stopped the car a few minutes so we could gaze down at the most amazing laundry facility: hundreds, no, thousands, of dhobis (washermen) beating, bleaching, and rinsing clothes in an enormous network of square cemented washing areas, filling the air with the slaps of cloth on stone and the aroma of soap bubbles. "No women allowed here", advised Mr. Swamy-a restriction that presumably does not break the hearts of middle-class Mumbai housewives, like Ghote's efficient wife, Protima, but may impose hardship on women trying to make their own way in the world.
We were to see plenty of such women half an hour later, after a brief sortie In the well-kept zoo at Victoria Gardens and a drive past blocks of covered wholesale produce markets that perfumed the air with fruity smells. Making a few sharp turns, we entered the narrow streets of Kamatipura, the famous red light district of Mumbai, where girls from India, Nepal and Bangladesh ply what Mr. Swami calls "the business" in warren-Like buildings known as "the cages." (Right over there I think I see the clinic in Sheriff of Mumbai where a dubious "sex" doctor plays a role in the book's murders.)
It was about noon as we drove through Kamatipura. I searched the faces of the well- nourished, flashily-dressed girls standing around in groups, looking for traces of the bitterness and despair one assumes must be there-for every day in Indian journals there is an account of a kidnapping from a village that ends in the sale of a young girl into prostitution. It was impossible to read these faces, I decided. Like people in all walks of life around the world, these girls were today discussing the matters of today. 'Fix my hair please; Give me some of those salty snacks.' If there are tears on pillows at the end of night of "business" in Kamatipura, customers and casual passersby will not see them, although Ghote and his readers have seen a few.
By now, the midday heat and traffic of Mumbai were beginning to take their toll. Ghote, being dutiful, might not have stopped for lunch, but we were ready to. The air-conditioned comfort of the Polynesian restaurant at the Oberoi (far out of the reach of Ghote's pocketbook, I fear) was welcome. Afterwards. Back at the Taj, I found my snowy-white washcloth turning black as I wiped my face and neck, so showered before enjoying an afternoon nap.
The best overall views in Mumbai (and a superb vantage point for understanding the scope of Inspector Ghote's territory) are from the revolving restaurant at the top of the Ambassador Hotel. The street the Ambassador is on has, in addition, many clean and appetizing-looking restaurants. To get to the Ambassador from the Taj, we walked out the front door, walked left 50 yards, and found a horse-drawn carriage. The tropical evening was unseasonably balmy, filled with breezes from the sea. Even in the midst of hectic evening traffic, the clip-clopping horse carriage was a relaxing spur to conversation. When my husband and I were not talking, I felt the presence of a third person with us; a slight, modest man who felt uneasy riding in such ostentatious style but was determined to do whatever was necessary to resolve the mystery. The moon outlined palm trees along our way, and I almost leaned over to pat the imagined knee beside me, "It's all right, Inspector. Protima won't mind that you're a little late tonight."
To properly see another side of Mumbai-not Ghote's, but your own-you must, of course, shop. Silks, diamonds, antiques, leather goods, silver (find the famous "silver street," if you have time)…everything is available, most is exotic, and some good bargains are to be had.
To finish off a shopping or sightseeing expedition, try a cooling drink at the Taj Mahal Hotel, overlooking the famous Gateway of India and a harbor full of small, colourful boats. The Gateway and Apollo Bunder, the waterside street adjoining it, are favourite Ghote relaxation spots. Or, later in the evening, go to the Oberoi nearby and see the sparkling lights around Marine Drive known as the "Queen's Necklace." If you have an extra half-day, take one of the ferries leaving from the Gateway to Elephanta Island, site of carved rock temples dating from the 4th to 9th centuries.
I, of course, had no special inclination to visit Elephanta, since Inspector Ghote has never, to my knowledge, mad the trip. I wanted to spend my 48 hours half in and half out of my latest Keating acquisition, Filmi, Filmi, Inspector Ghote, following along as the all-too-human Inspector, reminding me of myself, bolsters his own sense of purpose: "The scene of the crime. That was where he ought to be. There. Where it had happened. Seeing for himself. Investigating. Taking charge. Taking the case by the scruff of the neck, by God. At the scene of the crime."
As the taxi careens back to the airport, past makeshift huts and views of sea on all sides, I feel I have solved a mystery for myself. At last, after more than two years in India, I know why a certain kind of connoisseur, like Keating, loves Mumbai. As if to confirm by impression, as I stand in line for my flight out the strans of chamber music by Telemann waft over the loudspeaker to compete with children's wails and shouts from disgruntled passengers. Is that Inspector Ghote I see over there, handing in his worn brown luggage to be security-checked? Trust the man to keep following clues, even if I have come to Mumbai to find him!
GETTING THERE
By Air
Mumbai has direct air service to and from Europe, East Asia, and the Middle East, via a wide variety of international carriers. Within India, Indian Airlines and Air India provide frequent links with New Delhi (at least 5 non-stop flights daily) and with major cities or tourist spots like Calcutta, Bangalore, Madras, Goa, and Hyderabad.
By Rail
There is an overnight train between New Delhi and Mumbai, (17 hours) and rail connections to points throughout the subcontinent.
WEATHER
October-February moderate; other time hot and muggy, but sea breezes can make it comfortable, and most hotels are air-conditioned. (Most taxis are not). Plan on lose cotton clothes year-round. Monsoon season, late June to mid-September, subject to sky-opening rain storms that man come two or three times a day.
LOCAL TRANSPORT
Taxis are the main means of transport in the city. You can also try out the very efficient local trains-a cheap and quick way of getting about the city.
Courtesy : Discover India
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