Horns OK please

It is our second day in India, and I am standing near the shore, hundreds of people milling around me. They are dressed in their best, having come to this place: a place of celebration, a place of horror, a place of remembrance. To the side, there are enormous speakers and the beginning of a stage, technicians preparing for tomorrow’s concert. Further back is the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, its magnificent architecture in stark contrast to the dirt and dust coating the nearby squalid buildings on this hot Mumbai day.

Later, we will dine on fancy food in the air-conditioned restaurant looking out across the harbour, while the throngs below buy bottled water and sliced cucumber to quench their thirst. Over lunch, we hear of the terrorists who came unseen on boats, racing through the corridors, up the exquisite staircase, firing as they went. Across the city, more than 166 people are slaughtered, an attack that lasted for days. I tried to watch the movie once, but recoiled at the violence, not knowing that it is based on truth, on a horror too real to comprehend.  Even with my favourite actor - Dev Patel - in a lead role, Hotel Mumbai  is unwatchable.

The view from our accommodation is not of the sea, but of the railway station, with cars, trucks, scooters and tuk tuks carefully navigating the hundreds of bikes and pedestrians who share the roads with them. It is noisy, a constant cacophony of horns. At first, I think they’re just grumpy, but later – much later – I realise it’s a courtesy call, a warning: “sorry to bother you, please let me through.” The single axle trucks are hand-painted, with flowers and phone numbers and the ubiquitous “Horn OK please,” encouraging others to beep. I learn too, that these are not tuk tuks as in Thailand, but auto-rickshaws, or auto for short. I see a driver with his foot comfortably tucked up underneath him, then another and another. Prayer beads and smart phones finish the uniform of the eight million or so drivers who make a living navigating the crazy streets of these cities, dense with people living their lives.

As we drift inland in search of tigers, the autos stay with us. School kids in pristine white shirts walk along the rural roads, as their parents and grandparents pile seven or eight people into a single auto, three wheels balancing the unstable load, counter to the laws of physics. Scooters wobble on the gravel and tar seal, with mum, dad, a couple of children and a baby perched on the narrow seat. But it’s not all smooth sailing: a tragic 100 000 deaths happen on these roads every year, as riders check messages, avoid potholes or misjudge distances in the chaos. It’s a sobering statistic, even in this country of two billion people.

We pass through village after village, hungry puppies and cows hovering in doorways alongside their owners. My camera stays in its case, but images of delight and desperation are imprinted in my brain. It is hard enough just to watch, to take in this place, this land of contrasts, the great wealth and extreme poverty and well-groomed men.

Yes, the hair is always perfect.