It is quite frankly all kinds of magnificent to stand in the dark with the cool cave floor beneath the soles of your feet, peering up at a carefully and adoringly carved image of so many people’s faith.
Mumbai. Once Bombay (they just call Bombay Mix ‘Mix’ here), and now Mumbai, but still Bombay to half the people here leaving us all a bit confused really.
having my clothes washed by Jesus (a large Indian man in a white shirt with the word Jezu emblazoned in bright red on the front) and his grinning, giggly wife (who found her joke that women’s pants cost less to wash than men’s because “they’re so small!” so hilarious her smile took over her whole face (she hadn’t seen how big my pants actually are at this point.
So I’d like to introduce you all to the wonder that is the Indian Road. The Indian road is like a montage of every major genre of movie all conveniently played on the widescreen that is the windscreen of your you-want-taxi-lady?
Night train food seller songs “Spring rollllllll, chickeny rollllllllll” “Soup. Soup. Tomato soup.” “Cheese sandwich?” (that one got me sitting up straight. Cheese sarnies and curry. I was born to eat here). “Chicken lollipop! Chicken lollipop? Chicken lollipop?” insistent look, shake of head, shrug.