A life-changing visit to Mumbai, India

November 27, 9:59 AMPolitical Issues ExaminerJudah Freed

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Taj Mahal Hotel in Mumbai - before the terrorist attack and fire (Source: WlkiCommons)

Yesterday's ten coordinated terrorist attacks in Mumbai brought to mind my life-changing 1998 visit to the port city on the western coast of India. Here on this Thanksgiving Day in America, please allow me to recreate the scene for you. Try to image yourself at my side as we go back in time....

My guide in Mumbai was clearly frustrated with me. I’d let him show me such famous landmarks as Taj Mahal Hotel and the Gateway to India, the 25-meter arch built in "Bombay" by the British colonial government during the Raj to commemorate the 1911 visit to India of King George V and Queen Mary.

As we returned to his battered Tata automobile, my guide proposed taking me to a bazaar and then to a brothel. I politely declined. Instead, I just wanted to visit a Ganesha temple for the Hindu god’s feast day, then I wanted to see the Bombay home of Mahatma Gandhi. Since my hotel’s driver would get no kickbacks if I spent no money on his clients, he was clearly frustrated with me.

Trying to figure out the crazy American, my guide began asking me questions in his Hindi-accented English. He learned I’d spoken that week at India’s very first Internet World conference in Delhi. I’d given talks about educational media and interactive TV, plus I’d moderated panels on Internet journalism and Internet advertising. My theme was the need for universal literacy.

I told him that India was on the verge of a great business boom, starting with computer services and software design. I added that India, the most populous democracy on earth, likely would become a global economic power in the 21st century, rivaled only by neighboring China.

He voiced skepticism "We have too many of us here," he said. "We have not enough for everyone." Seeing n need to argue, i sat back and watched the crowded streets outside the car window.

After weaving through city traffic, car horns honking constantly, we arrived at Shri Siddhivinayak temple, Mumbai’s most important center for the elephant-headed Lord Ganesha, remover of obstacles, patron of new beginnings.

On an average day, this temple built in 1801 attracts about 25,000 people, my guide said, but more than 100,000 people were expected on this feast day. My driver and I handed our shoes to the counter clerk and joined the throng.

The atmosphere felt charged as we moved from station to station in the temple. I’d brought along chocolate candy as my offering, which I gave to a priest inside the three-doored sanctum housing the ornate statue of Ganesha. I received back a Prasad, an offerings for either of the two large silver statues of mice, believed to carry devotees’ prayer to Ganesha.

Emulating my guide, I set my offering at a statue’s feet, put a hand over one of the mouse's ears and whispered into the other ear. Like St. Francis, I prayed to be a channel for peace in the world.

Before entering the temple, against my guide’s stern advice, I’d given some chocolate to a young girl on the street. When we emerged, shoes back on our feet, she met me at the curb with a hundred young friends, all with their hands out.

My driver shot a reproachful look at me over his shoulder as he push through the mob like a plow, shoving children out of the way to open the car door for me, then he pushed his way around the car to climb in the right side behind the wheel and start the motor.

The car crept through the crowd of kids beating on the windows. I sat in the back seat, feeling torn apart inside. Was my gift to that child wrong?

We laced through traffic until we reached a residential district and parked at 19 Laburnam Road, a two-story house called Mani Bhavan, the private residence of Mohandas K. Gandhi between 1917 and 1934. The building now is a museum and research center.

With my driver watching impatiently, I slowly walked through each room, viewing Gandhi’s belongings, such as his books, his writing desk, the pallet where he slept apart from his wife.

I lingered in the upstairs gallery, looking at photographs and dioramas showing key events in his life — his return from South Africa, spinning homepsun cloth, the salt march to the sea, the end of British colonial rule, the fateful partition of India and Pakistan, Gandhi’s assassination by a fundamentalist Hindu.

When we left Gandhi’s house, I was too overcome with emotions to talk. The most I could utter to my driver was that I wanted to go to the closest beach to put my feet in the warm Arabian Sea.

We rode in silence. I felt forever changed by encountering Gandhi’s presence.

At the ocean, I removed my shoes and waded briefly in the surf as children frolicked nearby. So much filth sloshed against my ankles that I soon left the water, washed my feet at a public spigot, and put my shoes back on.

I stood alone as the setting sun lit the horizon red and gold.

At last my voice returned, strong and clear. I walked over to my guide, smiled at him and said, “I’m ready to go now. Thank you.”

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