Sharp and sweet to beat the Bombay heat

Friday 4 October
We woke up in excitement, partly because we got to leave the awful hotel, and partly because we were checking into the Taj. We watched old men down by the sea wall, lunging and stretching and generally trying to keep fit while we grabbed breakfast—awful and partially mouldy—while we waited for our laundry to be delivered.

It had been promised for 9 am, but by 9:45, with excitement building to unstable levels, we became restless. At 10 am, it arrived, and we left in a hurry, freshly laundered clothes squeezed into the rucksack. We walked the 200 meters to the entrance to the Taj and were greeted warmly by security who scanned our bags and us for anything that could jeopardize the safety of the hotel.

The Taj was one of the main targets of the 2008 Mumbai attacks, and all over the city, you can feel the paranoia. Every building has checks on the doors, bag searches, and often questions relating to our business. Happy that we weren’t there to cause harm and we had no interest whatsoever (except academically) in the plight of Pakistan, we entered the most elaborately grand lobby I’ve ever seen.

Fresh flowers, marble, ornate crystal, and varnished wood clung to every surface. We checked in, sitting on grand chairs with red velvet carpet at our feet. We were instantly made to feel welcome. We were told we had a room with a view in the tower. Suzie looked slightly disappointed and asked if it was possible for us to stay in the palace side of the hotel. We didn’t realize it then, but the difference between the wings is huge—like the difference between a brew in the local café and tea at the Ritz. She shook her head and apologized. We’d booked the tower, and there was quite a price jump between the two.

Fifteen minutes after we had begun giving our information and signing papers, a hostess came over to give us a blessing—a fresh flower garland around our necks and a small red dot on our third eye for prosperity and luck. It must have worked because as she handed us our keys, she told us that we had been given a free upgrade to the palace wing.

I can’t describe how beautiful the room was—huge bed, every appliance you could ask for, a bath the size of our bed, and a rainforest shower. Not to mention we had a butler.

First order of the day was to indulge in a ridiculous photo shoot, posing for the camera in every weird and wonderful part of this exquisite suite... including sitting fully dressed on the loo and answering a call on the nearby phone. This was followed by a log onto Facebook to stick up the obligatory snaps of our new accommodation and speak to my moustached Portuguese brother from another mother (Patty, not Bea).

I threw open my freshly laundered clothes, excited to wear something that hadn’t been hand-washed and smelled of stale water and shampoo, to find my T-shirts and a vest covered in a pink and red stain. I’m not going to lie; I was furious. Like, really pissed off. Not only were they the rudest, most awful hotel staff I’ve ever encountered, not only had they blatantly tried to rip us off and overcharge us for the laundry, but now they’d messed up my clothes.

We stormed back to the hotel. I saw our man who’d taken the clothes and showed him the top. I asked for my money back and for money for the clothes. He instantly took 100 rupees out and tried to shove them in my hand. “I don’t think so, sunny Jim,” I thought as I pushed past to the manager’s desk.

“This guy has ruined my clothes.”
“Sorry, sir, it’s not his fault. It was the cleaners,” the manager explained.
“I couldn’t care less. Get this stain out and give me my money,” I demanded, feeling seething rage not just at the situation but at their complete incompetence. “This is honestly the worst hotel I’ve ever stayed at. It’s absolutely awful. The bread was mouldy, the room was in the middle of a renovation, and you tried to charge us for Wi-Fi to book your own hotel.”

After what was turning into a very heated debate and wasting the best part of an hour, I eventually relented and agreed to go with them to the place they had taken the clothes. Not something I particularly wanted to do, but probably the best chance I had to speed the process up.

Essentially, I was now walking through the middle of a slum to shout at some people who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand me and demand some recompense. Luckily, I had with me Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Twat (the 'boy,' as they’re known here, who took the clothes, and the sunken-eyed manager who looked like the stupid sidekick to a villain from a Timothy Dalton-era Bond movie) to translate and help argue. It was rather intimidating, but full of anger and despair, I eventually agreed that they would wash the clothes again, get the stains out, and deliver my clothes to my new lovely hotel by 1 pm along with a refund.

I also asked that if they couldn’t clean the clothes, they would have to pay me for how much the clothes cost. When I told them how much they cost (around £60 or 6,000 rupees for two T-shirts), they almost fell about laughing. Apparently, the washing shop I’d taken them to wouldn’t even have close to that kind of money, and it would be considered a good wage for a month. Feeling a little spoiled and stupid, I made my way back to the hotel, not knowing whether I’d see my clothes again.

Back in the luxurious comfort of the hotel, we spoke to the concierge about our plans. We had decided earlier that, as we only had one day in Mumbai, it was worth doing it properly. We could hire a driver and a tour guide from the Ministry of Tourism for a four-hour look around the city. There was a loose itinerary we could look at, but we could go anywhere and see anything we wanted to, and we’d have a very knowledgeable guide to give us the background and hopefully show us the real Mumbai that we were already beginning to fall in love with.

We also asked our very helpful, polite, and friendly concierge about food. I’d been recommended a place for lunch called Britannia by our Airbnb-ers. I’d recognized the name and thought I’d seen it on a Rick Stein program about food in India. He said very plainly that the restaurant itself "is not good" but that the food was incredible. He went on to explain that it was an old Iranian café and that the food was a fusion between the traditional vegetarian food of the Parsi people and the meat-eating, more spiced cuisine of the Indians.

We later learned that the Parsis are sun worshippers. They have fire temples that non-Parsis are not allowed into, and they do not bury the dead but leave them for the crows at places called "Towers of Silence." There are six such towers in Mumbai. There is a relatively large population of Parsis in Mumbai, and they now see this as their spiritual home. They fled Persia thousands of years ago and crossed the border into India seeking refuge. They came to a king and asked if they would be allowed to live in his land.

The king was worried that these fire-worshipping people would not fit in and maybe even take over, and not wanting to offend—as they were still his guests—but also wanting to show they were not welcome, he sent them a full bowl of milk, a symbol that there was no more room. The Parsis, desperate for a home, sent back the bowl of milk with sugar dissolved into it—the message being: "We will melt into your culture and society with no trace." The king was surprised and charmed by their response, and the Parsis were allowed to stay. Luckily for us, as it turns out, this fusion of cultures is incredible.

We were met at the door by the 96-year-old owner, who talked very slowly but with almost perfect English and delighted us not only with his food but with his love for the Queen. He took out newspaper clippings from England with the story of his love for the Queen, laminated letters from Her Majesty addressed to him, and an article all about how India would be better if the Brits were still in charge. An article he let us keep, on the promise that we said hello to the Queen for him when we were back home.

We paid all of 500 rupees for our huge portions of lamb and rice and bread, the famous crème caramel, non-alcoholic beer, and the lime juice we were convinced into having after he’d told us it was "sharp and sweet to beat the Bombay heat." We gave a very warm goodbye to our magical host, who’d amplified our already incredible experience, who reminded us again to say hello to Her Majesty, and pointed to a huge picture of her he’d been given next to the Iranian, Indian, and British flags that were proudly displayed on the wall.

We had enough time to go back to the Taj, get washed, changed, and remarkably collect my now stainless clothes from the concierge, before heading down to meet our tour guide.

Well-spoken and clearly well-educated, and with sunglasses over her reading glasses, our guide was incredibly knowledgeable and perfectly amiable. She told us about the buildings, the dates they were built, the style of architecture (predominantly Gothic and Art Deco), and how those styles came to Bombay and were mixed with the Indian styles that were already here. She charmed us with stories (like the Parsi one) of why things were the way they were and explained in fascinating detail about the Hindu and Jain cultures—why there were so many gods and what they all meant (over 3 million of them).

Along with the usual sights—the CST (or Victoria Station as it’s still known), Chowpatty Beach, and Marine Drive—we also saw the Tower of Silence, the Hanging Gardens, and the place where thousands of washers do the laundry for most of the businesses and hotels.

We ended our tour in a very expensive shop, filled with artifacts she wanted to show us and fine silks and linens. The owner pounced, possibly because we had a guide but more likely because he could see the color of our skin and assumed we must be rich. He made no delay in unfurling a huge and beautiful sari, which I was later informed was a bedspread, and, being curious, I asked the price. 18,000 rupees—not bad at all for the quality and beauty, but way out of our meager budget that we’d blown on our short stay in Mumbai. I pulled out my wad of 10-rupee notes, handy to have separate for tipping, and in jest started counting, much to the delight of our guide, who gave a full belly laugh as the irony was lost completely on the manager. He told us with a straight face that we needn’t worry as they took card.

Tour over, we thanked our tour guide, who said she’d very much enjoyed our company and that if we were ever in Mumbai again, we should have dinner at her house and meet her family. She gave us her email address and telephone number, and we thanked her again.

We decided quickly that the only way to follow the tour would be with a swim in the outdoor pool at the back (which used to be the front) of the hotel. We swam in the perfectly tepid water until the sun went down and changed for dinner.

Suited and booted, we walked up to the hotel’s fine dining French restaurant, the first fine dining in Mumbai, and were swiftly but politely told that I had to wear trousers to enter, and it didn’t matter that I no longer owned any. If I wanted in, I had to trouser up.

We drowned our sorrows in the Harbour Bar. Another first—this time for possessing a license in 1923—and we were made a cocktail called ‘From the Harbour Bar Since 1923,’ a cocktail that comes with a story too long and boring to recite but culminates in setting fire to the drink.

We ended the evening with some traditional Indian cuisine and headed to bed after what has got to be one of the best days of my life so far. Suzie started to feel sick, and we braced ourselves for the inevitable—although not geographically correct—Delhi Belly, knowing that we had to get up in five short hours for the train.

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