Not What India Has to Offer

Mumbai

When I told some local friends who had already been to India that I was going to Mumbai, they asked me why.

I currently live in Tel Aviv, and Israelis are notorious tourists. They reside in a small country where everyone is one person removed from someone else. You can’t stop by a kiosk without running into 10 people you know or who know someone you know. This accounts for much of the drive for exploration elsewhere. Add to that, that the majority of civilians donate the best years of their lives to the government through military service, by the time they are released they are eager to let loose and experience new frontiers. The most common destinations for these young travelers are South America, Thailand, and India.

Prior to departing, like travelers from most other countries, they rely on word of mouth and recommendations from friends and family in order to determine their route. Yet unlike everyone else, the smallness of the country and its comparably narrow traveling demographic limits the recommendations to the degree that everyone ends up going to the same places, sleeping at the same hostels, and even eating at the same establishments, to the extent that these locations broadcast customized menus and pricelists that cater solely to Israelis. This is what we call the “hummus trail”, and Mumbai, by and large, was not on it.

Why don’t you go to Goa instead?

Skip Mumbai and Delhi there’s nothing to see there, go to Rajasthan.

Skip Mumbai, go to Delhi and then Rishikesh.

I’m going to Rishikesh anyhow, I explained, but I’m landing in Mumbai. Anyway, I thought it would be cool to check it out.

Fine, they said. But Mumbai isn’t indicative of what India has to offer. I’m telling you.

I stared at my phone. Whatsapp messages alternated places, group chats with unread messages that I had ignored got pushed further back down the list where I could continue to ignore them forevermore.

Mumbai isn’t what India has to offer.

I couldn’t help but think that what they meant is that Mumbai isn’t the India You and I want to see. Go somewhere else where sari-clad grandmothers walk around with jugs on their heads like a shiny spread from National Geographic magazine, and muddied children will be eager to play with you like a scene from the Darjeeling Limited.

Don’t go to Mumbai, the gateway to the country, the dirty, polluted streets, the tension, the beggars and thieves, this is not the India you’re looking for.

But I wasn’t looking for India. I didn’t even want to be in India.

So I didn’t mind seeing what I didn’t want to see, because I didn’t want to see any of it anyhow. But if I WAS going to see it, I might as well see all of it.

Because when you want to learn about the world, you can’t cover your eyes and ears to the things that are not as beautiful as you would like them to be. If it bothers you that they aren’t beautiful, open your eyes wider, learn to appreciate the flaws, and if you cannot, focus your energy on improving them. Ignorance is a good way to maintain the status quo, but it will never change anything for the better.

Mumbai, Thursday, midnight. A singular female traveler exits the international terminal hall with one small backpack, void of any clothing items or necessities, and enters the sticky humidity. She mutters under her breath.

Fuck. Why am I in India.

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