It’s 6:20 am and as I laze around gently swinging on the cane chair in my balcony, listening to the sweet chirping of the birds, feeling the cool monsoon breeze in my hair and the quiet solitude, it is hard to believe that I am in the city of Mumbai.
Give it a couple of hours and the same place will metamorphosise into something totally different. The park opposite that now stands empty will be filled with young enthusiastic boys playing football, the school right behind my house will start filling in with children, their eager parents dropping them off filling the narrow streets with their bulky cars and filling the air with their non-stop honking sounds.
Then the daily vendors – the newspaper-wala, the doodh-wala (milkman), the istri-wala (ironing man), the bhaji-wala (vegetable vendor) fill in the few peaceful sound bytes with their loud calls. Almost in the span of a few hours this place will turn into what it is famous for – a gaudy, cacophonous mayhem of people and noises.