Mumbai, from inside a car, is small roads with old, peeling buildings making up the sides. Long roads with tin houses and tarp roofs, with the smell of curry and chicken shit. It is colorful, the pink bougainvilleas (a words stretched out as far as it can go to somehow encompass the flowered tree) lighting up the green and drab brown of the dusty road. Green is a certain color here, not vigorous vitality, but life. It is everywhere, it covers our city tops, plastering the walls alongside the mosaics of torn, faded posters. It’s as though nothing is torn down, just covered up. The buildings are endless and old, with grail covered windows and dark water-stained walls the color of caramel. The buildings are like a fallen tree in a forest.
The car putters down the uneven roads filled with people living in an equally uneven, ramshackle way that shows in packed bumpers, revved engines, and constant beeping. A father stands in the second story of his small, dilapidated home, back-lit as he holds his child on his hip and looks out at the great hungama before him. Dusk makes only their outline visible as he looks at his child, then kisses it on the cheek, hard, and then rapidly again as though bursting with love on this afternoon at the end of an Indian summer day.