From the Marble Arch to the Gateway of India
Awaking with blurry eyes it took me a few minutes to recall where I was. The bus journey had lasted for 16 hours and the cramp had turned to numbness, allowing me to drift off as we drove through Gujarat into the state of Maharashtra. After the relative peacefulness of the nocturnal motorway, the heaving mass of bodies that surrounded our bus signalled our arrival in Mumbai, home to over 20 million people. My travel partner Jamie looked just as unprepared as I did, and with our big backpacks and stunned expressions we were left at the mercy of the taxi drivers who shamelessly bumped the price of our onward journey.
Relentless activity and unfamiliar routine unfolded everywhere we looked; the multistorey shacks that lined the roadside were swept by women in saris, professional beggars performed their well-rehearsed sympathy routines for tourists, coconut vendors steered their overflowing carts to dodge the traffic, and children in school uniforms bumped shoulders with trendy teenagers in jeans and branded T shirts. We were here, in the most fascinating city I had ever seen: diverse yet distinct, hostile yet alluring.
Driving through the wide streets, we passed towering and majestic colonial buildings, huge Bollywood posters, and bustling markets where Pashmina shawls and incense were sold alongside sugarcane juice and chapatti. Entering Colaba, the tourist beat, we saw for the first time the Gateway of India monument and Taj Palace hotel, looking out onto the Arabian Sea.
After hundreds of hours playing the piano in Marble Arch, entertaining rich businessmen from all over the world - many of whom were Indian - I was now halfway across the world, standing by an equally regal arch and an even wealthier hotel. It would have taken me three weeks to earn enough to spend one night in this legendary building - made notorious by the terrorist attacks in 2008 - so we settled for a grotty hostel with unfriendly staff who huffed and puffed at even the smallest requests. Other guests, squeezing past us in the corridor, looked at us as if to say "I know..."
Still, we were determined to glimpse the Taj, and to bask in its air-conditioned interior for the length of at least one drink. Leaving our cramped room with its dilapidating walls and floor space that only catered for one at a time, we strolled along the waterfront to the sound of waves lapping against the moored boats, while Hindi love songs blared out of radios.
Passing through the tight security, we left the compelling reality of Mumbai behind and entered into another world, where immaculately dressed staff addressed us as "sir" despite our disheveled hair and flip-flops. Passing a grand staircase where a statue of the hotel's founder surveyed his kingdom, we entered the foyer. It was here that the circle completed itself: sitting in the corner was an elderly Indian man in a suit, running his fingers up and down the keys of a dark wooden grand piano with a mixture of professionally hidden boredom and quiet enjoyment that I knew only too well. Now that I was here, in the city that used to be called Bombay, my memory was cast back to the first song I performed as a hotel pianist. The lyrics were fitting to the point of cliche:
Come fly with me, let's fly let's fly away
If you could use some exotic booze
There's a bar in far Bombay
Come fly with me, let's fly let's fly away
Ed Lea - Come Fly With Me
Whether or not the Kingfisher lagers we had ordered could be described as exotic, it was a strange and wonderful thing to be here, watching somebody do exactly what I had done to raise money for this trip. The atmosphere was slightly stiff, and put Jamie into a state of awkwardness I had never witnessed first hand. Nonetheless, I approached the pianist - intrigued to meet him, but also well aware that ignoring him after months of blogging about being on the receiving end of this indifference would be make me something of a hypocrite.
When I introduced myself and told him about our professional connections he smiled warmly, and we compared music tastes, attitudes to the job and treatment by clientele. At his insistence that I request a song, I told him of my love for the Beatles, leading him to launch into Norwegian Wood. Deliberate or not, this choice was poetic, being the first of the Beatles' songs that made use of the sitar - an innovation that led to more and more Indian influence. Knowing that he had an attentive listener, more and more feeling was put into the playing as he entered a trance-like state, gliding up and down the keys with the expertise of a professional. Growing more excited, he showed me some of his compositions - spiritual, jazzy music which showed the influence of his days as a church pianist in Mumbai. Despite our age gap of about 40 years, betrayed by his wispy white hair, I saw that we had a lot in common as we flicked through his endless sheets of music; I played many of those songs regularly.
As I got up to leave, I shook his hand warmly and offered him a few rupees as a tip, which resulted in a small arm wrestle as he refused with all his might.
"You need it for your holiday!" he cried.
Having lost the battle, I made my way through the grand foyer, flip-flops echoing as I walked. Turning back, I saw that a slightly bonkers-looking Indian man with a huge belly and flamboyant Hawaiian shirt had approached the piano and begun to sing I've Got You Under My Skin at an uncomfortably loud volume. He was accompanied by his wife, who paraded a matching shirt, colourful glasses and an equally simple smile as she bobbed her head.
The pianist caught my eye and we shared a knowing smile; the scene was all too familiar. While the city that lay beyond the hotel walls greeted me with something new at every turn, it was strangely comforting to see that half way across the world - in here at least - things weren't so different to home.
