Mumbai, once known as "Bom Bahia," meaning "beautiful bay," may no longer be famous for its beaches, but as a commercial hub and one of the most populous cities in the world, its significance remains undisputed. Every step through this dense city reveals the hopes and dreams of people from all over India, drawn here by the promise of fame, success, and wealth. I overhear a local businessman comparing Mumbai’s situation to a cage full of rats fighting over a single kilogram of food. A grim metaphor that highlights the scarcity of space and the constant competition for essential resources. Yet, as I continue walking, pondering his words, I feel that such a comparison does not do justice to the people here. Despite the cramped conditions and the daily struggle, I experience an unexpected kindness and willingness to help. Even in the densest traffic or on the overcrowded train platforms, the people of Mumbai always seem open to a friendly word or a brief exchange, even with a stranger like me.
My path leads me through different neighborhoods, revealing the broad spectrum of social stratification. Opulent mansions and luxurious apartments stand as symbols of the wealth of the city's richest businesspeople and most famous artists. A stark contrast to the numerous slums scattered throughout the cityscape. Yet, despite these glaring disparities in living standards, I witness a surprising coexistence of different social classes.
One of the unifying elements between these contrasts is the local train. I head to the station to experience this lifeline of Mumbai firsthand. In the southern part of the city, the center of economic activity, the bustling energy is palpable. But as one moves closer to the core, the cost of living rises significantly. Many people who reside in the more affordable northern areas endure the arduous daily journey to commute south for work. During rush hours, transportation routes are hopelessly overloaded. The asphalt disappears beneath a flood of cars and rickshaws. The trains I find myself in are so packed that moving is nearly impossible. Yet, even the wealthier residents of the city choose this mode of transportation. They have realized that, despite the comfort of their own vehicles, the endless traffic jams would make the journey much longer than traveling in the overcrowded train.
One striking feature of this train is immediately noticeable: even during the most crowded rush hours, the doors remain open. This characteristic is not negligence but a necessity to accommodate the relentless flow of commuters. Here, in this confined space, all layers of society blend together—rich and poor, Hindu and Muslim, young and old. Pressed tightly against one another, almost bone to bone, I experience Mumbai’s diversity in its purest form. Exiting the train is not for the faint-hearted; the crowd propels you forward, and everything happens at a rapid pace. But once the peak hours subside, the scene transforms.
The atmosphere in the train becomes noticeably more relaxed. Now that there is more space to breathe, people lean out of the open doors, letting the cool rush of air brush against their faces, enjoying a brief respite from the crush of the crowds. In this train, I experience the full spectrum of human emotions. Joy and sorrow exist side by side. During the journey, I engage in conversations with people from all walks of life, listening to their stories, their hopes, and their worries. These encounters are moving and deeply touching.
My journey through Mumbai takes me deeper into the heart of this multifaceted city. I quickly realize that my interest in this place is not one-sided; I, too, become an object of curiosity. In a city where Western visitors are still somewhat rare, I often attract glances and quickly become the center of attention. The openness and spontaneous curiosity of the Indian people lead to many interesting encounters. Especially in Bandra, where I regularly get off the train, I feel the stark contrast between different worlds. West of the station, the wealthy and Bollywood stars reside in their magnificent villas. But I am drawn to the east, to the slums, which reveal a completely different side of Mumbai. Here, in the narrow and dimly lit alleyways, life is lived in a raw, unfiltered way. The close quarters in which people exist allow me glimpses into homes and, with them, the daily lives of countless families. I am invited into their homes. I feel a little uneasy when a man says something to his friend in Hindi, hands him some rupees, and the friend disappears.
I stand in the entrance of his one-room apartment, which he shares with his wife and children. The strange feeling quickly turns into a warm and pleasant one when his friend returns with a cold drink—a type of cola—which he hands to me as a gift. He even offers to cook for me. The people here may not have much, yet they display an impressive generosity. They live in close-knit family structures and maintain a deep sense of connection with those around them. This strong appreciation for relationships shapes their sense of happiness. It seems to me that their values differ from those of wealthier individuals, who often neglect the importance of family, love, and community. I also learn that not everyone in these slums is poor. This is their home. They grew up here and feel comfortable staying. One of them works for an American IT company and earns a decent salary. They could afford to live elsewhere, but they choose to remain, supporting one another.
At the beginning, I mentioned that Mumbai is not known for its beaches. The severe waste problem affecting all of India has not spared this metropolis. Although change is underway, towering piles of garbage are still omnipresent—including on Mumbai’s beaches. The sea glistens in a murky gray, veiled by a dense haze of pollution. Yet, despite these conditions, I experience magical moments at the shore. I walk along the water, watching as the sun sets, blending with the fine dust in the air to create a breathtaking, reddish spectacle of light. A fusion of romance and drama unfolds before my eyes. Children from the nearby slum play in the sea, seemingly unfazed by the pollution, enjoying the scene until nightfall.
Suddenly, my eyes fall upon an unusual silhouette on the shore. Not just one—similar figures are scattered all across the beach. Upon closer inspection, I realize that they are life-sized dolls. These figures represent gods and have been left behind after religious festivals. But why are these sacred idols simply discarded? This question lingers in my mind as I continue walking along the beach. In Hindu homes, a Murti—a figurine of a revered deity—often holds deep spiritual significance in daily life. Ganesha, the protector, is particularly common, found not only in temples but also in cars to safeguard travelers. However, during grand religious celebrations such as Ganesha Chaturthi, larger, more elaborate Murtis are crafted from non-biodegradable materials like plastic and plaster. Traditionally, these idols are immersed in water to symbolize their transition into the spiritual realm. But today, this practice contributes to water pollution and harms the ecosystem. To minimize these environmental impacts, the community has begun immersing the idols in specially designated tanks—a practice that preserves sacred traditions while reducing the ecological footprint.
The alarm rings early in the morning at 4 a.m. A few rickshaws are already on the streets. Seizing the opportunity, I hop onto one and head toward Andheri. There, at 4:30 a.m., the first train departs toward Churchgate. A few days ago, an Indian man told me about Bhaucha Dhakka, the largest fish market in Mumbai. I decide to go there. A strange feeling creeps over me as I arrive. By 5:30 a.m., the market is already in full swing—the cooler morning temperatures are favorable for both the people and the fish.
Standing still is not an option—you have to move with the flow of people. The pace is fast, as everyone is heavily loaded, balancing pots filled to the brim with fish on their heads. I take only a few steps onto the dock before I am stopped. No photos are allowed. The camera must be put away. A serious and watchful policeman follows closely behind me, appearing in my field of vision every five minutes. I take in the scene, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it all. The air is humid, thick with the scent of salt and fish, cutting through the night. Bright lights from the boats illuminate the dock. The fishermen, exhausted from their long night at sea, hurriedly unload their nets and crates, brimming with shimmering fish. All around me, a constant call-and-response fills the air as traders negotiate prices in loud, animated exchanges. Women sit along the roadside with their catch spread out before them. Piles of small sea creatures—sardines, shrimp, and prawns—lie beside larger fish such as kingfish and even shark fins. Nearby, men on bicycles operate grinding machines, sharpening the knives of the fish vendors for a few rupees. At the edge of the docks, sailors stand beside a shore packed with boats. From about five meters away, they toss pots of fish to the men waiting on the dock, seamlessly coordinating their movements. Amidst this massive chaos and teeming crowds, everything still seems perfectly choreographed. Every action is precise, and yet I—an outsider—feel like an anomaly, an interruption to this hectic order. I am always in someone's way. I step aside for a moment, retreating behind a small shack to catch my breath. From this slightly elevated vantage point, I get a clear view of the market. The camera in my pocket calls to me. I glance around—the policeman is nowhere in sight. Quickly, I snap a single photo. The memory card is safely hidden in my shoe, and I continue on my way.
By mid-morning, calm returns. The last remnants of fish lie scattered on the ground, eagerly picked at by vultures. The policemen have vanished. Women sort through the remaining fish, salvaging what is still usable. Fishermen sleep on large, empty crates that had once been filled with their catch at sea. Others wash themselves on their boats. The sun merges with the mist on the horizon, casting a soft, hazy glow over the scene. It is wonderful to witness how the chaotic market has transformed into an idyllic tranquility. I talk to boat owners and soak in the relaxed atmosphere.
In Mumbai’s vibrant diversity, contrasts are everywhere, shaping the essence of this city. Here, I have witnessed the tireless resilience and warmth of its people—felt in every smile and every helping hand. At first glance, Mumbai may seem like a place of struggle, yet its people transform even the toughest challenges into moments of solidarity and joy. Now, when I step into a crowded train back in Switzerland, I remember the lightness and laughter of Mumbaikars in similar situations. Their ability to make the most of what little they have has taught me to approach life with a greater sense of ease and a deeper appreciation for community. This pulsating Mumbai—far from cold metaphors and rigid definitions—has shown me how deeply humanity and connection are woven into our everyday existence.
