From Mumbai on, Una and I would be women traveling on our own in India. We were both nervous and excited.
I had been in charge of planning and organizing this part of our adventure. Because I retained pleasant memories of the waterfront area of Mumbai from my previous trip twenty-eight years before, I felt that would be the perfect area for us to stay. I had made reservations at a mid-class hotel, a few blocks beyond and several steps of luxury down, from the famous Taj Hotel.
When we arrived at the airport slightly before midnight, a representative from the hotel stood among the waiting crowds with a placard scrawled with “SLATTERY” in large, black letters. This was a good sign.
We bid a hasty farewell to our Elderhostel group and followed our new Indian guide. Our taxi wound through streets alive with crowds celebrating a holiday dedicated to Ganesh, the elephant-headed god of new beginnings—a most auspicious omen for us. After some time, I recognized the arch of the Gateway of India ahead, a black silhouette against the moon-sparkled water of the harbor. We drove past the iconic Taj Hotel, its façade aglow with lights, and continued down the dark road lined with spreading mango and banyan trees.
The taxi stopped in front of an unimpressive, three-story building with a single light and a neon sign to welcome travelers. The check-in desk was efficient and we were soon in a tiny elevator that clanked loudly as we rose upward. I was surprised when the door of the elevator opened and we found ourselves on a flat roof. Half the area was filled with tables and chairs and a small bar counter, all deserted at this late hour. Only a few feet across from the elevator door, a rough structure dominated the remainder of the roof. Our porter fumbled with an old lock in the wooden door of this stucco box and waved for us to enter. He handed me the key, returned to the elevator, and disappeared from sight.
The room, most likely originally meant as servants quarters, was not more than ten feet by eight feet. It allowed barely enough space to walk around the one double bed. A single, hard-backed chair stood in the corner and a narrow ledge that would never support our heavy luggage was nailed below the window. In the minuscule bathroom, the water pipe jutted out of the wall without a shower head or an enclosure. The room’s one window opened onto the café/bar, quiet now but surely a gathering place most evenings.
Una and I looked at each other in horror. We hadn’t expected the comforts of the last few weeks with our tour group, but this wasn’t the new beginning we had hoped for. “We can’t stay here,” I said. “I’ll go downstairs and beg for a better room. Wait for me.”
As I descended to the ground floor, I could only hope that there was another room available so late at night. If not, we would have to sleep in this cubicle and find something better in the morning.
I faced the sleepy desk clerk with determination. “The room is too small for two women with big luggage,” I said firmly.
The clerk looked glum. “Nothing else available,” he said with a wag of his head.
I insisted on the impossibility of our staying in the room we had been given. “If you have nothing, you must help me call someplace else and find a better room. We can not stay in the room on the roof!”
With another shake of his head, the clerk lifted the phone and made a call. I couldn’t understand his Hindi, but he seemed agitated. After several minutes, he hung up and said, “I have found something here for you. It’s a much better room, but it’s not ready for guests. You must wait a few minutes.”
I explained that I would return to the roof to get my sister and our luggage. “Yes, yes, Memsahib,” he said. “Meet me on the third floor in ten minutes.” When we arrived there, it was obvious the room had been in use as a lounge for the hotel employees. Two men besides the clerk were scurrying about, straightening the bed-covers, dumping the waste containers, emptying ashtrays, gathering up dirty tea cups and water glasses, and removing used towels. But the room was big, there were two full sized beds, a decent bathroom, and a door that opened to a small balcony overlooking the street and the harbor. It was after one o’clock in the morning and we didn’t care that the wrinkled bedspreads were probably soiled and that dust balls lingered in the corners.
We were exhausted and fell asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the lumpy pillows.
Earlier than I would have wished, I awakened to loud cawing. Una was already up and I joined her on our little balcony. Ten or twelve large crows circled over a nearby mango tree making a racket. Below in the street, a scrawny monkey scurried along the nearby docks. We watched as the poor creature scampered down the road, the flock of crows in pursuit.
We came to love our room with a view. It was an easy walk to the Gateway of India and the Taj Hotel with its upscale shops and twenty-four-hour café. Across the street, a concrete wharf hosted parties most evenings under a pavilion a-twinkle with strings of lights. Beyond that, the silvery-blue waters of the bay stretched to a hazy horizon. And, if we awoke early enough, we could greet the sun from our east facing balcony. Pre-dawn, the bay lay blanketed in haze, the gray shapes of ships ghostly. Suddenly, where the silver of the sea bled into the gray of the sky, the orange morning sun would emerge. As the fiery orb rose, it created a molten path of reflected light that led directly toward our window.
Much can be said about hotel rooms, but, for me, a pleasant location and a balcony with a water view always top my list.
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