Arriving in Mumbai, or Bombay as it was then called, was post-apocalyptic. I got on the tube from Seven Sisters to Heathrow, and then Singapore Airlines, smoking section, as it then was, on a ticket bought from a travel agent in Earls Court. Stepping out of the airport, you're stepping over teenage girls with babes in arms sleeping in the gutter. Like literally stepping over them. The taxi from the airport to downtown goes through the
Dharavi slum, the biggest slum in South-East Asia. A British legacy, of course. Seeing a slum IRL, albeit from a taxi window, is not like seeing one on TV. Corrugated iron shacks with people living in them as far as the eye can see. I felt like some White Prince, just by being from the West. There were signs along the side of the road, saying Please Keep Bombay Clean and Tidy. Then arriving at the metropolis, a good 80 or 90% of the buildings would here be condemned outright, on the spot; no roof, front hanging off, etc. I kept thinking, when are we going to get to downtown Bombay, and then then it dawned on me that I was already here. No welfare state. Six years old and no one to look after you? Too bad. They grow up fast that way. Like miniature adults.