Concrete Jungle

Pollution Everywhere

How do people survive breathing so much pollution every day? The sky is not really even blue here. The city is smothered in its own filth. Across the glistening bay, skyscrapers appear through a haze. Across the street at 3 in the afternoon, the trees play host to the dust, and drink up the toxic puddles that lay beneath them.

Kabul was full of dust, but Mumbai is full of toxins.

Swarms.

And then there's the people. I've never seen so many people. It is truly a swarming mass of humanity, never-ending, always moving. There are men in button-up business shirts and trousers, but few briefcases. Women in bright saris going to work, or selling vegetables. Old men taking a nap on the sidewalk, their skin blending with the shadows. Children running through the side streets, street sweepers with straw brooms, working men with somewhere to be, old women sitting idly near the gutter, hand extended in search of food or coins.

A man sells an huge, oversized orange balloon on a street corner. Another sits on the sidewalk in a mask, and when he blows into a plastic mouthpiece, his mask grows pink paper horns. He shows his horns as I pass by. Then there is the man who stood naked on the street corner. Naked, he just stood there. A few people stared. An ox-drawn cart pulls unnamed supplies down a busy street. A horse-drawn carriage, brightly shining in sequins and white, carries two young girls in a procession bright saris and men with umbrellas.

And then there's the animals. Large, holy cows meander on random corners, or stand quietly munching hay, tied to a pole. Dogs lie about napping, or rummaging in search of scraps. Goats occupy alleyways, ducks bathe in a puddle as a cat watches eagerly from atop a trash bin. Birds circle above, chirping from the trees, barely audible over the traffic.

The definition of a concrete jungle.