Bombay

Have you ever felt, when you stepped out into the sunlight, that you’re suddenly in a new, magical world, a land where time stands still, where everything is as it should be, where dreams come true?

That is how I felt when I first saw the clock tower. It was like I was suddenly transported to colonial India, and if I’d seen a horse clattering up on the cobble-stones (well, the tiles on the pavement…that’s close enough) mounted by a “Pukka Sahib”, resplendent in a spotless uniform all a-tasselled and be-medalled, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised. And the sweeping manor with the grey ivy-covered walls and the ornate beams and the wide balcony that went all around it…oh, what wouldn’t I give to own it, to be a laughing debutante graciously receiving her guests at the foot of the wide, curving stairway amidst the glitter of the chandeliers, the clink of wine-glasses, soft strains of music and the chatter and the laughter of people enjoying themselves?

Then there was the sea. It appeared when I least expected it, an ordinary street lined by rows upon rows of buildings with their arms about each other suddenly opening up before my startled eyes to reveal the grey-blue expanse of the sea. And far beyond, the fog-shrouded sky-scrapers loomed up in a sort of defiant despondence, startling in their modernity in that quaint, charming old world. There was just a hint of that wild, sharp smell that’s so unique to the sea, and then the vision was snatched away jealously, and the tottering old buildings looked benevolently down at me again.

Gaylord. We stumbled upon it quite by accident. It was the smell that first proclaimed its existence, the warm, delicious smell of baked bread. It sat there like a dimpled, genial old baker, inviting and content despite its name. A sinfully chocolatey doughnut and an extremely nutty brown muffin later, we reluctantly walked on towards our destination, simply called “Causeway”.

Causeway, where the senses were assaulted by a riot of colours and smells and sounds. I have never had so much unadulterated fun. An unending line of shops wound away into the distance, all jostling for space on the pavement, all crying out to be noticed, to be appreciated, like so many eager schoolchildren. The shelves were crammed with the most curious and intriguing trinkets I’ve ever seen in one place; there were brass men-money-banks who swallowed coins you put on their palms, perpetual calendars of all sizes, bright brass telescopes, antique watch-chains, coppery-green compasses, fragile old spirit levels and a complicated instrument that looked like a sextant, a sundial and goodness know what else rolled into one. And the beads…I think there were beads of every imaginable hue in that place, strings upon strings of them, necklaces, earrings, anklets, waist-bands and bracelets of them, making you dizzy with their kaleidoscopic profusion.

I was drunk; drunk with the euphoric feeling of being in a strange, exciting place, a place with endless possibilities, a place where time stands still, where everything is as it should be, a place where dreams come true.