Maximum City, Part one
Maximum City, Minimum Instructions: Three Years of Light, Life, and Loops in Mumbai
Part 1: Arrival & Altitude — Malabar Hill to Colaba
How I landed in Mumbai expecting glamour and instead found pastel cottages, traffic symphonies, and colonial contradictions.
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When I landed in Mumbai, I expected chaos—but the elegant kind. The kind that might be soundtracked by a sitar remix and framed in golden-hour light. I imagined Bollywood glamour, dramatic contrasts, and maybe a cup of chai with someone famous. Instead, I got relentless heat, a missing suitcase, and traffic that turned Google Maps into a cruel joke.
“Welcome to Maximum City,” said the arrivals terminal. And so it began.
Armed with a mix of 35mm and 120mm film cameras—plus a bit of digital gear, a few hard drives, and some video equipment wrapped in old shirts—I arrived like a dusty pilgrim from another analog era. I had a job waiting, no fixer, no brand deal. Just a vague plan: do my daily work, take photographs, maybe shoot a short film, and learn to jog without dying of dehydration.
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Malabar Hill: The View from Above
Through a friend’s cousin’s college roommate, I found an apartment in Malabar Hill—Mumbai’s quieter, leafier perch. Up past the Hanging Gardens and the Parsi fire temples, life slowed down. Or at least, quieted. It felt like sitting in a bird’s nest above the chaos, sipping rose syrup while the city below roared and spun.
The building was old—perhaps older than independence—but the elevator mostly worked, and the security guard greeted me with warm suspicion. From my balcony, I could see Back Bay, that famous horseshoe curve hugging Marine Drive like an overexcited child. Nearby loomed the glowing Ambani Tower—an industrialist’s low-tech Milky Way.
Malabar Hill wasn’t where Mumbai pulsed hardest, but it offered perspective. And in a city like this, starting from above is no bad idea. You can observe before diving in. Or in my case, photograph the city’s choreography before tripping over it.
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First Forays: Of Dust, Detail, and Dizzying Contrasts
My cameras—ranging from a trusty Nikon FM2 to a Hasselblad 500 C/M—remained packed for two days. Not from lack of inspiration, but indecision. The city offered itself in fragments: a woman stringing marigold garlands beside a Mercedes, a boy brushing his teeth in front of a Ganpati mural, a crow stealing a vada pav in broad daylight. How do you photograph a place that changes every five seconds?
Eventually, I chose Colaba as my first field trip. South Mumbai’s colonial promenade, familiar from travel blogs and misleading Instagram reels. The Gateway of India stood stoic, photobombed by postcard vendors and couples posing with pigeons. The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel looked regal—like it knew you couldn’t afford lunch there. I shot both on film, already imagining how the whitewashed Taj would pop against the Bombay haze.
Along Colaba Causeway, my senses gave up trying to keep up: leather belts, pashmina scarves, knock-off Ray-Bans, prayer beads, incense smoke, the occasional holy cow—it was one endless corridor of charm and commerce.
I shot instinctively—hip shots with the Leica, deliberate frames with the Hasselblad. One moment, a man tried selling me a hand-carved chess set for a “very good price, brother.” The next, a boy recited poetry for spare change. The city had no script. Only improvisation and volume.
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Khotachiwadi: The Side Street Time Almost Forgot
On a wrong turn out of Girgaon—my memory says I was chasing a light leak—I stumbled into Khotachiwadi. A dreamlike remnant in the belly of the beast. A tiny enclave of Portuguese-style homes, faded but dignified, surrounded by the ambitions of 21st-century Mumbai.
I froze in the alleyway, camera slung over my shoulder, jaw slack. Pastel-blue houses, wooden staircases, ornate balconies, tiled roofs. A man with a heavy moustache sat on a porch reading a Marathi newspaper beside a cat that clearly ran the block.
I later learned this once-thriving enclave had 65 homes—now only about two dozen remained. Many had already fallen to the development frenzy that devoured heritage like popcorn. One house had a sign that read: NO TO TOWERS.
I began returning weekly.
Here, I photographed doors like portraits. Each had its own posture, its own scars. The staircases, the hand-painted nameplates, the hibiscus leaning toward the street like tiny witnesses—it was architectural poetry. And under my lens, a quiet panic: shoot it now, it might not be here next week.
One afternoon, I met André, a fourth-generation resident and unofficial heritage evangelist. He offered chai, showed me family portraits from the 1800s, and spoke of “preserving memory before demolition takes over.”
He didn’t ask why I was there. He just said:
“Shoot fast. They don’t wait.”
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The First Festival: Noise as Ceremony
It was around this time I collided with Ganesh Chaturthi—Mumbai’s first true test of stamina and volume.
I heard it before I saw it. A wave of drums, chants, and whistles rolled up the hill and hit Malabar Hill like a sonic typhoon. I grabbed my gear, ran downhill, and plunged into a visarjan procession: thousands of people dancing, singing, and carrying elaborately adorned idols of Lord Ganesha to the sea.
The light was harsh, the crowd wilder than any music festival, and my sweat ratio incompatible with camera handling. I shot mostly on 35mm film, switching to digital only when I feared for my light meter’s sanity.
A group of kids pulled me into their dhol circle. I declined. They insisted. Moments later, I was dancing terribly, my Leica bouncing against my ribs, dodging colored powder while trying to shield my lens. The joy was infectious. The rhythm, relentless.
As the Ganpati idol was immersed at Chowpatty Beach, the crowd paused, hushed, then burst into a final roar.
It was pure Mumbai—loud, sticky, absurd, and oddly spiritual.
And yes—I had the shot.
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Fort: Colonial Ghosts and Corporate Coffee
Between film errands and camera paranoia, I wandered north to Fort—Mumbai’s cultural citadel.
Here, Victorian Gothic met Indo-Saracenic met overpriced espresso. Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus looked like Hogwarts reimagined by a railway obsessive. I shot it with my Mamiya 645, waiting patiently for a taxi to enter the foreground just right. Four rolls later, I had the frame.
Fort was an odd mix of law firms, old bookstores, stock exchange offices, and cafés selling ₹600 cold brews. One shop owner asked if I was doing a “heritage audit” with my camera. I told him I was doing “emotional archiving.” He looked skeptical, but handed me a samosa anyway.
It was in Fort that I learned Mumbai’s deepest contradiction: every façade hides ten stories—and none of them match the brochure.
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Closing the First Chapter
After three months, I’d shot over 30 rolls of film, worn through two pairs of shoes, and developed a mild addiction to cutting chai.
I’d learned to use my elbows in traffic, to say “Arrey baba!” with conviction, and to scan the sky each morning for signs of monsoon relapse. I still couldn’t board the right local train car, but I could tell a lovingly made vada pav from an influencer-friendly fake.
I hadn’t found Bollywood glamour. Or clean sidewalks. Or a city that slowed down for art.
But I’d found something better:
A city that moves with conviction, crumbles with grace, and rebuilds itself right before your eyes—all before lunch.
And so I stayed.
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10 Tips for Analog Photographers Using Medium Format Cameras in Cities like Mumbai
1. Protect your film: Store rolls in ziplock bags with silica gel—humidity is no joke.
2. Chase the light: Early mornings and late afternoons offer soft, golden light ideal for 120mm film.
3. Be fast with gear: Medium format isn’t quick. Keep your film and meter ready at all times.
4. Use an external light meter: Shadows can be extreme—accurate metering saves frames.
5. Photograph people respectfully: Always ask. Often, a smile and a hello lead to a portrait.
6. Steady yourself: Medium format gear is heavy—brace yourself, breathe, and press gently.
7. Take notes: Keep a small notebook to log rolls, exposures, dates, and thoughts. It helps later.
8. Secure that lens cap: In crowded areas, a tethered lens cap can prevent scratches or worse.
9. Rainproof your kit: Always carry plastic bags or a small umbrella—monsoon season hits fast.
10. Support local labs: Mumbai has excellent film labs like Footprint and Swan Lab—great quality, helpful people, and no customs delays.
