Art, Decay & Festivals — From Khotachiwadi to Kala Ghoda

Exploring Mumbai’s vanishing heritage in Khotachiwadi, surreal art scenes in Kala Ghoda, and the unpredictable rhythms of Ganesh Chaturthi.

It was somewhere between a crumbling cornice and a mural of Frida Kahlo that I realized Mumbai didn’t just have history—it had multiple overlapping versions of it, all shouting over each other at once.

I had now lived in Mumbai for nearly a year, enough time to know your feet will always get wet, no matter the season. I also knew that if you looked up—really looked—you’d see the entire architectural history of the city compressed into one line of sight: a Gothic cathedral, a Mughal dome, a 1970s apartment with rust stains, and a 32-storey glass office tower, all competing for attention like over-eager extras in a Bollywood crowd scene.

And yet, I kept returning to Khotachiwadi—like a recurring dream you don’t want to wake from.

Khotachiwadi (Again): Where the Paint Chips with Dignity

By this point, I knew the lanes of Khotachiwadi better than most auto drivers. I knew which wooden balconies caught the best afternoon light, which courtyards still had mango trees, and which houses were already doomed to be replaced by something ending in “Residency” or “Heights.”

My medium format gear was my primary weapon here—the Hasselblad for deliberate framing, and sometimes the Leica M6 when I wanted to get poetic. On overcast days, I’d shoot HP5 black and white film, trying to wring drama from peeling pastels and leaning columns.

But slowly, the charm started to fray.

One afternoon, I arrived to find House No. 43—one of my favorites, with blue shutters and an ancient staircase—gone. Just gone. Replaced by hoarding boards promising “21st-century living in the heart of heritage.”

I stood in silence, camera in hand, feeling both helpless and oddly complicit. After all, wasn’t I also part of the problem? Documenting decay but doing little to prevent it?

I ran into André again—my unofficial guide, preservationist, chai enthusiast, and occasional cynic.

“You photographers come and go,” he said with a shrug. “Developers stay.”

He wasn’t wrong. But I kept shooting anyway.

Kala Ghoda: Where Art and Asphalt Meet

If Khotachiwadi was where Mumbai whispered, Kala Ghoda was where it shouted—in iambic pentameter.

Come February, the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival transformed the area into a sensory carnival. Art installations colonized the sidewalks, graffiti spread like moss, and conversations about “decolonizing textile narratives” happened beside kebab stalls.

I showed up early on day one, Nikon in hand, digital video rig strapped to my shoulder like a cyborg. A man played a didgeridoo under an umbrella made of spoons, a dance troupe performed in front of a parked bus, and a literary panel debated “Who Even Reads Anymore?”

I wasn’t sure whether to take photos or seek therapy.

Still, moments of beauty found me. A crow sculpture made from discarded flip-flops. A spontaneous tabla performance outside a parking garage. Children finger-painting on a canvas bigger than a billboard. Art here wasn’t precious—it was loud, temporary, participatory, and completely Mumbai.

I even entered a small photo contest. My submission? A black-and-white portrait of a girl holding her father’s hand, staring up at a neon Ganpati in Bandra. The judges called it “quietly urgent.” I called it lucky timing.

Ganesh Chaturthi: Chaos With a Calendar

Of all the festivals I’ve experienced—Carnival in Brazil, Tết in Vietnam, Oktoberfest in Munich (which counts, let’s be honest)—nothing compares to Ganesh Chaturthi in Mumbai.

In Khotachiwadi, it had been intimate: a few families, a modest clay idol, soft aartis, and shared sweets.

In Fort, it was organized: corporate-sponsored processions, safety barricades, and media booths.

But in Girgaon and Lalbaug, it was biblical.

The city reorganized itself for 10 days of celebration. Idols of all sizes emerged from narrow lanes and rose on trucks like divine celebrities. Drumlines thundered like war cries. Traffic stopped for hours. People danced barefoot in monsoon puddles with the wild conviction of the spiritually moved—or mildly possessed.

Tip #1: Arrive early and scout the route. Know the procession paths and key immersion spots—Girgaon Chowpatty, Juhu Beach, and Versova Beach get crowded fast.

Tip #2: Go light, go secure. Use a small camera bag that hugs close. Loose straps, dangling lens caps, or unzipped pockets? Big mistakes.

Tip #3: Weatherproof your gear. Wrap cameras in plastic or use waterproof bags. Rain—or colored powder—can strike any time.

Tip #4: Pre-load film rolls. Fumbling during the procession can cost you moments. Load film beforehand and carry extra, pre-labeled.

For this, I packed everything: my digital rig, two film cameras with fast lenses, spare batteries in plastic, and three handkerchiefs. (Two for sweat. One for emotion.)

The footage I captured during visarjan—immersion day—was among the most visceral I’ve ever made. Not just for the visuals, but for the emotion. As the idols were lowered into the Arabian Sea, people wept like they were saying goodbye to family.

Tip #5: Use zone focusing. Autofocus can struggle in chaotic scenes. Set your focus to 3 meters and shoot from the hip if needed.

Tip #6: Protect your lens—literally. Use a UV filter as a buffer. Flying gulal, sand, or elbows can do real damage.

Tip #7: Document transitions. The in-between moments—devotees resting, kids handing out sweets, volunteers managing the crowd—often tell deeper stories than the main event.

Tip #8: Use high-ISO film. Don’t hesitate to shoot at ISO 800 or push your film. Festival lighting is unpredictable.

Mumbai doesn’t celebrate halfway. It goes all in—or doesn’t bother.

Tip #9: Be mindful of the sacred. Don’t shove cameras into people’s faces during aarti or immersion. Step back and respect the energy of the moment.

Tip #10: Let go of control. Be ready to miss shots. Be ready to get lost. The best moments arrive when you stop chasing them.

Fort and the Quiet Collapse of Empire

Post-festival comedown brought me back to Fort, where Gothic buildings glare at modernity like disapproving uncles. The British left behind their architectural hangover: arches, columns, clocks, and symmetry that no one maintains anymore.

I wandered between bookstores and tea stalls, photographing drainpipes shaped like lion heads and ceilings with more filigree than my grandmother’s jewelry box.

Outside the Asiatic Library, I saw a group of schoolchildren on a heritage walk, led by a guide who looked 12 but sounded like a 19th-century historian. I followed discreetly, absorbing facts I’d never verify but quote often.

In Fort, I wasn’t a photographer. I was a ghost with a lens—moving through pasts layered over each other like badly stacked transparencies.

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Bandra Revisited: Between Quinoa and Chaos

Whenever the heritage got too heavy, I escaped to Bandra West—my urban antidote.

There was always something new: a café serving avocado toast named after a European philosopher, a mural painted overnight, a coconut vendor who had renamed his cart “Tropicool.”

Bandra was where incense met Instagram. Where your Uber driver might offer unsolicited therapy, and your cold brew came with turmeric foam.

I kept shooting there not because I needed more pictures, but because Bandra refused to sit still. It evolved constantly. Every time I thought I’d “finished” Bandra, it surprised me with a new alley, another festival, or a rooftop photo exhibit inside a parking garage.

If Khotachiwadi was slowly fading, Bandra was reinventing itself in fast-forward.

A Pause for Reflection (and Misal Pav)

By the end of Year Two, I’d filled five notebooks, shot 60 rolls of film, and created over 80 folders with names like “final-final-Bandra-edit-V2.”

I no longer knew what my project was.

A book? A zine? A documentary? A spiritual cleansing?

What I did know was that Mumbai had become my teacher—not in some motivational-quote-on-Instagram way, but in a concrete, sweat-through-your-shirt, character-building kind of way.

It taught me how to shoot in crowds, how to say “no” with a head nod, how to negotiate with a lens cap vendor, and how to find stillness in the middle of a dhol beat.

It also taught me that not every story needs to be photographed. Some are meant to be remembered. Others, simply respected.⸻

Onward, with More Film and Less Illusion

By now, I knew the city wasn’t going to wait for me. If anything, I was slowing it down. But I also knew there was more left to discover—Chor Bazaar, Crawford Market, the NGO in Dharavi, the quiet frustration of BKC, the late-night poetry of Andheri, the strange elegance of Kurla.

But those are stories for another time.

I reloaded my film backs, bought a fresh notebook, and did what any confused outsider does when faced with existential questions in Mumbai:

I ordered a double misal pav and pressed the shutter.