Twelve hours before the U.S. government issued a terror alert for its citizens in India, I stopped by the Fatima Burqa Collection shop in Mumbai (officially known as Bombay until 1996). Located on Ebrahim Rahmatulla Road, a teeming shopping street in a crowded downtown Muslim district, the diminutive outlet is distinguished from its neighbors by the stately, headless mannequins draped in black silk in the entryway. Standing next to one of them, I peered inside. Peering back at me, behind the counter, was a thin, middle-aged man with a hennaed beard, wearing a skullcap. I adjusted my Twins cap, but I couldn’t fool him—or myself.
“They probably thought you were the police,” laughed Rohit Shah, a friend who is president of the Bombay Metal Exchange. It was a few days later, and we were driving past the Victorian splendor of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus railway station. Since terrorists bombed Mumbai’s commuter trains on July 11, killing at least 183 people, the terminus has been considered a major terror target, and security has supposedly been tightened. But from the backseat, I saw only beggars standing in the doorways. “There is nothing that anyone can do,” Rohit said. “In Bombay, we are in God’s hands.”
Lately, God has been rough on Mumbai. If it isn’t terrorism, it’s an unusually powerful monsoon. I had come to Mumbai to report on India’s burgeoning recycling industries and rode into town during a downpour fierce enough to wash out roads and create car-sized craters in highways. My plan was to spend two days touring recycling facilities located in the city of Surat, north of Mumbai, but upon my arrival my contact—let’s call him Mr. S—informed me that his driver was terrified of the rains. Surat, home to two-and-a-half million people, was ninety percent underwater as a result of mismanagement of dam reservoirs during the monsoon.
The next afternoon, as consolation, Mr. S’s driver arrived at the Hilton with instructions to ferry me to Mr. S’s country club. I had been watching the rain from my room all day, and I was anxious to go. But my enthusiasm soon waned; traffic was totally gridlocked due to washed-out roads. During long, dead stops in the middle of downtown, I watched from fogged windows as Mumbaikars—some in saris, some in business suits, and some in rags—waded barefoot through water that ranged from ankle- to knee-deep.
Three hours and twenty miles later, the car pulled up to the gate of the club. Waiting for me were Mr. S and his friend, Mr. E, a manufacturer of brass ballpoint-pen tips. We retired to the empty, wood-paneled bar for drinks and lamb from the tandoor. My seat faced a glass wall that looked onto a pool overflowing with rain. “For the last three years, the monsoon has been very bad,” said Mr. S. “Unusually bad.” When I suggested that global warming might be the cause, he erupted into a high-pitched giggle. “Something must be wrong,” he replied, and ordered another round.
Two days later, I was still stuck at the Hilton, awaiting word as to whether I could visit recycling facilities in nearby Sylvassa. As I lay in bed, CNBC reported that the U.S. Consulate in Delhi was advising U.S. citizens in India to maintain a low profile. Apparently, “individuals associated with al-Qaeda” were planning to bomb hotels, markets, and tourist sites, and special police units were being assigned to vulnerable and sensitive areas in Mumbai. One such site, it was noted, was the Air India headquarters next to my hotel. I walked out to the street, where I found the Air India building flanked by two traffic cops armed with bamboo walking sticks. Four other traffic cops sat, unarmed, on the stairs of the building, chatting amiably. Not exactly reassured by this show of force, I sought comfort by taking a twenty-minute walk up the street to the Gateway of India, Mumbai’s most popular tourist site. Aside from an admittedly larger regiment of traffic police standing guard, one of whom even sported a pistol, there was little indication that any serious effort was being made to halt potential attacks, despite the fact that more than fifty people were killed by a car bomb here in 2003.
I called Rohit. He asked if I was keeping a low profile. When I admitted that I had, out of curiosity, just visited two likely terror targets, he chuckled. “In Mumbai, after the train bombings, the trains were running again in six hours. In London, after the bus bombings, the city was shut down for days.” He paused, and I waited for the moral to this story. “Anyway, Mumbai people are strong because they place their fate in God’s hands. You’ll see.” Actually, I had seen enough. Back at the Hilton, I noticed that the tall, fierce-looking Sikh guards who stood by the door were now augmented by two slight men in pale blue uniforms emblazoned with patches that said “Monitron.” Neither was armed. As I paused to pick up a FedEx package at the front desk, I noticed the pretty young concierge who had helped me change my departure flight from Mumbai. “Monitrons,” I said, nodding at the new security presence. She smiled politely in response. “Are you enjoying your day, sir?” she asked.
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