Mumbai's eastern seaboard is the neglected sister of its more glamorous western shore, she of the gold-tinged sunsets dipping over neat promenades.
This neglect could be ascribed to the forbidding nature of the entry points on the east side, populated largely by lounging truckers and neglected slums. This premier warehousing district has a single landowner, the Mumbai Port Trust, which has allowed the area to run down. But it was not always so. Bombay town, built on commerce, grew around its docks, which were the epicentre of all mercantile activity. But as the balance of trade changed, the prominence of the eastern shore declined. I set out to correct this inequality and headed out for Uran, a tiny island on the smoggy horizon.
An early morning Harbour branch local train dotted with slumbering night shifters deposited me at Dockyard Road Station, where a pug-nosed BEST bus awaited. It was filling up with fisherfolk, boisterous with early morning exuberance, who brushed past me with their wicker baskets smelling strongly of fish. As the bus groaned its way through empty pre-dawn streets past the stern, high walls of Mazagaon Docks, security men clutching ancient rifles watched us through sleep-hooded eyes.
The bus shuddered to a stop just outside Bhauchya Dhakka, once known as Ferry Wharf, to a babble of voices and flashing torch lights. A wholesale fish market dealing in fresh catch was in progress. In pools of light cast by flashlights and cell phones, buyers and sellers struck deals. A customs officer spotted me with my camera and ordered me off. My whispered plea for a settlement went unheeded.
At the ticket counter, a crowd jostled for the tickets. For a meagre Rs 30, you can take the 10 km trip to Uran. A crumbling concrete staircase studded with the remnants of dead molluscs led to the motor launch. Seagulls swooped low over the sea as water from the bilges drained into the harbour. The boat was filling up with an assortment of people. Fisherwomen in traditional Koli attire, with oversized nose rings, their saris wedged tight between their legs. There were sturdy, weather-wizened ship technicians heading to the naval and ship-building establishments at second port across the bay at Nhava Sheva. There was also Chittaranjan Das, a jari worker from Kolkata heading out to meet a friend at Karanja.
A gentle breeze ruffled my shirt as we eased out of the harbour. Abdul Sattar, at the wheel, has been doing this route for 35 years. He and the the Motor Launch Sai Darbar know every shoal and reef in the harbour. The sun emerged from over the horizon. The five strong Oriya-Andhra net repairing gang fell silent, awed by the scene. A mendicant with kohl in his eyes and a green head scarf over his matted hair slept through the drama. The ocean today was flat as a surfboard and the boat skimmed the tops of the waves with little effort.
The Mora pier hove into view after a 45-minute ride. Jutting half a kilometre into the sea, this pier has seen 80 monsoons since it was inaugurated by Lord Brabourne in the mid- thirties. We exited the boat at the lower deck of the pier little realising that the sea would rise six feet over the next four hours. On our return journey, we'd enter the boat from the top deck of the pier.
Mora village is a cluster of small homes painted in the colours of the rainbow. To get to Karanja on the other side of the landmass, I shared an auto to Uran. I was closeted between two cheerful and large-bosomed Koli ladies who continued their acerbic banter across my flanks.
Uran is a noisy mass of small businesses and eateries. Its prosperity lies in its proximity to the Jawaharlal Nehru Port Trust container terminal and an Oil and Natural Gas Commission complex. From there, another auto took me to the other side of the island to Karanja, known for its naval base. Sharply turned-out men in crew cuts and open-topped naval jeeps are to be seen in these parts. The coast line is crowded with beached fishing craft. I clambered up a precarious ladder that swayed heart-stoppingly before I swung gratefully over the top. Lube oil coated the decks and the timbers as engines were stripped and overhauled.
The sun was beating down as I took one last look at the breathtaking scene and the colourful pennants that stretched between the masts. At the Mora Pier after doubling back along the same route, the launch timing was a little time away. I assisted Dagdu Nakhwa in tossing fishing lines primed with dried shrimp into the muddy waters below.
After the tell-tale tug, we hauled in a plump wriggling catfish staring at us in goggle eyed amazement.
The blazing sun on the way back kept us all below deck. The muted putter of the diesel engine lulled us into an easy slumber. A familiar stench awoke us as the serrated skyline came into view. It was the smell of Aamchi Mumbai.
See more of Manjunath Shenoy's photographs on his Facebook page.
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This neglect could be ascribed to the forbidding nature of the entry points on the east side, populated largely by lounging truckers and neglected slums. This premier warehousing district has a single landowner, the Mumbai Port Trust, which has allowed the area to run down. But it was not always so. Bombay town, built on commerce, grew around its docks, which were the epicentre of all mercantile activity. But as the balance of trade changed, the prominence of the eastern shore declined. I set out to correct this inequality and headed out for Uran, a tiny island on the smoggy horizon.
An early morning Harbour branch local train dotted with slumbering night shifters deposited me at Dockyard Road Station, where a pug-nosed BEST bus awaited. It was filling up with fisherfolk, boisterous with early morning exuberance, who brushed past me with their wicker baskets smelling strongly of fish. As the bus groaned its way through empty pre-dawn streets past the stern, high walls of Mazagaon Docks, security men clutching ancient rifles watched us through sleep-hooded eyes.
The bus shuddered to a stop just outside Bhauchya Dhakka, once known as Ferry Wharf, to a babble of voices and flashing torch lights. A wholesale fish market dealing in fresh catch was in progress. In pools of light cast by flashlights and cell phones, buyers and sellers struck deals. A customs officer spotted me with my camera and ordered me off. My whispered plea for a settlement went unheeded.
At the ticket counter, a crowd jostled for the tickets. For a meagre Rs 30, you can take the 10 km trip to Uran. A crumbling concrete staircase studded with the remnants of dead molluscs led to the motor launch. Seagulls swooped low over the sea as water from the bilges drained into the harbour. The boat was filling up with an assortment of people. Fisherwomen in traditional Koli attire, with oversized nose rings, their saris wedged tight between their legs. There were sturdy, weather-wizened ship technicians heading to the naval and ship-building establishments at second port across the bay at Nhava Sheva. There was also Chittaranjan Das, a jari worker from Kolkata heading out to meet a friend at Karanja.
A gentle breeze ruffled my shirt as we eased out of the harbour. Abdul Sattar, at the wheel, has been doing this route for 35 years. He and the the Motor Launch Sai Darbar know every shoal and reef in the harbour. The sun emerged from over the horizon. The five strong Oriya-Andhra net repairing gang fell silent, awed by the scene. A mendicant with kohl in his eyes and a green head scarf over his matted hair slept through the drama. The ocean today was flat as a surfboard and the boat skimmed the tops of the waves with little effort.
The Mora pier hove into view after a 45-minute ride. Jutting half a kilometre into the sea, this pier has seen 80 monsoons since it was inaugurated by Lord Brabourne in the mid- thirties. We exited the boat at the lower deck of the pier little realising that the sea would rise six feet over the next four hours. On our return journey, we'd enter the boat from the top deck of the pier.
Mora village is a cluster of small homes painted in the colours of the rainbow. To get to Karanja on the other side of the landmass, I shared an auto to Uran. I was closeted between two cheerful and large-bosomed Koli ladies who continued their acerbic banter across my flanks.
Uran is a noisy mass of small businesses and eateries. Its prosperity lies in its proximity to the Jawaharlal Nehru Port Trust container terminal and an Oil and Natural Gas Commission complex. From there, another auto took me to the other side of the island to Karanja, known for its naval base. Sharply turned-out men in crew cuts and open-topped naval jeeps are to be seen in these parts. The coast line is crowded with beached fishing craft. I clambered up a precarious ladder that swayed heart-stoppingly before I swung gratefully over the top. Lube oil coated the decks and the timbers as engines were stripped and overhauled.
The sun was beating down as I took one last look at the breathtaking scene and the colourful pennants that stretched between the masts. At the Mora Pier after doubling back along the same route, the launch timing was a little time away. I assisted Dagdu Nakhwa in tossing fishing lines primed with dried shrimp into the muddy waters below.
After the tell-tale tug, we hauled in a plump wriggling catfish staring at us in goggle eyed amazement.
The blazing sun on the way back kept us all below deck. The muted putter of the diesel engine lulled us into an easy slumber. A familiar stench awoke us as the serrated skyline came into view. It was the smell of Aamchi Mumbai.
See more of Manjunath Shenoy's photographs on his Facebook page.
