【Editor's Note】Mumbai: Jungle of Desire, a well-known Indian modern and contemporary writer, Sukotu Mehta, was shortlisted for the 2005 Pulitzer Finalist. Mehta is both mumbai and educated in the United States, and her dual identity gives him a unique and advantageous perspective on the city. Using two and a half years of surveys, he painted a picture of a city where money and desire, poverty and dreams intertwined.
A native of Mumbai, Meta loves this magical city. He depicts the infinite intimacy with Mumbai with rare insight, astonishing detail and unique entry points. As the story unfolds, we are able to walk into the realm of obscurity and see muslims and Hindu sects who hold bloodshed in the face of Mumbai's intricate political and commercial system. We were able to follow the bar dancers as she grew from a battered, hungry child to a youth who had to compromise with reality. We were also able to push open the doors of Bollywood and get a glimpse of the colours and the hierarchy. We are more able to know the longing faces, with the hope of a better life from the countryside to Mumbai, but we have not been treated gently by Mumbai... This great city may be destined to repeat and repeat such stories.
Honesty, excitement, humor and mourning are all intertwined in the book. Open it and you can enter the ancient and timeless world. The city also became a revelation of this ancient and ever-changing world, like ants leaping onto paper.
Authorized by the publishing house, The Paper's private geographical excerpts from the book about food and cinema show the author's bizarre condensed world. (Some subtitles are prepared by the editors)
Mumbai: Jungle of Desire, (India) by Sukotto Mehta and Jin Tian( translation), Shanghai Literature and Art Publishing House
People who eat Wada meal packs
Whose city is Mumbai? Mama of the little Rajan gang once said to me: Mumbai belongs to the people who eat the Wada meal bag. It was lunch for the residents of the tube house, the tricycle drivers, the children of the slums, the clerks, the police and even the gang members.
I asked the people in my uncle's office: Where can I buy the best Wada bag in India? They replied in unison, "Boca! "I walked through the city center on a hot afternoon, looking for Boca's shop along the way. There wasn't enough time, and people told me boca only went out for three hours a day, from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m. (or until the Wada bags sold out that day). I walked through the path that had been dug up in the middle of the road, exposing deep pits, past the wet market, the Little Portuguese Quarter (some of the most colorful and european old bungalows in all of Mumbai still housed the descendants of the Catholics who originally migrated here), the wedding supplies shop, the Jain clinic, and finally the stalls of Boca. Two lines have been lined up in front of the stalls, one for men and one for each, each holding the rupee in his hand. Boca sits on a small stool, scooping up the batter potato cake. A small, dilapidated blackboard next to it reads:
Boca Secret
Wada meal package 4 rupees
Potato cake 3 rupees
Wada embryo 1 rupee
Wada meal bags are the most popular street food in Mumbai
I waited for the potato cake to come out of the pan, and the people around me were also waiting. I tensed my muscles, squeezed the money, and was ready. As soon as Boca lifted the colander from the vat filled with oil and filled it with a golden coat of flour that resembled a beigiri (a French non-porous donut with a bouncy texture similar to fritters), the crowd commotion began. They sent money in their hands, giving the guys ten rupee bills for change, and in front of them was a tray full of two rupees of coins. No one buys just one Wada bag and gives up. So after one round, not all people can buy it, and diners who are embarrassed to compete have to wait for the next round of potato cakes to come out of the pot. The prepared Wada embryo is pre-coated with chutney: green hummus on the top half and red garlic jam on the bottom half. The guy always greeted the female customer first, he stretched out a hand, scooped the two potato cakes that had just come out of the pot, and put one on the side of the open Wada embryo in a flowing stream, and then closed the embryo and handed it to the hungry diners. I took my Wada bag, walked a little further from the stall, and squeezed the potato cake in the middle slightly, only to see a slight crack in the outer Wada bag embryo, and the mashed potato with red-green sauce spilled out. I took a bite. The fluffy sweetness of the outer layer of the embryo neutralizes the sourness of the sauce very well. The yellow-brown potato cake inside is crispy, with the unique aroma of Grham Masala, and you can eat a complete garlic clove like a cashew nut, which bursts out of the fragrance after chewing, which is really delicious and enjoyable. One Wada bag is enough to feed, and Boca's Wada bag is full of color and fragrance, which is really worthy of the name. I was as content as someone who had been hungry for a long time had eaten a big meal.
The fiery Vada wrapped his belly, naturally bringing a feeling of thirst, and I walked into the cold drink shop not far away. The shop uses Fumeijia building materials to separate the card seats, the environment is pleasant, quite peaceful and leisure atmosphere. The wall is written in Malatian "Drink Recommendation", each of which is advertised as a nourishing effect. For example, gooseberry juice can cure frequent urination, night blindness, upset, ginger juice can relieve flatulence, bronchitis, dysmenorrhea and so on. Most of the ice is delicious and is very different from the world-famous Coke. In fact, the local coke (such as Masala Coke) here is comparable to orthodox cola, and the taste is very different but not inferior: although it also looks like a bubbling brown drink, it is filled with Masala spices (i.e. lemon, mineral salt, pepper and cumin). The way to make a cup of Masala Coke is to pour a portion of the ordinary Coke into the glass, then scoop in a few spoonfuls of Masala, and the Coke will bubble up from the bottom of the cup. The waiter stood aside, waited for the bubble to dissipate, added Coke to the cup, and waited for a while until the rest of the Coke was poured out, and the original Indian Coke was born! In the face of the invasion of Western culture, our attitude is to accept it and transform it. We welcomed coke into the pantheon of the local drink, but added more spices to make this exotic drink more alive: the cocaine it contained was once again returned to Indian cola after it was banned in the West.
Masala Coke
I was constantly sneezing because of the air pollution in the central city, and my nose was red. But at the moment I was sitting in a quiet cold drink shop, fascinated by the busy and bizarre streetscape outside. Rows of small shops, each selling specific goods, provide the city with tiny but indispensable services: waxing wooden furniture, typing for people, selling hair oil, selling fireworks, selling chabati scones, providing funeral services, making handmade shoes... These shops are already run by their fourth generation. The shop opens on the ground floor and the owner lives upstairs and pays a symbolic amount of rupees as rent. The store opens from 11 a.m. until 9 p.m. Shopkeepers, like small traders around the world, know best where to go to buy inexpensive street food, such as roses or sago. When their out-of-town relatives come to Mumbai, they are the best guides to walk the streets. These people's day trips to Mumbai are the same as mine, often ending with a late-night movie at the Marata Mandir Cinema. People who have run shops for generations are not rich enough to move out of here, and they have never thought of moving out of here. Their children will inherit the family business, and their business has been opened in British India for decades, and they have established themselves in this corner of the city with their own comfort, familiarity and ease.
The rise and fall of Iranian restaurants
Iranian restaurants in Mumbai are once again a place I frequent, whether it's meeting friends or simply to cool off. One of my favorite Iranian restaurants as a child was Called Naz Cafe, which opened to mount Malabar after India's independence and had a great view, but the fees were low. Every time I go back to Mumbai, I go to Naz and sit on the highest terrace (for an extra fifteen rupees) overlooking Gioberti Beach, waving away the hungry crows and chatting with friends from all over the world while drinking beer. But the Shiva military government could not tolerate this place, and with great anger, they were determined to destroy all the beauty of the city. Despite the solemn protests of Naz's masters, the government forcibly nationalized the land that was originally private property. They demolished the café and built a water quality monitoring station on the original foundation. The profits of running Naz are too meager, the scenery is too gentle and lovely, and it is not at all the opponent of the rough modern Mumba.
Iranians arrived in Mumbai at the turn of the twentieth century. They were Zoroastrians from rural Persia (such as Yazd), not wealthy but unusually industrious, and persecuted in their homeland for religious reasons. They are very different from the Parsi people living in Mumbai. Although the latter were also Iranian Zoroastrians, they moved to the Indus Valley around the eighth century.
Iranians who make a living in India specialize in baking and snacking. Hindus have the superstition that it is unlucky to open a food store on a street corner. Iranian folklore is just the opposite, so they are confident and bold to build shops at intersections, smiling and welcoming customers, the shops are eye-catching, lighting and ventilation. Iranian shops are decorated with marble countertops and teak chairs, floor-to-ceiling mirrors and portraits of Zoroastrian patriarch Zoroaster hanging on the walls. Deep in the storefront there are wash basins for guests to wash their hands, and a series of "customer instructions" are posted above, and a poem by the humorous poet Nissin Ezekye is strung together:
Don't be too busy writing letters
You haven't ordered yet
Please do not comb your hair
Will stain the floor
Don't play pranks
The manager is looking
Regardless of last name
Welcome back
If there is no thoughtfulness
Please also be inclusive
If you are still satisfied
Enjoy the light and publicize more
May God bless you
Smiles are always open
Iranian restaurants have relatively fixed menus: tea, coffee, bread, Poulson butter, pretzels, cakes, scones, butter packets, fully cooked eggs, pies, saffron pilaf, lamb pilaf. Most people come here to kill time and escape the heat: take a seat at a table, order a cup of tea, or read a newspaper, or watch a street performance outside the window. Unlike punjab or Chinese restaurants, which are popular among the middle class, Iranian restaurants are very close to the people in terms of price and atmosphere, and do not need customers to cut down on food and clothing. As a result, the customers of Iranian restaurants are mostly migrant workers, who sleep in Chase bunks and eat tea and scones. If even scones are too expensive, there are also flatbread options. For working people, this is the cheapest and most satisfying food. And tea with a spoonful of sugar is a good helper to replenish physical fitness.
In the 1970s, The Delicatessens of South India gradually replaced Iranian restaurants. Later, beer bars on the street quickly replaced The South India delicatessen. The descendants of Iranian restaurant owners have no interest in the family business, and in the new century, when "knowledge is power", everyone believes that education is the best way out, so young people who run Iranian restaurants at home prefer to work in other jobs or study abroad. Subsequent unoccupied Iranian restaurants were converted into banks and department stores, while others renovated their interiors to cater to specific areas to meet the needs of different groups of people, with "family rooms" for drinking tea only and "restricted areas" for beer.
The Iranian restaurant that has won my heart is named after Lord Brabourne, the mayor of Mumbai at the time, in addition to the demolished Naz. It was built in 1934 and was originally a stable. Rashid Ilanni is one of the bosses of "Braburne". He had no father, no mother, no wife, and no children, but he had a room full of nearly four thousand books. Rashid doubles as a film critic while opening his apartment to writers, painters and producers throughout Mumbai. Braburn is one of the few Iranian restaurants in Mumbai that retains its unpretentious style, with low fees and simple meals, offering only eggs, bread, minced beef, biscuits and tea. Twelve years ago, Rashid added the option of beer to the menu, and now every night, restaurants are mostly full of people who come to drink — often waiting for the rush hour to pass before getting on the road. "This way of waiting is really good!" Rashid sighed. He wanted to preserve Braborn as much as he could, and he did a good job: he couldn't buy a space as spacious as Brabone in mumbai restaurants that consumed ten times more.
The star dream legend of the film industry
India is one of the few lands that has not been conquered by Hollywood, and Western films account for only five percent of the local market share. Indian filmmakers are also resourceful aggregators, and at a time when the film industry in almost all countries is subservient to Hollywood, India is fighting in its own way: it embraces Hollywood, annexes Hollywood, and then regurgitates Hollywood—Western cinema, mixed with everything else known, has been reborn in the land of the East and has a very different look.
Indian directors actually hate the term "Bollywood", saying that Mumbai's film industry is much older than Bollywood. Even American filmmaking began on this East Coast and then moved to California in the early twentieth century. The Lumière brothers of France invented the film projector, which caused a sensation when it debuted in Paris, and soon brought the new technology to Mumbai in 1896. A few months later, a Marathi man named Bahat Vedka made short films of wrestling matches and circuses playing monkeys in Mumbai. It is the film that makes it seem as if all Indians have spent their entire lives in Mumbai, even for those who have never been to Mumbai. When kanpur and Kerala watch Indian films, they can immediately identify the spacious corniches, Yohu Beach, and the shivaji International Airport in Antairi, the gateway to the Western world. And the mystery of Mumbai is different from that of Los Angeles, where Hollywood has a lot of money to build entire cities in studios, and the Indian film industry relies on real-life streets, beaches, and high-rise buildings.
A scenic filming location – Srinagar
Part of "Kashmir Mission" was filmed in Srinagar, and Vinod had to travel to and from the set in a bulletproof car under the protection of the armed police. They heard a loud noise in the middle of the shoot. "It's the sound of firecrackers, and the locals are celebrating the Tokachi Festival." Winold said this to the crew and then asked the cinematographer to speed up. At the end of the day, he ordered people to empty the venue as soon as possible, and everyone realized: How can Muslim-populated Kashmir celebrate the Hindu Ten Victories Festival? There was indeed an explosion. Afterwards, rocket-propelled grenades were found at the government secretariat two hundred meters from the set, and the attack killed four people. But the day's shooting was finally complete.
On another occasion, the actor playing the militant was running along the canal, and the local police set up a monitoring point at the other end of the canal, and when they saw the figure of the "militant", they raised their guns and aimed at him. The counter-terror cop didn't realize it was an actor until the last minute. As bombs exploded around Kashmir in the name of war, Vinod was blowing up cruise ships on Lake Dahl for entertainment. The line between real combat and movie scenes is so blurred that it's almost indistinguishable.
The villain of Kashmir Mission didn't end up being a Pakistani (who let Vinold's film have so many followers in Pakistan). After revision, the conspirators in the film announce to terrorists, gangsters, politicians and intelligence personnel around the world: "We are an independent organization and do not owe allegiance to any government." "But there is a character in the foreground of the film who hides in the shadows, who can only see his silhouette, who is the object of the conspirator's orders, the real behind-the-scenes black hand." Vinod ordered the dialogue screenwriter Attu Tiwari to contribute the shot, who called Artu the "Osama bin Laden" of the Kashmir Mission.
By the second half of the film, between the explosion and the murder, Artaf and his girlfriend Sophie reminisce about their childhood memories to the sound of music, as if they are back in a dream mountain village dotted with waterfalls and flowers. At that time, Srinagar was too dangerous for Vinod to take the crew into Kashmir to continue filming, so the recording of the song and dance was completed in Mumbai. We have not unusually recreated Kashmir in the studios of Mumbai, with herbaceous carpets covered with fake flowers and snow made of cotton wool. In Mumbai, we don't need to take the war too seriously. Even in the war-torn era, there is always a little space for love and singing and dancing
Kashmir Mission poster
Shortly after Vikram declared with satisfaction that the Kashmir Mission had "finalized," I went to Winaud's house. Litik Rothhan, who played the role of Artaf in place of Sharu Khan, became India's brightest rising star after the release of his debut film Love has a Destiny (directed by his father, Laksh Rothhan). "Love Has Destiny" has become famous in major theaters at home and abroad, and there are reports that young female film fans in Mauritius, like many girls in India, fainted with excitement when they saw Litic appear on the screen.
This frenzy, called Litik, sparked riots everywhere. The owner of a theater called Litic's father in a rather panicked tone. He said a large number of female audiences asked the theater for Photos of Titik Lee, and he desperately needed 200,000 posters with Litick's signature on them. When Litic was drinking coffee at the Taj Mahal Hotel, he was surrounded by crazy female fans, and the hotel staff had to sneak him out of the back kitchen. He dined in an Italian restaurant and his girlfriend on the outskirts of the city, only to be harassed by people who recognized him. Crowds of people gathered to see him, and even double-decker buses stopped on the side of the road, and passengers flocked down just to rush into the restaurant to see him.