In 2001, we spoke to this pickpocket in Mumbai, who'd been beaten by his victim.
While pickpocketing and bag snatching are said to be fairly common in Mumbai, Bob and I feel a visitor is less likely to become a victim there than in certain European cities.
Unless, that is, the visitor uses public transportation, where thieves practice all the common strategies plus a few creative twists of their own.
And unless the visitor happens to be robbed by snatch-and-grabbers on scooters, a nasty crime on the increase.
And unless the visitor experiences the human-leg-clamp robbery as experienced by our friend Paul McFarland just one year ago.
Otherwise, most victims of diversion theft are local commuters.
Mumbai police watch Bob Arno's video of pickpockets around the world.
Street crime in Mumbai
When we asked about pickpockets, a few Mumbai police officers tried the “good PR” approach. “We don’t have much pickpocketing,” they told us. “Mumbai is very safe. You can walk anywhere day or night. Married women wear mangalsutras, necklaces of pure gold. They are not afraid to wear them anywhere,” the cops said. Yet, the next day’s newspaper reported “man caught and beaten by witnesses after snatching a woman’s mangalsutra.” If witnesses are taking care of thieves on the spot, perhaps the police aren’t aware of the crimes?
We’d interviewed a pickpocket in Mumbai PD custody back in 2001. [Story coming soon.] He was trundled to us slumped in a wheelchair with a broken leg and broken ribs. Caught by his victim on a train, he’d been beaten to a pulp. That’s the way it’s done here, we’d been told.
Now Assistant Police Inspector Subhash Borate suggested that many Mumbai thieves suffer from drug addictions. He described a few local M.O.s:
A small part of the gorgeous Victoria Terminus train station in Mumbai, now called the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus.
A long hook is fashioned from a steel bar. Thieves stand with it on the platform at the train station. As the train pulls out, the thief snags a bag or purse held by someone standing in the doorway of the crowded train. (This sounds strange to me, as if it might cause people to fall off the moving train.)
Beggar children clamp onto the legs and back of a victim so he can’t walk, while one rummages pockets. (Similar to the human-leg-clamp robbery mentioned above.)
Subhash also mentioned drink-drugging on trains and the trust-building of a person pretending a desire to practice his English with a foreign visitor.
When Bob suggested that poverty might be a motive for theft, the police officers countered that nobody needs to be unemployed in Mumbai. There’s work enough for anyone who wants it. We saw hiring signs in restaurant windows.
At Bob Arno's seminar at the Azad Maiden Police Station, video was projected onto a sheet taped to the wall.
Bob was to lecture about 70 Mumbai police officers on methods, motivation, and pre-incident body language. The day before the seminar, we were introduced to a 40-ish man in police custody. He’d previously served time for five assaults, a murder, and numerous robberies, and had been picked up again that morning. The barefoot prisoner was dragged in handcuffed to an officer. Bob questioned him through a Hindi translator, but the man was guarded and said little of substance.
Bob Arno questions a thief in custody.
Meanwhile, two television news crews materialized, and convinced Bob to steal in the streets for their cameras. Bob stole numerous items from the pockets and purses of people on the sidewalk. After each steal, four big television cameras converged on the victims and huge crowds grew—bigger than anyplace else. The victims had no idea their items had been taken, and their reactions were just what news correspondents live for.
Senior Police Inspector Bhawale presents Bob Arno and Bambi with a thank-you bouquet.
Bob’s conclusion was that, compared to the people of other countries, the Indians he stole from were more trusting. They did not react to Bob’s hands in their personal zone, and he was able to steal the belongings of many people very easily. Perhaps that’s because Mumbaikers are used to crowded situations. In some countries, Germany and Hong Kong, for example, the citizens are hardened and cynical. Perhaps too, that is why the locals continue to be the prime targets of thieves.
Huge crowds grew as Bob Arno stole from passers-by in Mumbai.
Bhel puri just might be my favorite Indian food. A snack commonly prepared and served on the street, you can find it in restaurants, too. It’s hard but not impossible to find it in the U.S., where Indian restaurant almost always means a predictable menu of Northern Indian dishes, often dismal and boring.
The dish is a perfect mix of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy, plus soft and crisp. It always includes sev—delicate crispy yellow noodles—and puffed rice. There’s usually chopped potatoes and onions, and sometimes tomatoes. It’s all tossed with a spicy sweet-hot sauce and topped with green coriander leaves. It must be eaten as soon as the ingredients are combined.
Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989.
I discovered bhel puri in 1989, my first trip to Bombay. I was intrigued by the long line of people buying from this humble bhel puri walla. Using only his hand, he mixed fistfuls of the ingredients in a bowl, then transferred the concoction to another bowl for the customer to eat from, right there. Yep, I got in line. Nope, I didn’t get sick.
Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989.Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989
Once I recognized the ingredients, I began to see dramatic displays like these all over the city, each more artistic and appetizing than the next. I ate at many of them.
Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach
In March of 2010, I saw very few street food vendors, no bhel puri wallas. Perhaps I just didn’t walk in the right streets, though I criss-crossed the city and spent much time in Colaba, as I did in 1989. The food stalls on Chowpatty Beach, long famous for bhel puri, have been swept into a permanent organization of stainless steel stands, similar to Singapore’s street food culture.
Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach.
I had excellent bhel puri (and many other dishes) at the vegetarian Kailash Parbat on Colaba Causeway. Across from the restaurant, they run a sort of glorified street food stand, at which one can order all the standard snacks and sweets. I had incredible panipuri there, one after another until I had to hold up my hand and reject the last of the six that come in an order, handed over one by one. Panipuri are crisp hollow spheres, punctured and filled with spicy potatoes or chickpeas, then topped off with spicy, cumin-flavored water. The entire fragile globe must be placed in the mouth, sometimes a tricky maneuver for a small mouth. The payoff is a satisfying burst, a crackling, a flood of liquid, an explosion of flavor and texture like no other.
Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai. Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness.
The vegetarian restaurant Soam is a few block’s walk from the north end of Chowpatty Beach, and definitely worth the trip. The small, trendy place serves upscale versions of street food and Gujarati home cooking. Bob and I loved it.
Jackfruit for sale in 1989 Bombay. I didn’t see any this time, though it was the same month.
Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008.
I drank fresh coconut every day from this vendor around the corner from our hotel.
Reviewing my 1989 photos, I found the same heap of coconuts in front of the same temple on Colaba Causeway.
7:00 a.m. in the Colaba Market area, where life is lived outdoors as much as in. Residents were just beginning their day. Someone was asleep on a handcart under a cloth. Others slept on the ground, on palanquins, on steps. A man stood in the road brushing his teeth vigorously with his finger. A boy sat among his goats, which nuzzled and cuddled him. Men and women arranged technicolor produce in baskets, for sale. Handcarts rushed by in every direction.
A chicken truck squeezed through the narrow lane, carrying seven stories of live caged birds. The driver hung a scale from the back of the truck and extracted a fistful of chickens—that is, a fistful of their legs. They hung upside down like a giant flapping pompom as the murgh-walla tied the bundle of legs and hooked the now calm birds on his scale. A customer, or perhaps he was a delivery-man, threw three large bundles over his shoulder against his filthy shirt.
Around the corner, a banana truck unloaded huge stalks of green bananas onto the shoulders of runners. An old, frail man came back again and again, each time carrying three massive stalks stacked on his left shoulder, while a larger, younger man carried two stalks.
Cats, dogs, goats and babies played in the dust and litter. Bob and I were ignored, or greeted with smiles and waves. Several Colaba Market residents directed us to some nearby point to see the sea. We wandered off in that direction, leaving the wide street of multi-story buildings. We wound through labyrinthine alleys of rickety dwellings and make-shift shelters of scraps and tarps. Customers were already seated in an open-air barber shop, a tailor measured and cut cloth, and a man pressed trousers with an antique iron full of glowing coals.
As we approached the sea, the dusty ground became black muck. A gang of small boys ran around us with squirt guns. “Water shower!” one shouted, as he fired a stream into the air. Old wooden boats lined the route to the bay, tilting in the mud, weeds growing through their broken bottoms. Black crows perched on their structures, surveying the garbage strewn about. The stench was overpowering. It became clear to me that we had entered a dump. A few lone men and boys passed us, walking through the putrid sludge toward the water. I hurried forward, eager to get past the fetter—until I caught sight of the view.
A hundred small boats lay bobbing on the still water of the bay, colorless and silvery against the white morning light. Across the bay, an easy walk away, the red dome and new tower of the Taj Mahal Hotel rose in stark contrast to trash-strewn beach at my feet. I was transfixed by the disparity, and began taking pictures. Crows cawed and little waves splashed against the rocky shore.
Suddenly I noticed the few men here and there on the beach and at the water’s edge. I was staring at their toilet. Appalled and mortified, I hurried away. Bob followed. We cut through a low part of the slum instead of retracing our path. It was neat and organized, with muddy but clean paths. The friendly smiles of women and children just starting their day helped me recover from my shameful, insensitive behavior. A tiny girl ran behind me calling “auntie! auntie!” When I turned, the child game me a huge grin. “Happy Holi,” she said, giving us a useful phrase that made everyone smile.
Holi is India’s spring festival of colors, a day on which people get wild and crazy and throw colors in the form of powdered dye.
Another day, after a fabulous meal at Soam, we walked the few blocks to the north end of Chowpatty Beach and began to walk south around the huge crescent of sand packed with people. A tiny naked boy ran up to us, hand out. He was filthy and gorgeous, and trotted along side us with bouncy little steps. He couldn’t have been more than five years old.
We tried to ignore him, afraid he’d get lost following us so far. I wondered if he had a mother, and how such a young child could be allowed to run loose and barefoot through dangerous traffic. Did he have anyone to care for him? I wondered what he’d do if I scooped him up, washed him, and fed him. Would he eventually feel a need to go back “home”? Did he have a home? Would he know how to find it? Or would he be content to stay with strangers who took good care of him? Then I wondered how the Indian government would react if I said I wanted to take him home and provide for him.
I was sad when the little boy finally left us. I worried about him finding his way back. But maybe “back” was just a point—the spot where he found us, with no other significance. Maybe he has no place at all; he sleeps where he is when he gets tired. I saw quite a few children asleep in strange places. One boy of three or four was sprawled across the middle of a busy sidewalk. That he hadn’t been trampled seemed a miracle.
Later, a former police officer from Mumbai told me that the boy definitely had someone watching him, and that he’d been sent to beg. At least his perfect little body hadn’t been maimed for “professional” advantage.
A huddle of people sat on the sidewalk at the edge of the beach. A woman was tattooing the arm of her customer. A boy held together a stack of D cell batteries from which a pair of wires connected to the buzzing tattoo gun.
Bob and I saw less misery in the streets of Mumbai compared to previous visits. We saw fewer people sleeping in the open, and far fewer beggars. On arrival at Mumbai airport, visitors used to be circled by aggressive beggars the moment they stepped outside. That situation no longer exists. Police told us the city is able to feed many street children, but that it’s an enormous financial drain.
This visit, I saw very little street food outside of officially regulated restaurants. Bhel puri, the famous Chowpatty Beach snack, used to be made à la minute at carts on every corner. Trucks and taxis do much less horn-honking now. Restaurants are smoke-free.
Our cool and quiet hotel was right off the hectic Colaba Causeway. A table in the lobby held two thermos pitchers, one of sweet chai, one of arabic coffee. Between them was a small water-filled bowl in which four tiny glasses were submerged. As the day went by, the water got cloudy and murky. The water (and glasses?) were occasionally freshened.
“I WANT,” is the driving force behind mugging: need and greed. But these muggers in India also had intangible desires that compelled them to behave in a way that surprised their victim. After a recent visit to Mumbai, my friend Paul McFarland, a cruise director, filed his report.
Thanking Muggers
After years of travel there are a few places that I still get excited to visit. Mumbai, India is one of them.
After a delicious meal at the Khyber restaurant, I waited for a taxi outside. I planned to go to Victoria Station, the train station in downtown Mumbai, to take photos of the beautiful building and the colorful people.
A black and yellow taxi pulled up, reminding me of a bumblebee; not so much because of the color but because of its size. It took me some time to fold my 6′ 3″ frame into the back of the vintage vehicle, and I was no sooner in when the driver hastily sped off. We quickly reached top speed and began cutting and slashing through the traffic. I felt like a bag of rice being thrown from side to side. Fortunately my outstretched arms could reach each side of the vehicle and that alone kept me upright.
The driver sensed my discomfort and asked if I liked Indian music—as if that would soothe me. I didn’t want to set him off by saying no, so I nodded. Big mistake. His voice sounded like a snake charmer’s flute as he sang, and he let go of the steering wheel, wildly waving his arms as if he were a classical dancer. All the while he was driving faster and faster, narrowly missing ox carts, cars, and pedestrians. I finally screamed at him to slow down, whereupon he glanced at me in disbelief and started to sing his song slower. The good news is that I arrived at Victoria Station in record time. Little did I know this was just the start of my adventure.
I got out of the taxi much quicker than I got in—so happy I had arrived safely that I gladly overpaid him by 200 rupees. I had plenty of money with me as I planned on giving a few rupees to some of the people as a thank you for allowing me to take their pictures.
Mumbai fruitwalla near Victoria Station
Victoria Station loomed large across the busy intersection and beckoned to me to photograph its architectural beauty.
On the way I stopped every few feet to photograph the colorful, happy people at the markets that had sprung up on the streets surrounding the station. They were selling everything: from watermelon with slices of fresh pineapple chilled with melting blocks of ice, to scraps of material, to cheap padlocks. Because my camera was new I was concentrating on the viewfinder, focused solely on my photography. I wandered freely throughout the crowded market and, even though I was by myself, I felt very safe. I’ve enjoyed many wonderful visits to this exotic and exciting country without any incidents and had no reason to believe today would be any different.
Even though I didn’t buy anything, the street vendors seemed to enjoy having me look at their items. I think it added some credibility to their card-table stores. I weaved my way through the vendors and crossed the street to capture a good panoramic view of Victoria Station. As I walked along a roadside barrier, I kept my eye on the building.
Mugged in Mumbai
I didn’t notice a taxi approach me from the opposite direction. It pulled to a stop right next to me and two young men got out. At the same time someone tapped me on my shoulder. As I turned to see who it was, the two men from the taxi immediately dropped down in front of me, grabbing and wrapping themselves around each leg.
My first thought was, my God these beggars are a lot more aggressive than they used to be; but at the same time two men jumped on my back, one holding onto my left arm and the other one going for my backpack which contained more camera equipment. Another one wrapped his arms around my waist. I must be watching too much of the Discovery Channel because I remember thinking: I’m like a wildebeest on the Serengeti being pulled down by a pack of jackals. Even though the wildebeest is much stronger, the jackals can bring him down through perseverance.
I staggered forward wearing five young men. Then it occurred to me that they weren’t trying to hurt me, they were just trying to detain me long enough to pick my pockets. Within seconds I reached for my wallet but it was it was already gone. This enraged me and I tossed two of the young men to the ground. But I noticed at the same time that one of the boys was running from the scene dodging traffic as quickly as his flip-flops would allow. His hasty departure told me he was the one with my wallet.
I tried to pursue him, but there were still three thugs hanging onto my legs and waist. I was able to quickly rid myself of the young man around my waist but I had to use my camera as a hammer to get rid of the human leg irons. They were no match for the Nikon D300 and dropped off. Then I was free to pursue the thief with my wallet.
I ran across the four lanes of traffic yelling stop thief at the top of my lungs, hoping to gain attention and support from the many locals in the area. But he had already made it to the other side of the road and had merged with the millions of Indians at the Sunday market. My heart sank, knowing that my chances of ever seeing him or my wallet again were nil.
Sidewalk barbers in Bombay
I wandered through the market, carefully scrutinizing every face I saw. After about ten minutes, realizing my search was futile, I headed back to the road. I now looked suspiciously at the same people, and now their beauty and innocence were gone. I was sad about that. Little did I know that there was still more to my adventure.
The black and yellow bumblebee taxis were all lined up looking for fares, but not necessarily looking for me because, in this part of town, few of the drivers spoke English. In these situations, rather than asking drivers if they speak English I ask “Did it snow last night?” if they say “yes, no problem,” I know we’d have a problem if I got in that taxi.
After quizzing eight to ten drivers, I found one I thought understood my destination. I was relieved that I had remembered before leaving the ship to stash some cash in other pockets in case of just such an emergency. I climbed into the taxi and he took off in the direction of my ship, giving me confidence that I had made the right choice.
We’d been on the road for three or four minutes, giving me time to organize my thoughts and do a mental inventory of what was in my wallet and what steps I was going to have to take when I got back to the ship. I realized that the wallet contained three credit cards, my drivers license, my PADI dive card I’d had since 1976, and $250 cash.
My concentration was interrupted when suddenly another taxi pulled up next to us with two young men in the back seat yelling at my driver. My driver tried to ignore them at first, but eventually was forced to the side of the road by the other taxi. I couldn’t believe it was happening again, and I braced myself for another attack. I thought: the bastards know I have more money because I got in a taxi and they’re after every penny.
I gripped my Nikon for action as the two young men jumped out and quickly threw something in the back window that landed on my lap. Thinking the worst, I threw myself out of its path—only to discover that it was my wallet. To say I was surprised to see it is an understatement. I opened it and realized that my credit cards and everything but my money was intact.
As they fled, I was so relieved, I blurted out the window, “thank you,” as if they were India’s version of Robin Hood. I thought: you’ve really lost it now—thanking muggers! My taxi driver smiled at me, and we once again took off for the port. On the ride I double and triple check my wallet, thinking it was too good to be true to have thieves go to the effort to track me down. Why had they chosen me to attack, and then why in the world would they take the chance of being caught by returning it?
Musicians in Colaba, a Bombay neighborhood
I wasn’t sure if my driver knew that I’d been mugged when I got in the taxi, but I was pretty sure he figured it out. So I asked him why they returned my wallet and he gave me in a one-word reply: Karma. I remembered reading that in the Hindu and Buddhist religions Karma is most important and is based on actions or deeds. The thieves initially created very bad Karma for themselves, but by returning my wallet perhaps they hoped to balance it out with a good deed.
Once back at the port I told the ship’s agent about the incident and he asked me to describe the attackers. I told him that there were six or seven of them, and that they were all about 5′ 6″ to 5′ 7″ with dark hair and dark complexions. I added what I thought would be a helpful detail, remembering that they all wore flip-flops. He seemed amused, and I embarrassingly realized that I had just described not only my attackers, but probably five million other young men in the city. I quickly added that one of them might have a unique imprint on his forehead—that of a 28 x 200mm Nikon lens.
Bottom line: I lost $250 but that’s not what I’ll miss the most. I’ll miss feeling safe in a city I still love.
Streetside barbers in Mumbai's blistering noon sun.
I feel like celebrating Mumbai, a city I love to visit.
I’ve stayed in the Taj Mahal Hotel a couple of memorable times and looked out my window at the iconic Gateway to India monument. Looking down from my window at dawn, I watched men squat with tiny coal fires in tin cups, ready to cook a little breakfast for passersby. Or for those waking from a night’s sleep on the plaza. Entire lives are lived out on the Mumbai streets.
At a tea stall in the Colaba district, the chai-walla pours boiled milk onto tea leaves and spices.
Mixing the masala chai as it steeps.
After my first and second visits in the comforting embrace of the grand Taj, Bob and I chose more intimate Indian hotels in the Colaba area. Less quality control, more flavor! The neighborhood is a congested, confusing warren of small streets that run into the slums Mumbai is famous for, the kind you can walk in and start a parade of the curious and friendly, not beggars, just those smiley-shy children and adults who want to see what you’re going to do and why.
Tea leaves and spices are strained out with a cloth.
We got into the habit of buying milky masala chai from a stall near our hotel. The tea-walla always opened a new container of milk and boiled it while we waited. To his generous handful of tea leaves, he added his own mysterious mixture of “warm” spices: cinnamon, clove, cardamom, allspice, black pepper. When the tea was brewed and strained, he poured it into a take-away plastic bag, and off we walked with it, to drink in the mugs in our room.
We’ve had a few meals at Cafe Leopold, too, my favorite of which included curried eggs. Anybody who’s read Shantaram knows that Cafe Leopold is an institution central to social life for expats, locals, and tourists. It’s where the sunny and the shady commingle, knowingly or not.
Tiny cups of masala chai are readied for delivery.
For a deep look at Mumbai and all things mafia, which is to say all things Mumbai, read Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found, by Suketu Mehta. Or better yet, visit the city and see for yourself.
