It is hard to sum a city in a simple blog. We arrived in Mumbai on a smoggy Sunday evening. Black taxi cabs, touts and heaves of Indians overwhelmed the entrance to CST – formerly Victoria – Station. We negotiated a fare and took a ride around in a few circles before arriving at Hotel Anukool on Grant Road corner.

The hotel was basic, stained, but clean. The staff was attentive and (surprisingly) welcoming. We thought we had had a reservation, but did not. They still accommodated the disheveled travelers and showed us to a Delhi Darbar for an excellent meal.

The streets themselves were overflowing with throngs of boys and men walking somewhere. As the road milled its way away from the corner it degraded into absentia. The pavements looked as though someone had taken a wrecking ball and bounced it down each sidewalk and the road two, or three, times then once more for good measure. Women sat on white sheets on the sidewalk with improvised tattoo machines—made from sewing machine motors and permanently placed needles attached to a D battery—happily tattooing Hindu symbols onto squatting men, never changing the needle.

Men standing above her were selling peanuts and fried or boiled eggs. Chai stalls decrepitly served their tipple next to beetle nut chew stalls - which gives a nice buzz.

What was left of the pavements was covered in black, effluent dirt turning to sludge off the curb. The out caste made their beds on filthy pieces of cardboard as ragged cloth hung loosely over contrary emaciated and well-feed bones. Two-year-old children sat on the diseased street wailing as rats scurried around staking their feast for the evening.

Further down, female prostitutes stood—caked in make up—in front a sheets hanging over cells with mattresses on the floor. You could see some copulating from the street. These women reminded me of Hitler's Volksstrum-they were aged 8 to 80.

Others made small Hindu shrines in what was left of tree stumps and the light from candles flickered across twinkling eyes of rats and feral dogs and feral people.

Filthy men jogged to and fro tugging long, narrow wooden carts of supplies for buildings they will never be allowed to enter. Old women and men bathed in the murky, cobalt water of the curb gutter and readied themselves for their cardboard cots.

The only glimpse of the twenty-first century was the flat-screen computers issuing lottery tickets. And, in the middle of all of this was a Hindu Temple.

That street still haunts me. It is a dark example of the despicable, horrendous, evil and wanton of humanity and a sadistic five-millennia-old religious structure.

Likewise, if one was to remain on the tourist trail and hang around Colaba—one would find an entirely different Mumbai. Streets are fairly clean and free of vermin. Merchants sell their wares to the occidentals passing by, eating at the restaurants offering westernized Indian fare and sleeping at the hotels in Lonely Planet.

Impressive Victorian buildings tower over wide avenues. Scholars, students, barristers, businessmen, bankers, tourist all shuffle to their destinations. Art-deco buildings, housing cinemas, are offering Bollywood escapes from reality. Antique shops, textile and rug merchants are selling their craft to anyone with the means to buy. Snake charmers, boat trips, photographers, balloon sellers are making their living at the Gate of India for all remember their trip.

The two enduring experiences of Mumbai were not even Indian. The first was a trip to the Afghani Embassy on Malabar Hill. The consulate was a relaxed haven from the frenetic din and acrid stench of the streets below. The administrator was a welcoming and affable man that—after confirming we were not journalists—chatted and drank tea with us for an hour before processing our visas. We learned many things about his time in India as an Afghan and his family’s life in Afghanistan under the Taliban. His largest complaint seemed to be being force to eat with his hands whilst they were in power.

The other great experience in Mumbai was the Roger Waters’ concert. He preformed excellent tracks from Ummagumma, Animals, Wish You Were Here, The Wall and all of Dark Side of the Moon. There was no alcohol served at the show, which was odd. But the smell of marijuana filled the air. And a huge pink pig was released into the Bombay night and floated away on the breeze.