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On my last day in India, I ordered an Uber black - fancy - and headed to South Mumbai to visit the Chor Bizarre. I had intended to see it when I first arrived, but when the concierge raised his eyebrow and warned me to be careful there, I backed out. And it's a good thing I did. Had I’d gone on day one, I might have spent the rest of the month hiding under the bed. That place was rough.

It's an antique market buried deep in the slums of South Mumbai. And I do mean slum. It felt like every fly in India had descended on that little patch of earth. They swarmed over everything - merchandise, people, even the street food. No one seemed to mind or notice. I guess you just learn to coexist.

I walked down the street for a while aimlessly, thinking I was in the Choa Bizarre and wondering why the concierge sent me here. Along the way, I passed by a young man with a squeegee, pushing what can only be described as human sludge out of a drain built into the side of a building. The sludge spilled into a huge pile on the street, From the smell of it, I knew exactly what it was. There's no mistaking that smell.

Next, I passed a group of men - and flies - dining together on the pavement. And I know I’m seeing this through the eyes of an Ugly American, but I’ve seen animals treated with more dignity.

I must have looked completely out of place there. People were soliciting my attention - no doubt for Sheckles. I ignored them. I'm not sure how the Lord feels about that, but to me, it felt like the only move. I can't save the world. And, honestly, the longer I stay here, the more immune I become to the poverty. I'm not sure if that's a good thing, but it's the way it is.

I took a look around - more of the same for as far as the eye could see. I couldn't see the appeal. So, I scurried back to Singh, who was waiting with his Uber Black to whisk me off to the Leela Mumbai. Lord, why are there slums?

As I approached, Singh, ever the faithful guide, was standing outside the car. He told me I had gone the wrong way pointed toward the actual entrance to Chor Bizarre, which involved a major street crossing. I couldn’t have pulled it off on my own, but gracious Singh stepped in and guided me through the madness.

After making it through the perilous street crossing, I wandered down the alley passing stall after stall of Indian antiques. I stopped here and there to buy a few trinkets. One of the stalls sold antique phones - the push button kind. That made me feel ancient. I remember those like it was yesterday. Hell, I remember rotary dials.

I stopped at a stall that had a nice hand-carved wooden bowl. When I asked how much, the man held up six fingers.

I pulled out six hundred rupees and laid them on the table. He shook his head.

I shrugged.

He opened and closed his hand again—this time, five fingers.

I pulled out another five hundred rupees and laid them down.

Again, he shook his head.

I have no idea what any of it meant. So, I picked up my Sheckles and stuffed them back in my pocket. This was going nowhere.

I might’ve missed out on the bargain of my life, but the bowl was heavy - too heavy for travel - and WTF. I moved on.

God knows I’d done enough of that on this trip.

I made my way back to the entrance and spotted Singh across the throughfare. He saw me and we nodded like we were old friends. In that one moment, we might have been.

He helped me with the street crossing, I hopped into that Uber Black uber happy, although part of me felt a bit guilty for having peered into that slum with utter indifference. Lord, why are there slums?

I don’t know the answer. I only know that I was grateful to leave.

Maybe the point was to be disturbed.

Maybe the point was to remember.

Maybe there is no point at all.

I don't know. 

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