In the largest exodus in recorded history, millions of refugees migrated across the brand new border after India was partitioned in 1947. A few months later, in January of 1948, a scriptwriter named Saadat Hasan Manto left behind Bombay, as the city was then called, and moved to Lahore, Pakistan. At the time of his departure from India, Manto was working for the well-known studio Bombay Talkies.
But Manto’s main claim to fame was as a short-story writer. During his years in Bombay he had written with great relish about film stars and prostitutes and drinking. The horror of the partition compelled Manto to write about violence in a critical and graphic way. He had been tried for obscenity before, but in the new country where, like many Muslims, he had settled, Manto was called into court for what he had written about rape during the riots. By 1955 he was dead, just before he turned 43. But even during his difficult last years, suffering from persecution and poverty, Manto continued to write with nostalgia and affection about Bombay, the place from which he had been exiled: “That was the city I loved. That is the city I still love.”
It is Manto’s Bombay–a world of dirty realism with the lights shining on its painted surface–that is Suketu Mehta’s inheritance. Mehta is a young writer who lives in New York, but Bombay is where he grew up. “When I moved to New York,” he remembers, “I missed Bombay like an organ of my body.” It might be nostalgia that led him back to Bombay, but Mehta’s Maximum City, part reportage, part memoir, is more a narrative of discovery. The writer discovers the city of his past through the people who make up its present; he also gleans signs of what might be our global collective future. Mehta writes, “With 14 million people, Bombay is the biggest city on the planet of a race of city dwellers. Bombay is the future of urban civilization on the planet. God help us.”
The book, like the city it describes, has multiple personalities. It is a documentary about a modern metropolis with its own signature features, starting with the sheer number of its inhabitants. On its opening page is the declaration: “There will soon be more people living in the city of Bombay than on the continent of Australia.” Mehta is an urban ethnographer with an acute sensitivity to the peculiarities of his city. “The notion of what is a luxury and what is a basic need has been upended in Bombay,” he writes. “Every slum I see in Jogeshwari has a television; antennas sprout in silver branches above the shanties. Many in the middle-class slum have motorcycles, even cars. People in Bombay eat relatively well, too, even the slum dwellers. The real luxuries are running water, clean bathrooms, and transport and housing fit for human beings.”