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Day One: A Single Cow
I arrive in Mumbai from Paris at 1 a.m. I have never been to India before, and I am quickly overwhelmed by the airport—neon-lit! teeming with people!—but no matter. I am traveling with my guardian angel, Mr. Mickey Boardman, who has been to Mumbai, he shrugs, maybe 35 times, and is hardly intimidated by this barely controlled chaos.
When he first came here, Mickey tells me, he stepped out of the airport and thought, I am home. He is in India so often not just because he loves it, but because he works with Citta, a nonprofit organization that builds schools and hospitals in India; I am here because the designer Sabyasachi Mukherjee has invited us—and what seems like a few thousand other people—to celebrate the 25th anniversary of his brand.
Sabyasachi, it turns out, is sort of the Ralph Lauren of India, if that designer made over-the-top wedding ensembles and high jewelry that drips and dangles with monumental stones. Sabyasachi’s gala fashion show is set for the next night, which means that this flying visit gives us approximately 72 hours to see a town of 233 square miles and 21 million people.
Then again, Mr. Mickey is the perfect guide for a maiden voyage to Mumbai, which by the way, everyone here calls Bombay. We are staying at the Taj Mahal Palace, a stupendous Victorian pile just across from the Gateway to India, a monumental arch on the Arabian Sea that was built in 1924. (Dior held a show here in 2023.) We stare at it every time we leave the hotel—tight security—lots of purse scanning—but never actually venture across the highway.
Instead, on our first morning, we walk a few blocks to Colaba Causeway, which could be dubbed the 34th Street of Mumbai, or maybe the Orchard Street of yore. We are accosted by vendors offering all manner of floppy casual clothes in beautiful Indian cotton prints, and I actually like this stuff, but am quickly overwhelmed by the crush and the heat, so I buy nothing. But I have other plans.
We repair for a coffee at the Leopold Cafe, a famous hangout founded in 1871, which means it once served the Brits who ruled here. A text arrives from F, another journalist on the trip, saying that he is getting tons of clothes custom-made—Comme des Garcons shirts copied! Silk PJs with piping!—and it’s all being whipped up overnight and will be delivered to the hotel the next day.
In a froth, I run back to the Taj—no mean feat in the 90-degree weather—grab two black smocks, and meet F at this tailor shop. Though they can apparently make an entire three-piece suit with a satin lining in 48 hours, they are defeated by these dresses, saying I would have to leave the frocks, and it will take a week. (Later, a friend who works in the couture in Paris will explain that the issue is the flou versus the tailleur: The former refers to ribbons and ruffles; the latter to the strict tailoring these guys are used to.)
Oh well, okay, no dresses. What about jewelry? The rest of the press corps is heading to Gem Palace, but I think I know better. On the internet, I see reviews of a place called Zaveri Bazaar in Kalbadevi and we set out to find this hidden treasure. Long story short: this might be the name of the whole district. Or it might not exist. The driver leaves us off on a road that is teeming with street life: men with huge baskets of strawberries balanced on their heads, hand trucks so laden with bundles it takes two to propel. It feels safe, even though we are clearly strangers. We don’t see any jewelry.
We are hopelessly lost. It dawns on us that the driver, who is game but doesn’t speak a word of English, will never find us. We walk to a main street where I see my one and only cow of the trip. At least she seems to know where she is going. But there are small miracles everywhere. An Uber actually finds us, and we head back to a group dinner, where everyone is bragging about their custom-made clothes and the jewelry they got a Gem Palace—cabochon necklaces, little diamond brooches. I grin and bear it.
Day Two: Tigers Tigers Burning Bright
Let others explore the fish market at dawn, the hotel spa. Mickey texts his friend Kshitij Kankaria, founder of Dirty magazine, and clearly a major player in this town, and he says, “Come straight to Bandra! We’ll go shopping!” Bandra is kind of the Williamsburg or Tribeca of Mumbai—a neighborhood where film stars live, the sort of place where you can easily find a chai latte. We embark on a whirlwind tour via tut-tut, those terrifying affairs that are sort of like New York City pedicabs without the year-round Christmas lights. I hold on for dear life.
We visit a shop which is literally called The Shop, where I make my first purchase, a big printed duffle for around $29. Down an alleyway that no one in her right mind could find is Beg Borrow Steal Studio, a charming multi-room second-hand shop with reworked vintage clothes, beaded purses, and, alas for me, a large wooden doll that looks like a mannequin and probably dates from the time Victoria presided over these parts. The doll is not cheap, but then again, she does fit handily in the newly acquired duffel. At a boutique called Two Extra Lives, Kshitij does something that is quite common here—he rents a pair of pointy, rubbery boots by Y/Project to wear to the gala that night.
Where does the time go? On the way back to the hotel we pass what looks like a multi-story apartment building, but no, Mickey tells me, one family lives here. The 27-storey mansion reportedly cost an estimated one to two billion and is 570 feet tall. It allegedly offers panoramic views of the city, but no doubt you are too high up to see the details of the streets.
Dressed to the nines, we head to the Jio World Convention Centre, which Sabyasachi has transformed into a huge aerie replete with fake elephant statues, abundant foliage, and a mile-long buffet. Mickey knows everybody—the real housewives of Mumbai, feminists who work with his charity, sundry hot guys who are strewn in his path. Every other woman is carrying one of Sabyasachi’s bags embellished with his trademark tiger, and nearly everyone is dressed in stunning if somber hues, since the invitation instructed “Strictly Black.”
Showtime! We are ushered into a huge room that is decorated to resemble a residential square in Calcutta, with laundry hanging over the balustrades. (One look at this audience and I know their own hands have never touched soiled linen.) The Indian movie star Deepika Padukone opens the show. If I was expecting the elaborate evening ensembles Sabyasachi is famous for, I was mistaken—most of the fashions are surprisingly sportif. But wait: Here come the coats! Heavily embellished and colored like stained glass, they provide a spectacular counterpoint to the more casual offerings. Christy Turlington, looking serene in gray cashmere trousers, and with a surfeit of bling lighting up her turtleneck, closes the show.
Day Three: Sabyasachi Explains It All to I
It is Republic Day, which means that the streets are even more jam-packed than usual, and many places are closed. But the Sabyasachi flagship is open. This imposing emporium displays everything from lavish sequined satchels to exquisite fine jewelry to, of course, fashions, including those heart-throb coats.
I perch on a velvet settee as the designer holds forth: he explains the deliberate exclusion of those wedding ensembles from the show last night was because “Indian women want to be modern now.” He says that they would rather invest their money in say, a new business, than waste it all on a nuptial blow-out. I ask him if he insisted on the black dress code to show off his stupendous jewels and he confesses yes, that was kind of the idea.
I make my way to the high jewelry floor and though I don’t usually flirt with things I can’t have, I melt at the sight of a lariat that combines turquoise, coral, and diamonds, and that even incorporates an 18-karat gold crocodile—he’s cute! I slip this over my head, and suddenly realize, I need this! How amazing would it look bouncing under a stained-glass coat, a tiger bag slung over my arm, sashaying down Canal Street, just in time for New York Fashion Week?
