Mumbai Monsoon: Reflections on Travel and Weather
I’ve never minded rain when traveling. There’s a certain calm beauty to unfamiliar lands glistening under a downpour, and witnessing the ingenious ways people adapt their lives seems, if anything, enriching. After all, life itself struggles to exist without the water rain brings; it’s a fundamental shape of our natural world. Perhaps because of this mindset, I often find myself traveling in the rain, earning the playful nickname “Rain Man” from friends. It might just be that I unconsciously choose destinations known for their rainfall. This is a look back at a trip to Mumbai, India, in the summer of 2019, a journey steeped in rain that prompted reflections on travel and weather.
Arrival at Mumbai International
Our IndiGo flight from Kochi in Kerala state was steadily descending. Soon, we’d land at Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. Below, the vast slums surrounding the airport glistened in a light rain. As we neared touchdown, the perimeter fence seemed almost within arm’s reach, just beyond it, modest dwellings covered in bright blue tarps packed tightly together. I was back in Mumbai.
The airport terminal was immense, and even indoors, the air felt heavy with humidity. It was crowded, and the walk was long, but the facility was functionally laid out, making navigation easy. Befitting one of the world’s major cities, it had a sophisticated atmosphere, lacking the chaotic clamor often characteristic of India.
Exiting the arrivals lobby towards the taxi stand, I found separate lines for air-conditioned and non-air-conditioned cabs. Normally, I might hesitate, but thinking of the light rain, the temperature likely exceeding 86°F (30°C), and the humidity already clinging to me, I unhesitatingly chose AC.
Towards Marine Drive
The taxi headed towards the Marine Drive area, where my hotel was located, via the city center. Due to heavy rainfall, roadsides were submerged in places, causing traffic jams. My stay in Mumbai was brief—just two nights before catching an ANA direct flight back to Tokyo. The idea was to reacclimate slightly to an urban environment after several weeks wandering other parts of India, far removed from typical city life. Spending my final travel days in a global metropolis felt like a gentle ‘rehabilitation’ back towards everyday life in Japan. That’s the polished version; the truth is, it was simply a traveler’s whim—I wanted to wander Mumbai’s backstreets.
We sped along the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, a freeway arching over the Arabian Sea side of Mumbai Bay. Blinding rain and strong winds rendered the wipers almost useless, but my taciturn driver kept his foot firmly on the gas. The promised air conditioning wasn’t particularly effective.
Mumbai is India’s largest economic hub, a metropolitan area exceeding 20 million people and a key engine of the nation’s growth. As a port city on the Arabian Sea, its history as a strategic location stretches back before the Common Era. Standing on its street corners, you can feel the intense energy of its diverse population, a constant throughout its history.
The name “Mumbai” is based on the local Marathi language and officially replaced the former name “Bombay” in 1995 under a notably right-leaning political party. Consequently, there are still movements advocating a return to “Bombay.” I recalled meeting an Indian on this trip who insisted on using “Bombay,” arguing, “There’s no need to blindly follow a name the government changed.” Incidentally, the airport’s three-letter code remains “BOM,” presumably derived from the old city name.
The 100% Humidity Hotel
The taxi arrived at my hotel on Marine Drive. A doorman clad in traditional Indian attire opened my door, holding a large umbrella. His perfectly natural gesture suggested that welcoming guests amidst torrential rain was routine here.
Entering my room, I was speechless. The mirror, glass surfaces, and windows were completely fogged with condensation. More shockingly, the wooden flooring seemed not just damp, but positively wet – like it had just been hosed down or hastily mopped without drying. In disbelief, I asked the front desk for a different room, but they gently advised that it was due to the climate and all rooms were likely similar.
Considering this was a respectable, albeit somewhat classic, hotel, and remembering the unceasing downpour since my arrival, I tried to accept it – “I suppose that’s just how it is.” However, finding the bedding also heavy and damp with moisture was deeply unnerving. While my throat, prone to dryness, usually welcomes some humidity, this level was a different story entirely. The feeling of potentially drowning just by breathing was not only uncomfortable but bordered on frightening.
On a sudden thought, I cranked up the air conditioner’s dehumidifying and cooling functions to maximum. After a while, the extreme dampness subsided somewhat, and I finally felt I could manage to stay here. My only hope was that the AC would keep working.
Arabian Sea at Dusk
As the rain eased to a drizzle, I decided to walk around the hotel for a change of scenery. If it was going to be humid anyway, I might as well breathe some fresh air. Stepping out onto Marine Drive along the coast in the evening, the drizzle had mostly stopped, but the wind had picked up. Breaks appeared in the low-hanging clouds over the Arabian Sea, revealing a faint sunset glow. Along the sea wall, which curves for several kilometers (miles), countless people sat nearly shoulder-to-shoulder – talking in small groups, gazing at the indistinct sunset, fiddling with their phones.
“Shouldn’t they be home in this foul weather?” I wondered. Was there a reason they didn’t want to be indoors – cramped spaces, large families? Or perhaps it was simply their habit to be outside in the evening, even in light rain? Then I chuckled grimly, “Ah, maybe their homes are just as intensely humid as my hotel room.” Human behavior is fundamentally the same, perhaps.
Dusk slowly descended, but the crowds lingered, each person absorbed in their own time. The surrounding commercial area buzzed with lights from restaurants and shops. It almost felt like a collective declaration from the locals: “Bad weather doesn’t really bother us.”
Looking into Mumbai’s climate, I learned its coastal location in western India means a tropical, hot, and humid climate heavily influenced by the monsoon. The average annual high is around 86°F (30°C), the low around 68°F (20°C), with distinct wet and dry seasons.
The wet season runs from June to September, concentrating most of the annual rainfall – around 87 inches (2200mm) – into these four months. It’s an immense amount. Records show nearly 39 inches (1000mm) falling in a single day in recent years – truly “bucket-tipping” downpours that last all day, frequently causing river overflows and floods.
Conversely, the dry season from October to May sees very little rain. From December to February, lows can dip to around 59°F (15°C), feeling cool in the mornings and evenings. The hottest period, known as the “hot season,” is April to May, when highs can approach 104°F (40°C) – the image of “scorching India.”
Watching the rain start up again, I realized, “Ah, it’s early August – we’re right in the middle of the monsoon season.” I recalled news reports during my India trip about a plane overrunning the runway at Mumbai airport due to heavy rain, and large-scale evacuations in Kerala because of flooding. This already extremely rainy region was now facing the added impacts of global climate change.
The Astonishing Dabbawalas
The next day dawned drizzly. With only one full day for exploring during my two-night stay, I decided to head out immediately. I’d learned yesterday that rain is simply part of normal life during the monsoon; a light drizzle might as well be considered good weather.
Near Churchgate railway station, I witnessed the incredible efficiency of the “dabbawalas,” who deliver homemade lunches to city workers. This service, collecting lunchboxes (dabbas) from homes across the city and suburbs, delivering them to workplaces, and returning the empty containers, has been operating in Mumbai since the 1890s—over 130 years. Due to diverse dietary restrictions and preferences (often religious), homemade lunches are highly valued in India.
The dabbas, typically multi-tiered aluminum lunchboxes, are systematically collected, transported largely by train, sorted near hubs like Churchgate station by destination area, and then delivered the final leg by bicycle or on foot. For a cost of around 200 rupees (roughly $3 USD then) per month, customers enjoy a home-cooked lunch at their office daily. It’s estimated that some 175,000 dabbawalas work in Mumbai today, with a legendary accuracy rate – supposedly less than one mistaken delivery in six million.
At the station, I saw dabbawalas carrying huge loads of dabbas off arriving trains, weaving through passengers towards sorting areas where the containers were grouped by delivery route. They all seemed utterly dedicated, making the near-zero error rate understandable. Their pride and commitment were evident. Since many dabbas look alike, each carries special markings indicating its drop-off station and final office destination.
I marveled, thinking how modern services like Japan’s same-day delivery rely on sophisticated IT tracking, yet here in Mumbai, an analogous system, powered almost entirely by human effort, had existed for over 130 years.
Pick-up from homes is around 9:30 AM, and the empty dabbas, collected around 2:30 PM, return via the reverse route, arriving back at homes between 3:30 PM and 5:00 PM.
Even in the drizzle that day, the deliveries were proceeding reliably. The dabbawalas were undeterred by the damp, seemingly more concerned with keeping the lunchboxes dry than themselves. Again, I saw how “bad” weather was simply woven into the fabric of normal monsoon life. Watching them, I felt deeply impressed by the city’s history and the ingenuity of its people.
Dhobi Ghat: The Open-Air Laundry
I took a local train a few stops north to Mahalaxmi station to visit Dhobi Ghat, a massive open-air laundry. “Dhobi” literally means washerman in Hindi. Inside this sprawling area, numerous people washed various textiles using age-old methods: rubbing, scrubbing, beating, and wringing. While some machines like extractors are now used, the process remains largely manual, handling laundry collected from all over Mumbai—washing, drying, folding, and delivering it back.
From an overlooking bridge, I could see the entire complex: a grid of large concrete washing pens, simple buildings likely doubling as workers’ homes, and drying areas above. Because of the rain today, blue tarps were stretched over the washing pens and drying lines where work continued underneath. With eateries and other facilities within, Dhobi Ghat is practically a town in itself.
Between the dabbawalas and Dhobi Ghat, I was struck by how these highly organized, sophisticated services, fitting for a megacity, were established long ago, operating almost entirely on human power. These felt like prototypes of the modern urban services we often assume are cutting-edge.
Rain Man Musings
From Dhobi Ghat, I started walking towards the Dr. Bhau Daji Lad Museum. Google Maps showed it was a little under 1.2 miles (2km), a 25-minute walk. Though less than 10 minutes by car, I wanted to see the streets and local life up close, so naturally, I set off walking. But the rain suddenly intensified. Undeterred, I pushed on, but it soon became one of those “bucket-tipping” downpours.
I took refuge under a concrete shelter that looked like a bus stop, where several locals also dashed in. We all stood watching the deluge, sharing a silent, mutual hope for it to ease. In moments like these, my foreignness didn’t matter; instinctive mutual support emerged, like gesturing “scoot over here where it’s drier.”
Despite the intensity—even car traffic thinned—some motorbikes still sped through, and children played heedlessly. It was amusingly random to see when each person sheltering decided they couldn’t wait any longer and bolted back out. The museum was still about a third of a mile (500m) away. I couldn’t fathom how soaked I’d get trying to cover that distance in the driving rain. I decided to wait for it to lessen slightly. I felt I was gradually learning to cooperate with nature, not fight it.
Watching the rain, I remembered how often I’m called “Rain Man.” I’ve encountered freak downpours during Uluru’s driest season in Australia and waded through a flooded market in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. Countless times, days of perfect weather have inexplicably turned into torrential rain precisely on the day of an event I was attending.
I genuinely don’t dislike rain. I find it calming, and it makes trees and cities look beautiful. I believe rain is why people can live where they do. In fact, after more than two weeks of relentless “perfect Japanese weather” in Central Asia, I started feeling an inexplicable anxiety.
Still, the “Rain Man” label is obviously unscientific, and I sometimes tire of the teasing. I rationalize it: “It’s just that rainy travel memories are more vivid,” or “I don’t mind bad weather, so I end up in rainy places more often.” I even joke that if I truly had this “power,” I should offer my services as a rainmaker worldwide.
However, I recently learned about scientific research into whether fungi and microbes might actually cause rain. The theory involves “bio-aerosols” – fungal spores and microbes rising into the atmosphere, acting as nuclei for water droplets, thus seeding clouds. Why? Because mushrooms need rain to grow, so perhaps the mushrooms themselves bring the rain… If this is proven, maybe it’s not entirely impossible that I, like a mushroom, release spores that cause rain wherever I go? I await the results of future bio-aerosol research (laughs).
Lost in these idle thoughts, I noticed the rain easing. Exchanging nods with my fellow shelter-seekers, I headed towards the museum.
The Tower of Silence
The Dr. Bhau Daji Lad Museum, formerly the Victoria & Albert Museum (and modeled after its namesake in London), opened in 1872, funded by private donations. Its exhibits—maps, photographs, models, crafts—offer a glimpse into Mumbai’s rich history and culture. Particularly striking was a replica of a Parsi “Tower of Silence.” This Zoroastrian funeral site replica is modeled after the actual one located in Mumbai. While modern practices have shifted due to hygiene regulations, environmental concerns, and a decline in the wild vulture population crucial to the traditional sky burial, it was originally considered a highly hygienic, rational, and environmentally low-impact method of dealing with the dead—a testament to the wisdom of humans living in harmony with nature.
A World Heritage Terminus
Next, I took a taxi to Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus (CSMT). When I gave the destination to the elderly driver using its old name, “Victoria Terminus,” he smiled. “Oh, you know that name? It has a nice ring to it.” This historic station building, also a UNESCO World Heritage site, had its name changed in 1996 during the same wave of renaming efforts across India (like Bombay becoming Mumbai) intended to replace British colonial-era names with Indian ones. Clearly, though, many people still prefer the historic old name.
The terminus building is a World Heritage site, but the station itself is a massive, functioning railway hub where long-distance trains connect Mumbai with the rest of India. The concourse teemed with immense crowds, a constant flow reflecting the city’s vitality. Shoeshine stands, vendors, even free drinking water taps – all were bustling with activity. The unique atmosphere of a grand terminus resonated deeply with my traveler’s heart.
Leaving the station, the rain had eased to a drizzle again. Strolling back towards my hotel, I came across an outdoor bookstore under a large tree—essentially an open-air shop, but with a huge blue tarp stretched overhead to keep the merchandise dry. Plenty of people were Browse and buying. Here too, the philosophy of “don’t fight the rain, live with it” seemed naturally practiced.
Though I hadn’t visited many famous tourist spots, wandering Mumbai’s core felt less like the “urban rehabilitation” I’d initially planned and more like a deep dive into experiencing a city that lives with rain. It had rained constantly all day. The persistent raindrops and low clouds were an ever-present part of the view, yet everywhere I looked held a profound beauty. People didn’t seem overly bothered by the downpours. Rain was just part of nature, something to be expected. It was as if they were implicitly asking, “Who decided clear skies are inherently better?” This seemed to be the culture of people living alongside nature, even within a megacity.
Getting disappointed on a trip because rain makes moving around difficult, ruins photo opportunities, or prevents you from seeing that Instagram-famous view feels far too one-dimensional for a traveler. Isn’t feeling the wind, getting soaked by the rain, and maybe basking in the sun later—truly placing yourself within the weather and experiencing it—the fundamental essence of travel? Mulling this over back in my hotel, I realized, with a small sense of pleasure, that the slightly high humidity in my room for this last night in India didn’t really matter anymore.
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