『俺たちにはムンバイの力が宿っている』
" Netflix ドキュメンタリー
食べて・踊って・夢を見て インド・ムンバイより "
ムンバイ市域人口は1,248万と世界でも有数。
ムンバイ新市街として建設されたナビムンバイ（新ボンベイ）やムンバイの衛星都市として発展してきたターネーなど周辺の大都市をも含めた都市圏人口は、2016年時点で2,288万人であり、世界第6位の巨大な大都市圏を形成している。
（中略）
また、アメリカのシンクタンクが2016年に発表した世界都市ランキングにおいて、世界44位と評価されており、インドでは首都ニューデリーを上回り首位である。
天然の良港に恵まれていることもあり、国全体の海上貨物の半数以上を担う港湾都市でもある。
ウィキペディア ムンバイより
私の住む国は長い間、私がまだ小学校に上がる前位から、インドはガンジス川を中心に構成された日常で、主要都市の世界第2位か確か1位の人口数を誇り、数字のゼロを発明した国なのに、とても貧困で気の毒な程ご苦労されていて、インドに私の住む日本人が行くと、人生観が変わり、カレーはスパイス・カレーしか受け付けず、何か精神的に開かれ悟りを持ち達観した人間になれると2026年の今でも信じられていました。
先日、久しぶりにNetflixを見ていて、ミッドナイトアジアというドキュメンタリーを見つけインドのムンバイのバーテンダーさんがこのドキュメンタリーシリーズのメインビジュアルに使われていたので、観ると、大都会でした。
NYと比べても引けを取らないくらい大都会でした。
風土は西洋とは違いますが、一見してベトナムの景色に似ているなと感じ、私は食い入るように生まれて初めて見る大都会のインド・ムンバイという都市の景色を見つめていました。
多くの人々がムンバイに渡ってきて、沢山の人生を繰り広げている、シャープで洗練されたエネルギーに満ちた都会のカオスが存在していました。
スパイス・カレーなんて何処にも無い。上半身裸の痩せた男性が沐浴もしていない。
道を牛は歩いていない。
夜中80年代前半のロンドンを思わせる、少し暑い藍色の若さの夜が爆発していました。
電車は当然金属で、マカロンは素敵なピンクのネオンで素敵にキュートでKAWAIIショップで売られ、女性たちにもカップルにも大人気でした。
コロニアル建築洋式の流れを組む、美しい歴史建造物が街にあり、ラップを歌う現代の吟遊は、満員の若者のクラブステージでダイナミックに内面をクールに冷静に語り、冷徹とも言えるクレバーとノーブルの渦が若者と青年達をハンズアップさせていました。
誰も感動し過ぎない。強く、上昇していく都市の新しさだけがが時折サリーを纏った文化の違いだけが在る、私の胸のギヤマンを爽快に打ち砕き、ダイヤモンドを沢山沢山降らせて、大好きな雨のように、今も水滴の中に満ちた敬意とゼロと哲学の化学記号の液体をみなぎらせています。
インドは大都会でした。
こんなに美しい都市があるのか、と言う程、夜が大きく帆を広げていました。
その話をすると、ぐったりした声で「日本のコーディネーターがバカなんだよ」と今までの間違いまくった日本にしか無いインドを詫びる方が言いました。
コーディネーターはきっと日本人か、あまりインドを知りたい人の気持ちに沿わず、その人達が見たいインドを見せ続けていたのでしょうね。
私の住む国の数十年間も。
誰も知りませんでした。
インドがNYと匹敵するムンバイという大都市を持つなんて。
まだ制服を着ていた頃、私は妙なテレビ番組を深夜見たことがあります。
それは民法で、確か南アメリカだったと思う。
何かの遺跡が何故か南アメリカにあり、それは歴史的にも大発見で、日本の民法のクルー達がアメリカのTVを通して、その遺跡までの誰も知らない道を自分は知っている、という現地のコーディネーターを車に乗せて、日本、アメリカ、多分現地の肌の色は白でも黒でも黄色でも無い、よく分からない男性とで撮影クルーはそこまでの道のりをドキュメンタリーとして録画し、何故か撮影クルーのディレクターが主にアナウンスをしていたと記憶しています。
深夜2時頃に見終わった記憶だけが残っています。
私は自分も国内で受けたことがある差別を、その放送内で見ていました。
撮影クルーは何度も道を間違える現地コーディネーターに、英語で最初にアメリカのTVの人達に、
「これで合っているのか？ 」と尋ね、
そのアメリカ人TVクルーの1人が現地コーディネーターに確認し、間違い無いと答えたのを伝言リレーで日本人スタッフ達に伝えると言う、暑くて暑くて何も周囲に建物どころか草も途切れ途切れの木も生えていないような道を、延々2台の撮影隊の車だけが、埃まみれで走っていきました。
食事のシーンも映るけれど、子供の私にも分かる程、トラブルの匂いと気配だけが漂うテーブルと店のシーン、どう考えても道が違う。
いつまでも辿り着かない。
アナウンスをするディレクターはもう何回目かの遺跡の大発見を語り、とうとう最後は途中で止してしまった。
現地コーディネータに訊く最後から3回目に、1人、中肉中背のメガネを掛けたシティ・ボーイ的な男性が、
「あいつ、俺たちのこと差別してるよ」とアメリカTVクルーの1番体が大きい白人のことを差して言った声が画面に流れました。
「考えすぎだよ。あいつ（現地コーディネーター）に苛立ってるんだよ。あいつがおかしんだよ」とカメラの手前で誰かが無表情な疲れきった声で答えました。
「いや、差別してるだろ。あれ・・・」
途中で映像は車内に切り替わりました。
また行けども行けども延々のカンカン照りの道と先を走るアメリカTVクルーの車。
現地コーディネーターは何故か日本人クルーの車に乗っており、辿々しく現地の言葉と英語をチャンポンで本人確認を取り始めたら、なんと英語が分からない筈の現地コーディーネーターは現地人では無く、英語も結構分かることが判明し、無線で前の車両に連絡し、車は停車しました。
すると前からあの背の高いアメリカ人男性だけがイライラした大股で近寄ってきて、現地コーディネーターとチャンポンで話した日本人TVスタッフと差別じゃないのか、と言った男性とで3人が外で話していたところ、車内に居るカメラに日本人スタッフが駆け寄ってきて、
「知らないって。酒場で噂話聞いただけだって。道も分からないって」と言うと、カメラが車を降りてダーッと駆け寄って行き、アメリカ人TVクルーのあの男性が、
「何故今まで黙ってたんだ！ おい！ この撮影を切り替えるから、撮影が出来るようにしておけ！」
と日本人TVクルーを指さして命令した瞬間、
「なに言ってんだよっ！！！ ちょっと待てよっお前！俺達は奴隷じゃねーんだよっっ！ おいコラァ！待て！待てっつってんだよっ、オイ！！！」
あのシティボーイの人が全身で怒鳴り、
「何してんだ！差別されてんだぞ！ 俺達に言ったんだぞ！」
と言い捨て、彼を追いかけていく途中で、アメリカのTVクルーの男性はさっさと車に乗り込み、その後突然場面は変わり、
カッチカッチカッチとハザードの音が響く静かな車内で、
冷静な日本TVクルーは再度後部座席に座った現地コーディーネーターによく似せた人に、
「じゃあ、本当に知らないんだね？」
と淡々と確認を取り、その後場面は、
急に態度を改めた大変紳士的なさっきのアメリカ人TVクルーの男性1人だけが、チェックのテーブルクロスの向こうで（きっと向こうのクルーの中でも厄介な人）、
「さっきは感情的になってしまって済まなかった。差別なんてそんなつもりはないんだよ？」
と言い、そして、
「・・・・Then？ 」とスピーチの時の様にテーブルの上に両腕を置いて手を広げて話し、
私が今でもあの人は立派だ。と、
あの人は誰か分からないけれど、私もいつか又差別されたらあの人のようにするんだ。と心に決めたその人は、ずっと向こうを向いていました。
2011年の災害が起こった後、もうそれがいつだったかは忘れてしまったけれど、書籍を購入してサインを頂いた黒いフーディを着たその人の迫力に、何だかあの人に似ているな・・、と古い絨毯の匂いが立ちこめるロビーに据えられた1番奥の机の前で、私はぼんやり思っていました。
エナメル 2026/08/23 03:39
20260823 05:08 文章を直しました。
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“The Power of Mumbai Lives Within Us”
"Netflix Documentary
Eat, Dance, Dream: From Mumbai, India"
"Netflix Documentary
Eat, Dance, Dream: From Mumbai, India"
Mumbai’s metropolitan population stands at 12.48 million, making it one of the largest in the world.
Including surrounding major cities such as Navi Mumbai (New Bombay), which was built as a new city for Mumbai, and Thane, which has developed as a satellite city of Mumbai, the metropolitan area’s population totaled 22.88 million as of 2016, forming the world’s sixth-largest metropolitan area.
(Excerpt omitted)
Furthermore, in a global city ranking released by an American think tank in 2016, Mumbai was ranked 44th in the world, placing it first in India ahead of the capital, New Delhi.
Blessed with a natural deep-water harbor, it is also a port city that handles more than half of the nation’s maritime cargo.
From Wikipedia, “Mumbai”
https://w.wiki/4crT
Including surrounding major cities such as Navi Mumbai (New Bombay), which was built as a new city for Mumbai, and Thane, which has developed as a satellite city of Mumbai, the metropolitan area’s population totaled 22.88 million as of 2016, forming the world’s sixth-largest metropolitan area.
(Excerpt omitted)
Furthermore, in a global city ranking released by an American think tank in 2016, Mumbai was ranked 44th in the world, placing it first in India ahead of the capital, New Delhi.
Blessed with a natural deep-water harbor, it is also a port city that handles more than half of the nation’s maritime cargo.
From Wikipedia, “Mumbai”
https://w.wiki/4crT
For a long time—ever since before I even started elementary school—my perception of India was shaped by daily life centered around the Ganges River. Despite boasting the world’s second-largest—or perhaps even first-largest—population in its major cities and being the country that invented the numeral zero, India was seen as a place of extreme poverty where people struggled to the point of being pitiable. It was believed that when Japanese people like me visited India, our outlook on life would change, and I could only tolerate spicy curry, and even now in 2026, I still believed that going there would make me a more open-minded, enlightened, and detached person.
The other day, while watching Netflix for the first time in a while, I came across a documentary called “Midnight Asia.” A bartender from Mumbai, India, was featured on the main visual for the series, so I decided to watch it—and it turned out to be a massive metropolis.
It was a metropolis that held its own even when compared to New York.
Although the culture is different from the West, at first glance it reminded me of the scenery in Vietnam, and I found myself gazing intently at the cityscape of Mumbai, India—a metropolis I was seeing for the very first time.
There was a chaotic yet sharp and sophisticated energy in the city, where countless people had come to Mumbai to live out their diverse lives.
There were no spice curries to be found anywhere. Skinny, shirtless men hadn’t even bathed.
Cows weren’t walking down the streets.
At night, a slightly hot, indigo-hued night of youth—reminiscent of early ’80s London—was exploding all around me.
The trains were, of course, made of metal, and macarons—with their lovely pink neon lights—were sold in cute, “kawaii” shops and were hugely popular with both women and couples.
Beautiful historic buildings in the colonial architectural style dotted the city, and modern troubadours rapping on packed club stages dynamically expressed their inner worlds with cool composure, while a whirlwind of cleverness and nobility—almost ruthless in its intensity—had the young people and youths raising their hands in the air.
No one was overly moved. Only the novelty of this strong, rising city—and the occasional cultural difference, like a woman draped in a sari—shattered the gem in my heart with a refreshing burst, showering me with countless diamonds. Like the rain I love so much, it still fills the droplets with a liquid of respect, zero, and the chemical symbols of philosophy.
India was a metropolis.
The night spread its sails so wide that I wondered if there could be a city this beautiful.
When I mentioned this, someone who had been apologizing for the India that only Japan—with all its past mistakes—had ever known said in a weary voice, “It’s the Japanese coordinators who are idiots.”
The coordinator must have been Japanese—or perhaps someone who didn’t really understand the desire of those who wanted to know India—and kept showing them the India they wanted to see.
For decades in the country where I live.
No one knew.
That India had a metropolis like Mumbai, rivaling New York.
Back when I was still in uniform, I once watched a strange TV program late at night.
It was on a commercial channel, and I think it was set in South America.
For some reason, there were ancient ruins in South America—a major historical discovery—and the Japanese TV crew, via an American TV network, picked up a local coordinator who claimed to know the secret path to the ruins that no one else did. Along with the Japanese and American crew members—and a local man whose skin color wasn’t white, black, or yellow, so I couldn’t quite tell—they filmed the journey there as a documentary. I remember that, for some reason, the director of the film crew was the one doing most of the narration.
The other day, while watching Netflix for the first time in a while, I came across a documentary called “Midnight Asia.” A bartender from Mumbai, India, was featured on the main visual for the series, so I decided to watch it—and it turned out to be a massive metropolis.
It was a metropolis that held its own even when compared to New York.
Although the culture is different from the West, at first glance it reminded me of the scenery in Vietnam, and I found myself gazing intently at the cityscape of Mumbai, India—a metropolis I was seeing for the very first time.
There was a chaotic yet sharp and sophisticated energy in the city, where countless people had come to Mumbai to live out their diverse lives.
There were no spice curries to be found anywhere. Skinny, shirtless men hadn’t even bathed.
Cows weren’t walking down the streets.
At night, a slightly hot, indigo-hued night of youth—reminiscent of early ’80s London—was exploding all around me.
The trains were, of course, made of metal, and macarons—with their lovely pink neon lights—were sold in cute, “kawaii” shops and were hugely popular with both women and couples.
Beautiful historic buildings in the colonial architectural style dotted the city, and modern troubadours rapping on packed club stages dynamically expressed their inner worlds with cool composure, while a whirlwind of cleverness and nobility—almost ruthless in its intensity—had the young people and youths raising their hands in the air.
No one was overly moved. Only the novelty of this strong, rising city—and the occasional cultural difference, like a woman draped in a sari—shattered the gem in my heart with a refreshing burst, showering me with countless diamonds. Like the rain I love so much, it still fills the droplets with a liquid of respect, zero, and the chemical symbols of philosophy.
India was a metropolis.
The night spread its sails so wide that I wondered if there could be a city this beautiful.
When I mentioned this, someone who had been apologizing for the India that only Japan—with all its past mistakes—had ever known said in a weary voice, “It’s the Japanese coordinators who are idiots.”
The coordinator must have been Japanese—or perhaps someone who didn’t really understand the desire of those who wanted to know India—and kept showing them the India they wanted to see.
For decades in the country where I live.
No one knew.
That India had a metropolis like Mumbai, rivaling New York.
Back when I was still in uniform, I once watched a strange TV program late at night.
It was on a commercial channel, and I think it was set in South America.
For some reason, there were ancient ruins in South America—a major historical discovery—and the Japanese TV crew, via an American TV network, picked up a local coordinator who claimed to know the secret path to the ruins that no one else did. Along with the Japanese and American crew members—and a local man whose skin color wasn’t white, black, or yellow, so I couldn’t quite tell—they filmed the journey there as a documentary. I remember that, for some reason, the director of the film crew was the one doing most of the narration.
All I remember is finishing watching it around 2:00 a.m.
As I watched that broadcast, I saw the same kind of discrimination that I myself had experienced here in Japan.
The film crew asked the local coordinator—who kept taking wrong turns—in English, “Is this the right way?” One of the American TV crew members checked with the local coordinator, who confirmed it was correct, and this message was relayed to the Japanese staff. Along a road that was so hot—with no buildings in sight, not even grass or scattered trees—the two production vehicles drove on and on, covered in dust.
Although there are scenes of meals, the table and restaurant scenes are so thick with the scent and atmosphere of trouble that even a child like me could tell—no matter how you look at it, they’re on the wrong road.
We just couldn’t seem to arrive.
The director, who was making the announcements, was talking about yet another “major archaeological discovery,” but finally, he had to stop midway through.
I asked the local coordinator. During the third-to-last segment, the voice of a medium-built, bespectacled “city boy” type of man came over the screen as he pointed at the largest white member of the American TV crew and said, “That guy’s discriminating against us.”
“You’re overthinking it. He’s just annoyed with that guy (the local coordinator). That guy’s the one who’s weird,” someone replied in front of the camera in a expressionless, exhausted voice.
“No, he’s being discriminatory. That guy…”
Midway through, the footage cut to the inside of the car.
As I watched that broadcast, I saw the same kind of discrimination that I myself had experienced here in Japan.
The film crew asked the local coordinator—who kept taking wrong turns—in English, “Is this the right way?” One of the American TV crew members checked with the local coordinator, who confirmed it was correct, and this message was relayed to the Japanese staff. Along a road that was so hot—with no buildings in sight, not even grass or scattered trees—the two production vehicles drove on and on, covered in dust.
Although there are scenes of meals, the table and restaurant scenes are so thick with the scent and atmosphere of trouble that even a child like me could tell—no matter how you look at it, they’re on the wrong road.
We just couldn’t seem to arrive.
The director, who was making the announcements, was talking about yet another “major archaeological discovery,” but finally, he had to stop midway through.
I asked the local coordinator. During the third-to-last segment, the voice of a medium-built, bespectacled “city boy” type of man came over the screen as he pointed at the largest white member of the American TV crew and said, “That guy’s discriminating against us.”
“You’re overthinking it. He’s just annoyed with that guy (the local coordinator). That guy’s the one who’s weird,” someone replied in front of the camera in a expressionless, exhausted voice.
“No, he’s being discriminatory. That guy…”
Midway through, the footage cut to the inside of the car.
No matter how far we drove, the road stretched endlessly under the blazing sun, with the American TV crew’s car leading the way.
For some reason, the local coordinator was riding in the Japanese crew’s car.
When he began stammering through a mix of the local language and English to verify our identities, it turned out that the local coordinator—who was supposed to not understand English—wasn’t actually a local and could understand English quite well. He contacted the car ahead via radio, and the vehicle came to a stop.
Then, only that tall American man from the front vehicle approached with long, irritated strides. The three of them—the local coordinator, the Japanese TV staffer who’d spoken to him in a mix of languages, and the man who’d accused them of discrimination—were talking outside when a Japanese staffer rushed over to the camera crew and said,
“I didn’t know anything about it. I just heard some rumors at a bar. I don’t even know the way.”
Just as he said that, as the camera crew was rushing over, that American man from the TV crew pointed at the Japanese TV crew and ordered,
“Why didn’t you say anything until now?! Hey! We’re switching to this shot, so get ready to film!”
The moment he pointed at the Japanese TV crew and barked that order,
“What the hell are you talking about!!! Hold on a second, you! We’re not slaves, you know!!! Hey, FUKKER! Wait! Hey Listen FUCK OFF EARE, I said wait, HEY BICTCH!!!”
The city boy shouted with all his might,
“What you doing here NOW! We’re being discriminated against! He talking to SLAVES US!”
“Why didn’t you say anything until now?! Hey! We’re switching to this shot, so get ready to film!”
The moment he pointed at the Japanese TV crew and barked that order,
“What the hell are you talking about!!! Hold on a second, you! We’re not slaves, you know!!! Hey, FUKKER! Wait! Hey Listen FUCK OFF EARE, I said wait, HEY BICTCH!!!”
The city boy shouted with all his might,
“What you doing here NOW! We’re being discriminated against! He talking to SLAVES US!”
As he chased after the man, the man quickly got into his car, and then the scene suddenly cut to,
In the quiet car, with the sound of the hazard lights clicking “click-click-click,”the composed Japanese TV crew calmly asked the person sitting in the back seat—who bore a striking resemblance to the local coordinator—
“So, you really didn’t know, then?”
The scene then shifts to
the single American TV crew member—who had suddenly changed his attitude and was now acting very gentlemanly—standing behind the checkered tablecloth (he must have been the troublemaker among their crew),
“I’m sorry I got emotional earlier. I really didn’t mean to be discriminatory,”
and,
The scene then shifts to
the single American TV crew member—who had suddenly changed his attitude and was now acting very gentlemanly—standing behind the checkered tablecloth (he must have been the troublemaker among their crew),
“I’m sorry I got emotional earlier. I really didn’t mean to be discriminatory,”
and,
He said that, and,
“...Then?”
he asked, placing both arms on the table and spreading his hands wide just as he had during his speech,
and I still think that person is admirable.
Even though I don’t know who that person was, I made up my mind that if I’m ever discriminated against again, I’ll do the same as that person did.
and I still think that person is admirable.
Even though I don’t know who that person was, I made up my mind that if I’m ever discriminated against again, I’ll do the same as that person did.
That person kept facing away from me the whole time.
After the disaster in 2011—though I’ve since forgotten exactly when it was—I bought a book and had it signed by that person in the black hoodie. As I sat at the desk at the very back of the lobby, where the smell of old carpets lingered, I found myself idly thinking, “He kind of looks like that person…”
Enamel 08/23/2026 03:39
20260823 05:08 Revised the text.
