Description:

A native of Bombay, Suketu Mehta gives us an insider’s view of this stunning metropolis. He approaches the city from unexpected angles, taking us into the criminal underworld of rival Muslim and Hindu gangs, following the life of a bar dancer raised amid poverty and abuse, opening the door into the inner sanctums of Bollywood, and delving into the stories of the countless villagers who come in search of a better life and end up living on the sidewalks.

As each individual story unfolds, Mehta also recounts his own efforts to make a home in Bombay after more than twenty years abroad. Candid, impassioned, funny, and heartrending, Maximum City is a revelation of an ancient and ever-changing world.

Review

“Stunning. . . . A powerful, arresting work. . . . Marvelous.” –Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Narrative reporting at its finest, probably the best work of nonfiction to come out of India in recent years. . . . Mehta succeeds so brilliantly in taking the pulse of this riotous urban jungle.” –The New York Times Book Review

As each individual story unfolds, Mehta also recounts his own efforts to make a home in Bombay after more than twenty years abroad. Candid, impassioned, funny, and heartrending, Maximum City is a revelation of an ancient and ever-changing world.

“What Dickens did for London, what Joseph Mitchell did for New York City, Suketu Mehta has done for Bombay. . . . A candid, extensive, and wholly entertaining portrait.” –San Diego Union-Tribune

“The ultimate insider’s view of Bombay, a roiling and vigorous account that delivers on a seemingly impossible challenge: how to limn the diversity and sprawl of such a place in a single book.” –The Seattle Times

From the Back Cover

A brilliantly illuminating portrait of Bombay and its people-a book as vast, diverse, and rich in experience, incident, and sensation as the city itself-from an award-winning Indian-American fiction writer and journalist.
A native of Bombay, Suketu Mehta gives us a true insider's view of this stunning city, bringing to his account a rare level of insight, detail, and intimacy. He approaches the city from unexpected angles-taking us into the criminal underworld of rival Muslim and Hindu gangs who wrest control of the city's byzantine political and commercial systems . . . following the life of a bar dancer who chose the only life available to her after a childhood of poverty and abuse . . . opening the doors onto the fantastic, hierarchical inner sanctums of Bollywood . . . delving into the stories of the countless people who come from the villages in search of a better life and end up living on the sidewalks-the essential saga of a great city endlessly played out.
Through it all-as each individual story unfolds-we hear Mehta's own story: of the mixture of love, frustration, fascination, and intense identification he feels for and with Bombay, as he tries to find home again after twenty-one years abroad. And he makes clear that Bombay-the world's largest city-is a harbinger of the vast megalopolises that will redefine the very idea of "the city" in the near future.
Candid, impassioned, funny, and heartrending, "Maximum City is a revelation of an ancient and ever-changing world.

"From the Hardcover edition.

About the Author

Suketu Mehta is a fiction writer and journalist based in New York. He has won the Whiting Writers Award, the O. Henry Prize, and a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellowship for his fiction. Mehta’s other work has been published in the New York Times Magazine, Granta, Harper’s magazine, Time, Condé Nast Traveler, and The Village Voice, and has been featured on National Public Radio’s All Things Considered. Mehta also cowrote Mission Kashmir, a Bollywood movie.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Personal Geography

There will soon be more people living in the city of Bombay than on the continent of Australia. Urbs Prima in Indis reads the plaque outside the Gateway of India. It is also the Urbs Prima in Mundis, at least in one area, the first test of the vitality of a city: the number of people living in it. 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.

I left Bombay in 1977 and came back twenty-one years later, when it had grown up to become Mumbai. Twenty-one years: enough time for a human being to be born, get an education, be eligible to drink, get married, drive, vote, go to war, and kill a man. In all that time, I hadn’t lost my accent. I speak like a Bombay boy; it is how I am identified in Kanpur and Kansas. “Where’re you from?” Searching for an answer—in Paris, in London, in Manhattan—I always fall back on “Bombay.” Somewhere, buried beneath the wreck of its current condition—one of urban catastrophe—is the city that has a tight claim on my heart, a beautiful city by the sea, an island-state of hope in a very old country. I went back to look for that city with a simple question: Can you go home again? In the looking, I found the cities within me.

I am a city boy. I was born in a city in extremis, Calcutta. Then I moved to Bombay and lived there nine years. Then to New York, eight years in Jackson Heights. A year, on and off, in Paris. Five years in the East Village. Scattered over time, another year or so in London. The only exceptions were three years in Iowa City, not a city at all, and a couple more in New Brunswick, New Jersey, college towns that prepared me for a return to the city. My two sons were born in a great city, New York. I live in cities by choice, and I’m pretty sure I will die in a city. I don’t know what to do in the country, though I like it well enough on weekends.

I come from a family of mercantile wanderers. My paternal grandfather left rural Gujarat for Calcutta in the salad days of the century, to join his brother in the jewelry business. When my grandfather’s brother first ventured into international territory, to Japan, in the 1930s, he had to come back and bow in apology before the caste elders, turban in his hands. But his nephews—my father and my uncle—kept moving, first to Bombay and then across the black water to Antwerp and New York, to add to what was given to them. My maternal grandfather left Gujarat for Kenya as a young man, and he now lives in London. My mother was born in Nairobi, went to college in Bombay, and now lives in New York. In my family, picking up and going to another country to live was never a matter for intense deliberation. You went where your business took you.

Once, with my grandfather, I went back to our ancestral house in Maudha, which used to be a village in Gujarat but is now a town. Sitting in the courtyard of the old house with its massive timbers, my grandfather began introducing us to the new owners, a family of Sarafs, Gujarati moneylenders, for whom Maudha was the big city. “And this is my son-in-law, who lives in Nigeria.”

“Nigeria,” said the Saraf, nodding.

“And this is my grandson, who is from New York.”

“New York,” the Saraf repeated, still nodding.

“And this is my granddaughter-in-law, who is from London.”

“London.”

“Now they both live in Paris.”

“Paris,” the Saraf dutifully recited. If at this point my grandfather had said he lived on the moon, the Saraf would, without batting an eyelid, have kept nodding and repeated, “Moon.” Our dispersal was so extreme that it bordered on the farcical. But here we were, visiting the house where my grandfather grew up, still together as a family. Family was the elastic that pulled us back together, no matter how far we wandered.

* * *

It was the muqabla, the commercial competition, that had forced my father to leave Calcutta. It was the way jewels were bought and sold in my grandfather’s business. A group of sellers would assemble at the buyer’s office with the broker at an appointed time. Then the negotiations would begin. The price was not said aloud but was indicated by the number of fingers held up under a loose corner of the seller’s dhoti, which would be grasped by the buyer. Part of the muqabla was loud abuse of the buyer. “Have you gone mad? Do you expect me to sell at these prices?” In a display of extreme frustration, the seller would storm out of the office, shouting loudly all the time. But he would be careful to forget his umbrella. Ten minutes later he would be back, to pick up the umbrella. By this time the buyer might have reconsidered and they might come to a conclusion, at which point the broker would say, “Then shake hands!” and there would be smiles all around. It was because of this little piece of theater that my father decided to leave the jewelry business in Calcutta. He could not stand the shouting and the abuse; he was an educated man.

My father’s brother had gone to Bombay in 1966, against the will of my grandfather, who saw no reason why he should leave. But my uncle was a young man, and the twilight in Calcutta had begun. In Bombay, he went into the diamond business. Three years later, my parents were passing through Bombay, after my little sister was born in Ahmadabad. My uncle, recently married, suggested to his brother, “Why don’t you stay?” So we did, four adults and two children, one a newborn, in a one-room flat, with guests always coming and going. We lived as a “joint family,” sharing the flat and the expenses, and the space expanded to fit us. How can 14 million people fit onto one island? As we did in that apartment off Teen Batti.

My father and my uncle found their niche in the diamond business. We moved to a two-bedroom flat above a palace by the sea, Dariya Mahal. The palace belonged to the Maharao of Kutch. A family of Marwari industrialists bought the palace and its grounds; they chopped down the trees on the land, cleared the antiques out of the palace, and put in schoolchildren. Around the palace they built a complex of three buildings: Dariya Mahal 1 and 2, twenty-story buildings that look like open ledgers, and Dariya Mahal 3, where I grew up, the squat, stolid, twelve-story stepchild.

My uncle and my father made regular business trips to Antwerp and America. When my father asked what he could bring back from America for me, I asked him for a scratch-and-sniff T-shirt, which I’d read about in some American magazine. He came back bringing a giant bag of marshmallows. I ate as many as I could of the huge white cottony things, and tried to make sense of the texture, before my aunt appropriated them. After one of those trips, according to my uncle, my father had an epiphany while shaving, as often happens when you’re facing yourself in a mirror without actively looking. He decided to move to America. Not for its freedom or its way of life; he moved there to make more money.

Each person’s life is dominated by a central event, which shapes and distorts everything that comes after it and, in retrospect, everything that came before. For me, it was going to live in America at the age of fourteen. It’s a difficult age at which to change countries. You haven’t quite finished growing up where you were and you’re never well in your skin in the one you’re moving to. I had absolutely no idea about the country America; I had never been there. I was certainly not of a later generation of my cousins, such as Sameer, who at the age of sixteen, stepped into JFK Airport fresh off the plane from Bombay wearing a Mets baseball cap and with half an American accent already in place. I traveled, in twenty-four hours, between childhood and adulthood, between innocence and knowledge, between predestination and chaos. Everything that has happened since, every minute and monstrous act—the way I use a fork, the way I make love, my choice of a profession and a wife—has been shaped by that central event, that fulcrum of time.

There was a stack of Reader’s Digests in the back room of my grandfather’s Calcutta house, dark, hot, womblike. There, in my summers, I had read true-life adventures, spy stories of the dastardly Communists, and jokes the whole family could enjoy about the antics of children and servicemen. It was my introduction to America. Imagine my surprise when I got there. I was lucky, though I didn’t know it then, that of all the possible cities my father could have moved us to, he chose New York. “It’s just like Bombay.” Thus is New York explained to people in India.

In the first year after I got to America I sent for its previously inaccessible treasures, the merchandise advertised on the inside covers of the comic books. I ordered, for my friends in Bombay, the joy buzzer, the floating ghost, the hovercraft, and X-ray goggles. A brown box came in the mail. I looked at it for a few moments before opening it; here was what we had been denied all these years. Then the junk came spilling out. The floating ghost was a white plastic garbage-bin liner with a stick threaded through the top; you were supposed to hang it up and wave it around to scare people. The X-ray goggles were a pair of plastic glasses, like the 3-D glasses given out in science-fiction theaters, with a rough drawing of a skeleton on both lenses. The hovercraft was a sort of red fan, attached to a motor; when you turned it on, it really did rise over a flat surface. The joy buzzer was a small steel device that could be worn on the inside of the palm like a ring; you wound it up and when you shook the victim’s hand a knob was pressed and the device vibrated sharply. I looked at the mess spread out on the floor. I had been had before in Bombay; I knew the feeling well. Nonetheless, I sent the package to my Bombay friends, with a letter suggesting possible uses for the gags; the ghost, for instance, could be lowered on a string to flap outside the balconies of the lower floors, possibly scaring small children in the dark.

I knew my gifts would be welcome. Whatever their quality, they were “imported” and therefore to be treasured. In our house in Bombay, there used to be a showcase in the living room. It displayed imported objects from Europe and America, the spoils of my uncle’s business trips: Matchbox cars, miniature bottles of spirits, a cylinder of long matches from London shaped like a Beefeater with a furry black hat as the top, a little model of the Eiffel Tower. There were toys, also, for the children—a battery-powered Apollo 11 rocket, a police cruiser with a blue revolving light, a doll that could drink and wet her diaper—which were almost never taken out for us. The kids in the building would assemble around the showcase and look up at the toys inside—toys we weren’t allowed to touch for fear of breaking them.

In America, too, we had a showcase in our house. In it were kept souvenirs from India: a pair of grandparent dolls, Dada dressed in a dhoti, Dadi in a cotton sari; a marble statue of Ganesh; a wooden mask of Hanuman; a little model of the Taj Mahal with a light that glowed from within; a bharata natyam dancer whose head moved sideways on her neck; and a bronze clock shaped like the official map of India with all of Kashmir reclaimed from the Pakistanis and the Chinese. When the new baby was born he wasn’t allowed to open the showcase and play with these objects. They were too fragile; he would hurt himself. He spent his time splayed against the glass door of the showcase, staring at his heritage, like a wasp at a window.

When I moved to New York, I missed Bombay like an organ of my body. I thought that when I left Bombay I had escaped from the worst school in the world. I was wrong. The all-boys Catholic school I went to in Queens was worse. It was in a working-class white enclave that was steadily being encroached upon by immigrants from darker countries. I was one of the first minorities to enroll, a representative of all they were trying to hold out against. Soon after I got there, a boy with curly red hair and freckles came up to my lunch table and announced, “Lincoln should never have freed the slaves.” The teachers called me a pagan. My school yearbook photo shows me looking at the camera with the caption, “It’s so strong I can even skip a day,” referring to an advertising slogan for a brand of antiperspirant. This was how the school saw me: as a stinking heathen, emitting the foul odors of my native cooking. On the day I graduated, I walked outside the barbed-wire-topped gates, put my lips to the pavement, and kissed the ground in gratitude.

In Jackson Heights we reapproximated Bombay, my best friend Ashish and I. Ashish had also been moved from Bombay to Queens, at the age of fifteen. The happiest afternoons of that time were when we went to see Hindi movies at the Eagle Theater. With one letter changed, it had formerly been the Earle Theater, a porn house. The same screen that had been filled with monstrous penises pullulating in mutant vaginas was now displaying mythologicals of the blue-skinned god Krishna; in these films not a breast, not even a kiss was shown. Maybe it was being purified. But I still scanned the seats carefully before sitting down on them.

Reviews:

5.0 out of 5 stars A brilliant and visceral book

K.S. · May 4, 2014

4.0 out of 5 stars A definite read

e. · April 9, 2013

Reading this book was like taking a stroll down memory lane, instant nostalgia and a sense of connection accentuated by the fact that I’ve lived 21 years of my existence in Mumbai and now I’m in a city totally unlike it. So, when he describes India and specifically Mumbai as the ‘Country of the No’ a rueful chuckle escapes me. Having lived in the city makes reading the book all the more pleasurable. It’s a well-written book and divided primarily into three major chunks and the beauty is that they are equally enjoyable as stand-alone novellas or as a book. His ability to describe his encounters with the various characters ranging from gangsters to bar dancers and his schoolteachers is brilliant. With his words he paints a very vivid image, one that you can imagine with very little effort, so that when he is scared while interviewing the gangsters, so are you. You are right there with him, or at least I was.One major grouse I have is that in this book he chose to cover the extremes. It was either Bollywood stars or ‘shooters’. Granted that these individuals tend to have interesting lives in ways that a middle class individual won’t, but I still think he could have devoted a part of the book to covering them. He does do this briefly in the final part in the form of a few short stories, but I wish he would have woven this into the narrative rather than present it as germs of an idea that didn’t come to realization.A glimpse into the fascinating and pulsating mega polis called Mumbai and a most definite read.

5.0 out of 5 stars A great civics course on Bombay polity

T.A. · June 3, 2007

This has helped me to decide whether I could handle living in Bombay (sure why not; I would rather be challenged than bored). A really amazing study of the misdevelopment of one of the world's greatest Sprawls, this book could/should be in any college curriculum on urban development. It is daunting sometimes to realize how completely unplanned many of the world's newest cities are, and how little we may be able to do to change the course of their development.Mehta is a great story teller, and the tales of his Jain family are among the most memorable scenes in the book. Maximum City is also a great true crime thriller, and gives you a sense of a gritty city every bit the dark and exciting sequel to Al Capone's Chicago.Bombay is probably the most lively city in India now, and I hope that Maximum City inspires more writers to tell the thousands of stories that are buried there, in both the moneyed heights of Malabar Hill and the depths of the Dhaaravi jhuggi-jhonpri, from dimly lit kharkhanas to air-conditioned IT glass towers.

5.0 out of 5 stars Amazing and enlightening

B. · March 7, 2013

The first 30+ pages about Bombay might have been too steep of a mountain to climb for some, but I loved the forensic-grade attention to detail exhibited herein and once the story turns to human characters (those who make Bombay the Bombay we have come to know and love) one is hooked and cannot but down the book.There is so much I could say here, but I don't want to give anything away. I'll just say:1) This is an amazing book, fiction or non, it matters not. It's excellently structured, written and poignant beyond belief.2) This is the best book about a city, any city, every written, and towers over all others.3) This is not only the best intro book about Bombay in particular and India in general, but also the best book about Bombay.Even if you've no love for, attraction towards or desire to ever set foot in, Bombay, you will love this book.This book is about Humanity. Most highly recommended.

3.0 out of 5 stars Truth is stranger than fiction

J.S. · January 3, 2013

Truth indeed is stranger than fiction. In that sense Maximum city, a book about Bombay, is disconcerting. The housing scene, the underworld, bar girls and call girls, the Hindi movie industry, communal riots - all play pivotal roles in this content-rich book. Though I never lived in Bombay, I worked there for a few stretches of several weeks each during the early nineties, which coincided with the Ayodhya debacle and the aftermath; plus I have several friends who have lived there; and I happen to be an avid fan of Hindi movies. Hence, I could very easily relate to the rich content of the book. In many ways it was an eye opener - making me realize that what I may have once believed as part-fiction is indeed reality!Mehta has a very simple and lucid style of writing. Yet his tendency to over-tell (as opposed to 'show') gets tiring and hence boring after a point - had the content not been riveting and had I not been bound on a 14 hour flight - I may have given up on the book very soon. The structure is loose and stuff crops up wherever the author thinks about it rather than where it would have fit into the narrative - there was definitely a lot of scope for better organization and tighter editing - which would have made the book a more interesting read. Mehta also tends to confuse his readers with a total lack of respect for the chronology. While I was not expecting a water tight timeline, given that this is non fiction - more attention to the relative timing of events and descriptions - at least within the chapters and sections would have added more sanctity to the writing.All in all the book seems like it was hastily sent to print after the onerous task of research, interviews and an early draft of the extensive material was put together! An restructuring exercise - while imperative - seems to have been given a miss!

La vida en Mumbay

F. · July 20, 2019

A great informative read.

S.P. · January 1, 2020

This book is getting old and it’s still worth reading - as shocking and informative today as the day it was written. A great read.

All stars for the narrative. Not even a half for the publisher.

B. · August 26, 2025

Didn’t sign up for a badly printed book of a great narrative. Can’t give a single star because of the content. But the publisher… You don’t even deserve half a star because of the book quality.

Grande libro

I. · March 3, 2021

Libro molto interessante

Extreme Stadt - gutes Buch

A.B. · March 28, 2012

Suketu Mehta ist Journalist, Augenzeuge, Inder aus einer Gujarati-Familie, in Bombay aufgewachsen und dennoch von New York, vom Westen geprägt. Mit seiner Frau und seinen Kindern lebt er für zwei Jahre in der Stadt seiner Kindheit. Bombay - das ist Wirtschaftswunder, Bollywood, Showbuiseness, Slums, Gewalt, Gangs und Gangster. Es ist eine Stadt, die immer lebendig und doch dem Tod sehr nahe ist. Hier geht Mehta den wichtigsten Phänomenen der Stadt auf den Grund: Er spricht mit allen. Er sitzt tagelangs in Hotels und redet mit Auftragskillern, er spricht mit Politikern, Aufrühern, Religiösen und auch mit normalen Menschen in der Stadt. Seine Perspektive und die Art, wie er diese Menschen darstellt, wie er das Alltägliche mit dem Besonderen verbindet, macht dieses Buch zu einer fast schon krankhaft-süchtigmachenden Lektüre. Manchmal wühlt einen das Buch auf, manchmal erstaunt es einen, aber es langweilt nie und ist wirklich ein ungewöhnlicher Bericht aus einer extremen Stadt, die trotz allem auch ihre menschliche, positive Seite hat. Es ist auch eine Stadt, die längst hätte KO gehen müssen, aber sie ist immer noch, trotz der Verschmutzung, der Gewalt, der Korruption und der Intrigen. Es ist auch eine Stadt, die von Stillstand, Stagnation und gleichzeitig extremen, schnellen Entwicklungen geprägt ist. Hier prallen Bewegungen der indischen Gesellschaft mit großer Wucht zusammen oder existieren parallel zueinander.

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Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found

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Visit the Suketu Mehta (Author) Store

Maximum City: Bombay Lost and Found

Product ID: U0375703403

Condition: New

4.3

Type: Paperback

^AED127³⁰

Price includes VAT & Import Duties

Availability: In Stock

Quantity:

Order today to get by 7-14 business days

Delivery fee of AED 20. Free for orders above AED 200.

Returns & Warranty policies

Imported From: United States

At BOLO, we work hard to ensure the products you receive are new, genuine, and sourced from reputable suppliers.

Your trust is our top priority, and we are committed to maintaining transparency and integrity in every transaction.

Unless otherwise stated, all prices displayed on the product page include applicable taxes and import duties.

All items are shipped by air, and any products classified as “Dangerous Goods (DG)” under IATA regulations will be removed from the order and cancelled.

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"From the Hardcover edition.

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Reviews:

5.0 out of 5 stars A brilliant and visceral book

K.S. · May 4, 2014

4.0 out of 5 stars A definite read

e. · April 9, 2013

5.0 out of 5 stars A great civics course on Bombay polity

T.A. · June 3, 2007

5.0 out of 5 stars Amazing and enlightening

B. · March 7, 2013

3.0 out of 5 stars Truth is stranger than fiction

J.S. · January 3, 2013

La vida en Mumbay

F. · July 20, 2019

A great informative read.

S.P. · January 1, 2020

This book is getting old and it’s still worth reading - as shocking and informative today as the day it was written. A great read.

All stars for the narrative. Not even a half for the publisher.

B. · August 26, 2025

Grande libro

I. · March 3, 2021

Libro molto interessante

Extreme Stadt - gutes Buch

A.B. · March 28, 2012

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