The suits are in pajamas at home sleeping off the week and the traffic policemen are yet to arrive on duty. I expect to find a deserted Fort. It is strikingly different, but as I look around I realise I have unwittingly wandered into the morning rituals of the other Mumbai - those who have no weekends.
For, work must still be done for that wage that will buy today's dinner for the family. That walk to work must still be done. That bus caught. That cycle trip made. Sunday is not a weekend. There are no weekends.
Teeth must be brushed before those gas cylinders are delivered.
Hair must be brushed before the day's business starts.
Last night's laundry must be picked up from the park fence before a bird ruins it. Rubbish must be cleared.
I'm clearly the outsider: Who is this woman toting a camera? She isn't supposed to be here so early on a Sunday.
Pictures must be posed for.
"Didi, humaari bhi photo le lo"
(Big Sister, please click a picture of us too)
Lots of posing and giggling ensues.
"Maddum, hum bhi khinchwale?" she asked shyly.
(Madam, Can I also have one?)
I loved her smile.
"Arre Maddum, lage haath meri bhi le lo!"
(Oh Madam, while you're at it, please take one of me too!)
Strikes a pose, pretends to talk on the phone. Never mind the trash in the foreground.
It's always like this on Indian streets. It's more endearing than annoying. I click, while an amused old taxi driver watches. I train my camera on him, but he doesn't flinch.
Back to morning business - tobacco and choona (lime) must be shared, over routine morning greetings.
"Arre Maddumji, ye kaunse aqhbaar mein chhapegi?!"
(Hey, Madam! In what newspaper will this picture get published?)
I smile and shake my head to indicate a no and walk on. Perhaps I should have explained what a blog is. But the sun was getting higher in the sky and sweat was streaming down my back. It would have taken too long - too long for my comfort.
Meanwhile, the old taxi driver is still watching. He's smiling now. One more picture to let him know that I know he's watching. He could have been a statue.
Up on the road, business has already begun. The first customer of the day, the first few rupees. That heavy delivery of potatoes that will take hours on a cycle. The posh shop front must be prepared for its posh customers. The underwear drying on the plants must be removed.
Someone else cycles past me and waves me a loud hello. He's faster than my camera. My car's waiting, the driver slouching in air conditioned comfort, probably wondering what the hell I'm up to, but too polite to ask. I want to stay and watch some more, but I'm drenched in sweat now. I'm not used to this. The rest of Mumbai is still asleep.
I glance back before I sit in the car. The taxi driver is still watching me, his smile wider - the kind of indulgent smile that the elderly reserve for what they consider the foolish young. I laugh and take one last picture.