People lined up at a shaved ice stand in a fishing village

I wandered through a small fishing village on the outskirts of Mumbai. Once I stepped away from the shoreline, where battered boats and fishing vessels lay scattered, the village itself no longer felt much like a fishing community. Instead, it had the atmosphere of any rural Indian town. A shaved ice stand stood by the roadside, with people gathered around, eager to quench their thirst—a familiar sight in many parts of India.

But there was something unusual here, something that felt almost out of place in the usual chaos of India. The men standing near the stand were lined up—orderly, patient, waiting for their turn without pushing or cutting in. It was a small crowd, yet their quiet discipline was striking. Many of them stood in silence, eyes fixed on their smartphones, resembling a scene more typical of a Japanese queue than an Indian street.

As I observed this rare display of order, a truck pulled up nearby, its rear doors swinging open. Inside, tightly packed sacks of garlic were stacked high, filling the cargo space from end to end. The sheer volume of garlic stood in stark contrast to the neat line of men—it was a chaotic, almost overwhelming sight, one that felt unmistakably Indian.

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