Pinch me!

30 Jan- 1 Feb
Wednesday afternoon the Dalai Lama spoke at the Mumbai Metropolitan Regional Development Authority (MMRDA) grounds in the Bandra-Kurla Complex. I left work early and hustled over there, again pleasing myself with getting off at the right stop and navigating in the rickshaw. A big tent was set up in a field and I saw two young white guys entering beside me, so I commented to them that all the whites of Bombay would be there. I asked if they were travelers and they said no, they work with NGOs, one is Dutch and the other is Australian. I knew that another AJWS volunteer I hadn’t met yet was a young Aussie, so I wondered if it was him, but figured the chances were too slim. Inside ultimately about 3000 people filled the seats, and somehow I ended up in a section with a bunch of Tibetans in traditional dress who understood all the jokes HHDL made in his native language and bowed on the ground when he came in. Their kids were really cute, running around playing with toy cars and eating junk food. I was surprised at how rough the mothers were with the boys, particularly while listening to HHDL talk about peace and nonviolence. Well, listening is a relative term- it was hard to understand his accent, the fans were loud, it was hot- overall difficult to concentrate and follow along. Regardless, it was beautifully set up with Buddhist banners of various bodhisattvas, and I found myself feeling really emotional in his presence. Indeed the place was full of whites, travelers and expats- the newspaper the next day said the event was only attended by the wealthy, who spend lots of money looking for inner peace, but the lessons of HHDL make such people wonder if the money was really necessary.

I shared a rickshaw back to Bandra station with 2 British travelers (complete with awful teeth and legs so white they reflected the sun). I jumped on a 2^nd class car because I didn’t have time to try to figure out where 1^st class was. Turns out it was peak hours so then I really understood what everyone was warning me about. Unbelievably packed- like taking double the busiest capacity of any American train car, at least. Being taller than most women here, I felt something like Mother Goose surrounded by goslings, so many littler people around me. We were packed in so tight it took me a while to realize that beside me on the floor, some dude was passed out. I don’t know if he was asleep or unconscious from being trampled, as I’m sure plenty of people stepped on him. Pretty freaky, who knows why he was even there. I barely got off the train at the stop- people shove so much, trying to get on even before everyone is off. Apparently in the men’s cars it’s not nearly as bad, they help each other on and hold on to each other in some sort of camaraderie. Not so with the women, it’s totally cutthroat! Anyway, not that I would choose to ride the train under those conditions on a regular basis, but it was doable.

Thursday was election day so it was a short day at the office. Benita and I had lunch at a great Irani restaurant next to Churchgate and I had ‘fry’ for the first time- basically they take some sort of curry and when it’s almost done, they add another dose of spice-infused oil to make it extra flavorful. And wow, was it- the best chana masala of my life, despite the food coloring (still trying to figure out what’s with that!). I also had a fresh lime soda for the first time- they bring a glass with sugar and lime juice, which turns into a sort of syrup when you add soda water. The only problem is, the proportions are lost whenever the soda water runs low, really one needs a second cup to mix the right balance each time. But delicious all the same. Benita and I talked about food a lot, she was amazed to know that Americans don’t eat with our hands, and that in fact it is considered vulgar. She wondered what “American” food is and it was difficult to explain that there isn’t quite such a thing.

After lunch I wandered back towards the office to check out the shopping- bought a few tops at “Fab India,” evidently a popular choice amongst tourists and locals, some books on the street (‘printed for publication on the Subcontinent only’), and 2 magazines- Frontline, which is a local news analysis magazine, and TimeOut Mumbai which is all about happenings around town. It just so happens that I opened to a page advertising a concert that evening with Hariprasad Chaurasia, a classical flutist whose music I really like- so I killed some time walking around Colaba, which is chock full of hawkers selling actually pretty decent looking jewelry, bags, shawls, clothes, etc, and then made my way to Nariman Point to the National Center for the Performing Arts. It was an adventure getting there, hustling because the killing time ended up taking more time than I planned. Nariman Point is beautiful, and if I hadn’t been rushing to get a ticket and get inside, I could have taken some nice shots of Bombay at sunset. It’s right on the water and there are great views of the city skyline and the stretch of the coast.

Luckily there was a guy trying to sell an extra ticket, so I got in quickly, and the seats were outstanding, 5 rows back from the stage, and although it was a large and modern auditorium, it felt like a small and intimate recital because there was just a makeshift platform with flower garlands and tapestries decorating it. Besides Hariprasad, there were 3 other flutists and 2 percussionists, and they performed songs from different areas of India. The nice lady next to me translated his introductions about the character of the states which influenced the music, and whenever the improvisation led in a particularly good direction, everyone would wobble their heads and sigh appreciatively. The show was truly magnificent- really a pinch me kind of experience. Is this really me? Am I really here, in India, in a room full of Indians, watching this infamous Indian classical flautist? Amazing. There were a few other white people in the audience- based on their clothes, I’d guess tourists, and one older guy who I recognized somehow, maybe a Berklee professor, or from some sort of documentary or something. Many of the Indians were very dressed up in really gorgeous formal saris and kurtas. I’m paying close attention to the outfits to try to figure out what to look for when I do my rounds of sari shopping. I think the style of wearing it where the fall is spread across the chest, not pleated at the shoulder, is supremely elegant. Same with the dupatta pulled down over the chest, not just bunched at the neck.