What Cricket says about India

In today's NY Times, the UN's Undersecretary General for Communications and Public Information authored an article about the Cricket World Cup and Americans' ignorance thereof. As an American in India, I'm fascinated by the nation's fascination with the sport. It makes me wonder- are Americans any different when it comes to baseball, basketball, or most likely, football? I lived in Boston when the Red Sox made it to the World Series, and the city was buzzing with baseball fever. Perhaps the difference is that the team represents the entire country, not just a city? All of India, with its many differences, joins together in obsessing over the game.

I checked out the author's website, and found the following article which I think aptly summarizes the complexity and cohesion that is this wonderful and bewildering place.

http://www.shashitharoor.com/articles/catalyst-jan06.html

18 January 2006 The idea of India Shashi Tharoor on India's mosaic of multiplicities India’s constitution recognises 18 official languages, and there are 35 that are spoken by more than a million people each.

When India celebrated the 49th anniversary of its independence from British rule in 1996, its then prime minister, HD Deve Gowda, stood at the ramparts of Delhi’s 16th-century red fort and delivered the traditional Independence Day address to the nation in Hindi, India’s ‘national language’. Eight other prime ministers had done exactly the same thing 48 times before him, but what was unusual this time was that Deve Gowda, a southerner from the state of Karnataka, spoke to the country in a language of which he did not know a word. Tradition and politics required a speech in Hindi, so he gave one – the words having been written out for him in his native Kannada script, in which they, of course, made no sense. Such an episode is almost inconceivable elsewhere, but it represents the best of the oddities that help make India India. Only in India could there be a country ruled by a man who does not understand its ‘national language’; only in India, for that matter, is there a ‘national language’ which half the population does not understand; and only in India could this particular solution have been found to enable the prime minister to address his people. One of Indian cinema’s finest ‘playback singers’, the Keralite K J Yesudas, sang his way to the top of the Hindi music charts with lyrics in that language written in the Malayalam script for him, but to see the same practice elevated to the prime ministerial address on Independence Day was a startling affirmation of Indian pluralism. For the simple fact is that we are all minorities in India. There has never been an archetypal Indian to stand alongside the archetypal Englishman or Frenchman. A typical Indian stepping off the train, let us say a Hindi-speaking Hindu male from Uttar Pradesh, may cherish the illusion he represents the ‘majority community’, an expression much favoured by the less industrious of our journalists. But he does not. As a Hindu, sure enough, he belongs to the faith adhered to by 82 per cent of the population. But a majority of the country does not speak Hindi. A majority does not hail from Uttar Pradesh, though you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise when you go there. And, if he were visiting, say, my home state of Kerala, he would be surprised to realise a majority there is not even male. There has never been an archetypal Indian to stand alongside the archetypal Englishman or Frenchman Worse, this archetypal Hindu male has only to mingle with the polyglot, multi-coloured crowds – and I am referring not to the colours of their clothes but to the colours of their skins – thronging any of India’s major railway stations to realise how much of a minority he really is. Even his Hinduism is no guarantee of his majorityhood, because his caste automatically puts him in a minority. If he is a Brahmin, 90 per cent of his fellow Indians are not. If he is a Yadav, or another ‘backward class’, 85 per cent of his fellow Indians are not. And so on. The question of nationhood If caste and language complicate the notion of Indian identity, ethnicity makes it worse. Most of the time, an Indian’s name immediately reveals where he is from or what her mother tongue is: when we introduce ourselves, we are advertising our origins. Despite some intermarriage at the elite levels in our cities, Indians are still largely endogamous, and a Bengali is easily distinguished from a Punjabi. The difference this reflects is often more apparent than the elements of commonality. A Karnataka Brahmin shares his Hindu faith with a Bihari Kurmi, but they share little identity with each other in respect of their dress, customs, appearance, taste, language or even, these days, their political objectives. At the same time, a Tamil Hindu would feel he has much more in common with a Tamil Christian or a Tamil Muslim than with, say, a Haryanvi Jat, with whom he formally shares the Hindu religion. What makes India, then, a nation? What is an Indian’s identity? When an Italian nation was created in the second half of the 19th century out of a mosaic of principalities and statelets, one Italian nationalist (Massimo Taparelli d’Azeglio) wrote ‘We have created Italy. Now all we need to do is to create Italians.’ It is striking that, a few decades later, no Indian nationalist succumbed to the temptation to express a similar thought. The prime exponent of modern Indian nationalism, Jawaharlal Nehru, would never have said ‘we have created India, now we have to create Indians’, because he believed that India and Indians had existed for millennia before he articulated their political aspirations in the 20th century. many Indians have more in common with foreigners than with other Indians Nonetheless, the India that was born in 1947 was in a very real sense a new creation: a state that made fellow citizens of the Ladakhi and the Laccadivian for the first time; a state that divided Punjabi from Punjabi for the first time; a state that asked a Keralite peasant to feel allegiance to a Kashmiri Pundit ruling in Delhi, also for the first time. So, under Gandhi and Nehru, Indian nationalism became a rare animal indeed. It was not based on any of the conventional indices of national identity. Not language, since India’s constitution recognises 18 official languages, and there are 35 that are spoken by more than a million people each. Not ethnicity, since the ‘Indian’ accommodates a diversity of racial types in which many Indians have more in common with foreigners than with other Indians – Indian Punjabis and Bengalis, for instance, have more in common ethnically with Pakistanis and Bangladeshis, respectively, than with Poonawallahs or Bangaloreans. Not religion, since India is a secular pluralist state that is home to every religion known to mankind, with the possible exception of Shintoism. Not geography, since the natural geography of the subcontinent – the mountains and the sea – was hacked by the Partition of 1947. And not even territory, since, by law, anyone with one grandparent born in pre-partition India – outside the territorial boundaries of today’s state – is eligible for citizenship. Indian nationalism has therefore always been the nationalism of an idea. It is the idea of an ever-ever land – emerging from an ancient civilisation, united by a shared history, sustained by pluralist democracy. India’s democracy imposes no narrow conformities on its citizens. The whole point of Indian pluralism is you can be many things and one thing: you can be a good Muslim, a good Keralite and a good Indian all at once. The Indian idea is the opposite of what Freudians call ‘the narcissism of minor differences’; in India we celebrate the commonality of major differences. If America is a melting-pot, then to me India is a thali, a selection of sumptuous dishes in different bowls. Each tastes different, and does not necessarily mix with the next, but they belong together on the same plate, and they complement each other in making the meal a satisfying repast. So the idea of India, as Rabindranath Tagore and, more recently, Amartya Sen have insisted, is of one land embracing many. It is the idea that a nation may endure differences of caste, creed, colour, conviction, culture, cuisine, costume and custom, and still rally around a consensus. And that consensus is about the simple idea that in a democracy you don’t really need to agree – except on the ground rules of how you will disagree. Hindutva and history That consensus has been threatened in the last two decades by the rise of Hindu nationalism, offering an alternative view of Indian identity – one that is explicitly narrow and definitional (pro-Hindu and pro-Hindi, sectarian and anti-secular). Its followers asserted their idea of Indianness most spectacularly in the destruction of a disused sixteenth century mosque, the Babri Masjid, in 1992, and most brutally in the murder of up to 2000 Muslims in sectarian killings in the state of Gujarat ten years later. To them, an independent India, freed after nearly a thousand years of alien rule (first Muslim, then British), and rid of a sizeable portion of its Muslim population by Partition, had an obligation to assert an identity that would be triumphantly and indigenously Hindu. They are not fundamentalists in any meaningful sense of the term, since Hinduism is uniquely a religion without fundamentals: there is no Hindu Pope, no Hindu Sunday, no single Hindu holy book, and indeed no such thing as a Hindu heresy. They are, instead, chauvinists, who root their Hinduism not in any of its soaring philosophical or spiritual underpinnings – and, unlike their Islamic counterparts, not in the theology of their faith – but rather in its role as a source of identity. They seek vengeance in the name of Hinduism-as-badge, rather than of Hinduism-as-doctrine. To most Indian Muslims, the debate over identity goes to the heart of their place in Indian society. For decades after independence, successive Indian governments had guaranteed their security in a secular state, permitting the retention of Muslim Personal Law separate from the country’s civil code, and even financing Haj pilgrimages to Mecca. Three of India’s presidents have been Muslims, as also innumerable cabinet ministers, ambassadors, generals, and Supreme Court justices (and chief justices). At least until the mid-1990s, India’s Muslim population exceeded Pakistan’s. The destruction of the mosque and the killings in Gujarat seemed an appalling betrayal of the compact that had sustained the Muslim community as a vital part of India’s pluralist democracy. The irony is that the advocates of Hindutva are profoundly disloyal to the religion they claim to espouse, which stands out not only as an eclectic embodiment of tolerance, but as perhaps the only major religion in the world that does not claim to be the only true religion. All ways of worship, Hinduism asserts, are equally valid, and religion is an intensely personal matter related to the individual’s self-realisation in relation to God. Such a faith understands that belief is a matter of hearts and minds, not of bricks and stone. The true Hindu seeks no revenge upon history, for he understands that history is its own revenge. The true Hindu seeks no revenge upon history, for he understands that history is its own revenge Geography helps, because it accustoms Indians to the idea of difference. India’s national identity has long been built on the slogan ‘unity in diversity’. The ‘Indian’ comes in such varieties that a woman who is fair-skinned, sari-wearing and Italian speaking, as Sonia Gandhi is, is not more foreign to my grandmother in Kerala than one who is ‘wheatish-complexioned’, wears a salwar-kameez and speaks Urdu. Our nation absorbs both these types of people; both are equally ‘foreign’ to some of us, equally Indian to us all. For now, the Hindu chauvinists have lost the battle over India’s identity. The sight in May 2004 of a Roman Catholic political leader (Sonia Gandhi) making way for a Sikh (Manmohan Singh) to be sworn in as prime minister by a Muslim (President Abdul Kalam) – in a country 82 per cent Hindu – caught the world’s imagination. India’s founding fathers wrote a constitution for their dreams; we have given passports to their ideals. That one simple moment of political change put to rest many of the arguments over Indian identity. India was never truer to itself than when celebrating its own diversity.

One more thing

I left out the funniest thing that happened this week: my Dad referred to himself in an email as "a multimedia pop culture phenom." Hysterical.

Mai Hindi sikhrehi hu.

March 9-16

Life is becoming so comfortably routine that it's actually somewhat difficult to recall events for this here blog. I told Benita this week that I really feel like I live in Bombay, not that I'm just a visitor.

Last Friday Benji and I experienced a grocery store during rush hour. Shops here resemble New York bodegas with ceiling-high stocked shelves, multi levels to maximize space, totally crowded aisles. It took us longer to wait in line than it did to pick out the mosambi (sweet lime, looks like an unripe orange, tastes neither like orange nor lime. discuss), grapes, and drinks, including a tropicana peach juice which came with a complimentary 'fancy glass,' which was a pretty standard glass by my standards. Come to think of it, though, people don't use glasses that often. They use metal cups, instead. The only time we use glasses at home is when guests are over.

After rush hour in the grocery store we hit a peak hour train. We managed to get seats on a 2nd class men's compartment, but when we tried to get towards the door at our stop, it was wayyyy to crowded to get off. Now I know what the warnings were about- I got pinched and touched and poked by hands seemingly disembodied from bodies. That was actually the worst part about the groping- the fact that I couldn't tell who was doing it. I just grabbed the hands that I could and squeezed them back, hard. The cacophany of bodies, suitcases, satchels and parcels at all levels and in every direction is something to be seen (although it would have been just fine with me if it had just been seen, and not also felt). Benji eventually led us out through the door on the other side of the 'carriage.' Apparently that amount of crowding was actually unusual. Men sitting on the benches were kind of rooting for us, which was nice, but not at all actually helpful. Yes, I know push. I know, I know, push push. You try it, buddy, instead of just sitting there nice and pretty.

Shabbat dinner was lovely, including a new for me version of Trivial Pursuit in which each category is a different continent (as opposed to sports, history, arts and leisure, etc). We had all sorts of interesting ways of making hints for each other, including referencing my nickname JoBerg for all questions related to South Africa. I wonder if that nickname would fly there... I'll have to go and find out sometime. Definitely at the top of the list for next travel destinations.

Saturday morning, Hindi lesson- hence the title, meaning, I am learning Hindi. My teacher says I look Parsi, and I think that is awesome.

Saturday night we went to Sutra, courtesy of another free guest list from the AIESEC crew. Definitely the best music so far at a Bombay club- mix of Bollywood, Hindi pop, and American hip-hop, including several mash-ups. For a good portion of the night, we were busting a move with a group of the most energetic, fun local kids ever. Somehow we got into a pattern where whenever one person made a movement, everyone else would mimic it, so it looked like we had prepared choreography, much to the amusement of the rest of the dancefloor in proximity. I was exhausted by the end of night- these kids provided quite the work out. But so, so much fun.

The club is in the Intercontinental Hotel by the international airport in Andheri East, so Batya, Benji and I met at Andheri station. Walking to the station in Santa Cruz all dolled up for the night out, I felt more watched than at any point since arriving in Bombay. I imagine that the bewildered looks on the staring faces had something to do with the fact that I look western, I was wearing western clothes, but I dodge rickshaws and hawkers with the ease of a local, and ride the train alone at night. What a combination- American on the outside and Indian in the inside? Maybe that's just self-flattery. Or maybe all the looks were just about the exposed skin. Oh, such scandal. Right.

Sunday I met Benji in Kings Circle (conveniently connected by footbridge to Matunga Road, by Erin and Batya's place) and we had lunch at a place called "The New Yorker," which purports to offer American, Mexican, Italian, Lebanese, and Indian food. A veritable sit-down Sizzler. I ordered a paneer burrito and Benji got a 1/2-1/2 falafel- 1/2 Mexican, 1/2 Lebanese. Both the burrito and the Mexican falafel were distinguished by a tomato-y bbq sauce tasting suspciously like manwich (why the hell is it called manwich, anyway? a man sandwich? what?) , and corn. This obsession with corn is fascinating. The tortilla was closer to a chappati, and definitely made me miss Mission burritos even more. Although, it was tasty all the same. The hummus was entirely passable.

We sat in the park in the center of the circle for a good long while, reading and talking and looking both at home and out of place. Very few other co-ed couples were there, and the idea of sitting quietly and reading in a public place is evidently rare. Next to us arrived an ever-larger group of men having some sort of important meeting involving a ledger, money, and arguing. I wish I had any idea what they were talking about... I'm guessing it was a housing society meeting, but who knows.

Sunday ended up being a foreign food day- I met Erin for dinner at Pot Pourri (not pronounced po-por-ee, but actually pot pourri) and we had Italian sandwiches and a chocolate truffle cake. Not too bad, actually. Eating non-Indian food is one of the ways I feel like I'm really living here, perhaps ironically. If I were just traveling, I would want to really maximize the cultural immersion by eating only Indian food- but as a person living here, I can afford more variety. And especially as an educated, upper middle class person, it's entirely culturally appropriate for me to go to "continental" restaurants.

At the moment my coworker's computer is playing a Hindi song that sounds suspiciously like Heyveinu Shalom Aleichem. Curious... Speaking of which, the guard/caretaker at the Kenesset Eliyahoo shule has started recognizing me and we grin at eachother every day on my way to the office. It's really more than a smile, because it's like we share this secret of being Jewish (that's really not all that secret) so therefore it is upgraded to a grin. Actually I'm not sure that he's Jewish, but he certainly knows that I am.

Monday my coworker Rosalind showed us pictures of her son's first communion. Most of the time in posed photos, Indians don't smile, and they look really dour and serious. The especially harsh ones sometimes remind me of the scene in Baraka of the genocide museum in Cambodia with the pictures of concentration camp prisoners. Anyway, Rosalind went about pointing out who's who in the pictures, with her characteristic way of making statements sound like questions: "this is myseelllfff? He is my husbannndddd? She is my mother-in-lllaawww?" Then a picture of the actual communion: "this is my son receiving Jessuusss?" Hey, any Catholics out there, is that what is actually said in the ceremony?

Tuesday morning I had my first failed attempt to jump on a moving train. I would have made it, but from that part of the platform the step is higher and my flipflop got caught on the underside of the step. For a split second, it was actually kinda scary, but not to worry--I lived. Recovering from this trauma, I saw a woman on the platform I'd kinda met at the Holi party. What I knew about her is that she's from Singapore but speaks with an American accent, and also lives in Santa Cruz. I reintroduced myself and we got to chatting- she works as a documentary film editor and went to the University of Michigan, c/o '04. Thinking it was an absurd long shot, I asked if she knows the awesome and inimitable Ms. Dina Kuperstock, my fellow Nativnik, roommate from DC, Mardi Gras partner in crime, and all-around fabulous friend currently showing Hollywood who's boss. Turns out, yup, Ruchika knows Dina from the U of M. And she saw my Dina and even raised me one Mr. Brian Lobel, of equal awesome and inimitableness. Holy hot damn, it's a small-ass world.

Following the Tuesday night Hindi lesson, Charmaine (host family's relative from London spending 6 weeks here volunteering with an NGO to gain experience for med school) and I met up with the crew at Toto's, a dive-ish bar made to look like a garage in Bandra. It really reminded me of Boston, and is frequented by the young working crowd. Far less scene-y and pretentious than lots of the other places we've been. This is exactly the kind of place where I would meet my friends for drinks after work (if I were that person who meets friends for drinks after work). Much fun. The beer pitcher looks like a pot-bellied iced tea pitcher from a nice restaurant, but with a Kingfisher decal.

Wednesday, in addition to the normal crippled beggar woman who sits in the middle of the stairs at Churchgate, and the dogs passed out in any which place, I saw a teenage boy sleeping on a dog's butt. Well, maybe more hip than butt. Either way, my internal battle about giving to beggars continues. At Santa Cruz station there's a woman with mangled hands always sitting on the stairs, and I finally saw someone put some money in her cup- a Muslim man with his young son. I thought about the importance of parents modeling behavior for their children, and I was glad that the son was learning the value of tzedekah, of charity. And yet, I didn't give. On a more comical note to this difficult topic, remember the singing blind couple I wrote about before from the train? I saw someone push a bill into the woman's hand (as opposed to dropping coins in the little metal bowl the man carries), and she put it inside her sari blouse, way down in there. Quite the image- an old, withered Indian lady shoving cash in her boobs. Ok then.

Another poverty-related observation: poor kids, especially toddlers, are often more likely to be seen in tops than bottoms. I've seen so many little tushies here, it practically makes my biological clock explode. Parents or older kids hold the little ones on their hip or sitting on their arm all the same. So many little tushies, tushies everywhere. I don't know why there are more tops than bottoms. I bet if I searched hard enough I could find an NGO whose entire purpose is to provide bottoms to the toddlers of India- and that would be a noble and worthwhile purpose.

The highlight of the week at work was attending a meeting about the Dharavi rehabilitation plan. Groups of architecture/planning students gave presentations on their suggestions for tenements to house the millions of people currently in slums. Pretty interesting stuff and creative ideas: lifting half of the ground floor on stilts to create open space for industrial activites and commerce; connecting higher floor balconies to preserve the feeling of connected, communal space so prevalent in the slums; off-site parking to prevent additional over-crowding. I'm still pretty unclear of the various players at the table, but there were some bureaucrats taking a lot of heat from the crowd, and activists complaining that they're not being included in the process. I wish I had been able to follow more of what was said. In the midst of all this pretty aggravated debating, the office boy came around with tea and little sandwiches cut into 4 triangles on crustless white bread. Funny bit of British formality in the midst of hard core Indian arguing.

Wednesday night Robbie and Benji belatedly house-warmed their flat with a motley crew get-together. Besides the usual Erin, Batya, them, and me, and Charmaine, we were also graced by Akshay, Matt (the graphic designer who wrote parts of my Let's Go book), Jen (who used to live across the hall), Julz (the Kiwi with dreadlocks I met my first night here), Shawn (Julz's friend from Australia who's lived in India for 2+ years and works for the company that distributes those free postcards that are actually ads for various products), Adil (Matt's friend who is a photographer), Josiah (friend of Akshay's), Dan (friend of Josiah's), Komal (Josiah's lady friend, an NRI from Chicago who lived in Japan last year), and ... crap I forget Komal's brother's name. We enjoyed Robbie's special seafood stew and many partook of a bbq he found in his hood, and had an awesome jam session, augmented by the loss of electricity halfway through. Between our cellphones and some candles, we made do just fine, and it was awesome. A different kind of pinch me moment.

Last night Robbbie and I met at VT aka CST (Victoria Terminus, Chattrapti Shivaji Terminus), the main interstate train station in town to get our tickets for the long weekend at the beach. I had no idea where the foreign ticket office was, and I wandered around trying to figure it out. I asked a station policewoman where it was and she just said "no." Ok... so I went back out to the main section to find someone else to ask, and ran smack into Robbie. Luckily he knew where it was, because that's the sort of thing Robbie knows. We got in line right behind the customer at the counter, and when it was our turn the babu disappeared. Um... so we just waited and finally I said "do you think he even realizes we're here?" at which point he came around and said "yes yes I am coming." Turns out the train is entirely booked. Actually, entirely overbooked- they sell waiting list tickets with apparently no number limit- even above and beyond the foreign quota. For this train, probably one of the most traveled routes in the entire country (Mumbai all the way down the coast to the bottom of Kerala, the Konkan Express), the waiting list has more people on it than there are seats on the train (300+). So, we bought tickets without seats, and will ride "proper backpacker style," as Robbie said. We'll have to wait until the next post to find out what that really means. I'm excited for my first train ride in India!

After that we went to catch a city train to try to get into the last night of the Mumbai International Film Festival. Ruchika said I could use her VIP pass, and Robbie got Akshay's pass and finagled some other way to get some more. I got into a women's car and Robbie was in a men's car - after Friday's groping I was happy to pass up the men's car at peak hours- and when I asked the women next to me how many stops until Wadala Rd, they told me it was the wrong line. Well, crap. . So this presented quite the dilemma, as Robbie's phone is dead and I had no way of letting him know. After wringing my hands about it for several stops, I decided that Robbie is a really smart kid who could figure something out on his own, and I should just get off at the stop the women said was closest and get myself to the theatre on my own. So I 'alighted' at Matunga Road and ran up the platform to the car I thought he was in, trying to find him to tell him to get off- but I couldn't see him and the train left too fast. Then just as I turned around to find the exit, feeling defeated, I ran into him. Again. Amazing. We took a taxi to the right station and magically intercepted Erin on the way, too. And yada, yada, yada, we got into the film festival like the sly foxes we are, and saw the premier of The Namesake, from the Jhumpa Lahiri novel I read last month. Nice, but I liked the movie more.
(Right before we walked into the film, actually, I had my first significant dizzy spell since I've been here, and started having a pounding headache too- luckily I had my migraine medicine with me so I took the pill, had some water, and sat with my eyes closed until the movie started. Remarkably, I felt totally better in a little while. Haha, vertiginous migraines, you will not be the boss of me!)

I found Ruchika there and her crew of friends from couchsurfing- a Danish guy (with THE best Westernized-Indian look I've seen yet- a kurta over wide leg cuffed jeans and converse sneakers, plus a big crazy dreaded fro on top and thick framed glasses), three Americans including a kid from Erin's hometown, and a local chap wearing a teeshirt from Thailand. Robbie and Erin got a ride home with Josiah, who hooked us up with the passes, and I figured I'd go home with Ruchika as we live in the same area. Turns out the couchsurfing crowd wanted to get something to eat, but I really needed to get home as it was around midnight and I still had to pack for this weekend. In the mix of trying to get taxis, Ebsen (the Dane) suggested I should ride with Thoppil (the Indian with the Thai shirt (haha, get it, thaishirt)) on his motorcycle. Um, gulp, motorcycle? Luckily, I felt (just as) safe (as I do in any other kind of vehicle on the roads here), balance wasn't an issue at all, and it was actually really fun. Thoppil is a writer: avengercq.blogspot.com. And yes, Thoppil rhymes with Topol, eponymous star of Fiddler on the Roof. He also says I look Parsi. Maybe it was just the salwar kameez? Either way, awesome. Definitely need to get some more motorcycle action. Don't worry, Mom and P Hull, I wore a helmet.

This morning bought a smaller hiking backpack- bigger than what I need but the next size down was too small or too expensive. Rs 745 - about $16. And it's pretty good quality, too. I feel oh-so-rugged. The stares I received today were not the ones I get most days- I definitely look like a backpacking tourist with my cotton kurti and drawstring capri pants and backpack. Probably couldn't pass for Parsi today if I tried.

So, that's this week's report. I'm off to Vengurla, home of apparently famous cashew and fruit factories. Yum. Shabbat Shalom!

From Inseams to Insomnia

March 6-9

Still sporting Holi evidence on my finger and toe nails, and the remnants of the silver streak remain in my hair. Best holiday ever! I really think it needs to transfer to the US, maybe San Francisco could handle it in the Castro during Pride Month? Or the Folsom Street Fair?

Anyway- some interesting revelations/observations this week. Starting with the mundane, yet amusing: based on my informal observations, I’m convinced that approximately 15% of all Indian men (in Mumbai) lack the proper inseam pant length. In the words of Steve Martin and Dan Akroyd, “we were tight pants which give us big bulges.” Sometimes it just looks like there’s a segment of society still living in the 70s. It’s ever so quaint.

- Went to two movies, setting a new all-time personal record of visits to a movie theatre in such a period of time. The Departed was excellent (and made me kinda homesick for Boston- I got all excited at the line about Somerville in the beginning!), Last King of Scotland not as excellent (dreamy leading man with Scottish accent notwithstanding). In a movie theatre, it is as if one is transported out of India. I’ve heard that there are previews with varying types of religious or political propaganda (which may, in fact, be one and the same) in which people throw things at the screen when the deities of choice appear. I have yet to see this happen- maybe it’s more from the old school, and the theatres I’ve visited are newer multiplexes.

Bombay has a rich tradition of cinema houses, though, and I look forward to exploring them in the remainder of my time. I bet you can’t get doughnuts and soft serve ice cream at the indy houses, though. Hmmm, trade off. My friend Paul reports that there is Dunkin’ Doughnuts in Lahore, Pakistan. (www.levantine18.blogspot.com), and that makes me furiously jealous. Lahore gets the joy that is New England’s greatest export, and San Francisco can’t even handle it?! Someone should do something about that.

- As I’ve previously mentioned, we share the top floor of this office building with the Kala Ghoda Association, the folks who brought you the Surf Excel Times of India Kala Ghoda Festival (like that Simpsons episode: “Pepsi presents: AFRICA”). One of the gents who works in that office, Ram, often comes into ours, hangs out, chats, etc. He’s very good looking, well dressed, tall, carries himself well. Based on these entirely superficial qualities, I assumed he’s a professional the Association. It occurred to me that he barely ever speaks English (I’ve been practicing my meager beginnings of Hindi with him), as opposed to the rest of the office workers who speak in English more than Hindi (or Marathi, the language of Maharashtra state). Then this week our Office Boy, Raj, has been out, and suddenly Ram was the one bringing the afternoon chai. I commented to Benita that Ram’s tea is sweeter than Raj’s, and she responded that one of our trustees who also sits on their board is always complaining of the same. So I realized that in fact Ram is not a ‘professional’—he is the Kala Ghoda Association’s Office Boy, and this shocked me. Regardless of his level of education, he is essentially tied to this position for perpetuity. He just doesn’t look like an Office Boy, and it seems to upset the carefully guarded hierarchy here. I’ve been thinking of him as an equal, but now the hierarchy demands that I consider myself superior to him. Obviously this doesn’t sit well with me.

Ironic, isn’t it, that India is where so many people come looking for spiritual purity and enlightenment for personal improvement- including the elimination of judgment, and refusal of attachments. But in fact, the very foundation of Indian society relies on gradations of personal worth and material wealth. There is a built-in system of discrimination against the have-nots. Of course, in writing this I realize how not dissimilar this is to the US, or probably plenty of other places, but here it is screaming in your face all the time. Maybe another difference is that in the US, we all take part in the myth that regardless of your original station, with hard work and determination you can climb the ranks and live the American dream. Here, the climbing of ranks doesn’t happen during one’s lifetime. That myth of self-improvement is just beginning to take root in the rising middle class (thank you, globalization), but the roots of preserved inequality run deep. Ram is an Office Boy, and that’s how it goes. Wow. Don’t even get me started about the ramifications of this in what is supposed to be a socialist economy. Max Weber’s head would spin around the Subcontinental Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Hell, it makes my head spin. More on this as it is revealed to me, hopefully.

-Wednesday night as the train approached Santa Cruz station, I heard all sorts of loud popping explosions and could vaguely see smoke in the not-so-far distance. Somehow I knew this wasn’t some sort of violent uprising, but rather another crowd celebrating something represented by the color orange. (Orange, from saffron (or marigolds?), is a color associated with Hinduism, and has been largely appropriated by the fundamentalist Shiv Sena party.) And, in fact, there was a parade celebrating the birthdate of Chhatrapati Shivaji, a Maharashtrian hero. This parade was less extensive than the electoral victory version witnessed a few weeks ago, but still included incredibly bright lights hoisted onto trucks (Goods Carrier), drum lines, blaring Hindi music, and lots of people in orange, including a few people carrying Holi over, evidently. In addition, one truck pulled a float with characters commemorating the hero and some others- maybe his entourage, maybe a goddess? I honestly couldn’t tell if they were real people or mannequins- they kept incredibly still and had so much makeup on, under the lights they appeared plastic and inanimate. This Shivaji dude is remembered in all sorts of places- in the names of airports, museums, parks, et al, and is particularly celebrated by the Sena. He’s like the Shapiros at Brandeis… except, um, a warrior king.

Right in the middle of the market road, surrounded by shops, stalls, people, and vehicles, the marchers set off fireworks—hence the popping noises and smoke. I’m amazed that nothing caught on fire or blew up or anything- the explosions were as close as a few feet from people at certain points. It reminded me again of the sign in Delhi saying “no crackers.” In any case, I’m sure that events like these set off whole new rounds of pyromania in the young men of the neighborhood. I still don’t understand why the Sena parades in Santa Cruz, as the population is mostly Portuguese/Goan Catholic, or Gujarati, not hard core Maharashtrian Hindus. Like Shas in Israel, the Sena’s main support comes from the lower classes, and provides a tricky combination of human services and human intolerance. Maybe they are trying to flex some muscle just to prove the point. Shocker: few women hold leadership positions in the Sena, as opposed to the Congress party and numerous other groups here.

Looking forward to a chill weekend, starting with Shabbos dinner at Erin and Batya’s this evening. Perhaps my brain is overwhelmed by the continuous onslaught of new information to process, and can’t wind itself down… I’ve developed insomnia, and it’s not fun. Wish me luck getting past it.

Another take on Holi

For more colorful commentary (including photos) on the colorful day, check out my boy Robbie's blog at http://whelanstravels.blogspot.com/2007/03/holi-holi-holi.html.
He's good people, the rest of the blog is worth reading, too.

Random Observations, Volume I

Burping occurs openly here. No one says "bless you" after someone sneezes, although my very devout Catholic coworker exclaims "Jesus!". Spitting is entirely common, although in some places there are signs forbidding it (because the betel and tobacco men chew leaves awful red stains).

My favorite public bodily function, by far, is the shooting of snot rockets. Men will just lean over the curb from the footpath (sidewalk), close off one nostril with a finger, and flush the contents of the other nostril out onto the street. Well, it saves trees from becoming tissues, that's for sure.

Every day on the way to and from the train I pass a restaurant called Cafe Gullistan, and I wonder if the name is a reference to Gulliver's Travels, as in another name for Lilliput, or if it's the land of the gullible.

2 of my favorite Indian-English phrases: "stop fucking on my face!" (leave me alone, back off), and "felicitate" (congratulate)- as in, "we're holding a ceremony to felicitate this year's prize winners."

Other translations:
flyover = overpass
subway = underpass
engaged = busy (phone)
keeping = feeling (are you not keeping well?)
I am= this is (introduction on the phone-- Hallo, is X home? I am Jocelyn)
staying = living (I stay in Santa Cruz)
pulses = legumes, beans, chick peas
veg= vegetarian
pure veg = no eggs (but not vegan, still includes dairy- this is for the Jains)
Some nouns don't need an article: office, hospital, college.
SCHedule
ASTHma
metro= city
pavement=street (pavement dwellers are the poorest of the poor, they literally sleep on street)
upmarket = what it sounds like, fool.

Holi Purim!

March 2-4
Best weekend yet in Bombay! Friday night after work I went down to Colaba to do some street shopping. As if writing in my blog announcement email that I hadn’t made it into Bollywood yet were the magic words, I was scouted! Right on the street, just like it says in all the articles and guidebooks. All the hawkers and peddlers are always calling out to the pedestrians/shoppers, usually falling on deaf ears. But my friend Benji and I heard a male voice saying “excuse me,” which is a different opening line than the usual “Hallo madam you like shawl? Hallo sir you want sunglasses? Hallo madam I give good price for Indian shirts” etc etc. So we turned around after hearing those unusual words, to be followed by the magic words “Do you want to be in a Bollywood movie?” !!!! Without a moment’s pause I said “Yes! Desperately!” Unfortunately my Saturday morning Hindi lesson interfered with the shooting schedule he offered, but we exchanged info and hopefully my dreams will be realized very soon. I told Imran, the scout, that I wanted to be in a dance number. Props to Benji for talking up my Indian dance skills. :-)

Later Friday night I met up with a bunch of AIESIC expats at Rock Bottom, which is a pretty nice club but the DJ left much to be desired, and large cocktails were Rs. 400. That’s ridiculous considering the local cost scale- that’s over $9. Although, true, we got in for free. It’s amazing to me that clubs are willing to give up the cover charge just for the cache and prestige of having a bunch of whites and other foreigners in their space. How much money must they lose?! Going to clubs like this is such a difference from my American life. Here, in many ways, I live the high life.

So Saturday had my Hindi lesson, learned a few more verbs. In the afternoon I ventured farther down Linking Road until I reached the bazaar (shuk/market) with repeating stalls of women’s shirts, shoes, and bags, with copious map, handkerchief, earring, and tank top peddlers all mixed in. This place makes the Santa Cruz station road market look like its sleeping- so lively, bustling, competitive. I’ve never heard so many shopkeepers calling out to me- it honestly got to the point where I put my hands over my ears and just shouted “no!”. Twice I went into stalls where the shopkeeper took out tons of items to show me, and then I decided not to get anything after considering something. They thought this was a bargaining tactic and kept lowering the price for me, but truthfully I just didn’t want to buy the items, which was rather difficult to explain. I think it’s almost insulting to buy something so far under the authentic price, so I’m learning to be more discerning. Great things can be found on the street, but they are diamonds in the rough. More than ½ of what I bought doesn’t fit somehow or another.

The gender dynamics of retail are worth noting. In the bazaar, there are absolutely no women working. Men work and women shop. Even at more upscale shops in proper buildings with lights, a/c, etc, there are no women. So it’s a man who takes all of the measurements, takes out outfits to display, etc. Most of the stores and stalls just have tons of outfits stacked on shelves in cellophane bags, so you can’t see what’s there until the man pulls it up and unwraps the bag. In this way, I as a customer am entirely at the whim of the man. I can only see what he shows me. And the men think they know what will fit me, but even large sizes here don’t fit because evidently foreigners are huge beasts compared to the average Indian woman (although I certainly have seen women of all shapes and sizes, although definitely on average shorter than me). Anyway, especially in the bazaar they keep trying to sell me whatever size they happen to have, regardless of my insisting on needing a bigger size. This leads to a rather comical scene where I hold the shirt up to me and show them that it would be absurdly tight across the chest, which usually embarrasses them into submission. But yes, it takes such drastic measures. They are so insistent about making the sale, it’s admirable, albeit really frustrating. In any case, it feels like men dictate women’s appearance by controlling the supply of clothing options. It’s a gender monopoly. It’s a fashion cartel.

On a larger scale, the workforce is definitely dominated by men in much higher numbers than in the states. I get the impression that if women work, it is either as domestic servants on the low end of the socioeconomic scale, or in offices from the middle sector. Upper class women don’t work, but they may volunteer- as in the “aunties” on the UDRI board. Women are only occasionally seen in retail outlets, as in the Hutch mobile phone shop, or the Shopper’s Stop department store. On the street, the only women trying to sell things are beggars with some small quantity of fruit or fabrics or household item. And yet, India has had women in the top political posts for decades longer than the US. Befuddling.

So back to the bazaar- one of these map sellers approached me when I first came in, and asked if I’m Australian. I explained that I’m from the US, and said no thanks to the map and walked on. He followed behind at a close distance and said, “I am thinking you are movie star from America.” That was too good of a line for me to just ignore, so I let him catch up to me and then he started in about how he also is a masseur in Goa, and “I can give you massage madam. I will take you with me to Goa.” Right…. Sure. So I walked on, but kept on running into him as I made my way through the market. Each time his lines became more and more ridiculous, finally peaking:

Raj: “I think you are not liking me, madam.”

Me: “You will only think I like you if I buy your map.”

Raj: “No, madam, I am really liking you and you are breaking my heart.”

Me: “Oh really? Well why? Why do you like me?”

Raj: (flustered) “I like you, madam, because I love you.”

I knew it couldn’t get better than that so I finally made my exit from Raj’s pursuit, chuckling all the way. I love these conversations that can only take place here in India. “TII,” we’re starting to say. This is India. (like TIA- This is Africa in Blood Diamond.)

Finding the Tiferet Israel synagogue near Mahalaxmi station I felt like some sort of Jewish Sherlock Holmes, following clues until I reached the destination. This shule is much smaller and less ornate than my next door neighbor from work, and actually full of Indians. Amazing to see a room full of Indian men in kippot and tzitzit, and women with their hair covered with scarves or folded handkerchiefs. Erin and I pulled our dupattas over our heads- women covering their hair seems to bypass the married rule. I was surprised at the number of young men in the service- most people were elderly (including a woman with two thumbs on her left hand, I’m not kidding), only a few middle-aged people with young children, but then there were a bunch of young men, probably between 18-25. Apparently the majority of this community has emigrated to Israel, so there’s kinda a missing generational link. Maybe I'll meet a nice Jewish boy here and live out my Jewish-Orientalist fantasy forever. Ha. I'd love to bring Aunt Suzie (my father's brother's wife, from Kerala in South India- raised Christian and converted to Judaism when they were married) here and see what she thinks.

Again, there is a feeling of unfamiliarity and familiarity at once in trying to follow the service- some parts are familiar, but the specifics are not always. The crowd was much more restrained in responding to the reading of Haman’s name- they just pound their feet or clap. Erin and I sat with a bunch of little kids and created a louder booing section, much to the glee of the children and the amusement of the old men. Oy! These Indian toddlers are the most adorable little ones EVER. I seriously want to pack a few in my suitcase and keep them at home. Within minutes I had one of the girls I saw at the JCC Fancy Dress contest sitting on my lap, petting my hair, and kissing my cheek while repeating ‘thank you’ over and over again for no apparent reason. Adorable!

Services ended with the blessing of the moon. Observing this ritual in India somehow felt more authentic and historic than when I’ve done it before in the US- more rooted in the span of time, somehow. I’m still not entirely sure how and when Purim was introduced to this Bene Israel community, but I have a feeling I’ll be back and able to ask then.

On our way back to her place an older Indian man started talking to us, and we wished him Happy Holi. He said “I’m holy all the time.” How great is that?! Had my first real pizza in India at Erin’s afterwards- actually really good. A few other friends came over and we watched The Big Lebowski (sadly without white Russians to drink). This is my life in India- fighting my way through the bazaar, observing Purim with Indian Jews, meeting holy men on the street, eating pizza and watching a classic American film in a Maharashtran neighborhood. Wacky.

And even wackier- Holi! America really has to adopt this festival. I think San Francisco is uniquely suited to incorporate these customs into Pride, in particular. Sunday was the most pure, unadulterated, childish fun I’ve had in some time. Celebrating the arrival of spring with color, Holi is a festival where people party in the streets, smearing colored powder on each other, throwing water balloons, and indulging general giddy revelry. http://www.holifestival.org/. Trolling the streets looking for Holi action as a foursome of White westerners, we were greeted with extra special hospitality—both in the form of sweet food and drinks from adults, and major color attacks from kids. Luckily we were entirely game to play back, and we pelted balloons and smeared color with the best of them. In different neighborhoods people seemed to stick to one main color, as if there are colored areas like gang territory. In Erin’s neighborhood, the kids were all decked out in silver, which made them look undead and freakishly cool. Other areas were all red, or green, etc.

After playing in her neighborhood Robbie and I headed up to Andheri for a party at our friend Chris’s apartment complex (or as they say, housing society). That place really went all out, from an open bar and a long catered buffet to a makeshift water park with constantly spraying water that sometimes spouted paint instead. Apparently earlier in the day the bar included bhang, a form of cannabis that’s imbibed at festivals or for general spiritualism, I gather. Suffice it to say, there were lots of hammered people around, included a dishwasher boy who kept on falling over while doing the dishes. Eventually he passed out under the dish table, and pounding music and direct hose sprays couldn’t rouse him.

I’ll post pictures soon of the fun. Even after two scrubbing showers, I’ve still got hot pink dyed finger and toe nails, and lots of streaks of colors left on my body and in my hair- but the silver streak in my hair is awesome and I don’t want it to wash out. Today I got more looks than usual on the train and walking to work because of the Holi evidence. If there was any ever doubt before, now I am convinced that Indians most certainly know how to party.

For newcomers: the background

Now that I've officially launched the blog and sent the announcement to practically every person I've known in my life, it occurs to me that some of you may need to catch up. The brief history: after graduating from Brandeis I lived in Somerville for a year, working 4 simultaneous part-time jobs. Feeling ready for a change, particularly from hellish winters, I moved to San Francisco in August 2005, after spending the summer working as the ever crucial Summer Picnic and Ice Cream Social coordinator at the Menorah Park Home for the Aged in Cleveland. In SF I worked at the Jewish Community Federation in the Young Adults Division, essentially event planning and fundraising, managing volunteers, programming, etc. I left that job at the end of last year, and now I am in India for 6 months. From the end of Jan till May, I'm volunteering with the Urban Design Research Institute (www.udri.org) in Mumbai, and then I'm traveling around through the end of July... or so the plan goes as of now. The volunteer gig is through the American Jewish World Service's Jewish Volunteer Corps.

Nearly 5 years ago when I spent a summer in Sri Lanka as an Ethics and Coexistence Student Fellow from Brandeis, I decided that at the age of 25 I wanted to live abroad again. Last summer, approaching my 25th birthday, I started having a quarter life crisis, and remembered this goal. So, here I am!

Site visits!

26 Feb- 2 Mar

Monday morning got to work earlier than I have been lately (the great Jocelyn morning slacker routine continues) because of a visiting group of urban planning students from Leuven, Belgium. We had a presentation from Pankaj on the Eastern Waterfront, which is a contentious area here. Basically, the ports are owned by private companies, not the city, and there is a ton of unused land that has been encroached upon by squatters and it’s created extensive slums. The city is trying to figure out a way to work with the private companies to gain control of the land and convert it into something more useful as the ports’ usefulness have decreased over time with changes in the economy, etc. Essentially in a city with such limited space, being able to access the unused land in the waterfront area is crucial, and there’s a big debate going on now about how to do it. Moreover, the entire eastern coast is walled off from the southern area of the city, which kind of defeats the purpose of it being an island/peninsula. Pankaj says it’s cut off the “city’s imagination.” I’m not entirely sure, but I think UDRI’s position is that the should be used for affordable housing to ‘rehabilitate’ the slums, whereas the city and corporations want to build big expensive complexes that would be way too expensive for the vast majority of Mumbaikers. The trend is that instead of preserving open spaces, let alone creating new ones, developers want to build malls, clubhouses, private communities, which Pankaj believes will lead to the arrival of Walmart in India, eventually. Instead of having clean, open parks for kids, they are forced to go to malls, which leads to profits for the companies. Yes, it also creates jobs, but it reinforces the informal sector trend in which unskilled labor continues a race to the bottom. It never really brings India forward, goes the argument.

Anyhoo- the students are an international group- Tanzania, Italy, Argentina, US, Belgium, Zimbabwe, Albania, Canada, Thailand, Taiwan, China, and on. Sounds like a pretty cool program in sustainable human-centered development with a focus on urban centers. The program is in English, and funded by the Belgian government, which allows for so many foreigners. Turns out the professor leading the trip is originally American- I thought she was European because she speaks that sort of affected English. Her name is Kelly Shannon- as my dad would say, might as well be Irish McIreland.

So after the presentation we loaded into a van and took off to visit the abandoned ports, to see what has become of them. Driving in the van out of the well developed central business district into the edges of the ports there was a clear transition to a much lower standard of living. Streets lined with shanties, less cars, more cows, more trash. We pulled into a dock area and got out of the van to see up close completely filthy water, practically solid sludge, with big abandoned ships sitting in it. From there we actually entered a slum, creating quite a spectacle as a group of (mostly white) foreigners armed with cameras and notebooks. What became clear is that it’s not that these people are necessarily the poorest of the poor- they have electricity, tv, relatively nice clothes, many of the kids go to proper school, they have enough food, etc- there is just no where else for them to live. Of course the place is in bad shape, but it’s a credit to the ingenuity that comes from difficulty that it’s managed to shape up as well as it has.

The kids were especially adorable, wanting to have their pictures taken and then gleefully looking at the digital results. Even the adults got in on the fun. It’s hard to imagine what the area would have looked like as anything other than a shantytown, to think of it as a real working port? The water really looks like a solid mass, so dark with oil and trash it almost looks like lava. As opposed to what I’ve seen of Dharavi where the economic sector is immediately coexisting with private homes, this slum was pretty much entirely residential because the inhabitants work in the remaining functioning docks, or elsewhere.

Before coming to the India, and even here before coming to slums, I predicted feeling despair and sadness when seeing them. When we first entered, I felt nervous and cautious, but then I found myself relaxed and actually enjoying it. There is such a sense of vitality and community connection, it was hardly sad at all. Children play and laugh, women gossip over their cooking or washing, men chew betel nut on breaks from work—it’s a neighborhood that just happens to be more dense and less solidly constructed than any other. I understand why there are problems with relocating the slum dwellers to formal apartments- they miss the interconnectedness that thrives there. The moments when I’ve felt the most despair are when I see children begging in the roads—despair that they live in a system which leads them to this action, that they risk their lives walking into traffic, that there is so much injustice on so many levels: misallocation of wealth and resources from the global to local level, parents who force them to do this, pimps who skim off the top of the beggars’ earnings, my feelings of helplessness and confusion.

Tuesday we started the morning of site visits in the Bombay Port Trust garden, which is technically a public space but is kept pretty much hidden from the city. It’s not listed in any tour books, no one knows about it- this was my first exposure to it, and that’s too bad because it’s a lovely space with signs explaining the botanical plants, benches, pavilions, lawns. From there we went to the Sassoon Docks (as in the Sassoons who built the synagogues, library, and industries) where the fishing industry is based, and spent a few fragrant hours learning about the design of the buildings on the docks which collect, sort, and send out the fish locally, throughout India, and around the world. Apparently the night’s catch comes in all at once at 5am, when the main market begins, but I’ll take their word for it. Again, this is a public space, but not at all a place visited by tourists, so we got lots of stares, and suspicious questions by the port police. We weren’t allowed to take photos, which was a shame. In one area there were probably 60 women and girls squatting on the ground sorting through mini-prawns, and the pink piles in front of them made a very colorful scene with all of their different saris.

Yesterday the students gave a presentation on their findings so far on the design and planning challenges here to us, and some other local architects, planners, and journalists. Following their powerpoint, an interesting conversation began which essentially concluded that Bombay is facocked. Good. Great. Wonderful.

Last night I met part of the Jew Crew at Mocha, in Bandra, yet another tres cute café with shisha, tapas, crepes, pancakes, latkes (spelled laktes on the menu), and a gazillion milkshakes amongst other items. Felt very Israeli, very chill. Bandra is definitely the up and coming part of the city.

Tonight I’m checking out another club in Juhu called Rock Bottom. Who am I to judge, but I would not name an establishment which serves alcoholic beverages Rock Bottom. That would be like calling a fast-food place Coronary Heart Disease, or something. Holi is this weekend and I'm very excited!! More about that next week.

Jewish celebrities and Indian bagels

23-25 Feb

A contrast emerged of the boring slowness of work with the social fun evenings on the town. Friday night went to shule and met a local woman, Rema. When she entered the balcony she did the touching the chest and mouth thing I’ve seen Hindus do in front of pictures or idols of saints or gods. I wonder if that’s a custom across the Jewish community, or if it’s something she picked up from her husband, who is Hindu. We exchanged numbers and she offered an open invitation for me to come to her house, which would be so nice! I’m really curious to see a Jewish house, or in this case, Jewdu. Or Hinwish. After shule the whole group of Robbie, Benji, his Australian entourage, Erin and I went to Chabad and created enough overflow that a whole new table had to be brought out for us. When we were in line to wash, an older woman from New York introduced herself to me, and started introducing me to her husband and daughter when she saw Rabbi Gabi holding a book and she said, “Oh, that’s my husband’s book.” Right- her husband is the one and only Rabbi Joseph Telushkin! I was so excited, I shook his hand (he wasn’t wearing visible tzit tzit and his wife’s hair wasn’t covered so I figured he’s not shomer negiya, but who knows- he ran with it) and told him I’m a big fan, and that I’ve written many a dvar Torah practically plagiarizing his book. Good one, Joce, good one.

After dinner (which was particularly gendered- they wouldn’t let Mrs. Telushkin lead a song and they skipped me in the introductions), we walked back down the Colaba gauntlet to Mondy’s for drinks. Rahul was there with some friends who were going to Polyester’s (as the name would suggest, a disco club) but we stayed there. Robbie randomly reunited with 2 friends from a summer program he did last year in Denmark called Humanity in Action- one friend is a teacher in Pune, and his girlfriend came to visit, and it just so happens we were all at the same bar at the same time. That’s Bombay. Getting into the taxi to go home, a hash dealer was trying to get us to come with him for his goods, but we insisted we had to go. He asked our names and Robbie started it off introducing himself as Joe. Erin said Alice, I said Maggie, and Benji said Henry. Now we have official aliases.

Saturday I had my first Hindi lesson with Bobby, the favorite of the expats. He’s got a very funny way about him, a subtle sense of humor that’s actually pretty cheesy. I think he’ll be a fun teacher. Later in the afternoon I headed down to the Gateway of India to catch the ferry to Elephanta Island for the Elephanta Festival- live traditional music and dance, food, good times. I was the only white person on the boat and it felt cool to say to the guy next to me, I live in Bombay. The engine died just before we reached the island and I thought we might have to swim the rest of the way, but they got it working and we arrived in one piece. The festival stage was set up on a hill beside the main staircase you take to get up to the attractions- so it was actually outside of the historic area itself. The lower level had fancy covered chairs for the VIPs, but I think the plebe seats were much better- cushions and bolster pillows set up for lounging, at a perfect angle to look down onto the stage. The Orissa dancing was wonderful, but it would have been better if I knew the stories upon which they’re based. It went on for a long time, it’s amazing that the dancers can memorize that much choreography and keep up their energy. During the intermission I found Benji and his Australian entourage, and the people sitting around them left so there was room for me to join them. The second half was live singing with some woman who is apparently also a PhD in Biochemistry or something. Reminded me of camp, being out in the wild, and also Blossom or Cain Park. It was a lovely evening, another pinch me moment. Benji and I debated staying over and just sleeping there, but figured it wouldn’t fly with the authorities so we went back on the ferry with everyone else. Turns out the woman sitting next to me was the announcer of the show. We got to talking because she was playing music on her cell phone/ video/ photo camera/ stereo. Pretty sophisticated system. Anyway she said she lives in Walada next to the Imax in what sounds like some sort of private gated community with a gym, pool, access to the bookstore and theatre in the Imax complex, etc. Sounds pretty posh.

Outside of Churchgate on the way back home, Benji and I saw tons of street food vendors, who manage to set up elaborate systems to prepare and cook food that are beyond me. At one point they actually lifted up the whole set up and moved it across the sidewalk. We had really good fried rice and ice cream. What is it about outings that makes people want ice cream? It was so good.

Sunday I walked down a perpendicular street to S.V. Road, thinking I would eventually hit the water. The street was lined with tall apartment buildings that looked pretty nice, some small shops, a few street stalls, and then it ended into some sort of walled creek of filth lined with shacks. I started walking down along the creek but felt pretty uncomfortable and realized it wasn’t really cool for me to be all up in this slum neighborhood. It feels like an invasion of privacy and it's just so patently clear that I'm out of place there.

After that I met up with Akshay in Bandra at the Stopper’s Shop, an upscale department store just like the ones at home with an overwhelming perfume and makeup area leading into the other floors. So weird to have these home experiences here- to feel so 'in place'. Anyway from there we took a rick to Bandstand, the area around the old Bandora fort the Portuguese built that’s left in ruins. The area is really cute with manicured lawns and paths, ruins to climb on. We could see the building on the bridge which will be the Bandra- Worli sea link, a massive project by the city to cut down commuting time for the 10% of Mumbaikers who drive. Way to privilege the few over the many. What the hell? What the city needs is more public transportation, not roads for cars. Anyway, in the garden area there was a sign with the rules, including “no antisocial behavior.” I joked that I thought that meant it’s not allowed to sit by yourself absorbed in a book, looking stand-offish. Akshay said that sort of activity doesn’t exist here, and that the sign meant no drug dealers or hooligans, or PDA- but apparently it’s a big spot for couples. We saw a bride and groom walking on the rocks by the water, actually. Cute.

Anyway, from there we went up to Mt. Mary, site of an old and famous cathedral. Evidently there’s some legend that Mary washed up on the shores here, and it’s a holy site. A bunch of Bollywood stars live in this area also, really big nice apartment buildings with exorbitant real estate prices. We stopped in a little coffee shop sort of equivalent for chai, and I didn’t do a clear enough head wobble so I ended up with “bread and butter” which is basically a soft roll like a hamburger bun with little fruity candy bits stuffed in it, liberally spread with butter and sliced into strips. For most of the time we were there, I was the only woman and the only white person. I think my being a woman stuck out even more- it’s just a guys’ place, I guess. They sell Mountain Dew.

Akshay mentioned another café where he goes to do work because it has free wireless called The Bagel Shop, so naturally I wanted to check it out. We walked there, through a church compound in which the courtyard where everyone walks is made of tombstones (not sure if they are actually graves, but either way it was creepy and I didn’t like it). The Portuguese style is evident in the bungalows in this area, Chium Village. Really cute. So we get to The Bagel Shop and it is adorable. Akshay said the owner is Afghani, but when I told Erin about it later she said he’s Israeli and also owns another place in town. Little stools and tables, actually good bagels, avocado! We sat outside on padded porch furniture, enjoying watermelon juice and a coffee table book about some guy who has traveled to 100 countries. I’ve got 88 to go.

In the evening I went to the Purim party at the JCC, where the kids had a “fancy dress” competition. By far the cutest! Of course lots of girls dressed up as Esther, but there were various creative ideas- a tree, a Jewish boy who recited a bunch of morning prayers which was really touching, a Kashmiri girl, Shabbat candles, a Chinese girl, a hip hop dancer, a Bollywood dancer, King Ahashverosh. Joseph Telushkin spoke after the contest while the kids were off making mishloach manot. Apparently they had to do Purim early this year to avoid conflicting with Holi, which I’m very excited to see this weekend. Rabbi Telushkin spoke about the 4 questions a Jew is asked after he/she dies: 1. were you honest in your business dealings? 2. did you study Torah? 3. did you have children and teach them Judaism? 4. did you work to make the world better? I think those are excellent questions, and reveal that Judaism is much more than observing antiquated rituals between man and God. Judaism really is about the relationship between man and man, I definitely agree with that point he made.

I also met an Israeli Indian woman from Kiryat Shmona who lives in Thane. Her Hebrew was really fast and I couldn’t entirely keep up, but she invited me for Shabbat sometime which should be especially interesting. I’m racking them up! She told a story about being at a shule where there were no men to lead the service, so she was the shaliach tzibur in an orthodox shule. Amazing.

After the party Erin and I met up with Benji to go to Shadia’s goodbye party, at the Hard Rock Café! Another weird home in India moment. Pretty good nachos, actually, and a fun night.

Nouveau Riche Bandra

19 Feb- 22 Feb
Fun night shopping and dinner with Erin and Batya- very indulgent American girls’ night. Batya found this tiny little shop that sells majorly discounted western clothes that were made here and missed the shipment or are slightly imperfect, something like that- so stuff that sells in the US at H+M or Zara for like $40 or way more, here is 350-500 rupees, or about $7.50-$11. Much crazier than Loehmann’s, and you can’t try anything on, but I bought two tunic/kurta shirts. I think both can work with some tailoring. Then we went to ‘Just Around the Corner’- an American style restaurant with pizza (but not tonight, oven wasn’t working), pasta, sandwiches, and a salad bar. Actually pretty good, close to the real thing. When we were leaving Erin said “Oh, this place is so nouveau riche Bandra.”- funny but true, it’s for the higher class Indians who want to emulate Westerners in general and Americans in particular. I’m not complaining, though, it was a nice change.

I’m learning a lot from the two of them- about life here, about the Jewish community.

Thursday night Erin and I successfully saw Happy Feet at the Imax, which was tremendous and really fun. We were the only people in the theatre most of the time, the whole place is pretty empty on weekdays apparently. The place is huge and I felt like I was transported right into an American suburban mall. The pizza calzone I ordered was basically white bread folded over stuffed with some kind of dry tomato sauce and something vaguely resembling cheese, and the nachos were actually warmed Doritos with a little cup of salsa. They also have ice cream dots, like the astronaut stuff they sell at science museums, gelato, baskin robbins, and in addition to popcorn, just regular corn. Boiled corn. Must have been lost in translation.

On the way back the taxi driver got lost, there was a road closed and we took the ‘diversion’ into what I think might have been part of the closed off area in the Eastern waterfront- barbed wire above walls with signs saying “Prohibited Place,” some sort of silos, some oil equipment, big parking lots full of taxis and busses, warehouses full of pipes and various parts, et cetera. Sketchy! Such an adventure would be unheard of back home. Luckily we made it out ok, all’s well that end’s well. Erin’s navigating skills saved the day. I was bewildered at the whole thing, but as I see this happen more often, somehow I manage not to get upset or even feel too anxious, I just roll with it because it seems to be the baseline of normalcy here for random shit to happen like that.

Thursday night I finally met another expat, Kristine, at Zenzi along with a few Dutch expats and their visiting friends. One of the Dutchies will be here for 2 years- wow. Couldn’t imagine that. I can handle it now because I know there is an expiration date (like a relationship that really shouldn’t be, perhaps?), but it would just be so hard to keep up this level of everything for such an extended period. Erin came and then we went to Benji’s to meet him, Manor, and his friend visiting from Australia, Aliza. Erin stayed to watch a movie with Robbie and we went out to Enigma, which was again really fun. These AIESIC kids are everywhere, the group seemed to be a bunch of them. Aliza is great- she made friends with a bunch of Indian Brits in the time it took me to go to the (very fancy) bathroom. I wish she had been around longer so I could learn how to model that open friendliness.

A deeper level

16 Feb-19 Feb

Friday night I met Amit, another expat, at Out of the Blue in Union Park, in Khar. Nice place, another enclave of higher class westernized places, included a Baskin Robbins. It seems that one of the primary signs of higher class is the availability of cuisine other than Indian or Chinese. Akshay met us also, and we had an interesting conversation about class divisions in India. It’s such a hierarchical society, and difficult to understand how much of that predated the British and all of their facocked policies. Class is much easier to perceive, at least as an outsider, than caste. At the table next to us was a trio of probably 19 year old local kids celebrating a birthday. They were all in entirely western clothes, eating fondue and cake. Akshay explained that the people who come to this sort of place are likely to work for some sort of multinational corporation or one of the top local companies, and these kids live off of their parents money, not even necessarily going to college. I’m not sure if they are the ultra rich, or if they are just upper middle class. The rise of the middle class here is creating, and was created by, a whole new segment of economic growth, and I’m still learning all about that.

Saturday I was supposed to go to work for a site visit with a foreign group to the Eastern Waterfront, but I woke up not feeling well and started getting sick on the train downtown, so I promptly turned around, came back, and put myself to bed for an afternoon of rest. In the evening I donned a salwar kameez and headed to Matunga for a film night at the JCC- Fiddler on the Roof! The staff organized a film series of Jewish themes from around the world- they are as curious about us as we are about them. It was pretty surreal to be sitting in India watching that movie, singing along and them too following along on printed sheets of lyrics. Afterwards Batya said someone came up to her and asked if the pogroms were really as bad as it looked in the film- when she explained they were, and it went on for many years, the person replied, “Wow, in India we have been so lucky.” It’s true- and really interesting- Indian Jews are one of the few groups in modern times that have not been persecuted, that haven’t suffered. They’ve always been prosperous and lived in harmony with the rest of the ethnic groups here.

The community is also very Zionist. Almost all of them have relatives in Israel, many of whom live in Lod. Apparently you can still see women in saris there. It raises the proverbial question: should they leave India for Israel, leaving nothing left of their community and legacy here? Or should they preserve their way of life, amidst all the continuing changes around them?

After the movie we went to Robbie and Benji’s place and ended up having an extended jam session on various found items of percussion (including Erin’s specialty, a pill bottle full of rocks and sand), guitar, and vina, a beautiful stringed instrument along the lines of sitar or guitar, but horizontal and with a resonance chamber. Thus was born our band, Garam and the Tikka Masalas. Look out Billboard, here we come.

Sunday I joined Patricia and her friends from church and the old neighborhood for a fancier lunch at home, including a yellow curry really similar to something I had in Sri Lanka, and garlic bread! Two of them had been to Israel and we talked about what an intense place it is and how powerful spiritually. I guess Catholics wouldn’t find India so spiritually moving? I have yet to experience the holy sites, although there have been moments of transcendent bliss for me already, like the Hariprasad concert.

In the afternoon I ventured out to Linking Road and tried to do some shopping. Amongst the Levis store and other western brands, there was a ‘Rajasthan crafts exhibition cum sale’ makeshift shop, so I got some stuff there. One shirt way too small, one kurta way too big. I am Goldilocks! After that, I wanted to see a Kathak classical dance performance, but even after Patricia gave the taxi driver directions and explained to me where the theatre was, I was lost. He dropped me off who knows where, near nothing that resembled what she had described. I walked along for a bit, and coming upon nothing, asked a man on the street wearing a polo shirt and nice pants with a moustache and longish hair- looked more Western, somehow. He started leading me down one way, but then it became clear that he didn’t really know either, and he started asking people and leading me in various directions. Not only was I annoyed that I hadn’t found the theatre yet, and was lost, I also was preoccupied with trying to feel out if this guy was going to make me give him baksheesh (a tip/payoff/bribe), or run off with me somewhere, or who knows. He said his name was Stephen and he used to work for a cruiseliner in America. Um, ok. Anyway, that annoyance and preoccupation all added up to me being rather frustrated – I just felt so helpless. I couldn’t get clear directions from anyone, I had no idea what I was looking for or even really how to pronounce it- there was nothing I could do. Ultimately we ended up at one Hindu temple (they keep cows outside and you can buy grass or hay or feed it, and that’s auspicious to do before entering, but then the entrance smells like manure) and the guys selling flowers in front explained that was the Sitladevi temple, and the Prabhadevi temple was farther down. Stephen said it would take 30 minutes by taxi to get there, and by that point it was way too late to even attempt it, so I just gave up and made a quick exit before any baksheesh conversation could take place, if it was even going to.

Luckily I recognized the area as Erin and Batya’s neighborhood, so I called B, she was nearby and on her way home, so I just stood around waiting for her and then we went to her apartment before heading out to Bandra to have dinner with other expats. Dan and Samira work here, Dan I think for Tata Consulting and Samira with an NGO but I’m not sure. They live in a really nice place in a cute corner of Bandra not far from me, near good restaurants especially. Beth is on a Fulbright to study art here, part of her PhD in art history at Penn. We got into an interesting conversation about the concept of public good and social contracts here. Whereas in the States, there is a formal social contract and general agreement to follow the rules set up for the common good, here the concept of rules for the common good does not quite exist. The best example of this is the road traffic. Beth pointed out that traffic in the states is not necessarily caused by anything more than people slowing down up hills and speeding up down them, there isn’t actual congestion, it’s just from inconsistent speeds. Here, on the other hand, there really is traffic and congestion because there is no concept of sticking to a lane, and the roads are considered the domain of anyone who so chooses, not just vehicles. The traffic light system often just seems like a suggestion, and what prompts the front car to move is not necessarily the light changing, it’s everyone behind honking their heads off. However, although in the States there is this general agreement about following laws in a macro sense, the micro interactions between individuals demonstrate far less brotherhood than here. People really help each other here—Beth told a story of being late for an event but her taxi needed to stop and get petrol, so the petrol station people helped her hail another cab and explained to the driver where she needed to go, and that she needed to get there fast. This kind of reaching out to help someone else seems more rare in the States. We keep to ourselves, we don’t get involved in strangers’ business as much as we can help it. We don’t want to be bothered with other people’s problems. Here it’s all communal. It’s all public, in a shared sphere of interaction where it’s all related. Of course there is more nuance than this reduced explanation, but the underlying difference is striking.

Anyway, I was glad to have someone to receive my venting- she made the important points that traveling abroad is different than living abroad, and living abroad is pretty much the same as living at home, just harder. So true! I think I came here with a set of expectations that really go more along with traveling, not living, and that’s been part of my feeling not entirely satisfied. Understanding that living is a whole different ballgame is important for me to swallow. I think yesterday was the first time I’ve really allowed myself to dig into the frustrations, and the toll they take. I was exhausted from the walking around, trying to find the theatre, and demoralized that I was so helpless to find it. Not being able to speak the language, not knowing my way around and feeling lost all the time, being on my guard to such an extreme that I couldn’t even graciously accept the kindness of a stranger, not knowing if I’m overpaying/being ripped off, et cetera- all of this is draining. Just normal functions here require a higher degree of consciousness, cognition, and cautiousness than life at home, and it can be exhausting. Whiteness here sometimes buys special access, and other times I’m reminded why it’s called being an outsider- because one is really kept outside. Maybe I can peer in and see a bit, but I just can’t get in, and ‘in’ is where the real action is.

Then as if on cue, this morning I was groped for the first time walking through Churchgate. It was weird- I got a distinctly off vibe from the guy as I saw him coming towards me, and then when he passed he reached his hand back and felt my ass. I’d wished I had the reflexes to grab his hand or hit him or turn around and grab his balls, and I was surprised at myself for having such an aggressive and violent reaction. I guess I’ve been feeling immune to those acts, and I was angry at him for destroying that. And, it was gross.

At the same time, it does build confidence and strength of character to get through the day-to-day of life here, and it’s important to me to put a face and real identity to this so-called “third world.” I’m learning, perhaps especially from the frustrations.

Reliving High School through Bombay

0:23, 16 February 2007

Tonight the plan was to go see Happy Feet at an Imax in town- because of course, if Mumbai is to be a world-class city, it needs an imax theatre in a multiplex, apparently built on reclaimed land/salt flats in the middle of nowhere, pretty hard to get to. We show up and it turns out another film was having its premiere there that evening, with all sorts of lights and music and big elephant statues. I did catch a glimpse of Amitabh Bachchan, one of Bollywood’s biggest stars- he was talking on his cellphone. Batya and Erin tried valiantly to get us in, but it didn’t work, so we went back to Kings Circle for dinner at Café Mysore, allegedly the oldest south Indian restaurant in Bombay.

I had idli for the first time since I’ve been here, some special version where instead of being cooked as separate patties, it was cooked inside of a jackfruit leaf (but no jackfruit, sadly) in which the stem wove through the leaf to hold it all together- rather genius. It’s a consistency like solidified cream of wheat, except it’s from fermented rice flour, and it’s eaten with chutneys (or chutnies?) and sambar (kinda a soupy gravy with some veg chunks). Also tried bhaji puri and dahi puri for the first time. So good! The sign outside said it was Indian junk food, but this seems pretty elaborate- the bhaji puri is puffed fried dough pockets about the size of my palm one tears and eats with bhaji- curried vegetables, and also raw chopped red onion. Dahi puri is small, tablespoon sized puffs filled with I couldn’t figure out what, and covered with sweet yogurt and little crisp balls that are basically baby Kix. Remember kix? Totally yummy.

Then we had “Just Chill” ice cream, which is somewhere in between Tasti D-Lite and soft serve, actually pretty good. There was a little girl wearing an adorable red halter dress with kinda off proportions, so the chest was very low and the straps were on her breasts. I remarked to Erin that that’s the most cleavage I’ve seen in India. Cleavage is really concealed here! I’ve been surprised to see as many bare shoulders and short skirts as I have (mostly skirts on tv), but yeah, not really any boobs.

Erin and I talked about wearing Indian versus Western clothes. As someone pointed out to me, if I was Indian, I would wear the western clothes I have as an actual westerner, that would be the appropriate socioeconomic and cultural status. But as a westerner living here, I want to wear Indian clothes- but for whom? Would I stand out less? Work is kind of irrelevant b/c it’s such a small group, and I almost feel like I’d be mocking them wearing it? (avoiding getting on the 2^nd class car with Benita yesterday made me feel really guilty afterwards… I was worried when she texted me this morning that she was pissed about it, but things seemed fine at work. I’ll just have to be sure that doesn’t happen again like that.) Erin said something about her westernized version of local clothes- I should work that out- kurta and jeans, kinda.

Thinking about it more- in the states seeing a non-westerner in their native dress makes them stand out entirely as foreign. Seeing a non-westerner in western clothes just makes them look like an American person of color—which is to say, we’re used to seeing foreigners in western clothes. So here do I blend in more in local clothes? Or is it more appropriate for me to be in my own native clothes? There isn’t a reciprocal relationship, because here I’m dressing the way they want to dress, but at home everyone wants to dress like the locals. Very interesting dynamic.

I’m developing a theory that being white in India (at least what I’ve seen of it so far) is a lot like being popular in high school.

1. People look (stare) at you all the time.
2. They are curious about you and want to know everything about you.
3. Being around you is a top goal because it improves their own social standing.
4. Although you’re constantly watched, you act like you don’t care at all, mostly ignoring it (or brazenly staring back b/c you know its thrilling for them).
5. However- you do care, in fact you are likely completely preoccupied with how much people are looking at you and constantly watching you.
6. (Matt’s contribution) And on the flipside, being watched but ignoring it all the time kinda turns you into an asshole.
7. You can get away with nearly whatever you want, and people will go out of their way to make things happen for you.
8. People will reduce fulfilling their own needs in order to meet yours.

Took the bus for the first time tonight, with Matt. The bus was fun- I was the only woman. Metal, rickety, bumpy, big jumps over bumps on the road. #32 goes to right down the street from Erin and Batya’s place- so much quicker and more direct than taking the train, I’ll definitely have to figure out doing that again. There’s the driver, and a conductor in the back, where you board. Matt was exactly right in his description that he jabs his clicker thing at you, and then you tell him where you want to get off, and he tells you how much it is- this was 5 rupees. It’s actually a smart system, although I imagine it would be really hard on a packed bus- since the conductor knows where everyone is getting off, he rings the bell thing letting the driver know when to stop. Clever.

The Inevitable Strikes

9 Feb- 14 Feb

After work on Friday I finally went to the Kenesset Eliyahoo shule for Shabbat services. It’s beautiful and old, with a women’s balcony. The women have oversized dining room table like chairs to sit in, and the men have couches arranged around the center bimah, like in Israeli and Sephardi shules, with the ark in the front- facing west! It was difficult to follow most of the service because of unfamiliar tunes, bad acoustics, too much background noise from the women, siddur a little different- but overall I caught on. Unfortunately there isn’t much representation from the local community on Friday night, so Chabad kind of takes over- there were definitely way more foreigners present than locals, and the Chabad rabbi led maariv. There were a large group of Israelis present who apparently are documenting Jewish communities around the world, and many of them are architects so they were interested in learning about UDRI.

I walked to Chabad with Batya and a friend of hers from Australia who works in Hong Kong or Taiwan or something, and I wasn’t feeling so well but I figured I just needed to drink some water. Upon arriving at Chabad I sat down to cool off and drink, and I started realizing something worse was going on- soon enough I had to run to the bathroom for what was the beginning of a several day nasty nast stomach bug. I was in such bad shape I ended up just sleeping on that same couch at Chabad, right in front of the bookcase of sifrei kodesh and Hebrew tourbooks. Clearly gastroenteritis is an inevitability in India, and I’m glad, ironically, that Chabad would be where mine struck, so I could have some real Jewish TLC. Saturday morning I took a taxi back to Santa Cruz- an hour long trip for only Rs 200, less than $5. Spent the rest of the weekend in bed, barely eating, started a course of Cipro, and didn’t go back to work until Wednesday.

As I was leaving work on Wednesday I got a text from Rahul to hang out, so I met him at Charni Road station and we went to his place in Malabar Hill- a tres swanky part of town right on the water. We had dinner from Moshe’s, a real Israeli place with excellent food. I love that when he called to order, he referred to whoever answered as Moshe. At work they call and say “Hallo Modern” “Hallo Jai Hind”, whatever. And instead of saying ‘this is’ to introduce themselves, they say ‘I am.’ Anyhoo, I was pleased to see that I recognized the way back on Marine Drive from town to Santa Cruz, watching the Queen’s Necklace- beautiful. But then driving over Mahim Creek is the stinkiest single area I’ve experienced here. Yuck. Like you're actually inside of a rotten egg buried in a trash heap coated with vomit.

Explorations Expanding

5 Feb – 9 Feb

Monday morning I got to work and saw that my suspicions were confirmed that my friend Paul had already made it to Bombay but I was missing him - in fact he’d been in town since Saturday morning. Luckily he was nearby and we caught each other online, so I left the office for a break and we had sugar cane juice, which is super yummy. We walked into the David Sassoon library and climbed up the spiral staircase all the way to the roof, which had a great view of Fort and Kala Ghoda, until we were busted by a staff person. There’s also a great balcony with wicker chaise lounges- if it weren’t for the heat and nastiness of the air quality, it would be a really nice place to sit and relax and read at the end of the day. Paul and I agreed to meet that night for dinner, so after work I headed down to the Taj and from there we walked down Colaba trying to find a Parsi restaurant Benita had told me about. We couldn’t find it, and ended up at a Lebanese/Irani place instead, which I imagine is fairly similar. Classic mistranslations on the menu were amusing. Listening to Paul’s tales of traveling made me stir crazy to get out beyond Bombay. All of India is just beyond my reach, beckoning to me- but I have to go to work every day so I can’t see her yet. Augh! His brand of independence and self-sufficiency is beyond me, though. I don’t think I could sustain an itinerant, unknown lifestyle for that long. Plus it’s just different for women, we can’t pull off the independence men can on the road, I think. Damn sexist safety issues. He also spoke about seeing his Seeds of Peace kids, and made me envious of that experience. Interesting how I’ve moved farther from the conflict resolution stuff… wonder if I’ll come back in that direction.

Tuesday Paul and I met for lunch and this time we did find Paradise, the Parsi restaurant on Colaba. I had really good tandoori fish and he had some sort of mutton in a white sauce. I freaked out when I ate something that I thought was the eye of the fish, since it was whole. Aiiiiiii I think I’ll stick to veg stuff more often.

Tuesday night I met Gautum from the expat list, who lives right around the corner. We went to Zenzi, a tres hip bar in Bandra on Waterfield Rd, joined eventually by Akshay, Nabil, and Danie. Nabil is new here, from DC, half Polish and half Tunisian, for an interesting look. He works with an ngo that does technical consulting for another ngos here. This ngo consulting model seems pretty prevalent. Zenzi is the type of place you could easily find in San Francisco, and the vibe reminded me a bit of the Enormous Room in Cambridge.

Thursday night when I got off the train there was lots of backed up traffic on the road in the market, and as I walked down I saw a parade which was the source of the blockage- a victory party for Shiv Sena. Their color is orange, so many of the participants had orange paste/paint shmeared on their faces and clothes, dancing and marching along. Besides a carriage float with the elected official and his family and right hand men, there were no less than 2 trucks blaring speakers with dance music, a drum line, a live percussion band, and hundreds of dancing, happy people. I wonder if some of the grown men were drunk, or if the party really does create that much excitement and frenzy amongst its followers. I was surprised that a Hindu fundamentalist party would have such a loud spectacle event, but I guess that’s all part of their charm. It’s also surprising that Santa Cruz, which seems to have a relatively small Hindu population (considering that this is India, first of all, but this was settled as a Portuguese Catholic colony), would elect this representative and then have such a large, public, literally traffic stopping event to celebrate it. The political system here is especially complex and difficult to crack.

Later Thursday night I went to Danie’s place off of Hill Rd in Bandra for a small birthday celebration for Erin- just them, Batya, Manor, Benji, and two Australian women- Alana and I missed the other one’s name. Danie lives in a cute studio apartment, we sat on the floor and ate lays potato chips and fruit. I tried Limca for the first time- it’s like sprite without the lemon, kinda interesting. Would be good with gin, and people say it’s good with fenny, the cashew liquor made in Goa. We ended up getting into an intense debate about the law of return in Israel and the question of its future Jewish character. Interesting to hear the range of perspectives, and to be in such a removed place from the contexts of Brandeis and Federation to talk about these heated issues. I appreciated the presence of respect in the debate, definitely a difference from Brandeis especially. And we all know that we’re here in India to be in India, and that our Jewishness led us here, regardless of our differing opinions on the issue at hand.

Throughout the week I had more interesting conversations with Benita about the need for UDRI to take a more intervening, grassroots approach, instead of the removed research they’ve done so far. I’m starting to get a better grasp on the issues, and I’m hoping that I can play a role, somehow, in that transformation. Friday morning I finally met Shumona, the AJWS country representative, and she had all kinds of good feedback to give about ways to come at the work, organize it, and move forward. We met at Barista on Colaba, which is like the Starbucks of India, really western with quoted expressions on the wall, orange color scheme, overpriced, etc.

Weekend #2

2 Feb-4 Feb

Friday wasn’t feeling well in the afternoon, nearly migraine-ish, so I came home early. On the train, a little boy came up begging, and it broke my heart. He couldn’t have been more than 4, dark dark skin caked with dirt and dust, sweeping along the floor, picking out who knows what to keep. He just looked so earnest and plaintive, his silence was screaming at me. I gave him a few rupees, which I think irritated the other women in the compartment, maybe because they think it will raise his expectations that they will give, too?

Responding to beggars is a tricky issue- apparently there are lots of schemes where the beggars report to someone like a pimp, and he takes a cut and manipulates them in various ways. I don’t think the same reasoning for not giving to individual homeless people on the street in San Francisco works here- there I rationalize by giving to reputable, legitimate organizations who not only serve the needs of the homeless but also organize to try to root out the problem altogether. Here the problem is just so vast, and giving to NGOs isn’t necessarily a sure thing. But giving to beggars when they come up to me on my way to the train, or in a rickshaw (one little girl came up to me tonight and touched my feet- a major sign of respect for Hindus- they touch the feet, then touch their third eye and heart) just seems like it perpetuates the cycle of dependency. Of course, on yet another hand, it’s such a pittance to me, why shouldn’t I give? When I’ve tried talking to other expats about it, many have had lots of attitude about being targeted by beggars because of their whiteness and how they won’t tolerate it. My friend Paul who has been traveling around Asia for 3 months now said he buys them food or clothes instead of just giving them money- that way you avoid the pimp scheme.

It was about 6 when I got off the train, and on the walk home I saw that everyone seems to take a break from their businesses and work to have chai and a snack. Chai wallahs go around with these metal carriers with glasses and hand out their ambrosia. Anyway, Friday night I went to Erin and Batya’s for Shabbat dinner, which was really nice and chill. Turns out that the Aussie I almost met before the Dalai Lama was in fact Benji, who I met formally Friday night, along with Danie, another World Partner member, and Matt, a graphic designer a few years older who also used to write for Let’s Go when he was a Harvard student (including the 2002 edition I have!), and worked on the living wage campaign. Their neighborhood, Mahim Sitladevi, is cute, I should explore there during the day.

Saturday I met Manor, the other AJWS volunteer corps member who also went to Brandeis and roomed with Daniel Pepper on a high school Habonim Dror program in Israel. We went to Elephanta Island, about an hour’s boat ride from the Gateway of India, a relic of the British empire, built to commemorate the arrival of the queen back in the day. Both the island and the area around the Gateway are full of peddlers of things as irrelevant to the site as plastic Barbie cell phones, these huge inflated balloons they have all over the place here, squeaky duck toys, and cheesy tee-shirts. On the island they also had touristy handicrafts arranged on tables forming a gauntlet in the main staircase you take to get up to the site. The caves were not what I’d seen before in Sri Lanka- more like carvings into the side of rock, not natural caves with internal carvings or paintings. Some impressive figures, but the most memorable sight of the day was a trio of baby puppies biting and fighting and then clamoring to feed from the mom. So cute! And really cute to watch a little Indian toddler coo over them, too.

Saturday night I just stayed in because I was pooped from the day’s exertion. The heat really slows me down, jeez. Sunday morning I read the rest of The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri, which is pretty good, watched K-Pax on tv, and then met Akshay at the Kala Ghoda festival, which was actually awesome. Live music and dance performances, lots of booths with different crafts and wares, food, a children’s play area, art exhibits, etc, spread out all over the neighborhood. He gave me a good tour, pointing out that the run down building I walk past every day on the way to work was actually the greatest hotel during the colonial period, where Mark Twain and various dignitaries stayed. Now it’s falling apart entirely. We also visited Horniman’s Circle, walked around Fort by the Naval area, walked through several street cricket games, and an art gallery where the painter was present- really cool modernized version of ancient Buddhist pieces.

Later in the evening when we stopped to get a cold drink, I saw a white girl on a pay phone (here pay phones work differently than at home. There aren’t private booths, there are stalls set up on the sidewalks with regular phones and you pay according to what kind of call you are making, and for how long (local land line, long distance land line, international land line, mobile, etc. I don’t know what they stand for, but they all say ISD and STD, and every time I pass I think it’s a stand where you can go and buy Chlamydia or syphilis or something. Ha!) and thought to myself that if she’s a traveler I could just let her use my cellphone, show some foreign solidarity. Then I realized she looked familiar, and as soon as she hung up the phone and turned around, I recognized her as Sarah Beller, my old roommate from Washington, D.C. who I probably haven’t seen in like 5 or 6 years. Crazy! She was here with her boyfriend Scott (they were together in 2001, too!), who works for the Ashoka Foundation. He had a conference. As it turns out, they stayed with Leah across the hall in her flat right before I got to Bombay. Small, small, tiny world. So weird.

A little while later we met up with Akshay’s friend Kaushal and 2 Korean travelers he’d met, Annie and Hee-Joon, along with two other locals, Rahul and Rohan. Akshay met the girls through his blog, I think, and they were staying with Rahul through couchsurfers.com, which is an international travelers’ informal home hospitality network, sounds pretty cool. Speaking of small worlds, turns out Annie’s freshman roommate at Yale was a senior at Shaker when I was in 9^th grade, and I remember her, and she also used to live in San Francisco in the same apartment building Miles has lived in for the past year. Wowee. Anyway, we all went to Leopold’s, a classic watering hole for tourists and locals on Colaba, the heart of the tourist district in Bombay. Colaba is also allegedly where Bollywood scouts pick people up, but I have yet to see this happen, unfortunately. Leopold’s was really fun, and it felt like true traveling to be with such a mixed group of people who all had this night in common.

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.

Starting work

29 Jan
Monday morning I felt like an excited pupil on the first day of school. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast with the Smart Balance PB I brought from SF. Pankaj was late so I had more time to sit around being excited and a little nervous. Finally he came but I didn’t understand where he would be so I tried to get into the car of someone definitely other than him, until he showed himself across the street. He played tour guide a bit as we drove into town, particularly past the Dharavi slum, the biggest in India, if not Asia (sound familiar?).

Dharavi, even from the surface, is nothing short of astonishing, in many senses of the word. Astonishing poverty, filth, need, crowding, and trash. Children and adults clamoring for a single pot of water to bathe. People sleeping wherever there’s enough space to lie down. Naked babies wandering behind their sari-clad mothers, carrying bundles on their heads and backs at once. And, beyond all this, astonishing order and ingenuity and creativity. Dharavi is an entire economy unto itself, practically, with well defined crafts and trades creating a level of self-sufficiency we don’t see in most other places. There are recyclers, leather traders, tailors, launderers (dhobis), glass collectors, metalsmiths, rickshaw mechanics, cycle repairers, etc. The shacks have corrugated metal roofs and some sort of solid walls, at least three, and makeshift curtains of fabric rags. Many have something of a second floor, with a ladder leading up (a real second floor, not like Miles’s loft), where the ground floor is a shop of whatever business and the second floor is the home- entire families in something probably less than eight square feet, I’d estimate. Pankaj also explained that there are landlords (slumlords) who charge rent and manage affairs for entire areas of the slum. Some shacks actually have an address or some sort of name plaque; that’s the extent of formalized infrastructure that has sprung up here. Dharavi is enormous and dense on the outer perimeters, so I can only imagine what the interior is like—hopefully I’ll get a chance to see for myself during my time here.

Right on the other side of Dharavi is a main highway linking South Mumbai to the suburbs (I gather they are called suburbs because they are more residential, but certainly nothing like the suburbs we know at home, and they are still considered part of Mumbai proper… I’m still working out that nuance), and the new, shining and sparkly Bandra-Kurla Complex, basically a corporate office park that could easily compare to the same back home—tall glass buildings, broad clean roads, manicured lawns and fountains. I was surprised to see that a number of companies in the complex are domestic, actually. Such a contrast, this gleaming example of modernity and wealth next to the lowest of the low.

So- work, the office. I’m lucky that the office is in such a happening neighborhood downtown, Fort/Kala Ghoda, near to Colaba, the main tourist and retail drag, the main museums and galleries, and lots of colonial buildings. And, serendipitously, the office is literally next door to the Keneseth Eliyahoo Synagogue. I come all the way across the world to get out of the Jewish profession and here I am right on top of a shule, go figure. Anyway, UDRI shares the top floor of an office building with the Kala Ghoda Association, another nonprofit (or as they say, public trust) which evidently does cultural events and preserves the heritage of the neighborhood. It’s airy and sunny, with ceiling fans and A/C, and glass doors that completely fit the stereotype of an architects’ office.

Benita is my main point person at UDRI, and she’s awesome, young, modern, leftist, smart, opinionated, funny. She’s an architect and runs the research and resource center, and from what I can, pretty much does everything- writes funding proposals, welcomes guests, organizes events, et al. Rosalind is older and manages the accounts and the office administration, and Nayana is young and the librarian. Every time someone says Rosalind, I think they are talking to me. Raj runs errands, serves tea, whatever other essentials are necessary. This is known as the “office boy.” I’m starting out reading their publications and getting caught up on their work and the current situation in Bombay. Rosalind took me to Churchgate to get my rail pass, which adds up to less than 30 cents a day, even as a first class ticket. I was grateful she was there to help me, I would have been completely lost without her- not only in finding the obscure corner of the station where the monthly pass windows are, but figuring out which pass to get, etc. To get into the station we went through a ‘subway’ (underpass) which is so hot and humid from the concentration of people, it’s nearly steamy. It’s lined with stall shops selling everything from tee-shirts and underwear to alcohol to snacks to housewares. Each shop has a guy standing in front yelling out the item for sale to try to attract passersby. Apparently 3 for 1 packages of men’s body spray/deodorant are very popular, along with a mosquito-killing contraption that looks like a plastic tennis racket with a metal grid. Instead of working like a fly swatter where you have to smash the bug, this delivers an electric shock to the mosquito so you only have to touch it, not trap it underneath. The guys poke them with scissors or little pieces of tinsel to make the shock sound, which is kind of like those little snap firecrackers kids like (except for my brother, who used to take them apart in order to build larger, more complex bombs and firecrackers during his early adolescent pyrotechnic phase).

So that time on the train it made much more sense to me what people were talking about with the crowding and such, although it was manageable. Various peddlers come around in the cars repeating “sss, sss” and whatever they’re selling, piled up on their heads or carried in heavy bundles. More often than not they’re not wearing shoes. Once I saw a tiny woman with boxes on her head, a bundle strapped to her front, and her baby tucked into her sari wrapped around her back. They just shake their stuff around and kinda get in your face until someone motions that they want to buy, or they go away if you just ignore them.

Other times on the train I’ve seen elderly blind couples (2 different ones, and both are extremely short) who sing songs to beg. Made me think of Homer, but apparently they sing old Bollywood movie songs. It’s amazing to me how they navigate through crowded trains stations and in and out of trains- it’s hard enough to do that with full sight. More people seem to give them some change than the other beggars. I don’t know what it is about an old blind couple that pulls the heartstrings even more than little filthy children, but it works.

That first day I was so pleased with myself for making it on the train alone, I stopped at a nicer looking clothing store, Friendship, on the way back home and bought a bunch of outfits. They took my measurements to tailor them- the salesguy kept giving me XXL and XL, although I kept saying they were too big, but I knew they would customize it and chances are most of the smaller sizes would have been too tight somewhere or another. Now I’ve been through 3 rounds of alterations and they still didn’t get them all right. Friendship terminated!

First weekend in Mumbai

Friday afternoon I finally got myself moving and went across the hall to Leah and Lauren’s flat. After some chatting and an attempt on Leah and her Indian friend’s part to give me directions for the train to downtown, I ventured out on my own in Mumbai for the very first time. Across the street from the house is a ‘lane’ with ‘villas,’ I’m guessing from the Portuguese missionaries and colonists, now in pretty bad disrepair—but it’s clear that they were once beautiful and lavish, and even reminded me a bit of the architecture on Fairmount Blvd in Cleveland Heights. I found my way into the market, which is much like the shuk at Mahane Yehuda but with an actual road going through it- which means that pedestrians, busses, taxis, rickshaws, cars, bikers, cyclists, peddlers, hawkers, consumers, and beggars all occupy the same space. Not to mention the cats, dogs, and occasional cow and/or goat. Quite a lot to take in- cilantro and cellphone covers and bollywood CDs and masala milk and rice and dosas and, and, and – Muslim men with henna dyed hair and hajj caps, women in the entire range of fashion from completely western jeans and tee-shirts to saris to salwar kameez to full burkas, only with the eyes showing. There’s also another sect of Muslims, the Booris, whose women wear colored outfits with a hooded cape instead of a full one-piece burka, creating a somewhat amusing subcontinental Amish effect.

Somehow I managed to find my way to the ticket counter and to the train, and to my bewilderment I was the only person in the compartment. Later I understood that’s because I had a first class ticket and it was a national holiday, so the trains were empty. At the time, though, this gave me what I later came to understand was a false sense of security or confidence, really, about riding the trains. Arrived at Churchgate and took a taxi to Colaba to find the Chabad house, which took a fair amount of exploring until it was obviously right there in front of me. I was early (shockingly)- the menfolk were still at shule (the Keneseth Eliyahoo synagogue, which turns out to be right next to my office), so I chatted with Rivky, the rebbetzin, and other people who came in, a young Israeli couple, a single Israeli woman, and a mother and daughter from South Africa and Australia (I was pleased with myself for picking out the SA accent, especially). Eventually the place filled up and I was pleasantly surprised to see I was the only American- almost all Israelis, equally traveling businessmen and post-army travelers, including girls who looked so young I could hardly believe they weren’t 10graders. A few younger Israeli guys work here, for El Al, the consulate, or some sort of defense contractor/arms dealer. Chabad was…. Chabady. Welcoming and friendly, but with its own set of ulterior motives. I’ll go back, though. It was nice to pick up the Hebrew and could be good for meeting travel companions down the line.

I took a taxi back up to Santa Cruz and fell asleep along the way, woke up just in time to see we’d passed the house and had to turn around- I was impressed with myself to be able to even identify that. Saturday I slept late and felt really sick so I spent pretty much the entire day in bed, reading, sleeping, and generally languishing. A few times Patricia knocked on my door to come eat, tell me about the theft of Jen’s traveler’s cheques, and to warn me about watching my drinks when I go out because of date-rape. Stuff like that makes me want to call her a host-mom, whereas other times I just want to think of her as a landlady. We’ll see how that plays out over time.

Sunday I decided it was imperative to leave the house, especially for the sake of getting a cell phone and other necessities. I walked up and down S.V. Road, up and down another perpendicular road opposite the way to the train station (still not sure what that road is called- lots of roads here don’t actually have names, they’re just named in reference to the ‘main road’ or some other landmark, kinda like the address here). Lots of new things to observe: In many places the footpath (sidewalk) is in tact, in others it’s as if they just forgot to finish constructing it- there will just be an open square, wide open for anyone to fall in. I’m amazed that I haven’t seen that happen yet. Instead of benches at bus stops, there is just a bar, and people sit on it or lean against it. Sometimes the sidewalk is built right around a tree. The curbs are higher than in the States. Scaffolds on buildings, even tall, new, modern ones, are simply branches tied together. Looks pretty tenuous and dangerous to me. People try to cross the street in a critical mass- one brave soul will step out first and then others will flank him to ride his wave, essentially. Getting up the nerve to cross the street alone took some time, but now I feel ok about it. Rickshaws slow down for me so I’ve learned to walk with an expression of great determination and urgency on my face so they can tell I’m not just wandering, waiting to hop into a ‘rick’ as they’re called. I found a corner store/grocery/drug store with plenty of American brands, including but not limited to Kraft Mac+Cheese, nature valley granola bars, Tropicana juice, and plenty of western beauty products. I also bought a ‘mobile’ but couldn’t activate it without proof of address, which turned into a whole other story later. With these new goods I headed back home, I was too hot and pooped to continue after just about an hour of walking.

After a good long rest back home, I ventured out again, in the opposite direction as before, towards Khar. It became quickly evident that Khar is a more Muslim community, with lots of men in the hajj hats and long jalabiyas, and women in burkas, plus a few mosques, halal restaurants and shops, and sidewalk shrines. I walked into a political rally- elections were a few days later, and saw lots of storefront party set-ups. Candidates seem to be lauded in a similar way to deities or saints- with lots of floral garlands and revelry. Still trying to figure out how these local elections worked- something like 3000 candidates for 270 seats. What we call ‘running’ for office, they call ‘standing.’ I also noticed lots of street stalls for selling pan, samosas/vada pav/bhel puri/etc, tea, pulses, peanuts, and tobacco (in little foil packets that look suspiciously like condom wrappers), and one area with a bunch of tired looking poopy cows.
28 Jan