Krishna Janmashtami

Sunday was marked by Krishna Janmashtami, a celebration of the pranks of the god Krishna when he was a a little boy. All over the city little clay pots containing curd are strung up on ropes high in the air. Marigolds, balloons, and gold tinsel decorate the ropes. Troupes of people are tasked with making a human pyramid high enough for someone to monkey up to the top and break the clay pot. Some of these pots are over 6 stories up. No nets are used. The people wear braces that form an x on their backs so that the climbers:
a) Have something to grab hold of on the way up and
b) Have something to grab for if they fall.

Our driver took us to some of the famous places in south Bombay to witness the celebrations. Trucks loaded with people jammed the streets, people danced to vibrant music, and everywhere people laughed.

Here are a few photos -
The top one shows how high the pots can be strung - in this photo it is that little thing hanging just below the blue baloons.




In the second photo you can see the pyramid beginning to form. We never did see one of the pots get broken.









The last photo is of one of the trucks jammed full of people. All these guys wear the same T-shirt and are one big team that competes to try to break as many pots as they can find. In some places, quite a lot of money can be won by breaking the pot.

By the way, if the pyramid gets close the sponsor will spray water over them all ... even aim the jet of water at the tiny little boy who's job it is to get to the top and break the pot.

Pali Market

We live near a busy market where fruit and vegetables are haggled over every day. During the day the market is alive with the music of people trying to find the finest produce for the cheapest price. Stalls line the street, each stall displays beautifully shiny fruit or vegetables and the men inside call out to passers by, "Best fruit, Best Veg."
Ragged children sometimes run up the street, begging for money, occasionally a black-cloaked lady holding a small bundle at her breast will walk down asking for change to feed her baby. The market is exactly what I thought of when I first heard we were moving to India.

But night time is a different story. I expected that, at night, all produce is packed away, stalls are closed up, and the street empties until the new day. On the weekend I saw what really happens as my husband and I walked home from a friend's house at 2 in the morning. Some produce is indeed packed away, but only to clear an area large enough for the vendor to lie down and sleep for the night. The remaining produce is left on the stands with a muddy tarp over the top and tied down. Sometimes a tuft of hair sprouts from under the tarp as the owner slumbers beneath. As we walked down the quiet street I was struck by the life of these vendors; their home is their make-shift stall, their bed is under the pile of onions, their warmth a dirty tarp. And yet here I walked down that street, obviously foreign, I had a lump in my pocket that was obviously a wallet, it was 2 in the morning - and I felt perfectly safe. If I walked through most US cities at 2 in the morning I'd be clutching my keys and racing along, hoping I wouldn't get mugged.

The Ride Home

I meant to write every day this week, but I got so caught up in
my book that I chose reading over writing! Now the book is over
and I am a little sad about that since I enjoyed it so much.

The monsoon season so far has been a bit of a disappointment; not
much rain, no rats or snakes fleeing the sewers, no huge delays
or pileups on the highway. But today maybe this changes. The
rain just started dumping and is getting progressively more
severe. The percussive beat of the rain on our car roof breaks
only as we drive under overpasses. A perfect evening to bundle
up in a blankie and watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.
I haven't much to say, so since I am in the car I'll comment on
the things I see out the window.

Every so often we pass some poor, bedraggled motorcyclist with
and even more bedraggled passenger behind him. Now we have
turned off the highway and are in the shanty town where we've
just passed 2 shepherds herding about 30 goats down the street.
I can't even begin to guess where these goats are kept at night.

And there is a little naked boy running around in the rain and
laughing.

The big Ganesha festival is coming up so dotted around you catch
a glimpse of some enormous statue of the elephant god. In a few
weeks these statues will be carried on the shoulders of the
fortunate, down to the sea where they will be released into the
ocean. I'm quite looking forward to the spectacle.

I've just passed one of those makeshift shelters by the side of
the road - two branches holding up a tarp. There was another
tarp crossways to protect from the rain. There was smoke rising
from one of the small holes in the tent and all I can wonder is
if the family inside has enough air to breathe.

Mumbai is so green these days. Her fine mantle of brown dust has
vanished to reveal lush trees and beautiful flowers.

As the rains pound down a lady wearing a rain hat passes us. Her
sari hangs down in drenched folds and she shivers, but at least
her hair will still be neatly coiffed when she reaches her
destination.

The rain worsens, streets are starting to flood, traffic is
backing up.

We pass a familiar stone wall - the irregular and angular stones
were laid with thick infill of cement to hold the wall together.
The stones have been painted in bright colors. I remember the
first time I took this trip I saw a crew of men hand painting the
stones on this wall that runs for several hundred yards along the
road.

We've just passed a small, open room in an old building. Inside,
sitting cross-legged on the floor in a circle are several old
women. In the middle of the circle lies a heap of old sandals.
The women methodically rip apart the sandals and fling the bits
into piles. As they work all of them seem to be chattering away
at once. I pass them every day and every day the pile of sandals
is the same size.

At last we arrive at the bridge to Bandra and near home. The children will be hungry and anxious to play, and another night soon falls in Mumbai.