A Day In Mumbai ...

A remarkable day in Mumbai - one that reminds me why I love political stability. One of the political leaders was arrested on charges of rioting and brought to court in Bandra - the suburb of Mumbai where we live. His followers protested the arrest by doing the only sane thing in their arsenal ... throwing rocks at cars, setting rickshaws on fire, attacking taxis, and causing panic. All day long the rumors escalated until some were told that we'd be spending the night near the office.

I spent a few frantic hours trying to find a ride for my daughter, all the while wondering if she was going to end up spending the night at the school.

So now I am driving home on the very same road that was in such turmoil earlier, but I see no sign of the events. The politician is in court right now so we are trying to get home before the verdict is pronounced, for if the verdict is bad, there will be yet more violence in the streets. I've never seen the streets so empty.

A plume of grey smoke rises over the shanty town - I'm wondering if it has anything to do with the day's activities.

Policemen are concentrated in little pockets - monitoring areas of high friction, I guess.

Home we arrive in record time and throughout we have seen nothing of note other than pleasantly empty streets.

At home people complain about the news - how all 700 channels will report on some event of great importance. They get irritated that they can not watch their favorite show because some reporter is keeping everyone up to date with latest events and providing information on what to be wary of. Having experienced a couple of incidents here and there, I'd much rather hear everything I can and plan rather than base my judgment on Chinese Whispers.

Faith ... or lack thereof

On Tuesday our office celebrated Dussehra - a day to celebrate the triumph of good over evil. The ritual required a priest, lots of marigolds, rice, paint, water, incense, and candy. The priest chanted while sitting cross legged by a carpet of marigold petals. The inch thick carpet, square shaped with a semi-circle at one end, underlay a portrait of the goddess Parvati / Durga / Shakti (i.e. Ganesh's Mom) and an offering of incense, an apple, coconuts, and little pots of marigolds. As the chanting continued, the priest would scatter rice over certain pots, then dip his finger in paint and decorate other pots, then sprinkle marigolds over something else. The ritual was incredibly elaborate, lasting about half an hour, after which onlookers would wave smoke from a small metal bowl over their heads. The grand finale was the handing out of little boxes of sweets for everyone.

I was very irritable after the ceremony - irritable because I wasn't really sure how I should have responded. I was there to see a cultural thing and ended up feeling obliged to wave a smoking bowl over my head thereby supporting a ritual that I had no belief in. It was expected of me so I did it. So where is the line between trying to immerse oneself in a cultural experience and treading hypocrisy in attending local religious ceremonies?

In contemplating the experience and figuring out why I was so angry ... I have questions that bother me ...

Why is the word "faith" lauded? Why should a "belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence" be treasured over logic and facts?

Why do many people automatically assume that if an individual does not believe in some form of God, then that individual is morally bankrupt?

Why do so many believe that morality can only be a result of religion?

And how did religious rituals ever get so convoluted?

I get depressed when religion so completely envelopes a soul that logic and reason suffer to "faith."

Language

A new mall opened across the street from our office. A few months ago signs at the site advertised the name of the mall in English since many of the stores in the mall cater to ex-pats. But then the government changed hands and a new law was passed that forced every business in the city to post their signs in Marathi. Hindi and English are the 2 national languages but Marathi is the official language of the state, although more than 50% of the population in Mumbai do not speak Marathi. So by passing this law, shop owners now need to pay money to get new signs written in a language that many of them and their customers can't read. Some friends at work - highly educated Indians - can not read the signs and must guess at what the shop sells. Marathi may look a lot like Hindi to me, but I'm told that they are very different - not like Spanish and English where you can usually figure out meaning since the characters and words are so similar.

I find the government decision strange for such an international city. I understand the importance of preserving language, thereby preserving culture, but how can this new law lead to anything but confusion, frustration, and loss of revenue?

Fall ...

Postings to this blog seem to ebb and flow with my
moods. Recently, as fall approaches, my thoughts
turn to my old home in New England where I adored
October through January. Here, in Mumbai, the leaves
are starting to turn dusty brown, but this is due to
the absense of rain and the steady accumulation of
dust and grime from an overpopulated city.

However, in India this time of year is one of
festivals and celebrations just as it is back home.
Ganesh's visit to earth starts the trend and follows
on with Mount Mary's festival (Christian), then
Gandhi's birthday, then Parvati (Ganesh's mom) gets
her day, then Diwali to honor Laxmi, the goddess of

wealth. Sprinkled in between are muslim holidays
and in December is Christmas.

Our nights are punctuated by fireworks and firecrackers
exploding in the streets. Our drive home usually
entails slowing down to pass by a procession beating
drums, dancing, and holding a cart with some god or
goddess sitting beneath a cloud of marigolds. My driver
seems to always be fasting since these festivals
usually include a certain number of days during which
you are not allowed to eat meat or drink alcohol.

So as my family at home prepare for all that I love
about autumn, I'll watch the celebrations here and
think of how my own traditions may change when I return
as a result of our brief life here.

In the meantime, I hope my siblings cut some pumpkins,
dress as ghosts and witches, race through piles
of leaves, and wrap their coats a litle tighter around
themselves as they watch their words turn to steam
on crisp mornings.