Nothing Special

February and March seem to be the months to ignore your blog. For me, the last few months have been devoid of entries. I suppose the newness of India has worn off and all things are becoming mundane.

Soon the monsoon will again drench us all and again I eagerly await the rains. I am off to a course in Kuala Lumpur this weekend and I am most excited about seeing rain again! I don't care if I get drenched in seconds, I want to see and feel rain on my face again. I'd love to go running in the park in the rain with my children, but they will not be with me.

Next week will be the first time away from my smallest ... ever ... for more than a night. In part I rejoice at the freedom of exploring a new city unencumbered with demands for aquariums, zoos, and toystores. On the other hand I will miss my children. All things considered, I'd rather stay here with my family.

Seasons

I feel somewhat of the fool for a rather simple example of how the West has controlled me. I forgot there were growing seasons. I didn't really forget, rather I forgot that some fruit is unavailable at certain times of the year. In the US any one would think that all fruits grow year round, though some items may prove more costly at certain times of the year. In Mumbai, fruits are available only during their growing season. For example grapes are available for about 2 months starting in January, mangos are available for about a month in late spring, guavas make an appearance around the early spring, and strawberries are only available for about a month. Apples, bananas, and pineapple seem to ripen throughout the year, thank goodness, so we always have a supply of those. So the city seems to wait in anticipation of the different fruit seasons. Certainly mango season is cause enough for hooplahs, dancing, and constant yellow halos around children's mouths. Mango is added to all food items; sauces, drinks, ice cream, you name it and someone dices up a mango into it and sells it as a variety for the 1 month they have to exploit the yellow fruit.

Excuse me now, I'm off to dig up my recipie for chicken a la grape with au fraise potatoes for tonight's meal.

Having family stay with you is ever a dichotomy. I feel excited to see them again, nervous to be a good hostess, and concerned that they don't tell me what they want to do to spare me any extra work. When they leave I am a bit happy to return to normal, but overwhelmingly sad to see them go. As I get older I consider 2 choices and how dramatically they affect your life - a life close to home in which you feel the comforts of family, the familiarity of home, and only occasional instances of surprise or adventure. The other choice is a life far from home, every day is an adventure, but no immediate support from family and life-long friends. Both have pros and cons, and overall I've chosen the latter path, but often I have yearned for the former. I wonder if those who have chosen the former ever yearn for the latter.

So here I am in India, once again 12,300km from my family, once again only able to converse in the early morning or late evening with any of my siblings, once again feeling alone even though I have the best, most supportive husband in the world, and the 2 most wonderful children in the world.

As I said - ever a dichotomy.

One of the most amazing women I've ever met, and the dearest friend I have ever had, once reminded me that when I have made a decision or choice in my life, I need to remember that the choice has been made, the choice was probably the best one to make given the available information, there really is not any point in dwelling on the ramifications of an alternate choice since it won't make much difference, and I must now learn from the experience and figure out a way to make the most of everything. She said it her wonderful Texan way,

"Oh Well."

Travels to Jaipur and Agra

I have recently returned from a small trip to Jaipur and Agra. Jaipur, the Pink City, rests in the desert state of Rajasthan and was once the home to the royal families. Forts and Palaces seem to adorn every corner and the sheer grandeur of many buildings challenges my ideas of civilisation. Agra lies to the east in the state of Uttar Pradesh. The city is dirty and impoverished, the streets teem with tourist-hungry merchants, and the most beautiful building in the world lies in its heart. The Taj Mahal took my breath away and left me forever changed. As we left the monument I felt as though a part of me was forever left in the shadow of that white marble. So totally enriched and honored to have seen it, so sad to leave and know I may never see her again.

Jaipur is exactly what I think of as India; elephants and camels walk the streets, snake charmers serenade their sinuous charges, stunning artwork decorates historic building, bright turbans don the heads of most men, and markets bustle in haggling abundance. My children enjoyed their first elephant and camel rides. Their mother, too, enjoyed the experience, however much longer on that camel and the experience may not have been so fun. Over the course of the 4 days I grew very fond of camels - they contain an elegance that belies their burdensome life as they look down from above with a smile, certain of their superiority and dignity.

My father and I debate on the cost of freedom throughout the trip. When Jaipur was ruled by royalty, wealth poured in to the royal family who built the most spectacular palaces, observatories, and monuments. These buildings exude elegance and harmony. Over time, as invaders came and went, the money left the hands of the few and is still trickling in to the hands of the many. The result of this is that the beautiful buildings are no longer created and are in fact difficult to maintain. Is it better to have wealth devoted to cultural advance and the arts? Or better to distribute it to the masses at the cost of cultural advance? As my father says, "What is the cost of freedom?" I am perhaps a socialist at heart, but I see his point - were wealth distributed among the people, we would never see such glorious sights, perhaps we would not even be able to imagine them.

Bollywood

You haven't lived until you have seen an Indian soap opera. Words may be entirely in Hindi, but the expressions and music so perfectly accentuate the melodrama that you understand every word spoken. As a big plot device builds to its crescendo, the filming slows down, facial shots increase, eyebrows raise, and sparkling, heavily made up eyes drip with emotion. Inevitably, the evil lady of the hour stands out as beautifully as the heroine, however an arched and perfectly plucked eyebrow lifts, the eyes squint, and music thunders with pounding warnings. I once watched this scene:

Good lady is ironing in her room as her toddler is in the crib next to her.
Phone rings in other room, good lady unplugs iron, puts it out of reach of the baby
Next shot is of bad lady putting her cell phone down
Bad lady enters room, plugs in iron, places it next to baby, leaves room.

This scene lasted over 15 minutes as the camera flipped from face to iron to face to wicked smile to innocent baby, back to face, etc. Unbelievable. So here the motto can be less plot, more emotion.

I can't wait to see a movie in the theater. I don't care that I won't understand it ... I just want to see the film!

Christmas Celebrations

Yesterday my daughter sang in the choir for an end of semester Christmas show. The lyrics my daughter has been practicing were for songs, written by the school music teachers. I was a bit grumpy about this, since a Christmas show for me should be traditional songs of the season. How wonderful a surprise to discover that the older children sang the same old good songs that I adore ... O Come All Ye Faithful, Silent Night, Frosty the Snowman, etc.

This is my big bugaboo about the schools in the US - our children are no longer able to celebrate Christmas at school like this - no more carols, no more nativity plays, nothing that hints at Christianity in any way. I am no believer in God, but even so I love the plays and songs and celebrations this time of year. What's more, the children love it! But no, we mustn't tread on some poor sensitive soul's toes so we remove the fun for 90% of the class in order that no one gets their feelings hurt. Because that's the way life really is, isn't it? When you are all grown up and on your own expect no challenges to your own ideas, expect no differences of opinion, expect everyone to think as one ... right?

By the way, my husband and I are obviously meant for each other --- in the Christmas plays at our respective schools we both played the ass.

Five days ago ...

Monday draws to a close and I reflect on all that has happened in the last 4 days. Five days ago I walked around heedless to my surroundings, today I hunch and look down at the ground, trying desperately to act inconspicuous. Five days ago I would run out to the little shop across the street to find my groceries, today I prefer to call down and have someone deliver them. Five days ago my daughter practiced singing her songs for the Christmas concert, today the concert is postponed indefinitely. Five days ago my daughter's friend enjoyed playing the guitar, today he and his 2 siblings mourn the loss of their parents. Five days ago my daughter didn't know what a terrorist was. Five days ago ...

I feel the same melancholy that strangled the US on September 11 ... the scale may be very different, but the emotions play the same - a sadness that colors everything shades of grey, an anger that rages scarlet in intensity, a yellow fear lurking beneath, and, of course, the deep blues.

I have no need to fear, no need to cancel the highlight of the month - my family's visit to Mumbai. What better way to overcome this than to have family nearby and a plan to visit the beauty of India? What better way to show defiance than to continue our enjoyment of life and appreciation of this great country? So I'll spare no more words on this but to quote the country's most amazing pacifist ...

You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.
- Mahatma Gandhi

We are safe

Just a quick blog to let everyone know that we are safe. The destruction and murders happened south of us in the more tourist-oriented areas of town. We live in Bandra which has, so far, remained free from strife.

I won't comment on all that has happened ... it's hard to say anything remotely interesting about something so devastating. Especially when I have a 6-yr old and a 1-yr old who have not been allowed outside for 2 days. Especially considering the 6-yr old was supposed to be in a beach resort right now, playing with one of her best friends. You can imagine the chaos of these little creatures trapped in a 1200 square foot apartment as their parents receive countless phonecalls about the situation and try to email family to let everyone know all are safe.

By canceling our flight and hiding inside, we let those bastards win.

Revitalisation

When you start to tire of the place you live, when you feel as though the blandness of identical days, seeing the same sights has left you blind to interesting observations, then invite someone to come and visit you. Like a jolt of electricity, the urge for visitors to have a fun time stimulates you to investigate all the exciting things to be done in your own locale. An excellent elixir to monotony.

My Dad and a close friend of the family (really, she's almost a sister) are coming to visit us in a few weeks. I've been plotting and planning and strategising and discovering. They will be here for almost three weeks, but it doesn't seem long enough to do everything I'd like to do. I'll have to cull the list, leave the merely "exciting" things in favor of the "once in a lifetime" things.

On the list ...
- visit to Elephanta island, carried on a palanquin up to the Buddhist caves while troupes of monkeys follow you
- Long weekend to Jaipur and Agra - Taj Mahal, Palace of the Winds, elephant ride up to the fort, and shopping for fabulous textiles, carvings, and furniture
- Long weekend to Goa - gorgeous beaches, tours to the old plantations where the Portuguese originally settled, dining on prawns the size of chihuahuas
- Visits to the art shops around town
- Museums filled with relics from a culture we know very little about
- Investigations at Chor Bazaar where you can find anything from a Victorian sextant to Buddhist carvings to brass sculptures of Vishnu
- Champagne brunches at the posh hotel
- Crawford market, a haggler's paradise
- Trip to the national park for tiger-spotting, 2 tiger cubs were born last month
- Ajanta caves - stunning paintings adorn the caves
...

The list goes on and on, and between all that I've got to let them recover from jet lag.

My goal: They leave India exhausted and ready for a vacation.

The one negative ... I have to work while they have all the fun.

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.

Maps

Maps are rarely used or understood by Mumbaikers. If you show taxi or rickshaw drivers a map, they stare at it blankly and have no idea how to read it. The end result of this is that they tend to know one or two ways of getting from A to B. Typically my husband has his nose in a map whenever we go anywhere; he likes to know where we are, where we are going, and how we get there. So when we asked the driver to take us to a particular place, and he started driving all over the city rather than using the most direct route, my husband took over and started to direct him. At one point my husband said,
"Turn left here, it's only a few blocks over."
The driver replied,
"No, sir, I have to drive straight here then turn around and drive back."
My husband said,
"No you don't, the map says that you can go this way."
The driver said,
"Sorry, sir, but it is this way."
The debate continued for a bit until my husband told the driver to turn and we'd just see where it got us. So the driver turned, and a few blocks later we pulled into the driveway of our destination. The driver then apologized and said that he hadn't gone that way before.

So this whole problem of not reading maps is, I'm convinced, the source of the traffic problems in Mumbai. Or at least in Bandra. Because once you get off the main road and snake through the back roads there is rarely much traffic. We once had a replacement driver who could get us anywhere at anytime in good time because he knew all the back alleys and short cuts in the area. Of course he was grumpy most days, he spoke hardly any English, and he hit the potholes so hard I thought the car would roll over.

Here is a story that I was told by an ex-pat who visited Mumbai. He said that this occurred to him, and he is not one to tell lies for the benefit of entertainment.

My friend was going to a dinner party so he took a rickshaw to get to the apartment but the rickshaw driver didn't know where the place was exactly. So my friend hopped out and decided he would find out where it was. He went up to a a group of guys and asked if they knew where this place was, through broken English and lots of repetition they understood what he wanted to know. So they all started talking in Hindi, explaining the directions. They tried to understand each other, but to no avail. Finally my friend asked if they could draw a map. They looked at him blankly. He pulled out a bit of paper and a pencil and asked them if they could draw a map - show him how he should walk to get to his friends house. The men still looked at him strangely, one repeated his request, and my friend nodded and said yes. The men talked with each other in Hindi, and finally chose one person to write. After 10 minutes of talking back and forth and concentrated drawing, they handed him over the 'map.' It was a picture of a road, with buildings on each side, and a stick figure walking down the street. All cartoon, no labels, just a picture, exactly as he had told them, showing him walking down the street to get to his friend's place.

I wonder what those guys thought of my friend - probably that he was very strange. They probably tell the story from a completely different perspective on their blogs.

Ganesha Chaturthi

Every year the Elephant-headed God, Ganesh, descends to earth from his home and stays on earth for 10 days after which he returns, taking the obstacles of his followers with him. To celebrate his presence, Hindus show their faith by having a plaster model of the elephant god in their homes to which they offer prayers, flowers, and ornate decorations. At the end of the 10 days the idol is carried to the sea and immersed in the ocean where it will dissolve. This final day, called Ganesha Chaturthi was yesterday.

We called in a babysitter and headed down to the ocean to watch the amazing events. The streets were packed with people, trucks, cars, rickshaws, and cow-towed carts, all decorated with flowers and tinsel and carrying idols. Music blared while people danced and threw dry paint over each other. The road was so packed that the cars could not reach the beach without a wait of several hours, so we got out and walked the rest of the way.

The dregs of monsoon season clung tenaciously on so we were drenched by the time we got to the beach, but what a sight to behold. The idols are so beautifully painted and some are larger than the people carrying them! The day is alcohol-free ... which is probably an excellent idea ... so the mood was all very good-natured, happy, and controlled. The people chant a melody, praying that Ganesh come again the following year.

My photos of the event are all very dark and speckled with raindrops, but I'll try to find a good one and load it on to this blog tomorrow night (the above picture is from a public website).

This festival causes any environmentally conscious person to shudder - the day after beachcombers will find shoals of fish washed up on shore, victims of too many idols dissolving their heavy metal-rich paints into the sea.

The Lady and her Baby

Living in Mumbai as a Western ex-pat can stop you
dead in your tracks. One minute you feel proud to
have taken the chance to step outside of your sphere
and see parts of the world so different from what you
are used to. Then you encounter something so foreign
to your own culture that you don't know how to cope
and just want to run home. Avoidance can be a very
comfortable blanket against the inequities of life.

Over the weekend we shopped at the mall for what,
at the time, seemed like necessities ... pots,
luxury food items, socks, a toy for our baby. We
also ate lunch there, splurging for mountains
of food at TGIFs ... we both desperately missed
food from home so this was our only option. We
ordered too much food and couldn't finish it all
so we left 2 mini burgers, 2 chicken breasts, and
a pile of vegetables. We left the restaurant and
piled in to the van for the trip home when reality
slapped me in the face. As we waited at a red light
thin young women holding emaciated babies knocked
on our windows, begging for money. A little girl no
older than my own ran through the cars also begging.
I lowered my head in shame - for foreigners are told
not to give money to beggars because they are organized
and in many cases injuries and permanent damage to
limbs is sometimes deliberate to induce pity and
thus promote charity. As I thought of how much I spent
shopping and how much food I'd left on the table
I felt more and more embarrassed. A sharp rap on my
window yanked me out of my thoughts and I turned to see
a young woman holding a tiny baby. the baby had
a white bandage around her head and blood seeped through
the cotton bandage. The lady looked at me, no word
uttered, just a look in her eyes asking for help for
her baby.

So what did I do? Nothing. Every reference to
tourists emphasizes that giving money to people on
the streets is ineffective and promotes an
organized operation. Online charity to reputable
organizations is my only option - but how can this
ever balance the embarrassed shame I feel when I see
these women and babies? Since that day I haven't stopped
thinking of that baby and her Mommy. I regret not
giving them a helping hand. I should have packed them
in the car and driven them both to the hospital ...
so why didn't I? Because it would have inconvenienced
me and my family? Because I didn't think of it? Instead
I wept all the way home which served no purpose to
anyone.

So now I think of humanity and what it means. I thought
I was humane, but obviously I am not. Unless humane
means you empathize but do nothing. I think of how
the commitment to family blurs to the commitment to
others - where does one priority outweigh the other?
I'm not sure - I just know it was wrong of me to leave
the lady and her poor baby alone on the street and I
don't think I'll ever reconcile myself to my actions.

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.

Differences Observed Over Vacation ... part 2

Another example ...

After the flight to England we de-boarded the plane
and followed signs to immigration. We joined the
queue and stood in line as the stamps thumped and
returning vacationers chatted away excitedly. We
then followed signs to baggage claim. People tended
to park their trolleys to the side, then stepped
up closer to the belt, ready to grab their bags.
We got our bags and joined the orderly queue through
customs, handed over our paperwork to the customs
officials and answered about 5 questions on details
of our visit. We filed through and followed signs to
the hotel shuttle. It was slightly cool, so the
10 people waiting for their friends/family from the
flight all wore light jackets. We found the waiting
place, the bus arrived in 5 minutes and we quickly
left the airport.

After the flight to Mumbai we de-boarded the plane
and followed signs to immigration. We were sent
to the front of the queue because we had 2 children
and were checked in very quickly. We then followed
signs to baggage claim. All the signs directed
passengers from our flight to belt 2, but when we
got there an uniformed man stood there, waving his
arms, telling us to go to a different belt. On
we went to the different baggage claim where people
grabbed the trolleys and jammed themselves plus the
trolleys up against the baggage claim belt - Twiggy
couldn't have slipped in to get near the belt. The
bags came trundling around the belt soaking wet from
the rain. Some bags had little pools of water on the
top. We retrieved our damp belongings and joined the
mass of people surging towards customs. At customs
the man took our small form and waved us on. We filed
through to outside where hundreds of people stood by
waiting for passengers. Half of them had to stand in
the rain holding flimsy umbrellas. As we stood to the
side waiting for our ride, a man tried to take a photo
of our son. Our driver arrived and led us to the van -
as we walked over a guy walked up to us, grabbed the
suitcases and followed us to the van where he hurled
in the baggage so it slammed into the side. Then he
raced back over to me and grabbed the stroller - with
my son in it - and raced back to the van. I yelled
after him to stop it and give me back my son, meanwhile
my son burst into hysterics. My husband and our driver
then started yelling at the man to leave us alone. Then
my daughter started to get upset. In retrospect it's
all very funny but at the time I was almost hysterical
with exhaustion, frustration, and irritation.

Then yesterday morning after a long day, my husband and
were in the kitchen, we looked out the window, and there
on the roof of the neighboring apartment was a guy peeing
on the roof.

Welcome back to Mumbai.