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.