April Mornings

April mornings are spent being as still as possible. I have two free-wheeling ceiling fans in my room, but no air conditioner, which makes getting ready in the morning a little bit more of a challenge. Bombay is 86 degrees with 58% humidity at 8:30 AM. So, every function is performed with the question, "Will this make me break a sweat?" Hence, I endeavor to move slowly but deliberately, tai chi style.

The train, above ground, non a/c, and open air, was late today. So, one thousand Indians and I stood or squatted on the platform waiting for the bloody thing to arrive. Finally it did, filled to the brim. I rode "first class, ladies," which is usually relatively roomy in the morning, and absolutely cavernous at night. However, today, we were armpit to armpit, hanging on to the ceiling handles for dear life. There is a see-through vertical grate between "first ladies" and "second ladies" and we seemed to be just as bad off as them. (Nevermind the sheer iniquity when, at night, "first ladies" is empty, and all the "second class ladies" (which sometimes includes me) are crammed together and can see all the available space right next door.)

So, for thirty minutes on the slow train to Borivali, I stood listening to Hotel Costes and Voxtrot, trying to keep my cool as sweat snuck down my sternum under my undershirt, and appeared in my hairline like, ahem, dew in the morning grass (just let me imagine it this way, okay?). The absurdity of this situation is exacerbated by my "black skinny jeans," which seemed like a good idea when my ceiling fans were blowing on me--but now that they are plastered to my thighs, it seems like not such a good idea after all. Stay still. Don't move.

It's not that I haven't tried to find some practical Indian-wear. I went to try on thin cotton salwar kameez's the other day (that's pants with a long loose top over them) and it didn't go well. My American born and bred ankles are too big to fit into the pants. Literally, the shopkeeper came into the dressing room and demonstrated on my leg how to pull the pants on--and she was mystified that they wouldn't go over my mountainous, soccer-playing ankles. Meanwhile, the evil boyfriend sat outside the dressing room laughing. Curses be to all the gorgeous Indian women out there with almond shaped, kohl-lined eyes and skinny ankles.

When the train pulled into my stop, we herded ourselves out like violent sheep, and I raced to the rickshaw area to convince a driver to take me to my stop--they are generally ornery men who routinely refuse to take you to your chosen stop because they just don't feel like it (even though it's illegal to refuse a fare). So, I convinced a guy, and inserted myself into the back, and assumed the "position." It's a cross between an emperor in a carriage and John Goodman's couch pose in Roseanne. Feet flat on the floor, legs wide, elbows resting on the back of the couch/seat. It's a utilitarian pose aimed at minimizing skin on skin contact. On the ride, I caught sight of a groom astride a white stallion being ushered down the road to meet his bride's family. I thought to grab my camera and capture the image for you, but then thought better of it. Be still, be still.