Sleepless...

Last night I lay awake in bed flat on my back with all of India on my left and the waves of the Arabian sea just a few blocks away on my right. I shut my eyes and prayed that sleep would come curl up on me like an old dog, finding her spot.

I wrote this instead.
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And to all a goodnight...

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Cafe Paradiso

A few weeks ago, I stumbled into Cafe Paradise, an establishment that has seen better days. I had spent a sweltering afternoon looking for old bronze bowls in seedy, old Chor Bazaar, also known as "Thieves Bazaar"--watch your bag. The general cafe seating area on the ground floor was filled with rickety tables and lots and lots of men, so I headed up the stairs in the direction of the sign that said "Family / A/C Room", where ladies are presumably shielded from the prying eyes of men. But, somehow I took a wrong turn, and at the top of the stairs, I ended up in a room I was not supposed to have entered.

A man leapt from a table by the door upon seeing me and said, "No, no, no. No food here." He flapped his hands at me like I was a stray pigeon he was trying to scare. I raised my eyebrows and turned my head to the right. What was he afraid I would see? Through a cloud of smoke, I spotted a few shady characters in the near corner, manhandling a hookah pipe.

It's not often you stumble into a netherworld such as this. Without thinking, I said, "Hookah, we want hookah," as if that was my sole reason for being there. I had originally hoped for a glass of chai and a chapati. It was 4 PM and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. But, this was a diamond in the rough. I've never seen anything like it--we'd found a new species of whale when all we were looking for was a fish.

The manager didn't know what to do with me. He certainly did not want a lady to break up the boys club vibe he had going on. He looked around, trying to figure out if there was another excuse he could give. The place was small--only about 7 tables, all booths. The ceiling was so low I could barely stand. Rubber sandals and shoes were scattered all over the floor between the tables, where men had chucked them before they sat Indian style on the pillow top booths.

There were plenty of open tables. He couldn't legitimately refuse. So, he reluctantly pointed to the back, where we went to take a seat. It took me a second before I realized that each "booth" was actually a fish tank, covered with thick, glass. I hadn't noticed when we came in because only the back booths had this feature, and a large crowd of Muslim teenage boys was sitting on one of the tanks, covering it up.



I tossed a pillow down on the glass and sat atop the long wide, flat tank, about as big as a full-sized mattress. Orange coi swam cattily underneath the grubby glass looking for food. The manager pulled a table top down from the wall, like a Murphy bed, across our legs.

My companion and I ordered a mint-flavored hookah. While we waited for it to come, my friend listened to the conversation at the table behind us where about 9 boys had scattered themselves over two booths. Muslims aren't allowed to drink, but apparently flavored tobacco doesn't break any rules. These boys were having a great time, talking about women and school as they nursed their Cokes and puffed away.

We did the same, and I ordered an egg curry, which came out unctuous and thick, with two feverish chapattis. It's the kind of meal that is spectacular because of its simplicity, and worthy of future cravings.

The boys eventually left, and another set arrived, this group younger than the previous. A sign on the wall prohibited patrons under 15. The manager gruffly asked the boys for ID. There was some confusion, and shuffling about. And then they were gone.

We left soon after, not wanting to overstay our welcome.

Addendum: My dear Scottish mother has expressed concern that some of my readers may think that a hookah is another term for a crack pipe. I assure you, dear reader, that the hookah is an innocent waterpipe that has nothing to do with crack, crystal meth or any other insidious high-inducing drugs. I have heard it can be used to smoke cannabis, but your dear writer has not done so. I would encourage you to learn more about the hookah by clicking here. You can also contact my brother, who advocates the alternative use of the hookah pipe as modern sculpture--at least that's what he has done with the one I bought him in Dubai (it now sits in the corner of his room collecting dust and inviting suspicious glances from his lawyer friends).

The World is Watching Mumbai

My hometown newspaper, the Austin American Statesman, published an oped of mine in the Sunday paper today. You can read it here, if you're interested:

http://www.statesman.com/insight/content/editorial/stories/insight/12/07/1207mumbai.html

By the way, the image above was taken in September, when a group of us were returning to Mumbai from Devbagh, the "Hamptons of Bombay." The longer building with the rotunda, to the left of the tallest building is the Taj hotel, referred to in the article. One boatload of terrorists would have made this approach on the 26th.