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.

The Dinner Game

We went to a dinner party on Friday night. Eight guests, two hosts, one beautiful child in a fireman's hat. A famous cricketer lives downstairs. A famous actress's parent's live upstairs. Conversation is slow to start and never reaches momentum.

It's like every other awkward dinner party we've been to: we sit on the living room furniture in a square. Conversation eventually devolves into an exchange of stories about household help. Nearly every middle class Indian employs a maid--and if you're upper class you probably have a gaggle of maids and drivers and people to do your stuff. It seems to be the one commonality that we all share, and therefore the one conversational set-piece that allows everyone to contribute in some way.

I (proudly) have never had a maid. In New York, I got down on my hands and knees every weekend and scrubbed the floors. Music playing in the background. Light shining through my curtainless windows. Free therapy. But here it's crazy not to have a maid. Dust seems endemic to Mumbai and is wildly invasive. Friends tell me that if I didn't have a maid, the dirt would pile onto itself and form into fuzzy layers on my counters and floors and the leaves of my fern. So, we have a "bhai" that comes six days a week for two hours a day.

We all have our stories. Mine is about the fact that my maid refuses to iron. She will clean the floors, make the bed and wash the clothes, but she will not prepare food, water the fern, or iron. Period. One guy's maid only cooks when she wants. If dinner is requested after 7 PM, the only option is Maggie--Indian for Ramen noodles. Another guy's maid makes amazing fish curry.

People talk about how often their maid comes, how well they cook, how much they are paid, where they sleep...admittedly, it is endlessly fascinating. If only the maids knew how central they are to bourgeois interaction.

Food is served. It's paneer and peas, stuffed mushrooms, biryani rice, and hot, tasty rotis. Deep orange mangos, American-style brownies and ice cream for dessert.

We have to get home. The maid is coming early tomorrow.

Parsi Navjote

A little Wikipedia love: A Parsi is a member of a close-knit Zoroastrian community based primarily in India. Most Parsis outside of India identify India or Pakistan as their home country. Parsis are descended from Persian Zoroastrians who emigrated to the Indian subcontinent over 1,000 years ago. More recent Zoroastrian immigrants are known as Iranis.

The Navjote is the coming of age ceremony for Parsi children—akin to a bar/bat mitzvah or a confirmation. I had the pleasure of being invited to one for two sisters (around 9 and 12) in February. Given that there are estimated to be less than 100,000 Parsis in the world, this was an anthropological privilege. My notes…

The guests look self-conscious as they enter opposite the cameraman's lens. The red carpet shows the way. Black tie. Black Pantene hair is tossed. A photographer captures poses in front of the entry backdrop—like a Parsi movie premier. Rose trees, or rather trees made of red roses. Live band…is that Elvis?

Food for one thousand. Served on a banana leaf. One thousand banana leaves sacrificed. On my leaf: mini chapattis, edamame curry, fried onions mixed with masala spice, soft lentils; thin dill pancakes wrapped in more banana leaves. More naked banana trees.

Only three non-Indians out of the crowd. We’re at the same table, long and facing one direction. A Mexican stand off with the eaters at the table across the way. A full leaf of edamame and onions, and a comment: “Oh, I don’t eat outside our house.” “Oh, you’re like that,” I think.

Sparkling women, sparkling jewelry. Children are handed to maids. But, no one is dancing yet. Old women with flawless, fair skin whisper to each other. They sit to the side. Younger women shine. Emerald earrings as big as a basil leaf.

A collective buzz amongst those who know: Preity Zinta, the actress, has been spotted. Intricate black saris with bird-patterns twittering down the back. The maidens of honor nowhere to be seen. Of course, it’s more about the parents.

White lights dripping from overhanging trees. There they are. Girls under the gazebo toss rose petals over each other as they dance.

Purple Coffin

It’s hot and clear. I’m sweating in a black and yellow taxi, waiting out the heat at a traffic signal. My window is down half-way; that’s as far as it will go. It’s a long, patient light.

There is a shop on the side of the road, just 10-12 feet from my window. A small, wooden coffin sits atop a table. It is purple with gold swirls and flowery carvings. The coffin man bangs decorations into the lid of the tomb. His insolent insistent hammering shifts the lid slightly to the side.

The light turns green and we pull forward. The oblong shape. The small size. The perfect angles. The somber, serious faces of the two men who wait to receive it.

It Sat Silently, Holding Its Breath

(January 25) (Wrote this a while back...just now posting!)

It’s Friday night and I’m returning home from work. My taxi driver is wearing a white skull cap and white togs. He is Muslim. I don’t yet know the way home, and thus have to depend on the kindness of strange taxi drivers. He is trying to find the highway and has already asked three people about its whereabouts, which doesn’t leave me much hope of arriving home without us having to ask at least four more people along the way.

The sun hasn’t yet set, and there are tons of people out and about on the roads, driving, walking, biking. I notice that along the road, here and there, are boys of all ages looking up at the sky. Reading their faces, there’s a mix of curiosity and hope. I roll down my window and turtle my head out to see what’s so interesting. Above me there are three colorful kites—little diamonds of paper bouncing on the air. As we wade through traffic, I spot more tugging strings connected to unseen kites.

Tomorrow is Independence Day—a day to celebrate the day the British got the heck out of India (back in 1947). In Delhi, India’s Washington DC, there will be military parades and drum lines tomorrow. Here, and in other parts of the country, Independence is celebrated through kite running.

I’ve heard that in a few days there will be a kite flying competition. Everyone is practicing, I presume. There are boys flying kites on narrow lanes and at the side of the road. Here and there I see temporary stands selling bulky spools of string. Boys who have spare pocket change buy the string laced with fiberglass to protect their kite from incursions from other kites. The important thing is having a kite to fly. Boys with little money can choose one kite with a good string, or a couple of kites with regular string. The competition is cutthroat.

(A day after the kite flying competition was held, I read in the paper about a number of people who died or were injured. The fiberglass string intersected with a motorcyclist’s throat and nearly slit it. Several people died falling off rooftops; completely focused on their kite, they dropped straight off the edge.)

We finally made it to the highway, and as we were waiting to join the stream of traffic, we passed another “black and yellow.” (The cabs for the common man in Mumbai are black and yellow, have no A/C, were built for people who are less than 5’8’’ tall, and are usually tricked out with mirrors on the ceiling (no pink champagne on ice, though), and imitation velvet cloth. “Cool cabs” are more expensive, have to be formally booked, and as the name indicates, have amazing A/C.) I'm slouching in my black and yellow, because, as usual, I am too tall for this thing. The taxi to my left is carrying 9 people, not including the driver. This taxi, my taxi—the exact same size and model---is carrying one, not including the driver. In an "A/C, non A/C world," (just one of India's dichotomies) iniquities abound, and I feel very much a perpetrator.

Halfway through the ride, as we cruised down the highway past teetering cliff-top slums, it dawned on me that the driver was liberally using the horn even though there weren’t many vehicles around us. I looked up from my blackberry after two minutes of HORN to see the driver hitting his wheel as we tumbled along: the horn had broken into one long continuous wail and he was attempting to bang it back into silence, to no avail. Passing cars took no notice. Amidst the cacophony that is Bombay, one relentless horn made no difference.

We pulled over to look under the hood and disconnect the wiring. It worked. He climbed back in, shut the door, started the engine and we drove. As we reached 40 or 50, the horn began a long low drone again. The driver pulled over once more. Fiddled with the wiring. Climbed in, shut the door, started the engine and we drove. As we reached 40 or 50 the horn whined. I laughed. This was becoming awkwardly funny. The driver obviously had no idea what he was doing under the hood, and seemed legitimately embarrassed. He pulled over once more, more sheepish than before. He did this three times, until finally, even he was laughing at the insanity of the situation. When we resumed our commute the third time the horn gave us a few more hiccups and then sat silently, holding its breath, as we drove on.

The highway came to an end, stopped by the sea, and we took the exit, past necking couples and whispering lovers. This is lover's highway. At the end, the part that looks out over the water, couples come to share moments with each other. It's tempting to call them "quiet" moments or "romantic" moments as I write, but it's hard to see the romance in whizzing rickshaws and black and yellows, noxious bodies of water, and exhaust fumes. However, for young unmarried couples and those with disapproving or conservative parents, this is an escape.

We arrived in Bandra, my suburb for the moment. Three or four more inquiries later and I was home.

Toto, We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

So, work is good. Different—definitely different. And busy, as you can see from the distance between this blog and my last, back in February. But work is good and culturally entertaining at times. When I arrived, my firm seemed to have made the decision to go from 0 to 60 overnight and I have been reaping the rewards—like a retriever sticking his head out of a car window—of the high speed zone.

For example, during my first two days, I marveled at the fact that in the entire office—an office that houses the communications and publishing operation of a consulting firm, a venture capital fund, and an online crafts portal—there was only one land-line phone. When a call came in, the phone answerer would walk the headset and base over to the intended recipient of the call, and then that person had a conversation in front of the entire office. The open conversation format has not changed. However, on my third day, lo and behold, we all received new phones. I asked my cube neighbor if these were new phones to replace the old phones. Perhaps they had phones before I came, and were just in a holding pattern in the past few days, using only one phone? “We never had phones before,” he said.

As for our cubes, you’d be embellishing if you called it a cube. It is a cubby. About 2 ½ feet wide. Home to a computer. And a new black phone. There’s a square foot of white board on my backboard, and that’s it. Done. Here is your cubby. But, the thing I love about the set up is that everyone has a cubby. From Associate Vice President to Senior Associate to Analyst to Accountant. No hierarchy has been established based on how much real estate you have or whether your cube has a door. The message is effective: we are all here to do the work…we are the same…you are no different than I. I happen to like it. Communication is efficient. If I want to brainstorm with my team, everyone is within eight feet. No need to yell down the hall, or walk out of my office. Everyone is right here. Its close quarters like almost everything else in India, so I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s just different.

I work in Malad. It’s what I call “the Bronx of Bombay,” but only because it has a similar geographical location to Bombay as the Bronx does to Manhattan. It takes me an hour to get to work—either in a car or on a train (to those who read my train entry: my door to door travel time has turned out to be not so different by taking the train)—and we work in a medium-sized, 8-floor office building behind a mega electronics store. Our address is Palm Spring, which makes it sound beachy and oh-so-Miami, but the next part of our address is “Beside D Mart,” a reference to the mega store next door (like Walmart's little step-sister) that everyone knows.

The description of what we are next to is typical of an Indian address—there must always be a landmark. Streets are so poorly marked and buildings so rarely numbered, that highly visible temples, stores, and brands serve as guideposts for everyone—which means you can be Hindi-illiterate like me and still survive, or you can speak not so great English, like many rickshaw drivers, and still help customers get to where they need to go.

Inside our building there are wealth advisory firms, small banks, a restaurant, a film production company and a call center or two. In fact, a girl I started talking to on the street the other day asked me if I work at a call center. Anything’s possible. If this doesn’t work out, perhaps I could be the next person you hear when you call about your cell phone bill. “Hello, this is ****. My ID number is 5555555. Are you calling from your T-Mobile cell phone? Can you tell me that number madam?”

There are four young men who hang around the office in tight waisted, wide leg pants who are on hand to brew garam chai—hot, milky sweet tea. These young chaps do other things too—they run to D-Mart if you need some biscuits with your tea. When we send out a mailing, we can enlist their help sliding magazines into envelopes. But mostly, Mahesh and Sandesh and Ganesh make tea. We all receive a small teacup when we arrive, which is anywhere between 10 and 11 (the traffic in Mumbai is so horrendous that you can’t expect to get to work any faster…and India just gets to work later). Around 3 PM, we all get another one. Without even asking. The best part is, when you get to the last sip of the tea in the petite porcelain cup, there is a mound of undissolved sugar, ready and willing to be slurped up. I will miss this when I go.

But, I won’t be leaving anytime soon. The conclusion of this little diatribe is that I’m quite enjoying my work. I’m the editor of a niche magazine in a niche sector. Learning the ins and outs of a new sector keeps me engaged in my work. The work is fast-paced—and I’ve been able to meet some amazing people and go on some eye-opening field visits.

The people I work with are wonderful—endearing, no ego, hard working women and men. I am quite certainly almost the oldest person in an office of super smart 20-somethings. The work is challenging, creative and fast-paced.

And, I’m starting to actually like my commute.