Ladies Only Folks

After putting it off for two weeks, I decided to take the train home from work with a friend. The train is fast and cheap, but most of the people I know in Mumbai shun it—it’s dirty, it’s crowded, it isn’t done. One takes a driver—think civilized—who zips you around in air-conditioned silence. Inside the car you are protected from smells and dust, gratuitous external honking and the heat. But, I didn’t come to India to be shielded from its elements. I came to live here fully and completely. (Note: Check back in with me in a month or two to see how fully and completely I am still living).

That said, I have been splitting a car and driver with four friends to get to and from work because it is, above all things, convenient. And the train is intimidating. From the road, in my metal cocoon, I’ve seen bits and pieces of train cars flashing between the trees and buildings. Crammed to the gills, the train barely stops as it moves through each station. People dangle out the side of each open doorway (and a few choose to sit atop the train) and jump on and off as it pulls through the station. There is an artful dance within the chaos—I just can’t hear the beat.

The driver couldn’t take me home from work today, so tonight when my co-worker, J., asked if I wanted to join her on the train I couldn’t refuse. I was excited to have a reason to brave the crowds and try it out.

We took a rickshaw to the station, and walked a shortcut to the tracks around open sewers and unpaved lanes, through vegetable stands and past stores selling combs and shoe soles, samosas and fried snacks. I had to move quickly to keep up with her, and panicked when I lost her for a moment. I only had 100 rs. ($2.50) with me, which wouldn’t help me much in this spidering, staring crowd.

Other people seemed to be conquering the space I was walking into with each forward stride. I straightened up and took wider steps and pushed my elbows a little distance from my waist. I am woman. I am strong. Right?

A second class one way ticket costs 6 rs. ($.16). First class is 52 rs. ($1.25) No second thoughts. Second class it is. What about first justifies charging more than 8 times than second?

Perhaps there are 8 times less people in first. My friend and I raced down the stairs—as if we were double-timing it for the Manhattan subway—and joined the other women pushing into the car. I would estimate that there were at least 300 women in the second class train car I climbed into.

This was a “Ladies Only” car, the creation of which is a godsend. In Mumbai, as with many places in India, you can choose between the ladies section, or you can stay with the general population. However, India is a country of men, so if you choose to ride with the general crowd, you will likely be one of few women. It’s the same at the airport—there’s a ladies line for security. And on buses—there’s a ladies side. I’m not sure if it’s to preserve women’s modesty or protect them or encourage them to ride/fly, or all of the above, but it is effective. The men pack into the general cars and the women cram into the ladies cars.

Hitting my head on the handles, I concluded that these trains were not built for 6 foot tall ladies. My line of sight was such that I could watch the swinging mustard-colored handles do their synchronous dance the entire way—like rockettes doing perfect kicks.

There isn’t room on these trains for dance troupes to do flips and twirls down the aisles like they do on the A,C,E. But sellers do come aboard peddling plastic hairclips and bindis with which to decorate your third eye. The kids who sell the stuff have round eyes lined with thick black kohl. One little girl with a firm belly had a tenor-deep voice—the kind that reverberates off walls and down halls—the better to sell you with.

We stood near the open door and my dress flirted with the breeze. I watched the tops of buildings go by. Most of the other women wore salwar kameez’s, their diaphanous scarves whipping up around their heads, like plastic bags that get swept up in air currents.

Our stop at Bandra station brought hordes of men and watermelons hanging in pink nets like swollen teats. We made a running dismount and resumed our sharp elbows walk. As we left the station, J. showed me the board with a digital read-out of the arriving trains.

She tells me which one I should take in the morning if I come. I understand her instructions perfectly. But there’s no way I’m ready to do it alone.

Why India?

After five years living and working in Manhattan I decided to move to Mumbai for love of a country--India--and perhaps, although this cannot be confirmed, because I had been charmed by a certain young man. I traded one island for another; but if you want to get technical, Mumbai is actually seven islands lumped into one, which seems like a pretty good exchange. I came for something new. I came out of a sense of adventure and hope. And I came because it does wonders for my international street cred.

I did not come because of Mumbai. Mumbai is congested with men wearing high waisted pants and women with flowing saris, and way too many naked children. Mumbai is hazy with pollution, so much so that you can rarely tell the sun apart from the sky. Mumbai is glaring bureaucracy with lengthy, red wind-whipped ribbons of tape. But, Mumbai is where the action is, whether I like it or not.

What began as an ambitious experiment landed me in a job that has cut my pay by nearly 70%, and left me with comparatively high rent, a brutal commute, and a 6-day work week. Turns out street cred is hard to come by.

For all of my fondness for India, it is a place that begs to be hated. Walking up the stairs at the Foreign Registration Office, while looking up at the Do Not Spit sign on the wall, I was groped by a passing teen. My reflexive punch was laughable and was not even acknowledged with a backwards glance. Later on as I applied to get a cell phone, I barely concealed my derision at having to supply my father's/husband's name for phone activation. Really? On the way to work on my second day, my taxi cab's front hood collapsed on the highway. He asked for payment immediately, without offering to fetch me another vehicle. These things--logistics, transport, patriarchy, paperwork--make you want to pack your bags and go back to a land where you can order an avocado online and walk down the street in high heels without a thought.

But there is a reason I need to be here now. India, in her current state, stands on a precipice. In a matter of years, she risks being completely overrun by Western ideas and developments. In Mumbai, you can already buy a bottled Starbucks Frappuccino in the grocery store, if you know where to go. You can stay at the Marriot if you like. And if you cross the street from that Marriot, you can pop into the air conditioned Clarks Shoe Store. Where am I, again? When did India turn into London?

Some would call these developments progress. To me, most of them feel like the watering down of a pure and beautiful culture.

Of course, not all things have changed. People still use highway medians as open-air clothes dryers, and a man still brings a basket of vegetables to your door for daily produce shopping. But these parochial habits are fading fast. With each passing day, India changes and loses her charm, and her Indianess. That's the reason I came here.

The entries before this--from my travels in India in 2005--help to encompass why I love India, and also help to capture, in a small way, the things I loved about her then. I feel that this place has changed even in the three years I've been gone. Which is why I must be here now--to experience the last of India Untouched--or maybe it's more accurate to say, India Touched by Only Some, but Not All. Welcome to India Revisited.

Wing to Wing

Nina Simone sings sweet smoky songs as I write. It is my fifth day in Mumbai, city of haze and vigor. The sun appears each morning just before seven. You can see the sunrise from the apartment window, but you can’t see the sun rise. There is a cheese cloth of sooty air that prevents us from ever really seeing a clear delineation between light source and atmosphere. It isn’t my first time in this frenetic, aggressive, sprawling place. But it is the first time I will call it home, and it differs starkly from what I truly think of as home—a farm in Texas. Mumbai is an empire with no end; a grand, messy coop of squawking birds packed together wing to wing, feathers flying, beaks avoiding other beaks—pecks and pointed attacks are exchanged—it’s unavoidable.

The morning began with a run on Bandstand, a boardwalk by the ocean, during which my handsome host, Kanu, decided that on future runs I should wear pants. The baggy shorts I chose are not baggy enough or long enough for eyes unaccustomed to seeing pale knees and thighs.

An hour later Neerag, the house masseuse has me groaning on the floor, as he aggressively rubs me down with olive oil from a canister in the kitchen. He’s rough but marinates me fully. My stomach and heels and knees—parts that other masseuses neglect—are thoroughly pushed and prodded. When he gets to my face he rubs his palms together with intensity and places them on my eyes. Squeezing my brows with oily fingers, he knits them together and up, releasing them from the clutch of my facial muscles. Strong flat thumbs iron out the wrinkles on my forehead. Poor man's botox.

Later on a girlfriend, Nicole, comes over. The hair at the nape of my neck is still heavy with olive oil. I shampooed three times, and still the oil asserts itself. She advises me to have Neerag use coconut oil next time on my hair. Olive oil for the body, but switch to coconut for the hair. The things you learn in India.

Talk in Mumbai is about the bracing cold. It’s 70 degrees Fahrenheit. People are sick with fever and pneumonia, coughs and colds. Babies are swathed in thick wooly onesies that have furry hoods with pointed bear ears. This is due to climate change, Mumbaikers resound. I find it rather nice. The evenings are pleasingly breezy, and the days are warm but not too much so.

Nicole, Kanu and I leave the apartment for a barbeque and I find myself telling a story about one of the many child beggars I came across the day before. When you pull up to busy intersections here, children no more than 4 or 5 years old approach the car and beseech its passengers for rupees. My general stance is nonresponse. These children work on behalf of parents or pimps who are capitalizing on their runny noses and grubby faces in order to make a buck. An article confirmed as much in today’s paper: four thirty-something gangsters have been kidnapping several children on their walk to school each morning for the past six months. They force the children to beg on street corners which brings in a tidy sum of 300-400 rupees a day ($8-10 US) per child. Hence, I feel justified in ignoring the precious children who ask for rupees at my car door.

Except for yesterday. A little boy came up to my window carrying an 8 or 9 month old baby who was bawling. Sitting in my air-conditioned, chauffeured car, I imagined what children their age would have been doing had they been cast a different lot: perhaps living with a nice family in Brooklyn instead of employed at this hellish intersection in Mumbai. The baby might have been pushed about in an industrial-sized, off-road-enabled stroller and the older one might have been enrolled in piano lessons and chess.

I don’t give money, but I do give food—which can be consumed directly by the child, whereas rupees must be given to the pimp. I handed the older boy some biscuits leftover from my lunch, Parle-Gs—my favorite. He took them without thanks and I rolled the window back up. But he continued to stand at the side of the car staring at me. I tried to avoid his eyes by looking straight ahead, but I foundered and turned to see him motioning thumb to mouth: he’s thirsty. He made sad eyes, like a mime’s—an expression that made it hard to tell whether it was part of his routine, or caused by the hopelessness of his life. I remembered my unopened Sprite nestled in a plastic bag on the seat. I lifted it up for him to see: want a Sprite? A hopeful nod followed. Rolling down the window again, I watched him as he took the full bottle of Sprite with relish. “Thank you Madam,” he said quickly, meaning it. A smile radiated from his face. Instead of moving on to the next car, he leaned back against the guard rail, satisfied, cradling the baby on one hip and the Sprite on the other. He smiled at me again and nodded, appreciating his win. Today, he would indeed Obey his Thirst.

I told this story to our friends in the car on the way to the barbeque. We all have our own warm stories to share about the connections made with strangers here. It’s why Mumbai is loved despite the pollution (equivalent to smoking 2 ½ packs of cigarettes a day), the noise (my cabdriver’s horn malfunctioned yesterday and started a continuous long hooooonk; I didn’t notice for at least a minute because of the cacophony of horns and people around us), and the traffic (combine New York, LA and Hong Kong and all the people in Slovenia, then destroy the roads and add enthusiastic drivers and you have one hot mess).

The barbeque is hosted by Malini whose studio apartment looks out at the Haji Ali, a stunning mosque and dorgah (tomb) basking in the middle of the bay. It must be one of the best views in the whole city—the Haji Ali is one of the central landmarks here. You have to pass it every time you drive from north to south or vice versa in Mumbai. Because of her isolated location out in the water, the mosque is looked upon with envy by nearly everyone, Muslim and non: what space and solitude she has (!) in a city that, at her densest, has 1 million people per square kilometer.

We spend the afternoon threading squares of paneer, creamy soft white cheese, and bell peppers, onions and zucchini onto wooden sticks for grilling. As the sun sets we begin a game of jenga. The atmosphere is warm—friends and alcohol are plentiful. I could be anywhere—a backyard in Virginia, a balcony in Manhattan, our farm in Texas. But I am in India. Mumbai. Home? Home. For now.

Tsunami Girls

Thank You

For nearly three weeks after I returned home from India, I awoke nightly thinking about everything I'd left behind. Even now, nearly two months out, India crosses my mind daily—luckily, not at 4 AM. Mostly, I think of the people I met, a girl named Susila, newly-orphaned Rahel, the wrinkled old fisherman; I recall their spirit and resiliency. That they now have a place in my memory is a gift, made possible by the generous support of family, friends and a few goodhearted strangers.

The money and support you provided helped the neediest and most deserving: survivors of the 2004 tsunami and Orissan orphans. The funds bought several hundred kilos of rice for an island community that had run out of food; supplied saris and lungis to several hundred women and men who had lost everything; gave 110 orphans coloring books, crayons, flashcards; and allowed me, as your representative, to act as a goodwill ambassador.
Thank you for your contribution—whether you attended the fundraiser, gave money, offered encouragement or lent emotional support. Your compassion enabled me to touch thousands, and for that I am forever grateful.

Annie, Ananda and the rest of the crew at Ara
Nabil Aidoud
Virginia Alexander
Pam Arthur
Kirk Bedell
Bryce Baradel
Jess Bolkcom
Caroline Boudreaux
Jen Branam
Mendy Brannon
Laura Brueck
Jen Bruno
Stacey Callahan
Matt Chapman
Mike Christopher
Hazel Clinton
Scot Clinton
Katy Daly
Jamie and Kevin Donner
Lauren Franzel
Vanessa Fontanez
Ali Froman
Kristen Gelder
Kate Golden
Hattie Grouber
Frank Griffiths
Gardner Harris
Audrey Hayden
Kara Hill
Alex Jaini
Lisa Jeffries
Jennifer Jones
Will Kain
Pam Kaupinen
Wes Kaupinen
Kendrick and Tracy
Kim, my dental hygienist
Megan Mann
Anna McDonald
Mimi Mayo
Jessica Meli
Lindsay Mendoza
Brooke Michael
Vanessa and Scott Myers
Narayanan P.R.
Carter Paine
Jay Patel
Jay Patel (there are two)
Kirin Patel
Caroline Puri
Dr. Kunal Puri
Dr. Richa Puri
Holly Reed
Les Rogers
Natalie Ryan
Alice Sarfati
Maziar Sassanpour
Shaolee Sen
Dr. Subroto Sircar
Alexis Tessier
Mary Ann Torrence
John Twomey
Jenny and Robbert Vorhoff
Whitney Watson
Pat Werblin

Calcutta

“If you were a better liberal, you’d save that goat,” Pitt told me as we watched a diminutive, furry black goat receive a blessing of orange powder on his forehead in preparation for his impending sacrifice. I fiercely inhaled heavy air and wondered if I should leave. But, I couldn’t. There were two brown urchins holding onto my legs. I focused on their steaming little bodies holding tight to my legs, little tree huggers, and looked down into their laughing eyes. I tried to ignore the squalls of the goat. But, in retrospect, even if the babes hadn’t latched onto me, I wouldn’t have moved to save him. Instead, I came when Pitt motioned for me to watch from a better vantage point near him. And, steps from the chopping block, the energy building in crescendo, I winced as the goat came undone.

I felt strange about it afterwards—watching him die—so we left immediately, stepping over skinny women in wrinkled, cotton saris on the way out the temple gates. By this time, I had figured out that tickling the little leaches on my legs would make them release their grip, and forget about asking for rupees.

The heat combined with the smell of goat blood, which was all over the ground, along with the thwack of the scythe as it beheaded the goats was sensory overload. We left and went to the waterside for some air at Kalighat, a shrine-filled area with steps that lead down to the water. We were lucky there was no breeze that morning, because the river water was malodorous and filled with brown sludge and plastic trash. But, it was away from the Kali temple, where more than twenty goats had already been killed that morning, and more than twenty more would be killed before the sun reached its zenith.

From Kalighat, a word that a seafaring Brit is said to have mangled, Calcutta got her name. So, a visit to Calcutta is incomplete without paying homage to goddess Kali the Destroyer at her temple and seeing the waterside ghat named after her. In fact, I went twice to the temple during my five days in the city—once, because a nice Indian man I met on the street dragged me there, thinking that I might like to see it; another time, because two newfound friends with Enfield Bullets, casually invited me to join them at the ghat. Never one to miss a motorcycle ride through the chaotic streets of India, I accepted the invitation. They neglected to mention the goat situation.

The day of the sacrifice was my last day in Calcutta and my second to last day in India. The scene at the temple epitomized everything I had imagined I might encounter in India: inhumanly-thin beggars, wiggly children, fanatical Hindu worship, sweat-inducing heat, harsh light, intense colors, nose-wrinkling smells—it was all there. And, yet, after two and half months in India, this was the first time I had experienced all those things at once, in full force. And so, I didn’t stop the goat from being killed, but took it all in as a mark of India, as India-ness. I didn’t judge and I tried not to open my eyes too wide at the spectacle. A temple worker thumbed slick goat blood onto a girl’s forehead; worshippers slid their own heads into the guillotine and said a silent prayer, a tail-wagging puppy licked up the goat entrails. I accepted it all, and left silently, wondering if it had been wrong for me to be there, a curious george, a gawker, a tourist.

Calcutta, continued

If I made a diorama of Calcutta, and your eye peeked in and wandered over the temple scene, aghast, it would be all the more surprised by the scene outside of the temple, a couple of streets away, closer to the city center. Beautiful, old, decaying buildings rise up in faded brick red and mossy green, accented with thick wooden shutters, and latticed balconies. Echoing the chaos of New York, bright yellow cabs weave everywhere, honking past rickety buses and pedestrians. If your eye wandered below ground, it would discover a fast moving, efficient metro scheduled to the minute (but, as a sign orders, Please Do Not Bring Dead Bodies into the subway). And, you’d look twice at the Maidan, a many-acred park where sheep and ponies graze, and young lovers bashfully hold hands and talk together.

I wasn’t expecting the goat sacrifice, but then again, I wasn’t expecting a cosmopolitan place either. My mother loves to tell the story of her friend, a mature, single, well-traveled woman, who flew into Calcutta several years ago, looking to explore India in all her glory. I imagine this woman was well-coifed, carrying ample luggage, and followed by her diaphanous silk scarf—but, I really don’t know. What I do remember from the story is this: she made it off the plane, through customs, into a yellow taxi, and as far as the front desk of her hotel, where she primly requested, beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck, to be booked on the next flight out of Calcutta “to anywhere.” Evidently, the view from her cab window had given her more than a taste of “incredible India!”

As culturally ignorant as it may sound, the only thing I have ever heard about Calcutta concerns its horror stories and unimaginable poverty. But, evidently, Calcutta has been whispering sweet nothings into progressive ears and appealing to the culturally minded. Those who haven’t been to Calcutta still think of it as India’s nightmare, a place better left alone. But others, part of some quiet word-of-mouth marketing campaign, have heard Calcutta’s call, and she is now a cultural Mecca—a city of poets, film makers, novelists, painters, etc.

At the start of the trip, I had decided that I would not be making the trek to Calcutta. It was out of the way, and I didn’t want to be a “disaster tourist,” just visiting to see the carnage of poverty. But, India is a plan wreaker—she prefers you not make them, and if you do, that you break them, so as to experience her spontaneously, and with abandon. So, on a whim, with only 7 days left in the country, and on the opposite side of the country from Calcutta, I decided to go. I was curious about the writers and the buzz.

The trip from Delhi to Calcutta usually takes over 30 hours by train, but if you’re lucky and book your ticket well-enough in advance, you can take the Rajdhani Express, an upscale train that makes the journey across India in a snappy 16 hours. Visiting Calcutta was a last minute decision, so I was relegated to the waiting list—number 33—and didn’t know until an hour before the train’s departure whether I’d be going. Luckily, I got a seat—third class A/C, the lowest and least expensive class on this particular train.

Third class A/C was a complete revelation. We were given sheets, blankets, towels, a snack of cheese sandwich and mango juice, a nice vegetarian dinner, chai in our own thermos, and free bottled water. Every time the waiter appeared, he brought another surprise—biscuits? Ice cream? Fresh coffee? I had balked at the $38 train ticket—expensive for an India train—but now I understood why. The train was only an hour late (amazing compared to six hours delays on other trains), and the amenities were quite nice. Having the waiter call me Madamji—well, that was priceless (the suffix “ji” connotes respect).

When the train pulled into the station, I galumphed off, an awkward llama with a heavy load, and was wholeheartedly greeted by Calcutta in a full embrace, my face dipping into her moist, hairy armpits. Like an aging aunt, she was delighted to see me and I found it difficult to wrest myself from her grasp. I stayed longer than I anticipated, and in the end, let her have her way with me.

With the exception of the day of the goat sacrifice, I spent most of my time walking around and visiting some of Calcutta’s bookstores, seeing Bengali dance performances, and talking to locals. Unlike some of the other places I visited, I made friends with the locals, one of whom I ate dinner with in her home. The other stranger-cum-friend took me to a Hindi movie and translated for me, after treating me to a meal cooked by his mother. Perhaps it was the people, or maybe it was something in the air, but I rather enjoyed the place.

During my stay, I thought about Zana Briski’s Born Into Brothels, a documentary about the children of prostitutes in Calcutta, and wondered where the red light district was. But, I didn’t make an attempt to find it. Nor did I go to Mother Teresa’s home for the dying. There was more than enough chaos on the streets in general that I didn’t feel the desire to seek the horrors that Calcutta is famed for. The goat sacrifice was more than enough, and just in the nick of time. I went back to my hotel room after that and packed my bags. I made it to the train with time to spare, and boarded feeling a little dirtier, and a bit sweatier than when I arrived…but then again, that’s probably Calcutta’s goodbye kiss, a moist, lipstick pucker that will last long after I’ve gone.

_______________________________________________________

Now, four weeks after leaving Calcutta, I miss the tropical breeze, a belly dancer in the leaves, the shuttered windows, the skinny, trotting dogs. At my desk, sitting in front of a computer in a cube, I wonder at the lack of flavor, color, noise around me. My mind keeps returning to those streets with lust, and longing. I won’t soon forget the goats, the brown babies, or India in all her glory.