Girl Power

At the Market

Mumbai's Vibrant Street Life

After finishing my Hindi lesson late yesterday afternoon, I decided to detour through a busy market area before making my way home. The market road—like nearly everything here—was under construction, but builders had kindly slapped down a narrow strip of new cement in the center, flanked by heaps of rocks and dirt on both sides. I headed down the plank-like walking path, bumping my way past women carrying fish in baskets on their heads, tailors ironing newly stitched clothing, men selling colorful-looking sweets, and children pasting fake tattoos of super heroes on the back of their hands.

It was at that moment that I was reminded of how much I love living here.

As night descends on the city, the streets awaken with vibrant chants and colorful cravings. Chai vendors head to the sidewalks with large tin serving canisters and bags of Dixie cups, selling the evening fuel for five rupees a swig (about a dime). Next door, food sellers of all sorts prepare made-to-order meals, including the one I had with black chick peas, tomatoes, onions, coriander, and lemon tossed together in my serving dish—a cone made of newspaper—and my one inch-by-one inch cardboard scooper that served as a utensil. Cost: 8 rupees. Rating: Delicious. Next, I headed across the road to the samosa vendor, ordered two, and sat on a stool next to him while I dunked my potato-and-pea-filled fry into a zingy green chutney.

Since I had barely spent 50 cents on my evening meal, I decided to make the requisite stop at the sweets counter. Like everything here, these meal cappers come in every color. I chose the bright orange one and enjoyed it as walked over to get a drink of coconut water. The coconut man had a cloth wrapped around his head, which looked similar to the skirt wrapped around his bottom portion. He grabbed one of the hard, green balls from the pile stacked around him and slashed into it with his machete-looking power tool--Voila! I popped in the straw and sucked the coconut dry of all its refreshing nutrients. Further down the road, Muslim men clad in white faced Mecca and prayed, all on the side of the street. Behind them, a woman knelt in a Hindu temple with her husband standing behind her.

In Mumbai, everything happens on the streets. At times, this can be trying, especially when that everything includes people and animals of all kinds doing their duty on the sidewalk. Lesson one: always walk with head down as to avoid poo of all varieties—that of stray dogs, birds, cows, humans, and more stray dogs. At the same time, keep head up as to avoid bumping into stray dogs, cows, humans, rickshaws, cars, busses, vendors, and more stray dogs.

I’ve mastered this technique of navigating the streets as much as possible (got attacked from the sky the other day when a bird let loose on my shoulder), and in doing so, have come to embrace the energy rocking the streets. Even with hop-scotch game of keeping shoes excrement-free, I find this city addicting, and I’m afraid to ever leave it behind.

Makeshift Movie Theater

Just before Christmas, I decided to surprise the boys with movie night on the beach. We popped Pixar's Madagascar into my laptop, rigged the cord and power outlet so it would charge through my American-voltage plug, and sat back to enjoy the film. The only thing between our little movie theater and the Arabian Sea was a wall full of cooking facilities, including two stainless steel pots, a pile of plates, a gas burner, tumeric, corriander, chilly powder, garlic powder, and a host of other spices.

Amazingly, these boys cook for themselves, alternating days according to an elaborate schedule of duties that keeps the place running. Lately, however, many of them have been able to relax while Parwinder, a tall, thin older boy, has done the daily meal preparation as punishment for arriving late too often. I've observed Parwinder carrying out his sanctioned chores, and from the humming and smiling, I'm beginning to think he couldn't have asked for a more enjoyable punishment.

A Chant for Your New Year

Mumbai Mourning

Inside an air-conditioned bookstore/coffee shop on a bustling Bandra street, I’ve tucked myself in a discrete corner on the second floor. Nearby to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the position is strategic: for a few moments, I can sit above the chaos, noise, pollution, crowds, honking, gawking, and squawking to observe how Mumbai has resumed its true frenetic nature. One week after coming to a complete halt as terrorists bloodied 10 popular spots around the city, this main thoroughfare looks as normal.

Across the road, six thin, sweaty boys with shirts tied atop their heads to shield them from the unrelenting sun are on a rooftop construction site. With Herculean effort, they are pulling a 30-foot-long thin log up to their spot. The logs are then cut and roped together to create a jungle gym-like outer casing to the building, where, with spiderman agility, the boys gracefully bring this building to life. (Note: There are no power tools, heavy machinery, lifts, or hard hats used or worn on these construction sites. It’s miraculous buildings go up as quickly as they do). Down on the road, a Muslim family--mother, father and children—begs a few rupees of the literati entering and exiting the bookstore. Their pleas, no doubt, are drowned out by the incessant horn harassment from the gridlock traffic behind them. Fancy cars continually pull up outside the building next door to drop off well-groomed children for the play meet at EuroKids. A small, pig-tailed girl dons a white T-shirt with “New York” scrawled across it in silver script. She cries for her father to walk in with her rather than her maid. He hops out of the car with his mobile precariously held to his ear by his shrugged shoulder as he reassuringly picks up his little girl.

Surprisingly, I feel a sense of relief at seeing this business-as-usual slice of city life. Last Friday, two days after the shootings began, I wandered out on a Darwinian escapade around the local streets. I was in need of food, and fresh air. I had spent the better part of the two previous days holed up in front of the T.V., watching the horrific scenes unfold just 10 miles down the road. I’m not going to say I have a sixth sense for terrorist attacks (although I’m sure that could increase job prospects upon my return), but I had a feeling something was going to happen here. The day I flew out of Newark en route to my new home halfway across the world, CNN news flashes across the airport plasma T.V.s advised of the bombings in Ahmedabad, India. Since then, there have been bomb blasts nearly everything month, including a number of them in crowded marketplaces in Delhi. Mumbai was sure to be on the hit list—it was just a matter of when. What occurred last week, however, was more calculated and brutal than what anyone could have predicted or expected. That became apparent to me when I went on my hunt to gather samosas and biryani to fill my groaning stomach. As terrorists continued their hide-and-seek death game in the grand Taj hotel, the streets of Bandra remained eerily quiet and empty. The few rickshaws and rickety bicycles that passed me on the street slowed to let me pass. Bewildered by their simple acts of compassion, I sprinted across just the same. Never have I longed for the life-threatening challenge of crossing the dizzying Mumbai roads as I did at that moment.

But I’m not going to be naïve about this: Mumbaikers aren’t obliviously carrying on life as before November 26. Nearly everyone I’ve talked to has been, in some way, affected by these tragic attacks. Yesterday, I went to a local high school with members of the Bandra Rotary Club for an HIV/AIDS awareness program. As we prepared for the 90 uniformed school children to join us, Rotarians imparted each other with stories of a brother in the rooftop restaurant at the Taj, visits to victims at local hospitals, and other narrow escapes by friends of friends. Everyone has a story, including me. Although I was safely in my bed that night, I logged on to the Bombay expat Web forum I’m a member of to see if everyone was OK. Every other Wednesday, there is a big meet-up at Henry Thames pub, just behind the Taj, and since I knew it was going on that night, I wanted to make sure all revelers had arrived back home safely. For the most part, they did; however, a Dutch guy named Benjamin, who often wrote in, was at an undisclosed location in the city, at the home of a stranger who had taken him in after he and a friend fled Leopold’s, a popular foreigner hangout. He recounted what had taken place: a grenade went off at the table next to him as flying shrapnel entered his body. They ran out a side entrance, and took shelter until the next day when he could get to the hospital. The doctors said he had tiny pieces of metal lodged in his cheek, pelvis, arm, and leg. The remnants of the horror of that night were too miniscule to remove, so he will have to be checked twice every time he passes airport security. Comparatively, he walked away unscathed, as nearly a dozen people lost their lives as they dined around him.

Last night at the Gateway of India, across the road from where the inferno blazed from the dome of Taj, a huge crowd—mostly 20-somethings, those riding the hitherto wave of India’s booming economy—turned out for a candlelight vigil in memory of the 179 victims. But what was meant to be a peaceful communal grieving broke out into a protest against government’s actions, or inactions more like. Indians are rightfully angry about what this attack exposed worldwide about what people here already know: that the police are woefully ill-equipped to protect the public; that public law enforcement money is used, instead, for private protection of the rich; that rampant bribery threatens the destruction of any systems in place; and that the government never tightened security or proactively responded to the attacks that have been plaguing the country.

I haven’t been in town since this has all taken place. The trip from Bandra to Colaba isn’t enjoyable even during the most peaceful of times. But, today, I have a our bi-weekly Art for Peace meeting at St. Xavier’s College, just behind Victoria Station, where bullets sprayed innocent commuters a week ago. The project has always been important to me, since communal tension is an inherent part of this religiously diverse metropolis. However, the discussions of how to create a more peaceful and trusting world seem to be more important and needed than ever.

My last swig of coffee is cold, so I’ll leave the comfort of my A/Ced Mumbai viewing post. It’s time to carry on with the rest of Mumbai, but, despite this city's resiliency, things just don't seem the same.

My First Saree