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

Films that Matter

With my projects such as Art for Peace and the Candid City Project, I've learned (or been reminded of) this one thing: that art really does have the power to create change and transform lives. I understand the idea of art for art's sake, but if, at the same time, it can do good for the world, why not bring it into that realm.

I wrote a story for New England Watershed magazine a couple years ago on an amazing Holyoke, Massachusetts-based art named Don Wilhelm. On the outside, Don was what you would imagine a painter to be: a wiry, white-haired, disheveled man who would break out into fits of artistic rage at any given moment. When he spoke about art, though, he spoke thoughtfully and quietly, as if he were traveling back in time to the minds of the great masters, such as Renoir or Michelangelo. He had lived as a sidewalk portrait painter in New York and New Orleans, but before that, oddly, he was a super-star football player for Arizona, drafted by the Dallas Cowboys before he was injured and forced to pursue another career. As a painter, he watched from the sidelines as the world took many hard hits. On his transistor radio, he heard the reports of the tsunami that devastated Southeast Asia, and shortly afterwards, word flooded in that Katrina had struck his beloved New Orleans. This time, he knew he had to use his talent to help the victims. For the next months, he doodled, sketched, and sculpted his ideas for a series of Katrina paintings, studying every detail--even having models stand in the river outside his studio to see how water dripped off their bodies. In the end, he created an eerie, haunting, and deeply moving series that he auctioned off to aid the people in need in Louisiana. This time, he knew that his paintbrush and easel could be as powerful as any hammer and nail.

Over the last five years, I've had the honor of meeting some incredibly talented people through Trinity and New England Watershed. But I've never seen anyone so dedicated to using the medium of art to create social change as filmmaker and boyfriend (full disclosure!) extraordinaire, Michael Burns. He has started full speed ahead with his latest film that follows three individuals struggling with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as they engage in a transformative mental health therapy called EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). Check out this film's site at www.emdrmovie.com/ or below at Indiegogo, and help make a film that really matters.

Nagpur Oranges, and More

At my yoga teacher training at the Yoga Institute of Santa Cruz in September, I met a friend, Smita, who has been incredibly helpful to me here, inviting me over for delicious dinners and setting me up with various appointments to help get my volunteer projects going. She comes from a powerful political family in Nagpur--a city in the center of India known for its juicy oranges--but lives in Mumbai with her two boys, ages 14 and 20.

Last week, I got back from spending time at her family's palatial home in Nagpur--complete with a swimming pool and, get this, a luscious green lawn! I haven't seen green in so long. The first thing I did was take my shoes off and let my toes feel the soft dirt and blades of grass underneath.

Although I could have spent all day lounging in the backyard with a book, we ended up on the move most of the time, presenting our yoga workshop, visiting Gandhi's ashram, gracing her father's huge birthday party, and attending a Children's Day event with over 2,500 children. It was great to get out of Mumbai for a while and see a different place. Not only was there fresh air, but there weren't the slum areas everywhere like I see all over this city. Mumbai is just so conjested and overpopulated that people just set up home anywhere and everywhere.

Yoga and Health Workshop with Orphanage Children

Since Smita's family is politically connected, they have set up schools and colleges all over their area. In addition, they built an ashram--an orphanage--where over 50 boys are considered part of their family. While I was there, both her niece and her father were celebrating birthdays, and each birthday is started by cutting cake with the ashram boys. Her father even had them all over to the house for a big breakfast! They've built a home for the boys, taken them on trips all around India, sent them to good schools, and have computers and tutoring lessons for them--extras usually reserved just for the very rich children in India.
Smita and I spent three, high-energy days with the boys, using games to teach them yoga postures and concentration. In one balancing posture, Utkatasana, the boys had to practice it while balancing books on their heads. The had so much fun, and they were so excited to have a foreigner visiting their home. They asked me such intelligent questions about the U.S. economy, the price of gas, and Barack Obama. So amazing! I also taught them some English songs and American customs, having them practice their English skills while giving them a bit of a cultural lesson.

Children's Day Drawing Competition

Our days at the ashram ended with a huge drawing competition for Children's Day India, with over 2,500 kids participating in the contest. There were various themes, including "Underwater World" and "Favorite Indian Monuments or Festivals." Some of these drawings were really incredible for such young children. One of the best parts of the day was when kids took the stage in the talent portion, where they showed off their artistic aspirations. By far the best was a boy of no more than eight, who had the crowd roaring during his stand-up routine. Even though I couldn't understand a word of his Hindi jokes, his delivery and inflection were so beyond his years that I couldn't help but laugh. India's next Jay Leno, perhaps?

Gandhi's Ashram at Sevagram: India's Non-violent Fight for Independence
Our time in Nagpur ended with a trip to the ashram from where Gandhi and his followers led India's peaceful resistance against British rule. Sevagram was a quiet, simple place with a powerful aura about it. There was a modest exhibit of Gandhi's incredible life and work, and one of the small houses still had his shoes and walking stick. He had extraordinarily strong convictions, and at the ashram, many of his rules to live by were offered all around. In 1947, without ever engaging in violent words or actions, Gandhi achieved the dream of independence for his beloved country.

M.I.A.

Rest assured, I am still alive, despite my dearth of posts these days. I was out of Bombay presenting a yoga workshop and somehow contracted something that has left me barely functioning for the past couple of weeks. I'm sure it's nothing more than a sinus infection or a bad head cold, but since I spend most of my time trapsing around Bombay's streets, breathing in highly polluted air and battling extreme heat, I just can't seem to escape long enough to recover. Anyway, read on--I'll try to catch you up on all I've been up to.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Happy Halloween to all!

Happy Diwali

It's nearly midnight, and I just got home from celebrating Diwali at the Juhu Beach Street Shelter. The boys decorated the place with lights and created floor decorations made of colored sand--it looked so festive! The head of the YMCA, as well as others, were there and brought lots of food and treats for us all. The evening was topped off with games like put the Bollywood-star puzzle together and escape the bomb blast, which entails running in a circle until the music stops and you land in one of four cities. Your team is out if you land in the city where the bomb blast went off that time.

Speaking of blasts, the other tradition on Diwali is to set off firecrackers. They are still going off outside my window right now! It was complete mayhem, and I don't know how everyone escaped without injury. Hopefully the pictures will give you a feel for how many were going off at once.

Stop the Violence in Orissa Campaign

Historically, Bandra, where I live, has been a predominately Catholic suburb of the city, although it's quite diverse these days. So, when the violence against Catholics flared up in Orissa, in eastern India, many people around here organized a march for peace and distributed these "Stop the Violence" banners around town.

The Hindus in Orissa are using violence to force Catholics to convert, threatening killings with machetes, rape, and destruction of homes. Many Catholics have fled and are living in dire conditions in displacement camps. Those who stay submit to requirements of shaving one's head and swallowing dung of the sacred cow. In recent days, the biggest contraversy brewing is the horrific attack on a nun and a priest in Orissa. The two were pulled from hiding in a Hindu neighbor's house and were brought to another residence where the nun was raped multiple times. The violators tried to rally a crowd to continue the sexual attacks, but, instead, decided to parade her and the priest down the street, naked, in utter humiliation. The nun has come forward to authorities claiming that the police officers she begged for help were joking with the attackers.

This kind of communal tension is not isolated, by any means, to Hindus and Catholics. While religious differences in Orissa have deteriorated into violent measures, discrimination based on race and faith plays out every day--often in more subtle ways--and not only in India. Muslims here claim that they can't get into apartment buildings that are outside of their own communities, and that's only the beginning. As we have seen with the political attacks in the U.S., suggesting wrongly and negatively that Barack Obama is a Muslim, Islamaphobia continues in the American psyche as well. That's why a recent piece by conservative NYT columnist William Kristol seems laughable when he writes, "Sept. 11 did not result in a much-feared (by intellectuals) wave of popular Islamophobia or xenophobia..."

I'm not saying I'm above all this, either. I arrived in India with my own ideas and prejudices of life and people here. Living in Mumbai has pushed me outside my comfort zone in so many ways, and I have learned and grown from every moment of it. That's why I believe the Candid City Project (see earlier post) is so relevant to our times and so important. In my opinion, the only way to change any type of discrimination or prejudice is through education. People fear differences only because they don't understand. Kids and adults alike need to be exposed to people and places and customs and traditions outside of their own and learn to be open to those differences. If that happens, then there is hope for the future that violence like that that is occuring in Orissa today won't continue forever.

Candid City Project

Michael and I are launching a program called the Candid City Project in a school in Hartford and Mumbai. Our goal is to bridge cultural understanding between India and the United States through creative exchange. By sharing photographs taken with 24-exposure, one-use cameras, students in Mumbai and Hartford will have the opportunity to interact with each other as e-pen pals and to discuss their cities, lives, and surroundings as seen through the images. By doing so, students will engage in open and creative dialogue about a distant and perhaps unknown place while also becoming more aware of their own community. In an increasingly global and urban world, the Candid City Project seeks to open students to the amazing diversity in the world and break down misunderstandings or stereotypes through direct interaction.


Check out our great Web site Michael designed at http://www.candidcityproject.com/.

Outside My Classroom on Juhu Beach

Art for Peace

Yesterday, I participated in an amazing program called Art for Peace, held at St. Xavier's College in Mumbai. The program brings together religious leaders and community members from many different backgrounds to discuss in small group exchange the notion of peace. Paired with each group is an artist, who, for now, just listens to the discussion and presentation of ideas but will eventually create an abstract painting out of it all. In February, there will be a huge exhibit in Mumbai, with heads of state--and perhaps even Jimmy Carter. In my group (pictured here in the courtyard of St. Xavier's), we have a mix of Hindus and Muslims, as well as a Zoorastrian and Christian. All in my group are Indian, except for me and an Afghani guy.

The program is run through the Wisdom Foundation, which is headed by a professor of Islamic studies at St. Xavier's College. I heard her speak at an interfaith dialogue I went to last week about how to bring compassion into the world, and she mentioned that she was running this Art for Peace program. Last year, her foundation held an event called Cricket for Peace, which was wildly successful, bringing together 1,500 people of all different faiths for a cricket match.


Religion is at the root of much of the communal tension in Mumbai--and in India, in general--so we have been discussing extensively many different faiths in my course at the university in communal harmony and social peace. In India, it's amazing how identified people are with their religion and how openly it's discussed. At home in the U.S., I never would have known the religion of each person in my class, but here, it's learned almost by way of introduction, "Hi, Deepa, and I'm a Hindu." While tension may be created because of these deep associations and identifications, I have found it to be so fulfilling to be in a cultural where religion is so much a part of the society. I never knew I missed that at home--or even that I didn't have it--until I came here and realized how much deeply spiritual life is in this country.

Our group discussing peace is meeting once per week for at least the next five weeks. After that, the artist will begin his painting, and each of us will contribute by adding a final brush stroke. Hopefully a Web site about the project will be up and running soon, and I will give you that address to read more once it's published.

My Bookshelf

This week, it was announced that an Indian, Aravind Adiga, won England's prestigious Man Booker Prize for his novel, The White Tiger. Beating out Irish novelist Sebastian Barry, whose play was performed at this year's Arts and Ideas Festival in New Haven, Adiga takes on one of India's most pressing contempory issues--the enormous difference in classes. I have not yet read the novel, but I know that the story follows the life of a poor village boy who becomes a chauffeur to one of India's elite. This disparity is everywhere in Mumbai, and it's heartbreaking, to say the least. A friend last night was telling me that he wholesales cheap jewelry to poor people from the villages who sell the earrings and other things on the streets, in the trains, or where ever. He says that he argues with them over like a one-cent discount. The poverty here is just so extreme that every last cent counts, literally. So, if anyone has read Adiga's book, I'd love to hear reactions and know whether I should add it to my bookshelf.

Speaking of which, I've taken a shot of some of the books on the shelf these days. Right now, I'm reading Karen Armstrong's introduction to Islam and a biography on Mahatma Gandhi. (Oh, and struggling to learn and practice Hindi.) I stronly recommend Armstrong's book, as it's been really eye-opening to read about what a peaceful faith Islam is at it's roots, but has been plagued by modern misinterpretations and misrepresentations. Also left to read is The Good Earth, which came highly recommended from my good friend Todd Meagher, and Jumpa Lahiri's new book, Unaccustomed Earth. Lahiri, an Indian-American, is an amazing writer and a master at the short story craft. Definitely read Interpreter of Maladies, if you haven't yet.

Anyone else out there reading anything good?

All Hail, The Mighty Rickshaw

Two things I really love: driving and New England autumn. And now that September has arrived and I’ve heard that fall is in the Connecticut air, I’m beginning to miss jumping in my trusty 1994 Volvo and heading up to the West Hartford Reservoir for a run under a canopy of colorful leaves. It just doesn’t feel like September in 85-degree heat with palm trees lining the roads. Nevertheless, it’s 85 degrees and palm trees are lining the roads, so I’m not really complaining. And from what I’ve been told, now that monsoon season has ended, the heat is here to stay.

So while I’m sweating it out in September, without a car or the New England fall, I’ve been enjoying exploring Mumbai via some different forms of transport. The ubiquitous rickshaw, as I’ve mentioned before, has to be one of the most fascinating parts of life here. These three-wheeled, handle-bar controlled, black and yellow roadsters are anywhere and everywhere, congesting the already overcrowded streets. The rickshaw driver is aggressive and bold, taking no mind of going the wrong way down a one-way or pulling out in front of a bus without even thinking twice. Crossing an intersection (traffic signals are almost non-existent) is an exercise that should be cautioned to blood-pressure patients. All who usually want to cross—from all four, sometimes six, directions—usually converge in a tangled mess in the middle of the road, but miraculously, after a lot of honking and untwisting, each scurries off in the intended direction unscathed. At first, getting in the rickshaw alone, or even accompanied, caused great anxiety. Not only did the ride seem dangerous, but it seemed impossible to know the labyrinth of roads in Mumbai. However, as I write this, I’ve been in India for seven weeks today, and somehow, I feel like some of my most treasured moments are in the backseat of a rickshaw. Unlike the train, where you have to push and shove your way on and off, in the rick, I can have my space and take in the sights and sounds of Mumbai. I admire the unflinching confidence the rickshaw drivers have on the roads, and even their daring moves and hail mary turns. Their judgment is keen, and knowing this, I’ve done away with holding on for dear life, and usually sit back and relax, enjoying the functioning chaos that is Mumbai.

Check back soon for survival stories from the local train!

Almost Famous

It seemed like half the world’s population was gathered on Chowpatty Beach a couple Sundays ago for the final day of the Ganpati festival. After 10 days of being worshipped, Ganesh statues of all shapes and sizes were brought to be sent out to sea. For 10 days in September, Mumbai nearly comes to a halt while the city celebrates its affection for the elephant god, Ganesh. The festival starts with the bringing of Ganesh into the home or in the public worship spot, where for 1.5, 3, 7, or 10 days the god is offered fruits and sweets of gratitude. En route to immersion, huge groups of family and friends carry the Ganesh—or sometimes it is so big it needs to be loaded onto a truck—towards the sea, sometimes for miles. With red-painted bodies, the celebrants dance in the streets, singing and banging on drums the whole way.
I was accompanied for the 10th-day immersion—the biggest of all—by Dilip Jani, a Rotarian, and Karim, the other Ambassadorial Scholar in Mumbai. Karim, being blonde and a tall German, and I were not conspicuous among the crowd. At one point, a television crew halted us on the street to be interviewed for the national station. Later, I got text messages from various friends in Mumbai, and even one from as far as Bangalore, saying they saw me on T.V. I really am almost famous!

First Class with Street Children

On Wednesday, I began teaching English to street children, youths without families who live at a shelter provided by the YMCA. The children range in age from 6 to 16, and, as I found out, vary in levels of English knowledge, from needing to learn the alphabet to strong reading and writing comprehension (although still not able to converse easily). Our classroom, four walls of plastic tarp held up by criss-crossed bamboo, is on Juhu beach, next to the locker and shower facility where the 10 boys live. All are boys, and some of the most polite, sweet, and eager-to-learn kids I have ever met.

I found out about the shelter during my seemingly endless housing search, which, while exhausting, afforded me the opportunity to see many different parts of this area. I looked at lots of one-room and one-bedroom places, many of which seemed overpriced for the condition. In the end, I opted for a homestay after a last-minute fall through on an affordable place next to a massive fishing slum called Dandar. The apartment was advertised as furnished, but all I saw was a bed. Still, it was a fine location and spacious enough to share. However, when the apartment's owner suggested I wire my $6,000 deposit to a Jamaican bank account, I knew there was something fishy going on, even outside the village's main income. Anyhow, before leaving, I noticed a YMCA on the corner of the lane, and later returned to inquire about volunteer opportunities.

Since I had taught English as a foreign language in Italy and Connecticut, I figured that would be my most valuable skill I had to offer. (When the YMCA director asked me if I thought I could teach knitting or sewing, I thought back to the day before I left, when I had Michael and my dad sewing all my missing buttons on for me, and suggested I stick to language.) I have a complicated relationship with teaching. I respect it, for sure. Teaching is powerful and rewarding, but for whatever reason, I've resisted it's magnetic pull as a full-time profession. In a meeting in Amherst last year with my favorite professor of Irish literature, Peggy O'Brien, we had this exact discussion. I was tossing around the possibility of pursuing my Ph.D. to pursue a college teaching career, and Peggy, with her eyes that smile with warmth, looked at me with her years of experience and said frankly, "academia is too arid for you." At the time, I was a confused by her choice of words, and slightly offended. Was that just a cover up for suggesting I couldn't do it? I wasn't convinced by what she was suggesting. I had been working at Trinity for three years, and I knew the exchange of ideas and knowledge that was its foundation. But I also know there is a whole big, wide world out there with just as much wisdom and knowledge and ideas being debated and questioned every day, and I'm glad, even for just this one wild year, I'm getting the opportunity to touch it and learn from it.

With that in mind, I got off the bus at Juhu beach, the smell of salt in the thick, humid air, and made my way past the beach balloon vendors and fast-food fry-o-lators to the seaside shelter of the orphaned boys. I came prepared with colored chalk, crayons, multi-colored paper, and some coloring exercises for the younger boys who I knew would be there. Indians learn by rote, so it is common practice to give students a sentence to write 20 times or so before moving on to the next one. For obvious reasons, my two-hour English lessons will have none of that. On this day, we started out with some simple introduction and get-to-know-you activities. I learned that Ajay enjoys video games and his favorite food is spinach, while Jayesh likes his tailoring class best. Sounds like I could catch a lesson from him!

Lost in Translation

Everything went so well with the day and the lesson that I decided to reward myself with a little A/C next door at the large, chain hotel--one of many on this touristy beach. I headed to the plush leather couch in the lounge and hid behind Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth while observing the scene. The bar was mostly filled with businessmen smoking heavily and drinking happy hour specials. There was one other woman in the place, and she was accompanied. I ordered a coffee, contemplated an appetizer, but was satisfied when the waiter brought me bowls of peanuts and potato chips.

Just as I was really beginning to make myself at home and get into Campbell's discussion of creation, the lights went down, a disco ball lit up, and a male and female duo took the stage. The guy, in his shiny silk shirt, was preparing the karaoke-like machine as their background band, and the woman, who I had suspiciously eyed in the bathroom as she was glotting on heavy eye and lip make-up, was fixing up her outfit. During their first song, Eric Clapton's "Tears in Heaven," the male singer's cell phone went off just before the tape stopped in the middle of the song. They quickly skipped to the next pre-programmed song, The Cranberries, "What's Going On." It wasn't horrible. In fact, I heard the faint sound of a clap from the back corner. Must have been the one other woman. During "Everything I Do, I Do It for You," great applause broke out; the singer looked confusedly at the television monitor behind him: a cricket match was on and someone had just scored. Bryan Adams was followed by Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle," and I had reached the bottom of the peanut bowl, and the end of my patience. I packed my things and closed out my bill just as Carlos Santana came on. No matter how sweaty I am after teaching on the beach all afternoon, no heat could ever drive me back to that hotel hell.

Grammarians Beware

If the grammar doesn't scare you, then that Bollywood character in the middle of the road should!

Mumbai Madness

Welcome to the inaugural post of my adventures during my nine-month stay in India. Since touching down in monsoon-drenched Mumbai at the end of July 2008, I've learned to commute in a rickshaw, moved into my simple-living room, decoded the puzzling university system, done away with any notion of solitude (did I mention, it's a city of 18 MILLION), and, of course, found a favorite coffee shop. So much has happened already, and I hope you enjoy following along with me. Your comments and reactions are welcomed!

The charmed life on Pali Hill

My first few days in Mumbai were spent at Pali Hills Hotel in the suburb of Bandra. I'd heard of this place through the Bombay Expats Web site, which has been hugely helpful in finding out everything from where to get hangars to how to get a solid Internet connection--albeit still a bit elusive. Even though I read through this site daily for a month leading up to my departure, nothing could have prepared me for what I would feel and see when I actually arrived in Mumbai. I was completely overwhelmed by the rubble of decaying buildings, slum housing, clouds of dust, and crowds and traffic everywhere. And I'd been told Bandra was the Queen of the Suburbs! Nevertheless, I decided to brave the storm (literally, there was a monsoon downpour for my first three days) and wander the neighborhood.

At the front desk of the hotel, my inquiry into a map of the local streets was met with a look of complete bewilderment. In time, I would realize why: most streets don't have names, and everyone, including rickshaw and taxi drivers, just asks for directions, stopping every five feet if need be. Addresses are always accompanied by landmarks (my address: behind Bandra Gym) and streets are often confusingly named in relation to main ones (take the road "off Carter Road," nevermind trying to figure out which one!). Needless to say, on my first trip outside the hotel, I stayed quite close to my base, walking as far as the Arabian Sea in one direction and the slum housing settlement in the other direction.

So, with my complete lack of orientation and not a familiar soul in sight, I went back inside and rummaged through my suitcase to find the list of phone numbers of random contacts I had collected before leaving, one of which was a Trinity student named Cyrus Appoo. Since then, Cyrus and his family have been life-savers to me here. I had never met Cyrus before--hence the randomness of these contacts--but he, too, lived right on Pali Hill and told me his parents had an extra apartment that was fully furnished and they wanted me to stay there until I found housing of my own. I told him I'd meet him in an hour, my bags were packed. Thus, the charmed life I lead. This place was some seriously posh digs, and a peaceful haven away from the chaos of the city. In addition, they had a whole entourage of enlisted help, including a driver, a cook, and maids who would call me each morning to offer a breakfast suggestion for that day.

But, alas, all good things come to an end

After a couple weeks of having omlettes and coffee delivered to my apartment by the Appoo's cook and delicious lunches and dinners with their family, I am living a more simple existence in a homestay with a widow named Hazel in a two-bedroom apartment in Bandra. The location is great: I am just a five-minute walk to the promenade the runs along the Arabian Sea and two minutes away from a market with almost anything else I might need, including hangars. Location, I have come to find out, is everything here, mostly because commuting is so horrendous. Luckily, my two major commitments--the courses in comparative mythology and communal harmony and social peace--are at the university on Saturday and Sunday, so the traffic is usually moving, and the rickshaw ride is a quick 20 minutes on the highway (yes, the rickshaw goes on the highway, but this warrants a blog of its own).

As in my other house on Pali Hill, my new home has a maid who cooks and cleans, but this one actually lives here as well. Although it may sound like a luxury only for the rich, everyone here has hired help. Labor is incredibly cheap, as you will find about 10 workers at a time in any given Subway-type shop--much quicker than the one worker at home! Still, the concept of a live-in maid is just so foreign to me, and quite disconcerting. These maids leave their families in villages far outside Mumbai and come to the city alone to find work and send money home. The maid at this house seems quite young (our communication is minimal with my few Hindi phrases and questions), sleeps on the floor of the kitchen, and cleans all day long. The caste system is clearly still in place here.

A tangible energy

Ok, so enough of my life inside. This place is utter chaos outside, but somehow, in all it's exhaustiveness, it is such an energizing city. There was a guy from Delhi, India, in the hotel with me during those first few days, who said, "Mumbai is where it's all happening. Everybody comes here with a dream in his or her pocket." It's true, and you can feel that excitement in the air here. You can also feel a lot of bodies, everywhere and all the time. People pack this city, and it's a place that truly never sleeps. At any hour, there is this old guy with a henna-dyed red beard sitting on the street corner down the road, selling bananas off a blanket he sets up on the sidewalk. I've never walked by that street corner when he's not there. So much life is out on the streets: the tailor with his sewing machine, mending a garment out in front of the shop, or the tea ("chai") man who sets up his tin canaster and glass cups and little hot stove on the sidewalk each day (one cup is usually about $.15 - .25; hence, my constant chai high!), or the farmer who walks up and down the street all morning (I can hear him from my room) singing the names of the goods for sale. It's alive here, and that gives character and vitality to a place that seemed to me, at first, so depressed and run down.

So, I guess you could say I've finally settled into my life here. It's taken a few weeks to get going, but I've managed to figure out some of the systems and have begun teaching English to women in the slums and helping street kids at a shelter in Juhu, the next suburb up the coast. The other day I was coming back from a long day in the center of the city, taking the jam-packed local train, and, for the first time, I got off at the Bandra stop and felt an immediate sense of calm come over me. Don't get me wrong, the scene outside the station was anything but serene, and the cacaphony of seagull wails were competing against the blaring horns of gridlocked traffic. But I felt comfortable there, I knew the streets and the places on those streets, and, for the first time, it felt like home.