MUMBAI!

(This is a long overdue blog)

I flew into Mumbai for a Congress WBN seminar, spent the weekend there and returned to Chennai on Sunday. The flight was about 1.5 hours long, which feels like nothing when the last time you’ve been on a plane was for 20 hrs.

I stayed at the Salvation Army. They have a female dormitory with the capacity of 16. Most nights there were about 12-14 of us there, all of which were foreigners. That didn’t surprise me much though; I am now used to the idea that Indian girls aren’t free and to be camping out/sleeping in a strange place with strange people for a couple of days is the pinnacle of liberation.

The seminar was exceptional! Mumbai was a shocker to me though. I drove past the slum where they filmed Slum Dog Millionaire, my driver pointed it out to me. It was cleaner than the slums I saw in Chennai, in fact, the standard of living, though still extreme poverty, seemed higher than Chennai’s poor. The children on the sidewalk had on shoes to my surprise, a sight I’d never see in Chennai. In fact, children who can actually afford the opportunity to go to school in Chennai still don’t wear shoes. Oh, and how I enjoyed not feeling grossed out or crying for a shower upon stepping out my door. I spent four days in Mumbai without the sight of a single person urinating in the street. In Chennai, I couldn’t go four minutes without seeing that sort of misconduct in public. Those four days in Mumbai was the longest I have gone without seeing nakedness since I’ve been in India. I get back to Chennai and I see a man pant-less stooping, number two-ing a little off the road where heaps of rubbish meet the road and the river bank. It wasn’t even a gross sight, it was just so sad. To think that poverty can bring people to such animalistic levels but still I could still imagine his human-ness. He wasn’t on the pavement, but a little off the road, perhaps preserving the ounce of dignity he has left.

So yes, everything seemed 100 times cleaner/better in Mumbai. The people – oh the people! I was shocked by the way they dressed. I, without any hesitation, wore my sleeveless clothes with no qualms…every other person did – Indians and all. I went into a store and to my shock, they sold short pants and sun dresses! That Mumbai – a very western one! In Chennai almost everyone wears sarees, all my female teachers wear sarees to teach. The students in my class wear churidas or salwar kameez outfits.

In Mumbai, no one stared. There are so many tourists there! When I see a foreigner in Chennai I almost want to point. In Fort, Mumbai where I stayed, everybody was a tourist. In fact, one man guessed I was from the West Indies after I told him I wasn’t from Africa. The third West Indian country he called was Trinidad and I shouted “YES!” He is an artist and had been to Trinidad, so I had to buy a piece from him.

Shopping there is super cheap, I thought. And the competition is stiff so bargaining is the greatest. You can easily beat a man’s price down by 50%. If you walk off and pretend to be uninterested after being told a price, it always works out in your favour *grins*. Though Jane said she feels bad because they probably have families to feed and 100 extra rupees is nothing for us. I wish I had such a big conscience.


Paranoia in Mumbai

(At the Central Train Station, I wrote this on my blackberry as I waited)

I’m at the train station with Zena, a Kenyan girl I made friends with. She is slowly driving me crazy with her clinginess and I just feel like being alone today. Well, she needed a train to head back home, and she almost coerced me here to come with her (haha). I’m uneasy. I’m just sitting on these terrazzo benches waiting…waiting to be bombed. There are lots of people in here and its divali, what an opportunity for terrorists. It doesn’t help that’s this place looks just like the train station in the BBC report neither does it help that there was another bombing in Delhi just weeks ago. Oh, and the American media’s face of a terrorist is every man in here. I don’t know where Zena went; she is having problems getting her ticket. My senses are peaked, looking for suspicious behaviour. A man just passed. He is dragging a big filled with large pieces of crumpled paper and plastic bags. I think he’s a janitor but he’s moving so hastily. I follow him with my eyes. He passes me and stops at a pile of boxes. He takes the bunch of paper and plastic out of the bin with both hands. He takes up one box that tied together with a string crossed at the top. He places it in the bin. My attention is perked and fixed on him. He takes the paper and the plastic up with both hands once more and places it in the bin, covering the box. What sort of explosive could be in that box, I wonder. It didn’t seem heavy, in fact, he lifted it with ease. He hurried off, in the same haste in which he came. I’m waiting…any second now…to hear the sound of chaos, a bomb! Okay, there is Zena. I’m leaving now…safe, sound.

**(Zena is great, it’s me who’s the weirdo. I was just hot and being dramatic when I wrote this)

THE UPPER-CUT

I hastily left the train station with Z in tow. She had no clue the reasons behind my quick steps. I simply did not want to be in a ten mile radius of that place. Outside, lines of taxis waited with its drivers leaning against its doors hollering at potential passengers as they pass by.

The first car in line was my pick. I wanted to go to Fab India, one of the best stores for modern Indian clothes. Fortunately, this driver knew where it was, unfortunately, he wanted 60 rupees, doubled the price. Not a chance! A taxi that was not in line but had just pulled up was my next pick. He came out in car and came towards me and I walked towards him, with the overcharging driver following. The man didn’t speak English well I noticed and wasn’t sure where I wanted to go. The overcharging driver started what seemed to be an argument with him in Hindi, his tone seemed aggressive. I looked back and forth at the men as I was facing them both. The overcharging driver pointed at the man and said to me that he knew little English, but in a mocking manner. The man said “50 rupees madam” forcing the overcharging one to say “40 rupees”. I agreed to the 40 rupees, at least he knew where we wanted to go. As the overcharging driver turned to walk away and I turned to follow him to his car, the other driver reached and hit his successor a hard clout.

Well I almost fainted. I almost held my head with my hands and ducked. In my world, a man hitting another man is a huge deal. As a matter of fact, that meant WAR. I stood there frozen, expecting the worst. The clout was strategically done. It had great impact. The receiver’s buffy hair split right down the middle where the other man’s hand made contact, leaving a path. He spun around in shock with his head lowered and his both hands holding his head. Retaliation is sure, I thought. I got ready to skip, jump and roll. Suddenly, he began to laugh uncomfortably, watching his bully for a second and continued making his way to the car with me and Z in tow. I was confused, what did that mean? Then he said something out loud in Hindi. I was sure that was the “wait dey! Ah comin’ back” - the most obvious response when walking away from a fight you’re unprepared for. In a Trini context that usually translates to “run!” because upon his return…it’s war. As we pulled off he shouted “idiot!!” Was that his response to getting tap up in the head in public? Grown man like him? I caught myself a few minutes later, and I couldn’t breathe, I was laughing uncontrollably all the way to Fab India. The seconds between the clout and his response, I had seen this going down totally different. No wonder India’s crime rate is nothing compared to Trinidad’s…after all, nobody does “keep lash”.