The Bride Wore Turmeric

Namaste!
This past Monday, I arrived home and was met immediately with an enthusiastic Ava, who interrupted her Skype conversation to show me the coveted envelope that had been delivered to our door earlier that evening. In all its sparkling glory, addressed to “The American Family,” was an invitation to our first Indian wedding. One of our downstairs neighbors, Martin, had delivered the invitation, but we didn’t know the bride, or her name, and we had never really had a conversation with Martin, except for run-ins on the stairs or in our alley. We actually didn’t know Martin’s name until we arrived at the wedding. That kind of confusion was an ongoing theme throughout our enjoyment of the wedding, which was spread out across Sunday and Monday of that weekend. We really didn’t have any more information than that, and the invitation was written in Marathi (the language of Maharashtra, the state I’m in), not Hindi, so we couldn’t even read it. But none of the unknown mattered – in just a few days, we got ourselves all dressed up and walked to Maruai Mandir where the wedding was to take place.

We knew the bride lived in our neighborhood, and our alley was decorated with lights, as was the temple down the street. When we walked outside, we were greeted with people singing and dancing in the street, and they gave us sugarcane.






We didn’t know that the bride actually lived in the building next door, which I found out when I ran into her in the street the next day. Our neighbor Sachin was also invited, but he wasn’t planning on going because he knew that they really wanted us more, because having white people at a wedding is something special, apparently. So, a few minutes later we showed up to a stranger’s wedding and were treated like celebrities, so I guess he was right. We were shown to some plastic chairs, had tilak applied to our foreheads, and were given a plate with some special snacks.


I know the sweets have some special meaning, but I’m not entirely sure about the potato chips. That leaf tasted nasty.

The bride and groom are members of the Koli fishermen community. They’re native to the Maharashtra-Goan coastal area and catch the delicious fish we eat frequently in Mumbai. A lot of them are Christian, but this couple was Hindu. We spent a lot of the night trying to figure out how everyone was related, and how Martin knew these people. I’m honestly still not entirely sure. We recognized a few other people from our building, who are the bride’s uncles. We were sitting next to Martin’s wife, who runs a nursery school from their flat. She was very nice. It wasn’t as fancy as I would have expected, since I’ve heard a lot about the pomp and circumstance of Indian weddings. The men were just wearing everyday clothes, and the women had saris on, but they weren’t decked out in glitz and gold. I felt appropriately dressed in my silk kurta, which lacked glitz and gold, too.


We didn’t see the bride for a long time. We were told she was inside preparing for the ceremony, which we knew nothing about because we didn’t even know what event we were attending (Indian weddings are spread over a few days, and the engagement generally takes place shortly before the wedding, so they might not even have technically been engaged until this week). We spotted her coming out the temple, dressed in a simple white sari, which was covered in turmeric. She looked like she was 18, but we learned yesterday that she is in fact 23. I didn’t see the groom, and I’m not entirely sure he was there. The bride, Krutika, greeted each of the guests by touching their feet, but we didn’t let her touch ours.


Then everyone who was there from the groom’s side left. People were expecting us to leave, but clearly we were best friends with the bride, so we felt special that we got to stay. They started playing some music and the dancing commenced, but only women were allowed to dance. Ava and I were forced up to the dancing area, and there were maybe 10 of us bouncing around in a circle, so I’m pretty sure all eyes were on us. It felt really weird to be the centre of attention at somebody else’s wedding. The bride wasn’t dancing at first. I thought maybe she wasn’t allowed to, but her relatives pulled her into the circle at one point. Poor David, who came with us, even though he wasn’t technically invited, wasn’t allowed to dance, so he took pictures of us.


And sat there with Martin. Then, after I was sweating through my not-so-breathable silk, it was finally time to eat. We got into a buffet line and were given a big silver plate, onto which was placed 3 different types of fish, dried baby prawns, rice, a Koli type of roti which is made with rice, and two sweets.



The Koli, being the fishermen they are, have a way with preparing fish, and the food was absolutely delicious. Our new friends, including the bride’s mother and father, kept coming over to us to ask if we wanted more, and we managed to convince them we had enough food. We really couldn’t leave anything on our plates, because that would have been considered rude, so I’m glad they believed us. Then they didn’t let us wash our own plates, and I just let myself accept that this was what they wanted and that they were really happy to have us, rather than feel disconcertingly privileged. After dinner, we sat back in our seats and talked to Martin. Well, it was more like Martin repeating over and over again that the wedding tomorrow was across from Danda Market, at the next bus stop. Over and over again. He doesn’t really speak that much English, and he speaks Konkani, so my Hindi didn’t really help at all. While we were sitting, they started preparing the bride for her impending nuptials. As Martin put it, this was her bachelor party.

They covered her in turmeric and coconut oil while somebody sang prayers.



This is our neighbor, Martin, and the bride.


We went up to get a closer look and were of course incorporated into the close circle of relatives so we could get a proper view. Her cousins and aunts wanted us to spend the day with them for other ceremonies, and we were very sad that we had to work. At one point they started doing what is called a haldi ceremony, and the bride sits on the lap of one of her relatives while they put turmeric on her face and feed her a small food item (I don’t know what). The turmeric is supposed to be great for the complexion, according to a website I just looked at. Anyway, the ceremony turned from culturally intriguing to heart-wrenching. In patriarchal India, during wedding ceremonies the family is literally giving away the bride. She leaves her family to join that of her groom, and while in this case the geographical distance isn’t great, her interaction with her nuclear family will be more limited and her loyalties differently bound. While sitting on the lap of one of her uncles, she began to sob, as did he.


A lot of people had trouble maintaining their composure, and I felt as though I was intruding upon an incredibly intimate family moment. My outside view, however, was shattered when I was instructed to go sit in the chair. I looked at the woman who requested me like she was crazy, as I legitimately had no idea what to do. She sternly told me to sit, and so I scrambled up to the chair and found myself with a bride sitting on my lap. I put my hand in the haldi and put some on her cheeks and felt so simultaneously out of place and deeply entrenched in tradition that I might have blacked out.
This is me with a bride on my lap.

Soon afterwards, we left the party and walked back to our house.

DAY TWO

We tried to wrap Ava's sari. It was an admirable first attempt, but Martin's wife had to do it correctly.

That’s right, Indian weddings go on forever. Before we went to this wedding, we had expectations of the fire ceremony, a grandiose party, with the saris you see in movies and dancing until three in the morning. Unfortunately we were mistaken and this reception was basically a meet and greet with gifts. The actual marriage ceremony, in which the bride and groom circle a fire seven times to signify their attachment for seven lives, had taken place earlier that evening. Oddly, it rained earlier that day, very out of the monsoon season. We were concerned that it would be seen as an inauspicious event, but everyone seemed really happy. We were going to go to the site as part of the bridal procession, but the rain kind of ruined that. We were waiting for directions from Martin when we were suddenly escorted into a wedding vehicle and driven to the nearby temple. We walked in and saw some fanciness, but a lot of people were dressed pretty casually. We were shown to a line to get some food, but unlike the night before, it was typical Indian veg. I wasn’t blown away, but hey, it’s a free meal. We spent a decent amount of time people watching. The mothers-in-law and some other family members wore traditional South Indian clothing with circles of flowers around their buns.


And the gold jewelry was pretty ridiculous. Then we got into the gift line. This was a double wedding, so Krutika and her groom, Kunal, shared a stage with Latika and Varun. We saw the bride and groom come to the stage, and I was happy that they looked happy.
The bride and groom:

Working at a domestic violence centre makes me very skeptical of arranged marriages and Indian marriage in general, which might not be fair, but it’s hard not to. However, they actually looked happy and came out holding hands, which is impressive, considering the fact that they probably met earlier this week. They were pretty cute for the entire reception, so maybe I should just keep going to weddings to eroding my disdainful view of South Asian matrimony. The couples stand on stage, and all the guests go up family by family to present them with money.
This is the accountant. Not really, but she brought that suitcase for all the cash.

Bling and baby.

Me, with the money envelope. From "The American Family"

The guest line. We got there early, luckily. When we were leaving it was several hundred people deep.

We were nervous we would somehow mess this up, and also because we knew everyone was watching us. We got up there to greet the groom, whom we had never met, and the bride who was suddenly a dear friend. We were congratulating them, and she wanted to make sure we had eaten enough food. Unbelieveable. Then we got our picture taken with them and went to our seats. We were waiting for more to happen, for music to start, but then we found out that this was the night’s event. We were slightly disappointed, but also exhausted and still had a lot of fun watching the 1,000 people who had come.

Coincidentally, Martin just came to my door to ask if we enjoyed yesterday. I told him that we had a great time and appreciated being invited, and his response was, “Well we’re neighbors. We have to respect the foreigners. When you go back to America and everyone asks you how Bombay was, you’ll tell them that. We went to Israel last year, the Holy Land, and we did that with the soldiers. You have to respect them.”

I might have just been compared to an Israeli soldier. I’m not entirely sure. I’m also surprised they went to Israel, since they’re Catholics. I would have guessed Rome.

So this is the Indian wedding experience. To a certain extent, I'm quite critical of the shaadi, or wedding. Families often subject themselves to poverty in order to put on lavish weddings, and the whole thing is really a display of wealth that is often artificial. I could speak more to arranged marriages, but in a lot of areas, the practice is changing. One of my coworkers is to be married in January, and we've been talking about it a bit in the past few weeks. She's very excited about it and had a lot of say in even meeting someone who might have been interested in her. She had every right to object to the engagement, but she really likes him and is excited to start a life with him. If they were all like that, I would have a significant amount of respect for the tradition. I also don't know how much a love marriage is an indicator of marital bliss, since the divorce rate in the US is hovering at 50%. All I can say is that as much as we were treated differently at the wedding, and the basis of our being there was because of our privilege as outsiders and what we might add to that sense of wealth, it is impossible to deny the generosity and hospitality of our neighbors, and I'm excited to continue living here with that added dimension to our relationship.

In other news from the past week or so, my laptop has recently been infested with ants. I'm not entirely sure where they came from, and thankfully I seem to have chased them out, but every time I opened my laptop, some tiny red ants came crawling out of the keys. I thought it was a fluke, but Sunday morning there were at least 15 of them, so I decided to take action. I wanted one of those air spray cans, but I didn't have one, so I thought I might be able to chase them out with annoying music. Who knows, perhaps I have to thank Billy Gilman and his rendition of "Itty Bitty Pretty One" for my insect-free Mac.

With that, I bid you adieu, or namaste.

Weeks 9 and 10: Intestines and Indigo

Namaste! I apologize for the delay, but my system has been ravaged by bugs and drugs, and then six of the fellows invaded Bombay for Diwali. Clearly I have much to recount. I'll start with the bugs, since they were always my favorite. Being sick in India is part of the experience, since every day my stomach encounters foods it really doesn't appreciate having to digest, and normally it kinds of grumbles and I deal. However, last week it got to the point at which I was crawling on the floor in pain, so I decided that perhaps just being patient wasn't going to cut it. I called SOS International, our wonderful symptom-checker referral extraordinaire, and they suggested I go to see a doctor at the hospital (private practices are only so popular here). Now, I hate dealing with doctors in India. They are very smart people, but they think that the patients are very stupid people. Some of them might be, but I am a person who happens to be way too familiar with her intestines. I was dreading the journey, but eager for relief, but then I realized that they referred me to a doctor at a hospital in Powai, which is an hour away. I could have just taken a taxi, but that would have been at least 400 rupees, which would have been fine in that situation, but the taxis have no AC, so with traffic, and without a breeze, the taxis turn into an oven. I contemplated a rickshaw, but that would have taken almost twice as long, and those babies don't handle bumps that well, and the pain wouldn't allow that. So I took the train, which was long, and I was kind of scared of dealing with the crowds when I was semi-disoriented, but it ended up being easy. The hospital was beautiful and clean, and they even had soap and toilet paper in the bathroom, which is way better than my past hospital experiences. I asked the doctor what was wrong with me, and she said, "You have an infection." I said, "Clearly. What kind?" She said, "intestinal." I was like no wayyyy, I NEVER would have figured that out since I'm having severe pain in my INTESTINES, and yes, I am aware that they are separate organs from my stomach. I figured she wouldn't tell me the actual bug, so I didn't ask, and then she told me I had to take Ornidazole, and I just started laughing because I knew I was in for a hell of a week, given that it makes me sicker than the infection itself. But I was happy to know that I would be better eventually, having spent only 500 rupees on the appointment and 476 for antibiotics, anti-nausea pills, anti-spasmodics, and probiotics. I believe I will be stocking up on drugs and taking them home, since that amounts to less than $10.

Possible culprit for the Bug:

This is the vada pao, or the sandwich that fuels Bombay. It's potatoes and chilis, sometimes onion, fried, and put on the pao, or bread, with chutney and spices. It's insanely good, and apparently toxic. But since I can't say that definitely did it, I'll keep eating it.

I became very upset because the fellows were arriving for Diwali between Thursday and Friday of this past week, and I was taking drugs through Sunday, so I knew I wouldn't be up for all of the gallivanting that was to occur. Turns out I didn't know how to spell gallivanting until just now. Anyway, Diwali is a festival of lights, so it's like Hanukkah, but they decorate with Christmas lights. However, they also light lots of candles, and Mumbai looks beautiful when it's lit up. The holiday celebrates Lord Rama and Sita's return from exile and the triumph over the demon-king Ravana. People also make really pretty rangolis like this in front of their houses:


And these are diyas, or oil lamps.


People also set off firecrackers. In the middle of the road. While you're walking by. As if dealing with rickshaws, scooters, and itinerant cows wasn't difficult enough, we now have to look out for bursting fireworks. We decided we wanted to have our own fun, but didn't really want to start a fire, so we bought sparklers, and went through about 8 boxes in five minutes.



But alas, I am going out of order. Arielle arrived Thursday morning, and I attempted to venture outside for part of the day. She had a craving for real coffee, not Nescafe shit, so we went to the South Indian part of town, because that's where the real coffee is. First we went to the market to get banana chips. I realized it was a bit ridiculous that I traveled for half an hour just to get banana chips, but that's the fun part about being in a city like Mumbai, and not having homework anymore on the weekend. I had heard about a good little place somewhere in Matunga, where a lot of the South Indians have settled, so we set off on an adventure. We arrived at Cafe Madras about 15 minutes later, and we were immediately thrilled with our decision. We walked in and it was totally filled and we had to share a booth table with an Indian couple. We knew what a couple things were on the menu, but decided to each choose one thing we had never heard of so we could try something new. I went with Masala Misal, and Arielle went with Tuppa Onion. They were both delicious and cost about fifty cents each. When we left there was a line out the door, and I felt like I was going to throw up so I took a cab back up town to sleep. On Friday, Shaina was a welcome addition to our little crew and we head down to Chor Bazaar, which translates to Thieves' Market. Apparently the queen's jewels were stolen and ended up in this maze of shops and tiny streets, earning it that name during the Raj era. Now it's in an almost entirely Muslim-populated area, and the densely packed streets, antiquated buildings, traditionally dressed occupants and stores and stores filled with tchotchkes make it one of the most exciting areas of Mumbai. It looks something like this:





And these are some of the things for sale, which will give you an idea as to why I love it so much. This is Mutton Street:



I ended up getting an old sitar. It looks great on my wall. Then we decided to try to find this store that Shaina had heard of through an artisan exhibition in Delhi. It seemed like it was close by, but we had no idea where. We got into a cab and told him to go to Damar Gali. We were weaving through tiny streets, and at a certain point it was clear we were headed towards more of a slum area, so the cab driver asked yet another person where Damar Gali was, because cab drivers in Mumbai don't actually know where anything is. It's our responsibility to tell them how to get there, and also to have close to exact change when we pay. The person told us we had to go back in the other direction, and we were all getting frustrated when all of a sudden we realized we were on the right street. We got out and looked for Pracheen, which we assumed would just be a store, but the street was almost entirely residential. We stopped someone on the street at 51/57 Dontad Street, where Pracheen was supposed to be, and he said yea, it's here on the fourth floor. We walked into the building and encountered a dark concrete staircase and started walking up. In India, fourth floor is actually the fifth floor, since the first floor is zero, so we accidentally ended up on the roof. We found some people there, a nice view, and goats. Yes, I'm wearing white leggings, and yes, I did get that excited about the baby goat, aka, the kid.





We went back inside and discovered the "store," which ended up being the factory where they hand-printed the hand-woven silk. It wasn't a store, but a five-generation operation with some amazing products. Here is a wall of blocks and buckets of dye, and this man doing the printing. Apparently they're not as well trained as they used to be, so they can't use the finer blocks. Everything was still beautiful, so I can't imagine what stuff used to look like.




The father and son running the whole operation were at the shop and were wonderful people. They let us rummage through the stock room to find the perfect shawls, and we tried them on over coconuts! I ended up buying the one in the picture, and another that I expect will look beautiful on Lexi B.


He also told us about an artisan exhibition in January, so I'm excited to buy some great handmade products, instead of touristy crap. I feel like it's my duty, now that I live here.

Then we went out for a traditional Maharashtrian dinner with the boys, which involved lots and lots of fish. And then Saturday involved bagels.

Stereotypical photo with Jews in front of the bagel shop:


I'm tired of writing and have a headache, so here are more pictures of things from the crazy busy weekend:

scenes from the train:



These are images from the Hanging Gardens in Malabar Hill. The one with the giraffe also includes the billion dollar house. That apartment building is actually a home for the richest man in India, his wife, and their three children. Along with over 100 support staff.



That is all for now. I am going to sleep for approximately 10 hours before I head back to work tomorrow.

Week 8: Am I from here?

Namaste! It’s only been about a week since my last post, but since that time things have really changed here. Just over a week ago, I went to the F.R.R.O to register as a foreigner. After the office put on a beautiful display of bureaucracy, I got in a cab to enjoy the sea breeze on my way back to the office. I climbed in and told the driver where to go, using my not-so-improved Hindi, and he asked me if I was from India. I told him I wasn’t, but it was a pretty awesome feeling. I have been told several times that I look Punjabi, since apparently they are pretty light skinned, have light eyes and also wear makeup, so maybe if that happens again I’ll be like yeah, I’m from Chandigarh. But really, this past week I’ve started feeling as if I could actually live here, and that the rest of this year will be a year of loving living in India, rather than a time I struggled to deal with the day-to-day blasts of cultural, social, and physical challenges. I think it’s helped that I’ve been focusing a lot more on my neighborhood, instead of doing all of the touristy things in Mumbai right off the bat. There is an incredible amount I have yet to see, but I know where my grocery stores are, who has the best samosas, which man on the street sells hard-boiled eggs, and the quickest paths to the ocean. I don’t have any problems on the train, and have mastered the system that works in place of the system that should be. I jump on, immediately push through the crowd of people waiting to get off at the next stop, and then start tapping on shoulders to see if people are getting off at Mahim, my stop. If they’re not, I cut in front of them and hopefully take my spot next to the pole by the door so I get the good breeze (if you haven’t noticed, it’s all about catching the breeze in Mumbai). I know that right after we pass the Bandra-Kurla complex, I have to take a deep breath and then stop breathing until 5 seconds after we pass over the river. When I’m at work, I can’t wait until after 12 to refill my water bottle, because the water is too hot, and we certainly don’t have a cold water tap. On the way home, I have to walk back down the track just before the second sign that tells us which train is coming, because that’s where the first-class ladies’ compartment is. On the weekends I try to take one day to walk around the suburbs, and another to do something new and exciting, although there’s still a mix of both. Mochamojo’s has BAGELS and soy milk (sometimes), and we discovered this weekend that next to the Matunga station, on the side with the South Indian market, which is basically filled with bananas, there’s a great chaat stand.

Bananas! And Ava and Niket.

My friend Rachel and her bagel! Less than an hour later she was fined 296 rupees for having a second class ticket in a first class compartment. We played the "but we didn't know!" act, but I had a first class pass, with my photo stamped, so clearly we did. Oops.



Yesterday Ava and I explored town with someone she knows through someone from home (that’s how we meet a lot of people here), and he kept acting so surprised that we seemed to live in Bombay more than people who are from here. The rich people here don’t take public transportation, and they’re all really impressed that we get around by train or by foot, for the most part. I’m even surprised at myself, since I am perpetually lazy and always opt for the cab option, but one long cab ride costs a tenth of my 3 month train pass, so it just seems absurd now. We drove through Dharavi to get from Matunga (a little more central) back to the more western part of the city, and he told us that he hadn’t really been in Dharavi. I understand that most people wouldn’t have a reason to go, but it just demonstrates the huge divide in the way rich and poor people experience Mumbai. I’m not making any kind of value judgment, especially because, having lived like a poor person (at least by day), I too crave air conditioned cars and international cuisine. I think I’m just realizing how much I appreciate this whole idea of modest living, because if our stipend was larger I’m not entirely sure that I would be as likely to do the things I do. That being said, I did just join a luxury gym that costs about half of my monthly rent, but I feel like it’s a worthwhile investment to supplement the weight-loss tool that is Indian heat. I swear I’m sweating out chicken tikka and not just water, although I definitely don’t smell like masala (yet).
On another note, a lot of people have been asking what I actually do at work, so I thought I should probably explain that, since after two weeks of being there I kind of have an idea. My NGO works in the public health field and deals with child and maternal health, girls’ education, and violence against women and children. I work at the center for vulnerable women and children, which is basically a crisis counseling center. Women, and sometimes children and men, come in to discuss a range of issues, from cases of domestic violence to fights with their husbands over mothers-in-law. My long term project is advocacy, and I am trying to make domestic violence more of a public health concern. The Protection of Women Against Domestic Violence Act was just passed in 2005, and India’s patriarchal culture means that men think they have the right to beat their wives, and to a large extent, the women think the men can beat them if they disobey them or don’t fulfill their household or sexual duties. So I have a bit of a challenge ahead of me, but I’ve spent the past 2 two weeks identifying the main issues we’re facing in various components and feel like I’m starting to have a grasp on what I should do from here on out. I am also helping to build a legal resource center so women who come in wanting a divorce, maintenance, help filing a domestic violence complaint or other issues have somewhere to go and a lawyer that won’t charge them. I also helped a bit with a research project on violence against lesbians, and later this week I’m attending a lecture in another city on queer issues and mental health advocacy. Learning about gay rights here is fascinating, because even our language doesn’t fit the context. A lot of people argue that homosexuality is a western invention, and in a sense they’re right, because we in the west created an identity based on sexual practices in opposition to heteronormativity. But that doesn’t mean that same-sex practices didn’t exist in India, they were just called different names, and they even have intersex people, called hijras, who have no place on our western register. Anyways, perhaps one day I’ll devote a whole post to sex and India, but um…maybe my family wouldn’t want to read that, but it’s not like I’ll be involved in what I’m discussing, purely academic.
The work environment definitely takes getting used to. It’s pretty slow, and things that should take a week might take three, and since I’m just a little intense in my work habits, it’s hard for me to not always have something to do. I take the breaks to get to know my coworkers a bit or catch up on the news, or, if I have a lot of time, translate a Hindi article from the BBC. It’s also emotionally draining, because some women come in with bandages, and others come in with their husbands and I can just hear them screaming at each other. The office has two counseling rooms, but they’re basically glass enclosures. I personally prefer the soothing music-comfy couch- here’s a box of tissues kind of atmosphere, but that’s not really the case here. One day a man was forcefully leading his wife out of a counseling session because he didn’t want to deal with it anymore, and I just didn’t want to imagine what he was going to do to her once they got home. I should add now that divorce is pretty taboo in South Asian culture, partly because women are seen as spoiled if they have been divorced, but mostly because family is considered sacrosanct. A woman doesn’t marry her husband, she marries a family, and that family can pretty much treat her as they wish. Part of what I’m trying to do is break the stereotype that a woman only exists for her womb, but clearly that requires some cultural evolution, or maybe revolution, that will surely outlast my stay. A lot of the women who come in don’t seem so visibly upset, which seems amazing to me, since I then read their files and see that they’ve been punched and slapped and had kerosene poured on them or they were raped or in one instance hit with an axe. It makes me want to keep doing what I’m doing, but also makes very clear that there is a long way to go.

I’ve probably made you all depressed. I’m sorry. Here are some happy pictures from the past week or so, and I will start off with my favorite.

So Rachel and I went to see the Gateway of India. Built to welcome the British back in the day, it's at the port and really touristy, including Indian tourists. Everyone wanted to take pictures with us, and this is my favorite.




And this is the gateway.





This is the Ganesh shrine in the sea off Carter Road. It's next to that flags, and this path is only there during low tide. At high tide, all the offerings people leave are carried out to sea.

So turns out I kind of like pomegranates. Next stop: pomegranate juice! It was pretty good. And David has pomegranate guava.


And this is at the party for the last night of Navratri, a festival that consists of 9 nights of dancing. We danced for hours, and I was sweating a whole lot, as you can see in this picture. This is the kind of dancing I did at school, so everyone thought it was pretty cool that I could garba and wanted to dance with me, and then take pictures of said dancing. But it was fun!

Week 7: The Balancing Act

I had just sat in traffic for an hour after accepting a ride home, rather than dealing with the superdensecrushload on the train. The ride was from one of the directors at work, who sat in the back with us as her driver guided us through the traffic jam that is Bombay at rush hour. So I sat in the air conditioning, leaving the slum, well more like inching out of the slum, momentarily forgetting about how frustrating my day was as I got out of the heat for a while. Then I got dropped off in Khar and had to watch multiple rickshaw drivers shake their heads no and drive off, because they didn’t feel like driving the 7 minutes to my flat. It was about 94 degrees. I ran up to the flat, grabbed my book, and ran over to Gloria Jean’s, yes, the coffee shop, to get lost in serious air conditioning, a blended beverage, and the awe-inspiring creativity of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s woven masterpieces. A few days before, I left my days in Dharavi behind and spent my Saturday in Bandra, ending up getting a chauffeured ride to the Hyatt where I sipped my (terrible) dirty martini next to Mumbai’s elite and the tourists and businessmen who would understand India only through their lenses. When I was in Ahmedabad, a sitar player expressed his dislike for Bombay as a city of disparities. He had trouble with the concept of a city that relies on the poor but only serves the rich (although really, isn’t that most of India?). Such disparities are impossible to miss in Mumbai, where high-rise apartment complexes, with gated entrances, security guards, and garages for imported luxury cars are flanked by slums; where the poor sip chai for 4 rupees from street stands, while the rich, I guess myself included, drink our imported beverages that cost a week’s worth of lunch. I understand his reasoning, but I feel that my experience, the daily disparities that arise from being entirely unfamiliar with my surroundings, from naturally, though regrettably, comparing everything here to the way things are back home, and the daily struggles of trying to live modestly while being fully aware that I can afford almost anything I want here, except for a night at the Taj or diamond and ruby encrusted earrings, is perfectly reflected in Mumbai. Or is it that Mumbai is perfectly reflected in my experience?
The dualities that I’m facing on this adventure are countless, but I will try to explicate some here, maybe more for my own well being than for your entertainment. The first is trying to deal with my actual presence here, reflected in how stimulated I feel when I walk through Dharavi, the slum that is home to my NGO. I travel because, well let’s be honest, I like eating food all around the world, but mostly because I like to experience things that are different. I haven’t yet figured out why I enjoy such a sense of otherness, but I have two theories: the first is that in defining that which is different, or “the other,” I feel a greater sense of that which is me, and at a certain level I travel to other places to find myself. In another, I travel expecting to find differences, but realize that wherever I go, that sense of otherness is, like so many things, a social, cultural, and historical construct that had done nothing but subjugate, and so in traveling and recognizing, and then deconstructing otherness, I am a small, individual force of anticolonialism. Regardless of whichever asinine theory I may or may not choose to agree with, I cannot help but recognize that for a brief period of time, I am happy because Dharavi is different, and Dharavi is different because it is poor. So while my professional self is here to advocate for gender equality and sexual health and to make people understand that abuse, though culturally sanctioned, is morally wrong, my wanderlusting self is benefiting from the poor economic conditions that engender the social problems my professional self is alleviating.
I have obviously made this more complicated than it really is, but I figured I’d give that a go. Secondly, I’m having a bit of a hard time being present here and maintaining ties home. I have a feeling that I’m a lot more connected to home than a lot of people here, but I’m also sure that the Ritter girls only function fully as a unit, and I can’t really let that rust up for a whole year. But in another sense, as well, my method for dealing with India has been to a certain extent to escape home. When I got way too hot in my un-air conditioned office, I spent the next few hours as a Western coffee chain. The day before, when I had an incredibly frustrating day at work that involved my inability to get anything done because I was dependent on other people who didn’t seem to weigh my desires as strongly (I am referring to still not having an Indian phone, for one thing), and I had spent my day listening to men screaming at their wives in counseling sessions behind my desk, I came home, spent about 5 minutes crying in the shower, and then went online and watched Glee (Britney episode was awesome, by the way). I know that everyone has his or her own attachment to home and that mine isn’t extraordinary or anything, but what does it say about me that I’m in the most cosmopolitan city in India and still need to keep traveling West? Maybe I’ll try to get really into yoga and next time instead of watching Glee, I’ll just get in downward dog. At the same time, I think it’s okay that I use things from home to comfort me since I’m clearly totally fine living here, seeing as how there is a giant beetle crawling across my floor, a moth flapping around every light in the apartment, it’s about 87 degrees outside and it’s after midnight, my bathroom at work doesn’t have toilet paper, and I’m still happy as a clam.

Anyways, enough of my philosophizing. I know you all really just want some pictures.


This is Ava drinking coconut water from the dude down our street. I attempted a sip, not my thing.


Me in front of Crawford Market. It was basically closed, but it's filled with stalls selling all sorts of things, from pets to pasta sauce.


We were looking for the way to Crawford Market and stumbled upon this 200 year old Hindu cremation ground. The wonderful manager gave us a tour, who said that they get around 15 bodies a day. There was a group coming in to cremate an older woman, but it wasn't the somber ceremony we expected. Not so much grief at all, actually. I obviously can't just from this one instance, but perhaps the end of the life cycle is a greater part of life, here.


This mural was painted after the 26/11 terrorist attack.


CRICKET!!! Along Marine Drive, there are "gymkhanas," organized, of course, by religion, so right next to each other are the Parsi, Muslim, Hindu, and Catholic athletic clubs.


The only time the train is empty like this might be on Sundays. We appreciated the space.


Me on Chowpatty Beach, where instead of bathing suits and tanning there are snack stands and kites. And thousands of people.


Cute men going on a sunset walk.


Ava, perfecting the Indian style of drinking.



The lovely Marine Drive along the Arabian Sea.

Weeks 4 and 5: Migration to the South

Namaste! Sorry for the delay, but it took a decent amount of time to get settled in Mumbai. I just got internet tonight, so I'm taking the opportunity to update my blog from our glorious flat in Khar Danda, which is just north of Bandra, which is/was the wealthy Catholic suburb of Mumbai. Mumbai is divided mainly into the North and South, the north being the "suburbs" and the south referred to as "town." Unfortunately I have not yet made it into town, although I expect to venture there this weekend. The suburbs don't really look like the burbs in the states, but India's not really the place for picket fences and SUVs...can't really imagine one of those weaving around cows and rickshaws. I am living in a flat with Ava, and David lives just down the street. Though poorly ventilated, I don't think I'll have any problem calling this place home, once I head to the markets and pick up some items for decoration. All I've obtained so far is a nice blanket to cover the tiger-striped futon that is currently serving as our couch. I also just noticed that all the fan blades have a tiger and paisley pattern on them. If that doesn't scream India, I'm not sure what does. Anyways, I will attempt to describe the surroundings of my new area without the aid of pictures, since I haven't really broken out the camera yet.

In the mornings, I head out of the flat somewhere between 9:05 and 9:17. We are one the 2nd floor, which in America would be the 3rd floor, but Indians refer to the first floor as "zero." On the first floor I always namaste the old lady who sits in the chair near the doorway. I have only passed it once when she has not occupied it. Then I go through our little alley onto Maruai Mandir Marg. I just discovered that was the name of our street about 10 minutes ago as I was placing an order for delivery. I take the left down 21st street, and as I turn the corner I stopped breathing for about 15 seconds. There are dumpsters down the street, but there is a second "dump" on this corner. It somehow smells worse than the open sewers in the slum, and I have to stop breathing completely because otherwise I can almost taste the rotten tomatoes. At the end of the block I hail down a rickshaw to get to the train station. The commuter rails in Mumbai are infamous. They carry 6.9 million people a day, and during rush hour, trains that have a carrying capacity of 1700 are packed with over 4500 passengers. They had to develop a new term, super dense crush load, to describe it. Fortunately, this is when I get to ride the trains. I have a first class pass, and I get to ride the women's car, so if it's crowded I only have to worry about my wallet, rather than my body parts. It's not always terribly crowded, but it still takes a decent amount of maneuvering. I have to get off the train on the opposite side I got on, so as soon as I'm on, I try to find my way across. I tap on the shoulders of the people in front of me and ask them "Mahim?" (my station), and if they say no, I push my way in front of them. I'm only 2 stops away, so I have to do this quickly. The train doors don't close, because it would be too hard for people to jump on and off as quickly as we have to. You might think this is incredibly dangerous, and it's true that about 8 people die every day, usually when they're hanging off the outside and fall off or hit a pole. But I would imagine that it would be much more dangerous to have a crush of people against close doors that suddenly open, resulting in a certain trampling situation. Plus, it's really peaceful to feel the breeze go by, except when we cross over the river. It's not even a river, it's a pitch-black cesspool that looks like fast-moving tar, but smells as though every toilet in India drains right into this river. I know that some do, because I have seen more a number of men squatting on the far side of the tracks. Still, one woman made a prayer gesture as we rode past it; I admire her faith. As soon as the train pulls into Mahim station, I get ready to jump off, but wait until it comes almost to a complete stop. Then I make my way over to the street where I cross over the bridge that enters Dharavi, Asia's largest slum, and the home of my office. I will dedicate an entire post to Dharavi, because I have to make you think that it is more than the slum from which Jamal Malik of Slumdog Millionaire grew up. As I have only been there for a week, I do not yet feel qualified to write about it, although I can say that it is far more than a tent city, and my office is in a hospital, so I do not work under a tarped roof. At the end of the day, I repeat the commute and walk down the street to get vegetables for dinner. An old lady sits at her little vegetable stand, and we pick what we want and she weights it. Sometimes the weight comes to an awkward price, so she will either add or remove a vegetable until it works out in her favor. It doesn't matter whether or not you don't need that extra carrot, because you're getting it, and paying for it. If you keeping walking down, you'll come to a little temple. Next to it is a tiny grocery store/snack shop/sweet shop. They have awesome samosas for 6 rupees that they can pack to go, and a decent assortment of sweets. Sometimes the laddoo is lacking, but when it's good it's gooooood. That's basically it and my food is lost somewhere in Khar because these streets don't have signs and I described it as "down a street past the Hanuman temple, make a right, make another right and go near the jewelry store." Actually I just got off the phone with them. The driver was confused and went back to the restaurant twice. Not entirely sure if I feel like eating my chicken tandoori now, but it's almost 11 and the vegetable lady probably went to bed. Here are the few pictures I have taken from our explorations of Bandra, the nice neighborhood just down the street with the CUPCAKE place on it.


This is bombil, the fish used to make Bombay duck. It's currently drying just next to the ocean.



David and Ava walking down Carter Road promenade.



The opposite side of the street.



Pretty beach. Clearly not going swimming, but the sea breeze is awesome.


Ava and I on the promenade.



One of the streets in Bandra. A dog ON A LEASH. Painted walls...paved roads...where am I??? Wonderful.

And lastly, the awesome chaat place we found down the street.