Jock's TravelBlog Because sometimes I go places

Mumbai

The working week is a blur. Meetings, sessions with my teams, lunches and dinners with various representatives of the company I am visiting. I am struck by the number of people employed in every location. Someone to open the door, attendants everywhere always ready to help, a cashier and a separate man to package up your purchases. In one restaurant we went to, there was a separate guy whose whole job seems to be to open to doors to the bathroom. That one seemed odd.

It reminds me of what I know of the US prior to WWII. When labor is so cheap, you can afford to provide a different level of service. It is hard on my American sensibilities. I want to do things for myself. It makes my fingers itch when I can't. Every morning I arrive at the office, and a man comes by with a cup of tea. On the first day I asked for a cup, since then it just appears. The similarity extends beyond labor. There is less waste here. Physical items are more dear. They see more us before the are consigned to the pile of all things

When the working day breaks, then there is some opportunity for sightseeing and shopping. I was sent here with a list of things to acquire. Mostly textiles, since it would be too hard to carry back statues, or orchids. Blissfully no one has asked for those. Perhaps the most fascinating was the shopping for sarees. I am not quite sure what the women who asked for them are going to do with them, but mine is not to wonder why. A saree shop could not be more quintisentially Indian. It is colorful, chaotic, endless in its variety, and makes maximum use of space.

You enter the shop and the walls are lined with shelves. Each shelf is filled with piles of sarees, piled one on top of another. An attendant comes up to help you. Let your eyes stay in one place, and the item will be pulled down for you. This is true everywhere. I am learning to keep my gaze moving, or distant. The saree you were looking for, or the whole pile will be taken down and put in front of you. It is a neatly folded pile of cloth. Perhaps six inches thick, a foot and a half wide, and an inch or so thick. Flip-flip-flip! It is opened to reveal the interior pattern and the edging. This is what the serious shopper is judging it by. I keeping thing "look at all the pretty colors"

The women make snap decisions if the don't like it. Nehi, and then flip-flip-flip, it is folded up again and out of sight. You hear all over the store, the sound of the cloth being folded or unfolded, and that word. I already knew it meant "no," but it wouldn't be hard to figure out by context. Regional accents are everywhere here. I have heard the word pronounced five different ways. I've been given lists of colors to pick. If the one I am looking for does not meet with T's disapproval, I choose it. My Boss and T now think I am some kind of power-shopper. Really I don't have an eye to make that good of a decision. So no reason to linger.

Across the street from the Saree shop is a Hindu temple. Or more accurately a whole mall of them. Just like a real mall there is an anchor temple, and a variety of other temples in different sizes. Then there are a variety of supporting stalls selling items to give up in offering: Grains, fruits, flowers, a change machine. The mall analogy is completed by the Indian street version of the food court. I am struck by the fact that all the vendors seem to be sitting on their counter the same way. One leg tucked underneath them, one leg dangling down.

Actually I am stuck by how people on the street rest here. They squat low to the ground, feet flat, with the arms resting on their knees, and their rear nearly to the ground. I can't tell you if it is comfortable or not, without limbering my ankles significantly. It seems to work for them.

We walk down the road to the main temple. I am embarrassed to say I don't know which one. Too many gods, too many names I am not familiar with. Here in Mumbai no era seems to get thrown away. They are all here. You see ox-carts and BMWs on the same road. The entrance of the temple has a digital clock on it, and metal detectors at the door. I am carrying so much metal on me there was no chance it wouldn't go off. They take one look at me, and then in my bag and say "No pictures please." I repeat "no pictures."

I am picking up little ways of communicating here. There is a certain amount of repitition built into every phone call. You say something that may be important, they rephrase it back. So many languages, so many accents, you have to make sure people understand you. It is one of the unconscious survival mechanism that evolve. I am noticing the rhythm of conversations, and the little things people say. "No problem," "OK OK," "sure sure," "ah cha." The way they sometimes drop the definate article. The English slang they use "maximum" for biggest, or best. "This is the maximum commute time." "It's the maximum mobile phone." "This is maximum city," indeed it is, and maximum city is a blur.

We take off our shoes and give them to a small woman sitting in a corral of sorts. There is a carpet there, and neat piles of shoes. We head off to the temple. There are metal barricades that shape the line -- one for women, and one for men. Sort of like Disneyland, but for a god. There is a monitor above the gateway, and you can see the preperations of the monks. At least I presume they are monks, I don't know what the proper word is, so monk will do. They are clearing away all the offerings from the last time the line was let through. Then they come out with incense and purify the temple, and the crowd. Some of the people in line take the smoke and make the motions of washing it on their bodies. It is thick enough that you can see it roll over them before it dissipates.

I am feeling quite awkward. I have no religion. I have no gods. I am an atheist. I am also a hypocrite. I don't like being in a temple or a church when there is a ceremony going on. I know they don't care. Everyone here lives with any number of religions around them, peacefully Sometimes more sometimes less. Still I feel awkward, but when will I get this opportunity again. I don't want to not see what is going on either. I am a hypocrite, and just have to live with that. First the line moves slowly. The line is compressing itself. Then a few people are let in. Then the whole line. I flow around the edges. I see the offerings being given, see the prayers being said. I feel like a voyeur, and don't let my eyes stay in one place, but I try and take everything in as the current takes me out the door.

We see the hanging gardens. Not so much like the one from the list of wonders, but nice none the less. It is built on top of a covered reservoir. No space is wasted here. The ground is covered in a red clay like soil that looks very nice, but when it gets wet it collects on my shoes like iron filings to a magnet. Things aren't always thought though here. They are sometimes content if something looks correct, not if it behaves the way it is supposed to.

The gardens afford a view of the Queens necklass. It dominates southern Bombay. The park is filled with schoolgirls in their khaki uniforms. They are doing the things that schoolkids do after school everywhere. They are playing, chatting, just hanging out. I find them more interesting that the topiary animals. It's these moments I look for, the chance to see life happening. The Sites are nice, and worth seeing, but I want to see things as they are. How do people live here? How do they play?

Each night I go out for a nocturnal walk. At first it was just by the water, that was the area I knew. As my mental map grew, I start venturing further afield. At midnight the streets are still busy. I don't feel any danger. Partly because while there is crime and violence here -- like in any city -- these are not particularly dangerous places. The other reason is that I am just about the most watched man at night. Every security guard follows my movements. Some flash me a thumbs up.

Mumbai is teeming with life. At first all you can see are the people, but after a while you start to notice the other inhabitants. The dogs are easy to spot. Some are clearly owned, but many are just free roaming. The ones I see aren't in packs, as feral dogs are want to do. It was several days before I saw my first cat. Near the shanties they seem larger, tougher all muscle and streetwise. In other parts of town, they are smaller, slipping in and out of the shadows, hunting the rats that come out at night. I have seen butterflies ever day I have been here. At night bats fly around the mall near the hotel eating the insects drawn to its lights.

I don't take any serious chances. Once a man started following just at that uncomfortably close in a way that makes me think he is following me. Old training kicks in, I walk a ways to see if keeps the same position. I keep my hands away from my body, so they can't be pinned there -- my fingers in two groups. I look over my shoulder and let him know I see him. Then I cross the street. He continues on the way he was going. The threat was only in my head, and that was the most dangerous encounter I have had here.

Later that night, a older man is walking toward me on he street. His hair is white, and has the small build of so many people here. He looks fit. He looks me up and down, and then puts his fist in his open palm. This is the Chinese martial arts salute. No one has done this to me in years, and never on the street -- seemingly at random. I return it.

"Who teach?" He asks.

"Sifu Shin," I say, naming my Kenpo teacher. I doubt he knows Tommy Shin, who last I heard was still in San Francisco.

"Good," he nods and continues passed me. Surreal as the encounter is, I take it in stride. I am loosing my capacity for surprise. More accurately I have been in a constant state of surprise. Everything here is new to me, or different, or unusual to my western eyes. The working week is finally over, and I have the weekend to myself. Now I just have to make sure I am brave enough to venture out in a serious way on my own.