2/3/14
After dreams which incorporated the crow caws and elevator chimes outside my room, I woke up with a strong craving for chai and sunshine. It was only 6:00, so I skimmed the “Mumbai Times” before venturing downstairs to meet the 7th person in the world with whom I share a birthday. My 7th birthday twin, a warm girl from Goa, was at the front desk. She cheerfully asked if I was looking for the breakfast room. Her voice was musical and her head bobbled back and forth like a dashboard decoration as she spoke. Many Indians speak with this animated gesture; it seems to be used like the Western nod of acknowledgement or the Kiwi, “eh.” I smiled, nodded, and was escorted by two men to a buffet of hard-boiled eggs, roti, rice dishes, fruit and mysterious sauces. There were another five men pacing back and forth in the empty dining room, all of whom wore either tan military-like outfits or suits without coats. It was far too humid for coats or tea, but I asked for a cup of chai anyway. I took an egg which I felt confident was fully cooked, and pretended to read the paper again. Stories of the woes of public transport and education in India littered the page. There was one hopeful story about growing numbers of women in parliament, but the others were almost as depressing as the dusty, barred view out of my window.
After finishing my egg, sugar with tea, and bite of tempting dosa, I ventured outside to wander the humid streets of Bombay. The first thing I noticed was the incessant honking of yellow and black cabs and the lack of road rules. I’m not sure why the city bothered to pave sidewalks when the majority of the people walk in the street and most of the vehicles take shortcuts around them (on the sidewalks). I quickly realized that my driver from the night before was actually kind in his sideswiping of pedestrians. Most drivers in Mumbai probably never wash their cars; it’s much easier to wipe them off with the beautiful saris and shirts of people walking in the streets.
Street in Mumbai
The streets of Mumbai are lined with shops selling everything from live chickens (freshly and loudly butchered on-site) to vibrant scarves. Every couple of blocks, a stray dog or cat lounges among the rubbish. Cattle are tied to lampposts next to sleeping people, with their faces turned down in planters. I did my best to mirror the faces of those around me, confidently sidestepping around such obstacles. After an hour of doing so, flowing through the crowd became as natural as ashram. I also habituated to the stares resulting from being the only goldilocks in the five square kilometers.
Just like the fast-walkers of Kuala Lumpur, the cheerful children of Fiji, the happy families in the oncology unit, and the tuktuk driver in Thailand who told me that the flood survivors in Bangkok were having “noooo problems!,” the people of Bombay do not complain about the humid air or honking. It is a part of their lives and a part of incredible India.