Oct 16, 2018
Breathe… Breathe…
Push… Breathe… Push.. Yes! Yes! Yeesssss!It’s the mother of all
shits… a vast pile… bigger than a basketball, though less round…
not a shit brickhouse… no turds to speak of… just a huge pile…
consistency of a Big Whopper. This is what giving birth is like. An
expulsion that instantly turns unimaginable pain to unimaginable
pleasure.
Keep that image in
mind… I’ll get back to it. But first let’s see how I got there…
some background.
I forget if it’s
Mama-Dada or Dada-Mama….
Actually, it’s probably both.
Anant’s Aunt and Uncle along with his Aunt’s sister. I could
never get this kinship relationship
right. There are
firsts and seconds.. and once removed and twice removed. And in-laws
and out-laws… Me? No
clue after Mom, Dad, Brother, and Sister.
I’ve
left my first homestay, with Anant’s long-term friend, Jocel, and
his wife and child. (Jocel’s wife and child not Anant’s.) With
the exception of the general wonderfulness of the couple-- putting up
with me for 10 days, making me breakfast, dinner and usually lunch
every day-- it was a familiar stay. They live in a big apartment… I
had my own room… no AC but the fan was really enough. They lived at
the end of the local trainline, so if I traveled local I could get a
seat.
The
whole family lived in New Jersey for some time, so they were prepared
for me. They worried if I liked spicy food, and how much milk to put
in the coffee. They ate meat, fish, goat… maybe even beef… I’m
not sure. They did not give me a key (would you?), but usually there
was someone home, so it wasn’t a problem. Mom used to be a teacher.
Dad works in an IT company. The kid is rambunctious… could be
Levittown.
Except
for the ever-present oppressive heat (98o
today), life in Mumbai wasn’t
much different than New York or Tokyo or some combination of the two.
It was just exotic enough to keep the camera shutter fluttering, but
not Whoa… look at that…
like minute in Mongolia
is… (I
bet there’s nowhere as Whoa… look at that! as
Mongolia.)
Life
with Dada-Mama and Mama-Dada is different from life with Jocel.
First, they keep Hindu kosher. That means no meat, no eggs, no
alcohol. Dairy products are okay. (Milk doesn’t stop life. The
others do.) The three of them have moved into one room for my sake. I
still have my own room (this time with mosquito netting!… though my
first night there I forgot to tuck it in)… with a fan, but the
apartment layout is different.
There
is no hallway between the rooms. The living room opens into “my”
room which opens into the other bedroom, where my three flatmates
crowd together to give me a private place to sleep. In the morning--
that is about 8:30AM (slightly past my bed-time in New York), is tea
and some biscuits… we’d call them cookies. Then half an hour
later, Mama-Dada (or Dada-Mama, whichever is the female) and her
sister have cooked breakfast. I have never seen the women eat, but
Dada-Mama (or Mama-Dada, whichever is the male) and I always eat
together in front of the TV that’s usually showing an India soap
opera… or comedy, where the words coming from the actors mouths
never quite match the lip movements. I’m guessing the original was
in Hindi and the local version in dubbed into Marathi for the Mumbai
audience.
While
the show is on, both Mama-Dada and Dada-Mama are on their
cellphones-- either watching OTHER shows, videos or talking with the
family in Texas. All the meals are great, even if they’re
vegetarian. I clean my plate… some kind of rice with spice…
everything has spice in it. My guess this started for health
reasons… maybe to induce sweating… the so-called natural cooling
system of the body. (I could never figure this out. Maybe it works in
DRY places, but sweat in a country like India… where it’s as wet
as a sloppy simile… It just doesn’t work.)
Mama-Dada
(or Dada-Mama) comes by with seconds. I make the universal thumb and
forefinger sign for just a little. I get a scoop. I’m getting
really full, now.. and the spices are beginning to work their magic
on my digestive system. I can just about squeeze that last spoonful
in.
Mama-Dada
(or Dada-Mama) is back as soon as I put that last spoonful in my
mouth. (They got spoons as well as toilet paper for me.) She holds a
bowl with more spicy rice.
“Some
more?” she asks.
I
shake my head. “I’m full!” I tell her. “I can’t eat a bit
more.”
“What’s the matter? You didn’t like it?” she asks.
“What’s the matter? You didn’t like it?” she asks.
“I
didn’t know you were Jewish,” I don’t answer.
From
there… it’s to the bus station. Dada-Mama (or Mama-Dada) suggests
I go by bus so I can see more… I’ve never taken a bus in Mumbai.
So,
it’s off to the bus
station. I
know I need to take bus 85… The buses don’t use Arabic numerals.
(I guess it’s that Arabic thing.)
Dada-Mama accompanies me to the station, and we wait in the heat for
bus number ८५.
The
shit hits the fan in the next entry.
---more
soon---
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You can read my more political/social/punk stuff at: https://mykelsblog.blogspot.com
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