India
Blog
October
19, 2018
I
write this on my Chinese laptop lying on the top bunk of a triple
level sleeper car traveling from Pune India to someplace whose name I
forget. It’s noon, and I haven’t eaten today, though I have just
taken my malaria medicine which includes the taped-on instruction:
TAKE WITH FOOD. The car is filed with the noise of screaming people…
girls… mainly ages 3 to 16… screaming, crying, chattering,
nagging. It’s lucky that guns are illegal here.
I
had been amazed at the deference shown to women in India. You’re
not supposed to touch them… when you say hello or good bye you can
hug them gently, but you can’t touch cheek to cheek. In commuter
trains-- like in Japan-- women (with their children) have their own
cars… sometimes their own trains. Frankly, I resented it.
Now,
it suddenly occurs to me that there is an added benefit to women
having their own place: QUIET ELSEWHERE!
As
I write these words we pull into a station. the upper berth is the
only one where it’s impossible to sit straight up. Even my 5’3”
self cannot sit without twisting my neck into pain. Three guys--
early twenties-- have twisted themselves into the birth opposite me.
Another sits in the top berth on the opposite side of the car. All
with bent necks. A chiropractor’s dream car!
The
guys are shouting at each other… in Marathi, I think… breaking
into laughter… guy laughter… guffaws, belly laughs… a few
giggles. More shouting… not in anger, but in eagerness to get their
point across… tell a funnier story… Then the guffaws! Are they
talking about me?
It’s
awful! Worse than the girls… Ok, I get it. God is intervening.
Showing me she’s pissed off…. teaching me a lesson in the
equality of assholitude. What the fuck? I’m 70 years old and God is
still teaching me lessons? Gimme a break!
Where
last we left me… after an opening of the birth of a massive
steaming pile of offal… the mother of all offals… we flashed back
to my stay in Mumbai with Anant and his family (Aunt & Uncle)
where
I’m
staying for a few days.
Uncle
is about 80 years old… in great shape… shorter than I am and more
dexterous on the street. Aunt is like a Jewish mother… non-stop
food with a dose of guilt if you don’t accept seconds… thirds…
It’s a vegetarian household, and… as anyone with vegetarian
friends know… vegetables mean cooking with… er... eating with
gas. Add to that the non-stop spice… in everything… and you get a
bellyfull of problems.
[NOTE:
Here is the tension… the dialectic… of eating in India. The food
is great! Even the vegetarian stuff. It’s eaten mostly with your
right hand… the left hand reserved for dealing with the remains of
the food AFTER it’s been digested. I have never had a bad-tasting
meal in India.
BUT,
my stomach, large and small intestines, and colon disagree. They
rebel. They fight tooth and nail… spleen and liver… against any
enjoyment of the of the spice-laden invaders. It’s the main tragedy
of this trip… but there are others.]
Now,
to continue with our tragic comedy… After breakfast, Anant’s
uncle accompanies me to the bus station to catch bus number 85… aka
८५.
He suggested it as an alternative to the city… more views of the
cityscape. Today I have two goals: see the aquarium, change some
money. [The Lonely Planet Guide says it’s easy. There are
money changing stalls everywhere. The Lonely Planet Guide is
wrong.]
Because
of the oppressive Mumbai heat, the bus waiting areas (outside) are
covered with a tin awning. Because of the angle of the sun, that tin
only covers the last two rows of the area. Think airports, those
lines that snake around ropes and poles on the way to security x-ray.
We get on line at the stop
for bus numbers बयालीस,
चौ,
रानवे
and
of course, ८५.
We
stand in the shade of the tin roof, behind a long line of people
waiting for bus ८५
or
चौरानवे
or
निन्यानवे
As
the buses come and go we slowly move up in line, until finally we're
first and second. First position is directly
under the sun... outside in the heat. Second position is slightly
covered, but not shaded. Uncle takes first position.
And
we wait. 10 minutes pass and it gets hotter. 20 minutes. 30 minutes.
"I
think maybe we just missed a bus," says Uncle.
I
nod.
40
minutes.
"Maybe
I should ask at the front and check the schedule," he says,
walking out into the sun and heading toward the front office.
I
expect this will act like lighting a cigarette... encouraging
the bus to come when I don't know how to pay for it, or where to sit,
or how to get on. Uncle will be gone... at
bus enquiry,
and I will miss the bus. One
trick in God's many bags of them is to remain unpredictable. If I can
tell what her actions will be, I can prepare for them. So
predictibly, the unpredictable happens and Uncle returns before the
bus comes. He's sweating from the walk in the hot sun.
"Ten
minutes," he says.
"Don't you want to come out
of the hot sun?" I ask him.
"No,
you stay there... the bus will be here soon..." he answers.
And
it is.
"Remember,"
he says, "the women sit in the first six or seven rows on the
right. The first six or seven rows on the left are reserved for the
aged. You can sit there if you like."
I
thank him, get on the bus and head into town.
Very
slowly... Mumbai traffic is Bangkok traffic, New York traffic, Dakar
traffic all rolled into 1... with curry
sause added. It runs on horns... constant blasts from motorcycles,
tuk tuks (called "auto rickshaws" or just "autos").
It
runs on people running... the way to get across the highway... or any
street is to play dodgem with the busses, motorcycles, and "autos."
It's
a scramble with the result... so I'm told... that India has the
highest pedestrian (or is it ALL street accidents) fatality rate in
the world. The
bus takes half an hour... to go a block. It isn't near the aquarium
for 2 1/2 hours.
Google
maps says the aquarium is 850 meters away. Google maps is usually
right...
but sometimes... In
this case, I
follow it. The sun beats hotter. Someone on the bus says
it's
40o.
Translated into Fahrenheit , that's fuckin' hot!
I've
been using the same handkerchief to blow my nose, wipe my hands after
a hand-eaten meal, cough my GERD into, and wipe my face in the
excessive heat. It's pretty rank.... but
it's all I've got.
Walk
this way… walk that way… turn in 20 meters… how far is that?
The hankie grows stinkier.
STOP:
October
31,
So
much has happened since that last story, that I don’t know where to
begin… except here. On the top bunk of a double decker train, on
the way from a border town (spitting distance to Pakistan) to Jaipur.
The train was about 2 ½ hours late… poor Anant and his brother who
accompanied me to the station got more than they bargained for…
So
the 8:00 train to Jaipur leaves at 10:30. Right ahead of me are my
cellmates… a couple maybe a few years younger than me with 4
suitcases, each a few sizes larger than my torso. They take up the
whole compartment. In a few hours, they get everything situated… we
have a where you from chat.
The
man, “Where are you from?”
Me, “New York.”
The
man, “Oh, the US! We’re going to Seattle.”
Me,
“When?”
The
man, “Seattle. Seattle. It’s in America.”
Me, “When
are you going?”
The man, “My son works there… a very
good job.”
Me,
“I see.”
The
man, “You know Seattle?”
Me,
“Yes, but it’s very far from New York.”
The
man, “Seattle, yes. It’s in America.”
I
smile. The woman smiles and waves up at me.
Lights
out… then the snoring begins. Earplugs… They don’t work. But
somehow I manage to drift off to a dream-filled sleep, dreaming, for
some reason, about lawns.
Not
for long.
6AM
The phone rings, not my phone, but the woman’s. (For some reason,
cellphones here do not seem to have VIBRATE mode, but all ring on the
loudest volume with a 30 second ringtone, supposed to bring up images
of Bollywood.
The
woman answer and shouts into the phone. This lasts about 10 minutes.
Then she passes the phone to the man who shouts into it for another
quarter hour. Then, they start a non-stop conversation… with each
other... fastest chatter in the world… like it’s a TV game show
where the one who can say the most in a fixed time wins a chance at a
new washing machine.
I
moan. Fart loudly. Nothing helps. They go on non-stop… I pound the
wall, the volume of their conversation lowers... for bout 10 seconds.
I fart loudly again. Get up to piss, not looking at them at all…
realize we’re in the station and not allowed to piss until the
train starts moving again… I return and climb up to my bunk. They
continue to chatter. I stare at the woman. The guy is directly
beneath me so I can’t see him.
Arms
folded... the evilest eye I can give to the woman in the lower bunk.
She sees me… Lowers her voice… a bit… her phone rings.
Flash
to 9:30am
They
have left now. But it’s already morning… no longer late night.
The whole train car is awake.
--more
later if I have time… maybe I can sleep for 10 minutes--
