Total Pageviews

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

The Start of a Huge... one of those days or Mykel's India Entry Number 5


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.

“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---







No comments: