It's Festival Season!

It’s festival season! The Muslim festival of Ramadan will culminate in Eid very soon, and today was the Hindu festival of Janmashtami, or also Dahihandi (I think that’s how one might spell it)—a celebration of the Lord Krishna. Apparently, when he was a baby, he loved butter so much that he used to climb into the container. Either he was a tiny baby, or that was a vat of lard. Or maybe he’s just Krishna.

The general scene.

Janmashtami: think city wide treasure hunt extreme sport style. There are 4 key elements: the pot, the neighborhood, the team, and the prize. The pot is the treasure—a clay pot containing milk and spices hung high above the street in the number two element: the neighborhood. The area is decorated with marigolds and traditional motifs—the upscale neighborhoods might even have a stage, lights, a sound system, and a crane to hang it on. For whom? For the third element, the team. Teams are comprised of 25-50 people, mostly males, who proceed to ride around in buses or trucks to these different neighborhoods and form human pyramids 10 people high to reach this pot in hopes of breaking it. Teams from the nearby states even come to Mumbai to participate. I fibbed a little when I said the clay pot was the treasure being hunted. The real treasure is the cash prize (element number 4) a team receives for breaking it. The neighborhoods collect donations as a celebration of Krishna and then turn it into the prize for being the first team to break the pot.

A team gets ready to rumble! (orange shirts)

I happened to be outside when the pot in my neighborhood was broken—oh boy. A bunch of trucks pulled up and these guys clambered out. I looked away for a minute, which almost turned out to be a mistake because when I looked back they had already assembled half the distance necessary to get to the pot. (Because of the weight factor, it is usually a child that climbs to the top. The few girls I saw participate were doing that job.) Within minutes, they had broken through the clay, sending milk showering down on everyone holding them up. The crowd went wild! And then disappeared. It was almost comical how quickly it dispersed.

Starting the pyramid-the pot is hiding in the marigold garlands.

Janmashtami is extremely dangerous. Several people die or are paralyzed yearly. And yet it remains a very popular event. This year a good 200+ were sent to hospitals in the region, but only 80 needed to be hospitalized. Apparently, that makes this a pretty good year. Ajay and I went around to a few other sites, but since they had been broken already, we just saw the aftermath, which was almost as interesting.

Up, Up and Away

I'm standing on the light platform of the Dahisar  (E)  site, post pot breakage.

Trains, Planes, and Automo-rickshaws

14 August 2011

An autorickshaw, often just referred to as an 'auto.'

If you had asked two weeks ago, I would have told you that I have only lived in one city in my life: Kathmandu.

If you were to ask me that same question now, I would say I have lived in one city in my life: Mumbai. Kathmandu, I have learned, is a ‘rural’ city. By size comparison, I think it could fit in Old City Bombay. Still, by the end of my time in Kathmandu, I felt victorious--'mastering' any city in some small way, even just by knowing how to get to and from the 'most important things' (cultural landmarks, government buildings, neighborhoods, shops I liked, my apartment) like everyone else was thrilling. Coming to India, I relished the idea of taking public transportation, fond memories of Kathmandu informing this symbol of my comfort in a place.

The first time I saw a Mumbai train station I almost peed my pants. I could barely see the platform for the people—people getting on and off, selling things from stands in and outside the station, rushing from one platform to the other, hanging from the door of the train. Just an unreal amount of people.  

Mumbai is obviously bigger than KTM and I knew that—it’s the biggest city in India for heaven’s sake. But I was unprepared for how different it would be. It is a sprawling expanse of concrete buildings struggling for even practical survival, making no attempt at aesthetic pleasure. It is arteries of mostly unmarked roads, so to get anywhere you have to know someone who knows someone who knows where you want to go and finds the same landmarks important to mention.  It is trains that save hours in transit by never closing their doors. It is a fast dance of millions and millions of people living together.

It’s awesome though—moving around here. India is not so cheap, as Poonam would say, but it does depend on what you’re talking about. Flats? Forget it—many are as expensive as Manhattan. Transportation on the other hand—I took an autorickshaw to the train and a bus back from it and spent 25 Rs. That’s about 60 cents. Take those price hikes Washington, D.C.!

Of course, Washington would never snuggle so well. Shilpi's sister Anshu was surprised when I told her that in the US, if a train was going to become so crowded, under most usual circumstances, they just wouldn't get on. Here, everyone just needs to get home. For women traveling alone to safely ride these trains, there are Ladies Only cars, denoted by yellow and green stripes. It is awkward enough literally being butt to butt with people up and down the stairs during rush hour, so I’m glad I’m riding the train with another woman who understands if my elbow grazes her in a sensitive place. We seem to become one accepting bundle. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of shoving involved in getting on and off the train, but the aggression isn’t malicious. It’s just a thing. We’re all trying to get off and on in the 20 seconds it “stops” at the station and that’s the only way to make sure it happens. My western idea of my personal bubble has popped. Once you get on, you’re pretty much where you are. It is possible to shift where you’re standing, but it’s tricky. There is a lot of half smiling and finger pointing in this nearly wordless ritual, “Are you getting off on this side? Oh ok, me too,” or  “Dahisar? Yeah, I’m getting off there, excuse me.”

Maybe think of it as that kooky flour based 1^st grade science experiment, I forget what it’s called—putting pressure on the mixture makes it solid, releasing the pressure it makes it liquid. We’re one mass between stations, but flow away from each other on the platform. 

Inside and Outside

Mumbai from my window in Dahisar

While I’m out and about, my mind is buzzing with observations of the millions of interesting things in this city. But as soon as I walk through the front door, the sweet and numbing effect of comfort takes hold and my observations lose their sharpness. We like coming home for that reason, but it deprives us of valuable observations as well as the exhausting memories of the day.

Mumbai is an intensified case of this effect for me, particularly because home is small and not-home is the size of several universes smushed together on 603 square kilometers. Home is sedentary, and not-home does not stop moving. The only places to sit down—buses, autorickshaws or trains—are still moving.

On these swarming streets, I did some shopping today. As it got dark, lights came on in each of the stalls creating a stunning visual effect. These lights direct your focus to the colorful produce and assorted shoes they are selling. Though they can’t capture the pulse of everyone moving to get necessities for the next day, the closeness of the heat, the smells of chai (tea), incense, and trash, or the satisfaction of haggling down a price, I wish I could have a picture of this scene.

My inside shoes!

I had a few things to get: inside shoes, bananas, a bag I would fit my computer (that wouldn’t look like I was carrying a computer to work), a passport sized photo I could use to get a monthly train pass, and a germicidal gargle. I didn’t manage to get the photo (yet), but I did manage to get everything else, and a pomegranate! My favourite find was my inside shoes, basically a pair of flip-flops but you only wear them in the flat. I had anticipated getting an innocuous pair—but then I saw them. Right next to the Che Guevara flippies, President Obama’s face stared upside down at me. I went over to check them out, simply amused, and then saw that they read “the savior of the world economy” on the toe pad. I still can’t stop smiling. Whether because it’s ironic right now with the debt crisis as it is, or because it’s just a silly thing to put on a flip-flop, I’m not sure and I don’t care. I just love it. Now my inside shoes keep my feet from touching the floor and put a smile on my face.

My other favourite moment of the day was the skywalk. The skywalk is an elevated sidewalk that helps to eliminate some of the congestion on the street five stories below and evacuate the train station crowds. I lied a teeny tiny bit when I said that there wasn’t anywhere to sit in Mumbai—there is one bench on the skywalk. Tonight, it was occupied by a young couple, the boy sitting with his arm around the girl. I did a double take—PDA is so not in here—and realized that the skywalk was actually a kind of lover’s lane.  Far fewer people, still public, much quieter: couples can lean close, and feel the charm of rebellion while still respecting tradition.

In other news—I really wish I had Indian hair. So gorgeous. 

Nothing Good Happens After Two A.M.

Or so Ted admonishes his children in How I Met Your Mother, “Just go home. Go to bed.”

For me, that was part of the problem. I was home, and in bed. But my brain was still incessantly processing, ferociously trying to sort out my new reality. I’ve learned that the only way to calm my overactive brain is to let talk until it has nothing more to say. At least then it is out in the air for the universe to help with. The topics covered in those first few nights included all of the big ones and few of the small ones: What am I doing here? What does it mean for something to be important? Meaningful? Successful? Will I ever fall asleep? Why do I even care if those pants are silly? (Thinking about that orange and pink kurta that I didn’t buy because I thought I might accidently continue to dress like a 15 year old; maybe I just have the fashion tastes of a mid adolescent…).

Being that I was the only one awake in the flat, I wrote in my journal until I couldn’t listen to myself anymore. Then I turned to writing some of you. My apologies to anyone who was uncomfortable receiving a slightly intense email sometime in your early afternoon. They were the honest words of a lonely, fatigued and bewildered person. It was after two a.m., so perhaps a little too honest.

But today was a different. Though I did see the 4 am sky, I slept for a total of 8 beautiful hours. Its amazing what sleep can do. I realized, too, how oddly nice it had become to experience the predawn city, quiet as it often is not, to watch the cycle of the rains, barking dogs, and noisy birds. A bonafide, lime green parrot landed on the wires outside my window and HUGE bats circled the trees below. A good omen, Shipli tells me, good for a day of adventure.

I moved basically from the southern most tip of the city to the northern most—from the Arabian Sea crashing outside my window to being able to see mountains. I loved the long drive and got to see much more of the city. Slums rose and fell in between high rise apartments and business complexes. The presence of so many dogs and cows may be cliche, but there's a good reason: it's the truth. My new neighborhood (Dahisar West for anyone Mumbai savy) is in the suburbs, has a great deal more space around the buildings and is bit greener—partly why Shilpi picked it.

Shilpi. This woman is the cat’s meow. Poonam introduced me to this brilliant and spunky young editor who also works at the Hindustan Times. She’s recently married and only moved to Mumbai herself 7 months ago. She has the most endearing sense of humor and is teaching me how to eat more healthily (water after meals, not during and same with talking—all better for digestion). I couldn’t believe it when I walked into her flat—decorated with the orange and pink of the kurta I didn’t buy! I should have realized how much I love the combination—I mean, my suitcase and backpack do match the upholstery perfectly. I feel so at home with her, it feels like we were meant to live together. Unfortunately, we may not see that much of each other because of her crazy hours, so Saturdays will be special. She even included me in the Saturday tradition of having my hair oiled, just like her grandmother used to do to her and her sisters.

So far the people I have been privileged to spend time with have been incredible. They remind me of my close friends and family in their warmth and unending generosity. Shilpi reprimanded me today for saying “thank you” too many times, but how else do I say it? I am overwhelmed by her care. They won’t even let me help out around the house to show my appreciation, so I’m at a loss. I think what Poonam was trying to say this morning was that my happiness and enjoyment of their company is thanks enough (after the first couple times). If that is the case, then I am the very picture of gratitude.

applying coconut oil!

In the end, I tackled some significant personal demons in those restless hours. Time alone in a starkly different environment pushes you to do that—the strength for which I usually feel I lack. Some good things do happen after two a.m.

On "On Confusing Bravery with Stupidity" (thank you thought catalog!)

Thought Catalog-On Confusing Bravery with Stupidity

Oh thank you thank you thank you Carolyn Huynh for writing this beautiful piece of hope. And thank you Kerry for posting another link from this page that I ended up being led to laugh and then read this, too.

My Room!

After a few 4 hour nights, and 3 hour naps during the day, I began to wonder the same thing—am I confusing bravery with stupidity? I find myself on another island-ish city, Bombay, India, fighting my own tears of loneliness and exhaustion, so tired but unable to sleep, plagued my thoughts’ frustrating ability to be the most annoying and upsetting when I am most defenseless to turn them off. Struggling to discover whether the internet is my friend or foe—a necessary evil I need to communicate with contacts made and contacts yet to be made but yet such a tantalizing and tempting window of access to the companions in my life I love so dearly and yet I have built a wall of time and space between us this year. Am I silly? Am I courageous? I hope balance is more stable than running back and forth between extremes, so that you just seem to spend more time in the middle than at the ends.

I feel as though I have been here for days—the odd naps that must happen when bouts of absolute fatigue wash over me certainly divide the day. But I have also seen and learned much from the people around me.

Bombay/Mumbai is a rather cosmopolitan place that seems to sleep less than New York. People from all over the country and world come to work and they work a lot. I am staying with the utterly amazing family of a friend from Hamilton, Ipsita Bhatia, in their 9^th story flat in Old Bombay. I can see the dome of the Taj Hotel from one window, a fish market from another and the Arabian Sea from both. There are ships from the Naval base and the smaller fishing vessels mingling in the harbour (whose crashing sounds so pleasant, I hope it will rock me to sleep). Squawking crows and egrets have greeted me both mornings far before sunrise. What an incredible city. 

I took a walk yesterday to try and get my phone to make outgoing calls and purchase some Indian clothes. FabIndia, a fixed rate clothing shop, is about 2 km one way from the Bhatia’s flat on the Colaba Causeway. Museums, coffee shops, street vendors, a movie theater, people, people, people—so much to see! I was so overwhelmed by the time I got there that I was too tired to choose anything (shopping is a process for me) so I walked back. But I got my phone fixed (!!), so today is about getting in touch with my contacts and starting a new routine! and hopefully kicking some jet lag butt :o)

The Beginning

July 22, 2011

For years, I have kept a journal. Certainly with a variety of consistency but nonetheless, I kept it as a way to remember things I knew I would otherwise forget. As a young girl, I distinctly remember wondering if anyone would ever read what I wrote, or if they would find it interesting or important to their lives. I so wished that I could stumble across an old book, pages filled by the loving hand of its writer. I wanted to know someone’s story as they would tell it to themselves.

In my Watson interview, Jay Allison (my interviewer) and I got to talking about technology and how it has changed how the Watson experience plays out for the new generations of fellows. He recounted an experience where he was completely out of contact for a month in Russia. Because of the value he saw in this experience, he encouraged me to be in as little contact as possible with friends and family, and not to write a blog.

I respect Jay deeply, and his suggestion is something I have struggled with since November. Obviously, I have decided to write a blog, but I do so drawing on a very specific experience. When I traveled to Nepal for the Fall semester of my Junior year, I thought I would not contact anyone for weeks. I was going disconnect and it would be awesome. What I came to realize was that I really wanted to share the amazing experiences I was having with more than just the people I was living it with. I wanted to share with those who had done so much to send me there, and, though interested in going themselves, had made it possible for me to go instead.

I believe that the exchange of information and cultural ideas has great power. I have been lucky in my young life to be the first hand obtainer of such information, and in a world where such information can be valuable in creating understanding between people, I feel it is important, and perhaps critical, to share my perspective.

And it will just be that. My perspective. I am just one traveler, with one voice, telling one set of stories. I will do my best to report my experiences honestly, but I will inevitably be biased. Though, if I’ve learned nothing else from my Watson experience thus far, it is the process that counts. So here I go!

Thanks to all of you who have helped me out in one-way or another. Thank you for being there for me through thick and thin, for being caring companions, loving friends, and helpful strangers. The amazing part of the Watson experience is that it is lived by an individual fellow, but so many more people build it.