This Side of Summer

a summer blog, from 2013 [June - India]

[ahista-se]

Sensual

"If I could describe Bombay in a word," she said, "it would be sensual" 

She stepped closer as she said it, until her face was within an inch of my own. I had to turn my head. If I had thought I had been walking around the city with an open embrace, I was humbled by the intricacies I could not bear to see on her skin.  

But it was true- I had started believing in water. The universal solvent. Every night, it left nothing on my skin but me, not a single salty drop of humanity.

Not the exhaust choking the streets, not the dust invading the sides of my toenails, not the red paan-stains in the corners of staircases, not the heat of the sunlight crowded into the markets, not the little hands tugging on my sleeve.

Not the waves of scent at the masala store. Not the smiles exchanged with sari-clad aunties pulling near-naked children. Not the voices, the shouts, the advertisements, the calls to prayer blasted from tinny speakers, all collecting in the curves of the cartilage in my ears.

The water took it all. It leaves me nothing, not even the young man's lovely singing, metered by his footsteps down the gully.

Mumbai has no space for echoes, except in people's minds.  

Don't think about where this man's hands have been as he serves you food. Don't think about who has slept on these sheets before you. Don't think about why the taxi seat was wet, don't, just don't, don't think. 

We were all knee-deep in monsoon, that day, wading delicately through brownish flood waters. Raising brightly colored umbrellas which are slowly losing relevance. The fellow selling lychees on a wooden cart stands resolute and soaked at his street-corner. He wonders why I laugh.

"You are FEARLESS!" I want to shout at him.

At this city. 

And they might laugh at me, too, for my silliness or ask me why I look so happy in the water. 

[ahista-se]

Project LEAP was cancelled this summer

which is why I have not gone to Lebanon. This is the more timely announcement I made elsewhere: "Project LEAP has been canceled due to the escalating sectarian hostilities in the region. I am disappointed, but mostly that this is the reason that the area is deemed unsafe for volunteers. Sectarian violence has claimed too many lives, has hindered too many programs like LEAP that are already meant for populations who have been displaced by years of conflict. Disputes that are not worth a single life. Keep those children in your prayers. We won't be visiting them this year, but we have the CHOICE not to be in the region. They don't." This decision was made by the coordinators of LEAP after the violent clash between the Lebanese military and followers of Sheikh Ahmad al-Assir, a Salafist preacher in Sidon. Since then, there was a car bombing in Dahieh, a Southern suburb of Beirut and stronghold of the Hezbollah party - an area that has been heavily bombed in the past in the Israeli-Lebanese conflict of 2006. Sitting an ocean away from this, reading about where I could and should have been, I decided to reach out to a Lebanese friend. She was certain that the Lebanese people were committed to peace, and directed me to news about a large, peaceful protest of the Lebanese government in Beirut, despite intimidation and harassment by police forces. It was a remarkable story. And I note, sadly, that here it is so much easier to find and hear news of bombings and violence in the Middle East than it is to find news about the people living there. Keep everyone, the children living in the refugee camps and the citizens of Lebanon, in your prayers.

[ahista-se]

When I leave

I will no longer wonder if the tickle on my arm is the swish-swish-twinge of mosquitoes or the tip of my hair, swept loose by the ceiling fan

I will no longer feel the need to wash off the day

I will apologize if I walk too close, brush against a person in movement

I will crave the sunlight, unadulterated

I will crave the sunlight, soft white through the cotton

I will crave the sunlight, drained, awash in the muck of the streets

I will lose the sing-song in my shifting tongue

I will no longer look half-down at the road as I walk and so I will stumble

[ahista-se]

Barbers on the Street, Stylists at the malls

A few nights ago, I was taken out to dinner by a cool nearly-thirty-ish couple. The restaurant was elegant, more so than any thaali place I had ever been to before. I mentioned this, and was reminded that it is located in one of Mumbai’s high-end malls: it is inconspicuous in its glamour. The college student in me shudders to think how much the meal cost.

A comedy place down the impeccably polished hall had put up a board reading, “The only difference between a barber and a stylist is that the stylist speaks English. You’re paying three times more for subtitles." This reminded me very forcibly of a talkative taxi driver (ah, from before I started making use of the buses!) who was taking me to Breach Candy, a nicer part of town. Before I told him I was going to meet a relative, he felt the need to warn me away from shopping. He told me he brings the people supplying stores on this side of town, that 200 rupee shoes could be sold for thousands of rupees merely because of a glass storefront display. “AC ka hawa khane aye the"

Today, out on a walk with the girl who pays for college by working at my aunt’s house, I saw four barbers shaving customers on the footpath. The girl saw me staring, and remarked delicately that poor people need haircuts too, and India was a place where the poor have access to many services. She went on to say that, in fact, India is a place where everyone does something. We pass a man repairing shoe soles, a woman with a basket of combs and nail-cutters on her head, a man surrounded by a number of tinctures and a sign for “Special Treatment of Corns".

I feel the spirit of what she is saying. The bustle of this place is unlike any other. It is part of the reason that people are drawn to the place - everyone is busy. No work is too insignificant to be taken up by someone, and yet no one is too busy to answer a question. “How do I get there?" “Oh, ask anyone in the area." Yet the very people that fill the streets and run the city are routinely looked down upon for their lack of money. In general, no one thanks bus drivers or fresh-juice-makers or delivery boys. Those in service positions who I have thanked have responded by smiling, by saying “OK" or “welcome", or by ignoring me. I will be told that this is an insignificant gesture, that it won’t make a real difference in their lives, but I don’t take the helpfulness of people on the street for granted every time I ask for directions, or am saved from missing my bus stop. I need a way to tell them that. And I know some people show their appreciation for the working class in other ways, but for now, at the very least, I will keep the words on my tongue and hope they keep the spirit of gratitude in my heart.

[ahista-se]

Sinhagad Fort - Pune

Something was lost in America when supermarkets everywhere started selling everything. Perhaps it is in the spirit of egalitarianism that everyone in every city of America can find mangoes or Mrs. Field’s cookies. But after a little traveling within a relatively small area of India, thoughts of the homogeneity of American grocery store chains leave me with a bland taste in the mind.

"You’re going to Pune? Make sure you get mava cakes and Shrewsbury biscuits, the bakeries there are famous."

"You can’t leave Surat without Surti khakri. Bring me a packet too!"

In Pune, I was introduced to Marathi cuisine. Though my parents were both born and raised in Maharashtra, the food cooked at home has always reflected the palate of the ancestral homes in Gujarat. One dish, Pittla, was made of nearly the same base ingredients as the Gujarati Kari, but was flavored completely differently. It had the same familiar-but-alien feel on my tongue as the language of the region, Marathi. It is a language that shares much vocabulary with Gujarati, but I can barely hang on to the ends of the sentences streaming out of a Maratha friend’s mouth, as we sit together and eat Marathi food on top of a mountain at Sinhagad Fort. It is the language my mother spoke with her neighborhood friends as a child in Nasik. I can feel it starting to settle comfortably in my ears, two curving seats of legacy.

These thoughts follow me in patches on the three hour hike up the mountain. They are formed of the flavors at the tiny, canvas-covered tent at the top of the mountain where we devour fresh food cooked over a fire. A circle of hungry children, wet, tired and happy.

More than ever before, I am aware of the imperial history behind India’s borders. The plethora of rich and ancient cultures found within India are as diverse as its climates and landscapes, but I feel that India has proudly embraced the diversity created by the borders forced upon the region.

I recognize cultural differences in America’s regions, but in comparison with these distinct cultures that have developed over millennia, they seem insignificant. And perhaps it is because of that newness of American cultures that they are being eroded much faster by globalization and corporate spread, starting with regional flavors.

[ahista-se]

The Golden Temple - pulled in to Bombay Central Station

I have spent days at a time in this train. The trip to Surat feels like a brief reunion. I barely recognize the inside of the train, riding in a two-tier AC bogey, each of us with a seat to ourselves. Even the frequent interruptions of vendors selling CHAAIII MASALA CHAI CHAI, ICE CREAAAM BHAISAB ICE CREAM, GARAM NAASHTO LEYLO GARAM GARAM NAASHTOOO, COLD DRINK PANI BOTTLE, COFFEE NESCOFFEE could not bring to the bogey the bustle and chaos of the three-tier sleeper bogeys I have taken from Amritsar to Mumbai. In a group of thirty students, two to a ticket, some of us would hide in the bathroom when a ticket collector came by. He knew. We knew he knew. It was merely an acknowledgment of his presence, a formality.

A few hours into the journey, in the calm after the insanity of getting everyone and their suitcase onto the train, people would start wandering around the bogey, find each other, start conversations or games. Ten at a time would gather around a single laptop to watch a movie - leaning off of all three tiers of seats.

Sleep was fitful in shared spaces. Amritsar was chill, the nights were harsh. Climbing down the ladder to use the bathroom could take half an hour, in finding one’s shoes, in picking one’s way through the crowded corridor, waiting in line.

But the physical discomfort of the journey was alway awash in a fierce spirit of community and adventure.

The train holds these memories, in the pattern of its old, dirt-covered frame. I will return again, one day, retrace my steps, and find them waiting in its bolts and seams.

[ahista-se]

A Ride on the Back of my Cousin's Scooter

Children playing cricket in the street, waiting for us to pass Men holding hands A family of four on a motorcycle Rainbow umbrellas for sale, displayed horizontally on a traffic sign Women on two different scooters, in conversation over the din of the road The riotous colors of dupattas they tie around their faces, to keep out the dust

Colors, unabashed.

A rickshaw full of 7 or 8 school children in uniform Tolerated on the wrong side of the road Trucks thundering along at arm's length 60 kilometers/hour of freedom outside city borders Windswept Happy

[ahista-se]

Pune - where, sometimes, you give the rickshaw driver directions through google maps

[ahista-se]

Today is no day to stay in, but I know I am unwell. I remedy myself with three cups of strong tea, a Murakami novel, afternoon sleep. I attend Jum’oa prayers at the local masjid, walking unhurried, absorbing the heat of the road. I enfold myself in the whisper of women’s supplications.

I must be feeling better.

But I can taste something dangerous on my lips, like rain that falls but does not dry, until disease comes to bathe in its muddy shallows.

I stare deep into water before I drink it, knowing I need it, knowing also that every drop has the power to destroy. Daring to live requires incredible faith, when you know what could go wrong. I breathe a prayer into each sip, and hope the rains have left this water soft as the sighs of rain clouds.

[ahista-se]

The news speaks in Poetry

“Nature does Tandav!” Severe flooding, thousands missing

“Farmer awaits blessings of rain gods” Month-long drought

[ahista-se]

I came to Pune, yesterday. I have since met a dozen cousins, of whose existence I had never known. We all have our small traditions - and here, again, I am excavating bloodlines. There are rickshaws, here, smaller-than-Mumbai-taxis to fit the smaller than Mumbai streets. No one understands my Gujrati. I am forced to make do with limited Hindi. My tongue forces me to remember I cannot exist fully in multiple worlds at the same time. Pune. Rivers. Grass. The street has fuller lungs, more space to breathe between bodies. The rain cleans.

[ahista-se]

We had been flooded in all day. Evening tamed the sea in our streets, and the tide receded, filtered through the cracks in the unforgiving way we cover the earth. We ventured out, sought the sad white of sunlight's last stand. Everyone had the same idea, it seemed, and we haltingly made our way through a surge of people, two-wheelers, cars, to the shore. Nariman Point. It had stopped raining. The city was a line of lights. The night was blacker than the water, and I thought I could see where the two converged. We hailed a young man, yelling his wares "CHAI - COFFEE". We sat on the wet bench. A boy came by, hands full of mogra flowers in different stages of blooming, strung together. Gajra. As we were buying two, a younger girl reached out and snatched the bill. The two children burst into laughter, and she handed us two gajra from her own hands instead. My hair was covered, so I tied them on my wrists. The mogra's fragrance disappeared the cityscape in front of my eyes, turned me towards the ocean. I climbed on top of the stone bench to look out to sea, attracting the eyes of those sitting nearby. Stares are merely a way of acknowledging another's presence. But when the downpour starts again, most flee to cover, and the eyes of those remaining meet in kinship. We are truly children of the water, our eyes say. I go home soaked in water, cold with love.

[ahista-se]

I sit at the feet of my grandparents’ generation and listen to their lives.

There is much to learn. I take my laptop on a visit to a great-uncle's home, and come away with pages of memories, tailored to amaze children of the smart-phone age, intertwined with reflection and subtle lessons. Another tells me to stop scribbling, to just listen. "Maza nahi awe!"

My great-aunt stretches out her words like a mother bird.

“Tu to kai jamteeeeej nahi!” She tells me I haven’t eaten a thing, after a full meal. I laugh like it’s the first time I have heard this at her table.

The same great-aunt that tells me “I think you are kind of a philosopher,” that tells me she would not talk about the nature of existence with most young girls, worries out loud to me about how thin my hair is, how lanky my frame. I tell her she has seen too many movies. I boast that I do not chase the beauty of girls in magazines, as if I never have before.

She tells me of her friend, also a doctor, a beautiful woman who was constantly pursued by male colleagues. She married a South Indian! I wait for a moment, wait for the necessary understanding for this story to be as shocking as she wants it to be. “She looked like a QUEEN! You know? She had a sharp nose, lovely, like how Diana was.” Ah. How could I forget that Imperial forces have yet to surrender Beauty to each respective home country? A dark-skinned, Indian-looking man. “No one would even want to LOOK at him! But she married him. We were all SO shocked.” Says the doctor, of some of the best-educated people in Mumbai. I smile sadly and busy my hands in tidying things.

I am sure I have my own conditioning, barriers in thought that my Aunt can see, but I struggle to break out of each cage when I discover steel bars around me. I want to start the conversation about colorism, about why only women that look like European princesses appear queenly to her, but I don’t.

She has seen sixty years more than I, treated hundreds of people, cared for many, raised many children like her own. I think there is a reason we respect our elders, and many reasons to do so from the heart. Whatever borrowed words she might use to describe beauty, I know that she can see people. She can see the way that love changes a face from a collection of flaws to an illumination.

[ahista-se]

Monsoon shmonsoon.

Things to do, places to be.

[ahista-se]

I want drums to play when I enter the colorful bustle of Mangaldas Market. Rush in like I know where I’m going, pick a promising stall, not too crowded, sit on a worn white mattress amid piles of fabrics, amid bolts of cotton, satin, georgette, linen, plain, checkered, striped, printed. Dupattas. Salwar kamees sets. Cha is sipped steaming from the tiny steel pot in which it was brewed.

Lanes and lanes of shops and shops - Modi Brothers, Bombay Beauty, H.K. Textiles - Madam, Kya chaiyye? What are you looking for?

Two hours in, I drop some packages on a pile of fabric and take a deep breath. A merchant stares, waiting, unruffled. I ask him his name. “Santosh.” Nice. Fitting. But he can’t help but smile when I pick up a fabric and draw back in exaggerated shock when he tells me its price per metre. I take a good thirty seconds to go through a range of incredulous facial expressions, looking from fabric to Santosh to fabric. “Fixed price hai, madam.” I think of women I have seen years ago, bargaining aggressively, demanding and wheedling by turns. I go for one last, theatrical sigh as I put the fabric down. Santosh gazes calmly on. I smile in defeat.

I am the only woman in this market who I have seen shopping alone. The merchants must wonder at the conspicuous lack of guiding matriarch at my side. Old men call me ‘beta’, answer my questions generously, send lounging youths to lead me to the right store. There is a tremendous amount of information here, but I am perversely glad it took more than typing it in to a database to find what I was looking for.

[ahista-se]

My friend stops the taxi at a famous chai stand near Churchgate, and offers the driver a drink. He refuses, but we insist like he is a guest in our home. The driver kindly wanders away, leaving us together in the dark cab, drinking tea. He joins a group of taxi drivers, some smoking, some chatting. No one seems inclined to leave their conversations for customers.

My friend is leaving, soon. “I will miss the people.” “Who, your classmates?” “No, the people. I love Mumbai. I like the wasti - the crowd.”

I can see the silhouette of two men holding hands, strolling on the footpath. Three people rush the other way, crowding under a single umbrella.

We are sitting on opposite sides of the cab, but the space between us is barely the size of the red Rutgers sack I carry around. The night feels full.

I’ll miss it, too.

[ahista-se]

A look through a stairwell window - Bhindi Bazaar