Prelude: Desi Thali- Travels through India in 2003

Bombay

January 2003, 2 AM- The warm breeze mixed with a smell of sweat and humidity hits me as soon as I walk out of the aircraft with my brother although we have not stepped out of the airport yet. There is an opening at the side of the vestibule connecting the plane to the terminal. I take a deep whiff of that air with a huge smile on my face. It had been 2 1/2 years since I had left Bombay. My brother, K was getting married that winter in 2 weeks. The marriage was in Madras, we had to go to Bangalore where my parents lived after I left. However, it was impossible not to want to spend a few days in Bombay, the Bombay where we grew up, the streets of Bombay where we roamed around, the foods of Bombay impossible to get elsewhere, the different people of Bombay- the city which was Bombay. My brother’s friend T was flying in the same day as us & we were to stay at her place in Malad. The flight had been long and as anticipated boring. There was a poor woman right behind us who was struggling with two kids, who seemed to be under a year old. We did not get much sleep on the flight.My brother, who just loves crying kids had more than enuf to say about the how the pharmaceutical industry was missing on an untapped market. Drug the kids out before they board the flight and they sleep right through, leaving them, their parents and all the other passengers free of crying stresses. I shelved that idea along with his idea for a mild electric shock forcefield to contain and calm unruly children.

The interiors of the airport were the same, stark white walls, florescent white lights, bereft of any color except for the line of tired people who seemed to be standing there to provide color to the otherwise drab proceedings. The line started moving actually after a few minutes in a very organized fashion with Pandu sahib standing at the front of the line guiding the people to the different immigration counters. As soon as I went up to the counter, seeing the name Kamble displayed prominently on the counter, I chimed up in Marathi, Hey ghya Kamble Sahib (Literally Take this Mr. Kamble). Just got a cold look as he went through my passport and stamped the entry stamp. So much for getting back to my Marathi. I was feeling the sheer thrill of being back home, to see all those throngs of people walking everywhere in the middle of the night. We went to the baggage pick up and went through the customs easily since we did not have anything with us. Of course we were asked if we were bringing in anything expensive by the X-ray guy while our bags were being X-rayed to help facilitate (or evade) this process, especially since many people coming from other countries commonly do bring electronics or something more expensive on which the custom duty at times is exorbitant. Walking out through the airport must feel like walking down a fashion runway. All the people leaning against the railing and waiting to see if the next person who comes out is the person for whom they have been waiting for a few hours and waiting and waiting because one never knows what to do with the time the few hours before a person whom you have not seen for years is coming back. But the tension, anticipation and disappointment is tangible as one is walking out through the scrutinizing visual field of all those people.

The sense of waking up in Bombay is the wonderful admixture of sounds each crowing in their own way a bright new day; the cawing of the crows, the sounds of pressure cookers, the clanging sounds of utensils being washed, the voices of mothers of those children wanting to stay in bed, yelling at them to get up and go to school, the cars, the school buses, the buses, trains, the mixed commotion of all of this. The sense of exhilaration one can perceive on hearing all this can only be attributed to the sense of belonging one feels when one has been away from all of that for a while. I walked out onto the balcony overlooking a playground, which looks slightly damp from the morning dew. Eventhough it was 7:00 in the morning in winter, it was very pleasant outside, the air felt crisp. The building walls look a shade of dull whitish gray, which is what one gets after a rainy season (or a couple!). This place had a look of what I recognize as the Bombay residential building look(probably the look of most housing developments in any post modern developing world); a bunch of flats spread out into a couple of ‘wings’ and a few parking spots along one side and in a few places on the ground floor of the apartment building. A playground with a swing and slide set, cricket stumps marked out on the old wall of the compound on one side, or on one or many of the walls of the building. Looking at all this from the balcony I could only feel the same feeling I was feeling since I reached the airport, I am home. This was a high which was much better than any else because it lasts for a few days (and one gets terribly hungover after that).

The many items on the agenda for time spent in Bombay was dictated by the oncoming wedding in 2 weeks. My personal agenda was to roam the streets of Bombay, reclaim the sense of solitude among the millions and millons of people which I felt resonated with the feeling of solitude the city had, at least in my head. The emotions of a city is weird because it is not really a being and yet the collective of the emotions of all the people, the architecture; the high rises, the low shanties, the people in their fancy cars, the people in their torn clothes digging through the trash, the beggars on the streets, the praying people in religious places, the arising crying of the new born, the final gasp of death, the crash of the waves of the sea, the heat of the land, the sound of the rain, the smells and sounds of existence creates an emotion so powerful that one can never create something like individually. I used to travel in the city a lot when I was in college and when I used to work before I left for the states in 2000. There were certain places in the city which I really liked, they were probably no tourist attractions, however were places I had spent time sitting and thinking, especially once I was out of college, I did not really have the time to meet with my friends and so the city was my friend. However I did not get too much of time to do that since I was not on my own and it had been a while since I hung out with my brother and his friends, and spending time with them involved the best quick eats and a lot of alcohol.

The first day we were back we spent roaming around Vile Parle, which contrary to the English meaning of the first name is a very nice suburban place with older bigger houses surrounded by shops, and apartment complexes. After looking through a bunch of shops my brother bought a Sherwani for his wedding. Since we had got one of the important things for the wedding out of the way, now the plan was to just have fun for the next few days, just go out and eat and drink (Drink being the operative word as I discovered over the next couple of inebriated nights). Try to recapture the Bombay we knew. Just before I left Bombay in 2000 there were a chain of Dosa Diners which had opened up. We decided to go and have a late lunch in one of those places, I was curious to see how it had changed. Before I left they came up with the novel idea of combining dosas with meat, which was an amazing combination and one did not get it at the usual Udipi. While I had gone there last it was a novelty, now it was just an Indian McDonalds.
The other newish thing was the Barista. It was a chain of cofee shops which had opened up all over India. The local cofee shop, which was commonly frequented by families and couples post dinner and it did not seem in the least bit pretentious. I guess people do not mind paying some money for just a place to sit and talk and sip coffee. After a greasy, sad looking dosa it was off to the station for me. I had to meet one of my friends from college in Peddar Road. I was feeling a sense of thrill heading toward Vile Parle station, it had been a few years since I had gone on one of the local trains, the skeleton of Bombay.

I was always a central railway person, grew up in a suburb which was off of the Harbor line, an offshoot of the central line. While the trains are similar, the people on both the lines are slightly different, with the people on the western line being from more affluent areas. The western line caters to the regions with among the highest costing real estate in India. It was the evening hours and I was traveling toward the south, the downtown, the business district of Bombay. The first thing which I noticed one I had gotten over the thrill of the rhythmic noise and vibrations of the train was the number of cell phones which kept ringing. Most of the people in the compartment were high school and college kids. Everybody seemed to have a cell phone, suddenly it felt strange to tell people I was in America for the past couple of years and the people would ask so what kind of newer gadgets do they have? Cell phones seemed to be more prevalent in Bombay then in Philadelphia. The stations passed by quickly and the view from the train on the Western line does not commonly present one with hutments and shanties, they are more an occurrence of the central line. I got of the local at Grant Road station and took a cab from the station to Peddar Road, where my friend lived. The weather was hot and muggy, while not as much as during the summer months, more than it was in Philadelphia, where it was the winter season. It had not even been 48 hours since I was in the cold, blistering winds of winter. The taxi moved along at a pace which at times one could walk faster. For us to move less than a mile, it took around 20 minutes. Finally we came close to where, I could just hop out and walk to Peddar Road. Covered with dust and soot, I felt like taking a bath more than having social interaction with people. I did wash my face at my friend’s place. I spent sometime at my friend’s place and much to her mother’s chagrin I did not even have a cup of tea, the least measure of Indian social propriety (I am sure to hear of that the next time I visit).

It was around 7:30 in the evening when I left, I was hoping that I would be able to get on the train from Grant road with the rush hour having gone. Of course as I discovered, there is no such thing as an end to the rush hour in the evening. I let a few trains by, all of which were equally crowded and then realized that is how things were and got into the next one, which was a fast (express) train. It did not stop at the stop I wanted to go to, Malad. And the second class, the lower costing class was less crowded than the first class. As one of those Bombay sayings go, there is hardly any difference between the first and the second class, they are equally crowded, the only difference being most people in the first class use deodorants. I got off the train at Andheri, which was the stop I had to change my train to a local. Looking at the trains, I decided to instead take a rickshaw instead. The driver at Andheri station had no idea where Malad west was, he vaguely knew how to get to Malad. He was a lean, young man who had moved from Bihar just a few months ago from a small town, this was the first time he was in a big city. There had not been too many opportunities in his town and he had an uncle in Bombay who got him this job. Finally after getting to Malad East which was on the other side of the railway line, he managed to ask directions and get me to Malad west. By that point I was just glad to be home and was feeling slightly jet lagged. I joined my brother, Tanya and her folks for dinner at a nearby restaurant. It had been a while since I had had good Tandoori chicken and this was just the place to indulge.

The next day being a Sunday, the atmosphere was more relaxed as the only day of relaxation for the people. I had promised a friend from my old workplace to come visit her family for lunch. She lived in Warden road, close to Peddar road. In Bombay one gets used to knowing places more by famous landmarks rather than addresses, I had been to her place a few times when I had lived in Bombay, but all I remembered was she lived in a building next to the US consulate. The trains were still pretty crowded even on a Sunday morning at 11:30. Most of the people were families out for a day of relaxation, visiting friends and relatives. I used to like to walk in Churchgate and Fort area on a Sunday, since the office crowd was missing. For a change one could actually observe some of the old British buildings, which one barely got a chance to appreciate on work days. There were also a bunch of Maidans or parks overrun by youth playing cricket, Marine Drive, always a nice stretch to walk in the evenings with the sea giving a cool end to a hot busy week, making it all seem worth it.

I alighted at Grant road station, the connecting link between the western railways and the affluent Peddar and Warden roads. The traffic from the station to Warden Road was a breeze, literally, it was a great day outside. Funnily there were not many people outside. I never gave the driver an exact address to where I want to go, which is common in Bombay, just an arbit Warden Road. If he found that strange he did not comment on it, I made him stop the cab at the building next to the US consulate. I remembered when we stopped that the previous times I always had given the address as the US consulate which was known to all the cabbies at Grant road station, since there were huge lines queuing here in the morning for a US visa, one of the three US consulates (and one Embassy in Delhi) in India. The building was almost unrecognizable since it was being renovated and was covered with scaffolding and cloth, everything around had more than just the Bombay dust, it was coated with fine cement dust. My friend, her husband and her adorable 1 year old son lived with her husband’s parents in a 2 bedroom apartment on a floor which allowed them a view of the Arabian Sea.

I spent a nice afternoon with them talking about the changes which had occurred in Bombay since I was there last. My friend's husband H, told me that travel was a real hassel and travel by train was something they had stopped completely. He said he used to love driving but driving too had become such a stress that instead he had a driver since he had to commute to one of the outer suburbs twice a week. He said once you leave it is best to not come back to this bedlam.
I mentioned the obvious difference in the incredible number of cell phones carried by school and college kids apart from everybody else. They said in the past couple of years the number of cell phone operators had increased along with increasing number of cell phone models from all the leading companies being available in addition to the ease of pre-paid SIM cards. One could even get a cell phone on rent, nearly every PCO/ STD operator seemed to carry SIM cards, even the local Paan wala used to stock SIM cards; the distribution had worked really well and had caught up with the people and the rates had been kept low enuf to tempt most people.

The radio was playing a channel called Radio Mirchi playing remixed version of older Hindi songs. A new wave of FM channels had been in the air for the past few years. In a time when cable TV was firmly based in the houses of Bombay, the radio channels were anachronistic and it was nice to see a bunch of newer channels, Radio City, Radio Mirchi, Mid Day run Go. My friends told me they listen to FM more than listen to their own CDs, because the music was newer and even the older music was select good music. There were also channels like Go which catered mainly to the English speaking educated mass of Bombay. But they were kind of skeptical about the future of the stations; they were hoping it would not be a repeat of the time period in the late 90s when all the private FM radio channels dropped out of the scene. Also there had been more of an increase in the number of channels on TV in the past few years with a number of regional channel programming, as well as English movies and serials and Sport channel programming. After an excellent Gujarati lunch, my friends suggested watching a movie. They were going to rent a movie as they routinely did on Sunday afternoons. Movie renting had become a lot easier, (whether or not it was legal); all they had to do was call the local cable man who also served as the movie rental agent and he would give them listings of new movies and which ones he had in the store and once a selection was made one of the guys who worked for the cable guy dropped by with a VCD of the movie in less than 30 minutes. Seemed kind of like Pizza. He usually had the latest movies which at times were still playing in the theaters, he got his share of pirated DVDs from southeast Asia. Also, it was common for someone to call the cable guy to find out what new movie he was playing on the cable movie channel or even request one!

I had to pass the movie selections of my friends and bid them adieu as I went to the best bookstore in town, Crossword. It used to be the only book store I used to visit when I worked, since it was so neatly organized. Strand bookstall was certainly a better bookstore but it was all the way in the fort area and was not as large or organized. Of course in memories the more idyllic visions one has of the places one cherishes the farther it is in reality. Crossword was a mess, it still had a lot of books but it was not at all organized. I mentioned that to my favorite sales person there, she was cute woman I used to chat with occasionally when I used to buy books there earlier. She said it was because of a sale they had earlier. Also I think it had become like a mall, people were just hanging out there with absolutely no interest in the books. It was just a place to meet people. Maybe it always was like that and I had not noticed it. After being disillusioned with one of my ex-fave place I left to go meet some of my friends from college.

It was a beautiful evening, a short ride in a cab took me to Shivaji Park, where my friend lived. As I passed Haji Ali I had a good mind to get off the cab and spend some time there, where I had spent quite some evenings in solitude, while I was waiting for a bus to get home. At times I had left a couple of buses so that I could just sit there on the few free evenings I had. In the evenings the Haji Ali mosque actually looked really nice way out in the water, a white mosque lit by the lights, sort of glowing with the dark sky and darker sea out behind it. My friend and I met up with another of our friends in Bandra in a place which was just a usual eatery and caught up on old times.

The next day was a day spent in South Bombay, the obligatory visit to Gaylord, Walking around Eros, a visit to Groove which was so much better than Rhythm house, at least when it had opened. Rhythm house on the other hand was the first true music store with which also I had wonderful older memories. Before I left in 2000, I used to frequent Groove and the Satyam shop which was near it. Also, there was the wonderful restaurant Starters and More on the other side of Eros. But we did not really have the time to go to all of that since there was the wonderful Strand Bookstall sale going on in Sunderbai Hall, with which I had so many memories. It was indeed the same and as wonderful as ever. After buying an arm full of books I met a friend of mine near Churchgate in a cafe called Cafe Mocha. It was a really well done place filled with Indian Art as Decor and mainly with young people wearing 'gapish' clothes. Wanting not to seem like an outsider ordering a Cappuccino as I typically order in the cafe I frequent in Philadelphia, I ordered a coffee and in the wonderful place that it was the coffee I had ordered came as a French press percolator. Having never dealt with one of those I just pulled up the plunger mixing the dregs and the coffee and the waiter just came and smiled and said 'Don't worry sir, I will get you one more'. It certainly was not easy trying to fit back in. The restroom in the place was among the most beautiful restrooms in which I have been. The door for the men had a Rajput male painting and for women a Rajput woman. It was painted in a rich earthy Burnt Sienna and had a very Indian feel to it with touches of Indian handicrafts on the walls. After a walk on Marine Drive in the evening, which seemed empty to me we went to Churchgate to take the train back to the western suburbs. My friend had to meet her boyfriend at Andheri station and she was late so I had to take the Virar fast which I had not done even when I used to live in Bombay. Having got a seat to sit I realised what the terror was all about when I had to get off at Andheri and the crowds would not budge an inch since everyone was going to Virar. I literally managed to kick and shove people and jump of the train at Andheri, it was certainly an interesting experience which I shall limit to that one time, if I can.

The few days were spent in a flurry of activities traveling all over Bombay, spending time in the Churchgate area, visiting friends in New Bombay, Shivaji Park- where I used to work. As the three days we were spending in Bombay came to a close, it was time to fly out to Bangalore to my parents place.

Madras
The few days in Bangalore was spent visiting family and preparing for the Marriage. The marriage was in Madras (Chennai, for the politically correct). A large number of my relatives were coming for the marriage, so one whole train compartment was filled with my cousins and aunts and uncles. It was a fun overnight journey from Bangalore, reaching Madras in the early morning hours. I had been to Madras only once before. It had felt like a city but had a completely different feel to it from Bombay. The marriage itself was fun, a lot to eat, socialize.
The climate even though it was January felt really hot and humid. After 3 days of functions and such, I had reached a point of over socializing that I just wanted to get to back to my quiet and solitary life. After the final function of the marrige itself was done, K and L left for Sri Lanka and Maldives. I was probably tired but I slept the sleep of the dead that afternoon to wake up to see I had missed saying bye to them. Also I had the horribly groggy feeling one has when one oversleeps in the afternoons. The marriage hall itself which was filled with people and laughter the past few days seemed in comparison gloomy and the few lights which were on made it seem dark and dull. We had the night train back to Bangalore that evening. There were a lot of things which we had to carry back from the marriage, including some rice. Bangalore being Bangalore and my dad being my dad would not hire a porter and the exit nearest to where we were only had cabs with no autos. The autos were not allowed in that area and the cabs were exorbitant. Not that I cared about that at that point. All I wanted to do was give the bloody cabbie whatever the heck amount he was asking for and go home. Anyway my dad somehow got a few autos to come that side and we got in as the cabbies and the ineffective traffic cop were asking the auto to get lost. Having reached home with probably around 20 bags, I just wanted to get away from the whole chaotic drama which is an Indian marriage.
The next day was republic day and the day felt like a holiday, brilliant sunshine, and no hustle and bustle of people trying to get to work. The day after that, Monday, January 27th 2003 I left for my trip across the country. I had a flight from Bangalore to Jaipur reaching on the 28th and a flight back from Calcutta to Bangalore on the 13th of February and 17 days in between to travel in anyway I can across Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh, Uttar Pradesh and West Bengal. Travels in India are never as simple as they can be especially with time constraints applied to them. With my lonely planet with me, a budget of around 10 $ a day and around 10 flexible places to visit in 17 days, I was certainly excited about the journey.