As Seen in Mumbai... Signs for 36 Million Eyes Only

The British- or mis-spelling, the economy of words when three languages figure on a painted 1'x2' plank, the bright colors always tinged with smog: signs in Mumbai tend to have a very specific look. They remind me of the car of choice, the taxi (50,000 tool around the city), manufactured solely for India by Fiat, always dented and sauntering at 30 mph, always looking like they drove out of Florence in the '60s, always with a Ganesh in swirling neon lights abutting the windshield. Classic Indian signs remind me of these taxis because they are still produced according to the same specs to this day....
This could be a 2007 model, judging by the rustless finish and gougeless facade. (It's "whizzing" past three levels of housing -- the slums, which spring up literally in the middle of sidewalks at times, often have two floors and have corrugated tin roofs, the small apartment buildings, and the larger, unpainted buildings, which tend to be more modern).

This, to the right, is a Goods Carrier truck, the kind I took on my trip to Thane to watch the Gokulashtami festival. Most have English signage, but almost all are reddish-orange and have beautifully painted cabs and bumpers. You can barely make out the medallion at the top with a guiding god or goddess here. They also get dressed up for the holidays. Most cars were wearing orange flower garlands for Dussera, the final day of Navratna, which just ended this week. Although it's a Gujurati holiday, Navratna is very festive in Mumbai, because it celebrates Mahalaxmi, the goddess of wealth, near and dear to Mumbaikars' hearts. Kids play with three sticks, holding two and manipulating the third in between. We were just grateful that it wasn't another drumming holiday--not so good for studying!




Ganesh: First in Space. This is a particularly modern example of the innards of tents that sprung up around the city for Ganesh Chaturthi, a festival honoring the god with a lucky aura and an impish flair. Ganesh may have an elephant's head, but he travels around on a mouse, because a mouse can fit anywhere. I like that.



Every traveller to Mumbai may have a picture of the sign below (it's posted in a touristy area), but I'm happy to be no exception. The most questionable part of the claim to me isn't really about magic--what do I know about magic?--but that you could actually carry out any kind of transaction in Mumbai in "Two Minutes Only." I should have taken this guy up on the offer just for the nostalgia I have for efficiency in general.

My local train station, Matunga Central, features the below offer. This is a famously sexually conservative culture. I recently read an Times of India op-ed article by an indignant resident, railing against the flagrant kissing in Shivaji Park. However, due to governmental family planning messages, the country's a lot more open about the consequences of sex than the US is. But I'm still unclear as to how computarized an abortion can be, and would like to remain ignorant.
The buzzwords for intra-India discrimination are "caste system" but, unfortunately, the practice extends to religious strife and racial inequalities. We actually saw the regulated swimming times enforced in our hotel in Pushkar, which is only the tip of the iceberg in terms of tourist envy. The love-hate relationship with the British occupiers has translated into a worshipful attitude toward white people, and a general acceptance of ripping us off at every turn. Although there's less overt worship of the US than I've found in some other countries, possibly due to the fact that the Bollywood pantheon shines stronger than American stars do as a collective, there is an attitude of deference to individual foreigners that can be harmful at times. The Indian girls in our hostel say that only when we speak up are issues remedied, and we've all caught men taking cell-phone pictures of us on the sly. Skin-lightening is a national craze, so much so that when an African-American friend in the Temple group went to the store to buy Clorox, she was given skin bleach.

In terms of religious conflict, Mumbai erupted in Hindu/Muslim riots in the mid 90s, but things have calmed down considerably since. However, the "Hindustan" nationalist party, the BJP, which has strong ties to the Shiv Sena terrorists, remains a strong presence in Maharashtra, Mumbai's state. The BJP's orange is meant to symbolize Hinduism, whereas Islam is generally represented by green, with mosques are painted that color as well. My neighborhood is next to Dadar, where the BJP is headquartered, and walking down the street, I found this scrawl:

Although I can't be certain what the writer was invoking, I doubt that he or she was declaiming against environmentalism or Kermit.

Signage in general is a big deal in a country where combatting illiteracy is a governmental priority. We're all tempted to steal this sign, but then we'd run the risk of leaving crying toilets and poop-strewn tiles!












We've also observed that there's an unfulfilled niche in India: the western-style tourism consultancy firm. India loses buckets of money on awkward inefficiencies in museums, forts, and palaces, not to mention misunderstandings at hotels and restaurants. I'm not advocating a major change in cultural scope in general, just a basic reorientation in places specifically serving outsiders. There are also efforts undertaken which represent misplaced effort, or are generally mystifying. Read bench:
We came across the bench in Goa, which does cater to mostly European tourists. Some other signs found there included this dubious claim:Daniella's remained closed during our stay in Goa, possibly serving as another example of Man misunderstanding God's best efforts to enliven small parties.

For those "no fear" types who can't get close enough to tobacco, we found the following offer:












Returning to Mumbai, there's a self-proclaimed hospital which stands across the street from our hostel. As tribute to the long tradition of Huntingtons finding non-sequitur signage while traveling, such as the beauty parlor/township museum, I present the following:

You might think it's a little odd, but I have yet to see a monobrow or mole among the mostly over-80 population. Which really says something.










These "pure for sure" signs turn up at almost every gas station, illustrating differentiation strategies for commodity retailers, and making a base-level handy joke for the rest of us. But there's more. Rachel, in blue, has lived in Brazil, where the "OK" sign is a very foul gesture, regarding the condition of purity of one's antagonist's mother.









There are all sorts of directives in India, but not a ton of respect for the law. If flattery will get you anywhere in the US, here, it's money. They pay police so little that many are reduced to taking bribes to feed their families, which is reinforced by few repurcussions. But people here love laying down the law, even if follow-through is minimal. The sign below becomes a plaintive request in a city where trashcans are tiny and infrequent (and indoors, the size of toilet-bowl cleaner stands--what am I supposed to put in that, a gum wrapper?!).

One of my favorites is "Do Not Spit". People need to be constantly reminded of this one. I have come across these signs behind the counter of the tourist assistance window in the main train station as well as inside of a church.

We can conclude the tour with the most common sign in Mumbai. My classmates and I couldn't wait to figure out what "bean bags" were. We were sure they was illegal, or at least entertainment-related. The guerilla marketing covers the city's cement scape, with fairly little competition. Well, it turns out that bean bags are just that. Cheap seating destined to bust and create an ocean of foam balls in several months. Like Mumbai--a quick fix on the fly, straining under humans' weight, and not built to last. . .

Eau de Goa

Goa, the smallest state in India, was conquered by Vasco de Gama and is heavily Catholic today, but is mostly known as a beach resort for Bangaloreans, Mumbaikars, and British vacationers ranging in color from ivory to brick, depending on minutes in the sun. The pristine beaches lie to the south, where we (13 classmates, me and 3 Danish joiners) didn't get to really explore. We were in the tourist district, albeit during the off-season. The beach pictured, Baga beach, features shack restaurants made of palm fronds and tarp, serving up sandwiches with "lattis" and employees on the beach front enticing you with offers of "lounge chair," Kingfisher (the ubiquitous Indian beer), and, in one special establishment, "English toilet." We didn't go in the water because riptides are prevalent at the end of monsoon season, and because we walked by the sewage pipe on the way to eat.

We spent several hours over a few days exploring Panaji or Panjim, depending on whether you favor the Hindi or Portuguese rendition of the Goan capital. Since India has so many languages in the mix, there are often more than one way to spell and pronounce place names--for example, you can pronounce the Maharashtran city, Pune, either "POO-nay" or "POO-nuh" and I've caught people doing both in the same sentence. It makes things a little easier for those of us who don't instinctively know.

Panaji is a port city with a beautiful market and great places to eat. Goan cuisine is heavy on seafood, marrying Portuguese and Indian spices. We found a fantastic fish curry at a restaurant in town, a thinner thai red curry marinating a small pomfret with sides of okra and rice, which came to about 85 cents. I couldn't take a picture because I was basically distinguishing my classmates across the table by sound, unfortunately. As advertised, the place was partially air-conditioned (not our part) and they also saved some rupees on lighting fixtures by abstaining from buying them. Below are Colin, Ben and Rachel, and Forest who may be blind now from emerging without sunglasses.

Goan drinks are not as user-friendly as the food. We were told that notches on coconut palms are footholds for toddy-tappers climbing up to extract coconut sap which is turned into one of two varieties of feni, the other being cashew feni. When Rachel tried to order it, the waiter explained that it is ok if you mix it with "enough of anything," but only "if you don't mind the stink." After several reassurances that she would like to try it, followed by several gentle reminders about the smell, Rachel discovered why Goa exports salt to Dubai and cashews to the rest of India, but not a ton of feni.

We also managed to locate a few places to avoid on your next visit, including:

We hit the market several days later, on the hunt for tacky shell sculptures, nonsensical English t-shirts, and shoes that would fit only our hands. We were in luck. Although I didn't buy the "Tennis Party Girl" shirt, Rachel found a Ganesh icon made entirely out of shells and visible glue and Colin located a belt that said "The Tiger Club" and then listed Rolling Stones songs.
Indian markets are filled with people stringing marigolds and roses, which are bought to hang in temples and on altars in homes.

Many of the stalls were closing up and I'd seen a guy grabbing armloads of marigolds and dropping them into a bag to keep for the night. I asked him to repeat the action for a picture, but he misinterpreted what I'd wanted to see. . .
It seems like a comparatively cushy job in Goa, since in Mumbai, the flower market in my neighborhood features four workers per double-decker 7-foot hut, where flower stringers work and sleep (check under the tables).
Back in Panaji, the fish market was by far the most exciting, mostly because I haven't been down to the one in Mumbai yet. I'm not sure who fishes in Goa, but the selling seems to be in the hands of the women.

Sometimes they make exceptions.

Happy Krishna

Gokulashtami started because Krishna's mom had the same idea as mine: when your kid wants some food that's not so good for them, elevate it. While my mom had the "lady jar" of cookies and candy in the high cupboard, the deity's mother combatted Krishna's penchant for ghee (yes, that's clarified butter) by hanging a clay pot of the good stuff from a rope by just under the ceiling of their home. To honor Krishna on his birthday the people of the state of Maharashtra suspend clay pots from several stories up in plazas and along streets and compete in building human pyramids to break the pots, which rain a fuchsia liquid. The lucky kid at the zenith happens to break the pots with his or her head, which seems to have no specific ceremonial significance, but works to offset the balance of the pyramid more times than not. Said kid is also often wearing a neon bike helmet, which is advisable since medics are attentive but supplies are minimal.
The picture to the right shows a group of neighborhood guys around the boys' hostel in Sion hanging the pot the night before on a rope with gorgeous floral arrangements. Krishna was born at midnight, so there's a traditional puja, or worship service for him at that time. The photos below show the puja set-up and sweet cakes at the business school on Tuesday. Captain Kanade, the pesticide and internet superhero (our contact for all things lodging) is standing next to the man with the tray.

After several practice rounds and a puja out back, the Welingkar Institute mens' and womens' Dahi Handi teams mounted the steps at the front of the building while students who were not participating sprayed them with garden hoses and tossed flours and confetti from the first balcony. Meanwhile, sneaky cafeteria employees, maids and security guards dumped buckets of water on the crowd and the students on the balcony below, leaping away from the railings when the victims craned their necks back. The band was deafening and the students, who are from all over India, competed in terms of regional dancing. I kept getting pulled into circles and getting laughed at as I tried to imitate each style.
This picture shows the sopping result of instruments, confetti, hoses, buckets, and previously unwashed Welingkar Institute blue t-shirts, whose dyes ran with abandon. Below is a shot of onlookers on Napoo Street, facing the steps.


This shot to the right shows the smallest member of the boy's team breaking the ghee pot outside the school, which was a thrill to watch, but the two tour buses and three cargo trucks were waiting to take us to Thane, an area north of Matunga, where 25,000 people were rumored to have gathered every year. You can see the red cargo trucks in the pictures of Napoo: these are the propellers of the Indian economy. Transport of cargo by train is highly unionized ($), regulated ($$), and yet also corrupt($$$), so companies use these trucks to haul goods from manufacturing centers to cities. They all have "GOODS CARRIER" artistically painted on the front and "HORN OK PLEASE" in the same style on the back. This is due to the fact that side mirrors are a liability in the close traffic of Mumbai and a luxury that is often quickly reappropriated everywhere, so it's necessary to sound your horn to indicate that you're behind someone. The city is harmoniously filled with call-and-response beeps of all shapes and sizes. They call it "horning."
As you can see, the trucks are commandeered on Gokulashtami to haul Dahi Handi teams to competition sites. Our truck is in the background. I got to spend a half-hour holding on to the high sides, listening to students singing Hindi songs and teaching American camp songs (we came up with "Roll Over" and "The Ants Go Marching" -- strong refrains being key) while the scenery whizzed by on an Indian highway. We were of course soaked from earlier, but the students had the ingenious (if not original, apparently) idea of throwing and smearing pink/red powder liberally on each other, the truck, and us.
So we arrived in Thane, wet and hoarse, turning everything we touched a little purple, and were informed that it was not a very safe crowd for women, so the men were to link arms in a large circle around us, and we were to move as a unit to the plaza. By "not a safe crowd for women," they meant that our group contained the only women present, among thousands of people. Women had just begun competing in Dahi Handi events two years ago, apparently, and they have not yet become sightseers. We were herded over to the foot of the main stage with much urgency, which turned out to be a great vantage point. DJ Akil, a big name in India, was dropping "Pump Up the Jam" as we arrived, seguing into Indian favorites later on, like the one that you dance to by leaning in and out of the circle (like the hokey pokey, but with class). My music education has not really gotten off the ground here. . .
Both Welingkar Teams successfully maintained their pyramids from start to finish, and while the international students were congratulating them, we realized that we were being summoned onstage. We climbed plastic stacking chairs to get to the stage, where the MC welcomed us by telling Indians that the country has reached a point where foreigners are seeking to educate themselves here. He pulled my friend Stella to the front, and announced that the Chicagoan who has lived in Switzerland for the past two years had come all the way from Africa. She demurely refrained from mentioning that she had in fact come farther. Then we were all invited to dance onstage, which was a little embarrassing, especially when I learned that I'd made it to a Hindi newscast. Here are some views from the main stage:

Actually, a female onlooker did arrive while we were in Thane, clad in a lacy tanktop, jeans, and plenty of makeup. We asked our friends who she was as she addressed the crowd. The answer: a celebrity, which should have been evident by her close attention to maintaining a pale skin color, which is a big deal here--the #1 skincare brand is Fair and Lovely, which used to run commercials showing that darker-skinned women couldn't get married. Apparently, it was anyone's guess as to which celebrity this celebrity was, though, despite the hue. (I guess I'm not the only one claiming to be almost famous. . .)



The highest pyramid that I saw is featured below--six stories!! As you can see, the team was nowhere near touching the ghee pot, which had an uncanny trick of raising and lowering for different teams, which may have been due to different divisions of participation, whims, bribes, or, of course, the will of Krishna. The Welingkar teams' pujas had worked, and they walked home with trophies, a given for the Welingkar womens' team which faced no rival Thane Toppling Queens or Sion Stacking Stormtroopers, for example. The last picture shown is the one that ran in the Times of India. I should be getting a burned copy of the Hindi newscast soon, but I don't know how likely I am to want to share it! The next festival, right after my September-term finals, is Ganesh Chaturthi, where elephant-sized statues of Ganesh are paraded into the Arabian Sea, statues being the only thing to safely submerge in the oceans here, unfortunately.
As a side note, I'm getting a better handle on Hindi, and while almost everyone around Mumbai has been very open and kind, I've met a few people who I'm getting to know better outside of our group of international Temple students, which is doing wonders to combat the stir-crazy nature of cooping 15 people together in the same room for 36+ hours of lectures a week! My October-December schedule will free things up, and I'll have more time to get a more holistic experience, and more time to write, too.

In A Tiffin

Happiness is a warm tiffin at 7:30 . . . this is my tiffin, a thermos (minus any cartoon affiliations) loaded with hot vegetarian Indian foodstuffs. Every night the tiffin man comes, wearing shorts (rare here) and a combover (more prevalent, but not so common as the mustache) and looking like he just came off of a golf course in Augusta, bearing about 25 plastic thermoses for the girls living in our hostel. He speaks better English than most of the shopkeepers here, and is unfailingly friendly and attentive. He saw that we weren't eating the home-packaged yogurt (partially because people insist on calling it "curd," which sounds inedible to begin with) and started getting us Dahi brand, a respectable yogurt here. He charges about 75 cents a day for a full meal in stackable metal dishes: each night we get white rice, roti (indian wheat tortillas), lentil soup of some fashion--could be yellow, could be brown--and an entree. There's also a little plastic container of cucumbers and limes which I'm not supposed to eat, but I don't know how long I can really hold out. Entrees range from really spicy green beans to barbeque-spiced kidney beans to spicy cauliflower to spicy potatoes. There seems to be a theme. . . but I think it's all great. We all spend a little too much time relating digestive stories here, but I've been incredibly lucky so far (knock on Redwood). Also, I've been eating tiffins for three weeks and haven't paid a dime yet. He bills at the end of the month. My bill will be $19.50 for a whole month of dinners Monday-Saturday. Below is the typical spread:
Since Mumbai's a large city, many workers don't get to go home for lunch, and others who come from the villages make a trip about once a month. Actually, we've found out that the cafeteria workers at the business school live there, sleeping on the cafeteria floors at night. Just like Horn & Hardart's replicated home-cooked meals in the big cities of the early and mid-twentieth century, Mumbai has establishments with signs outside saying "Lunch Home." It is the same language, they just use it differently. We realized quickly that we weren't really welcome in these places when looking around we were the only women inside and while others were served in 5 minutes, our lunch took over 45, but in general I haven't felt unwelcome often, which is more than I can say for a lot of tourists and immigrants in Philadelphia, I'm sure.

Matunga Central

Here are some scenes from my neighborhood, Matunga, named after the train station down the street. Unfortunately, there are two Matungas in Mumbai. I'm all for giving the other one an alternate name, but others seem to disagree.
My school is a large modern building, just a few blocks away from my dorm, on the main street, "Napoo."







There's a market just a few blocks away where you can get a DVD player, a guava, nailpolish, etc.

This is my favorite picture so far, taken right outside of the market. I'd have zoomed in on the vendor's face, but I wanted to show the atmosphere in the background, too. . .
I'm going to catch an American/Bollywood film, but I'll post more pictures later this weekend.

Namaste!. . . Hello?

Welcome to Mumbai! The picture above is the gate of my hostel out to the street--big, leafy palms and other trees, crumbling slate (?) sidewalks and the occasional car. It's a sleepy pathway, two blocks removed from a bustling market street:


I soon learned that the only word of Hindi that I know, the greeting "namaste," is pretty much obsolete in the big city, especially among the more cosmopolitan crowd. When I asked some of the girls in my dorm (called a hostel) how to say "thank you" in the semi-official Indian language, they all looked at each other for a moment before telling me that I'd seem pretty antiquated if I tried to use it. My best bet is to go with plain old "thank you."

It's taken me a while to share my first posting--I've been here for a whole week now, but some things are slow going around here, like internet hookups. Just like in the US, the IT guys have their own odd corner (their nook is shared at the college with a separate glassed-in room where the server sits in brightly-lit wired isolation like an electric-chair victim), their own secrets, and apparently, their own timetable. There's a fluidity of time best described, I think by the following actual conversation:
Me: "So you said that your servicemen were going to be here at 4:00 pm yesterday and we waited for them for three hours."
IT: "Yes. They will be there today. What time will you be home?"
"What time should we be home?"
"Well, 4:00. They'll be there 4:00, 4:30."
"No problem. We'll be here at 4:00 to let you in."
"Yes, they'll be there 4:30, maybe 5:00."
"Ok. But will they really be there?"
"Yes. 5:00, 5:30 maybe."
This chronological line of bargaining went on for several days. And just like in a modern Indian fairytale, the third time was the charm.
Meanwhile, my roommate's modem blew out temporarily somehow, and we were wondering if they had chug-through tech support stops for Dell customers on autorickshaws.

I have more pictures and many more experiences to post in the next few days, just not more time tonight. "Thank you" for reading. . . did I pronounce it right?

So you're moving to India . . .

This pending move has been difficult for a lot of people to fathom (including myself). My friends are excited, my family's curious, and as for others, well, there have been a spectrum of reactions. Some people have been concerned about my preparations, making sure that I "don't eat too much curry before I go," and that it's occurred to me to get a visa. Others are more interested in my trip itself. While many people have expressed concern about health precautions, some are focusing on cultural exchange and sensitivity to diverse ways of living. I have been warmly cautioned by two people, "don't fall in love with a guru," seeing through my protestations that I'm not going to Mumbai for 5 months just to find a husband. A concerned acquaintance notably asked if I'd have to wear a burqa (?!). Only for powerpoint presentations. Helps with masking public speaking-related facial tics.

My travel medicine provider told me a story about how the day after she moved her son to college for his freshman year, the boy who sat across from him at the dining hall breakfast fell ill and died of meningitis. Thinking of the New Jersey-on-steroids population density stats, I sprang for the vaccine. She also advised me, after I opted out of the $700 rabies shot series, not to pet cows, even if they "look cute." I've often said there's nothing more adorable than a rabid cow, so this might be a particularly difficult hurdle for me, lonely in a foreign country.

Some people did proffer incredibly helpful information: one of my new classmates gave me information for Suma Travels, a midtown Manhattan discount travel agency which caters mostly to Indians in America planning visits home. I'd highly recommend their rates for anyone interested in traveling to India soon (*visiting me*).

In terms of my preparations, I've gotten my shots and Typhoid pills (which need to be refrigerated at 46F max, but I was permitted to carry home from the doctor's in 95-degree heat), bought my tickets and gave my notice at both jobs. I've paid my last month's rent at the trash-moated South Street Castle.

But I'm still approaching malaria limbo (how $high can you go). Pill D costs $.60 per day but causes digestive problems and other lovely issues. Pill M has virtually no side effects, but costs $6 a day. Pill L is affordable taken only once a week, but can cause and intensify depression. None are covered by my insurance. Since my tourist visa will render me inelegible for a call-center job, I'm not looking kindly on taking out a loan to cover preventative malaria costs on Pill M ($900 total), but Pill D's warnings would compound math homework and the expected constant low-grade stomach disturbance. So I'm hoping against hope that Powerball comes through and/or Pill L doesn't shut me down. . . and wondering what others have selected.


P.S. Thanks, Alli, for titling my blog. Genius at work.