Longtime townie Jeff Brunell finally returned to school just before turning thirty. He’s in southern India, completing his graduate field work and taking stock. These are his findings. Follow this link to see all the posts from his journey. The first in the series is titled, Hello Mumbai.
17/6, late o’clock
The scouts found us in Colaba, just like the guidebook warned: wouldn’t we like to be extras in a Bollywood movie?
Not me, but Lena was intrigued. I shared my experience from House of Cards, explaining that being an extra means a long and probably tedious day for nominal payment. No matter; a deal was struck and a time arranged. The studio gopher will be in front of our hotel at 7:45 a.m., and that’s sooner than I care to admit.
Should I forgo this opportunity, I’ll forgive myself.
And I may just, because sickness finally stepped from the wings and jumped all over Lena a couple of hours ago. Michele is being wonderfully conscientious, scouring Web MD to make sure it’s not Dengue Fever. Lena says that we mustn’t bail on the shoot, but in the next breath tells us, “Now I’m cold; now I’m hot.” All signs point away from the highway to promised stardom.
This was a lazy day, or it wanted to be. I followed my bliss and stayed in bed until noon while my roommates did the same. Haltingly, I transcribed the first several pages from my notebook. The cursor was doing that thing where it jumps backward unbidden and if one’s typing too fast, words highlighted for no reason are chewed up by new text. This meant constant saving at paragraphs’ ends, and vigilance even from word to word. It murders any sort of rhythm.
I hacked steadily through while my chicory coffee got cold, Lena napped, and the rain fell. I put on some music for the first time this week and hoped that no one would mind. There’s a lot of stuff that I love on this computer, which Zach so graciously handed-me-down the night before I left Baltimore. Listening to Massive Attack; Beats Antique; TV on the Radio; STRFKR; Jose Gonzalez; The XX; St Vincent; Animal Collective; Atmosphere; The National; and Arcade Fire felt like home, and I felt like cheating. I’d been so sure that we’d stumble across live music in Mumbai, but turning in each night by nine, we haven’t.
My disgust with myself for being the ugly American, corporate café celebrity changed little today. When we finally left the hotel, Lena was in a hurry to reach the Gate of India and ferry to Elephant Island. I had planned to stay in but changed my mind after farming out my laundry and making some headway in note transcription. My wet backpack and its cool new smell snapped my cheap tranquility, and I decided that I’d be miserable for the afternoon if I didn’t first get coffee. I asked to take the key, in case I missed the boat, and dashed ahead for my dumb fix.
Looking sickly and pissed, a dog ambled toward me and barked his contempt. I feebly brandished my rainbow umbrella. Hurrying on, I felt like an ass, an old fat man, a bumbling intruder in a place I knew nothing about. This was underscored by my addiction to crap caffeine and, by extension, the imperial anesthesia of Western culture. Down toward the Gate in mallwalker form, this time I avoided the side of Horniman Park where I’d met the dog. I thought: I must look like the very picture of American tension and ill spirit, clutching a sippy cup and charging along in near panic.
The waterfront plaza is probably ground zero Mumbai tourist trap and I was immediately ambushed; a tour guide who had been trailing my companions turned his luck to me. I said, vaguely, “Whatever they decide,” and Lena rejoined, “It’s the job of the H-U-S-B-A-N-D to make the decisions.”
I told the guide, “I’m sorry, but my wife doesn’t want to go.”
The waves were so choppy that the boats weren’t running, so we stuck to our theme and found a restaurant. I was sad to miss the nauseous seas, but ebbing low enough myself that it seemed for the best. We talked about food justice, raw milk, and Monsanto while we waited for our meal, and I hoped aloud that our program actually prepares us for relevant and impactful work.
Highlight of midday: the restaurant’s bathroom was just four slim marble booths tucked down a short hallway, a simple and sort of elegant way to pee. While I was reflecting on the advantages of the design, a drunk from the bar in back stuck his hand well inside my great American airspace. I accepted his greeting with the hand I’d just been using for aim, and he asked how I liked India. I told him it was beautiful, because that’s the only word I use besides cool, and it’s true.
,
A long wander through Colaba and we hit an area called the CALM Zone, full of sleepy foliage, naval housing, and relatively quiet streets, though it’s near to the southernmost point of Mumbai. Turning back along the city’s western waterfront, we met another exuberant slum. Think, Richard Scarry’s Busytown, or a band with six songwriters. The crow glares at the dog who waits for the cat who’s hogging all of the dead rat which the business man steps over while the old woman gestures to the sky and the kid splashes a puddle onto the guy wheeling twelve teetering gasoline canisters atop a cart set on loose bicycle wheels…
Michele said that her stomach felt funny, though she wondered if it was psychosomatic. I didn’t mention it, but I thought of The Masque of the Red Death.
Rain entered, soaking my last set of clothes. What to do but enjoy the insanity? I’ve never seen moonsoon before- daylong, monthlong, crazy torrents. Again, I was overcome with this city’s neon evening and last-century yellow lights climbing out of parlors, through sheets of water.
Reaching the circle near the bus depot, we disagreed over which way led back to the hotel. Lena and I, two soaked and grumpy Capricorns, pointed in opposite directions from a median in rush hour traffic and both insisted that we knew right. We went with a third way, around the park, and stopped off for morning film-shoot emergency coffee. I asked for advice about rechargeable batteries, since this camera’s power mad, but decided against buying any from the boutique electrical store with marble columns out front. Back on Shahid Bhagat Singh Rd, we stopped for carryout at The Internationale restaurant.
It’s Father’s Day, so I sat on the hotel bed with a plate of dal and used Skype for the first time. Dad sounded happy for the call, but I know he hasn’t been feeling well for the past few weeks. It’s been almost a decade that my parents and I have lived on opposite ends of the U.S., but somehow, being this much farther away drives the usual distance home. Skype is good- I get such a belated rush from old hat technology- and I’m grateful for something warmer than email today.
My clothes arrive in a beautifully wrapped paper parcel bound with twine; garments folded and pressed with stiff paper inside. Small canvas price tags on delicate string are affixed to each item and read like calligraphy. The details floor me: a society infinitely more attuned to nuance than my own, full of subtlety and care, even as it’s more able to shrug off the gritty bits.
Michele coughs. Lena sounds as if she’s in agony. Here’s to tomorrow.
