Tuesday, December 5, 2006
“LEAVE & LET LIVE” says this morning’s Mumbai Mirror, describing how residents are vacating the city before tomorrow’s civil rights rally in Shivaji Park just up the street. Nearly one million Dalits – formerly known as “untouchables” – are expected to converge tomorrow on my neighborhood to commemorate the 50th anniversary of Dr. Ambedkar’s death. He was their Martin Luther King. Jr., and he, too, preached non-violence, but last week the Dalits were burning commuter trains, wrecking shops and I could hear gunfire from Worli Village a few blocks away. Army and police are everywhere.
But this morning I’m thinking about this fucking crow.
The crow harangues the dawn each day from the ledge of the fourteenth floor of my apartment tower overlooking Mahim Bay. He makes his racket a few windows away from mine, perched underneath a neighbor’s rusty air conditioner. Pigeons waddle forth with embarrassed cooing from their night nests beneath other rusting air conditioners and flap away into the pale sky.
The crow calls out across the curving expanse of the bay, where the trash-strewn tide rushes in retreat from the defiled shore toward the Arabian Sea. Countless herons rise, turning and wheeling in white billowing puffs, a reproach to the festering putrescence of the mud flats below where nonetheless, swooping down to settle in the muck, they will dig up their morning repast.
It’s a mystery to me why this crow, grey collared like some perverse, defrocked cleric, comes to this particular perch to make such an annoying din but, day after day, there he is. He must know that this apartment tower has twenty-seven floors, each one boasting myriad shit-stained crow-friendly ledges. He surely knows, tooling around as he does with his equally noisy buddies, that this building is only one of the so-called Twin Towers erected on the grounds of the long defunct Bombay Dye Works, doubling the number of available ledges. And even his bird brain must have registered the half-dozen taller apartment towers in Prabhadevi and the Worli Hills along the waterside, offering an infinite number and variety of perches from which cacophonous crows can pester the buildings’ high-rent paying inhabitants. Why this guy picks mine, I don’t know… until just now.
I’m watching him tilt his head up, open his ebony beak and catch the drops dropping steadily from the air conditioner. And now it all makes sense, the crazy way things always do here. It’s his wake-up juice, his Bloody Mary, a cocktail of dust, oxidized metals, refrigerant leakage, garden variety toxins, and condensed hot water for mixer. He’s getting stoned on the stuff and is not ashamed to “crow” about it.
What he’s drinking is probably highly addictive but then again, probably not much worse for his health than anything else this neighborhood is serving. He’s still standing, isn’t he? Like me, after a week and half in India. Like just about everyone else who lives in this irresistibly poisonous city. I think I understand him now. We’re birds of a feather, so to speak. Residents of Bombay – for at least a while, anyway.
So, the fridge is stocked with food and Kingfisher beer. I’ve given my houseboy Mohan tomorrow off. He tells me “every year a bomb blast, sir. It’s compulsory.” We’ll see what happens, just me and the crow… from the fourteenth floor.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
DOWN IN THE STREETS
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Dalits are cool.
From all over India they streamed into my neighborhood by the hundreds of thousands. The throngs of people who used to be called “untouchables” wore white in honor of their leader, Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, the fiftieth anniversary of his death being the reason much of Bombay was shut down today. Men in crisp kurtas and Nehru hats, women in flowing saris with kids in tow, their hair neatly cut and combed. Far from the violent threat that the Bombay papers had been headlining for days, this was holiday time.
The line to get into the main event at Shivaji Park, about twenty blocks away under the hot sun, started right outside the window of the Coffee Day where I ventured for my customary cappuccino at ten this morning. When I came back for my usual pick-me-up double espresso at three in the afternoon, the end of the line was still there, but perhaps a half million people had passed by in the intervening hours.
Caffeine-fueled, I set off down the middle of the street towards Shivaji Park. Traffic has been banned. Without the choking fumes and life-threatening daily dodge-em of vehicular madness, my neighborhood seemed lovely, joyous – despite the troops stationed on every corner carrying AK47s, plain clothes cops surveilling the crowd from temporary platforms. The vendors were also taking advantage of the once-a-year pedestrian mall. I bought some Dr. Ambedkar souvenirs, including a pin with his image – the bespectacled visage of a kindly accountant. I stuck it on and imagined myself, probably the only Caucasian citizen of the USA amongst the masses of dark-skinned folks for as far as the eye could see, just one of the crowd.
But a man with an official badge stopped me and a small mob gathered around. It seems I’d stuck the pin on my shirt slightly askew and the man would not let me continue until he’d pinned it on correctly. A drunk who "desecrated" a statue of Dr. Ambedkar two weeks ago had caused days of rioting. I hoped I hadn't desecrated the good doctor by wearing him upside down. The official guy struggled with the pin and… Ouch! I pretended he’d stuck me. Everyone cracked up. Finally he got it right and smiled. I thanked him in Hindi and suddenly everyone was shaking my hand.
“Where you from?”
“America!” I said.
From all over India they streamed into my neighborhood by the hundreds of thousands. The throngs of people who used to be called “untouchables” wore white in honor of their leader, Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, the fiftieth anniversary of his death being the reason much of Bombay was shut down today. Men in crisp kurtas and Nehru hats, women in flowing saris with kids in tow, their hair neatly cut and combed. Far from the violent threat that the Bombay papers had been headlining for days, this was holiday time.
The line to get into the main event at Shivaji Park, about twenty blocks away under the hot sun, started right outside the window of the Coffee Day where I ventured for my customary cappuccino at ten this morning. When I came back for my usual pick-me-up double espresso at three in the afternoon, the end of the line was still there, but perhaps a half million people had passed by in the intervening hours.
Caffeine-fueled, I set off down the middle of the street towards Shivaji Park. Traffic has been banned. Without the choking fumes and life-threatening daily dodge-em of vehicular madness, my neighborhood seemed lovely, joyous – despite the troops stationed on every corner carrying AK47s, plain clothes cops surveilling the crowd from temporary platforms. The vendors were also taking advantage of the once-a-year pedestrian mall. I bought some Dr. Ambedkar souvenirs, including a pin with his image – the bespectacled visage of a kindly accountant. I stuck it on and imagined myself, probably the only Caucasian citizen of the USA amongst the masses of dark-skinned folks for as far as the eye could see, just one of the crowd.
But a man with an official badge stopped me and a small mob gathered around. It seems I’d stuck the pin on my shirt slightly askew and the man would not let me continue until he’d pinned it on correctly. A drunk who "desecrated" a statue of Dr. Ambedkar two weeks ago had caused days of rioting. I hoped I hadn't desecrated the good doctor by wearing him upside down. The official guy struggled with the pin and… Ouch! I pretended he’d stuck me. Everyone cracked up. Finally he got it right and smiled. I thanked him in Hindi and suddenly everyone was shaking my hand.
“Where you from?”
“America!” I said.
“We love you America!” they shouted… none of us untouchable.
ON THE BEACH
Thursday, December 7, 2006
The full moon pulls the tide in Mahim Bay up as far as it will go, so that the water laps at the walls of the shanty town just to the south of Twin Towers where, from my fourteenth floor apartment, I watch The waters swallow the long jetty down the beach.
Ebb tide leaves a wide stretch of mud flats for people to stroll about, cast fishing nets in the shallows or use as a common toilet. From my window this morning as the sun rose I spied a couple dozen folks all squatting down, nonchalantly doing their business. When the tide rolls back in later, half a dozen kids swim and splash around without a care.
Feeling unusually healthy I did some stretching, and then decided to take a run on the beach. The Twin Towers security guard was at first hesitant to let me jump the seawall - there is no gate or passage due to the nightly homeless encampments and hookers of various gender plying their trade - but he waited until he was sure his boss wasn’t looking, then waved me over.
I jumped down and started running along and here’s just a sampling of the things I saw on the sand:
1) coconuts and turds, mostly indistinguishable
2) flower garlands pitched into the water to please the Gods
3) a drowned puppy
4) a policeman’s cap
5) an enormous python, deceased
6) a few sad seashells
I came to a point on the beach where five chimneys vomiting foul fumes created an impassable fog, turned around and trotted back, trying not to look at the sand for fear of what else might have washed up.
When I got back to Twin Towers I had to bribe the security dude twenty rupees to let me climb back over. I would have gladly given him twenty dollars or even two hundred. I think that was my first and last attempt at athletics on the beach here at Mahim Bay, and at this point I will pour myself a drink.
The full moon pulls the tide in Mahim Bay up as far as it will go, so that the water laps at the walls of the shanty town just to the south of Twin Towers where, from my fourteenth floor apartment, I watch The waters swallow the long jetty down the beach.
Ebb tide leaves a wide stretch of mud flats for people to stroll about, cast fishing nets in the shallows or use as a common toilet. From my window this morning as the sun rose I spied a couple dozen folks all squatting down, nonchalantly doing their business. When the tide rolls back in later, half a dozen kids swim and splash around without a care.
Feeling unusually healthy I did some stretching, and then decided to take a run on the beach. The Twin Towers security guard was at first hesitant to let me jump the seawall - there is no gate or passage due to the nightly homeless encampments and hookers of various gender plying their trade - but he waited until he was sure his boss wasn’t looking, then waved me over.
I jumped down and started running along and here’s just a sampling of the things I saw on the sand:
1) coconuts and turds, mostly indistinguishable
2) flower garlands pitched into the water to please the Gods
3) a drowned puppy
4) a policeman’s cap
5) an enormous python, deceased
6) a few sad seashells
I came to a point on the beach where five chimneys vomiting foul fumes created an impassable fog, turned around and trotted back, trying not to look at the sand for fear of what else might have washed up.
When I got back to Twin Towers I had to bribe the security dude twenty rupees to let me climb back over. I would have gladly given him twenty dollars or even two hundred. I think that was my first and last attempt at athletics on the beach here at Mahim Bay, and at this point I will pour myself a drink.
THE SOFT PARADE
Monday, December 11, 2006
The flamingoes are late. I’m on the lookout for pink. The Hindustan Times says they usually arrive in Bombay mid-November and here it is nearly Christmas. There ought to be some long pink necks out there in the tidal flats of Mahim Bay beyond my window at the so-called Twin Towers, the apartment complex occupying the bayside of the Bombay Dyeing Compound, one of the many defunct mills from Bombay’s textile industry past.
I’m not saying I’m bored with the white herons standing in the mud, thousands of them like Chiclets tossed by some kid in a tantrum, or the daily Pigeons-vs.-Hawks skirmishes. I am still amused by the antic green parrots dangling upside down from window railings. And the damned crows making their constant racket are beginning to sound almost like music. Almost. It’s all quite a show. But a flamingo or two would be something.
I’d also like a cheeseburger and the other morning I could have used some aspirin. Friday night I got a call from Ben (who generously offers that as alternative to his given name which is all consonants) to say it was Jim Morrison's birthday and would I like to get together with some friends to mark the occasion properly?
Ben showed up at Twin Towers at about eight. He had his buddy Anupam with him along with a bag of cold Kingfisher beers and a stack of Doors CDs, including some rare stuff I’d never even heard. From Prabhadevi to Bandra, an hour and a half journey through the jammed Mahim carnival streets and across the slum-skirting flyovers, we slammed down Kingfisher and sang along with the late, great Lizard King. Ben’s driver, bless his soul, kept his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel.
A Bombay native, Ben recently moved back to his home town with his wife and teenage daughters from New Jersey after a 25-year stint in East Coast investment banking. India is "where the action is now," he says, and is putting together a fund that will fuel this country's amazing economy. But Bombay in the Sixties was his era, a time when rock was overtaking raga among the city’s hipster youth. When we got to his rather splendid apartment in Bandra, Ben’s gang from the old days was there.
“What was wonderful when I got back,” Ben says, “was that we all just picked up where we'd left off.”
Here was Nandoo Bhende, known as the Granddaddy of Indian Rock, drummer and lead singer for pioneering Bombay groups in the Sixties. He’s best known for playing Judas in the long-running India production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Also on tap was Naren, one of Bombay’s top music journalists and a consultant to Warner/EMI. And Anupam, who does something in the carpet business, but is a rock n’ roll fanatic, knows all the words to all the songs and plays most excellent air guitar.
We smoked cigarettes, drank whisky, talked music, sang along with Jim and ate superb take-out from one of Bandra’s best eateries. Ben’s daughters tip-toed through from time to time, rolling their eyes. The wife was away somewhere. It was just a guys’ rave-up and a rare night it was.
Swerving along the jagged streets after midnight in the cab back to Prabhadevi, through the acrid mist of trash fires with strange eyes peering from countless abysmal alleyways, Anupam, Naren and I intoned “Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,” and “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” A John Lennon number was added, out of respect for the fact that Dec. 9 was not only Jim Morrison’s birthday but also the anniversary of Lennon’s death… Imagine.
Postscript: Ben and I in Bandra in 2008 hitting the hookah.
The flamingoes are late. I’m on the lookout for pink. The Hindustan Times says they usually arrive in Bombay mid-November and here it is nearly Christmas. There ought to be some long pink necks out there in the tidal flats of Mahim Bay beyond my window at the so-called Twin Towers, the apartment complex occupying the bayside of the Bombay Dyeing Compound, one of the many defunct mills from Bombay’s textile industry past.
I’m not saying I’m bored with the white herons standing in the mud, thousands of them like Chiclets tossed by some kid in a tantrum, or the daily Pigeons-vs.-Hawks skirmishes. I am still amused by the antic green parrots dangling upside down from window railings. And the damned crows making their constant racket are beginning to sound almost like music. Almost. It’s all quite a show. But a flamingo or two would be something.
I’d also like a cheeseburger and the other morning I could have used some aspirin. Friday night I got a call from Ben (who generously offers that as alternative to his given name which is all consonants) to say it was Jim Morrison's birthday and would I like to get together with some friends to mark the occasion properly?
Ben showed up at Twin Towers at about eight. He had his buddy Anupam with him along with a bag of cold Kingfisher beers and a stack of Doors CDs, including some rare stuff I’d never even heard. From Prabhadevi to Bandra, an hour and a half journey through the jammed Mahim carnival streets and across the slum-skirting flyovers, we slammed down Kingfisher and sang along with the late, great Lizard King. Ben’s driver, bless his soul, kept his eyes on the road and his hands upon the wheel.
A Bombay native, Ben recently moved back to his home town with his wife and teenage daughters from New Jersey after a 25-year stint in East Coast investment banking. India is "where the action is now," he says, and is putting together a fund that will fuel this country's amazing economy. But Bombay in the Sixties was his era, a time when rock was overtaking raga among the city’s hipster youth. When we got to his rather splendid apartment in Bandra, Ben’s gang from the old days was there.
“What was wonderful when I got back,” Ben says, “was that we all just picked up where we'd left off.”
Here was Nandoo Bhende, known as the Granddaddy of Indian Rock, drummer and lead singer for pioneering Bombay groups in the Sixties. He’s best known for playing Judas in the long-running India production of Jesus Christ Superstar. Also on tap was Naren, one of Bombay’s top music journalists and a consultant to Warner/EMI. And Anupam, who does something in the carpet business, but is a rock n’ roll fanatic, knows all the words to all the songs and plays most excellent air guitar.
We smoked cigarettes, drank whisky, talked music, sang along with Jim and ate superb take-out from one of Bandra’s best eateries. Ben’s daughters tip-toed through from time to time, rolling their eyes. The wife was away somewhere. It was just a guys’ rave-up and a rare night it was.
Swerving along the jagged streets after midnight in the cab back to Prabhadevi, through the acrid mist of trash fires with strange eyes peering from countless abysmal alleyways, Anupam, Naren and I intoned “Hey Mr. Tambourine Man,” and “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” A John Lennon number was added, out of respect for the fact that Dec. 9 was not only Jim Morrison’s birthday but also the anniversary of Lennon’s death… Imagine.
Postscript: Ben and I in Bandra in 2008 hitting the hookah.
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