Universal Dirt

The cold fell from the heavens overnight, and it held the dust to the ground as morning broke in Pune. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to dance through the frozen fog. My colleague and I had already been travelling for an hour through the city, and at this point we were beginning to feel those 7am hunger pains. Some steam was coming out of a kitchen on the side of the road, so we pulled over for breakfast.

The restaurant had only outdoor seating, but without any alternatives, we sat to eat in the cold. I ordered a masala dosa and a black coffee. Shivering in the cold and without warm clothes, Shipra and I started up a conversation to warm our mouths at least. Like most of my conversations, it started with where I wanted to go in India.

“You know, I’d really like to go to Ladakh.”

“Ohhh yes, that place is rrreally nice,” she curled her tongue back on the ‘r’, “you should take the Volvo sleeper,” referring to the overnight bus.

I appreciated the comment. In Mumbai, everyone assumes plane travel first, but out here that luxury is an afterthought – a last resort if the trip is really necessary. Bus and train travel were the assumptions, and I soaked up the change of pace.

“Yeah I’ve actually always wanted to do an overnight trip like that. By train too.”

“Oh yeah, it’s very nice. You leave Bombay in the evening, maybe around 8pm, and you can be in Delhi by the morning. With Ladakh it’s a little further, but…” she gave a slight Indian nod, and twisted her hand.

“I also want to see the Himalayas.”

This conversation continued, and eventually we discussed agricultural college programs in the U.S. and India. She had graduated from a state agricultural university in India, and explained the real world experience of the program, including a year of growing your own crop and selling to market – to better understand the farmer. I meekly mentioned Cornell had a class on tractors.

The dosas and coffee came, and we dug into the steaming crispy fried goodness. The conversation continued, our breaths freezing in the air, but our words weren’t. There were a few other customers huddled over warm food. Their words came to my ears, but not into my brain. Were they farmers talking about their crops? Truck drivers complaining about the traffic yesterday? Transients seeking nirvana? I’d never know, but it was nice at least hearing these words.

After washing our hands in the frigidly cold sink on the side of the building, we were back in the warm van, grumbling along the Pune-Solapur highway. The sun had entered the scene, and scared off some of the cold, freeing up the dust and clearing up the view. We were in the sugar belt of India, and the fields of sugarcane went off in the distance. Scattered in between and amongst the acres of sugarcane, there were other crops too. Rice, onions, corn, sorghum.

After turning off the Pune-Solapur highway, we bumped along a dirt road for a few miles. The dust leapt up behind the van, now completely free to rise to the heavens; it was nearly 85 degrees at this point. We passed two workers who were shucking corn. Behind them was a huge pile of golden yellow corn cobs, and in front was an even larger pile of dried, tan, un-shucked ears. They had obviously done this task in their sleep, because as we drove by, they both watched us pass, but their hands couldn’t be bothered. They continued with a mechanical efficiency. They didn’t smile as we passed. Their skin was dark and wrinkled from the sun, and the whites of their eyes had yellowed from a lifetime of hard, honest work. They were genuine.

The driver stopped after we hit a large rock. He refused to go any further because he didn’t want to damage anything. We obliged, and continued the last stretch on foot. A bullock cart piled high with a fresh harvest of sugarcane crawled past, with a farmer dressed in white riding high above, on top of the cart. We came up to another farmer’s house. It was modest, and the dealer accompanying us yelled something in Hindi as we approached. A young man, maybe 18, came out from the house, clothed in a dirty, loose, red tank top and boxer shorts. He had just showered. He relayed the yelling out to the field, scratched his hair, and went back to the house.

The first farmer approached. He was dressed in a white kurta, and had a shawl around his neck. His hair was black and short, but brushed in a very neat, deliberate way. His round stomach stretched the kurta at the mid-section. He smiled as he came, and my colleagues explained the situation. His eyes brightened, and he motioned for us to follow him. His monologue of Hindi continued, and he took us to his first plot: pomegranates.

“He says he just put in our drip irrigation lines about 5 months ago,” Shipra explained.

“Has he seen any improvements in the yield so far?”

She rattled off Hindi, and he looked down and kicked the dirt. His smile slightly faded, and he crossed his arms. Two minutes went by.

“He says he can’t tell because there has been really bad weather with the cold snap. Everyone has lower yields because of it, so he can’t tell if the irrigation is helping him.”

“Hmm ok. That makes sense…” my questions continued, as did his answers.

By this time, two more farmers had joined. One had a cloudy grey eye. The other was an old man, with horribly crooked teeth stained black and red with the local tobacco product: paan. The young man, clothed this time, joined again. After asking all of them questions, it was time to go. On the way back to the van, we passed a field of okra.

“Oh!” I said, “Okra is my favorite!”

“What?” Shipra turned back.

“Okra,” I pointed, “It’s my favorite vegetable in the world. This crop looks ready, too!”

She laughed, and conveyed the message. The farmers laughed and smiled. The old man suddenly stopped laughing. He hit the young man on the back of the head, and yelled as he pointed to something. Soon the young man had a plastic bag, and was picking some okra for me to take back.

Before leaving, we sat with the farmers for a snack. They asked about America, and I asked about India. Hindi, Marathi, and English were sent as volleys back and forth. There was a small boy, maybe 4 years old, fast asleep on a concrete pad. His mouth was open and slober was flowing out. His sister jumped out of the house and sat with her father. She was about 5. Her hair was cut into a bowl cut, and she had the biggest, brightest smile I’ve ever seen on a child. We asked her name, and she grabbed her father’s arm as she buried her face into his chest. She never spoke a word. Eventually she became comfortable enough, and she sat cross-legged, throwing up a marigold bloom and catching as it came down.

It doesn’t matter if you are in Kansas or Karnataka. The pure honesty of the country is essentially human. We are most free and happy when we are a part of the land. The people out here were born in dirt, live in dirt, and they’ll be buried in dirt. There’s a timelessness in that; like the hills which have rose up and been worn down, the spirit of these people will see a million more sunsets, and feel a million more rains. And they will grow into the corn.

The Death of the Red-Blooded American

I’ve come to the conclusion that an American can survive with American blood in India for only so long. There are distinct phases in adjusting to India, and I’ve finally begun to enter the third.

Phase 1: Novelty

For more information on this phase, you can read any of my previous posts. In this phase, everything about India is new, and therefore wonderful. When you ask a rickshaw driver to go somewhere, he gives an Indian head nod somewhere between a yes and a no, and the ambiguity of his answer excites you. “Yeah?” you’ll repeat. He’ll perform the same motion, and you’ll get into the cab and go through all the other acts. “Bandra?” He’ll put his hand up and pretend to screw in a light-bulb (meaning “Ok, where in Bandra?”). “KFC on Linking Road?”. Then, one single nod, and he’ll switch into second gear and the cab will grumble its way along barely passable roads for two hours.

And you’ll love it.

You’ll go into a restaurant, and be bombarded by items you’ve never heard of. You’ll have no idea what most of the food is, and it’s an adventure. Chicken Shahi Korma? Tangdi Kebabs? Mutton Moughlai? Pav Bhaji? Vada Pav? Pani Puri? Eventually, you’ll try and ask the sever, and he’ll come over.

“What is Paa-v bah-ji?” you’ll butcher the name. He’ll stick his ear out to you. You’ll hold up the menu and point to it.

“Ah, ek pav bhaji,” he’ll say quickly, give the nod, and write it down.

“No, what is it?”

“Two?” he’ll add to your order.

“No. Nah-hin,” you’ll say, starting to get desperate. Then, you’ll resort to the only thing to do: point to a random item on the menu, and hope it turns out good.

And it will. Everything you eat will be amazing. The sheer adventure of trying food you’ve never heard of will turn you on. Then after ordering it a couple of times, saying casually that it’s no good, and suggesting other items on the menu to friends will send you to cloud nine.

And you’ll love it.

When you walk down the street, cars will zoom by just inches away, sometimes less. There will be a constant cacophony of horns – the loud ones from cars, the dying ones from old scooters, and the screeches from motorcycles. Dodging cars on your left, there will be people to swim through on your right. Dive too deep into the cars, obviously you will die. Dive too deep into the crowd, and you’ll be swallowed into a sea of sweaty, smelly bodies, and a lot of smiles. You might get a lot of stares, and people will randomly say, “Hello!” You’ll say hello in return, making their day, and their smile will make yours. Sales-men and –women will invite you into their stalls containing massive walls of t-shirts extending two stories high.

“Not right now,” you’ll say. Not knowing that any response is a hook for them.

“Sir/Madam. Good t-shirts! Good price! Here, take a look.”

“Maybe later,” you’ll say over your shoulder, “We’ll be coming back this way.”

“Ok sir/madam. Come back and see!”

Both you and the salesperson will be happy, and you keep walking. Maybe a skip will work itself in. All the while, whispers of gora/gori will float around the air. But you won’t know this word, so you won’t pick up on it.

And you’ll love it.

Until one day, you won’t.

Phase 2: Disillusionment

Eventually the novelty wears off, and you’ll come crashing down like an unexpected drop on a roller coaster. That moment where the only thing running through you’re mind is,  “Oh shit, this is worse than I thought it was going to be.” You’ll have to go somewhere, and find a taxi. You’ll hail a rickshaw, and tell him where you want to go, and you’ll know exactly where it is. The first will give no reaction, and just drive off. The second will give you a “are you kidding me?” look, and the third will finally give you the Indian nod. And you’ll hate that he can’t just give a freaking normal nod for once. “Bandra?” One nod. “KFC, Linking Road?” One nod. Second gear. All of this for the 1000^th time. You’ll wish that there were street names so you wouldn’t have to give detailed directions every time. Left at KFC. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Seeda-hai. Right-lena. Bus. The two hour ride on the world’s worst roads will infuriate you. Every pot-hole will hit your spine like a professional wrestling match, and you’ll feel shell-shocked every time you finally get to step out of the rickety rickshaw.

And you’ll hate it.

You’ll go into a restaurant, but you only have an hour for lunch. The menu’s foreign nature long ago lost its novelty, and you’ll wish you could just ask questions to understand what all these things are. But no matter, you played the finger pointing game, so you have those two or three things you know, and you just stick to those. In fact, you won’t even open the menu. Depending on the restaurant, you know exactly what to order. Alankar’s? Palak Paneer Masala Dosa. Or cheese pav bhaji. Banjara? Schezwan Triple Chicken, or something like that. The waiter will finally come over.

“One cheese pow bhaji.”

“Pav bhaji?” he’ll scribble down.

“Yeah, CHEESE pav bhaji,” you’ll clarify, frustrated. He always makes that mistake.

“Ah, cheese pav bhaji.”

“Yeah.”

You’ll hand him the menu, and close the conversation. And you’ll hope he got it right this time. At this point, you stick to the items you know because you got to a point where everything seemed the same. There are hundreds of items on the menu, but you’ll be convinced they only are different in color. Everything has the same kind of spicy flavor and similar consistency. But they come in yellow, brown, green, red, and white sometimes. You’ll begin to hate those colors. Eating will become a chore, and you’ll sigh at yet another serving of goop in front of you. Disappointed, you’ll shovel the gravy into your mouth with some roti, and the flavor will do nothing to your soul.

And you’ll hate it.

Fed up with the stupid rickshaws, you’ll decide to walk, which means braving the roads again. By this time though, you’ll be a veteran. On your left, there will be cars again. They’ll pass by inches away from your arms, but it won’t phase you at all. It’s as normal as a fly buzzing around your head. Slightly annoying, but not dangerous at all. In fact, when you cross roads, you’ll have no fear, and you’ll walk when only lunatics would walk: as a car speeds directly at you. You’ll hold your hand out, indicating the driver must stop. He’ll honk loudly, and you will both stare each other in the eyes as you pass by. The symphony of horns has turned into a second grader learning to play the trumpet: you pray to God for it to please stop.

As you’re walking, to the right is the crowd of people. You tend to stay near the cars, but when you have to dive into the crowd, it’s awful. Every sweaty chest or arm you bump into will disgust you, and as people smile at you, you’ll doubt their sincerity. Random people will still say “Hello!” to you, but you’ll pretend like you never heard them, and keep walking. You’ll learn where the sales-people are in the crowds, and you’ll especially avoid eye contact with these people. When you make the mistake, though, they will say, “Hello sir/madam!” and again invite you into their stalls. Then, as crazy as it sounds, you will start to respond to “Hello!” with a simple “No.” How sad is that? People will say hello to you, and you will just say “No.” But you won’t care, because you can’t decline another sales pitch. A no will suffice, and you keep walking. You’ll learn that gora/gori is slang for “fair-skinned”, and you’ll hear it floating around all the crowds.

And you’ll hate it.

Until one day, you won’t.

Phase 3: Normalcy

I’ve just begun to enter this phase, so I can’t speak so much about it. At some point though, you’ll begin to realize the cesspool of hatred you’re living in. You’ll wake up one day and realize that most things in India are making you angry. You’ll realize that you harbor bad feelings for an entire country. Your American blood will run hot through your veins.

Then, one deep drum will beat. You’ll be sitting in a cab, and you’ll say simply, “Bandra, Reclamation say jao.”

“Age left?”

“Hah-ji”

And you’ll give an Indian nod yourself. Someone will cut off your cab, and the driver will growl some foreign cuss-word. You’ll join in and give the American version of his word, and you’ll both make eye contact, connected in frustration of this ass-hole blasting Honey Singh from his radio. You’ll both smile and shake your heads, and drive on. You know where the potholes are in the road, and you know exactly when to brace for impact. Pass Lilavati, turn right, 20 yards, big speed bump…now. This is just the way roads are here, no use crying about their rough nature.

And it’ll be normal.

You’ll feel the deep drum beat again. In the restaurant, you begin to open the menu again. Mysore malasa rava dosa? Yeah, someone had that one time. It was pretty good. You’ll get one for the table, then a few more things to share between everybody. You’ll begin to stop ordering for yourself. The waiter will come over after about 10 mins, but you realize it could have been 20 mins. More likely, you don’t give it a second thought.

“Yes sir?”

“Ek mysore masala dosa, do palak paneer dosa, aur ek cheese pav bhaji.”

He’ll nod, write everything down, you’ll make corrections if necessary, and soon enough you’ll get your food. And by this time, you know how to switch up more than just the colors. There’s rice dishes, curry dishes, fried dishes, and a plethora of southern starchy dishes. When you get tired of one style, you change base and avoid the monotone trap.

And it’ll be normal.

When the cars pass by you, you know when to shift your arm to avoid the mirror of the passing cab. You know how to move your body with traffic, and swim through it like a salmon swimming upstream. It won’t anger you, it won’t scare you. It’s just crossing the road. You’ll put your hand up to stop cars, but it will be less of a command and more of a giving of thanks, and an apology. The horns will begin to disappear, and you’ll understand why they are honking. It’s fine. Then when you dive into the crowd of people, your feet will be so used to the dance that you won’t give it a second thought. Walk quickly here, pull back right shoulder now, then lean to the left, slow down slightly, pull right shoulder back to the front, dip your head, return to normal pace.

“Hello sir/madam!”

“Hi,” you’ll say. But at the same time, as they wind up their pitch, you’ll tilt your head slightly to the right, let your chin slip to the left, and close your eyes briefly. It’ll tell the salesperson that you aren’t interested, and that’s it. They might be insistent, but if they are, you say, “Nay, boss,” (or bhaia, for the Delhi-ites), and they’ll pull up on the reigns. Random people will want to start conversations, and you’ll know when to induldge, and when not to. A kid will come up and say “Hi!”

“Hey,” you’ll say back.

“What’s your name?”

“Michael, what’s yours?”

“Don.”

“Don?”

“Yeah, I’m the Don of Mumbai. You may use my roads. Go ahead.”

You’ll move on, and say, “Thank you, sir.”

And it’ll be normal.

And then one day, you’ll wake up, and realize that deep drum beat is the re-start of your heart. Your hot American blood has, whether you want it or not, been spiced with cardamom and fennel. There’s cilantro and green pepper in there, too. Each speck of masala spice flowing through your veins is an Indian experience. One speck for each honk. One speck for every salespitch. One speck for every rickshaw. You eat Indian food, but it never truly leaves you.

Then, you begin to crave India. You stop buying over-priced Fruity Pebbles. You buy local corn flakes, or Choco’s. You want a snack and you don’t go for plain Lays. You go for Lays Magic Masala. When you go to the movies, Dhoom 3 sounds like a better option than Captain Phillips. Restaurant doesn’t have AC? So what? Like you can’t handle this heat? The sweat that rolls down your back every morning on the way to work is just a part of your body waking up. So you sit in your office chair with a wet back. So what? It’ll dry eventually.

Before you know it, you’re heartbeat isn’t the dum-dum, dum-dum beat it’s always was. It’s more of a dum, dum-dum-dum. Dum, dum-dum-dum. There’s clapping too, and a sitar. And there’s some man singing in a smooth, nasaly hindi concerto.

All of this has been a long-winded way to say that you can’t be American in India forever. You’ll be reborn, and it’s a painful birthing process. But after the good, and after the bad, you’ll leave a part of your American behind, and you’ll pray that your masala-spiced blood will stay with you forever.

And you’ll love it.

The Fifth Day

There's something stirring about the fifth day.

On the fifth day, God was to have created all the creatures in the sea, and birds in the sky. Every seahorse and seagull, barracuda and bat. On the fifth day of Ganesh Chaturthi, I found myself dancing with arms raised to the sky, and walked down Juhu beach where I finally met the great Indian Ocean. It was a strange convergence, but one of the most spiritual moments I've had yet.

Ganesh Chaturthi is the holiday celebrating the god Ganesh. He is known as the remover of obstacles, and is prayed to during the holiday and at the beginning of other events or ventures. Each practicing family buys a statue of Ganesh, made of clay usually, and decorates, prays, and presents offerings to it. You are supposed to whisper into the model's ear with an obstacle you'd like help in removing. Then, the family marches the statue down to the ocean where it is submerged and left to the waves. The procession event is like a homecoming parade in the U.S., but each float contains a family's Christmas tree. Everyone is happy, and there is a lot of dancing.

Some friends and I gathered at an apartment overlooking a busy road where these processions were passing by. We were on the third floor, and watched family after family walk their Ganesh down the road, proud and happy. Fireworks were going off everywhere. Large ones exploding in the sky, Blackcats exploding in chains, and cheap ones exploding just two stories above the ground. The excitement was palpable, and soon being above the celebrations was no longer satisfactory. We wanted to be in the sea of people.

We came down from our perch above the road. Immediately the smells of incense and humanity punched our noses, and like excited children we scanned around to see what we could do, where we could go. About 100 feet from where we entered the road was a large trailer with massive tower speakers blasting Bolloywood music. The procession behind it was thumping with energy, as a green and blue light shone over everyone. We laughed, and skipped over together, already dancing as we joined the group.

It was unbelievably hot, but that wasn't stopping anyone. I danced up to the group, and people turned to dance with this newcomer. Their smiles were some of the most genuine I've ever seen, and only grew as I tried to emulate their moves. Apparently the shimmy move--something I thought was a no-no for dancing--is a big deal here. There were hip thrusts, strange arm movements, wrist twirling, more shimmy-ing, and a constant bob to the beat. I couldn't stop laughing and smiling, because I'd never been dancing to so many laughing and smiling faces. Every couple of minutes, someone else would come up to teach me a new move. My dancing library was very quickly full.

Maybe they were showing me moves in mockery, but I doubt it. There was a fervor and excitement about dancing behind that float that cast ego and self-conscienceness out the window. Our clothes were completely soaked through, like we'd just fallen into the ocean. Our happiness was so pure, so simple. We danced through the heat, over cow shit, and under the Indian night sky.

Soon however, it was time to take the off-ramp and leave the procession behind in favor of the beach. We walked down the small side road, and sand slowly accumulated over the pavement until the great Juhu beach swallowed it up. I took off my dirty New Balance shoes, put my socks inside, and rolled up my pants--Tom Sawyer style.

Then, I saw devotion on an infinite scale.

Juhu Beach is a massive beach in the north-central region of the city. It curves slightly inward, and is extremely flat and wide. In the distance to both the left and right, there were hundreds of families walking into the ocean with their Ganesh models, lit by small candles. They walk far enough into the sea to submerse the statue, pray to the God, and let it sink to the sandy bottom. We were lucky enough to walk into the scene at low tide.

As I walked over the dark sand to the water, I first noticed the trash buried and exposed. My unprotected feet were careful to avoid these mines, and every step became a leap of faith, as I hoped nothing threatening was lurking below. As I was looking down to avoid the trash, I noticed one piece that different from the average tattered rag. In an indentation, slightly covered in water, there was a small clay elephant head looking up at me. The low tide had taken sand with it, and in the process this Ganesh was buried.

Looking around, half buried statues were everywhere. Some were almost completely under, but most were slightly tilted and sunken. The families that had left these statues in the water at high tide were gone, and this was what remained. They were remnants of all the hopes and prayers of the family. The magic of Ganesh was not contained in the statue though. As the sand and water retreated back into the Ocean, it had taken the life and heat out of these statues. What remained on the beach were empty shells of hope, but taken out into the open sea were the prayers of 20 million whispers, spoken into Ganesh's ear.

Soon I was at the water's edge, and with a smile and a quiet greeting, I welcomed the black water over my feet. It was a mixture of silt, night, and the effluence of Mumbai, and my toes disappeared in just a couple inches of water. Here, trash was not visible, so my feet slowly felt their way around elephant trunks and old socks.

I looked out to a family putting their Ganesh into the water. They were out 50 feet beyond me, in waist deep and higher water. The candles lit the procession, but besides the moon, there was no other light out there. The night sky and the black sea were seamless, and it seemed as if this family and their statue were floating in a cosmic ocean, removed from earthly cycles. Their candles were just other stars, and like launching the Voyager interstellar mission, Ganesh was being heralded into the vast expanse of nothingness.

It was time to head home soon, and so we turned back. On the way, three boys zoomed past me carrying broken statues to the shore. The boys were young, but the one straggling behind the other two seemed to be just three or four years old. He was running with a small model above his head, chanting "Morrria!" in a quick, high pitched voice. He had no shoes, and as he passed, he stopped to ask for food. He put his small hand to his mouth, and tilted his head as he frowned. I had nothing to offer, and shook my head. His feet picked up again, and he continued on un-phased.

But I was. So ended another Mumbai night. It ranged from office work, riding the train with my head out the door, watching humanity from an unseen perch, dancing in extreme heat, and walking into the dirty sea. There's something about the fifth day that stirred my soul and made me happy, hopeful, excited, hot, guilty, and spiritual at the same time.

Children of Bandra

This is the story of a boy and a girl.

First, the boy. I saw him first, playing in the middle of the Bandra street. The road was paved with uneven bricks, but that didn't stop him and his top. He had one of those old wooden tops, the kind that you have to pull a string to start the spinning. I was pre-occupied at first, making glances at old men drinking juice in the evening, under white fluorescent light. Laughing at foreign words. Then, as a motorcycle whizzed past at what seemed like hundreds of miles per hour, I looked to the middle of the road, and saw him. His face was stoic in concentration, his tongue stuck out. He pulled the string like letting the clutch out; slow, but fast. As the top miraculously spun over the rough bricks, he guided it with the string, avoiding the cracks of death. It couldn't make it in between bricks, so he had to make sure this spinning vessel remained on this one small brick in the massive city of chaos. More rickshaws, cars, motorcycles, and busses passed by. But this boy faithfully came back after each passing, each honk, and spun again. Young men wearing tight polos and gelled hair zoomed past, as did old rickshaw drivers in their tan attire, with one leg crossed under their body.

The boy didn't seem to care; that brick was his universe. Every grain of sand contouring the surface was a mountain of danger, able to unbalance and destroy the order he created. I passed on, with the rest of the city. I hope he is still spinning that top; his happiness is a beacon to my weary sailor-heart, and brings me home.

Then, the girl. As I got closer home, coming down 21st road, a car pulled to the side of the road ahead of me. The lights turned off, and the driver door opened. A man came around the front, and opened the passenger door. As he leaned into the car, the interior light came on, and I could make out a child being transferred from the lap of a woman to the arms of the man. One step closer, and it was clear this girl was being passed from mother to father. She was wearing a red headband, and her hair was cut in a perfect black bob that reminded me of my sister's, in the 90's, long ago. Her attire, you could tell, was carefully picked by the caring parents now passing her from lap to arms. Maybe coming back from dinner, maybe a party, the daughter was undoubtedly exhausted. As she was handed over, she refused to perform any body function, and resembled a bag of sand; stubbornly lifeless. As the dad held her against his chest, her small body gave in, and she wrapped her skinny arms slowly around his neck. She tilted her head to lie against his shoulder, and moved her jaw in a slow sideways motion that was halfway a yawn, and halfway a protest to the motion. Just as quickly as she came to life, she was back to a sandbag, warm against her father's chest, and secure in his arms.

Right now, the boy and the girl are sleeping. He is dreaming, somewhere deep in his subconscious REM sleep, of his spinning world. He will wake up, and spin again. She is peacefully asleep, and will wake up to the warm Mumbai morning unsure how she got home, but unconcerned. The unsung heroes will be in the other room, and over breakfast she will chatter in a high-pitched voice about some annoying boy that won't stop spinning tops at school.

One time, long ago, I spun a top. I remember how fascinating the motion is, and how every dip and deviation from the center of balance is the scariest moment of the day. I also made it home many times thanks to the arms of someone that loves and cares for me.

Tonight, a boy and a girl welcomed me home. Curiosity, innocence, and love exist everywhere. 

Delhi

First I had to make it to the airport. You may not give this a second thought in other cities; it may seem simple and straightforward that I should be able to make the 18km ride in a taxi, with four hours to spare before takeoff. But in this Good Bay, the city can grin manically, and guide you straight into crippling traffic jams. These aren't the traffic jams of the U.S. that can be solved with a few well planned lights and a bit of time: here, the cars and rickshaws flow through the roads like blood in your veins, constantly throbbing forward, then stopping to stare at the bumper inches away before throbbing past once again. Unfortunately for me, last Thursday the blood of Bombay was sick, thick, and slow.

It took three hours to make it to the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. For those of you counting, over those 11 miles, my average speed turned out to be 3.7 miles per hour. I actually could have walked to the airport in less time. But no matter, because I was on my way.

On my way to see Aishani, my best friend. She had her birthday the week before, so I wanted to visit to wish her. Something I promised long ago. After Bombay slowly spit me out, I landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport in no time. This airport was quite the contrast to the Mumbai airport, and as I was soon to find out, the airports of the two cities appropriately summed up the spirit of each. At IGI, there was no moldy carpet smell, because white marble was everywhere. Huge white columns rose to a massively high vaulted ceiling, and even though it was past midnight, the air buzzed with energy. Anyone that says New York is the city that never sleeps has obviously never been to India. Here, the country never sleeps.

That included Aishani, as she waited in blue outside. And it also included Bachan Singh, Neil, Damini, Sangita, and Vinod Bansal. Aishani and I rode in a Toyota Fortuner around dark Delhi. Monuments like the India Gate and the Prime Minister's house whizzed past, and my mind reeled to try to make sense of where I was, in place and in time. We drove by embassies and museums, but didn't run into the insane traffic I was used to. In fact, the roads of Delhi are a lot like those in the U.S. They are nice and wide, well paved and lit. In addition, there are security checkpoints all around to slow people down and discourage drunk driving. The infrastructure was truly impressive.

Soon, we arrived at the Bansal's. Above the doorbell, there is a brown handprint of Damini. Above the door, there is the greek eye. And through the door, there is a wonderful family. After opening the door, I was immediately assaulted by the second best dog in the world (Brillo is still the reigning champion). Buddy, the black lab, jumped up and tried as best as he could to hug me. Having four legs and no arms makes this process difficult, but he was nonetheless determined because his big heart meant he loved me unconditionally, immediately.

The Bansal household felt so warm. There were small statues of Ganesh and cows near the entrance, and family photos lined the wall leading into the dining room. Old photos that showed small, still glimpses into the love this family shares. Photos of birthday parties and dance recitals, a black and white artsy self shot, and of vacations around the world. Even though I wasn't in any of these photos, I still felt at home. It was nice to see all those pictures, because I've thumbed through dusty old pictures of my own family, and to see a cultural connection across the globe makes me feel a bit more at home in such a new place.

But then again, India has a tendency of making you feel completely out of your element while making you feel warm and cozy at the same time.

The next morning, I woke up (late), and Mrs. Bansal (Sangita) had a breakfast made of chana and a home-made fried dosa, and a dal. I'm usually a big fan of the simple cereal and milk, but this breakfast was made for kings, and my stomach thanked me and Mrs. Bansal greatly. The food was quickly followed up by Whu-Yi tea, and before I knew it, I was full to the brim. Being full to the brim happened quite a lot on this Delhi trip. There was such good food all around, and such generosity, that I was constantly piling on food on top of food in my moody belly.

Again, the dichotomy of India; my stomach was begging me to stop and yet couldn't get enough.

At this point, reader, I could go on for quite a while. I could tell you in full detail about watching my first Bollywood movie in the theatre, going bowling, eating macaroons, going out and experiencing the Delhi nightlife, seeing old and new friends, and eating with more of Aishani's family (including the one and only Vuvi), but I'll have to save that for another time. This blog is getting a bit long, and I need to leave you with the image of Old Delhi.

Ahem.

We drove to the Metro Station first, and Mr. Bansal pointed out landmark after landmark as if he was a trained tour guide. Left, right, left, right, left my head would turn, neck straining, and eyes trying to keep up with all the information my ears were digesting. I'm still trying to understand just how much history I saw on that short trip, and I may never know. But soon we were out of the car, and heading onto the metro.

"Get ready." Mrs. Bansal turned to me and smiled. I threw my elbows out in preparation, and she laughed. We had both seen the Outsourced episode: "She'll respect you if you push her". As the train stopped, I looked around to see my adversaries, and was pleased to find the manageable amount of 30 or so wanting to get in. When it gets to be 50, elbows start flying.

When we reached the station at Chandni Chowk, I was excited to complete our mission: to find the best street food. I walked out of the station, and was shocked at the sight.

First, the power lines. They hung everywhere, and split and multiplied every few feet, tangling into a giant black mass. Maybe it was the work of a giant spider, who had an appetite for unsuspecting crows, and judging by the low lines that touched the ground, she may have ventured into human meals. Then again, if the power line web didn't do the trick, the traffic might. The well-developed Delhi roads hadn't made it here, or perhaps they were scared to come, but auto-rickshaws, cars, motorcycles, and bicycles whirred around in a more violent way than Mumbai. In Mumbai, there are more cars that slow down the pace of the traffic, but here in Chandni Chowk, the one-cylinder engines and their agile operators zipped into spaces God only meant for small children to fit.

After becoming at ease with these two eminent dangers, I noticed the people. There were shops that only had property of 30 or 40 square feet, but people were all around buying, talking, laughing, arguing, and standing. There were barbers with straight blades scraping black and grey hair off relaxed patrons, as the shaving cream was slung onto the dirty street. Small crafts were cramped in small but explosive displays, and bright clothing and jewelry was everywhere. People standing over the shaving cream spat paan, their hair orange from henna treatments. They were deep in conversation with the shop owner next door, who was arguing with the beggar outside, who sat with their hands out to me, as I stepped past the shaving cream.

I'm very sorry reader, but I forgot the name of the street food we ate. The first was served on a metal dish, and it was a soft dumpling covered in a sweet yogurt, with a red and brown spicy and savory sauce swirled around that. It was cool and refreshing, and the dumpling oozed yogurt as you bit into it. The second food was served on a thali, which is a big plate with an assortment of little plates around it, and it contained a yellow dal, some more chana, an aloo curry, and a pumpkin curry that was incredible. I ate all that up with a roti that had additional dal baked inside it, and finished it off with a sweet lassi. For desert, we had jalebi. This food from the gods is like a funnel cake, but fried in ghee (butter), then drowned in a hot, pure sugar syrup, and injected with more liquid sweetness. Biting into it is not for the faint at heart, as your blood may momentarily be replaced by the clear, heavenly syrup.

I was given some jalebi for the road, and after a roast duck lunch at China Kitchen, I was headed back to Mumbai.

Discovering India, as I'm quickly finding out, is like looking at the night sky through a straw. You can find a single star easily enough, and that star may fascinate you endlessly, but you could spend your life looking at the different stars and never fully grasp the concept of the night sky. This last weekend, I viewed the second star of the cosmos of India. I'm sure I have many more lights to look at, but I also have a feeling that this star, this city, this family is worth staring at more often than the others.

The Good Bay

Exhausted, nervous, and wide-eyed I landed in Bombay. I had planned to sleep on the four hour flight from Doha to the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, but my excitement and the excellent seat buddy kept me awake. I was glued to the window, itching for my first glance at the country. Of course, flying in during the monsoon season brings with it a difficulty of seeing out windows, and night doesn't help either.

Anyways, I landed. Then I prepared myself for the immense smell that everyone assured me would come. The smell concocted in my head was a mixture of black water tanks, human feces, chicken litter, and rotting potatoes. All the worst smells I've experienced.

The door opened, and my nose braced for impact.

As the smell of Bombay first visited me, it was not at all assaulting. The carpet in the airport was obviously moldy, but it smelled exactly like the old Fayetteville Airport at Drake Field. Oddly enough, it smelled kind of like home. However, as I've found out, the smell of India is never static. In one breath you may smell human crap, but in the next you may smell wonderful curries, then more crap, then the smell of rain, then body odor, then perfume, then more food. It's unbelievable. My nose has never been more hard at work.

Within my first minute of India, I experienced the infamous queue. There must have been at least 300 people lining up to get through immigration. When I finally got to the front of the line, the immigration officer didn't believe I didn't know my address in India. I still don't. All I know is that you go to the KFC on Linking Road, go up the cross road until you come to a hill, then turn right and go down that road a bit until you get to Sabita Apartments. No roadsigns, no street names, just chaos.

Luckily, he let me through, and after about an hour wait, I was ready to leave the airport with 3000 fresh rupees in my pocket.

Then, I experienced the Indian road.

Forget all traffic rules, suspend the laws of physics, and be prepared to die, and you'll be ready to drive in Bombay. Cars scrape by inches away from concrete barriers, other cars, people, and cows. Head on collisions are imminent at all times, and somehow, after closing your eyes to pray and make peace with God you open your eyes and you've survived. Every crossing of the street, every journey is a life-risk. There is no order to the hustle and bustle, and I've never been happier crossing the road.

Why did the chicken cross the road? If he was in India, we wanted to be dinner.

Sabita Apartments, my new home, is wonderful. It's really quite large, with a nice living room and kitchen, both of which have balconies. I live with two other guys, Lukas Davies and Nelson Mendoza, and we each have our own room, bathroom, and balcony. The floor of the entire apartment is marble, and the rooms stay pretty cool with the fans. My bed is rock hard, but somehow I'm getting great sleep. Maybe it's the jetlag.

Right now I'm sitting at a tea shop, with the monsoon rains coming down in full. I'm drinking Bombay Chai, which is like tea, but made with milk, ginger, and cardamom. The rain outside is wonderful. It's different than rain I've experienced before. It's a warm rain, but still cools. You get wet, but it feels so refreshing that you really don't care, or hardly even notice. Rain back home hits your skin and shocks you a little bit, makes you jump from surprise or cold. This rain pats you, and says, you're gonna get wet, yaar. But don't worry. I just take out my 200 rupee special umbrella (from Rim Zim), and keep on keepin on.

I've only been here for a day or so, reader, but there is so much more to say. Bombay has been an attack on all my senses. I'm hearing noises that I've never heard before, and some that I've heard all too often...

...quick aside, reader. The horns. Honking is a requirement in Bombay. Want to turn left? Honk to announce it. Slowing down? Better honk. About to kill someone? Honk. Want to say hi? Honk. Someone else honked? Honk in acknowledgement. Newton could have learned a thing or two on the streets here:
Every action has an equal honk in reaction.

...I'm smelling everything. I know this is the second Matrix reference in as many posts, but stay with me. I feel like Neo when he had Kung Fu downloaded into his memory. He jolts a little, and suddenly he knows Kung Fu. That intense download of massive amounts of information is what my nose feels like constantly. And eyes, for that matter. One second here would take ten minutes to digest. But there's no time: gotta move on to the next second. I feel like I might need two years after I finish with Mahindra just to ask myself, "What just happened?"

So far, so very good reader. Tomorrow I'll visit the Mahindra office for the first time, to get some paperwork figured out.

We're at the entrance to the rabbit hole, diving in.

Pre-Boarding

I'll start this out with the typical caution: I've never blogged before. I'm not sure how to write this, or who I should be writing it for. This could become a hit sensation in which case I need to polish my every thought and word so as to come across as Rushdie-esque. Or pretend to not care about the style and go for the Salinger feel.
But most likely this blog will fall into a forgotten corner of the internet, gather a little bit of dust, and be read by you, me, and that's about it. I like the idea of that. This will be our little quiet time where I can tell you a story as it unfolds, and if I ever get lonely on the other side of the world, I can find solace in the fact that somewhere, you're reading my words, and they're not being completely lost in the vast cosmos.
For that, I thank you reader. You're bringing me home as I take you away.

Ahem.

My name is Michael Black, and I'm moving to India. The shortcut through the long story is that after four years at Cornell, I landed a job with a company called Mahindra, doing consultant work in a variety of sectors. I studied Natural Resources, and minored in International Trade and Development. My intention was to find a job where I could better the lives of people, as well as the context they live in. Ideally, I would have taken over the World Bank right after college, but some economists doubt my skill. A tractor company who I recognized thanks to my Grandad came to campus to recruit, and I attended the info-session, which you can take a look at here. I was convinced after the presentation that with this position, I could be a part of real change, real help to Indians and people around the world, and help improve the human condition.
They decided to take a gamble with me, and I couldn't be more excited and ready to get to work.

Right now, it's July 23rd, but that'll change to the 24th in an hour. I leave on the 25th. It's storming outside my window, and the crickets and cicadas are still at it. There's a lot going through my head right now, and a lot of quotes to apply. I'm nervous, excited, anxious, scared, sad, happy, and already homesick. I'm going to miss the U.S., and especially Arkansas. I know already I'm going to miss the simplicity and quietness of it all. But. This is the time, as everyone says, to do this kind of thing. It is true that I enjoy pushing myself beyond my comfort level, because that's the only way to learn. In first grade math, we all had moments where 7+8 gave us fits of frustration. Or maybe 7*8. We had the feeling of despair when we just didn't know the answer, and we had to think, even think creatively to determine the answer. Well, I know 7+10 is 17, and because 8 is two less than ten, then the answer must be 15. Or maybe: 7+7 is 14, and 7+8 is just one more, so it's 15. Or maybe we used our fingers. In any case, we solved the riddle by pushing ourselves over the edge of comfort. Can I live in a foreign land? Can I thrive there? Can I work and work well in that environment? What am I capable of in my job, and how can I rise? How fast can I go? All these can be answered only by taking the plunge.

So, like Pippin and Gandalf, I await the coming destiny marching across Pelanor. This passing thunderstorm, this night with its infinite singularity of sights, smells, and sounds, is the deep breath before that plunge.

At the risk of sounding too nerdy, I'm going to throw a Matrix reference on top of LOTR:
We're in this together, reader. You have to stick with me in this two year trial, and visit this page every so often to check my pulse. If you've made it this far in the blog, there is surely some curiosity in you. I now offer you the red pill and the blue pill. Take the blue pill, and you won't have to read anything else nor follow my stories and thoughts. Take the red pill, and we'll both see how deep this rabbit hole goes.

Actually, never-mind. Take the red pill.

Red Pill takers click here