I Really am 1 in 25 Million!

My vegetable guy in Pali Market, Bandra

Yesterday I needed to head down to the market to grab a few things before I head up to the hill station of Matheran to celebrate New Years Eve with good friends. As usual I dipped in at Sante, a quaint little store providing all of the exports goodies so often missed while here in Mumbai. I picked up some fresh cold cuts, a yummy chunk of Cambanzola, 2 larded duck breasts, a rack of lamb cap off and a few cans of artichokes. While in the store, the young boy behind the counter told me that the pepperoni sticks that my two girls love, will be coming in next week. I told him to give me a call when they come in and I would be down to get some. I paid for my items, left the store, and made my way down to my regular vegetable stand. Pali Market in Bandra is a narrow little street lined on both sides with open air stalls selling their produce and tiny little stores selling everything else  from wine to medical supplies. It would be possible really, to pick up everything you needed on this one small alley way. However on this day I only needed a few vegetables so I made my way to my 'vegetable guy.'  As usual the stall owner greeted me a big smile and his worker grabbed a metal bowl waiting for me to tell him what I wanted today. The owner asked me how I was doing and where were my girls who often accompanied me. We chatted for a bit as a chose my vegetables. His english was broken but I understood every word. I paid for my vegetables and moved on to my 'fruit guy.' I realized while dong this that I liked being part of a community where I am a regular and everybody knows me.

This is the part of India that always confuses me but makes me feel warm inside. The indian culture is all about familial relatioonships whether you are family or not. For many who have so little this is all they have but more importantly it is how they survive. There is this unique culture of trust that exists in a city of 25 million that cannot be duplicated anywhere else. Although a mumbaiker will do anything to make money, including adding a little skin tax( that added extra charge for the foreigner walking down the street) to whatever they are selling, they will also trust a customer who has no money to take the goods and pay later. As an uptight, conservative Canadian this  concept of trust is very uncomfortable because back home we really have no sense of community. Certainly, we foreigners create false  opportunities to meet new people and find things in common  but it is not innate in our culture. We do not eat, sleep and breathe community. We always carry with us a certain level of distrust. Another great example is my 'Jewellry guy' Harry. I know that sounds pretentious but another beautiful thing in this country is the availabilty of gems of all sorts for incredibly cheap prices and really,  buying jewellry here is just an investment in my future and that is what I will keep telling my husband. I was in  Harry's store, Living Jewels, recently to buy a cross pendant for my helper. She is a devout christian and I thought this would be a nice gesture. Harry showed me a beautiful diamond studded cross worth about $180. I was humming and hawing about the price not really wanting to spend quite so much. Harry, noticing my hestitance told me to take the piece home to show my husband and then decide. I said, "Really? Are you sure?"  He immediately placed the cross in a velvet box and with a smile  sent me on my way. Incredible! I order my wine from the wine shop down the street and if I  don't have any cash, that's ok they'll put it on account. Now this in itself is probably not a good thing and those of you who know me can attest to that.

Harry my jewellry guy

Yes this is really unbelievable but in a city where I often feel like I don't recognize myself because I have become so aggressive and cynical, this cultural trust makes me want to be an honest and better person and prove that a stranger's trust in me is not misplaced or abused but welcomed.

Backseat Reality

So this weekend I had some good friends over for a holiday dinner. You know the kind where you cook incredible unhealthy foods.Think fried Calamari, homemade pasta with a beurre blanc sauce, Brie and bread and a goodish amount of red wine while lounging around up on our terrace listening to good music. It was a lovely evening where we solved the problems of the world and figured out the meaning of life in India. Apparently we were quite brilliant and introspective but I can't quite remember what our solutions were due to the 'goodish amount of red wine.' Ah the bliss of ignorance which beams in with the early morning sun. However I digress. As it was Christmas we exchanged gifts and my good friend bought me a book written by the Indian author Aditya Kripalani called Backseat. It is a contemporary novel set in the clutter of Mumbai about a young girl tempted by the romance of life in a big city with a boy she believed was her future. As the story plays out she soon discovers the harsh realities of the streets as she is forced into the sex trade of Bombay and must find a way to survive the desperate struggles of daily life. Much of her life is told from the back seat of a car being driven by the driver of her paying customer. Kripalani paints a very violent and unstable picture of  human interactions in Bombay and this is where I reflect.

If I were to pick this book up in a Chapters store in suburban Canada and begin to read, I would feel shock and awe at the events as they occurred but feel safe in my knowledge that this story was fictional. A time and place far removed from my own and never the twain shall meet. However as I sat in my Bombay apartment watching the hawks fly outside of my window and heard the horns honking from the stalled traffic passing Powai lake, I realized I know this world...I have seen this world. Violence in Bombay is not unknown to me and much closer than I ever thought it would be.
Not long ago, while driving by the Hyatt Regency hotel, a large petrol tank passed too close by the side of our van scraping the passenger side back door. I heard the sound of metal against metal and cringed. Javed, my driver, immediately stopped our car and ordered the truck to the side of the road so that he could get the insurance information. Now It would be nice to picture this event as a Canadian but this process is so far removed from my experience that really, I can only watch on in complete amazement. The truck pulled to the side ahead of our car and out of my sight. Javed walked towards the truck and he too was beyond my line of sight. After a few minutes I saw a young Indian boy, who was maybe 17 if a day and he was holding his right cheek, tears streaming down his face. He quickly approached my side of the van and knocked at the window pleading with hands together that I help him. Now here is the sad part. As I viewed this scene from the back seat of my vehicle, I was not sympathetic nor compassionate to this person and immediately knew that Javed had punched him in the face. Javed, stormed back to the car and pushed him away telling him not to bother his madame and walked the scared young boy back to the truck. Javed climbed into the cab, took the binder of papers from the front seat and brought it back to the van. He jumped into the driver's seat  and we drove off. As he shifted the clutch I saw him rub his knuckles. I asked him if he had hit the boy. He paused for the slightest moment and then with a steady voice replied, "No madame."
Now I know he was lying to protect himself but the scary thing is I was not horrified or offended but felt this odd sense of relief that my driver is a tough son of a bitch who will never back down from a fight. This made me feel safe and and confident that he would protect me in any situation. However this scene is not unique to Javed. I have on many occasions seen drivers battling it out to the bloody end because of a car accident. In Bombay, this is how justice is served. The police are corrupt and ineffective and Mumbaikers have to find other means  to get what they need.  On an earlier occasion,  a motorcyclist rammed into the back of our car. Javed had tried to deal with a situation the proper way by calling over a police officer. Unfortunately the guilty party bribed the officer with 100 rupees, approximately $2.50 and off he rode leaving Javed with nothing. Javed knows how this game is played and I feel comforted by that fact.

My driver is a very proud and private Muslim man who is  devout to his beliefs and a good family man. He goes to prayer every Friday between 1pm and 2pm and takes care of his wife, 3 young children, his mother and brother and sister in law in their small chawl in the slums of Sakinaka. He used to have another brother living with him but not 6 months ago Javed received a call that his brother's murdered body had been found under the Sea link bridge which joins Bandra to Worli across the bay. On this day, JavedJaved if he wanted time off or if he needed money but he immediately refused and said he was fine. I was unsure of how to deal with this situation staying sensitive to the ways of Muslim and Indian culture. You do not show condolence by giving flowers because flowers are used so extensively in times of celebration. After speaking to an Indian friend of mine, I discovered that it is proper to offer money to the family to help them with the expense of the funeral as well as to help compensate for any lost wages earned by the murdered victim. I again offered Javed money but he refused because he cannot take money from a woman. Eventually after much persuasion from my husband he took the money and some time off and took his brother back to his village to be buried as is custom in the Muslim faith.

I no longer judge the violence I see on the streets of Bombay. Surviving day to day in a city with over 20 million people will never be something I will experience. I do, however, focus on the individuals who are an integral part of my life in India and admire them for their resiliency and pride.

Elephant Therapy

Everyday I sit in the back seat of my dark grey Toyota Innova minivan mesmerized by scenes outside of my window as my driver, Javed slowly inches forward through hundreds, no maybe thousands of brown and yellow rickshaws. I stare not because I am struck by the beauty that is India, or because I am enthralled by the uniqueness of the culture but because I don't understand what I am seeing. I am  often left open jawed, shaking my head because I see 5 yr olds dashing out into traffic or 3 well dressed men standing at the side of a main road relieving themselves  or a delivery man  throwing pineapples to the ground before delivering them to a 5 star hotel restaurant. I often close my eyes behind my sunglasses when the young street children knock at my window glass asking for food and money just so that I can pretend they aren't there or more accurately that I am not there. 


And then I stop myself and question the insensitive person I have become. 


Who is this person who is not heartbroken by the extreme poverty that lies everywhere around her? What type of person closes her eyes to the pleading of young, dirty and hungry children?
How have I become so negative and invisible?


It is at this very moment that I think about the elephant. 


Months ago while following my routine and driving to my gym, Javed turned the corner from a crowded side alley onto a main road narrowly missing  an old woman carrying greens in a basket on her head. He navigated his way through rickshaws, buses, cars and beggars to pull up at the stop light where we always turned towards the club. As usual my eyes were closed to the children at the window trying to sell their lime/chilli mementos for a few rupees.  I focused my attention on the latest Bollywood tune playing from the radio. The knocking stopped and I felt safe to open my eyes. At first, all I saw was something grey and dusty blocking my view but as I looked up to determine what it was, unbelievably, I saw an elephant also waiting at the light. I gazed up and saw two young boys harnessed in by a bamboo  saddle who in turn were looking down at me. As soon as I saw them, they saw me. Their eyes widened. They recognized an opportunity to make some money so they slapped the side of  the elephant's head forcing the massive trunk towards the hood of our vehicle.  I immediately asked my driver why they rode elephants through the streets and he told me that these animals were trained to pick  rupees up off of the ground and pass it back to their riders. He said 'Watch.' I watched in awe as he opened the passenger side window and threw a 2 rupee coin out of the window. Sure enough the elephant picked the money up with his trunk ever so carefully, lifted his head and gently handed the coin back to the two young boys. The light turned green and off he went.


I sat there thinking- I am really in India and not suburban Canada- and I'm really  lucky. Do I miss the organization and cleanliness of Calgary?- Very much. Do I miss being able to drive 5km in 5 mins?- Definitely- but do I miss the monotony and routine of the modernized world?- Not for a second-
This elephant made me remember why I love being abroad, travelling to foreign and wondrous parts of the world and why I wouldn't change it for a moment. 
Every time I feel myself spiralling down towards the darkness of self pity and insensitivity- and there are days when I actually spiral- I remember the wonder of living beside an elephant and I am good again.