Our hotel, the Strand, sits in the Colaba region at the south of Bombay, overlooking a harbor full of fishing and tourist boats. A block away is the Taj Mahal, Bombay’s finest hotel in full colonial regalia. Another block takes you to the famous if now maligned Gateway to India, a somewhat blocky colonial arch built to welcome the first British monarch to set foot on Indian soil sometime in the early twentieth century. Jet lagged and awake before the sun, we take a stroll to the arch where mostly Indian tourists are gaping at the sites of the big city. Andrea notices a young woman looking excitedly into field goggles, a device she seems to have never seen before. Hawkers offer food, photographs (no polaroids – do they mail them to you later?), and chai, the last of which we sample though the price is a bit dear by Indian standards - 5 rupees (about 10 cents) per cup. Everywhere the colors are far more vivid than any guide or picture book can capture, set in motion as they are through women’s saris, tourist boats and everywhere signs in Hindi, Marathi and English. The brief stroll is exhausting and the rising sun brings added heat with every moment. Breakfast at a cafe that caters to foreigners followed by coffee (Nescafe with loads of sugar and buffalo milk) at the strange Parsi joint across the street that definitely does not cater to foreigners and I need a nap. The afternoon includes some shopping, lunch at a truly excellent Mediterranean restaurant and a stroll through the back alleys of the Colaba, populated by the Koli fishing populations who have lived in Bombay since long before it became a major metropolis (before the Portugese came Bombay wasn't much to look at). We are curiosities as we walk through the alleys and all of the clichés about India’s shocking poverty are animated before me. The degree of difference for all involved is so massive on so many levels that one cannot really engage fully and so the images and interactions are processed in clichés on both sides – rich and poor, American and Indian etc. They stare or sell or beg or parrot “he-lo”, “what country”; we ignore or stare back or refuse. Occasionally Andrea launches into Hindi, telling the kids to speak more politely or the beggars that we won't give them anything, and this inspires another set of clichéd responses and interactions, though certainly of a more substantial nature ("Hindi atti he" they say surpised - literally "Hindi comes to you?"). The entire scene repeated endlessly seems at turns deeply significant and deserving of careful interpretation (of the nature of tourism, of the possibilities for intercultural interaction, of language as the essential form of culture, of world politics and economics and development and on and on) and sadly ephemeral, a casual set of repetitions that lightly blur one into the next. One second I am compelled to understand, to appreciate, to grasp the significance and at the next I am simply acting and reacting and looking for a quiet place to escape.
The next morning comes far too early. It has been a while since I’ve been properly jet lagged, and though its hardly the worst sort of thing in the world to undergo, iysunpleasant nonetheless, and a second’s morning waking before the sun loses some of its charm. The cool Bombay morning feels as alive and full of potential as before, but I am considerably less enthusiastic. We decide to head back to Pune instead of gong through the motions of a day of sightseeing without the motivation or excitement (or even minimal necessary awareness). This decision requires a trip to the train station to change our tickets. The Bombay train station is a phenomenal sensory experience, quite difficult to capture in words. The first floor entrance presents us with a host of windows. We ask around at a few of them and are told that the real action is upstairs, which turns out to be true, but not in a very good way – hundreds of people sitting around waiting for their number to be called. I go back downstairs to pull a number (no, that doesn’t make sense, but it is how the system works) and see that there are about 500 people in front of us. Not too promsing, so we head towards the curiously deserted supervisor’s window. This seems a lost cause to me but Andrea is more optimistic and considerably more skilled in negotiating the situation. Long bursts of Hindi and head wobbling (I am working on my head wobble in front of the mirror, though its a bit jerky at the moment) and maybe a batted eyelash and she has convinced the supervisor to make all the necessary changes. This sends us to another window whicih looks bad for a moment as the woman is departing for lunch, but more head wobbles and “please, madams” and we are successful again. The entire errand takes only 45 minutes, a minor miracle. We have enough time for some shopping at the Khadi Bhavan, bastion of Gandhian politics, homestyle cloths and weirdly soviet style commerce. This is another place that’s hard to capture – the placid salespeople, the racks of homespun garments downstairs and fabulous handicrafts upstairs, the three step purchasing system – choose in one place, pay in another, pick up the merchandise in a third - the unforeseen Salvation Army style 25% discount in celebration of the 20 days after Indepdendence Day holiday. Its peaceful and fairly empty, a far cry from the bustle of the improvised shops and booths full of crappy clothes and trinkets just a few steps outside. We both buy some kurtas and I buy a bronze statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed son of Siva and Parvati whose many duties include protection and benediction at the start of journeys; seems like a good investment. There’s even some time left for a stop at McDonald’s India before we head for the train.
Our rearrival at the station is amplified chaos as we are now carrying luggage, giving cause for an assault of baggage-wallas looking to help us to our train. We decline repeatedly and vociferously and tote our things past all manner of passenger and cargo and past twenty odd cars on our train until we find our own at which point Im wishing we had taken a porter. Finally we arrive at our 3 tier AC sleeper, where lo and behold our names our posted on the printout next to the door – “Ms. Pinky” and “Mr. Isaac”. Im slightly amazed that all of our negotiations actually led to our names appearing on this piece of paper but then I remember to make the effort in separating form and substance. The Indian rail system is after all a fairly solid and widely used mode of transport, even if a bit dilapidated by our standards. What’s more, while Amtrak officials might look like they are part of a reputable organization, we all know how capable they are at getting you where you’re headed. Pulling away from the station at the appointed hour, the train is a totally comfortable and reassuring experience. Hawkers walk the aisles offering all manner of snacks and chai, but without any particular intrusion or expectation. The businessman next to us takes his shoes off and hops up to the upper tier to catch some rest. Across the aisle a man plays lovingly with a girl he has just met, her parents nowhere to be seen. The landscape outside is expansive, broad and wide and dry like the Ameriican West but with a totally different sort of vegetation and everywhere unexpected evidence of human habitation, especially around the villages and their accompanying stations which are full of activity. Four hours later and we are hopping off at Pune station. Passing a loud and colorful puja full of singing and clapping and fireworks at a shrine placed in the middle of the station (to which God? But then there are shrines everywhere and you never really know who they are for) we hail a rickshaw and are on our way home.
