June 25, 2010
The Enigma of Arrival
Was it really only eight years ago, right before my then two year-old son's first visit to India, that the manager of my local Republican National Bank in downtown Manhattan told me he had never heard of the Indian Rupee, and that anyway, his institution did not deal in "wierd" currencies? Hard to believe.
In the departure hall at Newark airport, there's a large poster for money changer Travelex. It shows four currencies: The U.S. dollar, the Euro, the Malaysian Ringitt and the Indian Rupee (sorry, China). It assures a seamless transition from one part of the world to the other, and indeed, that is what I felt when I left the very modern international airport in Mumbai after a 24 hour journey across continents and set foot onto the soil of this country that is and isn't my country. Was I really in India, or was this Bangkok, Singapore even? Where were the crowds that used to throng the exit, broad grins spread across their brown faces? They had garlands in their hands, baskets of fruits, they were fascinated and welcoming even of those they had no relationship to. No sign of that mass of humanity. In its place, only an American businessman in shorts, there to receive his mother, and someone named Trisha, who's been living in India for a year and was excited her college friend was coming to visit her. A few stragglers here and there were totally blase about international travelers.
So here is India 2010: That much closer to the world than when I left it three years ago to move back to Europe. In the early morning, the monsoon rain-drenched Mumbai roads are silent and they actually look clean. There is no one around. Not even a stray dog.
But then at a pit stop somewhere between Mumbai and the city of Pune where my in-laws live, there it is -- that assault on the senses that is and always has been India. It is 4 o'clock in the morning and Bollywood is blaring. A million cars toot "Here comes the Bride" and "Congratulations" as they reverse in all directions. The curious crowds are snacking on kebabs in the harsh fluorescent light, staring at us through the car window. Opening it up a crack, I smell the scent of the first jasmine flowers of the day. It mixes in with the odors of incense and charcoal, coconut oil and humidity. It is India.
Feb 27, 2010
This is a scene out of a Mr. Bean movie: Farshid's cousin Bahram weaves a tiny and totally beaten up car through the crowds, veering dangerously past trucks, bikes, motorcycles, cows, dogs, goats. You name it. I had forgotten how mad the traffic is here and I had wanted to forget how much Bahram's driving freaks me out. We are on our way to watch Germany play England at High Spirits, yet another bar that has just been opened by yet another cousin. Every night, it is this: "So and so cousin" has opened "such and such place" that is the new hangout and we have to go. On the way, we pick up a man who actually lived in Geneva for 10 years and his girlfriend, a talented artist from Sri Lanka. Germany has scored two goals already.
Everyone loses each other at the bar -- an outside space with two large screen TVs. The owner, cousin Khodadad, related somehow to us as everyone who owns bars and restaurants seems to be, is probably not more than 25. The crowd is young and hip. We could be in New York. Everyone is rooting for Germany and they win.
I call home: Sasha has been watching the match with his grandfather and Keya has been watching a Bollywood movie.
Mach number two: Argentina-Mexico. We are tired of standing around and decide to go to the luxurious Oakwood hotel and sink into the comfortable armchairs in the bar there. There are several very drunken Germans celebrating their victory. We order fish kebabs and "kati rolls" (sort of like cut up soft tacos), cocktails. But in this uber-luxurious venue, we are being chewed up by mosquitoes. They had made fun of me for bringing my repellent along with me. Well, now who's having the last laugh.
2.30 a.m.: Post match, the roads are deserted. A pack of stray dogs runs after the car. The Germans are so drunk, they cannot even stand, and I am not sure where they are headed. And worse luck: The cops stop us. Bahram does not have his license. Farshid's license will not do. It is a tense moment for me, although I know this happens all the time in India and the police are around so late at night to make a quick buck. In the past, I too have had to pay them off. Now, Bahram is in the wrong (how can you not have your license on you, no matter where you are in the world, the developed or the developing), you should have it. The rule book says pay a fine, but if you know how to deal with the cops, as my husband and his cousin do, you can get away with the bribe -- which is actually less than the fine.
I am scared of the Indian cops. They are ruthless. Who knows what they can do. I don't want to spend a night in an Indian jail. Thank goodness they let us go.
Remember, the bribe is less than the fine.
