There is freedom within
There is freedom without
Trying to catch the deluge in a papercup
Thunder and lightning with toast and coffee.
This is the perfect season to sit at home, sip some home-brewed masala chai or a cup of scintillating Earl Grey while watching arbitrarily crazy Leslie Nielsen movies. Unless of course you are the earth bound misfit that I am. In that case you’d probably prefer a raindrenched, walkathon at the Southern extremity of this city. So I did exactly that. Here are the steps to a not-so-homely stay even as the sky opens its heart.
The road to Hell is laid with good intentions.
Venture 1 hour 30 minutes down “town” (which is what they call South Mumbai and it used to frustrate me immensely coz they make it sound like every sub-urban yuppie is in fact living in a paltry hamlet) from where I live, wait for 30 mins amidst mud and sweat and dirt to acquire tickets for a seemingly surreal train journey. The wait at the ticket counter almost snuffed life out of me. In between being pushed and shoved and pushing and shoving other people, I had half the mind to return home and vegetate in front of the idiot box. Except, I am made of steel. No, really. This one guy tried getting a little too close for comfort while were standing in the queue till I suddenly lifted my arm for some spur-of-the-moment yoga gesture and a bout of some rather robust knuckles made acquaintance with his teeth. Purely accidental, of course. The journey commences on a good note, after all.
Trek further 30 minutes after getting down at the Southern most tip of Bombay(Mumbai or whatever is fashionable these days) and gallivant across SoBo looking for cheap knockoffs of designer handbags, silver jewelry, kebab platters and Victorian compasses. All this while initiating some form of bantering with a lone East European who an interesting rivet on her chin.
Au revoir Duchess!
I met a striking Dutch girl (while waiting for the Chiquita aka Ladybird, who was to be walkathon cohort for the day) with a Canon Digital Rebel she’d scored from a Nepali shopkeeper at a steal. Did it work alright? She seemed to have no complains.(Note to self: Must visit Nepal again). Hannah seemed strangely calm amidst the hullabaloo that threatened to engulf the Churchgate train station on this very damp day. For someone who has just arrived in this batshit crazy town, such an unruffled demeanor struck me as eerie. Except that she seemed genuinely taken in by the rainshot streets and the leviathan engines of the trains lunging into the old station. We bid her adieu while cautioning her about the preying vultures at large.
Single women, white or otherwise, in Mumbai need to be a lot more vigilant than they are advised to in the Lonely Planet.
Chai Time….Not quite yet.
Ladybird wanted us to sip a cuppa at the Tea Centre, which was unfortunately closed for renovation. Some luck! Then again, its me and my travails and luck has very little to do in my existence and its extension!
We walked throughout Colaba, bargained for gorgeous stone necklaces in coral and turquoise and excellent tribal styled, metal chokers. I ended up buying a white tee, which alternatively could serve as a map of New York City. Will come handy in a few months when I make my way to East Coast.
Fly on the wall aka an Ode to Liz Lemon
The historical mid-afternoon shopping fiesta came to a screeching halt when an old acquaintance of Ladybird’s crashed into us. Quite, literally. This Jake Gyllenhaal look-alike was fairly close to warming the cockles of my heart (God! I hope Danny doesn’t read this!) till he decided to, you know, talk. Forming coherent sentences is such an art. We almost always take it for granted and much like my renewed respect for democracy after watching the documentary on Darfur, I suddenly had new founded reverence for people’s linguistic faculties. Sigh.
On the other hand, someone needs to tell these eye-catching, model types that talking is so underrated! Just smile and show me your sixpack and I’m happy. I’ll hold the conversation stripe for some who actually has something between his ears.
Anywho, lunch at Delhi Durbar was a ho-hum affair though it was occasionally marred by Mr Fake Gyllenhaal’s ennui inducing commentary about all things flighty, err..flying. It turned out that our boywonder is a pilot in training and hence he deemed it fit to impart valuable lessons in aeronautics upon his unsuspecting audience. Except that he didn’t know how to pronounce the very work he was theorizing about. Points to self – pretend deafness when encountered with such inscrutably logic deficient species of the male kind.
Labybird and I exchanged embarrassed glances and unscrupulous texts fermenting plans of ridding our collective being of this manchild who apparently considers 28 year old women…”reaaaally old”. Oh! How I feel what Liz Lemon does.
The Great Escape and An even Greater Return
We make a dash for the ladies room and he to the men’s room. After we come out, we conveniently forget about our male companion and run out faster than you can say Cessna 177. Since all excuses of loosing him were wearing thin, this was the best option available to us. Judge not lest ye be judged. Ahem.
We walk some more. And buy some more. Kitsch baguettes and a black stone Buddha catch my eye except that I have far too many Siddartha figurines at home and I’d rather not cram their style by adding another to the similitude.
To Bong or not to Bong
As I’m trawling through the cart laden with antiques as atypical as intricately carved wooden drizzlers and chillums to as esoteric as old navy compasses and miniature gramophones and tiny ceramic, niftily detailed Harleys, the gangly girl next to me enquires bout my expertise while differentiating between the different apparatuses that could be used for smoking weed. Seriously, what is it bout my appearance that misleads people to this extent. Damning, I say. I mumble something about the bong and guiltily wane into the crowd hoping that she wouldn’t turn into a potential stalker.
13 haphazard phone calls, none of which were completed. No thanks to the Airtel network connection that hits the bottom of the barrel during monsoon. Soon, we are on our way to good ole suburbia coz the Alternative Frock is alighting at our favorite café and we need to meet Lady Cassandra lest we are beheaded. Carry on ….sashaying.
Back to Suburbia
But not before we quickly drop into Ladybird’s hostel to get her a wraparound skirt coz she is wearing short shorts and some strange rule disallows her to enter or exit her hostel in shorts. I sit in the foyer as she runs up to change and powder her nose.
I observe the neatly lined plates on the table in the adjoining dining area. Its almost dinner time for the lassies at the lodging facility. I make mental notes of the women around even as a rather beautiful salt-n-pepper haired senorita catches my attention. They seem strangely detached and despite that there are quite a few of them moseying around, very few words are exchanged. On our way out, I query her about the hostel life. She calls it comfortable. Except the occasional incidents of women using dildos while their room mates are exchanging pleasantries with their families, on the phone. Oh well, can’t win ‘em all.
We finally get to the station and onboard the departing train making its way towards the uptown pergolas that await us and our stories.
But you never see the end of the road
When you’re traveling with me…
