First Day of Work
Wouldn’t you know I’d be holding it down in Mumbai by now? Today: got to work on my first try, fended off beggars, studied the Indian Constitution, kicked it with coworkers, had some Kingfisher beer at a lawyer’s apartment, got toothpaste, now Babu is cooking me dinner.
I might not really be holding it down, but at least three different beggars were hitting me up today when I was in the back of rickshaws, and none of them paid me any extra time cause of my pasty face. After work I walked through a busy traffic circle, dodging cars from all sides and them dodging me. I mean, there were cars coming from every which way, and I crossed at least 7 lanes of converging and diverging traffic. This is just how it’s done in India. I’d say walking through traffic like this is manly, but there was a teenage girl walking with me. It was a rush at least. The streets and even the highways always got people walking amongst the traffic.
I hadn’t done any shopping on my own yet, but after braving the intersection I went into an optometrist to score a contact lens case and he hooked me up for free. Then went to a pharmacist and scored some toothpaste and some Cadbury chocolate bars. It was hot in the store, like outside, and the bars were in an early stage of melting on the shelf. Outside the pharmacy there were teenagers hanging around above an ice cream freezer; I guess perusing the ice cream confections selection. Dude, it’s hot, even then with the sun down. One thing about going to stores like pharmacies and opticians – as opposed to the woman sitting on the ground selling garlic out of a bowl – they’re likely to speak English, as one has to be educated to score such a job. The amount of education appears to be directly proportional to the level of English-speaking skill.
Work
…wasn’t so much work, as just studying mainly, reading the Indian Constitution. Also reading about Indian politics on Answers.com and making a pathetic attempt to find a place to live come Friday. Everyone thinks that after a few days of studying the Indian Constitution, and some statutes relevant to Marico’s business, I’ll be ready to take on some substantive work. I’m sure they’re right. And the Indian Constitution is interesting stuff – probably more interesting to me since I just got through with constitutional law class in the U.S. (There is an equal protection clause in the Indian Constitution, and while there doesn’t appear to be any heightened scrutiny for the judiciary to review laws that classify individuals (by race, gender, class, caste, whatever), statutes that classify do have to have a rational basis and do have to be narrowly tailored toward achieving their goal – this should sound familiar to anyone who’s been a U.S. 1L. -- Beings how Constitutional Law was one of the best classes I've ever had in my life, I could go one, and will at a later point.)
I got a Marico email address. I got a computer – an old shitty one, but a computer. I called the pantry boys and they brought me chai and toast. I stayed inside the air-conditioned offices all day and didn’t get sweaty until the ride home.
My coworker Mritunjay asked me if I had heard of Run D.M.C., the first hip-hop artists. I said, yeah, I’d heard of them; I used to be a music writer, I know a lot about hip-hip and its history. He said tell him, so I told him about the dub records in Jamaica, the beach parties, the toasting, the Jamaican DJs in the 70s at the New York block parties, the sampling, scratching, looping, rapping, white America, then Run D.M.C. He said it was very interesting, and I should write a book; people in India would love this book. Mritunjay had already bragged to me about how he doesn’t have to buy books or music, he can download them in pdfs and mp3s. I said, why would I write a book for Indians if they wouldn’t pay for it?
He was sitting at my desk shooting rubber bands at the cubicle wall. I told him how at Bauer Publishing we used to shoot rubber bands over the tops of the cubicle walls so that they would fall and hit the girls. From my desk at Marico, there is a group of four young girls who sit in a cubicle group across a walkway. Mritunjay said no way could we shoot them. In India, we leave the girls alone. We don’t bother them. Something about convervativism.
He also told me how wallah can be added to words to describe the person working, when that person is known for a certain task. Rickshaw wallah, for instance. I asked him if he was a legal wallah, and he said it doesn’t work for everything. I’m going to try to keep using it though.
After Work
… I rode in my boss’s car, waded through the dense crush of traffic, lots of stopping, starting, jerking, and almost hitting other cars and or ricks (as us cool kids are calling rickshaws now a days). On my boss’s dashboard is a figure of the elephant god with four arms that Apu loves – Ganesh, which is also the name of one of my lawyer coworkers. I saw an elephant walking down the road (everybody and anything that can move is in the road). I asked my boss what it was doing, and he said the man riding him was selling rides. Vinod, a lawyer coworker also rode with us. They live near each other and carpool. My boss said he couldn’t invite me up to his apartment because “I do not know the current status of my apartment,” but sometime he would have me up. These apartments are on the way to my guesthouse, and I was to ride with them and take a rick the rest of the way.
Vinod invited me up to his apartment. His wife and son were in Delhi, and I suspected he was bored. His is a very modest apartment, with air conditioning only in the bedroom. There was a smell of oil in the air, also spilling into his apartment. He’s from Delhi, and he says he prefers Delhi because it’s quieter, slower, and the apartments are bigger. However, there is only one apartment building separating his apartment here in Mumbai from the sea. The wide street outside made a lot of noise. Drivers honk all the time in Mumbai, to let anyone nearby know that they are nearby too. You see a person crossing the street, you honk. If you’re creeping up on a rickshaw, you honk.
Vinod has been at my company for one and a half years. Before this, he worked with Pepsi in Delhi. He and his wife lived with his parents. Vinod’s marriage was arranged: “My parents picked her. We met. We got along, so we married.” I told him that it’s looked down upon when an American can’t move out of his parents’ house because he cannot support himself. In India, it’s the other way around. It is looked down upon to not live with your parents and support them. I told him I’ve heard stories about Indian mother-in-laws and the trouble they make for new wives moving in. He said it can be a problem, but not for his wife.
Vinod and I split his last bottle of Kingfisher beer. His apartment wasn’t dirty, but it had stains of old age. He keeps the windows open when he’s not home, to keep the apartment from becoming hot and stuffy, and the windows have bars on them. He lives on the 4th floor. His dining table and stereo were draped in plastic and the tv was draped by a towel. Because the windows are always open, there is a lot of dust, plus there is a lot of moisture in the air.
On his small balcony he was growing a plant. I don’t remember the name, but he said it could usually be found growing in the homes of Hindus, and it has medicinal qualities. He broke off some of the leaves – small as a dog’s toenail – washed them and gave me one to eat. It was spicy. I’m telling you, I just eat and drink whatever I’m handed. Vinod says usually he and his wife put the leaves in tea.
I don’t know how much Vinod earns, but he is a lawyer. This was a very modest apartment. Is the cost of living here really that much? Or is Vinod just not up on trying to have a big apartment?
The Rick Ride Home
There is a lot more traffic in the evening than there is in the morning. I cruised straight to work this morning, and it felt good in the back of the rick with the cool air blowing into my face. But this evening, after the sun was down, at about 9:15, in the back of the rick, the sweaty film was back all over my skin. We were standing still in traffic. I was thinking about all the exhaust fumes swallowing the space around me. I tried to hold my breath, but what’s the point? Just going to have to breathe in more later.
I might not really be holding it down, but at least three different beggars were hitting me up today when I was in the back of rickshaws, and none of them paid me any extra time cause of my pasty face. After work I walked through a busy traffic circle, dodging cars from all sides and them dodging me. I mean, there were cars coming from every which way, and I crossed at least 7 lanes of converging and diverging traffic. This is just how it’s done in India. I’d say walking through traffic like this is manly, but there was a teenage girl walking with me. It was a rush at least. The streets and even the highways always got people walking amongst the traffic.
I hadn’t done any shopping on my own yet, but after braving the intersection I went into an optometrist to score a contact lens case and he hooked me up for free. Then went to a pharmacist and scored some toothpaste and some Cadbury chocolate bars. It was hot in the store, like outside, and the bars were in an early stage of melting on the shelf. Outside the pharmacy there were teenagers hanging around above an ice cream freezer; I guess perusing the ice cream confections selection. Dude, it’s hot, even then with the sun down. One thing about going to stores like pharmacies and opticians – as opposed to the woman sitting on the ground selling garlic out of a bowl – they’re likely to speak English, as one has to be educated to score such a job. The amount of education appears to be directly proportional to the level of English-speaking skill.
Work
…wasn’t so much work, as just studying mainly, reading the Indian Constitution. Also reading about Indian politics on Answers.com and making a pathetic attempt to find a place to live come Friday. Everyone thinks that after a few days of studying the Indian Constitution, and some statutes relevant to Marico’s business, I’ll be ready to take on some substantive work. I’m sure they’re right. And the Indian Constitution is interesting stuff – probably more interesting to me since I just got through with constitutional law class in the U.S. (There is an equal protection clause in the Indian Constitution, and while there doesn’t appear to be any heightened scrutiny for the judiciary to review laws that classify individuals (by race, gender, class, caste, whatever), statutes that classify do have to have a rational basis and do have to be narrowly tailored toward achieving their goal – this should sound familiar to anyone who’s been a U.S. 1L. -- Beings how Constitutional Law was one of the best classes I've ever had in my life, I could go one, and will at a later point.)
I got a Marico email address. I got a computer – an old shitty one, but a computer. I called the pantry boys and they brought me chai and toast. I stayed inside the air-conditioned offices all day and didn’t get sweaty until the ride home.
My coworker Mritunjay asked me if I had heard of Run D.M.C., the first hip-hop artists. I said, yeah, I’d heard of them; I used to be a music writer, I know a lot about hip-hip and its history. He said tell him, so I told him about the dub records in Jamaica, the beach parties, the toasting, the Jamaican DJs in the 70s at the New York block parties, the sampling, scratching, looping, rapping, white America, then Run D.M.C. He said it was very interesting, and I should write a book; people in India would love this book. Mritunjay had already bragged to me about how he doesn’t have to buy books or music, he can download them in pdfs and mp3s. I said, why would I write a book for Indians if they wouldn’t pay for it?
He was sitting at my desk shooting rubber bands at the cubicle wall. I told him how at Bauer Publishing we used to shoot rubber bands over the tops of the cubicle walls so that they would fall and hit the girls. From my desk at Marico, there is a group of four young girls who sit in a cubicle group across a walkway. Mritunjay said no way could we shoot them. In India, we leave the girls alone. We don’t bother them. Something about convervativism.
He also told me how wallah can be added to words to describe the person working, when that person is known for a certain task. Rickshaw wallah, for instance. I asked him if he was a legal wallah, and he said it doesn’t work for everything. I’m going to try to keep using it though.
After Work
… I rode in my boss’s car, waded through the dense crush of traffic, lots of stopping, starting, jerking, and almost hitting other cars and or ricks (as us cool kids are calling rickshaws now a days). On my boss’s dashboard is a figure of the elephant god with four arms that Apu loves – Ganesh, which is also the name of one of my lawyer coworkers. I saw an elephant walking down the road (everybody and anything that can move is in the road). I asked my boss what it was doing, and he said the man riding him was selling rides. Vinod, a lawyer coworker also rode with us. They live near each other and carpool. My boss said he couldn’t invite me up to his apartment because “I do not know the current status of my apartment,” but sometime he would have me up. These apartments are on the way to my guesthouse, and I was to ride with them and take a rick the rest of the way.
Vinod invited me up to his apartment. His wife and son were in Delhi, and I suspected he was bored. His is a very modest apartment, with air conditioning only in the bedroom. There was a smell of oil in the air, also spilling into his apartment. He’s from Delhi, and he says he prefers Delhi because it’s quieter, slower, and the apartments are bigger. However, there is only one apartment building separating his apartment here in Mumbai from the sea. The wide street outside made a lot of noise. Drivers honk all the time in Mumbai, to let anyone nearby know that they are nearby too. You see a person crossing the street, you honk. If you’re creeping up on a rickshaw, you honk.
Vinod has been at my company for one and a half years. Before this, he worked with Pepsi in Delhi. He and his wife lived with his parents. Vinod’s marriage was arranged: “My parents picked her. We met. We got along, so we married.” I told him that it’s looked down upon when an American can’t move out of his parents’ house because he cannot support himself. In India, it’s the other way around. It is looked down upon to not live with your parents and support them. I told him I’ve heard stories about Indian mother-in-laws and the trouble they make for new wives moving in. He said it can be a problem, but not for his wife.
Vinod and I split his last bottle of Kingfisher beer. His apartment wasn’t dirty, but it had stains of old age. He keeps the windows open when he’s not home, to keep the apartment from becoming hot and stuffy, and the windows have bars on them. He lives on the 4th floor. His dining table and stereo were draped in plastic and the tv was draped by a towel. Because the windows are always open, there is a lot of dust, plus there is a lot of moisture in the air.
On his small balcony he was growing a plant. I don’t remember the name, but he said it could usually be found growing in the homes of Hindus, and it has medicinal qualities. He broke off some of the leaves – small as a dog’s toenail – washed them and gave me one to eat. It was spicy. I’m telling you, I just eat and drink whatever I’m handed. Vinod says usually he and his wife put the leaves in tea.
I don’t know how much Vinod earns, but he is a lawyer. This was a very modest apartment. Is the cost of living here really that much? Or is Vinod just not up on trying to have a big apartment?
The Rick Ride Home
There is a lot more traffic in the evening than there is in the morning. I cruised straight to work this morning, and it felt good in the back of the rick with the cool air blowing into my face. But this evening, after the sun was down, at about 9:15, in the back of the rick, the sweaty film was back all over my skin. We were standing still in traffic. I was thinking about all the exhaust fumes swallowing the space around me. I tried to hold my breath, but what’s the point? Just going to have to breathe in more later.
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