And the news everyone is waiting for…
I bought a box. It ended up being much more expensive than I planned. Amand showed up but Vicky didn’t. They may not really be brothers, but this is ok. Amand said Vicky met a guy from New Zealand here on holiday, and Vicky went with this guy out of town as a tour guide. I’m not completely sure of the facts, and I’m not sure where they went. Amand said Vicky thinks the guy will get him a box too. Amand said this has been a very lucky week for them, which is good because the monsoons have begun (it’s been raining all evening, I’m just going to go ahead and call this the official monsoon), and making money is harder. People in the rain out on Linking Rd. aren’t as likely to want their shoes cleaned or shined. However, with a box, a shoeshine boy can set up in a railway station. There’s a roof there, and people will want their shoes shined.
I met up with Amand in the rain. We stood under an ATM awning. Usually there are guards at these ATMs to chase away street people, but there was no guard here today. Amand was hanging out with a little kid selling umbrellas. The kid was missing all of one ear except for the ear lobe, and there was no ear canal hole. Amand said a Western guy had given the kid Rs. 500 to start this umbrella selling business. I had brought bananas for me, Vicky, and Amand. Amand, I, and the kid ate them.
Amand told me, “I’m so happy you came today, my friend. I knew you would.” He repeated this numerous times throughout the evening, and I could hear the giddiness in his voice. He said today was just an incredible, great day. We walked in the rain to the box maker. Linking Rd. is upscale. To buy the box we literally went to the other side of the tracks, where the boxes are cheaper. As we walked, Amand bought me chai and some snack that’s supposed to be eaten after chai. The snack comes in a sealed mylar pouch, and I think it is salted and dried lentils. They were pretty good. Because it was rainy today and no one wanted their shoes cleaned, Amand only had money to buy one chai, so I shared it with him. On the walk he tried to teach me Hindi, but he was flooding me with words, and I can’t remember all of them. He was just so fired up. And it was raining, and we used no umbrella. (umbrellas are for pussies, plus I don’t think a street kid would use an umbrella, and if he’s not gonna use one, my prissy ass doesn’t need one either) With the rain, we had to walk in the middle of the street because the “gutters” are flooded. I have designated the shoes worn today as my monsoon shoes.
We walked for probably twenty minutes and crossed the suburban rail tracks. Linking Road is on the west side. The west side is closer to the sea, and it’s more upscale. All up the Mumbai peninsula, the west side is the best side. I live far west, almost to the sea. On the other side of the tracks is East. Amand called the neighborhood we went to middle-class. I would call it borderline slum. He said Western people never come to this neighborhood, and he said people were probably surprised to see the white dude walking through with an Indian.
We made a sharp turn into one of those two-foot wide alleys where the roof over the alley is capped, either by overhanging roofs or second story apartments. These alleys are the same kind of alleys I passed through on Saturday in Dharavi. People were staring at me, but people were also looking down at the ground as they walked to avoid puddles. All up and down these alleys are one-room apartments, and it’s easy to see inside and see what’s happening. Friends and relatives come right in. It’s very communal, and I’ve read that this tight community is one of slum-dwellers’ favorite parts of the slum. The alley didn’t smell, and the water poured down in places through the capped alley roof. I was soaked at this point, but so was everyone else. The alley was of course filled with people and kids, and there are little shops built into walls with people selling those little mylar packages with lentils and selling whatever else these kiosks sell.
Deep into the alley, Amand told me to wait, and he was going to go try to find his boy. There was a party going on. There was Bollywood music playing, which filled the whole alley, and from what I could tell, the party involved all the one room apartments and the alley. You’re in such tight quarters, if one person is having a party, you’re at a party too, whether you want to be or not. And there were all these boys about my age with long hair hanging around. I thought they may have been thug posers. It was a little shady for my delicate suburban American tastes. I was pretty much trapped in this narrow and roofed alley. I tried to stand tall and confident. One of the guys came up to me and asked my name and where I was from. I told him. I shook his hand. I asked his name. Then Amand came back with his boy. I had been standing in front of the boy’s one-room apartment, and I was ushered inside and given the royal treatment.
There was a little boy and a little girl and a young teenage girl (her name was Charna, I think) and a little mother. She and Chandra were sitting on the floor cooking dinner, and these kids all sat around me just staring. The man who had made the box was named Babapul (or something along those lines), and he laid out a carpet for me to sit on. They asked if I wanted chai, I said yes. Someone ran out to buy it, and they brought back coffee, which of course is dumped with milk and sugar and doesn’t taste that much different than chai. It was brought in a plastic bag, and the mother gave me a metal cup to put it in. I drank some and passed it around to everyone in the room. I forgot to take my shoes off like one is supposed to in an Indian home, but everyone said this was ok. A bug landed on me, and I thought it would be rude to brush it off, probably killing it, in a Hindu home, so I didn’t. Babapul brushed it off though.
The party was because a sister of Babapul had gotten married. They asked me if I wanted to go out to the alley to dance. I said I could dance, and I bobbed my head a little bit, but I declined to go dance in the alley. It may have been fun, but… that may have been approaching ugly show.
Babapul had the box, and Amand was so excited, opening up the inside compartment and showing me all the stuff that came with it. Babapul was pretty excited to be selling it too, it seemed. There was complete excited all inside the room, having a rare guest from so far away. The kids would smile at me whenever I looked at them, and their eyes were always on me. They asked me if I wanted to eat (of course; this is so Indian – everyone’s worried you’re starving), and I said no. I wasn’t afraid to eat there, but I thought it would be polite to refuse. While bargaining the price of the box, Babapul tried to teach me Marathi. The family was Marathi, which are the people from Maharashtra. He was born in Bombay. Only Babapul spoke English. Even the older sister, Charna, didn’t, which makes sense. More time and effort is probably spent on the boys’ education. I spoke a little bit of Marathi to Charna, and I’ve already forgotten what I learned.
An uncle stopped by, and other unidentified people poked their heads through the drapery door to see what was going on. Charna had mehndi – the designs made with henna – all up her hands and arms for the wedding. It was a doubly festive time in this sparse one room apartment (wedding and shopping visitor). The apartment by the way, was much more Spartan than Davinder’s apartment in Dharavi. There was no tv, no stereo, but there was electric lighting.
Here’s why the box was more expensive than I thought it would be. It is true that the box is Rs. 450, but for more money the box comes with the license to set up as a shoeshine boy at the railway station. It comes with the materials to make and fix shoes and brushes and different polishes. Amand told me it would be Rs. 980, but Babapul was asking Rs. 1200. I was able to get it for Rs. 1000, but Amand told Babpul he would bring him Rs. 100 later. Amand was just so excited, I think he would have offered anything to get the box.
I had a great time chilling in that little room. Amand needs to get passport photos taken to take back to Babapul so that Babapul can make him a license. This sounds a little sketchy: Babapul has a friend at the Indian rail ministry and can get licenses. I’m guessing this is the massive Indian bureaucracy and the corruption it breeds that has created this type of situation. In the U.S. we would just go the appropriate office and get it, but that just seems way too orderly for India.
I told Amand that my mom told me I had to buy the box, and this made him happy, but everything made him happy today. I told him I had to take this picture to send to my mom. This photo is taken at Khar Road railway station.
The losing of a journalist’s skills
My journalist skills have made me who I am, and they seep into every part of my life, but I’m not so used to interviewing people anymore. When I would go to people house’s while a journalistic mission, I always had my heightened senses turned on. I would always be taking mental notes about people’s emotional responses, their looks, the appearance of their house, any clues to their life, things lying around. These skills aren’t so developed anymore, and for most of my time sitting in this apartment, I was thinking about whether I was going to get ripped off. Back in the day when I was in journalist mode, the conversation was just one of many, many parts of the whole surrounding scene I was trying to take in to include in the article.
But keeping it real at the apartment like I did, taking the coffee, smiling at the kids, pretending to not be nervous, acting like I kick it in slum apartments all the time, these are my old journalism skills at work. No matter where I am, I just pretend like I belong and do whatever everyone else around me is doing. Even though my life and my tastes are a world away from theirs, I tried to never let onto this. This is called keeping it real.
Amand told me he would try to save the money to pay me back for the box. Before the box, he said he’d make Rs. 30 a day. With a box, he says he’ll make over Rs. 100. I told him all I wanted was to come eat dinner with his family some day. I’m worried this will give me diarrhea, but my theory is that I’m no better than they are, and if they eat like that, I can eat like that too.
I met up with Amand in the rain. We stood under an ATM awning. Usually there are guards at these ATMs to chase away street people, but there was no guard here today. Amand was hanging out with a little kid selling umbrellas. The kid was missing all of one ear except for the ear lobe, and there was no ear canal hole. Amand said a Western guy had given the kid Rs. 500 to start this umbrella selling business. I had brought bananas for me, Vicky, and Amand. Amand, I, and the kid ate them.
Amand told me, “I’m so happy you came today, my friend. I knew you would.” He repeated this numerous times throughout the evening, and I could hear the giddiness in his voice. He said today was just an incredible, great day. We walked in the rain to the box maker. Linking Rd. is upscale. To buy the box we literally went to the other side of the tracks, where the boxes are cheaper. As we walked, Amand bought me chai and some snack that’s supposed to be eaten after chai. The snack comes in a sealed mylar pouch, and I think it is salted and dried lentils. They were pretty good. Because it was rainy today and no one wanted their shoes cleaned, Amand only had money to buy one chai, so I shared it with him. On the walk he tried to teach me Hindi, but he was flooding me with words, and I can’t remember all of them. He was just so fired up. And it was raining, and we used no umbrella. (umbrellas are for pussies, plus I don’t think a street kid would use an umbrella, and if he’s not gonna use one, my prissy ass doesn’t need one either) With the rain, we had to walk in the middle of the street because the “gutters” are flooded. I have designated the shoes worn today as my monsoon shoes.
We walked for probably twenty minutes and crossed the suburban rail tracks. Linking Road is on the west side. The west side is closer to the sea, and it’s more upscale. All up the Mumbai peninsula, the west side is the best side. I live far west, almost to the sea. On the other side of the tracks is East. Amand called the neighborhood we went to middle-class. I would call it borderline slum. He said Western people never come to this neighborhood, and he said people were probably surprised to see the white dude walking through with an Indian.
We made a sharp turn into one of those two-foot wide alleys where the roof over the alley is capped, either by overhanging roofs or second story apartments. These alleys are the same kind of alleys I passed through on Saturday in Dharavi. People were staring at me, but people were also looking down at the ground as they walked to avoid puddles. All up and down these alleys are one-room apartments, and it’s easy to see inside and see what’s happening. Friends and relatives come right in. It’s very communal, and I’ve read that this tight community is one of slum-dwellers’ favorite parts of the slum. The alley didn’t smell, and the water poured down in places through the capped alley roof. I was soaked at this point, but so was everyone else. The alley was of course filled with people and kids, and there are little shops built into walls with people selling those little mylar packages with lentils and selling whatever else these kiosks sell.
Deep into the alley, Amand told me to wait, and he was going to go try to find his boy. There was a party going on. There was Bollywood music playing, which filled the whole alley, and from what I could tell, the party involved all the one room apartments and the alley. You’re in such tight quarters, if one person is having a party, you’re at a party too, whether you want to be or not. And there were all these boys about my age with long hair hanging around. I thought they may have been thug posers. It was a little shady for my delicate suburban American tastes. I was pretty much trapped in this narrow and roofed alley. I tried to stand tall and confident. One of the guys came up to me and asked my name and where I was from. I told him. I shook his hand. I asked his name. Then Amand came back with his boy. I had been standing in front of the boy’s one-room apartment, and I was ushered inside and given the royal treatment.
There was a little boy and a little girl and a young teenage girl (her name was Charna, I think) and a little mother. She and Chandra were sitting on the floor cooking dinner, and these kids all sat around me just staring. The man who had made the box was named Babapul (or something along those lines), and he laid out a carpet for me to sit on. They asked if I wanted chai, I said yes. Someone ran out to buy it, and they brought back coffee, which of course is dumped with milk and sugar and doesn’t taste that much different than chai. It was brought in a plastic bag, and the mother gave me a metal cup to put it in. I drank some and passed it around to everyone in the room. I forgot to take my shoes off like one is supposed to in an Indian home, but everyone said this was ok. A bug landed on me, and I thought it would be rude to brush it off, probably killing it, in a Hindu home, so I didn’t. Babapul brushed it off though.
The party was because a sister of Babapul had gotten married. They asked me if I wanted to go out to the alley to dance. I said I could dance, and I bobbed my head a little bit, but I declined to go dance in the alley. It may have been fun, but… that may have been approaching ugly show.
Babapul had the box, and Amand was so excited, opening up the inside compartment and showing me all the stuff that came with it. Babapul was pretty excited to be selling it too, it seemed. There was complete excited all inside the room, having a rare guest from so far away. The kids would smile at me whenever I looked at them, and their eyes were always on me. They asked me if I wanted to eat (of course; this is so Indian – everyone’s worried you’re starving), and I said no. I wasn’t afraid to eat there, but I thought it would be polite to refuse. While bargaining the price of the box, Babapul tried to teach me Marathi. The family was Marathi, which are the people from Maharashtra. He was born in Bombay. Only Babapul spoke English. Even the older sister, Charna, didn’t, which makes sense. More time and effort is probably spent on the boys’ education. I spoke a little bit of Marathi to Charna, and I’ve already forgotten what I learned.
An uncle stopped by, and other unidentified people poked their heads through the drapery door to see what was going on. Charna had mehndi – the designs made with henna – all up her hands and arms for the wedding. It was a doubly festive time in this sparse one room apartment (wedding and shopping visitor). The apartment by the way, was much more Spartan than Davinder’s apartment in Dharavi. There was no tv, no stereo, but there was electric lighting.
Here’s why the box was more expensive than I thought it would be. It is true that the box is Rs. 450, but for more money the box comes with the license to set up as a shoeshine boy at the railway station. It comes with the materials to make and fix shoes and brushes and different polishes. Amand told me it would be Rs. 980, but Babapul was asking Rs. 1200. I was able to get it for Rs. 1000, but Amand told Babpul he would bring him Rs. 100 later. Amand was just so excited, I think he would have offered anything to get the box.
I had a great time chilling in that little room. Amand needs to get passport photos taken to take back to Babapul so that Babapul can make him a license. This sounds a little sketchy: Babapul has a friend at the Indian rail ministry and can get licenses. I’m guessing this is the massive Indian bureaucracy and the corruption it breeds that has created this type of situation. In the U.S. we would just go the appropriate office and get it, but that just seems way too orderly for India.
I told Amand that my mom told me I had to buy the box, and this made him happy, but everything made him happy today. I told him I had to take this picture to send to my mom. This photo is taken at Khar Road railway station.
The losing of a journalist’s skills
My journalist skills have made me who I am, and they seep into every part of my life, but I’m not so used to interviewing people anymore. When I would go to people house’s while a journalistic mission, I always had my heightened senses turned on. I would always be taking mental notes about people’s emotional responses, their looks, the appearance of their house, any clues to their life, things lying around. These skills aren’t so developed anymore, and for most of my time sitting in this apartment, I was thinking about whether I was going to get ripped off. Back in the day when I was in journalist mode, the conversation was just one of many, many parts of the whole surrounding scene I was trying to take in to include in the article.
But keeping it real at the apartment like I did, taking the coffee, smiling at the kids, pretending to not be nervous, acting like I kick it in slum apartments all the time, these are my old journalism skills at work. No matter where I am, I just pretend like I belong and do whatever everyone else around me is doing. Even though my life and my tastes are a world away from theirs, I tried to never let onto this. This is called keeping it real.
Amand told me he would try to save the money to pay me back for the box. Before the box, he said he’d make Rs. 30 a day. With a box, he says he’ll make over Rs. 100. I told him all I wanted was to come eat dinner with his family some day. I’m worried this will give me diarrhea, but my theory is that I’m no better than they are, and if they eat like that, I can eat like that too.
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