Monsoon Slum Wedding
Maybe the monsoon’s not here. It didn’t rain today, but I did go to a slum wedding. I bestowed a bunch of bananas on the two grooms who were riding through the market district on horses. The grooms were 19 and 17 years old. Yesterday in writing I called the box maker Babapul, but his name is actually Babalu. His younger brothers were getting married. Babalu said he would get married after the monsoon. There was a riotous party marching down the street. Young people filled the streets dancing, and the only music was some heavy, hard drum pounding. Prof. Rama told me at the Tamil wedding that the drums during the wedding keep out the bad spirits. This is the two brothers riding down the street on horseback.
They raised their veils for me to take their picture. Their wives-to-be were waiting for them at home where later tonight they’ll walk around a fire seven times, and everyone will continue partying until 5a.m.
I could have taken so many pictures here, and I hope the blurriness of these pictures does justice to the absolute hysteria that engulfed me.
First off, it was a wedding party. Second off, this isn’t a neighborhood white people penetrate. Third off, I had a camera. Walking through the neighborhood, I was stared at, but when I busted out the camera, I was mobbed. This family asked me to take their picture.
Part of the problem is me. I’m embarrassed to draw more attention to myself with a camera. I find something weird about the white guy intruding into a foreign neighborhood and taking pictures of people like they’re a museum exhibits. These are people just like us, not wax dolls at Madame Tusauds. When I was studying for the LSAT at the main reading room of the New York Public Library, tourists would come in all the time, and they would take pictures over my head. It was weird. But this is stupid. Especially because before I left New York, I took a picture of that same reading room, and I was conscious of the fact that I was doing what I had before found creepy. Mental blocks. Get over ‘em, pussy.
Babalu wanted a breather from the loud music of the wedding, plus it’s very Indian to always offer tea (tea and chai will from this point forward be interchangeable in this blog unless I state otherwise – chai is tea with lots of milk and sugar) to visitors and friends, so he asked if I wanted chai. I said yes. And we went to this hole in the wall place, sat down, drank chai, and because I didn’t want to be rude, I drank the water served to me. It may have been filtered, or it may not have been. My stomach was bad enough today, we’ll see if this makes it any worse!
Babalu (l) Amand (r)
When we were leaving the wedding, Amand said I must really like it over in that neighborhood. I said yes, I couldn’t believe how friendly everyone was to me. He said, “You’re so happy. Babalu is so happy. And I’m so happy.” Amand also said, “Friend, I’m so happy. Rich guy never stops to talk to poor guy in the street. But you look me in the eye, and you respect me. I’m so happy”
So how did I end up at a slum wedding? I met up with Amand to buy him passport photos for the shoe-shining license he needs to set up shop at the train station. Babalu is the one with the connections to get the license, and I thought Amand and I would go to Babalu’s again, and I wanted to take pictures of the family and their apartment. I just think people back home would have trouble imagining how real I’m keeping it here, kicking it in slums (although I think this is a very nice slum, this isn’t a plastic walled slum, it’s a stone walled slum, if it even really is a slum). I brought a bunch of bananas to repay Babalu’s family for the incredible hospitality they showed me yesterday. So I met Amand at McDonald’s on Linking Rd., bananas in tow. Amand said he had found photos and had already taken them to Babalu. I was bummed. Amand said, remember, his brother is getting married today. Cool, I said. You want to see an Indian wedding? Yes. Sweet.
Amand said, “I am so happy today, my friend.” It didn’t rain today, and he made Rs. 57 shining shoes on Linking Rd. The New Zealander – named John – who went out of town with Vicky had offered to put the down payment on a rental apartment for Amand and Vicky’s family. Amand had asked Babalu to find him an apartment in Babalu’s hood – Khar East is the name of the hood for those keeping track.
Amand and I walked back to Babalu’s hood, and we talked. Amand asked me if I had been to the cinema. I said yes. He said he hadn’t. He can only afford to eat. He lives in a plastic-walled slum shack, and he said one time police officers had come and beat his wife and sisters because they were living on property not theirs. I’ve been having stomach problems today, and I declined chai, wondering if the previous days’ chai is what is causing these stomach problems. He did buy me some of the snack in the mylar pouch. For the record, it is called Dhana Dal, and the ingredients are coriander seeds and salt. He asked if I wanted Coke or Pepsi. I said no, and I said I never drink it in the U.S. either. He said he used to have it before his father died but can’t afford it now.
Other interesting things he told me: He had seen snow. He had been in snow up to his waist in Kashmir. He had been in the Indian Army for 2.5 years. His post also took him to Punjab and Bombay. He said he had to leave the Army to take care of his family, which maybe happened when his father died. I wasn’t clear on this, and his English isn’t perfect. He said he had some rich friends in Rajasthan who used to help him with money. One of these friends is in Canada now, one in Amsterdam, one in London. They all work in computers. They liked Amand because he was exceptional at cricket. Amand said a famous Rajasthani cricketer had said that if Amand could get nice shoes, he could probably join the Rajasthani cricket team, but Amand didn’t know why this never happened. I guess he lost touch with the cricketer. In Rajasthan Amand owns land, but it’s desert land, and it’s not good for anything. His dad was a contractor and used to provide, and from what I can gather, everything has been kicked down a notch because of his father’s death. “My mom and my sister do begging. You know begging?”
Tonight I saw people riding on the roofs of trains for the first time. The roof is where the electricity comes into the train, and this seems really dangerous to me. Amand said people fall asleep up there and die. On the other hand, it’s so hot and packed in the trains, it probably feels pretty good to ride on top out in the open air. Amand said he personally had never seen anyone “expire” on the train.
I took the train home from Khar. Usually I take a rick home from the Bandra train station, but none wanted to take me on this short ride today, so I just walked. It’s a little far to walk. Hill Road is the name of the road I walked on. This is the main road by my house. It is also the road I stayed on in the hotel on my first two nights in Bombay. It is also the road that used to freak me out, like all the roads. But now I was walking down it, thinking how far I’ve come, not feeling embarrassed. I even stopped at a wine store to check out prices.
And carrying my bottle of Indian red in a plastic bag, I was stopped by a man. He called out to me, and because I’m vowing to listen to people more, I stopped to talk to him. From the corner of my eye I had the feeling he wasn’t a begger. He asked what wine I got. I showed him, and he was like, “You know this is Indian?” He said why not Italian? I said it was too expensive. Indian is about $10 – expensive for Indian standards, but alcohol is heavily taxed – and Italian, or anything imported, starts at, let’s say, $18. Yellow Tail was over 20 bucks! FYI, avoid Yellow Tail no matter where you are in the world, it’s not even vinegar. it’s rubbing alcohol. My man on the street said I should get Italian because it is so much better. French is great too. I said it’s the price, man. He said, “I hope you don’t get a headache.” We parted. I felt awkward pulling out this bottle of wine on the street because there was a beggar lady sitting on the sidewalk practically right at our feet. As I walked away she called “Sir! Sir!” like they all do.
My stomach has been having pretty big problems today, so I bought pizza for dinner. Score, I got it delivered, which means that now at least one place knows how to get to my apartment. (the wine store guy today told me he would deliver too, but I’ll have to give him the difficult instructions on how to find my house, which is down a path and not on a road) I am definitely not hungover today, but pizza is my favorite hangover food. I also thought a large dose of cheese could help my insides. No word yet on whether this theory was correct.
I renounced my Indianness for one night. That's pizza, red wine, and South Park. My stomach probably didn't need the wine, but I wanted to try out this wine store that I don't usually walk past. Yes, that is Satan.
And after work today there was this kid:
His name is Faisal Husain, a Muslim boy I’m sure. This boy, however, was not poor. He was materialistic and spoke nearly perfect English. He was riding his bike past me as I walked home from work, and he started talking to me. He asked me where I lived and where I’m from, and I told him. He said he was going to come over in a few minutes, and he did. He wanted to see my computer, camera, and iPod. He told me his birthday is in November, and I should buy him a present. I told him mine was in July, ad he should buy me a present. He said he would, but I still needed to buy him one. He also said he’s planning on coming over tomorrow night, which is a little annoying because he’ll talk my ear off, and I have a lot I need to read for my Jurist correspondence when I get home tonight. He told me I’m handsome. Wtf?
They raised their veils for me to take their picture. Their wives-to-be were waiting for them at home where later tonight they’ll walk around a fire seven times, and everyone will continue partying until 5a.m.I could have taken so many pictures here, and I hope the blurriness of these pictures does justice to the absolute hysteria that engulfed me.
First off, it was a wedding party. Second off, this isn’t a neighborhood white people penetrate. Third off, I had a camera. Walking through the neighborhood, I was stared at, but when I busted out the camera, I was mobbed. This family asked me to take their picture.
Part of the problem is me. I’m embarrassed to draw more attention to myself with a camera. I find something weird about the white guy intruding into a foreign neighborhood and taking pictures of people like they’re a museum exhibits. These are people just like us, not wax dolls at Madame Tusauds. When I was studying for the LSAT at the main reading room of the New York Public Library, tourists would come in all the time, and they would take pictures over my head. It was weird. But this is stupid. Especially because before I left New York, I took a picture of that same reading room, and I was conscious of the fact that I was doing what I had before found creepy. Mental blocks. Get over ‘em, pussy.Babalu wanted a breather from the loud music of the wedding, plus it’s very Indian to always offer tea (tea and chai will from this point forward be interchangeable in this blog unless I state otherwise – chai is tea with lots of milk and sugar) to visitors and friends, so he asked if I wanted chai. I said yes. And we went to this hole in the wall place, sat down, drank chai, and because I didn’t want to be rude, I drank the water served to me. It may have been filtered, or it may not have been. My stomach was bad enough today, we’ll see if this makes it any worse!
Babalu (l) Amand (r)When we were leaving the wedding, Amand said I must really like it over in that neighborhood. I said yes, I couldn’t believe how friendly everyone was to me. He said, “You’re so happy. Babalu is so happy. And I’m so happy.” Amand also said, “Friend, I’m so happy. Rich guy never stops to talk to poor guy in the street. But you look me in the eye, and you respect me. I’m so happy”
So how did I end up at a slum wedding? I met up with Amand to buy him passport photos for the shoe-shining license he needs to set up shop at the train station. Babalu is the one with the connections to get the license, and I thought Amand and I would go to Babalu’s again, and I wanted to take pictures of the family and their apartment. I just think people back home would have trouble imagining how real I’m keeping it here, kicking it in slums (although I think this is a very nice slum, this isn’t a plastic walled slum, it’s a stone walled slum, if it even really is a slum). I brought a bunch of bananas to repay Babalu’s family for the incredible hospitality they showed me yesterday. So I met Amand at McDonald’s on Linking Rd., bananas in tow. Amand said he had found photos and had already taken them to Babalu. I was bummed. Amand said, remember, his brother is getting married today. Cool, I said. You want to see an Indian wedding? Yes. Sweet.
Amand said, “I am so happy today, my friend.” It didn’t rain today, and he made Rs. 57 shining shoes on Linking Rd. The New Zealander – named John – who went out of town with Vicky had offered to put the down payment on a rental apartment for Amand and Vicky’s family. Amand had asked Babalu to find him an apartment in Babalu’s hood – Khar East is the name of the hood for those keeping track.
Amand and I walked back to Babalu’s hood, and we talked. Amand asked me if I had been to the cinema. I said yes. He said he hadn’t. He can only afford to eat. He lives in a plastic-walled slum shack, and he said one time police officers had come and beat his wife and sisters because they were living on property not theirs. I’ve been having stomach problems today, and I declined chai, wondering if the previous days’ chai is what is causing these stomach problems. He did buy me some of the snack in the mylar pouch. For the record, it is called Dhana Dal, and the ingredients are coriander seeds and salt. He asked if I wanted Coke or Pepsi. I said no, and I said I never drink it in the U.S. either. He said he used to have it before his father died but can’t afford it now.
Other interesting things he told me: He had seen snow. He had been in snow up to his waist in Kashmir. He had been in the Indian Army for 2.5 years. His post also took him to Punjab and Bombay. He said he had to leave the Army to take care of his family, which maybe happened when his father died. I wasn’t clear on this, and his English isn’t perfect. He said he had some rich friends in Rajasthan who used to help him with money. One of these friends is in Canada now, one in Amsterdam, one in London. They all work in computers. They liked Amand because he was exceptional at cricket. Amand said a famous Rajasthani cricketer had said that if Amand could get nice shoes, he could probably join the Rajasthani cricket team, but Amand didn’t know why this never happened. I guess he lost touch with the cricketer. In Rajasthan Amand owns land, but it’s desert land, and it’s not good for anything. His dad was a contractor and used to provide, and from what I can gather, everything has been kicked down a notch because of his father’s death. “My mom and my sister do begging. You know begging?”
Tonight I saw people riding on the roofs of trains for the first time. The roof is where the electricity comes into the train, and this seems really dangerous to me. Amand said people fall asleep up there and die. On the other hand, it’s so hot and packed in the trains, it probably feels pretty good to ride on top out in the open air. Amand said he personally had never seen anyone “expire” on the train.
I took the train home from Khar. Usually I take a rick home from the Bandra train station, but none wanted to take me on this short ride today, so I just walked. It’s a little far to walk. Hill Road is the name of the road I walked on. This is the main road by my house. It is also the road I stayed on in the hotel on my first two nights in Bombay. It is also the road that used to freak me out, like all the roads. But now I was walking down it, thinking how far I’ve come, not feeling embarrassed. I even stopped at a wine store to check out prices.
And carrying my bottle of Indian red in a plastic bag, I was stopped by a man. He called out to me, and because I’m vowing to listen to people more, I stopped to talk to him. From the corner of my eye I had the feeling he wasn’t a begger. He asked what wine I got. I showed him, and he was like, “You know this is Indian?” He said why not Italian? I said it was too expensive. Indian is about $10 – expensive for Indian standards, but alcohol is heavily taxed – and Italian, or anything imported, starts at, let’s say, $18. Yellow Tail was over 20 bucks! FYI, avoid Yellow Tail no matter where you are in the world, it’s not even vinegar. it’s rubbing alcohol. My man on the street said I should get Italian because it is so much better. French is great too. I said it’s the price, man. He said, “I hope you don’t get a headache.” We parted. I felt awkward pulling out this bottle of wine on the street because there was a beggar lady sitting on the sidewalk practically right at our feet. As I walked away she called “Sir! Sir!” like they all do.
My stomach has been having pretty big problems today, so I bought pizza for dinner. Score, I got it delivered, which means that now at least one place knows how to get to my apartment. (the wine store guy today told me he would deliver too, but I’ll have to give him the difficult instructions on how to find my house, which is down a path and not on a road) I am definitely not hungover today, but pizza is my favorite hangover food. I also thought a large dose of cheese could help my insides. No word yet on whether this theory was correct.
I renounced my Indianness for one night. That's pizza, red wine, and South Park. My stomach probably didn't need the wine, but I wanted to try out this wine store that I don't usually walk past. Yes, that is Satan.
And after work today there was this kid:
His name is Faisal Husain, a Muslim boy I’m sure. This boy, however, was not poor. He was materialistic and spoke nearly perfect English. He was riding his bike past me as I walked home from work, and he started talking to me. He asked me where I lived and where I’m from, and I told him. He said he was going to come over in a few minutes, and he did. He wanted to see my computer, camera, and iPod. He told me his birthday is in November, and I should buy him a present. I told him mine was in July, ad he should buy me a present. He said he would, but I still needed to buy him one. He also said he’s planning on coming over tomorrow night, which is a little annoying because he’ll talk my ear off, and I have a lot I need to read for my Jurist correspondence when I get home tonight. He told me I’m handsome. Wtf?
Comments