Last Day in Bombay (so I went on a bender)
This turned to be a pretty funny day, and I still shudder when I think how lucky I am I ended the day on a plane headed west. My last day in Bombay was Saturday.
Friday night I stayed to work until 10:30pm trying to finish my work (especially since I had taken a 5 hour lunch break on Thursday with Christine). I even went in to work on Saturday morning, just to make sure my work was done enough. Actually, I have some significant portions to finish here in the States. I have no time for this, but I’ll make time. I was originally supposed to stay at Marico for another 4 weeks, back in those heady days where I thought I was traveling onward to Hong Kong from India. Had I stayed those 4 weeks, I would have finished more of my project.
I am rather tired of Indian food, but just because I hadn’t eaten pav bahji very much and because it’s the last time I’ll have it in a while, I went to my office building’s cafeteria to get some pav bahji. Pav Bahji is a spicy tomato-based thick liquid eaten with small white bread rolls called pav, covered in butter/oil. It’s classic Mumbai street food.
My trip to the cafeteria made me so happy to be leaving India. You order your food at the cashier, and he gives you a ticket. You take the ticket to the cooks behind a counter, and they serve it up for you. I handed over my ticket, and while I was waiting for my food to come, the lunch rush came. And a lunch rush in India is more violent and crowded than any U.S. lunch rush. An Indian lunch rush is stampede-like. The mob encircled me as everyone was shouting at the cooks and trying to jab their order sheets into the cooks’ hands. I was crushed up against the counter by the throbbing and rude mob. In the U.S. we would have lined up and handed the cooks our orders one at a time, and worst case scenario would be that someone would butt in line. The cooks forgot about me, and some Indians helped me – the cooks don’t speak English – finally claim my food. It does make me happy when Indians help the struggling white guy, but Indians’ general lack of manners really piss me off, and I would have hopped on a plane this Saturday afternoon if I could.
I ate, went home, finished packing, and headed to South Mumbai to go places I hadn’t yet been. I went to the Museum of Modern Art, which was surprisingly a good museum. All modern Indian art I’ve seen has been of very simple and grotesque Africainesque-figures and generally pretty sucky. This museum, however, exhibited art since the 50s and not just ulta-contemporary art, and I liked it. I worry that I just liked it because so much of it was European influenced, which means I can’t appreciate native culture, but whatev, you like what you like. And this museum made it so I was leaving India with good vibes.
Before the museum I had met up with my Bombay friend Tony, and we had pizza, and I had beer, and after the art museum I just started walking around. I saw a place with a happy hour, so I went in and continued drinking. I drank and ready my book, and it was very relaxing and heavenly. I left, I kept walking, down through Colaba Market where I’d never been. I saw a famously trendy bar, and I went in and drank and read some more. The day was turning into a bender. I walked through Colaba pretending to be interested in the goods for sale. I would quote the shop wallahs ridiculously low prices and see if they bit. They didn’t always, so I just left. Usually when you leave they start cutting you desperate prices. I didn’t want to buy anything, but this is a good attitude to have when shopping and bargaining. When you’re un-worried about leaving without the item, you’re not afraid to let the bidding go so rudley low as to make you think the wallah will slap you. Anyway, I left the market with some bangles for Rachel and a belt buckle for me.
I’ll never forget the look wallahs give me when I make ridiculously low offers. Their jaws drop, and they often tell me to leave or tell me I’m stupid. But some bite, and sometimes I buy.
I kept walking south to walk all the way to the southern end of the Mumbai peninsula. What I didn’t realize is that military bases totally envelope the southern end. Some sailor boys started talking to me, and because I always hear people’s stories out, just in case they turn out to be interesting, I listened. They wanted beer. I thought, this will be awesome, I’m going to get these sailor boys rip-roaring drunk like sailors are famous for. So I bought us all beer. We drank it on the navy golf course by the Arabian Sea, an d the boys opened the beer bottles with their teeth. Still, it wasn’t the wild times I had hoped for. And after the beer was gone, these boys started begging me for money to take the train and money to eat, so I said, “screw you guys. You guys are beggars too, just like everyone else here in Bombay.”
I got in a taxi to Churchgate and went home. I set my alarm. My doorbell woke me up 45 minutes after my alarm should have. It was my taxi driver. Luckily I had pre-arranged a taxi driver to take me to the airport because who knows how long I would have slept. Luckily the taxi driver was able to get into my building, and luckily he knew which apartment was mine, and luckily the doorbell even woke me up, since the 9 phone calls the taxi driver had given me did not. It was 3:15 in the morning when I woke up. I was supposed to have met Amar at 2:30. Crap. I felt like such a jerk. Amar, however, was still waiting for me at 3:20am. He was wearing a dress shirt to see me off at the airport. I thought he might have been so insistent about going to the airport with me so that he ask me for more money, and I was right. He asked me at the airport, and I gave him all the Rs. in my pocket, Rs. 400, $10. I’m happy to have given him money, I just feel awkward when people ask for it. I know he actually wants more.
And I was tired, and I flew to Doha, Qatar, on Qatar Airways. I saw some of the Arabian desert from the windows at the airport, but I would have preffered to see more. And now I’m in Pittsburgh, where I have much, much work to do between calculus review class, Jurist writing, Marico writing, moving, but who cares. I’ve been eating cheese, drinking wine, and being clean and comfortable. However, for nostalgia’s sake, I’ve taken to walking in the streets instead of the sidewalks. I thought about urinating on the sidewalk, but while that's a common sight in India, it could get me arrested in Pittsburgh.
Friday night I stayed to work until 10:30pm trying to finish my work (especially since I had taken a 5 hour lunch break on Thursday with Christine). I even went in to work on Saturday morning, just to make sure my work was done enough. Actually, I have some significant portions to finish here in the States. I have no time for this, but I’ll make time. I was originally supposed to stay at Marico for another 4 weeks, back in those heady days where I thought I was traveling onward to Hong Kong from India. Had I stayed those 4 weeks, I would have finished more of my project.
I am rather tired of Indian food, but just because I hadn’t eaten pav bahji very much and because it’s the last time I’ll have it in a while, I went to my office building’s cafeteria to get some pav bahji. Pav Bahji is a spicy tomato-based thick liquid eaten with small white bread rolls called pav, covered in butter/oil. It’s classic Mumbai street food.
My trip to the cafeteria made me so happy to be leaving India. You order your food at the cashier, and he gives you a ticket. You take the ticket to the cooks behind a counter, and they serve it up for you. I handed over my ticket, and while I was waiting for my food to come, the lunch rush came. And a lunch rush in India is more violent and crowded than any U.S. lunch rush. An Indian lunch rush is stampede-like. The mob encircled me as everyone was shouting at the cooks and trying to jab their order sheets into the cooks’ hands. I was crushed up against the counter by the throbbing and rude mob. In the U.S. we would have lined up and handed the cooks our orders one at a time, and worst case scenario would be that someone would butt in line. The cooks forgot about me, and some Indians helped me – the cooks don’t speak English – finally claim my food. It does make me happy when Indians help the struggling white guy, but Indians’ general lack of manners really piss me off, and I would have hopped on a plane this Saturday afternoon if I could.
I ate, went home, finished packing, and headed to South Mumbai to go places I hadn’t yet been. I went to the Museum of Modern Art, which was surprisingly a good museum. All modern Indian art I’ve seen has been of very simple and grotesque Africainesque-figures and generally pretty sucky. This museum, however, exhibited art since the 50s and not just ulta-contemporary art, and I liked it. I worry that I just liked it because so much of it was European influenced, which means I can’t appreciate native culture, but whatev, you like what you like. And this museum made it so I was leaving India with good vibes.
Before the museum I had met up with my Bombay friend Tony, and we had pizza, and I had beer, and after the art museum I just started walking around. I saw a place with a happy hour, so I went in and continued drinking. I drank and ready my book, and it was very relaxing and heavenly. I left, I kept walking, down through Colaba Market where I’d never been. I saw a famously trendy bar, and I went in and drank and read some more. The day was turning into a bender. I walked through Colaba pretending to be interested in the goods for sale. I would quote the shop wallahs ridiculously low prices and see if they bit. They didn’t always, so I just left. Usually when you leave they start cutting you desperate prices. I didn’t want to buy anything, but this is a good attitude to have when shopping and bargaining. When you’re un-worried about leaving without the item, you’re not afraid to let the bidding go so rudley low as to make you think the wallah will slap you. Anyway, I left the market with some bangles for Rachel and a belt buckle for me.
I’ll never forget the look wallahs give me when I make ridiculously low offers. Their jaws drop, and they often tell me to leave or tell me I’m stupid. But some bite, and sometimes I buy.
I kept walking south to walk all the way to the southern end of the Mumbai peninsula. What I didn’t realize is that military bases totally envelope the southern end. Some sailor boys started talking to me, and because I always hear people’s stories out, just in case they turn out to be interesting, I listened. They wanted beer. I thought, this will be awesome, I’m going to get these sailor boys rip-roaring drunk like sailors are famous for. So I bought us all beer. We drank it on the navy golf course by the Arabian Sea, an d the boys opened the beer bottles with their teeth. Still, it wasn’t the wild times I had hoped for. And after the beer was gone, these boys started begging me for money to take the train and money to eat, so I said, “screw you guys. You guys are beggars too, just like everyone else here in Bombay.”
I got in a taxi to Churchgate and went home. I set my alarm. My doorbell woke me up 45 minutes after my alarm should have. It was my taxi driver. Luckily I had pre-arranged a taxi driver to take me to the airport because who knows how long I would have slept. Luckily the taxi driver was able to get into my building, and luckily he knew which apartment was mine, and luckily the doorbell even woke me up, since the 9 phone calls the taxi driver had given me did not. It was 3:15 in the morning when I woke up. I was supposed to have met Amar at 2:30. Crap. I felt like such a jerk. Amar, however, was still waiting for me at 3:20am. He was wearing a dress shirt to see me off at the airport. I thought he might have been so insistent about going to the airport with me so that he ask me for more money, and I was right. He asked me at the airport, and I gave him all the Rs. in my pocket, Rs. 400, $10. I’m happy to have given him money, I just feel awkward when people ask for it. I know he actually wants more.
And I was tired, and I flew to Doha, Qatar, on Qatar Airways. I saw some of the Arabian desert from the windows at the airport, but I would have preffered to see more. And now I’m in Pittsburgh, where I have much, much work to do between calculus review class, Jurist writing, Marico writing, moving, but who cares. I’ve been eating cheese, drinking wine, and being clean and comfortable. However, for nostalgia’s sake, I’ve taken to walking in the streets instead of the sidewalks. I thought about urinating on the sidewalk, but while that's a common sight in India, it could get me arrested in Pittsburgh.
Comments