Busy For Hours

For a place where several hundred severely disabled men, women and children are looked after, the atmosphere in Mumbai’s Asha Daan is surprisingly quiet and relaxed. The nine nuns who run the place clearly wish to avoid ostentation, although they’re effusive when it comes to greetings. “Look around,” they say. “Talk to the people. Ask them how they are.”

The Divine L and I have a brief stroll around the wards, large warehouse-like spaces with neat rows of steel beds, corrugated iron roofs and dodgy electrical wiring sprouting from the walls.

In the area reserved for babies and toddlers, a girl crawls towards us, her entire lower body twisted at a cruel angle, forcing her to shuffle across the floor like some sort of agonised human accordion. She smiles as she approaches us.

In the teenagers’ ward, another girl sits on the edge of her bed. Instead of eyes and a mouth she has deep sockets of warped, puckered skin. We wonder if she’s the victim of an acid attack. She shakes her head from side to side and mutters unintelligible words.

A small figure pops up behind us, a chubby teenage girl with a wide grin. “Birthday, birthday!” she says, giving us an exaggerated handshake.

“Whose birthday?” I ask.

“Birthday, birthday!” she repeats, shaking hands again.

A nun walks past, adjusting her blue and white habit around her shoulder. “She’ll keep you busy for hours with her ‘birthday, birthday’,” she says.

The male ward is particularly affecting, or is that just because we’re culturally conditioned to respond with deep shock to the sight of shattered men, lying still on their beds, their eyes devoid of any sense of purpose.

A breeze picks up: the clouds are about to burst again. All over the place, clothes are drying on metal grilles, but they’ll soon be soaked.

We enter another ward and immediately feel at home when we see several children seated around a table, doing their homework. Within moments, I’m placed next to a bright little wheelchair-bound, nine-year-old girl who’s converting improper fractions to mixed numbers. She’s eager to show off her knowledge of times tables – which is very impressive – and she whizzes through her sums with ease, her dark eyes locked in concentration.

“What would you like to be when you grow up?” the Divine L asks her.

The girl shrugs her shoulders.

“I think you’d be an excellent maths teacher,” I say, at which point she bursts out laughing and covers her face in embarrassment.

The rain hits the roof with a force that makes us think we’re surrounded by hundreds of firecrackers going off at the same time, but the children are used to the din and they just carry on with their work.

As we leave, a figure calls out from the distance. “Birthday, birthday! Bye bye!”

“Bye bye!” we shout, and walk through the gateway, hand in hand.

Very Rarely Confronted

It really is impossible to over-emphasise the prominence and importance of smells in Mumbai. My last post was just a brief, tip-of-the-iceberg sample of the stream of chemicals that constantly enters one's nose in this genuinely sensuous city. I could've mentioned the aroma of jasmine and tuberose coming from the garlands hanging by the florists' stalls, or the salty freshness blowing into Chowpatty Beach, or the dampness of rotting wood in the ramshackle buildings from the 20s and 30s...

If nothing else, all these olfactory encounters make me realise how extremely sanitised our version of reality has become in the western hemisphere. We tend to experience smells on our own terms: we decide when to spray the deodorant or dispense the fabric softener or light the incense stick from the 'ethnic' store. We're very rarely confronted by smells, and when we are, we tend to find the experience unpleasant or downright repellent.

There's no doubt that India's changing at a breathless rate and that it isn't quite the same country I visited 6 years ago. But if there's one quality it appears to have retained it's a sense of being more closely connected to the elements than we are in the west. Before you roll your eyes, rest assured I absolutely don't mean that in a 'pseudy', neo-spiritualist way... although there's plenty of that sort of thing in the growing number of suspicious, tourist-trap ashrams, but that's another story... No, I mean it in the simplest, most prosaic sense I can imagine: you walk in the city and almost nothing stands between you and the world. You're welcome to see, hear, smell, touch and taste as much as you're able. And that's something that doesn't happen very often when you're a tourist in Europe.

Into Your Face

Two minutes in Mumbai:

You walk past a sugar-cane juice seller and catch a whiff of an incense cone: rich and smoky, a Catholic scent that feels out of place amidst the noise of the streets. You look to your right as you pass a side street and you almost gag as the stench of rotting fruit and stagnant water rises from the collection of rubbish that’s been dropped from the flats above. Next comes the bhel puri wallah, with his bags of chilli powder, coriander chutney and sev. Your nose detects green herbs and peppery spices. Moments later, as you cross the street, you have to hold your breath as a passing bus releases a cloud of petrol fumes right into your face. Then you’re in the midst of stalls selling multi-coloured fabrics and you breathe in the soothing cleanliness of pressed cotton. The humid breeze carries the unmistakable scent of fried onions. Sure enough, a few seconds later, you see a mountain of pakoras, glistening with hot oil. And then, someone opens the door of an attar wallah’s shop and you close your eyes to enjoy the dusty richness of sandalwood, the green smokiness of vetivert and the near-indescribable animalic sledgehammer of oud.

Plastic Nike Bottles

Just across the Mula river from Pune’s Koregaon Park is a large gym on the first floor of a modern building. Lining the floor-to-ceiling windows is the familiar sight of sweating bodies – with obligatory towel around neck – doing battle with treadmills, cross-trainers, stationary bikes and rowing machines. As they sip energy drinks from their plastic Nike bottles, they look out at the city below and see a small slum: a few tin and corrugated iron dwellings held together by some force that appears to defy the laws of physics. Outside one of the hovels, a small boy squats and defecates. A wet, brown rat sits perched on top of a heap of rubbish, its tail coiled around a bottle of Coke. And on the other bank is a massive Westin hotel, its black glass exterior giving it the appearance of a gigantic coffin. On the mezzanine level, people are chatting and drinking wine from crystal glasses.

A short distance away, diners are sitting in the garden of an Italian restaurant, gazing up at the giant eucalyptus and bamboo trees around them. A peacock appears from nowhere, showing off the almost unnaturally vivid blue of its tail. It jumps onto a low branch and proceeds to hop higher and higher, letting out its distinctive squawk every so often. A waiter appears to light coils of incense, releasing a spicy sweetness into the air. And as the sun sets, graceful shapes fill the sky: the unmistakable pointed wings of bats.

Meanwhile, the Mula flows through the city, bashing its forceful waters against razor sharp rocks.

The Right Direction

The first thing I notice in Powai is that the skyscrapers are bleeding. From their thirty-storey summits, an unsightly mix of mould and mildew is slowly working its way to the ground, threatening to cover the buff-coloured exteriors in the same blackness that shrouds so many of Mumbai’s buildings. You can cut into the green hills to make room for apartment blocks, but I guess you can’t yet ward off the corrosive effects of the monsoon, not even if you name the buildings ‘Eternia’ and ‘Heritage’.

This is one of the city’s showcase neighbourhoods, a place where the pavements are tidier and the roads are more organised. I see a cow casually crossing the street – as though not quite able to decide whether to have a latte at Barista or Café Coffee Day – but the area doesn’t display any of the organic haphazardness that is arguably one of India’s most endearing characteristics. Here, the environment is staunchly man-made. There are plenty of tall trees around, but I never shake off the feeling that I’m a pawn dwarfed by the frightening scale of the edifices around me.

As I stroll from one international chain store to another, all my buttons are pushed at the same time and my head is filled with paradoxical questions about cultural imperialism, hypocrisy and the definition of progress. It’s too simplistic to reduce all the issues to platitudes like, ‘India shouldn’t lose its own identity,’ because even a relatively basic statement such as that is loaded with questionable assumptions. But I can’t help but wonder if things are moving in the right direction.

I decide to have a drink at Gloria Jean’s, “for old times’ sake,” I tell myself. But as soon as the words enter my head, I chuckle and realise that I’m as much a product of the corporate age as this Ballardian vision of the future. I get my nostalgia hit from an outlet of a company whose products I used to consume decades ago in Dubai, that temple of world consumerism.

I stick the straw into the plastic cup, and as the minty-chocolate taste fills my mouth, I recall shopping mall outings with friends. And above me, the clouds are darkening, threatening to pour more black blood onto the buildings.

Make Sound Judgements

Whenever I go on holiday, I decide that I really ought to know more about politics, architecture and economics. Visiting a foreign country must be such a rich experience if you can look at the buildings with an expert eye and come to intelligent conclusions about how they reflect the society that built them, or if you can read the business sections of the local newspapers and make sound judgements about the direction in which the country's heading. Feeling slightly clueless in relatively familiar places like France and Spain is one thing, but trying to connect the disparate dots with which one is presented in India is quite another. The Divine L and I have now been here for over a week and we've got so many questions to which we don't seem to be able to find answers.

Judging the whole of India on what one sees in Mumbai is probably as foolish as judging the whole of Britain on what one sees in London, so I'm trying to be careful not to form too many generalisations in my head... but so much really does seem to have changed since my last visit 6 years ago... although that trip was mainly to Rajasthan, which means I've got to be even more measured with my personal observations, because I'm not necessarily comparing like with like...

But here's one question we've been asking ourselves: where have all the beggars gone? Last time, it was almost impossible to walk along a tourist area without being surrounded by a small horde of skinny, wide-eyed children tugging at your sleeve, trying to persuade you to part with a few rupees. Here in Mumbai, that hasn't happened once. Of course, I am by no means complaining about this, although I do wonder where they've all gone. Have they somehow been caught up in the rapid expansion of the middle class or have they been obliged to move elsewhere? I've asked a few local residents, and they don't seem to know the answer either, although they do acknowledge that several parts of town that, a few years ago, would have been used as shelter by street dwellers are now almost completely empty. And I'd also be interested to learn about the effects on the economy of the arrival of countless 'western' brands. Everywhere you turn, there's a Nike or a Swarovski or a Benetton. At the moment, one can also find plenty of independent, Indian-owned shops, but how long will that last? In the long run, will consumers enable the retail market to maintain that fine balance between supporting local businesses and welcoming foreign endeavours, or will the big boys win?

Later this week, we're hoping to visit a Mother Theresa orphanage, and I expect that'll raise even more questions, but then the best holidays are the ones that make you realise the world is much larger and much more unfathomable than you ever suspected.

 

My Loyal Readers

Here's something I'll bet you didn't know: this blog is exactly five years old today. Quite a few things have happened since July 05. For a start, I wasn't married. I hadn't completed my novel. And I was allergic to any product bearing the Apple logo.

I never manage to post as many entries here as I'd like to, but I know my slackness hasn't deterred some of you from visiting regularly, so on this fifth anniversary of the creation of a conduit for my semi-coherent ramblings, I'd like to express heartfelt thanks to all my loyal readers.

I'm not sure what the next five years will bring, but I've got a fairly clear picture of the next month: the Divine L and I are off to enjoy the monsoon-soaked enticements of India. Blog posts will probably be few and far between, unless of course I happen to latch on to some Wifi at opportune moments.

Before I embark on my long flight, I'll leave you with a question: if you could go back in time and give one piece of advice to your five-years-younger self, what would it be? I think I'd probably say something like, "You need to push yourself harder, because before you know it, you'll be writing a post about the fifth anniversary of your blog..."

Hope August treats you all well,

D.

Rome's Trevi Fountain

Some of you will not be surprised to learn that I'm going to have to deprive you of my nonsensical musings for a short while. (Think: several red biros and lots and lots of paper.) But I'd like to leave you with something to do.

I discovered today that the average sum of money thrown into Rome's Trevi Fountain every single day is 3000 euros... which isn't really all that shocking. It is, after all, one of the must-see spots in one of the world's most popular cities - and it isn't exactly tiny - so it's not hard to imagine 3000 people throwing a euro each into it every day.

But anyway, your challenge is to come up with the most ingenious and discreet way of stealing one day's supply of coins. And here's a little incentive: I promise to send a little prize to whoever comes up with what I consider to be the best idea. No matter where you live in the world, I promise to send the prize to you.

The only condition is that you have to post your idea on the Comments section of this blog. Comments posted on Facebook will not be accepted: only those left on dariushalavi.com will be considered.

Your deadline: Wednesday 7th July 2010. Get going!

---

UPDATE 7th July 2010: The competition's over, folks. And you don't need me to tell you who the winner is. Congratulations, Rachel. Text me your current address and I'll send you the prize asap. Thanks for entering.

Nature And Vacuums

I'm no scientist, but I believe there are currently three Laws Of Thermodynamics. I'd like to propose a fourth: systems will make active attempts to collapse.

What I mean is that we don't seem to be able to just let things tick over nicely for too long. If a difficulty doesn't pop up and attempt to topple a state of equilibrium, then we create one. It's almost as though something's always got to be inside our 'problem box'... which of course calls to mind the other law about nature and vacuums.

It's a weird, almost masochistic state of affairs, but it's unquestionably real, and I'm convinced it exists not just in families and workplaces, but also in the way our governments run our countries. Do we clutch on to some bare minimum of negativity because we feel it defines us? They say daylight would be meaningless without night. Perhaps we subconsciously feel our happiness is partly defined by our stresses and anxieties. So here's a thought for you: the next time you want to make an enjoyable event more pleasurable, immerse yourself in a crisis first.

---

PS. I've just checked out Wikipedia, and apparently there's also a 'zeroth' Law Of Thermodynamics... oh, and I think the Third Law basically expresses the same idea as my Fourth Law, which makes most of the above redundant... I did say I'm no scientist...

PPS. Chinua Achebe said it better: Things Fall Apart.

Very Much Reality

One of the oldest pieces of parenting advice is that if a child asks you a question, your response should provide only as much detail as he or she would like. So, if a little one says, "Why did that man drive around the countryside killing people?" an initial reply might be, "I think it's because he was unwell." And if the child then doesn't come back with something like, "But what made him so unwell?" then you can assume that you've given as much info as he or she is willing to deal with at that moment. If a child wants more details, they'll ask more questions; they'll indicate to you where they'd like the line to be drawn.

I've been wondering lately if we take this attitude through into adulthood, and I suppose I've been prompted by the realisation that I know very little about certain topics which I'd claim are important to me. I accept that we can't all be experts on everything, but even so, I can't really explain why I'm not entirely clear on, say, what's currently happening in Iran, not just in relation to the UN's attitude to the country, but also in terms of the state of the lives of ordinary Iranians, trying to go about their daily business.

The same applies to the recent case of the aid ship stopped by Israeli troops. My knowledge of the details of the incident is patchy at best, despite the fact that I'd usually declare myself to be someone who wants to possess a full picture of what's happening in the Middle East.

And as for The Financial Crisis, well, my standard line in conversations about the subject is, "I don't really understand economics," after which I go on to spout the usual, hollow lines about the American housing market being at the root of the problem.

Of course, all this could be remedied. I could commit myself to reading a newspaper thoroughly once a week. I could subscribe to various experts' blogs. I could pick up the phone and talk to knowledgeable friends and relatives. But part of the point I'm trying to make is precisely that I avoid doing these things. Sure, there's only so much we can cram into one day and some endeavours have to be prioritised over others. But maybe, on some level, I'm reverting to a child-like state and exposing myself only to as much info as I feel I can bear. Maybe my subconscious isn't as opposed to blinkers as I'd like to believe. T S Eliot did once say that "humankind cannot stand very much reality". Could it be true that, for all my opposition to nanny-states and censorship, what I really want is a pat on the head and a promise that everything's going to be all right?