The Rhythm of the City

I was feeling the rhythm of the city today. The trick is to get out early, have a leisurely breakfast, get some work done, and then return home to escape the heat of the day for a few hours. Then, at 5 or so, head out again, and enjoy the Mumbai evening. Today, I did leave my room early, mostly because I was asked to, in order for the maid who clean the apartment I"m staying at could get in, change my sheets, and tidy up a bit. It's a little weird, but she comes with the apartment, and that's how it's done here. So I went out for coffee and breakfast at a place called Mochamojo nearby. It's done up in full 70's decor; vinyl booths that look like the back seat of old cars, bean bag chairs, end tables that look like Rubik's Cubes. The coffee was quite good, and for breakfast I had basically a Spanish tortilla; eggs and potatoes baked together in a pie. Over breakfast, I had a long phone call with Sonali, whom faithful readers will remember as the head of Dreamcatchers NGO, and who is getting used to the idea of becoming a mentor for younger people who are called to service but don't know how to begin. Truly, she's been a mentor for many for a long time, and is one of the most inspirational people Ive ever met, but of course no one sees themselves from the outside quite as others see them.
From there, I did go home for a few hours. The last few days have been very hot and humid, although it's still quite pleasantly cool in the evenings. I left a little earlier than usual though, and headed up to Juhu, the part of town a little further north, with its wonderful beach and grand Hare Krishna temple. The last time I was there, I discovered, around the corner from the temple, a Thai massage shop, and I went back and treated myself. The first time, I got a traditional Thai massage, and this time I opted for the classic Swedish. Sixty minutes, as professional as you'd want, for US$20. I could get used to it.
After the massage, I went to the Krishna temple, one of my favorite spots in the city. It's a whole complex, with a hotel, restaurant, snack stalls, library, and other services, but the centerpiece is a giant, white marble temple which displays all the grandeur and beauty befitting Lord Krishna and his consort Radha. The statues of the deities are lovingly cared for by a crew of volunteers, who dress them, cover them in flower garlands, and burn sweet-smelling incense to please them. All the while, devotees chant Krishna's name in the background, and we all join in, call-and-response style. I love going to the temple. It's a beautiful, peaceful place to give thanks for being here, for being alive, and it's always among the first and last places I go when I visit this country.

A new baby Krishna light I got at the temple.

From there, I headed to the nearby Juhu beach, which is always crowded with locals and Indian tourists who bring their entire families and baskets full of food. Some people swim, some sit together on the beach, lovers stroll along the shore, and children run and play freely. I watched the sun set over the Arabian Sea, ate some Pav Bhaji, and when it was dark, headed to my old neighborhood of Khar Danda.
There, I visited my old friend Sachin the saloon-keeper, for it was time for my weekly shave. And then I visited my old neighbors, the DJ brothers Sachin and Pravin. They were not actually there, but their sister and father and uncle were there, and I hadn't seen their father since I've been back, so it was great to catch up with him. He's had a really rough year, losing his wife and a younger brother within a few months. (I told him I understood.) And now, his daughter Poonam must take care of the father and the two brothers, because they are a poor village family, and that's how it's done. I wish she had the freedom to leave, continue her education (she did finish college), find a husband of her own, but they are a traditional family, and with the mom gone, she feels it is her place to take care of her father. She's perfectly happy though, and thinks it's weird that American families don't stay together forever and are scattered around the country. Indian families stay together, she says, and who am I to say that's wrong. It seems like she's happy with the decision, and doesn't feel forced into it, although it's hard to tell because in some ways it's expected of her. But she says she would choose to do it, even if she did really have a choice, and she certainly seems happy.Not everyone has to become a big shot or become super-productive at business. There's something to be said for a quiet, simple life, too.
From there, I tried to take the bus home, but I must have missed my stop, because before I knew it, I was at the last stop, the Bandra railway station. No problem. I hopped in a rickshaw and headed home. My apartment is near a Bollywood film studio called Mehboob Studios, and it's a great landmark that all the drivers know. I locked up the gate, as I do each evening, and headed upstairs. All in all, a great day in the city.

Tonight's sunset at Juhu Beach:

To Serve, With Love

I’ve previously mentioned my friend Sonali, whose assistance in finding housing has been invaluable, and with whom I’ve had some incredibly enlightening and uplifting conversations. She is the founder of the NGO Dreamcatchers, with which I worked when I came here 4 years ago, and have started working with again. Dreamcatchers works with people who have suffered deep traumas, from victims of the 2004 tsunami, to urban slum dwellers, to kids who have taken to the streets to escape from abuse at home. While there are many great organizations working on housing and feeding these people, Dreamcatchers’ mission is to attend to their spiritual and emotional health, to cultivate self-love and -respect and –empowerment, to begin the process of healing these deep wounds and generating a sense of wholeness in the individual. They have experienced such deep traumas that they can’t see themselves as worthy of anything good, and sink into meaninglessness and hopelessness. Using storytelling, music, art, quotes, poetry, images, movement, meditation, visualization, and group discussion, Dreamcatchers helps to create experiences which give people a renewed sense of themselves and their own inner power, which is, in some cases, the only thing that they can give again to themselves. We seek to integrate the various aspects of the individual which have been separated due to the trauma, and restore to them the sense of self and wholeness which has been shattered.

The 2004 tsunami, for example, destroyed the culture of many small fishing villages in the southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu. Dreamcatchers did intergenerational work with these villages, helping the children to reconnect with the elders so that village traditions could be restored and continued. By using storytelling and imagery, the older generation could relay the traditions in ways that were clearly communicated to the younger villages, and the kids of the village could share their fears and dreams about the future of the village. Together, the villages could unite in a common cause of rebuilding, with a shared vision of the future, and the youth were more responsive to the elders in the restoration of the past, while the elders were more flexible with the changes that the younger villagers dreamed of for the future.

In many other ways, Dreamcatchers works with traumatized children who have lost a sense of self, and allows them the space to express themselves, discharge some of the heat, and recognize the ways in which they do have inner strength, power, and creativity. We can’t always change the difficult external situations in which these kids find themselves, but perhaps we can change how the kids respond, by giving them internal emotional, cognitive, and spiritual skills so that they don’t lose themselves and they don’t come to expect the abuse, or think they deserve nothing more. We help them to catch their dreams and make them specific, whether through drawings or narratives, and hopefully we help them see their own unique talents. India is a culture where the individual can be made to feel insignificant in the group or family for reasons of gender or class, and lose themselves in favor of others who are seemingly more important. It always amazes me how high the suicide rate is here; women killing themselves because they can’t give their husbands children, or men because they can’t support their families. There are so many who live unseen, unrecognized, and when this starts in childhood, it is tragic. This is what Dreamcatchers addresses; giving these people a sense that they matter, and they deserve love and respect.

Yesterday we met with two women from Protsahan, a fabulous NGO that works with girls on the streets of Delhi. The founder quit her corporate job because she felt a calling (she said her father cried for a week, but now is quite proud), and her partner joined last year, after she awoke to her own childhood traumas and wanted to save other girls from the same fate. They are both in their upper 20’s, and Protsahan (which means encouragement in Hindi) is really starting to get attention for the great work they do. The founder used to make corporate training films, and now Protsahan enables their girls to make their own films on subjects like menstrual hygiene, the importance of education for girls (in this population, the boys go to school, but the girls aren’t generally sent), and issues related to physical and sexual abuse. The girls make the videos, show them to their friends, and not only do the filmmakers awake to their talents, the rest of the girls are inspired to find their own talents, and are more open to the content of the films because they come from their friends. Both women are great; the future of India. We had a fantastic discussion about the work; about scaling vertically rather than horizontally, in the sense that we want our programs to be flexible enough to reach each person in an authentic way, rather than just increase the number of people exposed superficially. We also talked about the parallel work of healing oneself and serving others, and that you don’t have to wait for any level of personal development to serve, because the service itself is part of your own path of healing and integration.

It was a miraculous evening of conversation, dreams, hope, and love. Changing the world, one heart at a time. I'm honored just to be involved. 

India 2014

One week in, 23 to go.
In some ways, it feels like I never left. The streets, the chaos, the animals, the smells, the smiles are all the same. It has been an adjustment though. Jet lag has been harder than I thought it would be. I was walking around like a zombie for the first few days, falling out hard at 5 or 6 pm, waking up in the middle of the night, watching tv or reading until the city woke up a bit. And this city wakes up late. Many shops don't open until 11, and stay open until midnight or so. I was hungry at some inopportune moments, and not hungry when I should have been. It's getting better, though, and I think I'm almost there.
I just moved into my third hotel. The first one is where I always start out, very comfortable and in my old neighborhood, but expensive at $45 per night (that's my discounted rate from them, actually). Next was a similar place for a little less nearby.  Now I'm up in Juhu, a neighborhood a little to the north, famous for its beach, its giant Marriot hotel complex, and its large Krishna temple. I've never stayed here, and it's a little quieter and more peaceful, maybe because of the beach. It gives me whole new areas to wander around and explore. I'm staying at a hotel/ashram only for people visiting the temple, but my friend Sonali called them as a reference, so I'm in. And yes, I'll be visiting the temple two or three times a day, giving thanks for being here, and opening my heart.
This whole trip is about opening my heart. I just recently got divorced. This blog started as a record of the two of us, and the beginnings can be found in the first few entries. Heather and I are still close, but long-term partnership was not to be. So I'm back, to travel solo again, to meet other travelers on the road, and to remember myself. Who am I now? What do I want, where do I want to be, what will be my future of romantic relationships? Before I am truly open to being with another, I must patch some holes, heal some cuts and bruises, and turn on my lovelight for myself, for all beings. I am hopeful that I will find a new partner someday, but in order for it to work, I must find myself again first. And no, it's not that I'm all that lost, I just need a little time to integrate the past few years, so free up the future.
Meanwhile, I've been taking long walks and reconnecting with people. Saw my old friend Sachin the hair-saloon keeper. Got my first shave from him, and a haircut too. Getting shaved by an expert here with a straight razor is one of the pleasures of India, which I have written about before. Last time I came I brought him a wristwatch, and he was still wearing it. And there's my good friend Sonali, I can't say enough about here. She runs the NGO Dreamcatchers, for whom I volunteered in 2010, and I'll work wtih them again this time. Our conversations soar to the loftiest heights, wherein we remind each other of our deepest selves, and I value her insight immensely. I've also seen a few times the Rajput family, DJ brothers Pravin and Sachin, who were my neighbors in my old building. (Sachin Tendulkar is India's most beloved cricket player, recently retired, and so it is a popular name.) I even met a couple new people, one guy named Adam, although when he found out I was het, I think he lost interest. I met him by complimenting him on his tattoo, so I can understand the confusion. It's an awesome tattoo; a stylized om symbol made to look like a meditating person.
I'm so happy and thankful to be here, although there have certainly been times that I've wondered what the heck I'm doing. But let's call that Jetlag too, or the vicissitudes of India. It's all extremes here, internally as well as externally. Keeps things interesting, at least.
I'll stay here in Mumbai for a while, and at some point I'll hit the road. To follow my heart, that is the key. 

Refilling my heart, and my stomach

After almost exactly two years, I have returned to India and aamchi Mumbai for a 2 week holiday.

And what a homecoming it's been. Today reminded me of all I love about India and her people. The warmth, open-heartedness, connections. In short, the people. Oh, and the food.

I arrived just after midnight, and after an emotional taxi ride through the streets, gulping in the sweet, unique smell of Mumbai, I went to a hotel in the neighborhood where I used to live, Danda, in west Khar. It's a bit of a fancy hotel, but it's the only one I knew of in the area, and I knew I could arrive at any time.
When I woke, I checked out, thinking I would look for a cheaper place, but there was none in the area to be found. I thought I would have to go further, near the railway station, when the manager came over and wanted to talk to me about a deal for the whole 2 weeks. He offered me a very reasonable price, more than I'm used to paying in the rest of the country, but as low as anything that could be found in this city, so I accepted. Which is great, because it's right here, walking distance from my old apartment.

The next thing I did was walk to my old street. I hadn't shaved for a couple of days, knowing I would see my old friend and saloon-keeper, Sachin. We recognized each other right away, and while I waited for him to finish with his current client (who translated a bit for us), we chatted. When I was here two years ago, he used to joke with me about sending him gifts from the US, and Sachin jokingly said that I hadn't sent anything. Aha! I pointed to my bag and told him that I had brought.  He was pretty amazed when I pulled out a Timex watch for him, some t-shirts for his kids, and a Hollywood snow globe for his wife. The look on his face, I will never forget. He gave me my shave, shaping my beard just so, and we caught up. At the end, he refused to accept any payment, but I told him that next time, I would pay, and he reluctantly agreed to that. I told him I'd be back in a few days.

Then, I went over to the Pali Naka neighborhood of Bandra where I was meeting my friend Sonali for lunch. Before that, though, I changed money at a shop I know that performs such services at rates higher than banks will give. I got 55 rupee to the dollar; two years before it was only 45. Good for me, not so good for the locals. Then I went to Shiv Sagar to meet Sonali. She is the director of Dreamcatchers, the NGO for which I volunteered when I was here. I got a masala dosa, which as we all know is something I love. It had been 2 years since I had a proper one, and i savored it. Between bites, we had a great talk. We've always had an immediate, deep connection, understanding each other's hearts, minds, and souls effortlessly, in ways that inspire both of us to reach our deepest selves. It's been a very eventful two years for her, and for me, so we had a lot of catching up to do. The restaurant eventually kicked us out because they needed the table space, and we stood on the street outside talking for a few more minutes before putting the conversation on hold until we go to our next restaurant together (there's supposed to be a great new South Indian place in Juhu).

Back on my old street, I ran into so many shopkeepers and former neighbors, and they all greeted me so enthusiastically, it was a real homecoming, so sweet. I went to my old building and all my old neighbors were so happy to see me. One of them, a family living on the ground floor with two brothers who are DJs, Sam and Sachin, had been particularly friendly when I lived in the building and invited me to come back later for dinner.

After resting at the hotel, I returned for dinner. Sachin is in Goa, so I talked to him on the phone, but Sam and his sister and father and aunt and grandmother were all there, and we chatted, and they fed me a lovely dinner. Some customs are quite interesting, including the one where they let the guest eat first before they ate. So I ate alone while they watched, kept filling my place when it got half empty, made a special trip to get soda for me, and we talked. They couldn't have been nicer or more sweet or hospitable. They kept piling puris on my plate until I have to beg them to stop. They told me they were so happy to have me as a guest, they wanted to make sure I got enough. And they even had gone out and bought a little vanilla ice cream to give to me for dessert. Before I left, Sam and I made plans to have dinner on Sunday night.

And to top it all off, today is Raksha Bandhan, a lovely Indian holiday that celebrates the bonds of brothers, sisters, and cousins. The streets are filled with families dressed up and blowing noisemakers.

I'm heading back to the room now, but stopped to get these thoughts down, so I could always remember this incredible day. Earlier, I had told Sonali a story about seeing an Indian family at Universal Studios in Los Angeles this year, and how I had approached them, asked where they were from (turned out to be Tirumala, where I spend my birthday in 2010), and talked with them a bit. Sonali told me that she was in Amsterdam earlier in the year, and when she was there, she understood the core of my love for India. There, as in LA, people just walk briskly, minding their business, on the way to doing something important, and she had a hard time getting anyone to stop and chat or even so she could ask for directions. She knew that in India, when you're in public, it's one big community, and it's common to talk to strangers, show them kindness and friendliness. Sometimes in LA, I seem weird for talking to strangers in public, as if we were friends. Here, it is commonplace. And when I am friends with someone, or neighbors of theirs, the love and kindness and hospitality can split my heart wide open, and refill it to overflowing.

Mumbai, thanks for the love. Not only are you the best food city in the world, your people are second to none. 

An Ode to the South Indian Breakfast

O, Ye south Indian breakfast;
Thou art the greatest breakfasts in the world!
Thou fillest me with a joyful feeling,
Reaching into every corner of my soul and body,
Igniting me to life each day with the perfect balance of sensation,
With sweet and spice,
With refreshing coolness and exhilarating heat.
Like the culture and religion around you,
You have evolved over a thousand years,
To become a perfection.

Ye startest with Idli, that saucer-shaped pillow of soft, absorbent pleasure,
Made of slightly sour rice flour, steamed into light, airy goodness
Like a cloud; like an empty mind, ready to absorb the day, ready to absorb the spicy and tangy sambar soup, and the cool and and tropical coconut chutney.

And with thy lightfulness, delightfulness,
also comes the Vada.

Oh ye Vada, ye savory doughnut of delight,
Fried gently, lovingly, so that your outside is crisp and your inside is light and cake-like,
Also ready to be combined with the twin condiments of sambar and chutney,

Idly and Vada, sambar and chutney-
Thy formest a heavenly mixture that is eaten with one’s fingers
There is no silverware to intercede; no fork or spoon to separate the sensation.
Fingers are used to mix, and scoop, so that it becomes an experience of all the senses.
Why deprive the fingers, the skin, the sense of touch of the goodness?
This breakfast is made to be relished by all the senses, for there is plenty of bliss to go around.

And then, of course, the masterpiece, the grand and glorious Dosa, the sourdough wonder, fried thin as the border between Man and God, thin as the delicateness of a newborn butterfly, crispy and airy and utterly celestial, so light that it lifts the eater into Heaven itself, into a world of ecstasy.

Finally, the coffee, brewed fresh and strong, premixed with milk and sugar in perfect balance, and served in a cup inside a bowl, so that you can pour it yourself, from cup to bowl and back to cup, mixing it, aerating it, lightening it, cooling it, until it is ready to be savored.




Each day, I am graced with your goodness, O South Indian Breakfast, and with a beginning like that, how can the day fail to unite me with my God, remind me of my Love, and bring out the best in me and all humankind?

Yum.

Singin' on the Train

It takes about 24 hours to fly from the US to India, if you stop somewhere in Europe, including layovers and all. The 24 hour train trip from Mumbai to Chennai was much easier and much more comfortable than any of those journeys. I usually take the 2-tier or 3-tier air conditioned cars on long train trips here, but this time none of those seats was available, so I took the sleeper class, which is the class most Indian families take. Each little section has 6 seats - 3 long benches on each side, top, middle and bottom, that are long enough to lie on. During the day, though, they fold the middle one down so that it makes a back to the bottom one and forms a little bench for sitting. But I prefer the top berth, so I can lie down and nap whenever I want. The sleeper class turned out to be very fun, much more friendly and social than the AC cars, and I was the only non-Indian in sight.

I shared my car with a family of 5. When they came onto the car, I said hello, and saw that one of the young women had her hands beautifully and intricately decorated with henna, so I asked her if she had just gotten married. She told me she was heading down south to get engaged. She was traveling with her Father, Mother, Auntie and best friend. And now, me.

The groom's family does the engagement party, which is as big and lavish as the wedding, and that's where they were heading. The bride's family does the wedding, which is going to be up in Mumbai, where they are from, and then the happy couple is planning on moving to Simi Valley near Los Angeles.

The train rides are a real joy, everyone is very open and friendly, children play with other passengers, families bring extravagant picnics, and just in case there's not enough food for anyone, every few minutes a porter comes by selling cold drinks, or chips and cookies, or fried snacks, or full meals of biryani (rice mixed with chicken or vegetables) or Indian thalis (meals with white rice, curries, and other goodies). And of course, even more often than that, someone comes by selling chai and coffee. They carry urns filled with hot spiced and sugared milk, fill up a little paper cup, and then add a tea bag or instant coffee. Each cup sells for 5 rupee, or about 11 cents.

The family in my car was great. We chatted a lot, bought each other chai often, and they shared with me some of the food they brought along. I even tried some of my Hindi and a couple of Marathi words on them, and they totally lit up at that. I guess some westerners learn some Hindi, but nobody learns any Marathi. My local shopkeeper Prakash has taught me a few Marathi words, showing me off when other people come to his shop, and beaming like the proud teacher he is. So I tried those words on my new friends on the train, and they loved it. The train left at 8:30 at night, so after dinner and tea and getting to know each other, we all settled in for the night. I had one last cup of garam dudh (hot sweet milk), without tea or coffee this time, and went to sleep.

In the morning, when I took off my eye mask and iPod, the train was a bustle of activity. I watched from my perch on the top berth as people went to the sink to wash up, put away their sheets, returned the middle berths to the bench position, and ate breakfast. I waited until a magical convergence of 2 porters stopped in front of me, one selling coffee and the other selling idly, a steamed rice cake which makes for a lovely light and tasty breakfast. I ate that great train meal for less than a dollar, and then climbed down to join my party.

For the next couple of hours, we sang. The bride, her friend, her mother and auntie were all singing songs from Bollywood movies, occasionally moving their hands or heads in imitation of the dance steps done to the songs. I sat with them, smiling, clapping along, and joining in on choruses when I could figure it out. Then they asked me to sing! (Little did they know what they were getting themselves into.) First, I sang the 2 Hindi songs I know, from an old movie I saw in 1995. I bought the DVD before I came back from that trip, so I learned the songs. They were very impressed I knew even those songs, and joined with me enthusiastically. Then they wanted an English song. Fly me to the Moon is what came out, and when I finished, they applauded, and we went back to Hindi songs, moving on from happy love songs to sad love songs and then back to happy ones.

The day went by quickly, with all of us taking naps during the couple hours when it started to get a little warm in our car, and the next thing I knew, the sun had set, and shortly thereafter we arrived at Chennai-Egmore station; the end of the line.

We exchanged email addresses, so that Heather and I could see Jayshree and her husband-to-be when they move to LA in December, and said our goodbyes. I congratulated the father on his daughter's engagement, and on a lovely family.

Getting off the train, I was in the middle of India's 4th largest city, but it had a peaceful, slow feeling to it. Around the station were many travel shops and hotels, and I wanted to get to Pondicherry as soon as I could, which is a town about 4 hours away by bus, because the next day was Bastille Day, and it's supposed to be a holiday in Pondy. Pondy is a former French enclave, the way that Goa is a former Portuguese enclave, 2 small remaining parts of India that the British left to other European powers when they consolidated their colonial power over the country. Apparently, somehow Pondy remained an independent French colony until 1956, long after Indian independence. But Pondy is also close to the Sri Aurobindo ashram, and most of the hotels close by 10:30, so I had to wait until the morning.

I had looked up bus companies online before I left, and found one tha thad an early morning bus, so I searched for that company. I went to another random travel agency that only had busses at night, and tried to convince me to take one, but I told them the name of the bus company I wanted, and they sent me in the right direction, which I thought was mighty friendly of them. Even the rickshaw drivers who jump all over newly-arrived passengers left me alone once I told them I didn't need any help. In some other places in India, they've been much more persistent. I easily found the right bus company and booked a ticket for the bus leaving 6:00am the next day. I even found a rickshaw driver who agreed to meet me at 5:00 am to take me to the bus stop, which is about 45 minutes outside of town. Then I went to a restaurant on the block and got my first official south India dosa, which was indescribably delicious.

The next step was to find a room. I was only going to be there for a few hours, but I still needed a room. I found a tiny, grungy room at a good price at a bachelor's hotel. Only men allowed. Those 4 hours were more miserable than the 24 on the train. I was attacked by mosquitos, and when I hid in my sleep sack, it became unbearably hot. So from midnight until 4:30 am, i swatted mosquitoes, and killed more than a few, who died leaving bright red spots on the walls and sheets, which I knew was my blood, freshly sucked from me. I hardly slept at all, and was relieved when my alarm went off and I could get up, shower, find my rickshaw driver, and head to the bus stop.

The bus ride was easy, I slept hard and they had to wake me when we arrived in Pondi. I went to a guest house that I chose from my guidebook, checked in, opened the doors to the balcony overlooking the ocean, and crashed on the clean and comfortable bed.

Once more, with feeling.

It's almost time to come back. But before I do, I'll will take one last Indian road trip. Today I bought a ticket to head down south, 26 hours on the fast train to Chennai. Tamil Nadu is the one state I've always wanted to see, and haven't seen yet (except for a one-night layover in 2004, where I dipped my toes into the Bay of Bengal, but didn't do much else). It's a completely different world than the north. The north of India is a melting pot, due to centuries of invasion by everyone from Alexander the Great to the British. But the south has remained largely untouched (despite British rule), and is still strong in traditional Hinduism, with many ancient temples still standing and actively used. It'll be back to English for me there, for all the Hindi and the few words of Marathi I've learned will be useless. They speak Tamil, and would rather hear English than Hindi.

It wasn't easy getting a ticket. The trains were sold out, but they reserve a certain number of seats for every train that are released first thing in the morning, 2 days before the train leaves, known as the tatkal quota. I went to a travel agent I know, and hired him to get me a tatkal seat. Even still, he was unable to get a berth in the air-conditioned cars, so I ended up in sleeper class. I believe I still get a full padded bench to myself, but there is no AC. It's been cooler since the monsoon has started though, and I don't mind roughing it for this last trip, so we'll see what it's like. I can always try to upgrade on the train itself; that is usually possible, and you pay the porter the difference. It was much cheaper this way anyway; less than US$10 for a 26 hour, 1279 km (795 mile) journey. The AC cars are 3 times as much.

I get to Chennai (formerly Madras), the big city down there, on Tuesday at 10pm or so, too late to head out that night. I'll spend the night at a retiring room in the train station itself, or more probably at one of the guest houses nearby. Early the next morning, I want to leave for Pondicherry, a town I've always wanted to see. It was a French enclave, the one place left to them by the British, and still has a French feel to it apparently. Wednesday is, appropriately enough, Bastille Day, which is celebrated there with parades and other festivities. I'll arrive as early as I can (it's a 4 hour bus trip from Chennai), and spend 5 or so days there, depending on how I like it.

From there I plan to visit Mamalapuram, a friendly traveler's enclave on the beach, with seafood restaurants and palm trees and temples. I'll relax there for another 5 days or so, doing nothing but reading and eating and walking. (I look forward to visiting Krishna's Butter Ball, a large, precariously balanced stone formation. Oh how Krishna loves his butter.)

The other place I plan to see on this little trip is the holy town of Tirupathi, and the nearby temple at Tirumala. It's a famous Hindu pilgrimage site, apparently attracting more religious visitors than Mecca, Jerusalem or Rome, though it gets very few Western tourists. I want to end my year in India with a visit there, to express my love and gratitude for the time I've had here, ending it with a spiritual focus, as a resident, an Indian by nature if not by birth, and not as a tourist, not as an outsider. I will walk with the thousands of pilgrims to spend a few moments with the deity, and give great thanks for this amazing year, before I leave this country, and head back to my real family.

I'll have a few days in Mumbai when I return, and I will, as I have been doing in these weeks since I returned from Hampi, enjoy my beloved city. I've been taking long ambles around town, talking to the people, visiting my favorite restaurants, shopping for mementos (and pretty things for Heather), and enjoying the ambiance. Tonight I walked home from Waterfield Road and Linking Road, after drinking lemon tea at a new bakery there.

The other night, I walked home from Juhu beach. Actually, the linked map was not my route. I walked directly from Point A to Point B, through no man's land. I walked as far on the beach as I could, a beautiful seaside walk along the Arabian sea with joggers and young couples and families, enjoying the respite from the ever-present monsoon rains, until the sea encroached and blocked my path. I turned East, inland, and found myself in the middle of the poorest slum I have seen here. On the google map, it's just empty, and it's true that there were no roads, no cars, no rickshaws. There was only semi-permanent, hastily built homes, with blue tarps as walls and roofs, and thin beams of recovered wood in the corners for structure. The alleys between them were so narrow that you had to turn sideways to pass anyone, with only garbage and mud underfoot. There was no electricity, just the light of fires and wood stoves, and no running water. I was lost. I was looking for a rickshaw but was in the middle of this neighborhood, with nary a vehicle to be found.

In any other country in the world, I might have been scared to be in such a neighborhood. But not in Aamchi Mumbai, my Mumbai, my India. I felt as safe and at home as I do anywhere here. I asked a local man to point me toward a rickshaw, and he told me to follow him for a while. (Though the only word spoken between us was "rickshaw".) He led me deeper into the neighborhood (I am reluctant to call it a slum, though anyone would), and then pointed for me to continue, mysteriously saying "boat". I looked in the direction he was pointing, and it was darker, and muddier, and more desolate. Could that be the right way? But I went with my heart and trusted him, and continued, my feet sinking into the mud as I approached the banks of a small inlet of water. It was very dark by then, and before I realized it, I came to the edge of the water, and a small wooden raft. Across the water, i could see lights and vehicles and the rest of the city. I had to cross the water to get to my rickshaw. There was a boy on the small raft. It was about 10 feet square, and he was about 10 years old. I climbed aboard, and he pushed his big bamboo pole into the bottom of the waterbed, and ferried us across. I thanked him with 2 rupee, and carefully stepped off. I walked in the direction I knew had to be right, and after a couple dark blocks, came to a busy street, filled with rickshaws and vendors selling things on the streets, and small shops. And i recognized it! It was the road I always drive down on my way to Juhu. I knew where I was! It was close enough to my neighborhood, so I walked along the road. I stopped at one vendor selling sheets, I had bought some from him a month or so ago, and he recognized me, beamed a smile at me when he saw me, and started to show me more sheets. I wasn't buying that night, but I smiled back. I finished the walk back, got home, washed my feet, and settled into my apartment. What a night, what a walk through the city, parts I had never seen, until coming to parts I recognized. I do so love it here. But I'm also ready to come back.