Monday September 14th
It has been about a week since Jonathan and I have arrived in Mumbai. We have spent the week desperately trying to overcome our jet lag while Jon has additionally had to deal with his first bout of being sick. Needless to say we haven’t been out much.
We are staying in a flat of our own which has been so generously lent to us, in a fairly large and well off compound. We’re in Malad West for those familiar with the city, a walkable distance from my godparents. In a city where privacy is almost unheard of (unless you have the money to buy it, which the vast majority of Mumbai’s population does not), it has been great to have our own place. It’s a nice way to ease the transition not only from Canada to India but also as we transition from one stage of our life (finishing our undergrads, tree-planting, wedding planning) into our next stage with whatever lies ahead here.
Being a city of around 18 million, Mumbai is a concrete jungle. There are very few homes as most people reside in the multitude of apartment buildings. The few houses that lie dispersed within the city are remnants of a different life with a much smaller population. As Jon previously explained, apartment buildings here are often arranged into micro compounds called societies. They have their own grounds, boundaries, committees that take care of the upkeep and politics -mini neighbourhoods so to speak climbing upwards instead of outwards. While many societies tend towards attracting people of a certain faith, as far as I know, most take inhabitants of all.
This particular compound has a pool which our living room window looks out onto and which we are subsequently teased with daily. Apparently you have to be a member to use it and as we don’t actually live here and aren’t part of the society, we don’t have access to membership.
Our neighbours listen to amazing traditional tabla (an Indian hand drum) music every morning. I’m excited to take lessons once we settle down.
We have two small neighbourhood mandirs (Hindu temples) nearby which begin and end our day as they fill the air with the sounds of bells and horns during the various puja (prayer) offerings.
I’m glad to be back in Mumbai. Glad to have escaped the incoming cold months back home and eager to learn more about the culture here I love. I’m warmed to see familiar sights I’ve forgotten about and admire such as the communal lunch break the shop keepers and employees take as they sit on the floor in the meager floor space as they all share their food.
There are still many things to get used to once again. I’m slowly getting my bearings for figuring out how to cross the street again amidst the maniacal traffic. Totally almost got run over by a bus yesterday. Turns out, those things do not slow down. The smallest hesitation or misjudgement here could viably get you killed just crossing the street.
I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being stared at as an element so evidently foreign and out of place to the locale. I buzzed my hair again before I left which is a dead giveaway. When I was here in January I very quickly learned the Hindi word for “baldy” as children would run out into the street and yell at me before they ran away and hid. Long luscious hair is a sign of feminine beauty in many cultures and in India this standard holds true much more extremely than in Canada, though western culture has its fair share of idolizing this feminine characteristic as well –think about how many times we’re fed the image of a biker or warrior whose female identity is revealed as she whips off her helmet and shakes her golden locks. Needless to say, unlike the ‘west’, it’s far less acceptable to have short hair here. When people meet me they quickly ask me about my hair. I’m often told that I should grow my hair because I’ll look much better. I’ve been asked ‘what happened?’ as if the short length of my hair must be an indication of an unfortunate illness. I’m slowly being worn down by the constant disapproval and have begun to wonder if I should grow it out. Thus far I’ve been keeping it short to avoid the hassle of taking care of it, of having to give shit about things like bed-hair. But perhaps the trouble I’d save by growing it out would outweigh having to take care of it. On the other hand, the rebellious side of me says fuck it. If it isn’t my hair, I’m sure there will be other things that the Indian culture will find to disapprove of whether it be that I moved to Canada and have grown up western, the way I walk, my piercing or my white, Canadian husband. Looks like I’m just going to have to get used to being on the outside here as I’m faced with people openly both resenting me and admiring me for everything that I represent whether I want to or not.
Oh India, you challenge me like no other.
