It was a bumpy landing that I’d never experienced before. The plane skipped on the strip like a flat pebble on water. I attributed the ‘miss’ to the night and let it go at that, grumbling.
Must have been 30 Celsius and the sun wasn’t up yet. My shoes stuck, squishing off the tarmac with every step towards the main building. Inside hundreds of immaculately coiffed Indians all in white shirts, flashing radiantly welcoming smiles. I felt happy to be there.
And desks everywhere laden with tons of paper, dusty roped-up stacks of tawdry documents lying forgotten on the ground, stacked in shelves up behind and beyond. No, you didn’t want to get mixed up with the law, not in this bureaucracy; you’d be forgotten and left to rot. Everywhere paper. Forests of the stuff. These were, after all, the seventies. No computers to speak of. Only paper.
And crows as big as cats flying overhead. And a lady clad in all the colours of the rainbow walking straight and proud alongside her goat. This was a weird-wild place, no doubt about it. I’d hardly got there and I already loved it.
Soon I’m out and hustling for a cab. I arranged to share a ride with a couple of guys from my flight into town. It was an old Bentley, worn down but spacious and classy nevertheless. Being a Montrealer, with the worst streets of any big city on the planet and the most run-down taxis anywhere, this was an unanticipated treat.
It was still dark out but the first light of day was streaking the horizon. The roads were poorly lit. Shadowy figures lying beneath a tree. Homeless dogs running about, seemingly anxious and confused. And the occasional cow, scrawny and bony, chewing newsprint. An intellectual beast.
Look, said Dean, pointing to the left at a wall, some 8 feet in height, that seemed to go on forever. Squatting on it were dozens of people, one next to the other, their bare asses pointing our way, dumping. I gaped in disbelief. The cabbie, who until now had kept silent, said: squatters colony, as if to remind us that it wasn’t all like that, that this was an undesired anomaly, that he wasn’t part of that, that they belonged to another caste, on and on. He wouldn’t stop lecturing, explaining, justifying. But so what. I then thought to myself. No different from our shit-huts up north. So they’re short on sewage. No fault of theirs. It would all get fixed in time, modernized, sadly.
We rode on. And the sun rose higher, and there she suddenly appeared, the Bombay Bay looming in the distance, spreading out far beyond a thousand sails, masts and ships moored forever along the shore, the warm white-yellow light surrounding the city like a halo, the skyline a wonder of Hindi-Brit architecture, the eerie birds swirling up high and above the ubiquitous spires, and the magnificent colourful scent -- no other way to describe it -- as it smelled like everything at once. One does not know the nose until one goes to India -- tantamount to the severely daltonic discovering colour.
As we drove closer to town the streets grew populated. Cows halting traffic, the drivers calmly accepting the wait. People everywhere, some leaning against the side of a building chewing paan, their coal-red teeth betraying their habit, others sitting about in a small circle, taking breakfast on a banana leaf, and jittery monkeys pouncing the rooftops erratically like a thousand superballs let lose upon the earth from way up high,. The urban monkey is coy and agile. There she is. And now she’s gone. And the pungent smell of spice. Spice is everywhere. India is spice. Everything smells like spice. You cannot get away from it. You become it. Spice.
And of course the early morning scrubbers, brushing their teeth with huge brushes, with thick bristles, brushes big enough to floss a camel, vigorously brushing, foaming at the mouth, walking about, holding their metallic water filled cups, sipping and unabashedly spitting out as though in a spit-the-farthest competition, loudly clearing their throats, inducing vomiting, as is the Hindu’s wont, part of their morning ablution ritual, a way of keeping it clean, of cleansing. They may wear tattered rags but they are a clean people. Always and everywhere scrubbing, washing and bathing. All kinds of people doing in public what we all do privately.
India is a public reality. It is an organism too concerned about survival, about the truth of life to worry over the niceties of western privacy. To the street-Hindu privacy is death. When he finds it, it is too late.. He is no longer wanted. Shunned. Even by his very own. He is contagious. Infected. A goner. And so he doesn’t t bother. He huddles up in his private spot, and dies, silently and acceptingly, as he must, for the sake of the rest, of the organism, of INDIA, an organic indestructible reality . Should a nuclear cataclysm, a global Armageddon occur, India would survive. The Hindu excels at survival. All other options are inconceivable to him.. His love and respect of life and of divinity too great for him to ponder over alternatives.
To the Hindu, that we are all merely passing by is a given. Everywhere the little statuettes of their gods, Shiva, the transcendent Lord who creates the cosmos, maintains it and destroys it over and over again, the ubiquitous Ganesh, the elephant god, the remover of obstacles, and Vishnu, one of the main deities, the perseverer and protector, and Kali, the Hindu goddess associated with empowerment, Shakti, and Hanuman the monkey god, and many many more, all fascinating and tremendous in their own way, making up the most colourful mythology the world has known, and of course Braham, the highest and indescribable reality. And before their many gods are offerings and burning incense and solemn prayer, and powdered drawings.
To the Hindu there is nothing eventful about a ceremony. The ceremony begins at dawn and ends at death. To the Hindu life itself is a ceremony, a thanksgiving and preparation for the other side.. All this, driving the streets of Bombay, and it was still only dawn.
We decided to stay at the Seashore Hotel. We were led to our room, a spacious opulence affording a spectacular view of the Bay. I was tired. We all were. One of the guys, Marc, rolled a joint. Copped a tola (the weight of a silver rupee), he said, from the bellboy. Ten grams for 100 rupees, a mere ten bucks. I lied down and fell asleep, the morning’s impressions running through my head kaleidoscopically, and the cabbie’s last words before dropping us off, that it isn’t as ugly and bad as you might suspect – those people are happy.
And in time, having spent several months in India, his words proved prophetic, though after only having been there for a mere few hours I already knew
And I still remember how everything smelled like spice, but then you grew used to it and it smelled no more, and you missed it.
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I sat somewhat nervously at first but as the ride progressed I blended with the joyful chatter and laughter and confident ease of the locals on their way home.
Thing is I don’t want no trouble, but you see, way I figure the only chance I got against a pit-bull attack is to stretch out an arm as bait go for the knife with the free hand , press the release button, switch the blade open and proceed to cut the beast’s throat straight clean. Pit bull attacks have been compared to shark-attacks: “pit bulls inflict more serious wounds than other breeds. They tend to attack the deep muscles, to hold on, to shake, and to cause ripping of tissues.”