Jeremy Goes to Bangalore (video travelogue)

Let me eat cake

Cake, you surround me. Black forest, pineapple gateaux, chocolate bomb. You come in so many colors and shapes and sizes, each of you more delectable than the one just before.

Tempting, moist, delicious sweet cake – you are everywhere. You’re on every coffee shop counter and movie theatre snack bar. Chocolate mousse, chocolate fantasy, chocolate doughnut – you’re not technically cake but you’re eaten with a spoon.

Meals are healthy. But cake, you balance it out. Thick and heavy, weighed down with icing. How do so many stay so thin when you show your sweet self?

Falooda, jalebi, gulab jamun – they’re all very tasty. But cake, you have the numbers. Cake, you have the reach. Cake, you dominate. And you taste good.

and now, the scramble

I’ve reached the counting down point, but I have many different dates to count down to. I roughly have:

2 weeks left working in Bangalore
4 weeks left in India
5 weeks till I’m back in balmy L.A.

And of course, because I always put too much pressure on myself to be productive with my time, I have a lot of stuff to do. And only two weeks to do it. Namely, I have to edit my final India short film (I’ll also be doing something with all the urban monkey footage I’ve shot, but that will come post-balmy L.A. return). And I want it to be totally finished and online before I leave Bangalore. Self-imposed deadline. And I also have some writing I need to finish.

I spent all weekend shooting b-roll of interesting Bangalore stuff, including my interactions with it (like talking with cows). And I still have to shoot some indoor bits as well. And cut it all together. This will likely be the longest and most complex of my adequately named “Bangaloring” series. So of course I cannot spend my last few weeks relaxing. I’ve got work to do. Blechh.

I always guilt myself into being productive when all I really want to do is relax and watch TV and eat ice cream. Stupid self-guilt.

Sweatin' Mumbai

Last week was Good Friday, a holiday on the Indian calendar. Rather than wile away my day off on the streets of Bangalore, playing with wild dogs and dodging gaping holes in the sidewalk, I decided to fly to Mumbai. Bollywood.

Formerly known as Bombay (a way cooler name), Mumbai is home to the biggest film industry in the world, bigger even than Hollywood. Even after the city’s name change, the Bollywood nickname stuck. “Mullywood” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

It would be awesome to see filmmaking from the Indian perspective. I’d imagine it would be much like American filmmaking, but with a lot more Indian people. And big, over-the-top song and dance numbers – many taking place on hillsides and adjacent to water – where rhythm and movements symbolize a couple’s passion in a morally acceptable way.

Sadly, you can’t visit the Bollywood studios – they’re closed to the public. So I couldn’t witness firsthand a director telling his lead actress that her performance is “too realistic.” That she needs to heighten every expression, every gesture. To make it bigger, less subtle, more artificial. To make it more Bollywood.

I’d heard that occasionally a Bollywood production will pluck random tourists to be extras in a film. I’d be down with that. It would be neat to compare the experience with that glamorous period of my life when I worked as an extra, making background crosses like no other.

But that didn’t happen. I was never discovered by Central Casting: Mumbai.



When you want to drink a beer in India, chances are that it’s a Kingfisher beer. And when you want to fly on a really nice plane in India, you fly Kingfisher Airlines, which is what I did. For an hour and a half flight, I get a nice meal with dessert, a personal video screen on the seat in front of me (of course nothing good is on save for a claymation penguin show called Pingu), a little goody bag – even this weird spicy buttermilk drink in a juice box. It’s actually pretty nasty, but at least it’s free.

I arrive in Mumbai and step outside. It’s mid-afternoon and it’s hot. Very hot. Too-close-to-the-sun hot. I can’t find a “cool cab” (cab with air conditioning) so I take a regular one for the long ride to my hotel in the Fort district. The open cab windows create wind on my face as sweat dampens the back of my shirt.

The ride takes a while as we pass through neighborhood after neighborhood of slums. Homes made out of random pieces of wood and sheet metal and old plastic tarps. Ladders leading up to second story hovels. Children playing, some of them naked, some of them bored. Adults chatting or sleeping on the ground, on cots, on boxes, whatever. With the stifling heat, a nap is not such a bad idea.

I get to my hotel, The Residency, My room is small but it has an air conditioner. So I crank it up and sit motionless in front of it for a while. It’s lovely.

Finally I roust myself from my icy bliss. I should go outside and do something – but what? I need an objective. Looking through my assorted guides and maps, I see a movie theatre is nearby. Yes, I’ll see a Hindi movie. A Bollywood movie in Bollywood. I am pleased with myself for this brilliant plan.

The movie doesn’t start for a few hours so I go outside and wander aimlessly. I like to do that in strange cities. Pick up the atmosphere, the vibe. And Mumbai has a great vibe, a robust energy you can really feel.

I walk on the sidewalk, alternately ignoring and rejecting the countless vendors hawking bootleg DVDs, underwear, and what appear to be vibrators (seriously, a bunch of vendors are selling them and they don’t look like anything else). It seems every vendor makes an extra effort to grab my attention. They must know I’m from out of town – but how? Is it because I’m one of the few people wearing sunglasses? My nice sneakers? Or perhaps my blonde hair and milky white skin gives me away. Hmmm…

I have a nice dinner at a veg restaurant called Samrat. The soup and main course are fine, but the starter (appetizer) is the bomb. Twelve baby corns, deep fried. Mmmmm…deep fried baby corns……

Done with my herbavorian feast, I mosey over to the Eros Cinema with my ticket for the just-opened, destined-to-be-a-classic Shaka Laka Boom Boom. Some flick about the cutthroat music industry. I sit up in the balcony, the movie starts and twenty minutes later I fall asleep. This is not uncommon for me. In the states, I would often have a few dozing moments before snapping back awake for the rest of the flick. But today I sleep for most of the first half, right up until intermission. Which is fine. I manage to stay awake for the second half and wish I were still sleeping. Major overacting (which is obvious despite it not being in English), way overdramatic music – even the dancing is lame. A poor cinematic experience. Perhaps my expectations were too high for a film called Shaka Laka Boom Boom.

Saturday, I go to the Gateway of India. It’s pretty much as I expected – a large gray structure that doesn’t do anything and you can’t go inside, like the Arc de Triumphe in Paris or that big arch in Washington Square Park in NY. You see it, say “wow, that’s big,” you take a few pictures. And five minutes later, you’re done. At least from here, I can take a boat ride. Which is good, because the boats go to Elephanta Island, which is where I want to go.

The boat ride is hot. Thank goodness for the partial canopy or I’d completely wilt. After an hour, my fellow tourists and I arrive at the end of a long dock leading to Elephanta Island. I walk alongside a toy train that transports the kids and the lazy. My pace is only slightly slower than that of the train. I grab a bottle of water and snack on homemade nut brittle and some slices of mystery fruit (at first I think it’s an apple, turns out not to be) I bought from one of the many peddlers sitting on the ground.

Traditional women pose with objects on their heads, imploring you to take a picture (and give them money). I take a shot of the first one I pass as she mugs from the camera. I give her ten rupees and she says “twenty.” I continue walking. (Later I delete the picture. It feels too artificial, too inorganic)

I reach the base of a lengthy stone incline, a gauntlet of peddlers on both sides as far up as I can see. But at least these folk sell interesting souvenirs – carvings and bells and Ganesha figurines. And not a single vibrator. I pace myself as I climb the many steps, not wanting a repeat of my last sweltering staircase shlep, when I puked from walking too fast.

Reaching the top of the steps, I am sweating profusely. I taste it as it trickles into my mouth. It tastes like sweat.

I explore the wide open caves, or at least the one that’s open to visitors. Thousand year old columns and sculptures of Hindu gods. Same gods I’ve seen at many temples, but this time it’s in a cave. Which makes it cooler. Figuratively and literally. Gotta love caves.



I return to the mainland and look for snake charmers around the Gateway of India, for I’d heard they sometimes gather there. Unfortunately, I find none. Though I do see some teenagers diving boldly into the water and I grab some nice action shots.

My sweat almost makes me miss my dinner reservation. I knew it had seriously dampened my watchband, but I didn’t realize it had diffused into the timepiece itself, causing it to slow down time. So when I think it’s five o’clock, it turns out to really be six. Lousy sweaty watch.

I have an excellent dinner at the super fancy schmancy Taj Mahal Hotel. The restaurant is Wasabi, created by Masaharu Morimoto, one of the Iron Chefs. I hadn’t had real sushi since coming to India and this makes up for it. It’s ever so tasty and the presentation is superb. And it doesn’t hurt that the waiter keeps bringing me free sake.

On the hot walk back to the hotel, my shirt returns to its nearly liquid state. All I want to do is take a shower. But of course the hotel bathroom doesn’t have a traditional (Western) shower, it only has a curtain to divide the room and a random shower head sticking out of the wall. It also has, like most Indian bathrooms, a bucket and a cup with which you can pour water on yourself to “bathe.” I opt try my luck with the random shower head.

The water isn’t even lukewarm but it feels great. So nice for the liquid covering my body to be water instead of sweat. The water ends up leaking out of the bathroom and into the main room so I spend the next ten minutes sopping it up with a towel. I know I could just ask some hotel guy to do it, but I’m tired and don’t want any people coming in for floor mopping duty. I just want to relax.

On Sunday, my final day in town, I hit some art galleries and museums. There are some nice works of art. And air conditioning. Did I mention I like air conditioning?

With my return flight time fast approaching, I walk south toward the water, to Colaba Market. It’s a bustling marketplace with vendors selling fruit, veggies and the like. As I walk deeper into the market, the path becomes narrower. There are more people going about their daily routine, not just exchanging goods. Goats wander freely. Children play. And then it dawns on me that I’m right in the middle of a slum.

I continue walking, hoping the maze-like path will eventually lead out of the endless sea of shanties. But it doesn’t. I end up on a beach covered with more garbage than sand, a wall of shacks on one side, Back Bay on the other. The place is teeming with life. A man washes a cow in the water while children happily dive from the top of well-worn fishing boats. An oddly beautiful scene, in its own sad, colorful way.



I take some (what I hope to be) surreptitious pictures and continue my exploration, still looking for the way out. I never feel unsafe, but I am clearly an outsider here, despite the friendly waves of the toddlers who say hello to me as I pass.

Hitting a dead end, I turn around and go back the way I came, stumbling upon another out-of-place white guy. He looks more lost than me. He says he’s from Denmark, in month nine of a ten month trip around the world. Now he’s trying to reach the Gateway of India. We retrace my original steps, back out of the slum, through the market and back to middle class Mumbai. We go our separate ways, he to the stationary landmark, me back to the hotel to pick up my bag.

Before my cab ride back to the airport, all I want is a cold drink. Unfortunately it’s Easter, so almost nothing is open, at least among the small shops and fruit stands by The Residency. Just when I’m about to give up, I find an open juice stand and order a glass of pineapple juice for ten rupees. The juiceman takes a few pieces of pineapple, slices the ends off with a knife and puts them in a blender. He blends for a long time, long enough for me to repeatedly wave off the troop of mosquitoes flying about. Finally he pours my glass. It’s not cold, but it’s tall and frothy, more foam than juice. Kinda like an Orange Julius, only completely natural. And man, is it good.

And with that, I finish my glass. And my weekend in Mumbai.

slip

An hour ago, I almost cracked my head open. Yes, by accident.

I turned off the shower and started to walk out when I slipped, my feet flying up behind me. My face headed straight for the hard tile floor at an alarming speed. In the split second before collision, I managed to brace myself slightly, extending my forearm out just enough to take some of the impact. Thankfully.

My arm slammed into the floor, as did the side of my chin and, somehow, my ankle. As I lay there on the cold wet tile, surrounded by the little beard hairs I had shaved off pre-shower, I took inventory. My much-knocked-out (and now totally fake) front tooth was still intact. My chin was sore but still all together. And the only trace of spilt blood was congealing gently around the nail of my right big toe.

In five seconds I went from a fine mood to sudden terror to great relief. Because this is no place to get yourself injured. Another American had told me how his friend had dislocated his shoulder here, and about the bloodstains he saw on the hospital wall. And I knew that if you had major tooth problems, the most common fix would be pulling the tooth, often by dentists who do it out on the street.

As I stood back up, I took a deep, contemplative breath, very thankful that I barely avoided serious injury, that I braced my fall just enough. Because this is not a place to get hurt.

Service

The service industry is huge out here. If there’s some simple task you need to do, you can bet there will be four Indian men with neatly trimmed mustaches ready to do it for you. Need to open a door? They’ll take care of it. Need someone to guard an ATM? They’ve got it covered. Want to buy a shirt? Rest assured, a handful of workers will make sure you see every one available…even if the first one was fine.

It’s nice when people do things for you, especially if that’s their job. But with each task someone is assigned to, that’s one less thing you can do yourself. And I’d rather do things myself. I have no problem picking out a shirt or opening a door.

Don’t get me wrong – there are some aspects that I like. I live at the Melange, a serviced apartment (like a hotel) where they wash and fold my laundry. And wash my dishes every day. And clean my studio apartment and make my bed (too tightly). But I don’t need them to do all this. I would not die if I came home to a messy room. My world would not crumble if a dirty dish was left in the sink.

Unlike back in the states, I don’t enjoy many of those wonderful do-nothing, never-leave-the-house days. I feel I should be out as much as possible since I have no idea when/if I’ll ever be back again. But there have been a few days where I just wanted to just veg out, to only move the distance between the bed and the refrigerator (and later, the bed and the bathroom). As I do every time I’m in the apartment, I’ll leave the “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob. In the early afternoon, I’ll get a phone call from the cleaning staff. “Good afternoon, sir. What time would you like us to clean the room, sir?” A few time I’ve said that it’s fine, I don’t need the room cleaned that day. In the worker’s response, I can hear the faintest hint of sadness in his voice, of disappointment in his tone. And I feel guilty.

And what happens when a service employee isn’t doing his job? Most nice stores have a doorman to open the door for you. And I want to let him do it – it’s what he’s paid for. But sometimes the doorman isn’t paying attention. Do I wait a moment for him to notice me, then let me in? Do I open the door halfway, hoping the movement is spotted by his peripheral vision so that he’ll open it the rest of the way? Do I just open the door myself and go in, possibly making him feel he’s not doing his job properly? Too many options – and all I want is to go inside.

I’ve accepted having a driver, even if I’ve never gotten totally comfortable with it. It is nice not having to deal with the challenging driving conditions out here – countless motorcycles, insane drivers jockeying for position, occasional slowdowns caused by random cows wandering into the street. And being in the backseat, I can write and stay productive with my time.

But I feel embarrassed when (about a third of the time), Thankachen will see me approach the car and he’ll run around it, rushing to open the door for me. Especially when he does it in public. I’m not someone special, I need no such special treatment.

I also miss the control of being able to drive myself places. Of not having to arrange transportation ahead of time. If I want to go somewhere on the weekend, it’s polite to give Thankachen some advance notice, so he can plan his own schedule accordingly. But I don’t always plan my weekends. I’d rather just do what I feel like it, go where the day takes me (to speak in clichés).

That’s why I walk as much as possible. With walking, I don’t have to rely on anyone but myself and my feet and my comfortable shoes. It’s independent. Nobody is leading me anywhere, I can go any direction I want and I don’t have to stop if I don’t want to. I just hope that wherever I end up, the doorman is paying attention when I walk to the door.

Nilgiri Hills Train Ride (music video)