I keep meaning to bring the books I've been reading to write the quotes down, and every time I get the bug to blog they're nowhere around. I just read 'The Unvanquished' by William Faulkner, and it's beautiful. I've never been able to pin down what it is I like about Faulkner, and I think it's that some of the descriptions remind me of Burroughs in their lucidity, and unlike Burroughs, Faulkner isn't imprisioned in his vices or their spectres. Also, learning that both Faulkner and Steinbeck didn't publish anything until they were near thirty is an encouraging thought; and how both of them were constantly working various manual labor-type jobs. Makes you realize why mechanical devices are so faithfully described in both their fiction.
But you didn't come here to hear me talk about books, did you? No, if you're here at all, the chances are good that we know each other well. I've never in all these entries told you how grateful I am to you for reading them. Thank you. I've also not really come forward and admitted that my observations and anecdotes, while amusing or possibly even interesting, are of no real concrete value to a reader. This leaves me to admit that, most likely, you read these entries because you value our friendship, and hope that when our positions are someday reversed, I'll read what YOU write. Well, unless something horrible happens to my eyes, you got yourself a reader.
That admission took some of the wind out of my sail, since what I'm about to pen is a set of rather mundane happenings, maybe especially so, but I've had a pretty good few days and while we're here I'll share them with you. On the down side, my parents' Christmas present to me finally arrived. They sent to me a Leatherman Juice cs4--a sweet multi-tool that anyone with things to cut and unscrew would find invaluable. To my chagrin, when I opened the box I found that a member of IndiaPost had found it invaluable as well, opening the box, removing the tool, and resealing the package with string and tape. I went to the post office to complain, but there was nothing anyone could do. The parcel had been through customs at the airport as well as the regional post office before being delivered to me; the Mumbai postmark indicated that it had stewed in town since December 17th. The tool could have been stolen over two weeks ago. Dratted mandatory listing of contents and their value! I still can't quite believe that a member of the postal service would either value their job so little or act with so much impunity, but two Mumbai phone numbers were left on the package, and no call was made. Next time, UPS.
On the up side, the lessons are going very well. Kala is playing another series of concerts until Wednesday, so I've got a few days to practice some rudiments. There's a big disparity between what I can mimic and what I can play; in our lessons Kala routinely goes way over my head assuming if I can kind-of copy what she's doing than I must understand it, but a lot of the time I'm just parroting. The days when she's gone are the days when I can slow everything down and try to figure things out.
With no lesson today, then, I hopped on the crazy train to attend a concert in Worli, which turned out to be sold out, so I walked around Chowpatty beach for while before exploring a new part of Mumbai proper. I love going downtown, and never do it just for fun because of the fight to get into a train. It's sheer madness; the trains are crammed far past capacity, people ride in between cars and on the roof. At the stations, those exiting the car must all push out together to gather enough force to overcome the tide of bodies pushing in. Today I caught the third train that passed, after jumping head-first into two unsuccessful brawls (and people are shouting, too) and being ejected in a cartoon-like manner. Some buy first class tickets (about ten times as much) to get a seat. Twice, now, I've ended up in a first class car. The first time, I was trying to beat the system. The conductor (who knew there were conductors on local trains?!) asked for my ticket, and I was right back in eighth grade telling Ms. Huston that I lost my homework. I pretended to be French, which didn't help me at all. I pretended not to have enough money to pay the 300 rupee fine (about $6.50), and the conductor marched me out of the train to an ATM in the station, where my resolve crumbled and I pulled a 500 rupee note out of my pocket. The second time, I was headed to the Bandra Bandstand with Rupa, whose family lives in the flat upstairs. We let two or three trains pass (Ladies have reserved cars, which are usually less crowded than the guys' cars, but not always.) before deciding, "OK! We're getting this one." She hopped onto the ladies' car with ease, and I scrambled futilely to get into a regular car. The train began pulling away, I didn't know where in Bandra we were going or how we would meet up if I missed the train, so I hopped onto the first-class car. One lousy stop! Andheri to Bandra is one lousy stop on the fast train and here's the conductor. My bad luck. I started to tell him how I'd be happy to pay the difference in fare, and I asked him how much. He said "300 rupees" and began writing out the ticket. This time I paid without a fight, but felt just as beaten.
Almost instantly I become a topic of conversation in any train car I manage to get into. Invariably, someone who speaks English asks me where I'm from, what I do, etc., and in the minutes that follow I hear my information repeated in Hindi two or three times. This evening, on the way back, the train was mercifully spacious for the first few stops, and I stood watching a group of guys play rummy. They were playing a version with two decks and twenty-one cards in each hand, but otherwise very similar to the rummy we all know and love. The five guys were coworkers and good friends, and apparently thay play every day on the train home, betting a few rupees on each game and keeping a tally in a small notebook. One of them was a dead ringer for Kevin Pollack, only with darker skin. He made the whole group seem like a bunch of gangster archetypes, and as the train got more crowded the sense of anachronism grew; we're all pressed against one another, hanging out of the doors, sitting on the roof, and here are these vibrant, happy thirtysomething men playing cards as if they had no troubles as all. At my station, I shook hands with each of the cardsharps and shoved my way out of the train feeling great, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dashiell Hammett before catching my rickshaw.See you soon--
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