Reza's Travel Blog

Mumbai 2008-09

2009-02-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

Mumbai 2008 Family

Mumbai 2008 Street

Our trip to Mumbai late last year was shadowed by the terrorist attacks on the city. Naghmeh went a few weeks before I did and landed the night of the attacks. In fact, she landed half an hour before they began and for a while I could not get through her on the phone since the networks were busy. She got home safely: the airport is on the north side of the city; the attacks were concentrated at the southern tip of the island. The rest of our family thank goodness was safe too.

More than anything else, the terrorist attacks were scarily effective in generating public fear and destabilizing relations between India and Pakistan. The terrorists did not have specific demands; they were spreading their nihilistic brand through 24/7 cable news coverage.

The city seemed subdued when I arrived two weeks after the attacks in early December. There were more police around the city, check-points at some major junctions and metal detectors around major sites and buildings. But life continued as it always does after any attack: we pick ourselves up. And Mumbaikars were back in the thick of the frenetic functioning chaos that is emblematic of this island city of 20 million.

Mumbai, like the other major metropolitan cities in India, is booming. India is in the news. The movie Slumdog Millionaire has become a sleeper hit. It reflects the paradox of economic success in India. A boy from the slums of Mumbai succeeds in the face of privilege and corruption. For all the press generated by the economic boom, India’s economy still continues on two tracks. One like the golden quadrilateral highway connecting the four major cities: growth at the speed of a developed nation. The second unfortunately is like the unpaved rutted roads of the majority of rural India: still challenged with poverty and underdevelopment. India's economic success has been a boon to many, but large portions of the nation still have not received the benefit of this boom. Besides this patchy development, India still has challenges with governance and patronage politics. (For a cogent analysis of modern India and it challenges, read In Spite of the Gods by Edward Luce.)

This trip to Mumbai was low-key, a time to recharge and prepare for a major life transition: the arrival of our baby girl in May. Almost everything I did was accompanied by the thought that the next time we are here, we will be with Aliyah. I have always wanted to have children, but underneath the excitement is anxiety. Nothing I am doing now – reading, getting advice from friends, etc. – can truly prepare me for what parenthood will be like. Knowledge is not understanding; only the experience of being a parent will help me understand what parenthood is and is not. A reassuring line from a Matthew Barney film comes to mind: “From the moment of commitment, nature conspires to help you.”

Since this will be the first grandchild for my parents, my mother had a big party to celebrate. It was part Godh Bharai, part baby shower, part birthday party for my mom. It was a wonderful way to share the happiness with my mom and all her friends. Naghmeh’s mom will come to Austin in about a month for a baby’s arrival. My parents will come later in the summer.

I spent time with my brother Mimo and Naz at a recently renovated bungalow they are leasing in Madwa across the bay from Mumbai. The pictures I have in my slide show do not do it justice – it has been impeccably redesigned by them – a retreat from the crush of Mumbai.

I walked each morning with my parents and had south Indian breakfasts at our favorite udipi, Mysore Café. I swam each day at Breach Candy – one of my favorite places in the world. (The other two are Deep Eddy pool and Barton Springs in Austin.) Naghmeh and I spent time with some of our friends and family. It is always a challenge to get enough time to see everyone on a short trip. Time rushes in the company of friends and stalls in the crawl through traffic.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. Mumbai is dear to us and we look forward to returning there with Aliyah at the end of the year.

Naghmeh Dashti and Reza Shirazi wed

2007-01-26T15:55:00.000-08:00

This post is a shameless imitation of my favorite section in the Sunday NY Times: Weddings & Celebrations.
Before reading, you can see photos of our Nikkah.

Naghmeh & Reza - Nikkah

Naghmeh Dashti, daughter of Nargis and the late Habib Dashti was married on January 2nd to Reza Shirazi, son of Mohtaram and Baaqer Shirazi. Agha Hadidi was the mullah who officiated the nikkah ceremony at the bride's mother's home in Bombay.
The bride, 33, returned to Bombay in late 2005 from the U.K. after completing her M.B.A. at Durham University and working for two years. Her father was the owner of City Bakery, one of Bombay's more popular and successful bakeries. The bakery is now run by two of her brother's, Jafar and Mehdi. Her third brother, Hassan is a surgeon in Manchester, England. Naghmeh’s mother will soon be a grandmother for the second time. (Mehdi and Laila will have a baby in April. Hassan and Andrea have 2 year old twins.)
The bridgegroom, 37, graduated from UT Austin and has made Austin his home for the last 15 years. He works at LCRA. His father owns Cole Paints & Contracts Pvt. Ltd. in Bombay. The bridegroom's mother hopes to be a grandmother soon.
It all began when Naghmeh's aunt Iran saw her at Mehdi's (Naghmeh's brother) wedding in January. She suggested to Reza's mother that the two of them be introduced. Reza's mother called him and he ho-hummed - another introduction - sure. Iran sent him a photo. "She looked so sweet and positive; I was intrigued," he said. "So I sent back my bio-data and photo to her family."
"I never wanted to go to the U.S.," Nagmeh recalls. "But as my father was reading his bio-data, he read out that Reza does Meals On Wheels. If he delivers meals to the elderly, he probably is a nice person. It also said he was a writer, and I have always wanted to marry a writer. So I sent him an email with a little about me (against my parent's advice)."
Before deciding to call Naghmeh, Reza asked his brother Mimo and his wife Nazneen to meet her. Mimo called him the next day and said, "She is real easy to talk to. But why are you letting mom introduce you to someone," (which is a ringing positive endorsement from him). Naz said, "She is cute; you must call her."
And so he did on Febuary 26, 2006. After two days of brief phone calls with polite conversation, Naghmeh started the thrid phone call with, "Can I ask you some serious questions." And two and a half hours later, after talking about marriage, kids, money, religion and lifestyle, Reza called his mother and said, "I talked to her for two and a half hours!"
From that day, they talked on the phone twice a day, every day. (The calling card company was suddenly flush from one customer.)
"Three weeks into talking to her, I knew that she was the one," said Reza. "We had never met one another, but I felt right about this. They say, you will know it when you meet the right person. I had never believed that until it happened to me.”
Naghmeh remembers, "I told him that we will decide after we see one another in person. So he got a ticket to come down to Bombay in the third week of April. I went to the airport to pick him up. Who knows how we would have found one another in the mess of a crowd outside the Sahar airport. But at one point, I turned around and he was standing there with that big smile. It was like a movie; the lights brightened and the music started."
After meeting one another's parents the next day, plans were set for their engagment a few days later.
"My dad and her dad went and found a hall and got it all organized. Phonecalls were made. I bought my sherwani (She had her ghaghra-choli already). We went and got her engagement ring. And the next thing you know April 19th was here, and we walked into Mayfair hall where eighty people waited to celebrate our engagement (pictures)."
"Reza came and visited again in July for a week. And after that we would count the number of weekends before he came in December. It seemed shorter than counting days," said Naghmeh. "We applied for a fiance visa and I got so stressed because my Iranian passport had caused me all kinds of visa grief in the past. But it went suprisingly smoothly."
All was going well till mid-October. Naghmeh's father had a massive heart attack and passed away.
"She was devastated and it was so hard to be thousands of miles apart," remembers Reza. "We changed our plans for a big wedding to a small ceremony at her mother's house. We would have loved to have all our family and friends there, but it did not seem appropriate. It was a difficult couple months, but we did well together," said Reza.
December brought some bright news: Naghmeh's fiance visa was approved. Reza flew into Bombay on December 16th and after many hectic days of socializing and preparing for the nikkah, they were wed on January 2nd in the company of their immediate family and a few friends.
So seven months after they applied for the fiance visa, Naghmeh flew back to Austin with Reza on January 6th. The house has been de-bachelorized and they are settling into their new life together.

Bombay Goa 2005-06

2006-06-29T20:52:00.000-07:00

Naz & Mimo got married in Goa on December 10th. Here are the pictures of the wedding on a hill over Vagator beach and the reception in Bombay at the Parsi Agiari (fire temple):

Mimo & Nazneen: Goa/Bombay Dec 2005

Here are my pictures from Goa and Bombay.

Bombay & Goa 2005-06

I also made a three minute film that I shot on my digital camera when I was in Bombay.

U.S. Citizenship Sept. 2005

2005-10-27T20:38:00.000-07:00

On September 16, eighteen years, one month and four days after arriving in Lawrence, KS, I became a U.S. citizen. The swearing in ceremony took place at the LBJ Presidential Library auditorium on the UT campus. It culminated a journey that began on August 12, 1987 at the University of Kansas, followed by graduate school at University of Texas at Austin, a one year hiatus in Seattle living with family and searching for a job, and finally the last 11 years in Austin, my home, my community and where I hope to remain for the foreseeable future.

The defining moment in the forty minute citizenship ceremony occurred when each of us stood as our country was named off by the immigration officer: 354 men, women and children from 74 different countries. Once we were all standing, the presiding judge read the Naturalization oath of allegiance. At the end of it we said, "I do."

Those two words were the bridge between our lives as immigrants and our new lives as U.S. citizens. We were now part of the American story of immigration that defines this nation.

I could not help to feel the happiness in the room that day. There was a man sitting in front of me whose excitement was infectious. He clapped at every opportunity, waved his flag, kept looking back to where his family was, beaming with joy. It was a moving ceremony: I had a lump in my throat most of the way through it. My friends who came to the ceremony said they were glad they did: it was a reminder of the original ideals of this country, and affirmation of the promise that it holds.

My immigrant story is part of the broader story of my family. My paternal grandfather's family came to Bombay from Shiraz (thus my name) as traders and businessmen and stayed. My maternal grandfather left Iran for Zanzibar, Tanzania to be a mullah. He returned to Iran in the late sixties, but most of his children - my aunts and uncles - are scattered all over the world. I have family in Canada, Australia, Ireland, the U.K. and the U.S. (in addition to India and Iran). They have all found homes in new countries, some following their hearts and some their desire for a better life.

I too have followed my family's wandering ways. My story began as a teen: I knew that I would come to the U.S. to study. I went to my father's alma mater - KU - and following that to grad school at UT. The winter before finishing grad school I was in Bombay, still uncertain about where I would go after I graduated. Communal riots erupted in Bombay and shocked me into seriously considering staying in the U.S. Although this was a defining moment of sorts, the U.S. had grown on me those first five years and remaining was my preference. I could have chosen to go back to Bombay: I have my family there and a foundation to make a good start on a life and career. But living in the U.S. appeals to me and over the years I have built a new life here.

I no longer live in India, but it is an intrinsic part of me and I remain close to my family there. In one sense, it is still my home, the place I grew up. Every time I see an Indian, or hear one speak, my eyes turn, my ears prick and I feel proud of where I came from. 18 years in the U.S. has shaped me and what I am now is an amalgam of east and west, of the past and present, a salsa masala mix of cultures, proud of the multiplicity within me.

NYC March 2005

2005-04-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

New York City: Travel is a pause button for life

NYC The Street

NYC Street Art

Last month I accompanied my aunt Faizeh and cousin Parinaz to New York City. Parinaz is going to be a high school senior and she wanted to visit the fashion design colleges in NYC (and RISD in Providence, RI). It was a great excuse for me to be back in the city which I had not visited since '99.

This was my ninth visit to New York. Six were bunched up over a four year period between ‘90 and ‘93 when I was in college. I made the first in this series of visits driving across the midwest from Lawrence, KS in Victor, my trusty Honda Civic. I had quit the swim team at KU a few months before and at the end of the semester I had a few weeks free before I began a summer job. I was at loose ends. I was homesick. I no longer had the focus of swimming to keep my mind occupied.

As I drove over the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan, I felt the unmistakable buzz of a big city. The Bombay I missed in tiny Lawrence, the noise, the crowds, the smell, the traffic, all this was ahead of me as I crossed over the Hudson into the city.

Each trip back was less about replacing a missing spot of urban-ness in my life, and more to discover a city that had its own story. I have grown to love the multiple personalities of this city. I live as a vicarious New Yorker through the New York Times I read religiously every day and the weekly New Yorker's that pile up on my dining table.

New York has cleaned up its act since I was there last. It is neatly packaged and digestible for visitors from near and far. Soho is blanketed in chain stores. Walking in Times Square was like being in a massive advertisement: all the neon and billboards are deafening to the eyes. Add to that a Starbucks nearly on every corner: there were three Starbucks cafes within a one block radius of our hotel in midtown. So what is true in the rest of the US is also now true in NYC – style, design and culture have become commodities that can be experienced and purchased at your nearby chain store. The local, the unique and distinctive is harder and harder to find.

But New York still has an unparalleled street life that is diverse and invigorating. I walked for many hours and through many neighborhoods while my aunt and cousin were in college information sessions. It reaffirmed why I love this city – there is a constant drama played out on the streets that no other city in the US can match. (I have two photo galleries of my trip – the links are at the end of the travelogue.)

In between the college tours, we visited many of the usual tourist attractions: the Met, the newly renovated MOMA, Grand Central, Ground Zero and the Staten Island Ferry with its great view of the Statue of Liberty. Does anyone know why the Staten Island Ferry is free? It is an anachronism in this city of money and commerce.

While in the city I also saw some friends from grad school and one from Bombay. I had not seen them in years. It always surprises me how easy it is to relate and converse with friends I have not seen in a long time. I wonder how much we change once we become adults. It seems like we settle into a theme, with a few riffs to bridge the major verses of our life. Talking to an old friend, the tone and the topics of conversation are very similar to what they were in the past. You are sharing new news of your life, but the way you talk about it and what you focus on remains the same.

As a traveler though, you come to these conversations with fresh ears and get to hear the nuances that have not been heard before. You have left your well-worn self behind at home, with the busy routine, unpaid bills and ever full email in-box. Travel lets me pause the din of daily life to listen closer and experience deeper what is around me. And when I return home, I have added a few new notes to my repertoire.

Here is a poem I wrote after the first in my series of six road trips to NYC.

Lawrence to NYC 1990

The day before I leave
the clouds huddle over the fevered earth.
The air is dense with expectancy -
hope of rain.

As I pull out,
clouds roll in like a wet blanket
and begin dripping.
More clouds squeeze in
and down pours the rain.

The road stretches ahead,
offering an escape route from the deluge,
but the storm hounds at my heels.

St. Louis, MO:
The stale breath of the morning rush hour
rolls down the freeway;
cars cough out exhaust fumes;
lights blink in the gray damp.

I grow numb
as I drive through the flat Midwest;
the wipers are engaged
in a futile battle with the rain.

I pop in tape after tape
and memories rise to the surface.

Columbus, OH:
Pot-holed and dreary;
the skyline: a jagged scar
in the tedious dimness of the evening.

The sun sneaks out
from under the clouds as it sets.
The horizon blushes:
embarrassed to see the naked sun
for the first time today.

As I pull into the rest area,
the storm decides to take the night off too,
and the rain stops
abruptly.

The rest-room smells of tired travelers
and squeaky lysol.
I make myself uncomfortable in the back of my car.
Dinner lies dead in my stomach.
A soupy fog blankets my rest.

Sleep is fleeting
and my alarm serves to wake the clouds;
they rumble and moan,
complaining of the early hour.

More rain,
more music,
more exits,
more frowning trucks.

Pittsburgh, PA:
Grouchy and grumbling
like an overworked housewife.
Roads’ mirror slick,
reflections marred by tire tracks.

Into the hills:
Black giants lording
over the valleys.
Cars climb their thick torsos,
filing up and down like ants.

New Jersey:
Cars march down I-80
like teeming armies.

The George Washington bridge:
shrouded in a bank of clouds;
the traffic sweeps me across.

New York City:
I am greeted by the rushing crowds,
blaring sounds and grime;
the unmistakable throb of a city.
I feel at home,
at last.

Tokyo Bombay 2004-05

2005-02-11T16:43:00.000-08:00

Tokyo – Bombay: Urban Contrast

From Tokyo 2004

From Bombay 2004-05

On this trip back to Bombay to visit my family, I stopped in Tokyo for four days to visit a close friend of mine, Parikshat (PK) and his wife Keiko. PK and I were in Campion School together. In 7th grade we sat next to one another, and we have been close friends ever since. PK and Keiko met when he was doing an internship with IBM in Tokyo. They have been living there six years after spending a few years in the US.

Tokyo is one of the few places I have been that seems almost as crowded and bustling as Bombay. The similarities between these two places stops there though. As we are landing, I am struck by how small and dense everything is. The roads, the cars, the buildings, the parking lots, all seem half the size of what I am accustomed to in the US. Everything is neatly laid out to make the most efficient use of space. There is reason for that: Japan has half the population of the US in an area that is one-twenty-fifth its size. Take this population size and squeeze them into a group of small islands and you will end up with one of the most densely populated countries and a smart use of space. It also leads to a highly structured and polite society where your space in the social landscape is explicitly and implicitly bounded.

The bus from Narita airport into Tokyo drops me at the Cerulean Tower hotel in Shibuya. As I sit in the lobby on a late weekday evening, I notice that all the businessmen wear almost identical dark suits. No blue shirts, only white or cream, and I do not see a yellow or red tie. PK walks up to me in a dark suit, big smile and a bold red scarf around his neck. It has been years since we have met but in a few minutes the banter turns to engaged conversation.

Out on the street in Shibuya, I feel like I am in a scene from "Lost in Translation", the crowds streaming across the crossroads, bright neon ads reflecting off the tall glass buildings. We head underground into the subway station. Commuters stand silently in line and patiently wait for others to exit before they take turns squeezing aboard the already packed train. This is where I learn my first Japanese word - Sumimasen - which I hear (and use) many, many times during my trip. It means excuse me; and also, I am sorry. Contrast this politeness with Bombay where the concept of waiting your turn is non-existent. Ghusao – push to get your way or you will miss the train. And the louder your voice and angrier you sound gets you further.

The second word I learn is Arigatto-gozaimas: thank-you, which I learn to say as well as act - a short bow at the waist, followed by a dip of the head. The deeper you go, the more respect you convey. I enjoy learning these new words and ways. I roll the words around in my mouth and mind, unfamiliar yet compelling. In the next four days I enjoy trying to learn to say the names of the places I visit in Tokyo. I invariably butcher them – mixing and matching the mouthful of strong vowels and consonants, eliciting laughs from Keiko and sympathy from PK. Shibuya becomes Shibuyu. Takeshitadori, Takashidora. Harajuku, Harukuja. Kamakura, Kamaguru. One of the highlights of my trip is visiting the Ukiyo-e Museum. Ukiyo-e is a uniquely Japanese style of artistic woodblock printmaking that was prominent in metropolitan Edo era Japan of the 18th and 19th centuries. Ukiyo-e translates to - pictures of a floating world - from the Buddhist belief that the physical world around us is phenomenal and impermanent. The printing technique calls for the original drawing to be destroyed in the process of making a woodblock that is used over and over to make multiple prints. These affordable prints made the art accessible to the urban populace, often showing iconic urban and natural scenes that an ordinary person could connect with and relate to. As I look at the prints, I am struck how modern they are in sensibility and in graphic product. The European impressionists and post-impressionists were inspired by this art form when they discovered it in the early 20th century. I have found a new passion, art that I enjoy for its deep rich color, crisp graphic lines and a supreme use of framing and perspective. It reminds me of another favorite art-form: comics - especially TinTin and Asterix that I grew up reading.

If Tokyo is big, but respectful and polite, Bombay is big, brash and chaotic. It is like the contrast between the crisp ukiyo-e prints and the riotously colorful Amar Chitra Katha comics I also grew up reading. These comics have colors that are hyper-realistic, the stories fantastical and over the top. They jump off the page, filled with emotion and inconsistency: a reflection of the organic mess that is India.

As I walk out of the convoluted passageways of Sahar airport to the parking lot, my ears are assaulted by the din of taxi horns and bollywood ringtones. I dodge the shifting, milling pockets of relatives, the pushy taxi drivers looking to fleece their next fare, the lone policeman disinterestedly watching the chaos, casually spitting paan in the dusty bushes behind him. The night air is humid and ripe. I look at the chaos around me and finally see Mimo making his way through the crowd, eyes bright, his whole body smiling. I have arrived.

Back at B-2 Palacimo, mom, dad and I are all smiles and chatter. I unpack all the goodies, gifts and gadgets and then fall into jet-lagged sleep in the room I grew up in.

Mimo and Nazneen are busy the next day preparing for the Christmas party they are hosting at my dad's office. Cole Paints & Contracts Pvt. Ltd. is located in Kala Ghoda, south Bombay in an old building on the floor above Rhythm House music store. Kala Ghoda literally means black horse, named for a statue of a British dignitary sitting astride a horse that use to stand in the open plaza. The statue is long gone and the area is now a surface parking lot. I spend my time walking through the Kala Ghoda arts district, noticing the new galleries, shops and restaurants. Sadly, one of my favorite haunts, Madras Café, is boarded up. Bombay, like all big cities, molts, evolves, decays, renews and each visit has a fresh surprise. By the time I return to the office, Naz has transformed the back room from a plain drab space that had desks for clerks and accountants, to a stylish lounge with colorful drapes, comfortable divans and warm lights. The verandah lace-grill railing is lit with christmas lights and mini lanterns with flickering candles. As I stand on the transformed verandah, Kala Ghoda too has changed from the office bustle of the day to the quiet idleness of the night. Last minute preparations buzz behind me in the office. I hear a few expletives and go in to find that the CD player is on the blink. No tunes and the party will fizzle. No worries; the handy iPod is retrieved and hooked up. The party bubbles to life. The hum rises as we drop into the depths of the night. I see old friends, make new friends and feel again the unmistakable buzz of the Bombay social scene.

The next few days I am out every night at one social event after another, this being Christmas - open season for parties, weddings and other assorted get-togethers. After a string of late nights, I finally have to take a couple nights off just to stay home, read a book, sleep early and recover… to socialize some more.

One night out at the Olive Bar, in the happening suburb of Bandra, we are with a young Indian couple who have grown up in London and are here on a vacation. We chatter, and mostly watch the bomboys and bombabes troop and traipse by. That is soon topped by a few Bollywood film stars, only one of which I recognize, Salman Khan. Surprisingly, the London couple recognizes all of them. They know more about the Bollywood stars and their lives than us Bombay-born boys. Many Bollywood films now expressly cater to the Indian diaspora scattered around the world with treacly, nostalgia inducing stories, juiced up, hip-hop influenced songs and more Prada and Diesel labels than you can shake a VISA at.

Seijo and the Soul Dish, a lounge in Bandra we went to another night, is drenched in red and black hues, walls decked with blown up Japanese anime and a 20 foot aquarium. Tokyo meets Manhattan by way of Bombay. The restaurant on the other side of the floor, is ivory-hued, cooling after the warm tones of the lounge. We sit at sleek white tables in a cavernous space, and sample pan-Asian cuisine, as expensive as any upscale restaurant in the US. “Next time, let’s get a wada-pau,” my friend jokingly says. This place is outrageously expensive compared to the ubiquitous and cheap udipi restaurants and wada-pau hawkers all over Bombay.

At all these clubs and lounges around Bombay, you can imagine that you are in a trendy club in Soho. Except for the paan splattered gutter and pothole the size of a grave that you invariably had to traverse to get in.

Bombay is a city of dreams and dreamers, of money and money making schemers. On the south end of this island city is Dalal Street, home of the stock exchange, which is hopping this year, a bull market that has brought back some of the giddiness of the late nineties. On the north end of the city is Bollywood, where dreams are manufactured and films are churned out to provide escape and entertainment for the masses. The newspapers in Bombay are obsessed with both these worlds. For most my trip, the front page is detailing the latest wrinkle in the Ambani family feud. Reliance is the largest corporation in India and the two Ambani sons are feuding now that their father who founded the company passed away. The stock market is beholden and dips and rises reflecting the good and bad news coming out of the board room. As for Bollywood, the paper is obsessed with covering the social minutiae of the Bollywood glitterati and the less glittering second tier social hoi-polloi on page 3.

For the second half of my trip though, the newspapers are filled with news about the tsunami disaster. I had many friends and co-workers email me to make sure I was okay and fortunately, since Bombay is on the west coast of India, we were not affected. My aunt Farah in Phoenix and her family had planned a vacation to Phuket, Thailand, during Christmas and New Years. But they had a hard time getting tickets, and went to Mexico instead. That was providence. They would have been at one of the resorts in Phuket that was devastated by the tsunami. My mom talked to my aunt a few days after the disaster, and they were counting their blessings. So the second half of the trip was a bit more subdued, more time to reflect on the past year and think about the next.

Bombay absorbs me. Each time I am there, I am comforted by echoes of nostalgia and enamored by the discovery of new experiences. The trip to Tokyo was a contrast that made the trip more interesting.

For three weeks each year I get to connect and re-connect, to step away from my normal routine and ritual. I return to Austin with another rich lode of memory and experience.

Photos
I took some pictures while in Tokyo and Bombay. It is mostly urban ephemera. I was inspired by a book I was recently reading How To See by George Nelson, and the pictures I saw on Sasha-Frere Jones’ blog, music critic for the New Yorker.
Bombay (32 pics)
Tokyo (18 pics)
(or try http://picasaweb.google.com/rshirazi)

Bombay Goa 2003-04

2005-01-30T19:35:00.000-08:00

Bombay – Goa: The City and the Surf

I return to Bombay after two years. My childhood home for eighteen years, rich with memory, the comfort of family and the warmth of old friends.

Bombay, an island nestled against the west coast of India along the Arabian Sea, came to prominence in the 17th century when the British took advantage of its natural harbor and made it a busy trading port. Today, Bombay’s pungent mix of business center and entertainment hub makes it a modern bustling city brimming with energy and opportunity. But this also makes it a magnet for the rural poor looking to make it in this city of money and dreams. The ramshackle slums, tall apartment and office buildings and Victorian architecture makes Bombay’s urban landscape a rich contrast.

The highlight of this year's trip was a short vacation to Goa with my brother and his girlfriend. But before Goa, let me share a sample of Bombay nightlife, the night before we left.

First stop is Bar Night at the Bombay Gymkhana. Groups of thirty-somethings mill around the bar and on the lawn outside. It is a balmy night and I nurse a few fresh-lime-sodas. I see many old friends, some that I have not seen in ages. As it gets closer to midnight, cell phones are brandished and SMS messages are exchanged to decide on the next stop. My friend and I decide to head to Indigo, a well designed restaurant and lounge. A hip place that after all these years of watching the comings and goings of numerous other restaurants and lounges, has had remarkable staying power. We step in off the narrow street, past the valets, the hangers-on and the sundry entry and exit of the beautiful people, into a packed bar area, ripe with smoke, expensive perfume and loud lounge music. I scan the crowd looking for a familiar face: men with mussed-up hair in slant-striped shirts chatting up beautiful women in acid-washed jeans with candy-sized cell phones – permanent appendages in their hands. The typical exchange when I saw an acquaintance: a second of eye contact, a few words exchanged as they look past my shoulder. To see and be seen in spades; the Bombay Scene at its best. At the edge of the tall ceilinged bar and restaurant area is a red stairway that takes you up to an open air terrace and a cigar bar painted deep indigo like the night sky right after sunset. Indigo is Bombay at its most rarified strata. You forget that you have just come in off a street with people sleeping in narrow alcoves.

Mimo, Nazneen and I drive down to Goa on an early Saturday morning; real early. He is so excited about leaving that he first gets up at around 2am - wide awake - and considers waking us up. But he goes back to sleep for two more hours, gets up, does a load of laundry and finally cannot contain himself. My cell phone rings and I barely know who is calling, much less what time it is. Blame it on my very late night.

Eyes shut, I am tossed around like a sack of potatoes in the back seat of Mimo’s Land Cruiser as we twist and turn through the Western Ghats weaving our way down south to Goa on National Highway 17. You call this a highway? A two lane tar strip used by cars, decrepit red ST buses, rowdy trucks (TATA Horn OK Please), motorcycles, scooters, annoying rickshaws and cattle. Yes, we are sharing a national highway with cattle, ambling along here and there as we pass through numerous villages.

8 hours and 300 miles later we arrive in Goa: swaying palms, shimmering rice paddies, fine sand beaches and the smell of the sea. Goa was a Portuguese colony up until 1961 when India finally brought it into its fold. The Portuguese influence is visible in the old mansions, quaint white churches and the numerous Portuguese names of places that still remain. Goa has been a popular destination for travelers since the 60s when hippies came to enjoy the sun, sand and more liberal attitudes of the locals unmatched elsewhere in India. The hippies have been replaced by European backpackers, wealthier Indian visitors and international tourists on cattle-car package tours.

We spend most of our time on the string of beaches beginning with Baga in the north, the most commercialized part of the beach, Calangute, heavily trafficked by locals, Candolim, where the hordes thin out, and ends at Aguada, with a small hill jutting into the ocean on which sits an old crumbling fort. The beach is lined with shacks: a place to rent a sun-bed and get some food and drink. The shacks range from the basic: temporary structures built from bamboo poles and palm thatch, to more substantial structures with long bars, pool tables and large speakers blaring Goa-Trance techno. The latter is found at Baga, the former is more typical at Candolim. With a shack every hundred yards, naming is important. They range from the obvious: Oceanic, Sea Breeze and Beach Hut, to the more exotic: Zanzibar and Dreamweaver, to the truly hopeful: Popular Shack, a distinctly empty and sorry looking shack that the proprietor probably renamed wishing to turn his fortunes around.

We set up base in Candolim. The Travel Scrabble board is out on the sun-bed and we play distractedly looking at the sea hoping for good surf. After a year of watching a few surf movies and documentaries, I am ready to try my luck at it. Goa is not known for surfing, but we have two borrowed boards and are hopeful. The first time we head out when the waves look decent, I have a hard time getting used to paddling out on the board and sitting on it waiting for waves. The first day I just lay flat on the board and get a feel for the waves. Mimo is looking good and I am whooping every time I see him propel himself upon a good wave and ride it to shore. The second day the surf is pretty low and I satisfy myself with body surfing, learning now the pattern of three that the swells come in. The third day I feel ready. The surf looks good. I attach the leash to my ankle, put the "egg-board" under my arm, walk down the beach, step into the white foam at the edge of the water and enter the warm sea.

I sit on the board, squinting at the sun glinting off the water, and wait. I see a promising group of waves. The first one passes. I begin paddling ahead of the second, my arm muscles burning as I churn to catch it. It swells under me and I am no longer being propelled by my arms. The wave comes up to meet me. I grab the sides of the board, pull my knees up under my chest, plant my feet and rise – my body momentarily connected to the ocean under me. I whoop and lose my concentration, topple backwards and the wave crashes over me and takes me under. I lose my orientation for an instant; the surf board has skimmed in towards the shore, the leash pulling my ankle as I come up through the churning foam, the word wipeout now a visceral experience.

The exhilaration of being transported over the water is compelling. I eagerly run back into the sea and begin the cycle again: sit and wait, paddle to a spot that seems better, skip a weak swell, try to catch a good one, and every once in while ride a wave to the shore. There are moments in life when the effort and exertion is replaced by a swell that carries you along, transports you effortlessly over the flatness or turbulence of daily life. These moments make life truly compelling.

I am lucky that I picked up surfing so quickly. The waves are not too big, I have a good board and I feel totally in my element in the water. My body and mind are in vacation mode – relaxed, adventurous and ready to connect. I am ready for the wave to pick me up and carry me to shore.

My trip this year is one of the most enjoyable I have had. It is like picking a good day to surf. I am ready for a vacation after an exhausting and rewarding year. Each prior trip is practice for this one. I know all the good surf spots, so to say, and have some great company to enjoy it with. I am lucky.

I began this poem two years ago when I visited Bombay with my best friend from Austin. That trip helped me build a stronger bridge between my old home in Bombay and my new home in Austin. The poem sat unfinished and untouched until December on the flight to Bombay. I was in that unique space again: between two worlds, between two times and feeling connected to both.

Ebb and Flow

Dusk drapes itself
over the hills’ bare shoulders
deepening the lake to purple.
Bouys bob
and blink in the wake of boats
turning into the marina.

Life’s ebb and flow:
You look for signs
Of reassurance in the past.
Stop this dim dread from clouding your eyes;
the next moment
never fails to be new.
Tomorrow was once an eager mystery;
look for it again
around the corner.

Bombay 2001-02

2005-01-30T19:30:00.000-08:00

Two Homes, One Heart and a Hopeful Mind

I returned two weeks ago from my annual trip to Bombay. Like previous trips, I spent time with family and friends and visited many of the same places, but each year is a new experience. (Here are some photos of my trip.)

A highlight of my trip was Bharat and Mamta’s wedding. Bharat is a good friend who was my roommate when he was a student at UT Austin. His brother Vikram and I have been friends since we swam together at Otters Club in Bombay. Bharat and Mamta met a few years ago when they worked together in the same office one summer.
A Hindu marriage is an involved and multi-day affair. It is an important social occasion with family traveling from all over the country and world to be part of a rich cultural tradition. Rites and rituals are performed which originated thousands of years ago in Vedic times. There are many variations in these ceremonies depending on the part of the country and the community one belongs to. Bharat and Mamta are Punjabi’s – from the state in northern India bordering Pakistan.
I arrived the day of the Sangeet (music) party, the day after the mehendi ceremony where the bride’s arms and feet are decorated with a henna paste in the most intricate and delicate designs. The sangeet is a celebration with music and dancing where everyone enjoys themselves in a somewhat less formal setting. That evening the Bhangra (regional Punjabi style) singers and dancers made sure all of us joined in the dance circle and they carried Bharat around on their shoulders. If we were not dancing, we were eating – enjoying typical Bombay snacks like pani puri, sev puri and ragda patties. After gorging on snacks as well as appetizers carried around by liveried waiters on silver trays, there was still dinner to eat. December is the wedding season in Bombay, which fills your social calendar as well as fills out your belly to where your clothes start taking on a more form fitted feel. We still had two days of functions to go!
The next evening Bharat’s brothers hosted a dinner party in the compound of their home. The highlight of this party was the “wedding band.” I put that in quotes because they were the most hilariously rag-tag outfit picked deliberately by Vikram and Karan to add some real local flavor to the night. They were dressed in ill-fitting white coats with red trim and they recklessly played out-of-tune instruments. The trumpet player was a sight – he sat holding the trumpet in one hand and his other rested on his generous paunch. They played an eclectic set of songs – old western standards as well as Indian film songs – including a hilarious rendition of Jingle Bells. We danced to them all.
The main event was on the third evening – the actual wedding ceremony followed by the reception. Bharat and Mamta’s wedding ceremony was at the perfect location – the Sun and Sands Hotel – with Juhu Beach and the Arabian Sea as the backdrop. Before we entered the wedding area, there was a ritual welcoming ceremony. Each family member from the bride’s side welcomed their counterpart on the groom’s side with a garland and an exchange of hugs and greetings. It was a very moving event and it beautifully conveyed the Indian tradition of marriage as the union of two families and not just of two individuals. We walked out to the mandap (a four pole canopy where the actual wedding takes place) which was decorated with flowers. Behind it the sun was setting into the sea. Bharat and Mamta sat on two chairs – Mamta on his right - with their parents on each adjacent side and with the two pujaris (priests) there to conduct the ceremony. Bharat was dressed in a simple traditional Indian outfit of a cream kurta with a gold colored turban on his head. Mamta was dressed in a traditional wedding outfit, which was red, with real gold embroidery on it. She was adorned in gold jewelery and her large eyes and beautiful features made her look like a princess out of a Mughal miniature painting.
The wedding rites lasted about an hour with each ritual having a symbolic purpose to signify the union between the bride and groom. When they arrived on the mandap, Bharat and Mamta exchanged elaborate flower garlands signifying the unification of their marriage. After the chanting of prayers by the pujaris, the sacred fire in the center of the mandap was lit. Fire in Hinduism is considered the sustainer of life and it is believed that the gods and goddesses sit around the auspicious fire to witness the wedding. Mamta’s parents put the right hand of their daughter into the Bharat’s right hand and bestowed blessings on them. A number of offerings like rice and ghee were put into the fire by the couple to emphasize their joint responsibility in maintaining the love and dignity of their union. They exchanged vows pledging to be loyal to one another. Then Mamta placed her foot on a stone and was reminded that the stone goes through all kinds of weather – hot, cold, wet and dry – but it remains steadfast and strong. Just like that a marriage has its ups and downs, prosperity and adversity, sickness and health, but the couple remembers to remain steadfast and true to one another like a solid rock. Two long pieces of cloth were placed around their shoulders and Bharat’s cousin tied these two pieces of cloth together to signify the marriage knot and the acceptance of Mamta as Bharat’s bride. Bharat and Mamta then walked around the fire four times. Mamta’s brother and cousins initiated each of the circles around the fire signifying their consent to her marriage to Bharat. Bharat lead the first three rounds and Mamta the last one. Prayers and invocations were chanted throughout asking for blessings from God. Bharat and Mamta then took seven steps together, with each step asking for blessings such as health, prosperity, children and long life. When they returned to their seats, Mamta sat on Bharat’s left so that his right side is free to take on the world. With the wedding over, the guests recited a hymn and showered fresh flowers on the couple to wish them good luck, prosperity and a long and happy married life together.
This was followed by the reception, which at an Indian wedding means, invite everyone you know or remotely know and have a feast prepared for them. Bharat and Mamta spent the rest of the night being congratulated by three hundred people, which must have been exhausting. (And this was a relatively small wedding reception by Bombay standards). We ate out under the stars while the moon slowly set into the sea. It was a beautiful and memorable evening. My parents came for the reception and my mom was dressed in an antique, peacock blue sari that she got from my grandmother and she was definitely the most elegant and beautiful woman there.

After one day of recovery, all the Khanna brothers and their wives, two other friends, Rohan and Diane, and I traveled up to Beas where our meditation group has a retreat center. Unlike in previous years, this year’s travel was relatively uneventful. Relatively. The first glitch was that the train from Delhi to Beas was delayed by a few hours, but those hours were spent happily at Bharat’s sister-in-law Arundhati’s house. The other hitch was that Diane and I had second class tickets and for the first hour of the journey sat on a hard bench in a crowded compartment near the toilet, with the doors and windows of the carriage wide open and dust settling on us like ash from a volcano. Fortunately Rohan got the ticket conductor to “adjust” our ticket and move us up to A/C first class with them, and the rest of the trip was enjoyable as we shared food and stories to bide the time.

In the background during this whole trip to India, was the military buildup on the India Pakistan border. Beas is about a hundred miles from the border and we did see tanks being carried by trains to the front. Although friends in the US and Diane’s family too, felt like we were in the jaws of imminent trouble and warfare, we did not feel the danger so keenly. I think the fact that CNN and the other media sources cover news with such zeal, that they distort reality to various degrees. The tension between India and Pakistan has waxed and waned over the last fifty plus years after they gained independence from Britain and were partitioned. More than a million people were massacred in communal fighting as Muslims fled to Pakistan and Hindus fled to India after partition in 1947. This was the beginning of many years of hatred and distrust between these two countries. The main bone of contention is Kashmir, which is the sole Indian state with a Muslim majority population. It has never known peace with many there wanting to be part of Pakistan or be an independent country. India and Pakistan have fought two full-fledged wars over this state, and a civil insurrection has been festering for over a decade with thousands killed. India sees these Pakistani backed militants as terrorists. Many in Kashmir and Pakistan see them as freedom fighters.
All of these previous wars, skirmishes (which occur with regularity on the border) and heated verbal battles have not been covered extensively in the western media. It is only in the last couple months that the media has focused on it since the US is fighting a war in the region in Afghanistan with Pakistan’s backing. Add to that the fact that India and Pakistan now have nuclear capabilities (although I would be shocked if either one used it). When India’s parliament was attacked by terrorists on Dec. 13th, India felt justified to put pressure on Pakistan to stop the militants that use Pakistan as a base to fight a devastating proxy war in the state of Kashmir. The military build-up is the way India chose to exert this pressure. In the last couple weeks, the US has been working hard to diffuse tensions between these two countries and I sincerely hope this posturing and brinkmanship by India and Pakistan will end soon.

Relations between the majority Hindus and the minority Muslims in secular India have also been tense and have flared up over the years. I was in Bombay in December of ’92, a few months before I was going to finish grad school, visiting my family, when tensions between these two communities erupted into some of the worst communal riots Bombay has seen.
The night the riots began, my parents, my mom’s sister (who was also visiting) and I went for a social function in the suburbs. On the way to the function, as we passed through the mostly Muslim area of Mahim, there was tension in the air that was palatable and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. By the time the function was over the riots had begun and it was no longer safe to head back into town through Mahim. Eventually we decided to drive by another route and hoped for the best. As we sped through the streets, they were eerily empty and quiet, unlike the constant street activity I am used to seeing in Bombay twenty-four hours a day. We get home without incident, but I have never been so racked with tension and worry before.
I spent the rest of my trip in my house, not daring to venture out. A shop on our street, Warden Road, known to be one of the nicest residential areas, was burned. It was like a punch in the stomach that takes your wind. When the time came for me to leave, I chose to go to the airport with a Hindu friend, denying my parents of their annual ritual of escorting me to the airport, since we had to drive through troubled parts of town to get to the airport. There had been unsubstantiated but troubling reports that cars were being stopped and people being hurt and some killed based on their religion. We got to the airport safely but I remember my friend saying many years later that he had never seen me so frightened. Although riots had occurred in Bombay before and there has been years of communal violence elsewhere in India, I had never been so directly affected and shaken by them.

What always shocks me about violence between religious communities whether it is in India or anywhere else in the world, is that no religion that I know of advocates violence against other humans. Like many great teachers and wise men remind us, each religion may refer to God with different names and each may have different traditions for prayer and ritual, but their ultimate goal is the same. Whether you are a Muslim, Hindu or Christian, you are ultimately a human being and have a responsibility to respect and recognize another, whether they are from a different caste, creed or color. Think of a marriage – it takes two very different humans – a man and a woman – who are different physically, emotionally and mentally. This diversity, this difference is what creates and supports the bringing of new life into this world. The very idea of civilization and nations is to bring peoples together, to build something greater than your own small village or community. I hope in the future we can all build a better world together on the common ground of diversity and resist devolving down into fighting over differences.

I left to study in the US when I was 17 and have been here for over 15 years. I have had the good fortune of being able to go back to Bombay regularly. This helps me retain my link to the past and gives me strength to build my future. Last year I wrote about how by visiting Bombay, I try to integrate my experiences from the past into the present life I have. And I have tried over the years of living in the US to integrate my eastern – Indian (and Iranian) self with the western self that has developed, as I have spent almost half my life and grown to be an adult in the US. This year a friend from Austin, Diane, was with me in Bombay for a few days. Instead of immersing myself completely in my eastern persona that normally happens when I go home, I had someone who I could share a western perspective with. I saw Bombay with different eyes. Not the ones that I am used to seeing out of when I am there, but ones that had some of my western experience too. On one hand it made me appreciate more the warmth and love of my family that I have there and the rich color and diversity of cosmopolitan Bombay. But the poverty was harder to ignore, the chaos was harder to accept and the constant din was harder to tune out. The city that I grew up in and that is nostalgically etched in my mind, no longer matches the city that I visit every year. This helps me wipe away some of the glow of nostalgia and form a more realistic picture of why I like and dislike Bombay.
My visit every year is filled with wonderful moments of connection with my family and friends and many familiar as well as new experiences in the city of my birth. The annual tennis match with my dad took place at the Bombay Gymkhana where once again he narrowly defeated me. Almost 77 and still going strong – I should be ashamed, but rather, I feel proud of him and inspired to live young, disregarding what my actual age is. I spent time with my brother Mimo who remains his unique life-loving, direct and happy self. Hanging out with him is pure pleasure for me – bantering about cars, gadgets and exercise, or reminiscing about the silly things we did as kids. I spent quality time with my mother and we visited some of the same favorite restaurants and shops I frequent every year as well as some new ones. I also got to meet many old friends including one that was my best friend in school and whom I had not seen in five years. I spent New Year ’s Eve with many of my school friends at a party one of them hosted. We caught up on what everyone from our class was doing now, and it was fascinating to see how many different paths we have taken from the common experience of our school days. All in all, the trip was rewarding, relaxing and very enjoyable.

Going home is a touchstone that reminds me of who I was, who I am and who I hope to be. This year more than ever I realized that I have two homes – one in Bombay and one in Austin – and a heart full of love from family and friends from all over the globe. Even though during this trip there was the tension of war in the background, and on past trips there were other troubles, I am hopeful for the future. If I can learn to integrate the diverse lifestyles and cultures of two different countries, hopefully others can come to understand one another and learn to live together in harmony.

Bombay, Beas, London 2000-01

2005-01-30T19:25:00.000-08:00

Bombay, Beas, London: Weaving the Past into the Present

Once again, it is time for a travelogue of my annual trip – this time including Bombay, Beas and London. Each year it seems like I have some kind of travel adventure and this year was no exception – except that my adventures began in the US and not in India as it normally does. I was to leave on a Friday afternoon from Austin to Chicago on American Airlines, catch a connecting British Air flight to London and another BA flight to Bombay. Well, this was the week Chicago was in the icy grip of blizzards and heavy winter storms. Friday, there are no storms but overcast weather and I am optimistic. We get on the plane in Austin, pull away from the gate and proceed to sit on the runaway for the next two hours. My optimism fizzles and goes flat like the glass of sparkling water that sits untouched on the tray table in front of me. There goes the chance to catch the connecting flight in Chicago, and my adventures begin.
I deplane in Chicago, to join the countless other travelers scrambling to make connections, reroute missed flights and trying to get to where they are going. After much confusion, two hours in line, and two hours with the American ticket agent, he finally finds a flight on Sabena (Belgian’s national airline) through Brussels to Madras. There is nothing available to Bombay and I would have to go all the way to the south east city of Madras and backtrack two hours to get to Bombay, which is on the west coast. So Austin – Dallas – Brusells – Madras – Bombay, but departure was two days later. So I am off to a hotel for the night and back to Austin the next morning to cool my heels for a couple days. I think to myself, well, better to have the adventures at the start of the trip and have them over with. Wishful thinking.
The trip to Madras is uneventful but long – almost thirty hours. I get to Madras at 2 in the morning and have an Indian Airlines flight at 7am to Bombay. I go to the check in counter at 5.30 and promptly am told that my ticket was not ‘okayed’ – as in – you have not reconfirmed your ticket for this flight. And the flight is full, so I had little chance of getting on. In India when you purchase a ticket it is only a request – RQ on the ticket – until you call back or go to the airline and OK it. How was I or the American Airlines agent to know this. So I describe my predicament – rerouting, long flight, trying to get home etc. etc. – but it fell on unsympathetic ears. I wheedle and cajole and fume, but to no avail. How about executive class – sorry, that is full too. How about endorse my ticket to another airlines flight – sorry, this is an American Airlines ticket and we cannot endorse it. I go from pillar to post but have no luck. The flight leaves without me and the next Indian Airlines flight is at 3 in the afternoon. I do not want to be waiting around for another eight hours, so I go to the Jet Airways counter, which has a flight at 9am. Nothing available in economy – only executive class. By this time I am just too tired and pay up for the last leg home. Almost three days late and after thirty six hours of travel, I make it to Bombay.

Bombay, or Mumbai as it is now known, is an island nestled against the west coast of India facing the Arabian Sea. It was originally seven islands that have been reclaimed over the years. After a succession of Hindu and Muslim rulers, the Sultan of Gujrat ceded it to Portugal in the 16th Century. The Portuguese did not do much to develop the islands and almost 100 years later it was included in the dowry of Catherine of Braganza when she married England’s Charles II. The English developed Bombay’s natural harbor and it soon became the trading hub of the west coast of India attracting immigrants from other western states. This laid the foundation for Bombay’s multicultural and cosmopolitan society and it attracted immigrant groups from all over the country and world, including my grandfather who moved from the city of Shiraz in Iran at the turn of the last century and set up shop in Bombay to take advantage of its vibrant business climate.
The story of my family’s immigration continues: I am now an immigrant in the U.S., a century after my grandfather came to India, building a home here and beginning a new chapter in my family’s history. Fortunately, over the last thirteen plus years here, I have been going to Bombay often to visit my family and reconnect with the people and the places that filled the first seventeen years of my life.

I have described before how going home is like slipping into a pair of your favorite jeans – comfortable, familiar and reassuring. My parents live in the same flat that I grew up in – on the second floor of a nine storey building called Palacimo that is off the main road in a lane called Silver Oaks Estates. Going home to Palacimo – to the room I shared with my brother, to the balcony window which looks out over a fir tree that has grown slowly every year to where the top now is almost past the third floor, to the living room with two big persian carpets on which I played with toy cars, creating roads and cities within their intricate designs, to the kitchen with the humming refrigerator and the cool stone tile checkered floor, to my parents bedroom with the big bed on which I lay and read newspapers and magazines – is a soothing pleasure. Going home, I relax deeply and feel a unique sense of contentment and happiness.
If two people from the same city are asked to draw a map of the city based on what they knew of it and what was important to them, each one of them will draw a different map – a landscape of memory and experience. My map of Bombay includes these familiar places: I begin with Warden Road (or B. Desai Road as it is now called). Breach Candy swimming pool where I spend much of my childhood playing, learning how to swim and nowadays going for morning walks with my dad and for an occasional swim. Breach Candy hospital, where my brother is born and where we go to see Dr. Mehrani when sick, sitting in the waiting room that has french doors that open to a lawn, a sea wall and the ocean crashing against it. Dayaram Santadas petrol pump, where we stop to fill gas in our Ambassador car on the way to school; I tip the attendant one or two rupees before we pull out. Precious Hairdressers, where Mimo and I go with dad to get a haircut for ten rupees. Right next door is Variety stores where I buy school supplies – Hero fountain pens and Camel poster colors, chocolates: Five Star and Double Decker, biscuits: Glucos-D, Nice, Marie, and various other necessities and treats. Unfortunately, Variety stores is no more, replaced with shoes stores and clothing boutiques. Twenty minutes away is Campion School where I go from first to tenth grade. Two four storey buildings painted white with blue and red trim – each colour representing a different “house”– white for Loyola, red for Britto and blue for Xavier. I am in the Xavier house and lest anyone else tell you different, we are the best house. In front of Campion is Cooperage Maidan – a soccer stadium with wooden stands (bleachers). Behind Campion is a large backgarden, which we share with two neighboring all girl schools – Fort Convent and St. Annes – a nice distraction for our all boy school. We play cricket, hand cricket, football (soccer), field hockey and basketball there. The best fun is playing football during the monsoon season, slipping on the slick mud (keechad) and running through puddles. Not far from school is my dad’s office at Kala Ghoda (black horse). There use to be a statue of an Englishman on a black horse in the square there many years ago, and the name has stuck. Cole Paints, my dad’s company, is right above Rhythm House, a music store that I go to buy records and tapes. In the next building is Madras Café, a south Indian restaurant where my dad eats lunch every day and where I always go for a couple meals when I am home. A couple kilometers away is Bombay Gymkhana – a sports club where I learn tennis and squash. I played two games of tennis with my dad this time. He beat me both games and as usual my excuse is that he plays a few times a week and I play a few times a year. Nonetheless, he is a wily player, placing the ball where I have a hard time getting it. I played two games of squash with my brother and beat him both times. He has only recently begun playing squash, whereas I have been playing on and off since I was a teenager – so that is his excuse. No visit home is complete without some Chinese food at Bombay Gym (or any other place for that matter). Chinese food in Bombay is unique – call it Indese or Chindian – it’s scrumptious. Not far from Bombay Gym is St. Xavier’s where I went for eleventh and twelfth grade. Xavier’s is in an old Victorian building with a large quadrangle where students hang out, and it has a canteen where the tea is always sweet and often comes in a chipped cup – delicious to the last drop though. And then finally there is Otters Club in the suburb of Bandra where I go twice a day, six days a week to train with some of the best swimmers in the nation. Otters is right by the sea like Breach Candy and on winter mornings (which in Bombay is a mild 20C-70F) we shiver in the locker room, hoping that Sir (our coach) will not show up or that we can skip just this one day. After the workout, we stand under the hot showers until the locker room attendant shouts at us to get out and not use up all the hot water.
Add to these places from my childhood, the shops that I go to with my mom when I visit. Chimanlals: which has handmade paper products like stationary, gift bags and wrapping paper. Cottage Industries: which has crafts from around India. Contemporary Arts and Crafts (CAC): which has housewares and crafts with distinctive modern designs. Vama: a mini-mall including Benneton, Levis, Lacoste and other shops. Anokhi: which has all kinds of products made with natural dyed, block printed cloth. I go back to Bombay with two bags – one with my things for the trip and the larger bag with all the things for my brother, and to a lesser extent, my mom and dad. When I return to Austin, that bag fills up with gifts, clothes, dried fruits and other tactile reminders of home.

I went to Beas for a five day retreat and I was again hoping that my travel adventures were behind me. Well, the gods and goddesses of adventure had me in their eyes again. I was flying from Bombay to Delhi on Air India at 12.30 in the afternoon and then catching the Shatabdi Express in Delhi at 4:30. Just as we are pulling out of the gate, the captain informs us that there is a technical problem, which the engineers will fix in half an hour. Forty minutes later, still on the runaway, they begin serving us lunch. There is no way we are leaving anytime soon. Finally, after an hour and a half, we leave. We land at 3:30. I get to the taxi at 3:45. I tell the driver that my train is at 4:30. He looks at me and says – koshish karenge saab – I will really try. It is Sunday. The traffic is thin. He drives like he would love to drive all the time – like a Formula One driver intent on getting the checkered flag – eyes focussed on the road, taking corners with screeching tires, passing everyone left and right, and of course, since this is India, honking his horn incessantly. Five hundred meters from the train station we come to a dead stop – traffic snarl. It is 4:25. He turns, looks at me and says – bhago – run the rest of the way. I put a big tip in his hand, thank him, throw my bag over my shoulder, jump out and begin the Delhi Station Steeplechase. I jump over broken pavement, gaping potholes and grimy puddles. I dodge past knots of people standing by the entrance, past the coolies in red shirts carrying two or three heavy bags on their heads and the hawkers peddling their wares. I find my train, locate my coach and finally drop into my seat with a huge sigh. Seconds later, the train begins to pull away. The specter of the 36-hour Bombay to Beas, Planes, Trains and Autorickshaws ordeal two years ago, dissolves. That year, Rohan and I spent 36-hours trying to get from Bombay to Beas, taking a taxi, a plane, a cycle rickshaw, a bus and an autorickshaw. This year, I was done with my 36-hour ordeal, this one from Austin to Bombay. Who knows what the next 36 hour adventure will be?

My last stop on this trip was four days in London to visit a number of friends that live there. I have been to London a number of times, including when I was a child, visiting family there with my mom and brother. So I have many memories of London too. When you ride the tube, you still hear the familiar – “Mind the gap” – but it is now a female voice. Chris and I walk down Oxford Street and step into many shops that I have been in when I was young – Marks & Spencers, Selfridges, C&A, Harrods and others. We ride on a ubiquitous double decker bus to the British Museum, which is the oldest museum in the world. As soon as we step past the gates we feel we are in a grand place. The building is grand, the art and artifacts in it are grand. Not pieces and parts of Egyptian or Assyrian or Greek antiquities like in many other museums, but large statues, full walls lifted from monuments and complete collections of certain works. A bit of cynicism is apropos here: the Brits stole most of these antiquities from the countries the colonized in the days of the British Empire. And the museum only exhibits a small fraction of what they have. Nonetheless, it is all displayed in wonderful large rooms where we get a small sense of what the monument or statue seemed like in its original setting. The Rosetta Stone is housed in this museum and it was a thrill to finally see what I had only read and studied about – the stone that helped scholars in the early nineteenth century translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. The best part of the museum is the inner courtyard – the Great Court – a two acre square covered by a spectacular glass roof designed by Sir Norman Foster. The shape of the roof is diaphanous, linking you to the gifts of the sky above as well protecting you from the elements. It is a wonderful public space – expanding the individual into the world through architecture.
Here are two links that have images of the British Museum roof. It is one of the nicest architectural spaces I have ever been in.
http://www.thebritishmuseum.ac.uk/greatcourt/roof.html
http://www.thebritishmuseum.ac.uk/greatcourt/intro.html

Life is a tapestry of memory and experience that we weave each day. With travel I find I repeat a familiar pattern of the past, interweaving it with something in the present, transforming my feelings of mere nostalgia into a poignant present.

Bombay 1999-2000

2005-01-30T19:20:00.000-08:00

Mumbai for the Millenium

When I step off the plane at Sahar airport and walk into the wall of humid, mildly putrid air, it instantly makes me realize that I am in Bombay. I still smell of the west though – that somewhat sweet, clean smell that I am reminded of when I open my bags when I get home. My body remembers this Bombay smell and I slip into a familiar invisible garment. The city remembers me and I enter the cityscape that I traversed for the first 18 years of my life.

Bombay Report
Bombay smells – it smells of the sea, it smells of exhaust fumes, it smells spicy and tasty and overripe all at once. The city assaults your senses like a brash street hustler, in your face with an offer to show you everything from high culture and excessive wealth to downright filth and abject poverty. All this coexists together on a relatively small island just off the mainland of west India. Right next to the luxury high-rise buildings are makeshift huts made of cardboard, tin and cloth sraps. More than ten million people live here – almost all have a hope to make something of themselves in this city of money and dreams. A few have already made it and they live in comfortable, air-conditioned high rise apartments on Malabar Hill and Breach Candy. Six million live in ramshackle conditions without running water and sewer services. Five million travel on the local trains from the suburbs in the north to south Bombay, the heart of the business district. I rode on one of these trains and it wasn’t even rush hour. There is no private space to speak of. You are crammed in a compartment, some hanging by their fingers from the doors. Here is an excerpt from an article in Granta by Suketu Metha about the Bombay trains:
“If you are late for work in Bombay, and reach the station just as the train is leaving the platform, you can run up to the packed compartments and you will find many hands stretching out to grab you on board, unfolding outward from the train like petals. As you run alongside you will be picked up, and some tiny space will be made for your feet on the edge of the open doorway. The rest is up to you; you will probably have to hang on to the door frame with your fingertips, being careful not to lean out too far lest you get decapitated by a pole placed too close to the tracks. But consider what has happened: your fellow passengers, already packed tighter than cattle are legally allowed to be, their shirts drenched with sweat in the badly ventilated compartment, having stood like this for hours, retain an empathy for you, know that your boss might yell at you or cut your pay if you miss this train and will make space where none exists to take one more person with them. And at the moment of contact. they do not know if the hand that is reaching for theirs belongs to a Hindu or Muslim of Christian or Brahmin or untouchable or whether you were born in this city or arrived only this morning or whether you live in Malabar Hill or Jogeshwari; whether you’re from Bombay or Mumbai or New York. All they know is that you’re trying to get to the city of gold, and that’s enough. Come on board, they say. We’ll adjust.”
And that is the Bombay I know. Even with the teeming crowds and the choking traffic, people from all over India still come to Bombay – thousands a week – to try to find their place in it, to try to make something of themselves. And the others adjust, because they know that those that came before them, moved a bit to give them some space.
Bombay has always had money – only now, you can see it – flaunted in the new cars, tiny mobile phones, sharp clothes and other flashy accessories that the nouveau riche adorn themselves with. I visited the new mall in Bombay – Crossroads – and you would think that this is no different from a mall in the U.S., maybe a little smaller. There is a food court, a department store, a Hallmark shop, a McDonalds and other sundry shops for jewelry, clothes and gifts. The place is filled with people, many just gawking and enjoying the well lit shops, quiet escalators and the novelty of it all.
Dot-com mania has reached Bombay too. A couple years ago it was mobile phone ads that I saw everywhere. Now it is dot-com ads that seek your attention. Free email, shop online, news – you name it, we have it. Mobile phones have almost become a regular accessory. In fact, if you are really someone, not just you, but your driver has a mobile phone. (Most upper middle class folks here have drivers.) So, after you are done shopping, you call up the driver, and voila, he brings the car around and you are off on your way. How’s that for life in the big city.

Mumbai Millenium – Y2Care
The millennium passed by with nary a problem in Bombay – as in other parts of the world. Like my brother’s friend said – Y2Care. I did not think there would be much of a problem in India since many things are done manually still. In fact when I went to a train reservation office in Beas to get my ticket to Bombay, there was a sign posted in the window of the Computerized Reservations booth – Computer Out of Order – and it was a painted sign. We just got our tickets the good old manual way. Computers go down in India all the time, and life and work goes on. For that matter, electricity goes out, telephones go dead, workers go on strike, but life goes on somehow. The taxi drivers in Bombay went on strike for a few days. Almost half the cars on the road in Bombay are taxis and the cars are old and pollute a lot. Everyone I talked to was happy that they went on strike because there wasn’t the usual brown blanket of pollution covering the city and the traffic flowed without the choking snarls that are typical everyday. For those three days, it was like being back in Bombay fifteen years ago. What a treat.

Mood Indigo
The hip new restaurant in Bombay is Indigo – the place to see and be seen. The food is Indian-fusion – a mix of east and west. A variation on the flat bread Naan has sun-dried tomatoes to give it an Italian twist. When we drove up in our ordinary Maruti to hand over to the valet, there were three other cars behind us – all Mercedes. Inside, the décor is a mix of smooth surfaces, crisp design and a smattering of Indian colors and textures. It was designed by an architect that worked in L.A. for Richard Mieir, the architect who did the new Paul Getty Center in L.A. The preening crowd was dressed to the nines with one eye on the person they were talking to and another on who was walking in and out. Quite a scene and quite an experience. I like the décor and I enjoyed the food. The good news is that someday, after its fifteen minutes of fame, it won’t be a hip place and you will be able to enjoy a good meal in good company.

Three Flights Up – Party like it’s 1999
I went with my mother and her friends to a disco. I have not been to a disco in years, and there I was with my mother, her friends, and their adult children, who like me, were visiting home from the U.S., Australia etc. Three Flights Up, literally three flights of stairs above the street over a popular tourist shop – Cottage Industries – in downtown Bombay. The crowd was young – very young – or is it that I am getting old. When I was a teenager, our idea of a party was to have a bunch of guys standing on one side of a room egging each other on to ask someone’s cousin and her friend standing on the other side of the room to dance. Well, it was not always that bad, but cable TV has changed Bombay quite a bit. With MTV, CNN, ESPN etc., the west comes to us in a platter and we gobble it down. The youth in Bombay live fast, drink hard and party till the wee hours. And in the west, I meet more and more people who are interested in yoga and eastern spirituality. So, the good thing is that the exchange between east and west is a two way street. The east is hungry for the easy to open, easy to munch, junk food of the west, and the west is interested in trying to find a more wholesome approach to life from the teachings of the east.
I did enjoy the disco – dancing in a big group, people-watching, enjoying the good company and sharing it all with my mom.

Squash Showdown
My father, champion sportsman at the Bombay Gymkhana, winner of the Pentathalon (tennis, badminton, squash, running, soccer goal kicks) for three years and runner-up for one, challenged me to a game of squash. I had not been to the Gymkhana squash courts since my days in school more than a decade ago, but the marker (pro) there recognized me. That is one thing about Bombay I love. You go someplace you have not been in years and people remember you – it is uncanny. Well, the game was a well-fought battle and my father prevailed. My excuse was that I had not played squash in years. But, that takes away from how fit and healthy my dad is even when he is going to be 75 in April. Bravo Dad!

Swimming Showdown – Who’s the King
And then there was the swimming showdown with my brother Mimo. Both of us were accomplished swimmers years ago and the Gymkhana was having a swim meet for members. Our friend Rana was in town too. All three of us learned swimming from the same coach at Breach Candy Pool – Mrs. Bathena – who was a stickler for perfect technique, but not so much for heavy training and endurance. Rana is a bit older than us and he along with his friend Shatul use to bully the little kids – Who’s the King? If you said Rana, Shatul use to give us the what-for and vice versa. It was all in good fun, but there is no doubt that Rana is the King. He represented India three times in the Asian Games and had a very successful swimming career at the University of California, Santa Barbara. In preparation for the swim, Mimo and I tried to train up a bit and get those sluggish muscles to get a bit of a snap in them for the sprint. Before our event, the announcer gave this long flattering introduction about the three of us and all I could think about was – I hope we don’t disappoint. As I stood there at the start, my eyes and mind came to focus on the lane in front of me and all sounds became just an indistinct buzz. What a feeling this is – the taste of concentration is unlike any other – it replaces the fear with confidence.
Rana left us in the dust, or should I say spray. Mimo and I had to be content to pick up second and third, me, just a bit ahead of him.

Rudy – The Sequel
For those of you who remember Rudy, The Red Nosed Rude Dog from my travelogue last year, here is the sequel. Looks like Rudy has softened up a bit and does not terrorize cars or bikes as they go up the slope to our building. A few weeks ago, Mimo – his prime target for late night chases up the slope - was having a snack at the roadside and Rudy snuck up calmly and had a seat. Mimo offered him some tid-bits and Rudy chowed down. Not the Rude dog he remembers. I think it is because Rudy now has a wife – a white mutt with brown splotches that shares the slope with him. The slope is a happier place for it.

Little Bombay in Austin, Texas
I have found a new eating place in Austin called Little Bombay. It is a non-descript, bare bones place in a strip mall in North Austin that serves Indian snacks like Bhel Puri, Masala Dosa, Samosas and Dahi Wada. I went there with friends the other night and had a great meal, satisfying my craving for the taste and spice of Indian food that I have had since I came back. The Bhel almost as good as Guptaji’s Bhel by my dad’s office on Meadow Street and the Dosas were almost as crisp and delicious as the ones at Madras Café underneath my dad office. How nice to have a little piece of Bombay – my old home, in my new home – Austin.

Bombay stories 1998-99

2005-01-30T19:15:00.000-08:00

Planes, Trains & Autorickshaws and other Bombay stories

Mimo and Rudy, the Red-nosed Rude-dog
Rudy is a stray dog that hangs around on the slope leading up to our building – Palacimo (all buildings in Bombay are named, following the British tradition of giving a name to one’s house and castle). My brother Mimo, named him Rudy, because he has a red nose. For some reason, when Mimo rides up the slope on his motorbike after 11:30PM (and only after 11:30), Rudy chases after Mimo barking, snarling and for the most part terrifying Mimo who tears up the road to get away. So, Mimo and I decided to make a plan – Operation Rudy. I brought back a water-gun for Mimo. This thing is called a Super-Soaker that you can pump up and squirt water for more than 15 feet. So, one night when we went out, we took the Super-Soaker along. After a night out on the town which included a visit to Geoffreys – the bar where you rub shoulders with the young and well-heeled Bombay crowd – we returned homewards, Super-Soaker in my hand, all pumped up and ready to face Rudy, the Rude-dog. I must say that the adrenaline coursing through me was more from fear that Rudy would go stark, raving mad and bite us to bits. Anyhow, as we turned off the main road and drove up the slope, the sound of Mimo’s throaty BMW mobike breaking up the peace of the night, we came to the place where Rudy usually lies in waiting and found him gone. As we drove ahead, we saw Rudy chasing a loud Jeep that had gone up the slope before us. Foiled! Rudy was getting his kicks terrifying a young teen driving an open Jeep – he ignored us. There was another dog with Rudy and he sort of glanced at us as we rode past him. But no action – Operation Rudy ended in disappointment. In an email last week, Mimo was thinking of finding a way to make a strap for the Super-Soaker so he can sling it around his shoulder and use it without having to take his hand off the bike for too long. Operation Rudy lives! (As a disclaimer - we don’t want to hurt Rudy. He has become a foil for many jokes and laughs between my brother and me. We will remember Operation Rudy as we sit with our grandchildren and laugh as they think their old fogey grandfathers have a screw loose. I look forward to that day. Thanks for the memory Rudy.)

Dad, the Champion Penthathlete
After work my father and I would go to the Bombay Gymkhana – a sports club that has not changed much since it was opened a hundred years ago by the British – so that he could play a game of tennis. My dad will be seventy-four in April and is still fit as a fiddle. For the last three years he has taken part in the annual sporting event for the members – a pentathlon consisting of a game of squash, tennis, and badminton, a fifty meter run and five soccer penalty kicks. There are age groups and within each, the members play against each other until only two are left to play the finals. In the last three years, my dad has won his age group twice and was a runner up last year. Champion sportsman he is! I joke with him – like son, like father. This year he is working on his tennis, so that when he competes next month, he will be ready to regain his championship. Good luck Dad!

The Siesta Room
While Dad would play tennis, I would either go for a swim or if the day had worn me down, I would head to the Siesta Room for a quick nap. I did say that the Gym still retains its very British roots - a leftover of old-world gentility The door to the room has this in brass letters – Siesta Room Gentlemen Only. Inside, the room is dark with seven or eight long reclined chairs made of teak and cane webbing with slats that swing out from under the arms so that you can raise your feet. What a comfortable chair to snooze in. All those businessmen must come up here after a heavy lunch to catch a quick siesta before heading back to their offices close by. (The Gym is in the heart of south Bombay – the business district.) Nothing like a quick, refreshing nap to speed you through the sluggish afternoon. Dad takes one at the office every day – which is a big reason why he is so healthy. One time I sent him a birthday card that said on the outside – Celebrate! It’s your Birthday. When you open the card it says – Take an extra nap! He loved it and we had a good laugh about it.

Mom, the Budding Businesswoman
My mom has been using her culinary talents to make a line of dried fruit snacks and delicacies, which she sells, to a loyal and growing group of customers. Her flagship product is Date Delite, a mix of dates, figs, almonds and walnuts in one inch squares that are just delicious. (Well, I am a bit biased.) She has a couple other creations and has a few others in the pipeline. I was an official taster and each one I tried I rated excellent. (Yes, I am definitely biased, but you understand – right!?) I have also helped her with naming her creations – Date Delite was the first, Date Delish followed, and I am sure there will be many more. We named her line of products Pars – a Persian word for Persia. Who knows, someday you will find Pars products in a shop near you.

Planes, Trains and Auto-Rickshaws
Once again this year, I traveled up to Beas, a village in the north-west state of Punjab for a week retreat. This year, getting there was an adventure – my friend Rohan and I used almost every form of transportation to make it there – including cars, planes, buses, auto-rickshaws and cycle-rickshaws. We left Bombay on Wednesday evening and only made it to Beas a day and half later on Friday morning. All of this because of the travel disruptions and confusion caused by our winter friend - Mr. Fog (as ‘he’ is endearingly referred to by Delhi locals). Flying into Delhi on Wednesday evening was uneventful and suprisingly easy. The fog had not descended yet, so we landed and then headed to a hotel for the night to rest up before catching the morning Shaan-e-Punjab train that would take us to Beas. (Shaan-e-Punjab literally means Pride of Punjab, which I doubt it is because it is invariably delayed.)
As we walked into the train station the next morning, we heard over the PA that the Shaan-e-Punjab was cancelled. What followed was complete confusion. We went from pillar to post to see if we could get a refund, get another train ticket or find another way to get to Beas. From one reservation window to another, only to be told to go back to the first, we made a circle around the station followed by various touts (scalpers) trying to convince us that they could get us to Beas. We finally booked ourselves on another train and sat down to rest for a while. But that train too was cancelled. After many hours at the station, both of us were ready to go to the airport and head back to Bombay. Why not try the bus, I ventured. So, off we went to the bus station – this time in a cycle rickshaw – a true adventure. Both of us precariously perched on the back of a rickety rickshaw, holding our bags as our new found friend threaded his way through the narrow lanes of Old Delhi. He was amazing. There were only inches between us and the cars, auto-rickshaws, hand carts, vans, pedestrians and assorted cows that crowded the lanes we went through. We reached the bus station in one piece, my legs still a bit wobbly though. At the bus station – more touts. “Luxury two-by-two bus sir,” one promised. We followed him to a small dingy room where a man sat behind a desk with an old phone, shouting over the bad connection. He pointed to a picture on the wall of the bus we would ride on. Sure, I said to myself, but we were desperate and bought two tickets on a bus to Amritsar, which is one stop after Beas. On our way out we saw a big sign in the station warning travelers not to buy tickets from private operators (it was a government bus station). So much for that. Tickets in pocket he showed us where we needed to sit so that someone could come and get us to take us to the bus.
With a couple hours to spare, we went to Conaught Place – a office and shopping district – and made our way to Nirula’s (Delhi’s answer to McDonalds). Fast food Indian style – Rohan had a paneer burger and I had a paneer pizza (paneer is a flavorful Indian cottage cheese). And topped it off with a hot fudge sundae – nothing like ice-cream and chocolate to brighten our spirits.
Back to the bus station as night fell. We went to our designated spot at seven and waited for the tout to come along. As we sat there, the power went out. How is this guy going to find us in the dark!! Thankfully, a few minutes later – long though they seemed – the lights came back on. No tout though and we sat fidgeting and waiting. Finally, a tout came by and we followed him through some dark bylanes to a small shop where a knot of people were milling around. We showed the guy our ticket – no Amritsar bus – only to Jallandar (one stop before Beas). Okay, okay, we joined the other grumpy travelers waiting for the bus to come. And when was that – oh, only fifteen more minutes every time we asked. The fifteen minutes lasted for an hour and a half before we went through a few more lanes next to a tea-stand and stood waiting once again for the arrival of the bus. This across the road from a temporary shrine from which loud religious music blared. This fifteen minutes only lasted a half hour and the crowd surged onto the bus. Not exactly two by two luxury (the two by two referring to only two seats on each side of the aisle – but at least the windows could be closed and keep out the cold winter air. Once on the bus – another wait until they sold all the seats. We finally left two and a half hours after the scheduled departure. Well, I am not sure there was ever a scheduled departure.
I tried to sleep through the night as we were bounced around in the back of the bus (exhausted as we were, we did not push enough to get front seats) and tried to tune the loud young men sitting behind us. We arrived in Jallandar at seven in the morning, too early to catch a bus to Beas and too cold to wait. So, there was an auto-rickshaw close by and he agreed to drive us the forty kilometers to Beas. For those of you that have not ridden in an auto, they are small three wheelers that have an engine a bit bigger than a lawn-mower, in other words, pretty slow going on the two-laned Grand Trunk Road. And the auto does not have doors; it is open on the sides. Take all of that together on an almost freezing and damp morning for an hour and you get two not just exhausted but frozen travelers finally making it to their destination. Who needs the adventure of trekking in the Himalayas or white water rafting in the Ganges or sailing in the Arabian Sea when you can find adventure in getting from one place to another in India. It is unpredictable; you are bound to meet some interesting characters along the way; and if you have the right attitude you can enjoy it.
Looking back on the trip, I can say that it was unforgettable.

Bombay 1997-98

2005-01-30T19:10:00.000-08:00

Bombay Talkies

A writer was once asked by an American friend to contrast Bombay and New Delhi and he replied: New Delhi is like Washington DC ‑ the political capital ‑ stately, sedate, wide avenues and boulevards, finely architected buildings and the requisite number of monuments and statues. Bombay, in contrast, is like a combination of New York City and Los Angeles ‑ India’s financial and commercial capital like New York and its film capital like Hollywood. In fact Bombay’s version of Hollywood is called Bollywood. India has one of the most prolific film industries in the world, churning out four hundred movies a year. Bollywood is not a specific geographic location in the city of Bombay, but it encompasses the film studios, production facilities and film stars homes in the suburbs of Bombay. At the stop lights and crossroads in the city, young boys with unwashed faces and worn clothes sell Cine‑Blitz, Stardust and other film magazines, each one with bold and brash stories about the hottest new starlet, whom is dating whom, who had the most lavish party last month and other juicy and wildly exaggerated tid-bits to feed the city’s appetite. But Bombayites appetite for the films themselves is even more ravenous and the city’s huge art‑deco theaters with names like Metro, Sterling, New Excelsior, Regal and Liberty are packed daily with people from all walks of life. One of these theaters was called Bombay Talkies ‑ the name coming from the popular new “talkie” movies that played there as opposed to the silent films that opened the history of film at the start of this century.

Bombay, fast, brash and dense like New York, image‑conscious and arrogant like Los Angeles, is a city of stark contrasts. The filthy rich in their marble floored houses with their army of servants coexisting side by side with the poor in their tin and cardboard slums, each dreaming of someday becoming a successful business magnate or the next big film star hero. Bombay ‑ this city of dreamers, this city of immigrants, this city of money and deals, this city of celluloid and stars, this city that I call my home ‑ I returned again to be greeted by the bustling crowds, the crawling traffic thick with fumes, the beautiful Victorian, art‑deco and modern buildings with peeling paint, the office workers with furrowed brows, the school children with toothy smiles and rumpled uniforms, the black and yellow topped taxis, the red single and double decker buses, the brown and yellow commuter trains and the calm Arabian Sea lapping the shore of the city. The sights, smells and sounds that I instantly recognized the moment I stepped off the plane.

Everything so familiar and at the same time, each year that I return I notice the changes. Light blue and silver topped “Cool Cabs” have joined the fleet of Bombay’s ubiquitous black and yellow taxis ‑ a 1960 model of an Italian Fiat. The Cool Cabs take you through the congested roads of the city in the comfort of air conditioning and tinted windows. Cellular phones have become a normal accessory for the businessman, the wealthy housewife being driven around town to shop and the rich kids frequenting the clubs and pubs of the city. Billboards around the city shout out deals for free air time and the latest models of Nokia, Motorolla and Ericcson cell phones. The kids playing cricket in the parks and streets now high‑five each other like pro‑basketball players and they wear caps with the name of American professional and college sports teams. Almost every home receives cable TV with channels like CNN, BBC, ESPN, NBC, MTV, Discovery, Sony, StarTV and twenty other movie, music, news and entertainment channels. In fact there are three music channels ‑ MTV, Channel V and ATN ‑ that play a combination of western pop, Asian hits and Hindi film songs.

For the first week that I was back home, I was busy with my cousin Yasmin’s wedding. She lives in Montreal where she met her Afghani husband Kamal. She came back to Bombay to get married in the house she grew up in ‑ a big, old bungalow in Byculla that my dad grew up in. It was a traditional Iranian wedding with a few Indian things thrown in for good measure. There were four functions ‑ the Mehndi ceremony, an Indian custom, where all the women get together. It is something like a shower party but without the gifts. Instead all the women get Mehndi (also called henna ‑ a brown plant dye) patterns applied to their hands. The patterns are elaborate and beautiful and the bride has patterns on her hands all the way up to mid‑arm. The second function was the Henna‑bandoon, something like an engagement party. Each person dips their finger in a bowl of henna and puts a dab on the palm of the bride and groom. Since the henna dye stays on for a week or two, this ceremony signifies the bride and groom being bound together in their engagement and their family and friends participating in bringing them together. The next ceremony was the wedding itself where a mullah (Muslim priest) administers the vows and the bride and groom sign a contract. This is called the Nikkah. A Muslim wedding is a contract and by signing it in the presence of a mullah the marriage is made binding under Islamic religion and law. The Nikkah is an intimate ceremony with only family and a few friends invited. And finally, there was the reception, where a wider group of friends and family were invited to congratulate the bride and groom and eat dinner. The Nikkah and reception were on the same day. The Mehndi and Henna‑bandoon ceremonies were on separate days before. It was the first family wedding I had been to since I was a child and the experience was rich and enjoyable. I am close to my cousin Yasmin and she chose the date of her wedding with my travel plans in mind so that I could be there. I am grateful to her for that. It was an unforgettable and beautiful wedding.

My cousin Ali, Yasmin’s brother got married too, the day after Yasmin’s wedding. Since the family was there and all the arrangements were set up in the house, he decided the day of Yasmin’s wedding that he would get married the next day. All he had to do was to get the mullah to come over. He just had the Nikkah ceremony. He did not want anything elaborate. It was just our family and his wife, Mehr’s family.

The day after his wedding, Mom, Dad, my brother Mimo and I went to Goa for a family vacation, something we had not done since we were kids. Goa is about 200 miles south of Bombay on the west coast of India. It is a small state, half the size of Connecticut. Unlike the rest of India which was under British rule until 1949, Goa, along with a couple other principalities in India, was a Portuguese colony and only got independence in the early sixties. Goa is known for its beautiful beaches, spicy curries, laid back locals, green fields, white‑washed churches and left‑over hippies and backpackers that come to visit this idyllic paradise. We were there for four days ‑ relaxing on the beach, swimming in the sea, eating delicious food and going for long walks on the beach. It was wonderful for the four of us to be together. I would like to do this the next time I visit home.

I returned to Bombay for a couple days to attend the wedding of a friend who use to be on swim team with me ‑ Otters Club. Thanks to our fantastic coach Sandeep ‑ who we all called Sir (and still do even to this day) ‑ Otters produced some of India’s best swimmers and still does. I got to see all my swimming friends at the wedding, some that I had not seen for ten or more years ever since I left home to study in the U.S. I did not recognize some of them. They were little kids when I left and now they are grown men and women.

I traveled to Beas next, a small town in the state of Punjab in north‑west India for a week retreat. I flew to Delhi and then took a bus to get to Jallandhar, seven hours away, and a taxi for the last hour to Beas. We traveled on the Grand Trunk Road to get from Delhi to Beas. The Grand Trunk Road, is India’s most famous road, rich with history and legend. It begins in Calcutta on the east coast and traverses the northern half of India, crossing the border into Pakistan and going all the way to the famous Khyber pass on the Afghan, Pakistan border. It is officially known in India as Sher Shah Suri Marg after the Afghan conqueror that ruled India in the 16th century. He established rest houses, milestones and a system for its maintenance and upkeep that formalized the road and made it a heavily used by traders and travelers. The British named it the Grand Trunk Road and that is what it is commonly known as today. It is a two lane highway on which cars, trucks, buses, auto‑rickshaws, motorbikes, scooters and the occasional bullock cart ride on.

Back to Bombay for two weeks in which I visited more friends, went shopping with my mother for clothes and things for my house and went to all my old haunts ‑ Crossword bookstore, Breach Candy swimming pool, Rhythm House (record store), Jehangir Art Gallery, Madras Udipi (a south‑Indian restaurant that is my favorite). I also went to Cafe Naaz, a restaurant on top of Malabar Hill that overlooks the city by the coast. It is a wonderful place to visit at night. The seating is outdoors and you can see the street lights of Marine Drive running along the coast. This stretch is known locally as the Queen’s necklace, a name the British left behind. Cafe Naaz is an “Irani” restaurant. It is one of the many Irani restaurants that were almost on every corner in Bombay years ago. There are not so many of them around now. Irani restaurants were the best places to get good, cheap food fast. They are run by Iranian immigrants to Bombay. My grandfather was an immigrant from Iran too. He came to Bombay as a trader and then later opened up a cloth store that my cousin Ali still runs. But back to the Irani restaurants. Salman Rushdie immortalized one in his last book, The Moor’s Last Sigh. It has a board in the entrance:
Sorry ‑ No division of beverages, No smoking, No fighting, No credit, No outside food, No sitting long, No talking loud, No spitting, No bargaining, No water to outsiders, No change, No telephone, No matches, No discussing gambling, No newspaper, No combing, No beef, No hard liquor allowed, No address inquiry.
I suppose all you can do there is eat and pay up.

I had a wonderful trip altogether. It was full and rich and I got to see all the people I wanted to see and more, and got to do all the things I wanted to do. I think a measure of a good vacation is coming back home and being happy to be back. I am happy to return to Austin. Back to my friends here, Barton Springs, Whole Foods, Book People, the UT campus and all the other things that makes Austin so dear to me. I am fortunate to have two wonderful homes ‑ one in Austin and one in Bombay.

Bombay, Iran 1996-97

2005-01-30T19:05:00.000-08:00

Bombay, Iran, Dubai, Beas

Yes, Bombay is now Mumbai. I personally don’t like the name and continue to call it Bombay. Bombay continues to become more westernised. Cellular phones are everywhere, a new magazine is launched every month, ads are slick, people shop at Benneton, Mexx, Nike etc. I should point out that this is the lifestyle of the middle class and the rich. 60% (6 million) of Bombay’s population live in slums without running water or sewers. You do see an occasional satellite dish on top of a ramshackle hut. Getting a place to stay in Bombay is its biggest problem. Bombay is a relatively small island nestled by the west coast of India. There is no room for it to grow and so Bombay becomes more and more crowded as people from all over India pour in. Bombay is a mix of New York and Los Angeles. It is India’s financial and commercial capital, the main port, as well as the entertainment and film capital. The film industry here, called Bollywood, churns out fantastical movies where every 10 minutes the hero is chasing the heroine around a tree singing about her alluring beauty. Unfortunately, this year I did not get to see a good masala film (masala is Hindi for mix of hot spices). The cinemas were on strike. Last year when I was here I saw four - more than I had ever seen in all the time that I had lived in Bombay. Leaving a place makes you appreciate it more.

On this three week trip I have spent only about a week in Bombay. A couple days after I got here, I left for Iran with my mother for a week. We went to Tehran, where my mother’s family lives - her mother, two sisters and a brother. She has two sisters in California, a brother in England and another in Zanzibar, Tanzania. So eight children in all. My mother and her family lived in Zanzibar and only moved back to Iran 30 years ago. Now they are scattered all over the world. I use to go to Iran every year when I was a kid until 1977 before the revolution began. So I had not been back for almost 20 years. I did not remember a whole lot from my childhood visits except for making mischief and wanting to watch cartoons (we didn’t grow up with TV in Bombay). So this visit was with new eyes. Tehran reminded me a lot of Mexico City. It is a large city surrounded by mountains. So it shares the same problem - pollution. Iran seems to be doing better economically - there is a lot of construction activity going on. The average person has a hard life though. Inflation still chews a big hole in the pocket and though basic necessities are in no shortage, it is expensive. So where is all the oil money going - into the pockets of the mullah regime. I will avoid getting on a soap box for too long: Corruption exists all over, but corruption in the name of God and the Islamic Republic is very low in my eyes. The mullahs preach the virtues of Islam but are getting prosperously fat in their anonymous villas in the suburbs.

It was good to see my family and spend time with them. I went carpet shopping in the bazaar. One needs patience to carpet shop. You see hundreds of carpets and walk to shop after shop through the narrow, covered lanes filled with other shops selling everything from microwaves to safety pins. I knew the kind of carpet I wanted and it was only a matter of time before I found it lying under a dusty pile of other carpets. I did not find it the first day. In fact I did not find it until the day before I left. After seeing hundreds of carpets I found the one I wanted. It is not a typical Persian carpet (farsh) - which have mostly floral, ornamental designs. I bough a gilim - which is more “folksy” - a geometric design with primary colours. It is like the difference between a lush orchestral piece of music and a traditional folk dance.

My mother and I also went for day trips to Isfahan and Shiraz. Isfahan has some of Iran’s most beautiful mosques and buildings. The old saying goes - Isfanhan, nesf-e jehan - If you see Isfahan, you have seen half the world. Isfahan has been the seat of many dynasties of Iran, and their generous patronage left behind some of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. Islamic art and architecture was so rich and sophisticated. It amazes me how they built these places with basic tools and a lot of muscles, sweat and brains.

Next stop was Shiraz, the city of roses and nightingales, the city of beautiful gardens, the city of two of Iran’s most famous poets - Saadi and Hafez. Shiraz lies in the hills and desert of Southern Iran (the land reminded me of West Texas by the Davis and Guadalupe mountains). My father’s family came from Shiraz, and thus my name. They had a shop in the bazaar - Bazaar-e Vakil. My grandfather chose to move to Bombay in the early part of this century and opened a shop here. The rest as they say is history.

An hour outside Shiraz are the ruins of Persopolis, the capital of the Achemenid dynasty of Persia (around the 4th Century) - its most famous king being King Darius. This was before the advent of Islam - the Achemenids were Zoarastrians (one of the oldest religions in the world). Inscribed on the walls of Pesopolis - I am King Darius, King of Kings, King of 28 nations. Yes, the empire ranged far and wide from Ethiopia to the Central Asia. Persopolis was burned down by Alexander as he raged over the continent of Europe and Asia and that ended the reign of the Achemenids. The entrance to Persopolis is guarded by two winged bulls with human torsos. My mother had been to Persopolis before - when she was expecting me. So I suppose it was the second time for me. I was peeping out of her belly button when I first came :-)

Back in Shiraz, among the places we visited were the tombs of Saadi and Hafez - the famous Sufi poets. I have read them both, but my favourite Sufi poet is still Rumi. His tomb is in Konya, central Turkey. Maybe someday I will visit it. Here is an excerpt from a poem by Hafez describing Shiraz:
If there be on Earth an Elysium of Bliss,
It is this, it is this, it is this.

Back in Tehran I went on a hike up one of the mountains that circle the city - Samuvac. Clear mountain air, towering birch trees, deep blue sky, a view of the whole city, snow capped Mt. Damavand (Iran’s highest peak) nestled among the other peaks of the Alborz range in the distance. Aah, this is bliss, this is bliss, this is bliss :-)

The last two days in Tehran, I spent visiting with my mother’s cousins and friends. They all remember the naughty kid I was. (My dad use to call my brother and me “ the Demolition Crew”) I don’t remember that :-)

On the way back to Bombay from Tehran, we stopped in Dubai (United Arab Emirates) for a day. Dubai has intentions of becoming the Singapore of the Middle East, which I have no doubt it can be. It is one of the cleanest and most efficient cities that I have been to: glass and steel skyscrapers, wide roads, big shopping centres – bland for the most part though . Dubai is a shopper’s paradise. The blurb for Dubai Airport is Fly, Buy, Dubai. I think that sums it up quite well.

I was back in Bombay for a day and then headed up to a small town - Beas - in the state of Punjab in north-western India. Beas is named after the river that runs by it - the river Beas. It is one of the five major rivers that run through this state. Punjab literally translates to five rivers. This state is famous for its farming and industry. It was the birthplace of the Sikh religion. I spent a peaceful week there with a few friends. An interesting historical note: Alexander the Great who I mentioned above ended his campaign across Europe and Asia at the banks of the River Beas. The story goes that he and his armies reached the river bank and a huge rainstorm turned the calm river into a flooded, raging torrent. His tired troops did not want to cross and they turned around. There is another more interesting story. When Alexander came to this area, he heard that there was a holy man that lived close by. He sent one of his men to tell the holy man to come and see him. But the holy man said, tell Alexander that if he wants to see me, he will have to come here. So Alexander went to see him. The holy man told him that you are the poorest man in the world. You have conquered and looted all these nations, but when you die, you will take nothing with you to your grave. This had an enormous impact on Alexander. Soon after turning around and returning through all the lands he conquered, Alexander died. He was only 31. He asked that when he was buried to have his hands outside the caskets, empty palms facing the sky to show that he had died empty handed.

I have spent my last few days of my vacation in Bombay hanging out with my family and friends, visiting some of my favourite restaurants, shopping a little and packing my bags. I am off to London for two days, before heading back to Austin. Three weeks, four countries - Phew! I will need a vacation to recover from this vacation :-)

Mumbai Missives 1995-96

2005-01-30T19:00:00.001-08:00

Mumbai Missives

Dec. 28th, 1995
Hello everyone,
I finally got off my butt and figured out how to use my brother's email. I am having a super time at home. I can't tell you how good it is to be back. Last night I went for a huge wedding. We are talking about a wedding reception with at least 2000 people. The jewelry and saris just dazzled my eyes. Weddings here are quite an event. Talking about weddings, I have met a lot of my friends since I have been back and most of them are married! There are a couple of us that are still hanging back peering over the edge of a cliff called "marriage". Just kidding. Time will fly and I will take that plunge. I can't see myself doing it for a few years yet though.
I am off to Panchgani with my brother and his friends in a couple hours. Panchgani is in the hills four hours east of Bombay (or Mumbai as it has now been officially renamed). We will be there for five days. Maybe I will get some reading and writing done. I have been so busy visiting friends, shopping with my Mom, going to parties and weddings and hanging out at some of my old spots. It will good to get away from the bustling city.
Bombay is crowded, loud and dirty as ever (I love it!). The economy is booming and I see cellular phones and new cars everywhere. I went for a party a couple nights ago and I saw some kids (yes, 18-19 year old kids), walking around with tiny Nokia cellular phones. Sheesh, that is a huge change from when I was here last. Bombay has always been a city of wealth, but in the past people never displayed it so ostentatiously. Conspicuous consumption is on the rise and the guilt of spending one's money is no longer there.
My visit here is just past the halfway point. Each day has been rich and full. I plan to leave on the 8th and spend two days in London before returning to Austin. That depends on whether Clinton and the Republicans make a budget compromise. The U.S. embassy has been shut since I have come back because of the budget deadlock and I have not been able to go in and get my visa to return. So, lets hope Bill, Bob and Newt strike some deal quickly.
I will sign off now. I wish you all a safe and successful '96.
Love
Reza
0-[-]

Jan 4th, 1996
Hello everyone,
Yes, I am still here waiting for Bill, Newt and Bob to work things out so that I can get back. I was supposed to leave on Sunday (the 8th), but I don't expect the consulate to be open tomorrow (Friday). So, tomorrow I am going to go to the airlines and beg and plead to get my ticket changed so I can be here another week (it is non-changeable, non-refundable). Sooooo, here I am on the other side of the world watching CNN to see if the budget has been passed so that I can visit the consulate to get a mere formality taken care of.
Well then, let me wish all of you a happy new year. I had a wonderful time in Panchgani with my brother's friends. Panchgani is up in the mountains, southwest of Bombay (ooops Mumbai). Panchgani means five plateaus. Mimo's friend has a huge bungalow in this quiet little town. It is more than a hundred years old and has wonderful old furniture, 20 foot ceilings, stone floors, a huge garden with silver oak and eucalyptus trees and a wonderful view of the valley with the Krishna river flowing through it. It was good to get away from the hustle and bustle of Bombay. We slept late and got up late and took long naps interrupted by long meals, games (pool, ping pong, scrabble, chess) and aimless chilling out. I got a good deal of reading and writing done lying on the hammock in the garden and occasionally looking out over the valley to the mountains in the distance. Mimo and his friends are big partiers and drinking started in the afternoon with BeerPong - a corrupt variation of Ping Pong that involves a lot of beer and very little Ping Pong. I stuck to apple juice on the rocks (yes, I like it straight!). We brought in the New Year sitting around a fire with a half moon in the sky.
I just got back from a very close friend's wedding. Rana and I were taught swimming and coached by the same person - Mrs. Bathena at Breach Candy Pool. Breach Candy is down the road from my building and I grew up there. Mimo and I were there every evening. My mom realized that the two of us had too much mischievous energy, so she use to take us for swimming lessons. It worked because we use to come back home exhausted, eat dinner and go to sleep. So, that's the story of how I got started with swimming. Rana use to be there too and we went on to become big time swimmers. This evening Rana had his reception at Breach Candy on the huge lawn by the sea. It was wonderful because I saw the swimming crowd that I grew up with and had not seen in years. It was an evening of hugging, back slapping, chatting and laughing. It is one AM right now and I am still bubbling with energy from the reception. Swimming was my life and the memories and lessons will always be with me.
Well, it is 1996, another new year. The days slip by, pages turn and another chapter is over. 1995 was a wonderful year of many new experiences for me. I am looking forward to another wonderful year. I miss all of you and have you in my thoughts. I hope to see you all soon (if those chaps in Washington stop butting heads).
Love,
Reza
P.S. One of you asked what Mumbai meant. Mumbai is a shortened version of a goddess' name - Mumbadevi. Bombay was a tiny little fishing village before the Portuguese and British arrived in the 18th Century. Mumbadevi is the goddess that protects the fisher folk. These fisher folk are called Koli and they still fish off the coast. The British saw the natural harbor that Bombay had and developed it to become the trade capital of India. They anglicized the original name of Mumbai to Bombay. The current government in our state is far right nationalist and they want to restore Bombay its original name. (It will still be Bombay for me.) Bombay is India's most cosmopolitan city - the financial capital (the main stock exchange and the big banks), the entertainment capital (Bollywood), cultural capital, art capital, .... :-) I am beginning to boast now, so I will stop. Even though Bombay is overcrowded and over polluted, I am overwhelmingly in love with it.

Jan 8th, 1996
Hello everyone,
Well, I went to the consulate this morning and joined the long long line that went all the way down the road. People got in the line beginning at 8 last night. I was number 173 in line (it went till 400 or so). They
only let in the first 150 people so I am going to go there tomorrow morning and get it over with. At least tomorrow I will be number 23 and get in.
My ticket back is still for the 19th. It was the earliest I could get. All flights are booked and waiting lists full. My next adventure after the consulate is to go to the airlines each day to try and fly out earlier. Hopefully someone will cancel and I will get on. Or else I am here for another week and a half. What an ordeal: all because of mule-headed politicians.
Over the weekend I went to Matheran with my mother. Matheran is a tiny town on top of a mountain that is only accessible by a tiny train that winds up the Ghats at a snails pace. The other way to get there is to take
a cab or auto-rickshaw to the halfway point and walk or ride on a horse the rest of the way. No cars are allowed in this town so as to preserve its charm. On the way up mom and I took the train and on the way down we walked and took a cab. Matheran was a popular hill station when the British were still here and their influence remains. All the scenic overlooks have British names - Alexander Point, Luisa Point, King George Point, Charlotte Lake. We got there on Saturday afternoon, took a nap first and then went to a few of the points and to the market to buy Chikki (sort of like peanut brittle but not as sweet). The next morning we got up early and walked to Alexander point for the sunrise. We left after breakfast and got back to Bombay in the afternoon. It was a wonderful short trip - beautiful views, an old town, good conversations with my mom and long walks. The other thing I enjoyed were the monkeys that were all over the town. They are quite use to townsfolk and are found gallivanting all over the place. It is so much fun to see them cavorting about, jumping from tree to roof, bounding across the trail and generally having a good time.
I spent this evening looking through old photographs. It brought back a flood of memories.
That's all for now.
Love,
Reza

Jan 10th, 1996
Hello everyone,
Looks like I am going to be flying out on the 19th. Yesterday's Emirates Airlines flight did not leave so all the passengers from that flight are going to be on the other flights this and next week. So there is no chance
of leaving any earlier. I am going to be back in Austin on the 21st night (Sunday). I will spend the 19th and 20th in London.
So with time to spare my mom and I are going to go traveling again this weekend. We are going to go south to Cochin, a small town on the southern coast in the state of Kerala. It was a small fishing village before being settled by the Portuguese 500 years ago and made into a port. Subsequently the Dutch ruled there and then finally the British. So the town has a lot of outside influences as well as a very strong indigenous culture. To top it off Cochin has a small Jewish population dating from 1000 AD. We will spend a couple days in Cochin and then a couple days at a small town in the backwaters of Kerala. The backwaters is a series of small lakes, canals and rivers that run parallel to the coast of Kerala. Boats ply up and down the palm lined backwaters. The backwaters are one of the little known beauties in India and I have always wanted to go. We are leaving on Friday and will be back on Tuesday.
On Tuesday night one of my best friends from school – Jimmy – is getting married in a typical Parsi wedding ceremony. The Parsi's were the original inhabitants of Iran. Their religion was Zoroastrianism - the earliest monotheistic religion in the world. In the 16th century Iran (or Persia as it was called) was invaded from the east the Muslims. The Parsi's had to either convert or practice their religion in secret. A large number of them got on boats and landed on the western coast of India in what is now the state of Gujarat (which is a few hours north of Bombay). The ruler in Gujarat was benevolent and let them settle there. In the 17th and 18th century when the British colonized India, a lot of the Parsi's came to Bombay. They got along with the British much better than the locals and went on to become very successful businessmen. A lot of what Bombay is today is because of the enterprising Parsi community. After the British left and India gained independence in 1947 the Parsi influence has declined. The legacy of their heyday is still around. Tata Industries started by a Parsi and still headed by one, is one of India's largest and most successful companies. In a distant way Parsi's are of the same blood as me. We are from the same place. They chose to leave, my ancestors decided to stay.
Yesterday evening I went to Otters Club - my swim team. After learning swimming at Breach Candy I moved to the Otters Club team. It was the foremost team in the country with a super coach - Sandeep - or sir as we all call him. We had National champions, Asian champions and even the record holder for the fastest English Channel crossing (since surpassed). We were truly an elite team and no one could come close to us. I spent many many hours swimming up and down the pool. I went there yesterday and played water polo and swam with the new crop of champions Sandeep has produced. It was so familiar to get back into the groove and feel totally at home at Otters.
I hope all of you are doing well. You are in my thoughts.
Love,
Reza

Jan 16th, 1996
Hello everyone,
I just got back from my trip to Kerala this evening. What a wonderful time my mother and I had. We flew into Cochin and spent a day and night there. Among the many things we saw there, we went for a Kathakali dance performance. Katha - story, Kali - play. Kathakali is an ancient theatre of Kerala (the state that Cochin is in) that relates stories from the Hindu mythologies - Mahabharata and Ramayana. It is a little like the Kabuki theatre of Japan. The performers are elaborately made up and have colorful costumes. The story is related through the movements of the performer - a beautiful dance that is a feast for the eyes.
From Cochin we took a train to Kottayam. We traveled 2nd class - always an adventure. We did not have reserved seats, so we did what all Indians know how to do - ghusao - push, squeeze, get a seat by hook or crook. We spent a sleepless night in Kottayam, kept awake by the chanting Hindu priests in the temple opposite our hotel.
In the morning we caught a ferry to take us along the backwaters to Aleppy. It was the most beautiful and scenic 2 1/2 hour boat ride. The backwaters had patches of water hyacinths and lilies, and on each side were tall coconut trees, banana trees and rice fields. Alleppy is a large town on the backwaters and is criss-crossed by canals. It is called the Venice of the East :-)
We took another boat from Alleppy to a small resort a half hour away. We spent two very relaxing days at this tiny resort, living in a traditional Kerala house, eating tasty Kerala food, drinking fresh coconuts plucked from the trees, watching the fishermen throw out their nets, going for walks to the villages and farms nearby and reading/writing/drawing/thinking.
To return to Cochin, we took a bus from Alleppy - another adventure. These buses are the most dilapidated looking vehicles. They are packed to the brim with people and travel the potholed two lane highways between towns. When I say packed in, I mean like sardines. You have to give up your sense of personal space because on the bus you are no longer an individual, but part of an organic mass of travelers and commuters. We could make the 40-mile, 2-hour trip in a cab. But that is no fun. In a bus you get the
authentic experience. You really feel like you are traveling in India.
It was funny that wherever we went the locals asked us "Where are you from" and I would say Bombay. They always walked away disappointed. My mom and I look like foreign tourists and they probably expected that my answer would be more interesting. My mom said that we are disappointing so many of them; maybe we should say we are from Spain or something like that.
It is good to be back in Bombay. In a way, Bombay is a foreign country in India. Bombay is a truly unique city and Bombayites have a chip on their shoulder about it (if you have not noticed mine already). Bombay is the city of dreams much like what America was (and still is) to immigrants. People from all over India come to Bombay to make their fortune (or be swallowed whole by the fast clip of life). My great-grandfather was a trader from Shiraz in the south of Iran who use to come to Bombay to buy dyes for carpet making - indigo and lemon yellow. He eventually settled in Bombay and to continue his business. And that folks, is the short version of my immigration story and how I came to be a Bombayite.
A couple more days here and I will be off to London and then back to Austin. Time to do last minute shopping, final goodbyes and eleventh hour packing. Soon I will be back in the west - a whole different world.
Three years ago I wrote this poem when I came back from my trip to Bombay:

RETURN
Once on the plane
I discard my voice
for an accent of swallowed
consonants and slippery slang.
Snakes take longer
to shed their skin.

The city recedes below
and memory slips into the jet stream.
The sewer smell
of Bombay hodge-podge
is swallowed by the antiseptic
crispness of the cabin air.
I smell the pages of my journal.

Three of us sit on a dark beach
staring at the yawning waves;
the teeming city glows behind us.
The moon is a question mark
on the thin horizon in the west.
Only refuse comes ashore here:
bleached canvas shoes,
discolored plastic bags.

I trip into intermittent sleep
and wrestle with my dreams
awash in saffron and blue.

The seatbelt sigh chimes;
the reel snaps
and whirs.
I stare blankly at
the white page in front of me.

Jan 22nd, 1996
Hi everyone,
I'm back and going through serious withdrawal and homesickness. 5 weeks away in a whole different world. (5 weeks thanks to Bill, Bob and Newt's budget head butting.) I got back last night at 11, back to good ol' Austin. It seems so small and quiet compared to Bombay.
I'm back at work wading through 123 e-mails in my in-box. My desk is still here, so I suppose I still have a job :-) I think I have forgotten how to work though ;-) I may need some special retraining. My mind has got accustomed to thinking about - who will I have lunch with, which friend will I visit tonight, should I go to the bookstore or an art gallery, which club will we go to tonight, where should I go for the weekend, should I have pomegranate or papaya for breakfast, what day is it today, is it time for food yet etc. etc.
My body feels completely disoriented. I am not sleepy yet, but jet lag is going to hit me like a sledgehammer sometime today. Too bad I do not have a pillow at work to cushion the blow.
Love
Reza