Bouncing Around

Dearest Rachel –

I’m not gonna lie, honey; I’m not a big fan of the public address system they have on the ship. You can always hear the ‘bing-bong’ of the chimes, heralding an important announcement for all the ships passengers to hear, only for the actual voice to be completely inaudible to someone like me in my room. you would think they didn’t expect anybody to stay in their cabin for any reason at all; do they not think they’re comfortable? 

In any event, not a half an hour before I was scheduled to meet in the theater for this morning‘s shore excursion, the chimes went off as always. When they do, I try to prop the door open (surreptitiously, of course, since the state room attendant do not like the door being propped open for… reasons. It’s probably not their idea to chide us for doing so, however) in order to be able to hear what’s being said. It turned out that, at the moment, not only had we not been cleared to go ashore yet, but the ship’s crew couldn’t determine what door we would be using for the gangway, since the ship was still rocking in port, and they couldn’t set it up until things had stabilized.

I’ve referenced Bruce Cockburn’s song about Tokyo before, and how he compared himself (and everyone in the city) to dice in a cup, and how the place shakes one vigorously. Odd to realize that Mumbai actually does this literally, although I suppose you have to be on the water to feel it – and it’s theoretically possible that if it continues consistently, we wouldn’t be able to set foot on Mumbai to experience any potential figurative shaking up.

Of course, things are eventually (indeed, fairly quickly) brought under control, to the point where I encounter groups on their own way to the gangway as I make my way to the theater. I can only assume they’ve decided on where it should go and installed it accordingly. So presumably, once our number is announced, we should be good to go.

What shops that are opening today won’t be open until eleven in the morning.  For what it’s worth, our guide points out that they stay open until seven at night, although in comparison to businesses back home, that seems minimal.

Our guide talks about the fact that Mumbai as a city is not nearly so old as some, so there aren’t a lot of monuments throughout it.  However, our first stop here is at one such monument, the Gateway to India, built to honor the visit of Prince George in 1911.

We don’t drive all that far (although it does take at least ten minutes) to get to our next photo stop; that of the university of Mumbai, as well as the High Court building.  

Many of these places are UNESCO World Heritage Sites, precluding them not only from being torn down, but also from being worked on in any way, it would seem.  

In another city, with less heat and traffic, we might have been able to walk to our next photo stop; that of the Municipal Corporation (which might best be described as the city hall of Mumbai) and Victoria Station.

As we drive along, our guide explains the significance of the bhindi – you know, the colored mark certain Indian women wear on their forehead? Yeah, it used to be a universal mark among devout Hindus, men and women alike (although men gave it up as they began to adopt Western forms of dress), as a sign of good fortune.  As such, widows are not supposed to wear it, as their status is not considered a fortunate one.  Nor is it generally for single women, as they are not considered fortunate to be unmarried.  However, in Mumbai, it’s as much a fashion statement as a sign of faith or fortune, so… yeah, they will wear it here, and even color-coordinate it with their outfits. Kind of like the Hindu equivalent of the cross necklace, I suppose.

We disembark again, this time outside of the western railway headquarters; across the street is the church gate station, which we expect to pick up in order to take us to Mahalaxmi.

There is only a lookout point for us to see the area, and for a moment, I mistake it for a bazaar where clothing is being sold. I can barely receive partial credit for this; while it is a place of commerce, what’s being sold here is the service pertaining to these clothes, rather than the clothes themselves. Since so few people can afford (be it due to the expense itself or the lack of space) washing machines and dryers, there is a virtual guild of folks known as dhobi ghats who pick up people’s dirty laundry, and take it to a centralized place where it is washed, dried, folded and packaged for redelivery. Now, Mahalaxmi isn’t the only such place – virtually every neighborhood has their dhobi ghats – but it’s the largest and oldest such place in Mumbai. 

Interestingly, our guide alternates between Mumbai and Bombay when referring to the city. I suppose part of that has to do with the fact that she’s trying to relate certain aspects of history, and during that time Bombay was the name of the city. It’s hard for me to keep up with everything to say, so I have to admit that I don’t even bother to try after a certain point.

Our stop at Gandhi’s Bombay headquarters (now turned into a museum) is a brief one, made even more so by the fact that I decide to take a washroom stop, only to find myself dealing with a long, slow queue.  So I don’t get a lot of chance to delve into a lot of real history – and there’s a lot of it; enough to fill a building, after all.

You would think Gandhi wouldn’t be a controversial figure in history, but the fact that someone (a fellow Hindu, no less!) decided to exercise the assassin’s veto on him suggests something.  And not just Mohandas (or, rather, Mahatma – the ‘great soul’), but his daughter-in-law Indira and grandson Rajiv also suffered the same fate.  I have no idea if that speaks for the Gandhi family or for India in general, but whatever it says, it doesn’t strike me as a good thing.

The ride back to the dock is somewhat lethargic; our guide discusses the eight main religions of India; four native (Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism) and four imports (Judaism, Christianity, Islam, and Zoroastrianism).  She spends time on the introduction of the Persian Zoroastrians to India, and the parable their leader used to persuade the authorities at the time to permit them in; he compared the nation to a full glass of milk, to which liquid could not be added, but a little bit of sugar (the Zoroastrians) could, and even improve the taste of the milk.  Thus convinced, the Indian authorities granted them permission to emigrate – as long as they followed certain rules, which they agreed to.

At this point, we’re actually running ahead of schedule, and our guide offers to let us stop at a shop or two at Ballard Pier, just outside the terminal.  Unfortunately, it turns out to be a gallery, with little to appeal to me – and even if it did, it would be both too expensive and too bulky for me to acquire.

So that’s it for the day, and we’re back at the terminal by 1:30, and back on the ship twenty minutes after that – these checkpoints are something else, and I’m in no mood to deal with them four more times (twice going out and twice returning) in order to do some fairly unnecessary shopping. I’m back to my cabin for the day.

But with that, I could still stand to have your eye on me, honey, and for you to wish me luck. I’m sure I’m going to need it.