Insider-Outsider

We were on a walk in the area near Chor Bazaar when a very heavy handcart stopped because of the traffic. When the traffic lights turned green, the load pullers simply couldn't get the cart going again.

My guests that day for the walk were a group of expats, living in Bombay. On an impulse, one of them dashed into the middle of the street to give the cart a helping hand.

The man at the back of the cart welcomed the added muscle power, and in a couple of minutes, the cart got moving again.

My guest returned, grinning, dusting his palms. I couldn't help grinning back.

You can choose to get into the heart of a country, or you can choose to be an observer. Whatever floats your boat. The streets are there, the people are there, the experiences are there as well, waiting. What you get from them is your choice. Insider or outsider, what do you want to be?

And this is not just about foreign visitors to India. This is true for locals as well.

Take me, for instance. For me, walking in this area is always difficult, given my vegetarian Brahmin upbringing. I'm simply not used to meat. Here, everywhere, there is meat - on the hoof, being stirred, roasted, spitted, or tandoored. It has taken me a bit to get used to it. But as I do this walk more and more often, I find myself getting comfortable with it.

I don't think I will ever eat meat. So this walk is not about changing myself. This walk is all about acceptance. What this walk does for me, is that it makes me understand in a simple practical way that everyone is not the same. There are different ways of life, and many of them are nothing like the little things that my little community or tribe or religion does. It is quite an eye-opener.

Cow Story

I always have fun explaining the 'sacred cow' thing to overseas visitors.

As part of the Bhuleshwar bazaar walk, we take several overseas visitors to the temple of Mumbadevi, Bombay's patron goddess. The temple has two cows, in a makeshift cowshed. For two rupees, you can buy grass to feed the cows.

The last time I was there, one cow peed. A man came rushing out from the interior somewhere, with an empty plastic bottle, and he collected the urine. My guests were pretty flabbergasted.

They'd heard of the sacred cow, but, er, did that extend to urine? "What's he going to do with it, Deepa?", one of them asked.

I launched into my usual explanation of pancha-gavya, the five sacred products of the cow, and all the beliefs around the cow. My audience's eyes grew rounder and rounder as I went on.

"You mean they *eat* this panchathing?"

"It's used in Ayurveda as medicine" I said. "And it's also used as a natural fertiliser."

One of them turned around and asked me rather hesitantly, "Umm, do they run out and collect cow dung like that as well?"

I couldn't help laughing. I could see what he was imagining - a man waiting with cupped hands, perhaps, as the cow did its excretory thing. I had to explain that while cow urine had to be collected in transit, cow dung was definitely collected post landing. I tell you, tourism is great fun sometimes!

But honestly, if you look at it a little seriously, cows are an administrator's nightmare.

According to Ian Copland, a researcher with Monash University, and author of 'What to do about cows?', there were fifteen serious cow-related communal riots in British administered North India between 1883 and 1891. In 1893 a series of cow riots hit the cities of Bombay and Rangoon, the districts of Azamgarh, Ballia and Ghazipur in the United Provinces, and the princely state of Junagadh. In 1909 the killing of a cow triggered a major riot outside of Calcutta. Further cow riots followed in succeeding years - the most serious of which was a riot in 1917 in the Shahabad district of Bihar, where 150 villages were looted and burned.

Post-independence India has also seen a series of cow-related riots - in 1949 there were riots in Secunderabad over a tonga suspected of carrying beef in a Hindu area. As recently as 2003, there were riots in Ganj Basoda, a tiny town in Madhya Pradesh, over the alleged slaughter of a cow by a rickshaw-puller.

All this mess over an animal?

Ah, but this is not just another animal! This is Kamadhenu, cow-mother, divine benefactress, provider of milk and sustenance, she-whose-udders-never-run-dry, she-whose-urine-is-pure. And she has the Gods on her side.

"O noble folk, protect the cow, for Brahma is in her back, Vishnu in her throat, Shiva is established on her face...the Sun and Moon are in her eyes..." says a poster published by the Nagpur Cow Protection league in 1860. It's an amusing poster, if you're not religiously inclined.

Take a look. There's a seriously demonic looking guy with armpit hair and the face of a wolf, waving a sword over a cow. In front of him is this totally pious looking Hindu trying to stop the killing.

And if you still don't get the message, there's a milkman at the bottom of the poster, selling milk to a bunch of people, all from communities that have no taboos against beef - you can see a Parsi in characteristic black topi, an Englishman in a top hat and a Mussalman squatting in traditional robes. This is go-mata, cow-mother, the poster says to the beef-eater. She feeds everyone, including you.

Nostalgia

One of the things I love about Mumbai is its unique skyline. The palm trees and the sunshine combine with the Gothic architecture to give the Oval Maidan a sort of exotic holiday feel.

These buildings have been part of my childhood, and I feel a sense of belonging when I look at them.

Looking at the University clock tower, I feel its grandeur and poise almost immediately. There is a sense of deep calm, that transports me instantly to an older era.

I am reminded of my grandfather and his black-and-white photo collection.

Elephanta, Elephanta

It takes an hour by boat to get to Elephanta. Once on the island, you climb a set of 120 steps up the hill, to the cave that houses a fourteen hundred year old temple to Shiva.

There is something quite poetic about the idea of "crossing a sea, climbing a mountain, entering a cave" to see God. It is a journey across, upwards, and inwards, and the sculptures that await at the end are a magnificent reward.

First sighting of Elephanta island from boat

Shiva is such a paradoxical, puzzling God! In the first place, he is both male and female. He is angry and happy, forgiving and vengeful, creator and destroyer, an ascetic and a skilled lover. It doesn't make sense! Or perhaps it makes enormous sense, because we're all a bit like that?

In any case, Elephanta mirrors all of his contradictions with art that simply blows me away.

Trimurti Sadasiva - Five aspects of Shiva in one sculpture

Whew.

Mumbai is hot these days. For those of you who are planning to visit - my advice is, stay indoors in the afternoons. That means cold beer, long lunches, and of course, airconditioned shopping. By 4:30 p.m. the heat isn't quite so bad, and you can try walking through the heritage district, or the bazaars, or really, anything that takes your fancy.

If you're planning to go see Elephanta, there are two ways to do it - one is by taking the 2:00 p.m. boat. You'll get to the island at 3:00, when it starts to cool down a bit. There's a twenty minute uphill climb. Fortunately, it is a shady climb with lots of space to sit down and rest, and there are little shops all along the climb where you can browse and shop. Don't forget to take bottled water. You'll have until 4:30 to see the caves, before you need to come downhill. You can take the 5:00 p.m. boat back.

The other way is to take the first boat out at 9:00 a.m. before the crowds come in. That's what I did yesterday.

If you take the 9:00 a.m. boat, you'll be up the hill by ten thirty, and after an hour at the caves, you can come down and take the 12:00 noon boat. The boat ride is actually pretty nice, its cool and breezy in the lower deck.

This is me on the upper deck of the boat. It was sunny but not hot. I paid ten rupees extra for the upper deck (weird, you'd have thought the cool lower decks would be more expensive).

You can see the Gateway of India in the background. The tall building is the new wing of the Taj Mahal Hotel, it completely dwarfs the Gateway from some angles. To the left is the old heritage wing of the Taj Mahal Hotel. They are renovating/repairing the dome.

P.S. Check out my 'sensible' shoes.

Pappadam Central

If you ever wondered where Bombay's papads come from, look no further.

This is a little corner of Sion-Dharavi, where papad making is a cottage industry. Women sit in the shade of their homes, rolling papads by the dozen. Almost every home in this part of Dharavi seems to be making papads.

The sun is a friendly partner, providing free heat to dry the papads. That means, obviously, in the three monsoon months starting July, these households have to look for other sources of income.

It was noon when I got there. There was this drowsy air everywhere. The women were busy, but papad making and gossip go hand in hand, so it was a little bit like an afternoon party.

Apart from papad, the other thing we saw was lots and lots of red chillies. I'm not sure where it comes from, or what they're doing with it. I'm going to ask the next time I go there.

It seems to be an all woman industry. We didn't see any men, except for one really old man who was in charge of picking up dried papads and packing them.

Bollywood in the skies

Two twenty a.m., Mumbai International Airport, on my way to London. I was dead sleepy. As soon as we boarded the plane, I went into my usual routine - drank my sweet lime juice, got my spare blanket, changed into my jammies, and snuggled down as best as I could to do some serious aisle-watching.

Lots of interesting people were boarding, including a group of good-looking Hare Krishna devotees. How do they manage to make thin white cotton into a fashion statement? Or maybe I'm particularly susceptible to blue-eyed 40-year old men draped in see-through linen.

Anyway, the lecherous moment passed. The Hare Krishnas disappeared into Economy Class. They were followed by the regular folks - 70-year olds visiting their NRI children and grandchildren, Gujarati women with shopping bags, young couples on their honeymoon, tourists with skin like broiled lobster, the usual sales guys from Indian IT companies (think laptops plus moustaches), London businessmen returning home...there was enough and more to keep me engaged.

Finally, the train of people ended. Everyone settled down. Overhead compartments were shut. I'd just closed my eyes where there was a sort of buzzzzzzzzzz in the cabin. I opened my eyes a tiny bit. Two flight attendants were hovering around someone who had just boarded, laying out the complete red carpet. I looked to see who the new guy was - it took me a few seconds to realise it was a Hindi Movie Star. Not an aspiring wannabe. Not a mildly successful actor. He was the real McCoy, a Bollywood actor truly-bluely in the Super Star league.

It is hard to describe the buzz that a Bollywood star generates. There was a sort of starry-eyed bewilderment all round, as everyone in the cabin figured out for themselves who he was. As the buzz went around, what was a boring and sleepy flight seemed to suddenly come alive. The air in the cabin sparkled. Staid businessmen and bankers in Business Class craned their necks, wishing their seats weren't so darned private. It was a bit like when the three wise men discovered baby Jesus - there was a Star in our midst and nothing on that flight was the same any more.

At Heathrow airport, it was the same story. Wherever he walked, women were bowled over. The Punjabi matrons at immigration straightened their blouses and skirts. I'm sure some prayed their lipstick was ok. The lady from airport ground staff assigned to escort him chattered non-stop, her face was flushed, eyes sparkling. At baggage claim, co-passengers from the depths of the Economy Class discovered him standing for his bags, and went into that familiar starry-eyed look. Some just dropped everything else and stared. Others tried to be discreet, I guess all those years of training to be 'womanly' and modest just kicked in automatically.

I looked at the scene and thought, my God, it's amazing how Indian women react to male Bollywood stars. Brad Pitt was here a couple of months ago, but perhaps even he would not generate this sort of visceral reaction. Is it because these are Indian stars, and more real than a Brad Pitt? Or, er, is it all the singing-and-dancing in the modern Bollywood movie, does that generate its own different brand of heat?

And how does the star handle this adulation? How does anyone manage a million Indian female fantasies coming at them at a rate of twenty thousand per second?

The star in question seemed impervious to it all. He was polite, smiling at the lady who was with him, making small talk. Watching him handle the situation was quite an education.

I have to admit, I enjoyed the whole thing thoroughly.

Back home after Holi

OK, it was fun, but now there's hell to pay.
The green colour is stubborn and won't come off that easy.
At least I gave as good as I got!

The Great Indian Tipping Challenge

Overseas visitors to Mumbai always ask me for advice on tipping. There is such a bewildering variety of people to tip!

Drivers, porters, doormen, car attendants, tour guides and waiters at restaurants, they're all part of The Great Tipping Challenge.

But never fear - they all fall into a neat pecking order when it comes to tips. All you need is this - Deepa's Official Guide to Mumbai Tipping.

Arm yourself with this Guide, and you can waltz in and out of Mumbai with a song on your lips, secure in the comfort that you're not over-paying or being downright stingy.

Let's start with the lowest guy in the tipping spectrum, the doorman. The doorman comes in two varieties. Let's call Type 1 the Moustachioed Turbaned Doorman. You'll see Type 1 Doormen at the Taj Mahal Hotel, or the Oberoi, or any of the grander sorts of hotels. They usually open car doors, both when you arrive at the hotel, and when you're leaving. They also open the main door to the hotel.

Type 1 Doormen have perfected several arts:
1 - The Art of Opening Door with a Bow and a Flourish
2 - The Art of the Broad Unctuous Smile
3 - The Art of Greeting Foreigners in English
4 - The Art of Looking As If They Should Be Tipped

These guys are a Grade 1 Challenge. In the first place, they look, um, intimidating. They're tall, broadshouldered, colourful, and of course, that moustache is nothing to scoff at. What do you tip such guys? They look as if they'd scorn a ten-rupee note. But surely fifty is too much? And when do you tip these guys? Surely not when you arrive tired from the airport at some odd hour of the night?

Deepa's Official Guide to Mumbai Tipping recommends a 20 rupee note, judiciously kept ready, handed over subtly when you leave the hotel in the morning for work or sightseeing. It will earn you an Extra-Flourish when you come back to the hotel in the evening.

And if you want to do that very touristy thing - ask the Type 1 Doorman to pose for a photo - then please be ready to pay a crisp 100-rupee note. Anything less than that is, er, shoddy. Payment is logically made after the photo is clicked, with a pleasant thank you. Women can get away with Payment By Giggle, but honestly? Doorman Type 1 prefers cash.

And what of the Type 2 Doorman? The Type 2 Doorman, like Aesop's fable of the Town and the Country Mouse, is the poor cousin of Type 1. Found at less plush hotels, Type 2 still rush about opening and closing doors, but alas, they lack both the moustache and the turban. The Type 2 Doorman, horror of horrors, is the Doorman with the Faded Uniform And The Whistle.

Type Two has perfected the Art of The Whistle as Weapon. Unerringly and shrilly, the Whistle summons cars, stops incoming traffic, and lets you exit the hotel in a grand if noisy style.

The Tipping Guide recommends 20 rupees, handed over before you get into the car. Your reward? Frenetic whistling and much rushing about to block traffic in person, so that your car can sail forth undisputed like the Queen Mary.

'Dance in the wind'

The Tamil word for windwheels - those pretty colourful paper fans you see at the beach - is kaathaadi. Kaathu, meaning breeze, and Aadi, meaning dance. Literally, that which dances in the wind.

I was walking along Chowpatty beach, when I spotted the windwheel stand. They were selling bright dancing windwheels, colourful balloons, and all sorts of other shiny things.

Two women sat in the sand nearby, making windwheels.

When they finished some wheels, one of them would go stick them on their sales stand.

These were the tools of their trade:

• Frayed straw mat to sit on, so the sand doesn't get into everything
• A steel plate, in which they ate their lunch, and which doubled up as their work platform
• A steel box, in which they brought the lunch, which doubled up as platform 2
• Two tiny boxes of gum
• A plastic cup, to draw circles
• Small pair of scissors
• Lots of coloured paper
• Nimble fingers
• Sharp eyes - to watch for the police or the municipal van!