AT
THE CRICKET CLUB WITH SWAMIJI RAMON
DAY ONE
So, here I am in India, for the first time.
I am met at the Mumbai (a.k.a. Bombay) airport by R., a friend of a friend. In her 30s, R. is a poet and real estate maven. She bundles me into her waiting 4x4 and tells the driver to take us home. I learn the useful skill of keeping my eyes shut in Indian traffic. Incredibly, the seemingly inevitable crash never comes.
R.'s apartment is on the fashionable Marine Drive, across the street from the bay, in a building she owns with her sister. The building, like many in the area, is a delight of mildly-frayed art deco splendor. The sister, M., is a freelance nuclear physicist who usually works from home.
I am introduced to the boss of the house, a small dog called Trix. He seems to approve and I am allowed in. The cook has prepared pizza for me in case I don't like Indian food. I eat the pizza. And the Indian food. I try to watch some tv but all that is on is Leno, Are You Being Served and an Indian movie that is not a musical.
I go to sleep to the sound of explosions. Seems the whole city is gearing up to celebrate diwali, the "festival of lights" (and sweets and firecrackers). The blasts are driving the dog crazy.
DAY TWO
M. entertains me with stories of her university days in the United States. She used to go around telling the yanks that she would ride tigers at home in India, much the same way I would tell them I lived in an igloo. Nothing like bonding over American ignorance.
After a bit of shopping (Indian cosmetics are the best), the sisters and I head to the nearby Cricket Club of India (CCI), an elite private club, leftover from colonial days. Now the membership is pretty much all Indian and very exclusive. The waiting list is over a decade long. Members get around the 'same guest only four times per month' rule by singing their friends in as Mahatma Gandhi or Michael Jackson.
We sit in wicker chairs on the expansive green lawns and sip fresh-squeezed sweet lime juice. It would be an oasis of calm if it was not for the incessant fireworks. We chat about 'realized souls'. Such as the man who used to live in a cave near Mumbai who had a "tremendous temper". He would throw stones at visitors.
R. and M. have an abiding interest in the spiritual. R. writes for a New Age magazine and runs various workshops from a room in her building. They are open minded, but not vapid.
It is just that it is in their blood. They tell me their great-uncle was a saint who lived under a tree. Locals would sustain and visit him. Finally the locals said: "we know you don't care that you live under a tree, but we are the ones who have to visit you so we are going to built a hut around you." Gradually, the hut got bigger and bigger until, finally, it became an ashram. It is still there.
We return home to find Trix barking at the fireworks.
DAY THREE
Trix is going increasingly nuts. This holiday seems to be lasting forever.
R. taught her Tarot class this morning in the workshop room downstairs. This afternoon is karate. She will start the visualization courses next week. I go for a walk with Trix. On the way, I see more of India.
Around the corner from the high-tech offices of downtown Mumbai, a young man sits on a stool in front of a rickety table. On it is a sheaf of carbon paper and an early 1970s cream-coloured portable typewriter. Behind him a cardboard sign declares "Typing Service".
The streets are incredibly loud. Everyone honks. Not in anger, just to say "I am here".
There is a large goat chomping on the branches of a sidewalk tree. Trix ignores him.
And for the thirsty, there are sidewalk stands that mulch up fresh sugar canes by passing them through a Rube Goldberg-esque machine, producing glasses of pure energy.
On the way home, I met the neighbours and their mistrained Irish setter. The dog head-butts me.
The fireworks are getting to me too, I can't sleep. On the plus side, boxes of diwali sweets have started to arrive at the house.
DAY FOUR
At dusk, I retreat to the relative calm of the CCI with R.. While there, where we meet some of her pals for afternoon drinks.
My favourite is Swamiji Ramon. I had met him briefly at the karate workshop. He is very sweet. He tells me all swamijis are bearded because it saves "the battle with the razor". He and R. talk comparative sanskrit for a while but really get excited when they start discussing the new punching bag for the karate class.
Swamiji Ramon has problems remembering my name until he makes the logical link: "oh, as in Carry On Cleo!". The British have a lot to answer for.
We sit on lawn, eat diwali sweets, and watch sky change colours.
DAY FIVE
M. And I celebrate the last day of diwali with some shopping. Bought a couple of knock-off Pradas for $20. And some more cosmetics.
We get back in time for the karate class. But the students (all close friends of R. And M.) decide to take the night off katas and head out for dinner together instead. We have good Indian food, all green and brown and mushy, with tasty garlic nan. A cacophony of flavours. I am still learning to distinguish the individual notes.
Two of the karate students are engineers from the Indian Navy. I give one the umbrella from my fruit punch and he asks me to sign it. The Navy boys are not supposed to talk to foreigners and, while they will not talk about their postings, they sure knew a lot about Canada. One even asks me detailed questions about the situation in Quebec.
After that we head up to the roof of M. And R.'s building to watch the final fireworks blow-out. The sky explodes into fountains, shrieking banshees, tasmanian devil balls, and tinsel showers. Most of the fireworks are aimed out to the bay but some are aimed right at the buildings.
As the lights detonate overhead and Trix is tormented by invisible demons, the men in the group start to chat about their romantic prospects. Based on the matrimonial column of the paper, it is decided that J., a diplomat, could do well, seeing as how he already has a green card. He would be listed under that coveted heading: 'cosmopolitan'.
J. then recommends that K., one of the charming Navy boys, tries the internet for a wife. The marriage talk inevitably leads a discussion about hair. J. Decides he has too little but thinks that maybe K., should try a mustache (a "mush"). A., another friend, is concerned because he has a bald spot on the right side of his mush and he wants to know why.
I look down on the people celebrating in the street below. I constantly imagine saris on fire but it is only people holding sparklers.
I am actually sick of sweets. Any more diwali candy and I think I will be sick. Though I prefer the peanut brittle to the marzipan.
At 2am the karate gang goes home. The firecrackers are still going strong. Neither Trix or I sleep.
DAY SIX
R. takes me to the airport. I still keep my eyes shut but now R. knows me well enough to laugh at me. I will miss the smart, funny, generous karate gang, the CCI, even Trix. Just before I pass through security, R. tries to pawn off a box of diwali sweet on me. It is peanut brittle. I take it. With thanks.
