Fauxliage - Vibing

That "Truman" feeling came over me again today, as I had a cuppa chai in Ambirka Chowk with a friend from UP. The junction wound down slowly; the dogs were out and the kiosks were closing up - even traffic seemed a little less chaotic than when I had been there earlier.
As I contemplate how my life must be part of some divine comedy, I recall Rajaram's words: "After all, God's create the universe for our enjoyment, right?"
Scarves and saris flutter in the distance, a bright orange turban leads a flock of goats across the road, safely to their death; a world waiting for the monsoon languishes in the heat of expectation and daily disappointment.
"Very filmy, yaar, what you are saying is from the heart".
Indeed.

Sitting in a cosy tavern sipping sweet tea out of a little plastic cup, we chatted about L, about how I had *ahem* loved (yes, I said it) her since the first time I saw here, 9 years ago. This is accutely different from the sort of love that I fall into ±5 times a day in Cape Town.

Is it too late? Are our lives taking us further and further away from each other as I struggle with my disillusionment with relationships? Or am I in love with the idea of her; am I in love with what she represents rather than her as a person?

Whatever the case maybe, these remote wanderings are futile. The opportunity has past; the romantic must be buried.

We went to the GMRT in Khodad a few weeks ago; during a downpour that was more a cameo than a beginning - the rains drenched the roads and the unsuspecting masses and one could almost feel a sense of muted, restrained joy.

The joy was shortlived, however, as the clouds receded into the distance, bringing back the heat, the antithesis of growth in this crowded place. The sprouts broke through only to lilt, slowly and with a sense of uncertain hope.

The rains are late, almost a month late; the foreigners stand around with their umbrellas waiting patiently for the end of an uncomfortable summer.

We make our way to Khodad; I sleep for some of it, but am taking in the sights, careful not to stick my head too far out the window lest it be knocked off by a good's carrier.

It almost seems as if the earth is reaching her hands up to the sky; you can see it as the blue turns into a mucky orange, you can smell mud and newness.

Even now, 3 weeks later, we await the monsoons, we await newness and reinvention. A girl here told me about how they get drenched during the first rains (ceremoniously or unceremoniously, you never know in India); I imagine that its quite difficult if its spluttering out like this.

Mumbai Blues 1 - Parihar to Dadar

Its been a week since my stay in Mumbai; armed only with a clean-shave and a mono-brow I had braved the chaos of Pune's Parihar Chowk (looking for Greyhound), the Deccan highlands navigated by a cng cowboy and the thick, belching smog of Mumbai's city limits' traffic to meet my friend Rohan, a fellow from the wars at Wits.

Okay, maybe it wasn't as bad as I make it sound:
After a slight scuffle between the Greyhound conductor and a mysterious champled side-pathed short-pantsed gentleman, I found myself sitting pretty in a cab with 3 other fresh-faced professionals (computer programmers, of course) bound for the Dadar train/bus/taxi station in downtown Mumbai.

I spent the ride from Pune to Mumbai in a light sleep, broken only by the intermittent screech of tyres and frantic hooting (the car had only been dinged once the whole trip).

Being a classic feringhee I can admit (with no shade of guilt whatsoever) that I was a little apprehensive about the trip: I was actually more than a little anxious about the city that loomed in front of me, 2.5 hours later. With the scars of 26/11 still fresh, my Mum's panicked worry about the regional unrest and my Spanish roommates grim comment ("You are bery brave"), I was unsure about what to expect.

Here I was, brown enough to be taken for a local at first sight, with a skin-deep heritage that crumbles easily under hindi interrogation, almost ready to yield up my personal effects to anyone who would ask, stuck in one way traffic surrounded by an odd neighbourhood in which slummy, derelict flats rub shoulders with clean, sparkly commercial headquarters.

This is my first image of Mumbai and, indeed, the most stark image that I have of India; a place of contradiction in which the modern wealth of a burgeoning economy sits juxtaposed with a busy reality of life ancient - poverty and progress in the same bed.

As our zero-emission jalopy descended into the depths of the city (I didn't even notice us moving; its seemed as if we had reached the chowk by osmosis) I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I spied the large, unmistakable frame of my buddy Rohan and I realized that I wasn't alone at all, and that all my previous misconceptions were about to be dismantled.