The Mumbai Mask

In the quest for my uncle's definition of "real Tandoori Chicken" the two of us went to a locality that can lay some claim some to elevating this popular dish to dizzying Gastronomical heights. He chose to make the trip via auto rickshaw--- a rickety mechanical contraption that can maneuver along the tightest of spaces with remarkable agility.... in spite of its clunky appearance.



To know what Mumbai is like you need to spend a day just walking around certain areas without any expectations ... Forget about the 5 star hotels and the India gate attractions regularly advertised in the travel brochures. All you have to do is go out looking without really looking.



As the humidity made its presence known by the sweat running down my chest.... I took a moment to take Mumbai in all its raw vulgarity and beauty. Ordered Chaos is the best way to describe the scene….Several times I could have sworn that



a) I was going to get hit by the numerous automobiles in the clogged and congested roads

b) Have my head gashed by a passing truck whose load of pipes came a little too close to the rickshaw or

c) Become a victim of our own rickshaw drivers' split second decisions to make quick turns sans a signal!

Compared to the traffic I know in the States, I would no doubt term my trip as consisting of more than one near close encounter… however based on what I know of Mumbai I knew this was an everyday thing and no big deal.



The teeming millions that live in this city converge to form a single entity that pulses and throbs in spite of the enormous differences in Religion, Caste, Color, Sex and even nationality! We got down in the 'Sindhi Camp' a huge area consisting of a sprawl of shops that sell EVERYTHING. And I'm not just saying that… from Fresh Roasted spicy Corn on the Cob to the latest model of Nokia phone's, you name it and there is someone selling it. 'Sindhi Camp' is so named as it had its roots as a refugee camp during the Partition of India in 1947 and was settled down predominantly by Sindhi's… a community that is known for producing sharp business folk. The result of their settlement was this limb of the urban medusa that is Mumbai; An area consisting of hundreds of shops of varying sizes and condition; elegant marble floors and spotless glass doors sharing space with cramped narrow lanes and run down walls.



As we cut through the crowds I followed my uncle to this fabled Tandoor place, I looked around at the people that went by me and those 15 mins gave me a refresher course on the people that make Mumbai…'Mumbai' . Skin colors that ranged from the Charcoal Black to Creamy pink, Clothes that ranged from rags to Denims and Tommy Hilfiger, Languages ….. So many languages and dialects… Predominantly Hindi and Marathi followed by English, Tamil, Malayalam etc. Women who wore Denim coupled with Belly Baring Halter tops sharing walking space with Women from poorer sections of society who wear their Sari "Fisherwoman Style" (a fold of the sari is wrapped between their thighsto convert the 'skirt' portion of the Sari into pant legs) hence allowing for freedom of movement and even some women sporting a Burqa. Exquisite women with model looks and an amazing sense of dress and poise maintaining their composure and preserving their expensive shoes by instinctively stepping around random scraps of rubbish and muck and if needed haggling like seasoned Grandmothers with vegetable vendors, Young men driving bikes with remarkable ease while zigzagging between cars, rickshaws, buses, Cows, people and always within a hairbreadth of hitting something or someone. Suddenly I feel a weird energy in the air…. Probably caused by the sudden change in pace of sections of the hordes. Some stopping, some running…. Then, a piercing whistle followed by many others shatters the air and changes the momentum of Sindhi Market. Unlicensed Street Hawkers, in practiced swoops, gather their wares and make attempts (some unsuccessful) to dodge Mumbai's finest as they in turn swoop in to arrest those who do not possess the necessary paperwork. It was like watching a net close down as several khaki-colored plain clothes men appeared out of nowhere to catch those hawkers who could not afford a license. In spite of the excitement generated I saw many passerbies keep moving as if this was nothing new. All the signs on the shops were in English … ALL of THEM, albeit with gross misspellings.



Finally we found the place , there was no visible sign; But the luscious aromas of the tandoori masala and the sight of 5 skinned and skewered chicken, red with the masala marinade , displayed on the front stall of the restaurant like Victoria's secret mannequins to hint at better things inside told us we were at our destination. As a self declared connoisseur of Tandoori chicken, having tasted it all over the globe, something told me even before I had consumed one that this was something special! The shabbiness of the restaurant and the dismal settings contrasted heavily with the care and method with which the cook (clad only in a vest and pajama) prepared the chicken and proceeded to send it into the specialized Tandoor grill, where it roasted. Many people, with the characteristic impatience of mumbaikaars (residents of Mumbai), barged into the already crowded restaurant and howled loud about the misery that Mother time had imposed on their schedules and how only some of the shop's tandoori chicken would ease their suffering. The cook politely but firmly refused even the most dire of threats, responding only with a "Chicken Theek Nahi Hain" (The chickens not right); Only when he was satisfied that the chicken had transformed into a red, tender piece of flesh that would melt in the mouth would he wrap them into foil and make sure that the customers get what they paid for. We were privy to such service.



As we left to take a shortcut through a gigantic overpass in construction and call a rickshaw home. I took in the scene under the overpass. One of the things that certainly are IN YOUR FACE in Mumbai is the abject poverty that is a part of its legend: Flashes of women in ragged clothes clutching their babies, skinny filthy men sleeping on the footpath oblivious to the teeming thousands that stepped around or over them, naked babies crawling around in places that no infant should. A portion of the slums suddenly crept over us as we dodged a passing jeep and we entered another world. As I peered through the ramshackle accommodations that made up the mini slum, I saw entire families crouched under a roof that was made up of scrap sheets of tin and set in place with wooden sticks, They were no bigger than my bathroom in my apartment in Florida and were enveloped with dirty tarps to keep the rains away and offer some vestige of privacy, Nevertheless, as I expected, I saw the resident of many such places intently watching a cricket match on a shiny 21 inch TV (Mumbaikaars take their entertainment seriously!)



However, things turned darker as we boarded the rickshaw to go home. We were caught in traffic where many poor children of ages ranging from 3-7 proceeded to go from vehicle to vehicle clutching infants and begging. My uncle, a mumbaikaar for life, shook his head at each of the 8 that approached us.



There were no expressions on their faces, they would come and look at us and extend a hand out, some of the kids with faces like angels and bright shiny eyes full of hunger of varying types but also a eerie resignation to their condition, their faces covered with mud and grime and their clothes dusty and in tatters. Nevertheless, as I followed my uncle's example in refusing them alms, they silently moved on to the next vehicle without much begging, mechanically looking for the next contribution that might either help feed a couple of extra mouths or contribute to nefarious objectives.



I knew my uncle was not selfish in his refusal. He sees this everyday of his life and he is resigned to the fact that the small donations here will not make the problem go away. He knows that the money might be used to feed families or assist the drinking or whoring habits of the child's custodians. It took me many trips to Mumbai and greater levels of maturity to see this perspective as I've seen my dad give out loose change to the kids at one time and refuse others whose plight would serve to ruin my day out.



As we got back to the comfortable surroundings of my Mumbai home I notice the shiny texture of my face and that of my uncles, looking around I see everyone has that same shininess (even the women glow with a weird sheen enveloping their bodies). The sweat, grime, smoke combine to create a mask that everyone carries with them when they venture out of the streets of Mumbai. I saw a Caucasian lady with her 5 year old kid, maneuvering around the crowds with a practiced ease and light step, she was no doubt a more ingrained part of Mumbai than I was by the way she casually walked forward with the child oblivious to the distractions posed by raw sights and sounds of the Monster that is Mumbai.



I scrubbed the 'mumbai mask' off with some of my Grandmothers 'Lux Beauty soap' at home. And as I look in the bathroom mirror at my skin, raw from the scrub, and smell the aromas of the food we collected being set on the dining table; I can't help but wonder if that mask is part of a bigger cover, something that keeps people going 'in the financial hub' of India. For I know when I bit into that piece of chicken that was responsible for the quest, the blank faces of those 8 children and their Silent pleas for alms tethered on the edge of my mind and almost made me ruin something I was looking forward to experiencing with my family.



Maybe that mask is symbolic of Mumbai's way of protecting us against its Medusa like nature but with a twist, turning us into stone to prevent our minds from being overwhelmed as we look deep into her eyes and witness the despair that human beings can be subject to. Each of us have our own shares of problems and responsibilities, we also have callings or missions in life that we consciously and unconsciously seek out. Some of us find it while many others don't. Some of us are young and are going through a 'boot camp for life' by working on getting our personal lives in order and thus preparing us for the harsher trials and tribulations that we will face when we identify and take up our roles in making the world a better place. As Abraham Maslow states in his "Hierarchy of needs" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow%27s_hierarchy_of_needs, the self actualizing person transcends all the basic levels of shelter, hunger, love, sex, attention and affection when he has satisfied each of those needs or delegated them to levels where they are not worthy of his effort.



We can't help bring out change in the world if we can't bring out change in ourselves if needed.