Down memory lane
It is glorious to be back home in India. It has been two years since I was last here, & there's so much that has changed, & yet so much that is as it was.
The long flight from the US to Mumbai is torturous; thankfully there weren't too many loud adults or bawling babies in my vicinity. We finally land in Mumbai around midnight; I totter out to the baggage area, all stiff from sitting in a cramped space too long, & also from sleep & fatigue. Unlike in the US where nothing comes free, including the baggage trolleys, airports in India offer free use of these: I grab one , find a spot near the conveyor belt, & await my baggage. The belt moves into action, & everyone now has their eyes trained on it; after all, baggage comes in only so many shapes & colors, & would be very easy to miss. A couple of bags roll down the belt, & then nothing. For the next 15 minutes, tired & impatient passengers grumble at this holdup, but as with a lot of things in India, waiting it out is the best solution, in this case, was the only solution, as there really were no airline officials to answer our questions. My suitcase arrives, & I dash down the green customs line. I never cease to be amazed at the volumes of baggage people carry with them, even lone passengers. After all what could they be carrying, especially now that India has every global brand available!
It had been agreed that I'd meet my cousin's driver as I stepped out of the airport. I have ostensibly seen this driver on a previous visit, but I was certain I wouldn't recognize him; the sign he'd be carrying with my name would help, so I wasn't too concerned on this point. But the sight that greets me has me bewildered: there are at least four dozen tightly packed signs out there, planted in the hands of equally strange looking faces. I try to take in each sign as I am forced to keep moving by the flow of people behind me. I do not see my man. I check with a helpful policeman if there is a public phone booth near-abouts, & to my great relief, there was one right behind the arrivals area. This booth was manned by a blind man ( a government-aided scheme to provide self-employment to the blind & handicapped) who informs me that the call will cost two rupees ( less than five US cents!!). I am a little hesitant to wake my cousin at 1 in the morning, but heck, she is expecting me, & I desperately needed to find her driver. I get through to her, & she informs me that a car has indeed been sent for me, & I should look carefully at the signs. I joyfully return to the line of bobbing signs, secure in the knowledge that I have not after all been forsaken in the middle of the night. Mumbai is the city of my birth & early childhood, but finding my way around at this unearthly hour was not something I relished. Anyhow, my cousin's Man Friday is indeed there, & we make our way to the packed parking lot. I am amused that three people have come to take me home, & while one of these goes looking for the car & driver amidst the chaos, the other wheels my luggage through. Cell-phones are ubiquitous here, & help locate the missing driver. Finally the car swoops in by our side, everyone gets in swiftly, & we speed off into the night ( this experience reminds me so much of Hindi movie scenes where a screeching getaway car whooshes in to take in the hoodlums after a crime).
We pass by quiet, relatively empty streets, magnificent & brilliantly lit hotels, hovels & makeshift homes by the roadside, & several people sleeping under the flyovers of the city. We finally arrive at our destination, my uncle & cousin's home. It was a very pleasant reunion, making allowances for the unearthly hour; we were meeting after a gap of several years, & seeing them was a throwback to my college days in Mumbai; I was living at this very same uncle's home in those days. Finally we make our way to bed, after all tomorrow was going to be a busy day!
The long flight from the US to Mumbai is torturous; thankfully there weren't too many loud adults or bawling babies in my vicinity. We finally land in Mumbai around midnight; I totter out to the baggage area, all stiff from sitting in a cramped space too long, & also from sleep & fatigue. Unlike in the US where nothing comes free, including the baggage trolleys, airports in India offer free use of these: I grab one , find a spot near the conveyor belt, & await my baggage. The belt moves into action, & everyone now has their eyes trained on it; after all, baggage comes in only so many shapes & colors, & would be very easy to miss. A couple of bags roll down the belt, & then nothing. For the next 15 minutes, tired & impatient passengers grumble at this holdup, but as with a lot of things in India, waiting it out is the best solution, in this case, was the only solution, as there really were no airline officials to answer our questions. My suitcase arrives, & I dash down the green customs line. I never cease to be amazed at the volumes of baggage people carry with them, even lone passengers. After all what could they be carrying, especially now that India has every global brand available!
It had been agreed that I'd meet my cousin's driver as I stepped out of the airport. I have ostensibly seen this driver on a previous visit, but I was certain I wouldn't recognize him; the sign he'd be carrying with my name would help, so I wasn't too concerned on this point. But the sight that greets me has me bewildered: there are at least four dozen tightly packed signs out there, planted in the hands of equally strange looking faces. I try to take in each sign as I am forced to keep moving by the flow of people behind me. I do not see my man. I check with a helpful policeman if there is a public phone booth near-abouts, & to my great relief, there was one right behind the arrivals area. This booth was manned by a blind man ( a government-aided scheme to provide self-employment to the blind & handicapped) who informs me that the call will cost two rupees ( less than five US cents!!). I am a little hesitant to wake my cousin at 1 in the morning, but heck, she is expecting me, & I desperately needed to find her driver. I get through to her, & she informs me that a car has indeed been sent for me, & I should look carefully at the signs. I joyfully return to the line of bobbing signs, secure in the knowledge that I have not after all been forsaken in the middle of the night. Mumbai is the city of my birth & early childhood, but finding my way around at this unearthly hour was not something I relished. Anyhow, my cousin's Man Friday is indeed there, & we make our way to the packed parking lot. I am amused that three people have come to take me home, & while one of these goes looking for the car & driver amidst the chaos, the other wheels my luggage through. Cell-phones are ubiquitous here, & help locate the missing driver. Finally the car swoops in by our side, everyone gets in swiftly, & we speed off into the night ( this experience reminds me so much of Hindi movie scenes where a screeching getaway car whooshes in to take in the hoodlums after a crime).
We pass by quiet, relatively empty streets, magnificent & brilliantly lit hotels, hovels & makeshift homes by the roadside, & several people sleeping under the flyovers of the city. We finally arrive at our destination, my uncle & cousin's home. It was a very pleasant reunion, making allowances for the unearthly hour; we were meeting after a gap of several years, & seeing them was a throwback to my college days in Mumbai; I was living at this very same uncle's home in those days. Finally we make our way to bed, after all tomorrow was going to be a busy day!
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