7:47 AM, Tuesday, April 11, 2023 – MUMBAI

A man about 150-feet away from where I’m typing this is shouting something. It’s repetitive and in a semi-joyful tone He’s selling something but my non-Hindi-speaking ears can’t determine what – and I can’t see him from this corner of the balcony. I’ve been up for three hours, having gone to bed at 2:30 AM, that’s not a ton of rest. This, after leaving Austin, TX Saturday and arriving in Amsterdam, then Delhi, then here in Mumbai. I slept perhaps a total of 3.5 hours from getting up Saturday morning to a nap yesterday afternoon. Hence this running, stream of consciousness paragraph I’ll delete later. 

The star of the show so far, in a bad way, was my cab driver from the Mumbai airport to my AirBnB home for the week. Getting a ride from the Mumbai airport is quite an ordeal, it was for me at least. I’d read on my trusty Trip Advisor that the best bet is using the inside-the-airport pre-paid taxi kiosk. Already convincing myself Uber was working just fine, but not knowing where the pickup area was, I skipped this advice. 

That was a mistake. I was nearly kidnapped. More on that later. 

Okay, it’s later…

If someone was sitting nearby in any number of bars or living rooms dotting the U.S. for the past 20 years, they would have overheard me talking about India. A place I’d never been. Saying how filthy it (probably) was and how contaminated the food (probably) is and how mean Indians must be. Like a lot people with their mouths open, I wasn’t saying anything. 

My only second-hand knowledge of the country – meaning, speaking with someone who had actually been there – came from many friends and coworkers in the tech industry who’d been to Bangalore. Each with his or her own woeful tale of Delhi Belly and having their own, personal corporate-appointed sycophant showing them the most Americanized parts of town. They had all spent the majority of their time in meetings, having clean food brought in and were all taken to American or not-so-genuine Indian restaurants and bars after work. Not the best resource. 

I waited too long to get tickets to Tokyo and missed the cherry blossoms and a chance run-in with an old friend due to some client work. By the time I started looking again, the tickets had doubled. I thought, why not go the other way and hit all of Asia? After a bit of research, the cost would be the same if I traveled from Europe to India and beyond as if I spent a couple months in Japan. 

Off we went, from Austin to Amsterdam – a very nice direct flight. Then on to New Delhi, over the Black Sea, Iran and Afghanistan. We landed sideways in the heavy winds and everyone attempted to exit at once. Now the journey really began. Like most international airports, you exit the plane then walk a few miles down random hallways, up stairs, down stairs, on conveyed walkways then abruptly enter the Passport zone. 

I’d filled out the paperwork on the plane, letting them know I hadn’t brought a live penguin or kilo of cocaine in my bags, so that was behind me. A lot of other people, those harming others to exit the plane, had not taken the time to fill out their paperwork, giving me a slight feeling of redemption and vengeance. 

I’d noticed something in other airports, Frankfurt, Rome, Chicago – Indian people, especially men, if they’re directly behind you, they stand so close you can feel their breath. I often turn around and stand facing them until they get the hint. They never get the hint. If the person behind them isn’t an Indian man, I let them get in front of me. This confuses them initially but they quickly adjust and start humping whomever was in front of me instead. 

The lines in Delhi were no different. 

Very aggressive cabbies, porters and everything in between waited outside the doors of the international terminal and several of these fellas followed me all the way to the domestic terminal. One sat outside with me, telling me a little bit about the capital. And of course, how he could hook me up with discounts on tours and the like. 

I wrote his number down, promising I’d chat on WhatsApp if I returned to Delhi – he then suggested I enter it in front of him and call him so he could have mine. I said “maybe later” then stood and walked away in as friendly a manner as I could muster at 3 AM on a Monday. My first interaction with an Indian person outside the airport proved that they’re relentless but hardly mean. 

The flight to Mumbai promised to be fast and the view was pretty, with the sun breaking out over mountains I didn’t know existed. The people around me broke out their various snacks as the flight attendants passed out tiny cups of water. Most of the plane was chatting loudly, about what? I had no idea. One of my joys when traveling is I usually don’t know what people are talking about. Are they complaining about politicians, taxes or school lunch programs? I don’t know. It’s fun to pretend they’re reciting poems or rap lyrics. 

I once pretended a group of nuns in Paris was recreating the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs. 

 I’d been told to buy a taxi voucher at the counter in the airport, which I was just now noticing as I exited the doors I wouldn’t be able to re-enter. It was Houston in August hot, with a bright sun and a lot more people. 

Men in sports coats stood patiently in a line a hundred feet long, each holding a sign, presumably spelling out someone’s name in Hindi and sometimes English. Knowing none were there for me, I walked directly toward the Uber sign, the arrow pointed up in the air. I had to assume this meant straight ahead. And once again made an ass out of me and me. The one Uber sign, something a person in the States might have printed at Kinko’s for a daughter’s graduation, about the size of your average yard sale sign, would have you believe the pick up point was across a field behind a 12-foot fence. 

In reality, a term I’ll forever use loosely when referring to India, the Uber pick up spot was to the right of the sign, through a parking garage, down two floors and through a small doorway. At least it was air conditioned. Though I’d informed the good people at Wells Fargo of my journey, the card didn’t seem to be functioning, so I tried the paypal function. That didn’t work either. The ladies at the counter informed me India has a CASH option, you can order your Uber and pay with cash. That didn’t work either so I determined the cause of the problem was likely what it almost always is, user error. 

I would have had a pretty wonderful life had I been born in 1930, too young for WWII, too old for Vietnam and it wouldn’t be so odd that I can’t work smartphones or computers. But society demands that I have to, so society has to put up with texts that contain the word “ducking” and emails sent without attachments. 

Back upstairs I went, on the elevator this time. Not remembering which damn floor I started on and the floors not clearly marked on the button panel, I took one second too long to decide and a family of six with their entire home in trunks and old school suitcases crammed in and decided for me. They got off, seemed to argue that they’d chosen the wrong floor and I pressed a button and let them have at it. The doors closed, the lights went out and the elevator stopped. Stop, stopped. Scary movie stopped. 

I’m claustrophobic, a LOT. But there was no reason to panic, surely just a hiccup, there couldn’t be an actual power outage at an airport. Two minutes went by and the elevator started to absorb the Sun’s heat. No bars on the phone. Five minutes, now it was getting pretty uncomfortable. I started searching for the emergency phone or button that didn’t exist. Not panicking yet but I could feel the match getting closer to the fuse. The lights flickered on, the elevator moved about three feet upward and the doors opened halfway – revealing two feet of upper internal elevator wall and a nice two foot drop to freedom below. 

While making the decision to jump then get luggage or toss it off then jump, the elevator adjusted, with the doors open, and me on it. It was less than enjoyable. I gave it a couple of seconds to see whether or not it would make up its mind then quickly departed. 

A young gentleman manning the outdoor taxi voucher stand giggled after I showed him where I needed to go. This wasn’t encouraging. He showed it to his partner, she shrugged, they brought over a thuggish, very tired looking man, he shrugged. Then he, tired guy, grabbed my bag and put it in his passenger seat. I handed him the voucher I’d just been given, climbed in the back and off we went. But not before stopping to show my phone with the address pulled up to a fourth person, an older man who looked like he’d received divorce papers from a woman he loved only moments earlier but somehow had time to get drunk. He also shrugged. 

Our tour of the entire city on surface roads began just south of the airport. Bob (tired guy), I’m going to call him Bob, drove us through the most crowded streets imaginable. Times Square-New Years Eve crowded. But with cars, trucks, mules, scooters, motorcycles, rickshaws, bikes, pedestrians, guys pushing carts of all shapes and sizes, thrown in for fun. Everyone was going in every conceivable direction. All 360 of our known degrees were being utilized. 

Judging by where we were supposed to be headed and where we were actually headed, I determined Bob had no idea where he was going. I tried to show him my phone again but he instead pulled over in a darkened alley, dialed his phone and handed it to me. A person on the other end was saying “Hello?” English, that was a good sign. I said ‘hello’ back then told the unidentified man I had no idea why I was handed the phone. Bob took it back, yammered something with vicious speed into it then handed it back. 

It was too fascinating to be worried about germs like I normally would so I again said ‘hello’ and the unidentified man, we’ll call him Keith, told me that Bob would drive me to his hotel since I didn’t have a place to stay. I used my phone to call my AirBnB host, who – thank Vishnu – answered and told him what was going on. He asked that I hand my phone to Bob. 

My man Nrupen (AirBnB host) chewed his ass up and down for about a minute. Bob and I exchanged phones, he put the car in drive and we continued the journey. Bob tone had changed from hostile to whoped pup. Back on my phone, Nrupen explained that threatening to report a cab driver is a pretty big deal and that he had done so. Now we were on the highway, making good time and going in the proper direction. Bob pulled over, didn’t help with the bags and had the balls to ask me for a tip. 

Nrupen’s profile had an identifiable wine shop in one of the photos of the entrance to his place so I stood outside it and called him. He then shouted at me from a window across the street and – back on the phone – told me to stay there. He’d send over his servant to collect my things and walk me to the flat. I’m not normally a “send your man over to fetch my bags” kind of guy, so this was luxurious and I blushed at the fuss but went along with it. 

Here he came, Amit, all 90 lbs of him packed into a 5-foot frame, no shoes, all smiles. He put my large bag on his head and walked back from whence he came. I tried to point out the wheels on it but he was already there. We ducked into a large entryway with a small statue of Ganesha holding a lit candle in his lap. Amit did something with his left hand toward the statue I didn’t quite catch and pointed me toward the elevator then bolted up three flights of stairs. 

Once out of the tiny, tiny, tiny elevator – the kind that give me nightmares – we were there, at Nrupen’s outstanding three bedroom flat with multiple bathrooms, a laundry room, AC, carpets, a breakfast room – all the bells and whistles. It wasn’t the Four Seasons but from what I’d heard of India, this was impressive and not at all what I was anticipating. Then again, I’ve never stayed at a Four Seasons.

He was the consummate host, hooking me up with an ice water and coffee, then showing me around in a relaxed manner. It was explained that, if I chose to take a much-needed nap, I could then shower and we would have some refreshments, head down to the southern tip of the island where we would see a classical music concert and adjourn for more refreshments on a terrace overlooking the bay then have a nice meal. 

Sounded great. 

I’d been on three planes for a total of 21 hours and a nap, shower and icy cocktail were just what Dr. Nrupen ordered. 

Feeling rested and fresh, we had a great getting-to-know-you session over drinks and took off toward Nrupen’s car. Why anyone would choose to drive in India is beyond me. He told me the story of his parking spots in the neighborhood. The side street on which  he usually ends up parking his Tata (Indian made car) is patrolled by a stray/not stray dog he’s afraid of because it chased and bit him once. He didn’t want to call the authorities on it because they’d kill it and he didn’t want that. So, he just lives with it. 

He went on to explain that he understands what kind of treatment and neglect the dog must have experienced to behave in such a way – and I liked Nrupen even more. Though, I personally think it’s okay to throw things or even kick a dog that’s charging you or a loved one. I’ll argue with you about that. 

We found the car (sometimes he forgets) and boarded the tiny Tata and off we went into the screaming, David Lynch insanity that are the streets of Mumbai. On the way to the National Centre for Performing Arts, Nrupen threw out cool facts, (pointed at) points of interest and filled in blanks and answered any questions I had. “Why do y’all have lines on the street if no one pays any particular attention to them?” “Why do you have stop lights and turn lights if no one pays…” 

He explained that, like anywhere else, not everyone is smart. Great answer. Sad, true, but great.

We were to meet his old and good friend Koshan at the NCPA, and – being a stickler for the rules – Nrupen was a little, humorously, agitated that “Koshie” wasn’t yet there. I would find over the course of the week to come, most things frustrated Nrupen and it was fun to watch him get agitated then eloquently, confidently and swiftly berate the violator(s). 

He took this extra time to explain a little more about what we were there to see and give me a bit of history about the venue. It’s where some of the greatest in the world played, it’s where they premiered movies, where Pavaoratti once performed (that’s really all you have to tell me if you’re telling me things) and tonight we would be enjoying a pianist and violist who had selected works by female Holocaust survivors and some who did not survive. Powerful. 

In total, the piece was titled Ariela (Lioness of God). It was extraordinary and was attended by some very (evidently) important people – and one hooker who answered a phone call during a particularly emotional part of the performance. Everyone in the room brow-beat this woman, Nrupen rolled his eyes and whispered “India” in my ear. 

Nrupen went on after the recital to explain that “Ariela” is a sculpture by Spanish (NYC resident) Manolo Valdes – and he thought it was magnificent that they were celebrating these women while weaving in such a powerful feminine sculpture. Nrupen’s English is exquisite, MUCH better than mine. He was classically trained in the boarding schools of India and England. 

It was time to hustle up the lagging Koshie, who sat six rows behind us so I could have the front row seat – very nice of him – and get some beverages. 

We drove less than a mile to a hotel with a terrace bar facing the bay and the Gateway of India, near the Taj Palace Hotel – a national symbol of pride, especially after the 2008 attacks on Mumbai. Being with Nrupen was like having a key to the city. The normal Indian indecision and confusion washed away as he kindly smirked and barked orders at those in desperate need of  direction and discipline. 

We pulled up, they parked his car for him, we took the tiny, tiny, tiny elevator to the rooftop and got the table Nrupen wanted, telling them they needed to clean it at once and bring us refreshment. Truth be told, I sent them up in the elevator and caught the next one. Koshie’s bigger than Nrupen but he ain’t as big as me. 

As the sun set, we laughed, drank, ate random appetizers and I listened as they argued, this was apparently their love language. And they must really love one another. 

By “random appetizers” I mean puffy, fried bread with the ubiquitous coriander and mint chutney. You can’t swing an abused dog without hitting coriander-mint chutney in that country. Some of it’s better than others. After an incredible evening on the terrace with my new friends, I paid (after assuring Wells Fargo that I was in India) and we headed up the street for some traditional Muslim foods. 

It was now nearly 10:30pm but the cafe was hopping. Ramadan means you can’t eat until after dark, so folks were crammed into this joint and the plates were coming out at top speed. I was the only “Westerner” in the place but they were incredibly kind. There were maybe ten tables and at least 20 waiters – all dressed in white kaftans and kufis. 

Plate after plate of vegetables and lamb hit the table and I tried a little of everything, though Nrupen skipped the things he thought other people might have touched in the kitchen. I’m still not sure what he was talking about but it may have been wise to listen more closely in retrospect. 

No, I did not get Delhi Belly. Which is kind of a miracle but not really – Nrupen made sure I went to places with “clean” food. Not in a Fight Club way, but you never know. 

The night ended and it ended well, full of food and laughter, the guys were still messing with one another as we dropped Koshie off to get his train. I couldn’t fathom what the trains were like in Mumbai, I’d been warned against them and had no interest. 

Tomorrow was a new day, filled with plans to see museums and landmarks and famous stuff.