A friend and I sat at a pub in Cork, November 26, 2008. Breaking news invaded the screens, fire lit up a gorgeous building somewhere in India. A handful of Pakistani extremists had executed  people in a Jewish outreach center, murdered dozens at a train station, ten more lost their lives in a popular cafe, bombs went off in taxis, and two large hotels were taken over. 

My friend and I had no affiliation with India, couldn’t even say that we knew anyone from there. Then again, do you have to have met someone to care about them? Of course not. We all have empathy and sympathy in our souls, we don’t need to wear t-shirts or send MEMEs to remind one another of this. When tragedy strikes, we seem to find the best in one another. 

I found this, the spirit of India, everywhere I went; the samosa and tandoori vendors, the kids playing cricket all day, the beggars on Colaba Causeway, the multitude of waiters in tiny cafes. They all want as much money from you as possible but also beam their gorgeous souls from the center of their irises. Do I mean “pupils?” No, no I don’t. 

Another wonderful thing about Indian people, as busy as they are, as chaotic as their cities can be, as crowded as the market or street is, when you speak, they listen. They actually listen. And I finally got to the bottom of the side-to-side bobblehead thing.

It means “okay.” “Deepak, would you like to see a Bollywood film with my church friends this evening?” Deepak might say something like, “No, thank you, I have to milk a snake.” To which the inquisitor would smile and bobblehead, not particularly committing to comprehending his answer but also not committing to not understand it at the same time. This example alone should elicit a head bobble. Maybe I still don’t know what the hell it means.

The morning after the concert and drinks – and dinner at the Muslim joint, I explored the Queen’s Necklace – Marine Drive. Nrupen’s flat is very close to the beach at the very north of the bay and it’s only a little over a mile walk to the southern point and Fashion Street – and the artsy Fort district. Funny thing about a walk that’s only a little over a mile, it seems much longer when there’s no shade and the Sun is beating you like a new prisoner who called every inmate’s mother a whore. 

In all my research, maps that were studied, helpful Hindi and Urdu lines memorized to make getting around easier, and such – I’d overlooked that, only recently, April has seen record highs. My days in Mumbai would reach midday temperatures upward of 112-degrees Fahrenheit with humidity around 3,000%. An hour into my “only a little over a mile” walk, I had my pants tied around my head singing “IIIIIII… love a parade!” down the seaface, yelling for Russ and Audrey intermittently. 

Stumbling into a coffee shop, I must have looked like I’d showered in my clothes. Three different employees ran toward me with napkins, smiling – which, everywhere in India/SE Asia are little more than the thinnest of tissues. But I appreciated it and began making beard dingleberries out of them, butchering their poor Hindi language asking for water. Luckily, one young lady knew some English and served me three glasses of cold, filtered water in about 20-seconds. 

Half a mile down the road, a vendor was selling ice-cold bottled water for 20 rupees, a little less than a quarter. Three of those down and all was right with the world. 

Not much further around the bend, gorgeous architecture sprung from every direction. Overwhelmingly beautiful Gothic and Art-Deco buildings. Fort seemed to have the highest concentration of notable architecture in the city and that’s just where I was headed. The High Court, Police Station, Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, St. George’s Fort – all right there. Not that I know a damn thing about architecture – but I sure do like it.

The Fort District also has wonderful things most of the rest of the city does not – trees. And shade. This was a welcomed discovery. 

Though things cooled off a bit on that end of the island, I was still gross. Around a sharp corner,  I accidently found the entrance to the Taj Palace and made it to the security gate, greeted by a large Sikh man who pressed his hands together and bowed slightly, smiling brightly and bellowing “Namaste.” The astonishing part, looking like I must have looked – they let me in. 

This is a five-star hotel, world famous for its luxury. It was disgraceful that I even tried to enter, in drenched t-shirt and pants, capped by filthy sneakers. But they were the picture of grace and hospitality. People from all over the globe peppered the lobby, most in Versace and Prada – and one portly American in trailer-park casual. Pretty sure I was donning a trucker hat from H.E.B., a grocery chain in Texas.

The lobby was stunning; a fresh-flower centerpiece, all in yellow, towered above the fine furniture. The lighting was sensible, yet a work of art itself. Off-lobby – the Harbour Bar was one of the fanciest I’d seen – where people who are used to being pampered and flying via private jet  might drop in for a beer before yachting off somewhere. I was tempted, but no. My only item of business in this world-famous hotel was to use its restroom, one of the finest public restrooms on the planet, complete with an attendant and high thread count hand towels. 

After desecrating a national landmark, it was off to find some food. Just behind the Taj was a cow tied to a pole, being fed by passersby in search of luck – which evidently comes from feeding the public cows. A stark contrast, pole cows and five-star hotels. But that’s Bombay. 

A hop, skip and a jump from the Taj and Gateway – Colaba Causeway offers, well – everything. Any conceivable trinket, item of clothing, good or service shouts at you as you cram yourself through this sardine can of a street. In other words, for those suffering from claustrophobia like me, it’s hell on earth. But, you know, you only live once. 

As a funeral director in Nebraska once said to me, “but I regress.” 

After absolutely battling my way through this obnoxious, capitalist, endless clown car of humanity… it was time for a beer. 

The Colaba Causeway ends at the market and spits you out near the very synagogue that was attacked on 26/11. Here’s where I had a thought that I can’t shake. Perhaps it’s the “get off my lawn” Boomer in me (though I don’t have a lawn and I’m not a Boomer). This symbol of the Jewish faith, targeted for that very reason – is surrounded by depictions of a 15,000-year-old symbol (and 3,000-year-old Hindu symbol for “well being”).

Swastikas. I’ve got a worldwide theory about these despised and beloved symbols but that’s a diatribe for another blog. (People still blog, right?)

After finding the same terrace bar the guys and I visited the night before, it was closed. A couple of blocks south was another just like it, or close enough. The Bay View Cafe overlooks, well – the bay – and Elephanta Island, an ancient cave filled with… you know what, I would paint you a picture of the attraction but I doubt any of the three people who will read this are doing so because they have insomnia. 

Once sat in my own little corner of the Bay View, I found the guy who speaks the best English – in India, there’s always a guy who speaks the best English – and ordered a cold Kingfisher. Deva was my personal waiter and he watched me take every single sip of two beers in a row with great intensity, as if he were studying for an exam. Like someone learning how to paint looks at the nude guy in the middle of the room. The guy whose other gig is selling his own plasma so he can buy weed. 

He finally spoke, telling me that he gets up at 5AM and does yoga on the nearby pier. Offering that he also eats well and never drinks or smokes. Then tossed in the fact that I may want to try it, scanning my physique – such as it is – while saying so. I replied that while good health is, in fact, important to me, I’d rather have good manners, especially when meeting someone for the first time. Then went on to tell him that a perfect lifestyle and fit body doesn’t mean you have taken care of your brain or disciplined yourself to not judge others. 

He got it and frowned in the way I hoped he would.  

As I ordered a third beer, a boisterous British couple came in with authority. I don’t eavesdrop, per se, but I can’t help but hear certain things. The lady had mentioned Elephanta Island and,  planning to make my way to the island, I excused myself and asked how they enjoyed their visit. The man eyed me, smiled then they both smirked and shrugged. “I wouldn’t bother with it if I were asked to go again.” That was that. 

I moved closer so we’d stop shouting across the terrace and made two friends. They were Andy and Marie from Bolton. Having gone to grad school up the road from Bolton, I asked if the Bolton Wanderers still play at Reebok Stadium. They lit up at the remark, someone knew their hometown. “No,” Andy said, “it’s named for the University now and has a full retail park.” Of course it does, there’s probably a Bolton Wanderers Hard Seltzer too. 

We enjoyed the afternoon together, even took photos of our little group. Deva cheered up and offered to help. It was a cool ending to a sweltering day. Setting me up for a truly bizarre and wonderful evening.