I planned to spend a day at home, doing nothing significant really; step out later to pick up a few odd things perhaps, then meet a friend for coffee. Little did I know that this loony city doesn't permit quiet and solitude.
After attempting to laze around and failing miserably because of salespeople constantly ringing the doorbell, noisy construction workers drilling into the raw nerves in my head, muttering pigeons nesting on the air conditioner just outside my window, I decided to head out. I got into a tiny autorikshaw (the vehicle of almost-certain death) which flew down the narrow streets first barely missing the passing stray dog, next the clueless pedestrian, and finally not so lucky, scraping the side of a companion autorickshaw. The driver glared at the back of the other auto as it sped off oblivious of the cuts and bruises it had left behind on the man's machine.
All in a days work in Bombay city. I got my errands done and headed home to find a large police van, with barred windows and space in the back for at least four prisoners, parked outside my building. Several plain clothes cops stood around looking suspiciously at anyone who walked through this gate of hell. I looked them in the eye, and walked past with the knowledge that it wasn't me: I was busy plotting the death of the city's piegons. And if that doesn't work, hear this: I was dead at the time.
(I don't know why the cops were here, but like any good nosy Indian, I intend to find out.)
Despite all of this, or maybe even because of it, this place is more than just a sensory overload. There are times I feel like I never left India. It has me wondering if the last three years of my life were merely a dream. But of course they weren't; my landlady, back in the Washington DC, who's waiting for my rent check will vouch for that, I'm sure.
No comments:
Post a Comment