June 1998
Hello from Bombay,
Here’s your man on the scene with a few more snapshots of life here in India. On Saturday, the kids wanted to go to the local “mall.” It is very upscale and classy, at least from a Bombay point of view. It is nothing like our glass and chrome, high ceilinged, wide walkwayed malls we know in the U.S. The stores are small (some smaller than our living room), and the mall walking areas are narrow (about 8 or 10 feet wide!) The stores are filled with electronics, CDs and tapes, fancy clothes, designer sunglasses, Casio keyboards, and other imported things. A couple of stores even sold food. I finally stopped at one to check out the prices. A small bottle of mustard cost the equivalent of $3.75. A small jar of name brand popcorn: $3.00. A box of instant macaroni (last time I looked in the US, the cost was no more than 65 or 70 cents) cost nearly $4.00. And a small bottle of spaghetti sauce, a whopping $7.50. I’d rather buy a gob of tomatoes for a rupee a piece and make my own.
After the mall, our driver Hasmukh asked if I wanted to see the Gandhi museum which was not far from where we were. I said absolutely but the kids, my three children plus two friends, were not thrilled. Parenthood is not a democracy so we went. The museum was in a house where Gandhi stayed whenever he was in Bombay. There was a room containing his bed (a very humble mattress on the floor), some writing implements, a couple of spinning wheels. Kind of impressive to think that one of the truly great people of this century knew this house and those things. One room contained about 30 dioramas, each depicting a part of his life. He is really, really revered here. His picture is on all the money and many locations are named after him or after his associates. It was with obvious pride that our driver showed us the place and explained parts of the history to us. The house even had a Gandhi oriented library where you can do research on related topics. The kids ended up enjoying the visit.
The next day, my son Eric and I went to the wedding of one of the local employees at work. We actually arrived after the wedding. It was a very Indian experience. So many people were there, and so very many flower garlands hung all over the place. We went into the main hall and saw a long line of people waiting to greet the bride and groom. After about 30 seconds a person told us to go with him. We followed as a sort of Red Sea of Indians parted before us. He led us right to the stage (Indians get married on stages) and the whole line stopped so he and I could greet the couple. Several pictures were snapped of us, too. Unfortunately, Eric didn’t know in advance that we were stopping at the wedding. I had just (with our driver) picked him up from another part of town after he had spent the night with a friend. I forgot to bring nicer clothes for him, so he was wearing a tee shirt and shorts. I mentioned it to the driver (and to another Indian acquaintance at the reception), and their answers were similar: “You are a foreigner (the acquaintance had actually said fair-skinned), so it doesn’t matter what he is wearing. You honor the couple simply by being here.” It is as much a mark of status to for Americans to attend your wedding, as the amount of money (plenty, plenty, plenty), you spend on the whole shindig.
After greeting the couple we went to eat, Indian food, of course. Eric had just eaten and wasn’t hungry, but Hasmukh was a little panicked about it, (I understood why: so many people were watching us), and so I told him to just get some food and put it on his plate. I don’t care how much you eat or don’t. He did a good job. All three of our children are great sports and good diplomats and know what to do and when to do it, and almost always rise to the challenge before them. We were only at the wedding for 45 minutes, but they were rich, fun and colorful. I wish you could see the beautiful clothing worn by Indian women, saris and other sorts of whispy, drapy, graceful garb of all hues, bright and colorful, subtle, and shimmering.
