Monday, March 20, 2000

My biggest misconception was that I was coming here to see India. As it turns out, India is here to see me.

It's my beard, for some reason, that attracts the most attention. Not its length, which though approaching absurdity is not so rare in these parts. Rather, it's the fact that it is shaved on the sides, goatee style. They grin at me as I pass, saying Nice beard, or making a gesture around their chins.

I just got peed on by a bird or something.

Anyway, if it's not my beard, it's my hair. How long? they ask, pointing. You look like a holy man.

If my folicular endowments aren't what catches their eyes, it's my dearth of melotonin. Just being white-skinned is enough to stop pair after pair of hugging boys (they walk down the street with their arms around each other or holding hands -- not because they're gay, says the guidebook, but because they aren't allowed to show affection to women in public). Just while writing this paragraph I've been greeted by more people than I can count. Just writing that last sentence I had a twenty minute conversation, during which time my face was covered with red dye (today is the Holy Festival). Great -- one more thing to attract attention.

These guys, clothes covered in purple dye, are enjoying the Holi Festival. The little glasses they're holding are from chai, to which they treated me a cup.

There is a certain freedom that comes with being stared at, however, which is that I can pretty much do whatever I feel like without worrying about calling any *additional* attention to myself.

I'm having trouble writing now because a woman is begging for ten rupees to buy milk powder for her child. A chinese man told me about that particular scam just a half hour ago; if I buy it for her, the woman will go back later to return the milk powder and split the money with the shop owner.

Anyway -- three handshakes later -- this morning I met a little boy, one of the many street kids, whose name was Raju (he didn't know how to spell it, but Surin did; more on him later).

A man just walked clear across the sidewalk to peer over my notebook. I said Hello, how are you, and he kept walking, saying Acha and waggling his head. Acha means Okay, and waggling is the Indian way of nodding. It reminds me of the hula dancers you put on your dashboard. Or the ones you don't put on your dashboard, as the case may be.

Had to come back to my room to finish that paragraph -- some Indian boys with ambiguous intentions were making me uncomfortable, so I left the step I'd been sitting on while writing.

Since then, everybody has been looking and laughing even more than usual, shaking my hand and saying Holy Holy, because my face is painted red. By the time I get back home I should be completely impervious to all forms of ridicule.

My face is silver at the moment, perhaps the nicest hue of the day. My buddy Raju took me to a house near the vegetable bazaar where there was an outdoor faucet. It's not unusual for people to bathe outside in public, but they laughed as they handed me some soap.

Oh -- so this little boy, Raju, in a t-shirt that was much too large for him, not to mention filthy and backwards, begins chatting with me as I walk. He's friendly and hasn't asked me for money yet, so I let him take me to a coffee shop and I buy him a cup.

Eventually he gets around to telling me he needs milk for his little sister who's in the hospital, but didn't mind when I said no. For the longest time I was trying to figure out what religion Karisthan was, until he pointed at a catholic church; I think he was trying to score some points, hoping I was Christian. I guess he learned to kiss a rosary the same place he learned to say "ciao, amigo."

My young patient is kneeling on my right, Raju is in back on my left.

After coffee we met up with some of his fellow street urchins. One girl had a piece of cloth tied around her finger -- and stuck fast, as it turned out; it took about an hour of soaking to peel it off, revealing a missing fingernail and a nice cut.

The upshot is that first-aid supplies are not common on the street, so we used some of my disinfectant cream and band-aids to repair a few damaged youngsters. Just call me mother teresa or something.

A ferry trip to Elephanta Island was a nice escape from the heat and the people. We're inside a cave, believe it or not. My first monkey!

Had breakfast with Surin, my personal tout and scam artist (my treat, needless to say). He suggested that perhaps I should go to some Kashmiri shops with his friend the taxi driver, to look at carpets. The money the shop owner paid to the taxi driver, we would split three ways. As much as I love carpets, I declined.

Later in the afternoon, I bumped into a man I'd given ten rupees to the day before. As he was lamenting to me about how good it would be to eat again, Surin happened to see us and had me confirm that Surin had in fact seen me first, essentially placing dibs on my money. Then they both left me alone!

So, little by little I am learning the workings of the tourist trade in Bombay. All interactions have been straightforward -- yes, lying, but with straightforward intentions: for me to give them money -- there have been no scams to steal anything or send me to the hospital or any of the other devious schemes I've read about. And in spite of having to stay on guard, it's difficult for me to hold it against them. Even as a homeless, jobless traveler from America, I am richer than they can hope to be. And still they are nice to me.