Aloo Pakoda for breakfast

So as not to leave you wondering, the Milan Hotel did not send an airport shuttle for me but I was able to secure a taxi to the place and they did indeed have my room reserved and ready.

The blankets smelled like mothballs and, due to the close proximity of the hotel to the airport (the reason I chose it after my midnight arrival), I heard planes roaring all through the night as they took off and landed, from the sound of it, from inside my own little room.  The first time I head one, I nearly had a heart attack. I would have sworn an airplane was crashing and headed straight for my hotel! Needless to say, I didn’t sleep particularly well until exhaustion took over and I fell into a Rip Van Winkle-esque slumber around 8am. I slept through my alarm and only woke when the hotel called my room at 1pm to ask if I planned to observe the noon checkout.  They were very kind, allowing me time to shower and pack my belongings.

They referred me to the restaurant in the hotel for “breakfast” where I ordered aloo pakoda, lightly fried potato puffs that were more puff than potato. Two fried chilies came with the dish too and they certainly woke me up! The meal was served with a sweet tomato sauce which had the texture and taste of off-brand ketchup.  Interesting. Not my favorite dish, but still it was nice to start the day off with something other than Wheaties to confirm that I was definitely “not in Kansas anymore.”  Total cost = 100 Rupees (about $2). Given that I know that chai (the delicious milky spiced tea ubiquitous in India) costs 4Rs (vs the 45Rs charged by the hotel restaurant), I expect I could have eaten for about $0.25 if I had headed out to the street!

Rickshaws

While I waited for my food, my attention switched back and forth between the buzz of activity in the street outside and the TV which was set to a local news station with English-speaking reporters.  The hotel was situated in the curve of a narrow, dusty lane which contained small piles of crumbled cement blocks on the sides as if the buildings were tiny mountains that had sustained little avalanches.  The street was lined with black and yellow auto-rickshaws, 3-wheeled golf-cart sized motor vehicle taxis that steer and accelerate with motorbike-like handles.  Many of the drivers loitered about either congregating in small groups visiting with each other, sitting in the driver’s seat chatting on their cell phones or taking a small siesta on the back customer’s bench, all waiting for business.

boy carrying a tiffin

Women dressed primarily in traditional saris hurried past, many with children in tow carrying tiffins (a multi-tiered silver lunch pail that keeps each dish and snack separated from the other), presumably to their working husbands.  I spotted my first unattended cow as it wandered, seemingly somewhat purposefully, in front of the hotel.  In Southeast Asia, I became accustomed to seeing livestock, usually cattle or water buffalo, walk in the roads. There, they were prized possessions and always attended by a “babysitting” youngster who held the beast’s rope “leash.”  In India, cows are regarded as sacred, of course, and are allowed to roam freely as their own masters.  I have read that many are “cared for” by dairy farms during their milking years but let loose to fend for themselves once their milk is dried up.  Though regarded as holy, painstakingly avoided by all motor vehicles and painted up for festivals and holidays, I understand that they actually have rather sad lives, at least in the cities, where they’re left to scavenge, often in the garbage, for their own food; frequently ingesting plastic bags which do horrible things to their stomachs and lead to painful deaths.

The unattended cow was followed several minutes later by a child leading a different cow by a rope.  Hmmmm … I was confused. I’m sure this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be left scratching my head during my stay in this foreign place.  While pondering the fate of the Indian cow and trying to discern the difference between the two I’d seen, the  repeated use of the word “bungled” on the TV news show caught my attention.

bullock cart

A reporter was discussing some criminal investigation that had been “bungled.”  The station switched back to the news anchor who tsked-tsked at the bungling committed by the police department.  Apparently frustrated, she advised the viewing public that “Such bungling has been going on for some time now. Why is such bungling allowed to continue?” Although it wasn’t quite as entertaining as if both journalists had used the word “bamboozled,” the repeated use of “bungling” was enough to flip the switch on my giggle box.

In the next news story, I learned that a “chartbuster” Indian song by the name of Kolaveri-di had inspired a new dessert in Mumbai called the “Kolaveri di-ssert.”  The reporter advised that it was available in only a few places throughout the city at the moment and could be had for 5Rs (about 10 cents US).  Although she didn’t specify what was in the dessert, it looked like some kind of nuts covered with a chocolate sauce.  I was determine to get one if only for the novelty factor.  Sadly, she did not advise where the dessert could be obtained and every Indian person I asked later throughout the day insisted quite fervently that Kolaveri-di was most definitely not something to eat, but only a popular song. I guess I was the only one who saw that news report. Maybe I’ll have to settle for a copy of the song (which is quite catchy).

During a commercial break, I learned that a non-profit group in India is sponsoring a “Save Our Tigers Campaign.” I thought of my boyfriend’s 10 year old daughter, Lauren, who big-heartedly asked Santa for a donation in her name to “Save the Tigers” for Christmas this year.  I know she would be thrilled at India’s conservation efforts.  Roger, please be sure to tell her for me.

the boys from breakfast

When the news came back on, I learned that Ghandi’s family is still involved in Indian politics (Sonia Ghandi – perhaps a grand-daughter? – held a press conference in which she claimed that “the government had betrayed the people” but I never caught exactly how), that the plans of Rushdie, a controversial Indian author living abroad, to return to India and participate in the upcoming annual literature festival were being hotly debated (though everyone interviewed universally opined that he should be permitted) and lastly, that Oprah Winfrey was also in Mumbai.  Somehow, I suspect we’re staying at very different hotels.  Such was my news for the day.

After I finished eating breakfast, a young boy approached me and asked if he could have his photo taken with me. I was tickled at his request, thinking how ironic it was that I wanted to come to India to take photos of their culture and found myself a subject of equal curiosity. I happily obliged and then three others approached with the same request. We took turns taking photos all around.  It felt like an auspicious first morning in India.