My Guide

Luckily on my first train ride, my companion and guide was a native Mumbaiker. Walking to the train station I envied the way this person maneuvered the broken sidewalk and uncovered manholes, sidestepped stray dogs circling the seemingly stray children, moved deftly between moving vehicles, and somehow managed to make sure I , the novice, was alive and not too frazzled at the end of our mini journey. My guide was and will be (for the next few days to work) Mr. Bombay Dream’s Man-Friday of sorts. This man lives in the hospital where Mr. Bombay Dream works. This Mumbaiker is self-employed as a liaison between the patients and the social workers who are supposed to be at their service. Apparently he knows the ins-and-outs of how things get done in the hospital. He tells us, Bombay Dream and I, stories of how heavily greased the palms of social workers are. In this town, this is the man from whom to learn street smarts. He is a wiry gentleman of average height, with more salt than pepper hair. He speaks English and claims to have lived in the US in 1978 in Pennsylvania coincidentally. In trying to relate to me he turned on a little American effusiveness, “Mr. Bombay Dream is my best friend.” I appreciated his effort to relate to the way I speak English, but- good man, okay...good friend, acceptable, overshot with “best friend.”

He has got it in his mind that he will be part of my life and Mr. Bombay Dream’s life for the next several months. Mr. Friday happens to be Gujarati. This I figured out pretty quickly, when, on one of our journeys, as we walked down a street we always have to walk, he leaned over and in an angry whisper said, “ Watch out here. This place is full of dirty Maharatis- most of them cannot even read and they have no manners.” Let me say here Gujaratis and Maharatis have a strong bickering rivalry as there are contentious neighbors. He then asked me about lunch, and I said that I usually just have something very light if at all, as the people I stay with make me a generous breakfast and dinner. Then he said “I will bring for you our Gujarati khanna. It is the best food. You will like it very much. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.” Immediately I erupted into pleading “NO,no,no,no,no,thank you, thank you, thank you, no, thank you, please.” I knew this food would be from a street vendor, food for which my stomach is not hardy enough to appreciate. One of my main objectives here is to avoid becoming ill (Hep E, amoebic dysentery, etc.) during the course of my stay. Then he said, “No,no, I already spoke to [Bombay Dream]. He said I must give you lunch.” I just looked away as if something caught my eye and said, “Hmm, really.” That night at work I called Bombay Dream and asked if he had asked Mr. Friday to bring me lunch. He said, “You think I’m crazy?! You’ll get sick if you eat that for lunch.” The next day, after Bombay Dream found Mr. Friday (who does not own a telecommunication device) and reiterated that he should not bring me lunch, though the thought is kind; Mr. Friday promptly showed up at Bombay Dream’s place around lunch and dropped off lunch for two- 8 chapatis, 5 different types of subjis, a bowl of rice, and all the fixings (pickle, lime, tiny red onions, and green chilis). Mr. Bombay Dream feels very guilty if food goes to waste, so he ate both portions and spent the rest of the day moaning about his bad stomach. Aw jeez. Mr. Friday is certainly an interesting character as long as Mr. Bombay Dream and I continue to be able to dance around the little white lies, told for our benefit.