Shopsin Tamara - Mumbai New York Scranton

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Copyright 2013 by Tamara Shopsin

Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed and some events reordered.

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First Scribner hardcover edition March 2013

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Designed by Tamara Shopsin

Library of Congress Control Data: 2012032051

ISBN 978-1-4516-8741-5

ISBN 978-1-4516-8743-9 (eBook)

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for Melinda, Dad, and Jason

The plan was if I didnt see him, dont leave the airport. That was it. That was the whole plan. Its 1 a.m. The arrivals area is outside under a giant carport. The air smells like burning garbage. I see Jason so fast. Its almost funny.

There are 100 unlicensed cabdrivers waiting for Jason and me to finish kissing. The cabdrivers are sad now, Jason leads us to a little desk out of the way where he prepays for our taxi.

A few of the drivers follow us. They leave when we reach the prepaid parking area. There are rows of modern and vintage taxis. I hope we get an old one! I say.

Our cab is not old or new. The interior looks as if an airplane seat from 1980 has exploded. It is upholstered in a crazy patterned fabric everywhere, even the ceiling. I love it.

On the way out our driver stops at the airport gate. He gets out and goes into a little booth. Two boys come up to the car window one on each side. They put their hands out. Jason and I shake our heads no.

Ive heard about Americans who go to India and flip out. They give away all they have with them, take out the max from the ATM, and return home changed forever.

The boys just stand there looking at us with wide eyes. They wont leave. I whisper to Jason asking what we should do. Roll up the window, he says as he rolls his up quick. I follow his lead but my boy sticks his hand on the glass.

The window closes by a hand-turned crank. I can feel the skinny boy pushing down. Im playing chicken in the saddest James Dean movie ever.

I continue to roll up the window and am about to squish his fingers when he yanks them out. Our driver returns.

The side of the road is lined with crowded shantytowns. Jason holds my hand and suggests I dont look out the window. Jason has wanted to show me India since the first time we met. My sister didnt say dont go. If she had, I would never have come. But Minda made it clear she didnt want me here. Shes afraid Im too fragile for India, that I will end up shitting chocolate milk and come home weighing eighty-seven pounds.

There are no streetlights. Im frightened. Jason asks the driver why he has turned off the main road. The driver says it is a shortcut. Jason tells him we would rather stay on big roads.

The Grand Hotel

The hotel elevator sings a song when the doors open. Our room is on the top floor. I open the desks drawer and paw the turquoise and purple stationery with 1960s typography.

Jason has bought me oranges. I eat them all right away.

I take a shower, careful to keep my mouth shut and puffed full of air. I brush my teeth using bottled water. Even wash the toothbrush off with it.

A travel doctor told us never to drink the tap water here. He also prescribed five hundred dollars worth of medicine to bring. I filled the prescription uptown near his office. The pharmacy gave me four complimentary tote bags. Really nice ones with a lining.

Jason turns off the lights. He tells me there are more oranges in the minifridge for when I wake up in the middle of the night hungry and jet-lagged.

In the middle of the night I wake up and eat all the oranges.

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Its early. There are people still sleeping on top of parked cars and trucks.

Taxis and dogs are everywhere. It is dirty, noisy, and loud. The crowds are thick between crumbling buildings battling overgrown trees. Mumbai is hard fucking core. I love it.

Im overwhelmed and within three hours of walking need a nap.

Jason has written postcards while I slept and wants to mail them.

A beige one-button mouse skips along the street. A little girl is dragging it by the cord like an old pull toy. We turn a corner and the sleepy neighborhood of our hotel ends.

The streets are so crowded. We must hold hands. Jason says we are near the post office. Stalls line the street. A man will wrap your package. He uses a needle and thread, not tape. At one stall you can pay a man to type your handwritten letter. Jason and I lock eyes.

We stop for lunch. The place serves only veg meals. A veg meal is rice served with a bunch of condiments and a few heavily sauced stewed vegetables. It is all you can eat. I doubt I can eat very much.

No forks or knives. It is customary to eat with only your right hand. Jason says this is because people in India dont use toilet paper so the left hand is reserved for wiping. I dont believe him until he starts to make like he is putting me on and I can tell he is not. The fact that we are surrounded by 150 people eating with just their right hand also helps.

We craft letters to friends in between bites. Jason writes because he is left-handed.

The typist follows each line of our letters with an old ruler to keep track while he types. He corrects two spelling errors and color turns to colour. I think it cant get any better, but then he types the addresses on the envelopes.

The post office is huge. There are birds flying inside. The postage stamps are not peel-off stickers. They are not even the lick-and-stick kind I knew as a kid. They are just printed squares of ordinary paper. There are communal pots of paste decades older than me.

Jason read about a performance by a famous Indian clown. A silent clown who is a national treasure. We have no phone or knowledge of how to use a pay phone. So we walk to the theater across town to find out when it is happening.

It has happened already. I am tired again. Jason says its the jet lag and that I need to stay awake till 10 p.m. We sit in a park and eat oranges. I place the peels in my tote bag though there is garbage in the grass.