Touchdown!

Awaking as the cabin lights went dark and the overhead bins began to rattle, my 747 transport set down in Mumbai, reverse engine thrusters firing to punctuate our communion with the ground. My pursuit to visit India (after two failed attempts in 2001 and 2005) came to a close. Now the game was on. 1:35 a.m. and a cool, but palpable 85 degrees. Passport control was a breeze, customs almost non-existent, but as with many developing countries, the famed crowd outside of the airport with signs for “Mr. So and So” and “Taj Tours” were not dissuaded by the late hour. My only question at 2 a.m., would my name be on one of those signs?

The crowds outside the airport hall were almost reassuring, confirming that indeed I had arrived. I rounded the corner to the exit slowly to ensure I did not miss my anticipated sign. Is someone here for me? Please let it be so as haggling for a taxi and a room after twenty-four hours of non-stop travel were somewhere on my list between visiting the dentist (even if he is related) and hanging upside down by my toenails. As I emerged from the airport doors into the crowd of sign holders, my eyes scanned the crowd at a measured pace being sure not to miss my name which often bore the misfortune of misspelling even at home.

“Taxi?”, “Hotel, sir?” came from a few men standing off the side from the main crowd. Confident that one of the signs ahead contained my name, misspelled or not, I pushed forward paying little attention to their offers. My confidence began to dissipate however as I began to run out of signs not having met my contact. How could there be all those signs and none bearing my name? As I neared the end of the receiving line, my heart relaxed as my arm and pointed index finger jutted out toward the gentleman holding the sign with my correctly spelled name almost knocking him over in a reflexive effort to get his attention.

There were two men waiting for me. I introduced myself, shook hands and followed them to the mint green Peugot waiting in a nearby parking lot. Those were to be the first and last words exchanged between the three of us that night. Their English was equal to my knowledge of Hindi (virtually non-existent except for about 5 words I memorized on the plane). We drove through the dimly lit streets filled with nocturnal dogs scavaging the day’s trash and a score of tuk tuk drivers making a few rupees transporting night owls about town. Under the street lamps along the route, clusters of people slept under blankets on the sidewalk or on the edge of the road where no sidewalk existed.

We drove for approximately 20 minutes when the car pulled up to a gate and the driver laid on the horn. A man I had not noticed was roused from his sleep slumped in a red patio chair behind the gate. He stood dazed and moved in a sleepwalk like fashion to open the gates. Thirty yards beyond the gate, a house of unknown dimensions and color, was to be my home for the night. One of my greeters pulled my luggage from the car and led me into the house after removing his shoes. Hastily kicking off my lace shoes, I followed him quickly into a dining room and then behind red velvet curtains to a tan marble floored hallway with an empty bedroom at the end. He pointed to the bedroom and a bathroom across the hall. Less than a minute later, he was gone and I went into late night overdrive surveying my luggage, washing before bed and sampling my iPod for a few familiar songs.

The next morning, I awoke twenty minutes after seven to the sounds of crows, dishes clanging, men’s voices and car horns in the distance. Where was I? Does anyone else live here? Despite getting only a few hours of sleep, my curiosity hoisted me out of bed and into the bathroom to meet the family with whom I was staying. It would be bad form if they were to meet their new houseguest complete with morning breath and bed head. With cat like maneuvers, I slinked my way to the bathroom hoping not to be detected before I could freshen up.

Undiscovered by my host family, I strolled into the kitchen and dining area where a young man, maybe 16 years old, stood combing his hair. I introduced myself and soon discovered that again my limited knowledge of Hindi would reduce our communication to a impromptu game of international charades. I inquired as to the whereabouts of my main contact, Bharat Gupta, but pantomiming a person whom I had never met proved my failure as an international actor. It would be a few more hours before I met my host.

After returning to my room for a brief morning nap, a man in his 50's summoned me and motioned for me to follow him. Around the corner from the hallway, Bharat greeted me in English and invited me to sit. I immediately thanked him for his hospitality and inquired as to my intention for the trip so that he could be of assistance where possible.

Although I spent the night at his home, we had never met in person nor spoken on the phone. I came to know of Bharat through his nephew, Prakash, who lives in Los Angeles and is in business with my cousin. This meeting was the culmination of a seemingly chance conversation Prakash and I had months ago.

In early December, 2005, I phone my cousin, Andy, to say hello. While speaking with my cousin, Andy, I mentioned my upcoming trip to India at which point, Andy with little introduction, and barely time to have him repeat Prakash's name, he handed the phone to Prakash. Less than two minutes into our conversation, Prakash had invited me to stay with his family and see the city with their assistance. It was a generous offer from someone I had never met, and normally, I might have politely declined believing the offer to be more symbolic than substantive, but Prakash’s voice was sincere and he repeated the offer many times.

Now in Mumbai, I am even more grateful for Prakash's offer as the city is akin to Manhattan without street light, street signs and 100% humidity. Landing here without direction and only a guidebook could lead the eager first time tourist straight into the mouth of the anonymous abyss of humanity. A massive city by all accounts, population, land mass and confusion. Fortunately for me, I was staying with a native to the economic stronghold of India and he would chart the course for my stay.

First on the list of “to-do's” would be to eat breakfast at 11:30 a.m.. And this breakfast was not sponsored by Quaker Oats or Wheaties. No, it was filled with curry, potatoes and fried dumplings of sort. My first bite was met with a huge burst of fresh flavor. The food, prepared by cooks on Bharat's staff was fantastic.

Second on the list of post arrival activities was stretching my neck out so that a complete stranger, with whom I could not communicate, could clear away my light stubble with a straight blade. Full from breakfast and sleepy with the time difference, my head was woozy under his blade as I stared up into the bright sky. My eyelids felt like those of a newborn chick, heavy and half shut. I was moments from lapsing into sleep with the razor grazing my skin.

Breakfast and a shave turned out to be the peak of my activities for my first day on the ground. Although I was energetic and ready to hit the dirt when I first awoke, my body craved sleep. Having only known me for an hour, Bharat astutely determined that I should stay home the first day to rest. It was the right call as waves of sleep rolled over me in the mid-day heat.