Snapshots of My Life a.k.a. "WTF?!?"

The Bathroom:
Indian bathrooms are an all-in-one endeavor, a casserole of bathroom amenities in one 5X5 marble-floored space unhindered by such inconveniences as counters or even a tub. The shower head is mounted on the wall above the water spigot. If you want hot water (which you'd be crazy to want when it's 95 degrees by ten in the morning so this feature is yet unused by me), you need to flip the switch on the wall and wait for the tank to warm up. Then, you simply turn on the shower and take your own sweet time under the refreshing fall of water. By the time you're done, the toilet is wet, the floor is wet, and the edge of the sink is also wet (but fortunately, you have learned to bunch your towel on the other edge of the sink to avoid a dripping towel post-shower). After wrapping yourself in your towel, take care of the water on the floor by grabbing the little broom in the corner (it's here for this purpose) and sweep toward the drain in the corner. When you're done, you have a slightly soppy, puddle-y, cleaned-by-your-Neutrogena-Shampoo-and-Aveeno-Lavender-Bodywash marble floor. And a whole new clean you. Which is worth all of it.

The Commute:
Leave your flat and walk into muggy, hot air that will greet you without fail or variance until the monsoon comes (1 week left!) at which time it will simply be hotter and muggier. Skip down five flights of stairs and peer into your neighbors' flats (32 on floor three has a gorgeous marble entryway) and step out onto the street. It's not really a street, you think for the fifth time, as you deftly sidestep rocks and piles of trash and animals and fruitcarts and taxis and bikes and little kids and old people and mopeds that are cluttering the dirt road. You take a left and head onto a busier road where you dodge more of the same clutter until you get to the rail station where you buy a 10 rupee ticket. You cross to the northbound side and wait with the hundred ladies for the "ladies only for all the 24 hours" compartment. When the train comes, you find yourself squished between a woman who looks too old and fragile to be climbing aboard the train and a regular-sized woman with way too much coconut oil in her butt-length braid. The old woman quickly reveals herself as a serious contender in the race into the cattle car-esque train as she forcefully jabs you in the ribs and steps on your sandled feet in an attempt to clamber aboard before you. You let the tide of women lift you onto the train and find yourself inside the train car where you are now inhaling the thick coconut braid of the woman with whom you were previously sharing a platform. After two stops, you follow the sea of black-haired people out of the station and onto the street where you hail an auto-rickshaw for the 10 rupee ride to your NGO. The rickshaw-wallah realizes you aren't from the area and you have a pleasant conversation where you apologize for your poor Hindi and he welcomes you as a daughter of India and tells you that your Hindi is a beautiful sound (which in all honesty, it's not). You get off at your stop and thank him. It has been an hour since you left your flat.
(You also wonder when you started using the word "flat" and remind yourself to get rid of the habit before you leave as it is pretentious and icky to say "flat" when you mean "apartment" at home.)

The liquor store:
After a rough week of fighting jet lag and halting Hindi conversations and acclimating to a hella-hot tropical climate after solid weeks of Boston "almost spring and 50 degrees," you are fighting a little sore throat and a LOT of fatigue. You haven't peed in four days despite all the liters of water you are imbibing and you want to celebrate your first day of peeing (which is a big deal) and the end of a successful first week of work (which should be a bigger deal but somehow the peeing trumps all). You and your roommate, Manu, head to Ajanta Wines after your Hindi lesson late Friday night for some good cheer "Indian style." The two of you pick your way through dark streets which are becoming slowly more familiar to you as your feet find their way confidently over the potholes and rocks. Once there, your confidence wanes: it is a sausage-fest in front of the store. There is a counter facing the street and the rows of liquor displayed in front is blocked by the sea of men. You quickly realize that despite your good girl Indian clothes and hair in conservative braid, this is a man's job and your place is not in a liquor store line. You tell Manu this and he laughs and then realizes that you are probably right. You stay in front of the store facing the street and attempt to sneak peeks at the merchandise that is forbidden to you (as a "daughter of India"). Manu apparently doesn't understand the etiquette and turns to yell out a question to you about your alcohol preference. You pretend not to hear him and move closer to the "cold drink store" next to the alcohol store and try to feign interest in the bottles of Coke with Hrithik Roshan, Indian film star extraordinaire, plastered all over them. Manu triumphantly emerges with a bottle of Signature (India's Best Whiskey) for the two of you and three Bacardi Breezers for the other roommates. The two of you buy a bottle of Pepsi at the cold drink store and make a bet that you (the woman) have to buy the alcohol once before you leave Mumbai. He promises to take pictures. You agree.

More snaps to follow...

P.S. Signature+Bacardi+really old dance music+Indian Blackjack=Great first Friday in Mumbai