Mumbai

My first bus ride in India was pretty good. It was a sleeper bus, which is a cool thing to experience, and not something you can find in the states to my knowledge. The only major issue was in the beginning of the journey. The travel agent had told me that if anything, they’d probably charge me 500 rupees for the bicycle. This was repeated by the guy I met at the bus terminal. Then, when the bus arrived, the driver immediately demanded 1500 rupees. I tried to fight it and haggle, but then he made as if he were going to leave. He knew he had all the power. I’d already bought the ticket. I had to comply. So that left a bad taste in my mouth. Once I was on the bus, however, the driver was super attentive to all of my needs and made sure I didn’t miss a chai break. One time, however, as I went to the bathroom when I got out I could see the bus was taking off and I had to sprint back to stop it. I’d left my phone on there and everything so I would’ve been in a horrible situation had it left me. It would’ve made for good writing though. Sometimes I do relish in these bad situations, they make life just a bit more interesting than when everything works out. I slept fine on the bus and made it to Mumbai early in the morning, I was dropped not far from the Bandra neighborhood where I was staying. It all worked out fine. 

Finally, a big city in India that feels like a big city. Compared to the unplanned chaos of Delhi, Mumbai was a breath of fresh air. It’s still an absolute clusterfuck by western standards, but a great tonic for the narrow alleys and general mayhem of the North. I stayed at the only viable hostel, in the Bandra district which happened to be convenient as my friend from New York, Rhea, lived just a few blocks away. The hostel was giving me a bad vibe at first because the man working there swore adamantly there was no space for my bicycle, really putting me in a pinch. He insisted if I just left it outside it wouldn’t be stolen. I was pretty angry. It sucks when you’re cycling and people aren’t hospitable. It’s not their fault. This is the ego at work. You get this idea in your head, as a cycle tourist, that because you’re making so much effort to get places, dealing with accommodation at the end of the day should be a breeze, people should understand what you’ve been through and do all in their power to make things work out. So when you’re lazily brushed off by someone, it feels like a great injustice. But like I said, it’s the ego. They owe me nothing. They didn’t ask me to be traveling in such a way. I chose this. It’s nothing personal. Anyway, he said to come back later when the owner was there. It seems like he’s just afraid of pissing off the owner. That’s fine. I get it. I went to a nearby cafe to work on some video edits and pass the day. The cafe people didn’t let me bring my bicycle into the front courtyard so I had to leave it further on the sidewalk, just barely in view, and steal a nervous glance in its direction every few minutes or so. Rhea said I could store the bike at hers if worst comes to worst, so that was reassuring. The cafe wasn’t great. Mostly empty throughout the day. The coffee was fine, but the vibe was off. There were no customers yet everyone seemed really busy and sort of annoyed that I was there. Being a digital nomad makes you every cafe workers enemy. They hate seeing you. As you sheepishly ask for wifi password and a charging port. Go to hell, they must be thinking. And they’re not wrong. Who am I to pay for one coffee and then linger in a place of business for several hours in a gainfully profitable way, essentially turning their establishment into my office and reaping the rewards? As they toil for me on minimum wage. But this is who I’ve become, there’s no going back. After I felt sufficiently exhausted from editing, I went back to the cafe and was able to finesse my bicycle in there after serving some puppy dog eyes and stressing the value of my bicycle. Of course there was room. There’s always room for a bicycle, never let someone tell you there isn’t. 

It was a lot hotter in Mumbai and I was thankful to find air conditioning in the hostel. I met with Rhea and her girlfriend and another friend at a nice Goan restaurant and got my first taste of Indian seafood and buffalo meat. It felt like I was in another world. There I was in the same clothes I wore every day smelling like the road, placed in a very chic cosmopolitan setting. Quite strange. No alcohol for me. Also strange. I was treating myself to certain excesses while denying myself others. This would become thematic of the south indian experience. As I restrain myself, sometimes I go overboard in other indulgences. No alcohol means sweet tooth.  No sweets means too much caffeine. No caffeine means I treat myself to a hotel room and watch too many movies. How do I get to the point where I’ve beaten all of these excess cravings? Is it just when the desire to do work and be productive beats the rest? That would be the protestant way encouraged in America. Or maybe I put it into other people? Relationships? Or I continue down the spiritual route and find some kind of peace within myself that will quell these fires of incessant want. Of course, that’s the ideal outcome. To still enjoy life’s pleasures without forming attachment to them. But how many can truly say they’ve achieved this? Perhaps in old age, but in my youth it feels improbable and foolish to try. Young people should want things. They should be hungry. But sometimes I think I’m too hungry. A substantial portion of my time in Mumbai was spent cafe hopping. So many little treats. Undeserved. I’m making up for something else. Filling a hole. Even at Tushita, when I should’ve been concentrating on meditation all I could think about was that wonderful bread with the butter and the honey and the peanut butter oh lord even now just the idea of it awakens such a lust in me. I like food way too much. And coffee. And chocolate. All the pleasures. But at least I’m done with cigarettes and alcohol. This must just be a side effect. All these years that I drank habitually, I must have been filling a vacuum, and now that the vacuum’s been once again exposed i’m filling it with the next desire. Especially when I’m off the bike, and finding myself in these towns with other foreigners and access to those things that I want, the good coffee, the good viennoiserie, the good meat, I just go crazy. And there’s also just not much else to do. This is life. You go to a place. You sleep there. And then you spend a lot of your mental energy figuring out where you’ll get the next bite. And for me, that becomes really important. And often I’d rather go about it alone. I meet good fun people in the hostel, but sometimes eating with them is a drag. I want to pick the place. I want to order at my chosen speed and eat everything. Sharing has its benefits of course, more variety, but what if our tastes are different? I’m starting to realize it’s really all about food for me. It always has been. I’m a live to eater. And I think that’s probably not good. I wish I was one of those people so obsessed with work and productivity that they sometimes forget to eat! That has happened to me before, on rare occasion, and I love it. Perhaps this is why I like coffee. It enables me to forget about food and focus on an activity for some hours. I need coffee because I work. I’m angry because I work. Work brings back everything that I ran away from in New York. New York isn’t bad. Work is. I can’t force myself to care about something as inane as work without the help of a stimulant. Because I sacrifice hours of my life to work, and because my boss always needs things, I go quickly and easily back into fight or flight anxiety mode. This makes me angry and irritable about the smallest inconveniences. This is all the bad. And now it’s so clear where it comes from.

When everything is taken care of, is life just food and entertainment? It feels so pathetic to eat and to watch things. So pathetic. But sometimes it’s all I want to do. Being social is nice, but then after you’ve known people for a while all you want to do with them is once again eat and watch things. The one time I was ever in something that would pass as a relationship, I felt as though all we did was plan to watch things or eat. It drove me mad. But what else is in life? Yes, fitness. Yes, the outdoors. Skills acquisition. Music. There’s so much. Writing and filmmaking. So so much. And yet. When life is kicking your ass as it always does. And you’re just working every day. All you end up caring about is food and entertainment. And why should I feel bad? Pathetic? Why do I need to be productive every day? Why can’t I just be happy sitting on my ass?

Enough moping though. I enjoyed Bandra. It did bakeries and cafes well. I met an old friend, Suraj. He’s Australian too, and also infected by hustle mentality. The man can talk and talk. He says he has the gift of the gab. He’s in love with himself. When he was around Indians he changed back in to an Indian accent, but when he wanted to impress on foreigners he went full aussie. What a chameleon! But I respect the code-switching skills, I know I do the same in my own way. It’s attractive and repulsive at the same time. Too often do I fall under the influence of such men. I need to resist that. I hung out with my old friend from Dharamshala, Abhay, and got to poke around in his life. It’s kind of a sad one. It seems like he hasn’t worked in years. He has around 12 cats though I didn’t count. He still lives with his wife who he’s in the process of divorcing. He has bags under his eyes outlined by dark circles, his hair is greying and he wears all black. He’s too thin. I hope he’s okay. He’s a sweet guy and I wish him the best. He offered me some whiskey and I couldn’t refuse. So began a very rare night of alcohol for me. I met up later with Rhea, her girlfriend, and another couple of her friends. I had told Suraj to come by with people from the hostel because it was a karaoke bar. This was another social mistake of mine. Always wanting to combine groups. Never thinking about the consequences and forgetting to check in with the parties about it. This tends to get me in trouble. It’s almost ended friendships. Suraj showed up with a whole bunch of people as it was someones birthday and quickly realized they wouldn’t all fit at the table. The whole bar was crowded so they eventually left, making me feel guilty and anxious. Ah, back in the social world, where all I do is wrong. I ended up really hitting it off with the other couple, who were both writers working in the Bollywood machine, and we had a good time that night. The alcohol didn’t make my IBS any better, but it didn’t really make it any worse either. The next day I went to a cafe and tried to get work done. Video editing is tedious and it burns me out fast. It’s hard to force myself to care about these little social media advertisements. But I persist. Mumbai’s gravity was toxic. I was in New York City again. Beautiful people. Wealth. Film industry everywhere. I couldn’t sit down in a cafe without overhearing a conversation about scripts or acting or seeing other video editors. In some ways I liked it, but in others I felt nauseous. What was I doing here? I’d come so far in the Himalayas, and now, here in the middle of the country, I feel that I’m losing direction. Wasn’t I supposed to be doing something? Aren’t I here for a reason? The musical. I haven’t been writing. I haven’t been journaling. I haven’t been reading as much. I’m losing the wonderful habits I had gained up North. Because of work and coffee and croissants. I need to get out of this city. I sang that to myself as I was walking one night, feeling the sad drag of urban temptation pull me down and wrestling from under its snare. I gotta get out of this city. And so I did. After sleeping at Rhea’s I woke up, put my bag together, and made for a ferry boat that took me across the bay. Finally. On the road again.