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Ok... so this is not really a day in the life in Ranchi. It's a five minute snapshot of one of the busier roundabouts. And If you're searching for the true experience, turn your speakers up as high as they go. No... Higher.
It may be said that Mumbai is the (Indian) city of dreams, a place where an ambitious businessman can achieve incredible wealth, and a budding thespian can give concrete shape to their celluloid dreams.
Passing a week there illustrated to me why the mega-metropolis is a destination for dreamers – posh colonies with chic boutiques and swanky lounges serve up international brands to the high-heeled glitterati.
It is, however, a city of extreme and undeniable contrasts. Although it has the largest concentration of wealth in India, it is home to the single largest slum in Asia with nearly a million occupants. This slum, and others that sprawl in a similar fashion, provide ample setting for even the smallest of dreams to die a cruel merciless death.
Although I may soon end up there, I don’t dream of Mumbai.
Taking full advantage of my window seat, some 5,000 feet above the city, I look down on Mumbai's amorphous sea of lights and think wistfully of Kolkata. I squint and imagine those lights displaced by the rush of the Hooghly and not uninterrupted as they now appear. But in that case I would be looking down on Kolkata and leaving it, so perhaps that would leave me no better.
Before I left for India, something about Kolkata (Calcutta) called to me. Considering it was the closest “urban” – a word that is so wonderfully subjective here – area to my work in Ranchi, I could think of no better spot for my first mini-vacation. I did not leave disappointed.
As soon as I boarded the train in Ranchi, I could feel it.
I knew it from the moment my ears were graced with the sweet melodic sound of Bengali.
From my first glimpse of the Bengali script, a touch more angular than its cousin, Hindi, numerous triangles festooned with innumerable swirls.
From arriving at Howrah rail station and journeying across Howrah bridge: the stunning thickness of the smog-laden evening air dwarfed only by the viscosity of the traffic below it (on the world’s busiest bridge).
From zigzagging my way across the Hooghly River (an offshoot of the mighty Ganga) aboard ferries, gazing at colorful crowds of locals on the banks performing puja (praying), bathing, swimming, and “wastewatering”.
From witnessing various touching father-son moments, fathers shamelessly holding mini-penises, their sons letting fly into the street.
From wandering the streets of North Kolkata and being reminded of Havana (with less ass-shaking and –peddling), bougainvilleas spilling on to the streets from formerly well-apportioned balconies.
From stumbling upon the Pareshnath Jain temple and its intricate mosaics of mirrors, tiles, gold inlays, and paintings, seamlessly and peacefully tucked into a North Kolkatan side street.
From the various relics of the British Raj: the Maidan, a common in the center of the city where I finally had a chance to re-polish my Guatemalan football skills; the Victoria Memorial, possibly the finest piece of architecture left by the Brits on the subcontinent; and the Park St. Cemetery, in whose therapeutic shade I took refuge from the madness of Kolkatan streets.
From the absolutely sublime fish curries. And the addling addictiveness of the hot kati roll, a curry-laced, blazing hot fajita.
From the Girish Park metro station, in which a pair of 8-year old boys and I provided ample entertainment for everyone around, making faces at each other, and exclaiming wildly in English, Hindi, Spanish and Bengali.
From the evening of Kali Puja, when we jam-packed ourselves into a truck with the blue goddess Kali, maneuvered our way via the equally jammed (and raucous) streets down to the river and tossed her in.
From reacquainting myself with the traveler’s lifestyle as well as conversations borne from moments with fellow travelers, especially Jonny & Lucy. L let me borrow J for backgammon and J let me borrow L for dancing.
From my various clubbing excursions (Tantra, Venom & Roxy), in which I was photographed and put on page 3 of The Times of India (either due to my noticeable dancing skills or my noticeable size and complexion).
(NB: I think the other time I died in India was on a motorcycle. Remind me not to do that again. Thanks.)
I knew it then and I know it now, yet I’m not quite sure what it is that I know. I fell in love with something but was it Kolkata, or was it being on vacation, or was it my reintroduction to traveling?
Upon his return from Calcutta, Mark Twain said, "I'm glad I went, and I'm glad I never have to go back."
When I returned I said, "I'm glad I went. Why did I ever leave?"
I guess not everyone is into fish curries.
The British were not the first Europeans to arrive in India, nor were they the last to depart; the proud owners of both those distinctions are the Portuguese: 1498 & 1961. The Portuguese did not possess ample resources to leave much of a legacy outside of the coastal area of Goa. The British legacy, however, lives on today via the extensive rail network, the chai culture, the famous Indian bureaucracy, and Hinglish.
In 1600, Queen Elizabeth I of England granted a charter in which she gave the East India Company a full-fledged monopoly on all British trade with India. The London-based company founded their first trading post in Gujarat in 1613. By 1668, they had established additional trading posts in Chennai (Madras), Bengal, and Mumbai (Bombay). Virtually all of Britain’s affairs in India were administered by the East India Company until 1858, when the British government officially took control. Although the government had accepted a more active administrative role beginning in 1784, for nearly 250 years it was not the British Government that ruled over India – it was a commercial trading company.
As the government in London assumed a more permanent and fortified presence in India, it retained the same priorities as the trading company: trade and profit. They planted tea, coffee, and cotton; developed iron and coal mining; and commenced with the construction of the rail system.
The British also installed a system of central government replete with bureaucratic models that existed at the time in London. This system, jettisoned long ago in Britain, still prevails throughout India in incomprehensible proportions.
Additionally, we must not forget to mention the imposition of the queen’s tongue. In order to more efficiently (see: underhandedly) administer a land of countless local languages, the new rulers decided that selecting one official governmental language would be most practical. They chose English.
The Constitution of India currently recognizes eighteen languages. There are, amazingly enough, believed to be over 1600 other languages spoken throughout the country. Hindi is the most widely used, though English remains the official language of the judiciary. There are significant efforts being made to promote Hindi as the country’s official language, but the majority of south India rightfully objects; Hindi is the primary tongue of the north.
Just as American English has followed a course distinct from that of British English, Indian English (Hinglish) has developed its own idiosyncrasies as well.
I recall being surprised the first few times I watched CNN’s affiliate in India, CNN/IBN, by the awkward manner in which the anchors conversed in English. I was further confounded by the number of spelling errors in the ticker that graced the bottom of the page. When I mentioned this to a few of my Indian colleagues, they assured me that it was because I spoke American English.
Almost in unison they continued: “This is Oxford English.”
I leaned toward the imaginary Oxford man at my side and mumbled out of the corner of my mouth: “That’s just bad English.”
There was no response. He had fainted two phrases back.
Without further ado, I give you Hinglish, umm… I mean Oxford English. Some of it may be amusing. Other phrases may be totally confusing. Don't be alarmed. After four months here, I don’t understand some things that I see and hear.
A bit draconian no doubt, but the traffice polic is a force to be reckoned with.
Although the lift is now completely functional, I continue to opt for the stairs.
While same-sex sex is illegal in India, same-sex marketing is a real hit.
A section of a cricket stadium in Kolkata. I chose to sit elsewhere.
So much for supplementing my income (on that street).
If you’re not personally familiar with UTIs, then you’re lucky (or perhaps just a guy). I wonder if this bank actually has many withdrawals. 
Urinating in public is totally acceptable in India. Alas, the irony is lost.
Amen!
Considering I wasn’t in the market for any of that, I kept on walking.
That’s what I’m saying, brother! Wait… What?!
There are so many more wonderful examples. More to come, I promise.
