John Massey - Only In Khush India

The train in Mumbai is something that must be experienced whilst in this city. 15,000 people die every year on the railways of India, and 6000 people die in Mumbai alone.

 

After experiencing the railway system first hand, I am not shocked by these statistics at all. We have been warned by almost everyone we have met not to go the train. ‘Order a taxi instead,’ people say.

So when we wake up on Sunday morning, I say to the boys ‘fancy going on the train?’

‘Yes please’ is their reply.

Michelle however doesn’t say anything – just gives me a look. I explain ‘come on. It’s Sunday, there are less people about, this is the best time to experience the train’.

‘Really’ is her response.

I sell the idea of getting on the train, by mention some sight-seeing in town, CMST station, a Victorian station built by the British. She agrees. ‘Great’ I am thinking ‘it can’t be that bad’, and the children are excited.

We buy our tickets 3^rd class and the cheapest you can buy, if you are going to experience it you have to experience the way the locals do. Later, I find out that there is no real difference in class on these train, everyone just jumps on, in this case, literally whilst the train is moving.

The price of a 40 minute journey on a train is 8 pence, this is what keeps India moving, if it was more expensive people would not be able to travel.

I worked out, an interesting price comparison.  If I was to travel to work by train 40 mins every day there and back (the same distance, say, from Epping to Liverpool Street) here in Mumbai, it would cost less for a month’s travel than it would cost me to buy one jar of chocolate spread!

So we buy the tickets and I decide to look after them all. Later, that turns out to be a mistake. We climb the footbridge over the railway line, there are only two platforms, so it can’t be difficult to figure out which way we need to go. We ask someone he tells us we are on the correct platform. We look across and see another train approaching from the opposite direction. This is our first experience of the way things happen here on the trains in Mumbai. The train approaches the station, people are jumping off the train as it enters the station – still moving!  There is not a door to be seen anywhere on the entire train. Why have doors?  This would be too safe and just slow things down and get in the way. There is an art to jumping off a moving train. You need to keep your feet moving, almost be running before you hit the ground, not that I am suggesting you should try it.

 

The other thing that you also notice is the amount of people in the train and hanging out of the doors. Further journeys  travelling on the train has shown us that the prime position is to be hanging out of the door, holding on with only one hand, and your free leg dangling out of the train. This position does however only seem to be taken by so-called cool teenage boys!

 

 

We look across the platform, I say ‘did you see that?’

‘Yes’, reply the boys.

I don’t think this is going to be that easy. Michelle is not happy with the whole situation. We are then approached by a lady, who explains to us, that there are lady compartments, which Michelle should travel in, and with the boys. I am thinking that’s a bit sexist, but later realise that the trains get so busy, that at times you can’t even get on them. And if you do, you are certainly up close and personal. I would say imagine Liverpool Street tube at rush hour and then multiply it by 6 and you would get some idea of the amount of people that use these trains every day.

So we are ready I say to Michelle ‘it’s Sunday, you won’t have to use the lady’s compartment.  Just jump on with us’. The train approaches the station,

I say ‘ready boys,’ ‘oh yes.’

I figure you have about 10 seconds to get on the train, 5 of those seconds the train is still slowly moving. You have to choose the compartment you are going to go for and move with the train and then jump on, easy, especially on a Sunday.

Go! Andrew jumps on and closely followed by me and Theo holding hands.  The train is busy, but on this occasion there is enough room to get on through the doorless compartment.

‘Michelle! Mummy! Jump!’

I hold her hand come on the 5 seconds is ticking down.

‘Now’ I shout.

She lets go of my hand and does not jump and does not get on the train. All of us look at each other.

‘Why did she not jump on?’

I have no answer, but not only do have no answer, I have no phone. I can’t phone her. I have left my phone back at the hotel, thinking I wouldn’t need it, Michelle has a phone and we are together all day.

‘What are we going to do dad?’

‘Get off at the next station’ I reply, ‘and wait’.

‘she will jump on the next train, after seeing how much time she has got to get on the train she will be ready for the next one’

We wait and two train go by – she is not on either of them. I am thinking she is not happy. She has put the whole thing down to a bad experience and returned to the hotel. So we get the next train back and walk back to the hotel expecting to see Michelle there and waiting. But no, she isn’t there, my phone rings.

‘Where are you? I am on the train’ she says

‘We are back at the hotel, why are you on the train we waited for you at the next station’

‘I had no ticket, you had it so I had to go back and buy another one’

‘Oh, get off the train and wait at the station, but let me know the name of the station and we will meet you there’

So after boarding the train again we all safely meet up. We did our sight-seeing as promised and even had a Macdonald’s for Sunday lunch. But was this our first day’s experience of the railways over yet? Not quite, we had to come back.

 

 

Michelle says ‘come on we have had the experience shall we just get a taxi back home?’

I say ‘no, you are used to trains now, and because this is the last station on the way back home, the train will not be moving when we get on, and it’s Sunday’.

On future train journeys I have since experienced crowds, on these train like nothing I have ever experienced. On one occasion when changing trains going over to the west, and entering the city, it was mad.

You have to simply fight like a rugby player to get on, elbows and all my experience as a scrum- half was needed to enter the train. So I think now I am on all is safe, but how wrong could I be. It wasn’t the getting on it was the getting off that proved to be the biggest problem. People are all touching like you can’t imagine. People shout the name of the station they are getting off at, the main changing station. If you are not getting off you are pushed and man-handled to the middle part of the train; if you are getting off, you just have to brace yourself. On this occasion I was getting off, the station name is called the 10 seconds is in countdown. Then the move starts.

The last time I can remember my feet not touching the ground and I was still moving was when I was extremely drunk, and a 6ft5”bouncer threw me out of a night club! This time, I was moving with the crowd and my feet were not touching the ground, and on this occasion I was not drunk.  There was nothing I could do about it. ‘Help’ was the word that came to mind when the crowd finally moved me from the train. I dusted myself down and got my feet back on the ground, ready for the next scrum.

So if I knew then, what I know now, when we were just about to get on the train, then maybe Sunday or not we might have got a taxi back home.

We look around the lovely train station that ironically looks better and more British that the new changes at Kings Cross. The train arrives, we meet a guy who talks to us and says he will help us on the train. He says he just came back from visiting his family in Leicester, his name was Mistry.

He says being Sunday there is no need for us to split up, and for Michelle and the boys to go into the lady’s compartment. We can all travel together …. He was wrong.

We get on the train, no problem, a bit crowed, and we can’t get a seat, but at least we are together. On entering the train Mistry, who I guess was in his late 60’s shows us the Indian rugby or Kabaddi style of entering the train. Just push with all your might. Michelle is amazed but still smiling. I ask the boys if they are alright, and if they can still breathe. We talk to Mistry, and the space isn’t that bad, well not yet.

Mistry says goodbye and leaves the train, we are alone and all together, I figure out we have only 3 stops before we need to get off. Getting back to the hotel will be no problem. Then we stop at a station 3 stops from our stop. This is a connecting line stop. I know now, but not then, this is a station where lots of people either enter or get off of the train to connect to another line. There is movement we are pushed around, I hold onto the two boys, Michelle just ahead of me.

‘Alright everyone?’ I say.

Then there is a rush of more people getting the train; we are squashed so close together you can feel every part of the person’s body you are next to! I am now thinking, ‘Michelle should have gone into the ladies’ compartment’.

The squash continues, you can hear peoples discomforting sighs. I say to Andrew who is just in front of me, ‘only two more stops to go’. ‘Ok’, he smiles.

Michelle, standing just in front of Andrew, looks back over her shoulder, with a real worried look on her face. I am thinking ‘she is just squashed like the rest of us’. The final stop one more stop and we can get off, we are nearly off this train.

She looks over again, this time with a more than worried look on her face, I can see she wants to say something. I squash closer to Andrew to meet her face.

She says: ‘John’.

I know straight away to use my name in a situation like this there must be something wrong.

‘Are you ok?’

‘John’, she whispers.

‘What?’

‘Don’t do anything, but someone has got their hand right on my bum’

I am thinking, how could I do anything, my hands are so closely squashed against my body, I couldn’t even pick my nose if I wanted to.

She squirms, ‘it’s still there.  There is still a hand on my bum’.

‘Michelle, I am sorry there is nothing I can do’

I did think about saying just enjoy it while you can, but then thought that wouldn’t have been the correct timing for such a poor joke.

She looks more over her shoulder more worried this time. I am thinking the old scrum-half might have rearrange this scrum.

‘Don’t worry Michelle I am coming’ I say.

‘Quick’ she says ‘the hand is moving’

‘Oh no’, I am thinking. Then Andrew who is sandwiched between us both for the whole journey, decides to speak.

‘Don’t worry, mum. That’s my hand!’

 

 

 

 

 

 

So the need to run and move is a problem over here. The streets are not a place to run unless you get up at 4.00am to avoid the traffic, and the pavements – well, there aren’t any.

I am not silly and realise that running on a building site and the top of the hotel roof can only be a temporary fix to my need to exercise. I have had my eyes wide open since I got here, and open spaces and parks are rarer than gold dust.

So I thought, if anyone knows where to run it will be one of the waiters  I had a look and found one that looked like he looked after himself physically, even if that meant just going to the gym. Well if I have to join a gym, that might be my only way of exercising, so be it. Namdev is his name and since, we have become good friends. At breakfast I say Namdev, ‘where can I run?’

He replies ‘the roof’.

‘Isn’t there anywhere else’?

He thinks and says these following words that over the weeks to follow become my home, my sentry, and my savour.

‘Ghandi Maiden’

‘It’s a park’ and then he googles it on his phone and shows me.

It’s an open space I see, I am enthused for the first time since arriving, somewhere to go, to walk freely and somewhere I can run.

‘Where is it, how far away?’

‘Not far, you can walk there, but I would get a rickshaw first so you know where to go’

Yes, I am ready. I lay in bed, thinking about it. I am not working tomorrow so when the family go to school, I am out to find Ghandi Maiden. It’s the smallest things that keep you going, and when I can’t run or walk freely, I can’t operate.

 

I get a rickshaw and on the way to the park, a coconut tree collapses across the street. I am not sure if it was a planned felling or it just collapsed.  The driver tuts, and turns around to find another route. I arrive: 18 rupees for the journey.

 

So this is Ghandi Maiden: a rectangular opening, red dust space, with hardly any grass.  This, I imagine, has been worn out with constant use. I read the sign on the metal gate before I enter the park. It reads ‘it is open 24 hours a day and for the people’.  It is a rectangular shape measuring maybe 120m long 60m wide or maybe bigger. Trees surround the park giving it shade; there is a small park for the younger children at one end of the park. There is also a large concrete area with a basketball court. It looks as if this area serves the people well. There is also a small walking path that runs all around the side of the park, where people walk. There are two ladies sweeping all the fallen leaves from the trees up by hand, placing them in large piles and later used or sold on.

This place is the place, the life of the community.

So now I am here, it is time to run. I am looking forward to such a natural experience. Looking around I need to plan my attack. The biggest problem, well not really a problem after running on a building site and a roof top, but the problem here is the cricket. There are cricket games going on all the time, and the later you get here, the more balls you have to avoid whilst running. To start with this might seem funny, and I have quite enjoyed throwing the cricket balls back. But these guys here are not messing about and really know how to hit a ball – only rubber balls and tennis balls are allowed, but getting one of these on the back of your head isn’t funny.

 

My first run, loaded down with a rucksack on my back filled with water, an umbrella and sweat towel inside, I start. It doesn’t take long before I am approached by a young guy. He stops me.

‘Where you from, out of India?’ he says

‘Certainly, I am from England’

‘Why are you running? How old are you? Why are you here?’

I realise my run is over for now and he wants to practise his English, so we talk. Ali is his name, a student, 17 years old. We talk about religion, politics and the stuff you don’t really want to talk about especially with strangers, even though he seemed a good guy. On future occasion when I have returned there, he has been there. And he shouts out as I run pass, ‘keep going John Messi’ – I wish!

 

Anyway as we talk, I can’t help noticing all the stray dogs around. They don’t seem unhappy and most are just lying in the sun. I talk to Ali about these dogs which are obviously not just in the park but also walking the streets; they are not aggressive in any way.

 

It’s interesting to note how dog society mirrors human society.  Since being here in India I have noticed there is a strong social hierarchy amongst the people. An ordering where people believe they are more or less important because of their birth, their job, or because the amount of money they have or don’t have. I am not going to make any comment on this, except I find it strange and a bit dated. It could have been us Britishers’ fault, (the name English people are sometimes called by).

So with this in mind, Ali starts talking about the dogs. They are fed and looked after by the local people, which would explain them being happy and contented, I think. While we are talking, we are approached by a black and white dog. Ali tells me that this Jack, he is second in command. Really? I am thinking, so who is in command?

‘That would be Kalu; he is there’ and he points,’I think he is twenty years old, but he is the top dog. Nothing happens in Ghandi Maiden without first being agreed by Kalu’.  I smile. There is not only a social hierarchy amongst the people, that is respected, but there is also a social hierarchy amongst the wild dogs, which is shown equal respect. Only In Khush India.

So, determined, I stop talking to Ali and return to my midday, 35 degree heat running. Only ‘mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun’, runs through my head as I trundle around Ghandi Maiden, avoiding the cricket ball missiles. 20 minutes is enough for my shirt to be completely soaked through, like someone has poured a bucket of water over me! I need to stop. I think people are looking at me, I can’t think why!

Why would anyone here in India think seeing a middle aged, short, grey hair guy, carry weight and a rucksack running look out of place on a nice sunny afternoon?

 

Thank you Ghandi Maiden, I will see you again soon!

We have now been here only a few days, and the rain seems just to keep coming. People are saying this is the worse monsoon for 10 years, typical.  It’s like being in Manchester, only with heat!

Michelle struggles to get home in the rain, it takes her 2 and half hours, where usually it only takes 20 mins. We are getting a bit worried, the traffic stops, the roads are waterlogged. Michelle is stuck at school. Later in the news, we hear that 100 die in the floods, a famous surgeon falls down a uncovered manhole cover to his death and 1.8 million children don’t go to school for two days due to school closures.

 

I say to the boys ‘I know it is raining, but do you fancy a run?’

‘Why not’, is their reply, ‘it’s only a monsoon’.

Running in the rain is something that we do all the time in the UK and in Spain. It is something that us three just take for granted.

But here it is different.  So we are all ready to run, but the biggest problem is where. The street is an impossibility:  cows, dogs, rickshaws, people and whatever else you can imagine makes this a no-no. That’s without the amount of rain coming down.

So the boys’ obvious question is: ‘where are we going to run, Dad?’

I think that is a good question, and it reminds me of the sad story of the Chilean miners, trapped underground. They were trapped for months without light.  One of the surviving miners said that the only thing that kept him sane was the fact he could run, even in the dark.

I am thinking ‘whatever else happens, if I can run or walk somewhere safe, I feel a lot better’. The Chilean miner said, “if you can run, you are free”.

But here, so far in Mumbai this simple freedom doesn’t seem easy.

First we are advised we could run of the roof of the hotel, but after inspection this could be a possibility but not in the rain; the surface of the roof is ceramic tiles, making this option again a no-no.

Opposite the hotel I see space.  “There” I say to the boys, “that’s where we can run”.

Dad, that’s a building site isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, but it is space”.

We have to be careful, to avoid metal pipes, bricks, massive manhole covers that are not covered. But, at least I think to myself, these obstacles are not moving.

It is now raining really hard; so hard you could hardly see in front of you.

I say to the boys, ‘how many people get the chance to run in a monsoon, and furthermore, run in a monsoon on an active building site?’

 

Time to meet all the ex- pat staff. It was arranged that we were all going to meet at the school, and travel to meet Komal (another ex-pat teacher from Michelle’s school) and her family. There it was arranged that we would visit some of the local community temples showing off their individually made Ganesha statutes.

After a transport problem, we finally got two taxis and travelled south into town, and met Komal.  We were introduced to her family. They interesting live in an old British-made building whose original purpose was to house the elephants. Komal’s family were very welcoming and had made us all traditional foods and drinks.

It was raining, so armed with our essential umbrellas, we followed Komal and her aunt, around the area, visiting some 5 different purpose built temples that housed Ganesh. The designs and colours were amazing. The people in these temples were so surprised to see westerner visiting their temple that they wanted to talk to us and have their picture taken with them. We all felt like film stars, and were the only white people seen around that area.

After leaving one temple, two young guys came around a corner on their motorbike, nothing unusual, except my son Andrew was standing there. The guys on their bike saw his blond hair and were so amazed that they nearly crashed their bike into the wall. What fame!

We were still following Komal’s aunt around, looking at the Ganesh temples; the last one was the most memorable and not because of Ganesh.

Following the same pattern of people coming up to us, asking us where we were from, and thanking us for visiting their temple, and then asking for their picture to be taken with us, I struck up a conversation with one of the guys an older man, who seemed to have a presence. He was ordering a few men around.  Another man came up to me and said that he was a very important man, a general of the community, which really didn’t mean much to me. However I spoke to him and he had his photo taken with us.

Coming out of a temple, he told us that he was a business man and he owned the largest umbrella company in Mumbai. What with the amount of rain and the monsoon, this obviously must be a lucrative business. So then he asks if we want to take a look – I of course, agreed.

So out of the temple over to a building that looks like it was built in the 1920s, we are all put in a lift. I had my worries and old iron gate is pulled over the lift, I have only seen these kinds of lifts in movies, and the movies are usually set in New York. Then there is a lift guard man, with his whistle, which is used to indicate when the iron gates were to be shut. Up we go three floors and we are then lead down a corridor and into a massive room.

I have never seen so many umbrellas in my life. There is a cottage industry operation in full flow, and 5 guys working in their different jobs of assembling the umbrellas.

More pictures are taken.  All of us ex-pats are thinking ‘how did we end up here’. The owner enters the factory and wants a photo of all of us.  This was the cue for us to all start singing. “We are singing in the rain, just singing in the rain”

Most ex-pats knew the chorus but sadly (or not), it was only Michelle and I that knew the whole song, which we blurted out with full gusto. Perhaps this photo will be used as advertisement, and I will see myself on a massive billboard whilst travelling on the roads in Mumbai.

The boys got a free umbrella!

Only In Khush India.

So we at last arrive in India and into Mumbai. Sunday Morning 6am, Michelle has arranged for one of the drivers at school to bring herself to the airport and give us all a lift back to the hotel.

Driving to the hotel took about 35 minutes and on the way we passed the biggest slum in Mumbai. This is where Slum Dog Millionaire was filmed. But for me, I had just watched a great film on the plane called ‘Half Ticket’, and when we drove past I could imagine one of the characters there in real life.

Got to the Hotel, called Hotel Jewel of Chembur. It seemed a great place and all the staff were friendly on arrival.

We had to be booked into two double rooms next to each other, I was sharing with Andrew.

So after we had placed our stuff and cases in the room, it was time to venture outside. To say it look busy and dangerous would be putting it mild. We were all suffering from jet lag, but were determined to stay awake.

Chembur, a large eastern suburb was our location and it is known for its street markets and selling of fruit and fabric. Michelle had been here now for two weeks and was happy showing us three lost dogs around. The first thing that I noticed, and hadn’t remembered that clearly from last time in India, was the roads. There are no real pavements so everything and everyone is fight and dodging to move along. We were scared – rikshaws missing our ankles by centimetres. Michelle said ‘don’t stop put your hand out and walk’. I am thinking ‘really will they stop?’ But she was sort of right and don’t ask me how but vehicles and people just move together.

Michelle explained that it was a time for Ganesha festival, one celebrating one of the many Hindu gods, the elephant headed god and people were celebrating everywhere. She explained that recently there is music every night, loud drumming going onto the small hours of the night, every night. Great! I think just what I need with this jet lag.

So that very night, just as we are thinking it might be time for us to get something small to eat and then hit the sheets, the drumming starts, but guess what? It sounds so loud it can only be coming from our hotel.

We walk down, see the music, recognise some the waiters of the restaurant and see everyone is dancing. I walk through the kitchen to an outside space, where we are all welcomed. So all wearing white sailor-like hats, it’s time to dance.

Michelle and I are given chairs and the boys just join in with the real jumping dance movements.

So much for the jet lag, just join in, and most of all ‘Welcome to India’

 

So before I set off on my journey and move to my new country, I have to say goodbye to all of my friends and family. By now anyone who knows me well, knows I suffer badly from wanderlust and it was here again. This time initiated by my wife but also knowing that I would be returning in late October and back to work for PlaygroundPlaytimes.

I would like to thank in no particular order the following people:

Mavis Jones for storing some of our valuable belongings.

My brother, Steven Massey, for keeping my car going which I shall be using again in October.

Dorothy Turner, my dear mother in law, for agreeing to take the redirection of mail, and keep an eye on our affairs whilst we are in India.

Sange Wilson for agreeing to foster, but give back, our two wonderful cats Buster and Mim.

Angela Castro, my dear Spanish friend and adopted Spanish grandmother of the two boys. For all her help in Spain, her kind ways and supporting us when perhaps our Spanish language skills are lacking.

Lastly, Richard and Lorraine Smith for the help in packing up our house in Spain and getting me ready to move to India.

As I said earlier, there is a lot of organising to be done when you move abroad. The plan was simple rent our house in England; store both cars, leaving me one to use on my return to England; reorganise my work to run in line with a 3 week return to the UK; rehome our two cats; have an holiday in our in Spain and then a house swap holiday in Barcelona; pack up the house in Spain and get to the airport after storing the 2^nd car in the garage in Spain. Easy.

We had all decided that it was better for Michelle to fly directly from our holiday in Barcelona, to India, on her own. She needed to be there for the opening of her new school, and we thought it would be hard enough settling into being the Head of Primary in a new school and new country, without having to worry about the two boys and me.

So this was a chance for us boys to enjoy the rest of the summer holidays together in sunny Spain.

We left Michelle at the airport in Barcelona – this would be the first time she had been without the boys for so long since they were born.

Anyway we had a great time together and we face-timed Michelle, most days, who had now arrived safely in India. She was put up in a hotel while she was going to look for a suitable apartment for us to live in. She did seem a little lonely at first, but once she had started school and met all the other ex-pat teachers, she seemed to be enjoying the experience.

 

The boys were excited to get to India and meet up with their mum again – we had spent over two weeks without her.

So the time came to pack up. Lorraine and Richard had arrived and they were going to help us pack the house including the car into the garage and give us a lift to the airport in Santiago.

I would almost need another blog to explain what happen in the week of packing up. All I can say is Lorraine watched the packing go ahead through her glasses that were raining from the inside. Richard ended up with a “saw” head.

We thanked Richard for dropping us off at the airport, and I will miss the continuous laughter we shared over their time with us in Galicia.

We had 36 hours of travel ahead of us. Santiago to Madrid, Madrid to Dubai and Dubai to Mumbai.  All was well until we arrived in Madrid.  We had 5 hours to wait before our next flight to Dubai. So we ate, then it was time to check the tickets, after going to wrong place on 3 more occasion we had found the Fly Emirates desk. The lady looked at our tickets and her face changed. We had two hours before our flight to Dubai was due. She said “these tickets will not get you into India”.

“Why? I replied. It was the dependence visa –  it was less than a year old. I explained that you can only get a dependent visa for one year, so as soon as you get it will be less than one year old.  She was very apologetic.  “What can I do?”  I needed a valid ticket out of India for me and the two boys.

We all looked at each other. After all this organisation, this trip isn’t going to happen. My first thought I need to phone Richard and ask him to pick us up near in Madrid, get back to our house in Spain and rethink the whole situation.

I phoned Michelle – she was trying to stay calm but I don’t think she can’t believe it. I don’t think we have enough money in the bank to buy three tickets out of India.

She told me to leave it with her, she was going to contact the school. They will have to buy us the new tickets.

I am thinking it took them nearly four months to buy these tickets, how can they purchase out going tickets within two hours?

The Emirates lady tells me when she has seen I have the tickets out of India, she will allow us onto the plane.

‘No way’, I am thinking. Theo starts to cry ‘when will we see mum?’

Anyway after several phone calls both ways, the tickets are bought. The wonders of the internet.

I sighed.  I turned to the lady behind the desk: ‘has this happened before?’

‘All the time’.

‘What a stressful job you must have’.

She said ‘yes’.

Then she added, ‘that’s India for you’.

We haven’t even arrived yet and I think that this is a sign. It’s not going to be easy.