Mud, Sweat, and Tears

 

Mumbai is harsh, but Mumbai is also forgiving. Even though I've been here for a month, August 27 was my first day of school. And I was late. The day did not have a promising start: monsoon season has begun in earnest here, and it was pouring rain. I got up about 3 hours before I needed to leave, and I had a leisurely morning. By the time I left at 10:45, the streets had become rivers of filth. I waited at my bus stop with my umbrella, and a middle aged businessman leaped on a bus as traffic forced it to a halt. Assuming it was my bus, I followed him. This was my first mistake. The bus began to take me through the familiar route along Marve Road and past my church. I gave the ticket taker the usual fare for a ride to the train station: ten rupees. He gave me three in return. My second mistake was not realizing something was wrong then. Thanks to the rain, a thick layer of condensation covered the inside of the windows, turning familiar sights into a haze of color. I caught a glimpse of an empty granite pedestal and the tiniest hint of worry entered my brain: that didn't look at all familiar. Within 20 minutes, the ticket taker had asked me what I was still doing on the bus (in Hindi, of course). Fortunately, he thought the hopelessly lost and chronically stupid foreigner was a highly amusing sight, so he didn’t fine me.

The bus roared away as rain poured, and I wrestled with my umbrella for a few moments. I began to backtrack, fighting back tears as panic began to set in. A few things were now painfully clear to me.

1. I had no idea where I was, nor did I know where I needed to go.

2. I was lost in a bad neighborhood in a city where I don’t speak the language, and I did not have a cellphone.

3. I was going to be late for my first day of college.

The rain flooded the sewer ditches as I trudged up the road, washing murky brown water over my sandal-clad feet. Soon I was soaked up to my thighs. I felt deeply aware of the stares I was drawing in my current state, so I swallowed my growing hysteria and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. I tried to retrace the bus route with little success. My wet rubber sandals stuck to my feet with every step I took, and soon I had blisters that stung in the filthy water. Shortly, I found myself on a main road, but I had no idea which way to go to find the train station. Five rickshaw drivers refused to take me. I think the sixth one had some pity on me because, rather than taking me the long way, he took me to a foot bridge that went over the tracks and told me in broken English where to go from there. I got on my train at 12:10 for 12:30 college in hysterics.

Bandra station, where I get off the train to go to college, is a beautiful colonial building that houses what so many people find frustrating about India: cripplingly inefficient bureaucracy and people too fed up to care about consideration and  social contract. The downpour made it worse. A huge queue of people wrapped around the front of the station, with every last person waiting for a rickshaw. A bored and cranky police officer directed the rickshaws through two narrow lanes, shouting at queue-jumpers. We all waited meekly beneath our umbrellas as rickshaws came and went, two by two. A man completely eschewed the queue and hopped into one of the rickshaws in line, resulting in the police officer blocking the rickshaw and shouting at the passenger for a full two minutes. This little exchange stalled the already slow-moving line, and I felt acutely aware of my lateness. At long last, I caught a rickshaw to school. The stress of my morning finally reduced me to tears, and I snuffled through the five minute ride to the college.

When I arrived, I learned that classes had been canceled. Again.

I stumbled home that afternoon as a wet mess. My host grandmother, who doesn’t speak much English, was surprised to see me early. I gave her the abbreviated version: “I got lost.” She sympathetically offered me half of her tea (having only brewed enough for herself) and said simply, “It’s how you learn.” A fierce affection for my host family filled me because I’d been half-heartedly telling myself that all day.  Nothing could be truer.

Mumbai is a difficult place. It's hard to learn who you can trust, who you can rely on, how to stay out of trouble, and how to enjoy yourself. Difficulty fosters growth, however, and I have grown so much since my arrival here a month ago. If Monday's events had occurred even two weeks ago, I would be frustrated and defeated, and I'd probably beg my parents to bring me home. Now I can simply shake this off and learn from my mistake. I have nine months left to see the sights, meet the people, and understand the culture. I have only nine months left to learn Mumbai. Why waste it with feelings of frustration and despair? I have grown and I have learned, but I've barely begun.