dogster

Let's divert and go to Bombay.
The story so far:
http://www.fodors.com/community/asia...f-cruising.cfm

Here are some snapshots from the Zone. Nothing particularly filthy although sensitive readers might care to look away. I must warn you, though. There is a HORRIBLE conclusion. Some of you might need sedation afterwards. I know I did.

But not for a little while. There will be a few instalments before you have to hide under the blanket. I will just go off and sulk if you don't let me know you're reading.

So - for you: my vast internet audience of errr... seven:

'Twilight at the Apollo'

dogster

Dogster is in the Twilight Zone: Mumbai.

He’s lost in the Hotel Apollo in Colaba, kinda confused. This isn’t quite where he should be – but then again, maybe it is. Time will tell. Whatever the location, it is not on his itinerary.

Colaba is prime territory for the fool and first-timer. Unlike the big old pile of bricks for Britain on Apollo Bunder, it’s the real Gateway to India. All the innocents abroad pass through Colaba - some are literally fresh off the boat. Colaba leaps out at you, runs up and grabs at you, pulls at your sleeve; drags you into danger, dishes the dirt and flings it in your face. Initially, all anyone can do is react - there’s no time to stand back, look or process; it’s a litany of ‘no, no thanks, good luck, how’s your business, I’m not buying, no, I don’t want... no, no, no...’

All part of the great Colaba plan; keep ‘em reeling, just keep talking, inundate and conquer. Everything depends on that first fleet-footed moment; the false friendship, fake passion and phony fun – there’s a whole community of locals whose chosen profession and sole skill is to extract money from fresh meat by fair means - or preferably foul.

Rajkavi Gulshan Marg ebbed and flowed with life at night, epicenter of two thumping nightclubs, three hotels and half a dozen low-life bars; taxis dropped off and picked up; burly security men with oily hair and black shirts patrolled the street; dealers made a quick sale, spun off laughing into the shadows; all the normal business of business in Mumbai. I saw the glint of mobile phones, cheap gold on dirty fingers, fights, ** and strange transactions, men lying drunk in the gutter, kids wrestling cripples for a buck – but I saw laughter and friendship, too.

Taxi drivers, pimps, Sausages, Sunnies and whores meshed together in a perfect Mafia machine. Each had his territory; invisible borders which could not be crossed, controlled and run by invisible criminals who must not be crossed. I can’t pretend to know what was really going on; these were layers of darkness beyond my comprehension – a network of shops and barbers, sly grog dens, dealers, dingy doorways and alleys that led to nowhere - but then, everywhere leads to nowhere in Colaba.

dogster

‘Austraya-a-a-a!’

Sunny is in his late forties, a short man, nothing but a false smile and a pair of Elvis Presley sunglasses molded like the tail fins of a Cadillac. All I can see is me reflected in his eye. His fat fingers are heavy with gold. Those rings can’t be very precious. He sleeps on a mat in the street.

‘You come back!’

We’ve had quite a long term relationship, Sunny and I – but then, Sunny knows everyone. He was first cab out of a busy rank the second I hit town, sold drugs from a taxi stand just across the road. He’s a rogue. Rogues are fine, provided you don’t give them your money.

‘Yeah, Sunny – I’m back.’

We talked when he was bored. It was off-season - nothing else to do.

‘Where you been?’

He didn’t listen to my answer. It was all about the questions, not the reply.

‘I’m going to Hong Kong next week,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Holiday?’

‘Just three days - then back...’

He smiled and lowered his voice.

‘Two hundred grams - brown sugar.’

According to the Urban Dictionary, ‘brown sugar’ is an attractive black woman - or heroin. I shudder to think how much two hundred grams of either is worth.

‘Gawd, don’t tell me about it. I don’t wanna know.’

He shrugged.

‘Don’t people get shot for that?’

‘No problem,’ he laughed, ‘I do it all the time.’

dogster

‘Wow, that’s a great bike.’

Sunshine was young and fearless, glowing in the reflection of his shiny striped shirt. It looked like something John Travolta had discarded on the set of ‘Saturday Night Fever’ but was the height of fashion for lowlife Mumbai. He sat on a big, bad bike at the epicenter of two thumping nightclubs, three hotels and half a dozen low-life bars, all connected by an invisible network of mobile phones.

‘It’s not his!’ a mate shouted and laughed. ‘He’s just posing!’

Sunbeam, the mate, was dressed in an identical iridescent striped shirt. Perhaps they were twins; brothers in arms – between them they sold every drug you could think of and some I never knew existed, pimped and provided anything on two or four legs. There was a cheerful, engaging criminality about both of them; they would have slit my throat in an instant had it suited them but Dogster was seen as benign.

Their territory extended half-a-block on either side; Sunshine worked the stretch of road from here to the corner of Tulloch Road, Sunbeam the hotel stretch down to Shivaji Marg; old man Sunny worked the prime location on the Causeway, outside Cafe Mondial.

‘This would be my bike,’ Sunshine said, caressing the handlebars, ‘if you’d give me some business...’

‘You know I don’t buy,’ I chuckled, ‘good luck.’

‘Everyday you say good luck - but you never give me any good luck.’

I sensed it was put up or shut up.

‘You don’t sell what I want to buy.’

‘What is that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I can sell that...’

dogster

A portly British expatriate wove uncertainly down the Marg. He was drunk, on a bicycle and a mission. I watched from my fourth floor window as he lurched to a stop, consulted briefly with Sunny then ducked into the shadows. Cocaine, I’d imagine. He looked like the merchant banker type. A second later they were back. Evidently there was a stoush going on; the Brit handed over money – but, judging by the shouting, clearly not enough.

They remonstrated; to and fro, to and fro. Sunny waved his mobile phone.

‘Don’t screw with me,’ he was saying, ‘I’ll call in my mates!’

‘Pffft!’ said the expat and gave him the finger. Sunny cut to the chase and dialed. Within seconds the drunk was surrounded. I saw two shiny striped shirts in the crowd. Hello Sunshine.

This was a moment to pay, not bray.

Of course, the expatriate brayed. That’s what British expats always do. He argued and protested, took the higher moral tone; when all that failed he shouted and shoved. He was truly the most stupid man in the world.

He vanished under a hail of blows, none particularly lethal. Sunbeam slipped in a kick. Brit swiftly paid for his pleasure in blood and rupees. No matter - in ten minutes, with a line up each nostril, he’ll feel no pain.

A police car cruised slowly along the street. Sunny’s gang scattered leaving the expat spattered, slowly heading horizontal. The cops were patrolling for the weekly baksheesh; one broken Brit was of no importance - he shouldn’t be there in the first place. They curled their lip and drove away.

The expat staggered to his feet.

Someone had stolen his bike.

‘You fock-k-ka-a-a-as! I hate your country!’ he exploded, ‘I hate your people!’

Everybody laughed. They’d taken his money, his pride and his bicycle. All in all, a good night’s work.

dogster

More tomorrow - if anybody's reading.

dogster

Vro-o-o-om-m-m-m...

Here comes Skate. No legs, half a girl on a skateboard, strong arms, strong heart, big smile. I see her out of my window all the time.

Vro-o-o-om-m-m-m...

She’s twenty, draped in half a sari, a moving flurry skating deftly down the road. We met last night. I was sucking on Sweet Lime at a drug den that masquerades as a juice shop on the Causeway. Skateboard whizzed by, wheeled around and stopped in front of me.

‘Oh, don’t give me a hard time, honey,’ I moaned gently, ‘you know me. I’m just having a break.’

‘No problem,’ she chirped. She was having a break, too. Skate was beautiful. She had Rajasthani eyes.

‘How’s your business?’

‘Quite good, really.’

I felt very tall and had to sit down. Luckily the drug dealer had chairs. We chatted about the tourists and the terrorists, the rich men and the poor, as if life on a skateboard was the most normal thing in the world - which, of course, it was – to her.

‘You know I’m going to give you money, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Skate said.

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I’ve got no legs.’

dogster

‘Hello Uncle.’ A croaky voice from a doorway.

It’s Carlotta, the fighting whore; she’s young, works this block with the casual flair of a catwalk model. Today she’s a floating vision in grubby pink with a sparkling border of gold. She’s a panther and a pussycat, rapacious and warm, full of lust, syphilis and laughter. Things will get better for Carlotta when darkness falls.

‘Remember me?’

‘Of course I do. I see you every day.’

She smiled. Carlotta was in the right business, grubby but gorgeous, a tribal wench with a fok-k-k-me stare. I’d seen her two nights ago in a fist-fight with one of the competition. She was magnificent. She could swear like a sailor’s navvy, kick like a colt and deliver a left hook that had me gasping.

‘How is your business?’

‘No good,’ she said and pulled a face. She was a little drunk.

‘But today will be a good luck day.’

Carlotta had a filthy twinkle in her eye. It matched her sari.

dogster

See that kid? That’s Sausage. They are all called Sausage. It’s easier that way. This particular Sausage is like an assassin rat if you don’t know her. She’s the only little girl I ever wanted to kill.

Sausage is a street urchin. Her job is to follow tourists around till they explode. She is a very persistent Sausage. I met her on my first visit to Mumbai, a cute, grubby little girl who ‘...stuck to me like glue, who couldn’t be diverted, sweet-talked, cajoled, bullied, threatened, in any way made to stop...’

I was being nice – she’s a monster.

Luckily my murderous actions were tempered, only just, by my thoughts. Now Sausage and I were the best of friends; she saw me every day. I wasn’t a target. I was a neighbour. She had no idea I’d wanted to kill her - she didn’t remember me at all.

‘Hello, Sausage! How are you today? Where’s your mummy?

She pointed to a pile of rags on the corner. Sitting naked in the gutter beside her drunken mother was a tiny child. Looking after the baby was a six year-old boy. This was Little Sausage, her brother. I’d seen him just last night, flying through the air. He looked over and waved.

dogster

Little Sausage hung suspended in space, a very surprised look on his face. I think the large German tourist who had launched him there was just as surprised as he was.

Hans was eight foot tall, built like a Panzer division and much stronger than he thought. The kid probably weighed as much as three packets of tea.

Hans met Little Sausage and rapidly reached the point of no return. Tagging along beside Hans annoying the hell out of him, the child was the final straw that broke his big Teutonic back. Oberführer Hans lost it for an unwise second, grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and flung him into mid-air - where he has been hanging, politely waiting for me to finish, while I filled in the background.

He’s about shoulder height to the German, sailing in a graceful arc across that brawny chest. His eyes are wide; arms spread wider, a rag doll en route to the tip. Car horns Blah-h-h-h! Beep! Ching, ching! Vro-o-o-o-orrrr. Little Sausage hits the ground, tumbles over into the roadway. He’s surprised, a bit shaken but not wounded. He bounces up.

Hans continues down the sidewalk. He looks shocked at what he’s done, kinda red, kinda puffy. He doesn’t look back. He’ll be really ashamed of himself in a hundred yards, once the adrenalin wears off. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t cracked in India.

Admittedly, most of us don’t hurl the beggars into space. No matter. No harm done.

Not to the kid, anyway.

Little Sausage sees me. Before he’s even dusted himself off that little hand is waving.

‘Mah-h-h-n-e-e-e-e...’

I give him one of my celebrated Dogster looks of death. One of these can freeze an urchin to a block of stone. Little Sausage knows not to tangle with the Big Cabana. In a flash he’s gone, dancing gaily though the traffic.

dogster

Everybody eats at the Majestic, a whakkety klang ker-r-rrash of a place full of families and the guys from the street, always full, always buzzing and always just a little bit surprised whenever I turn up. The Dining Hall is the last functioning remnant of the great Majestic Hotel, still crumbling on the corner overlooking Wellington Circle.

There’s nothing grand about the Majestic Dining Hall but it sure lives up to its name. Portraits of Mr. Majestic and an even more majestic Mr. Majestic Senior fill half one side wall. Each gets a garland of orange chrysanthemums and a spotlight. So they should.

Over the cash desk, just by the exit door, an altar has been built to honour Lord Gluttony, one of the minor Hindu saints. He gets a garland, too. Every night at 7.30 there are prayers. It’s quite a bless-fest. Red hot coals and oil are combined in a censer to produce enough smoke to gas Gujarat while the cashier sways and mumbles, wandering slowly round the restaurant blessing the watermelon hanging from the front entrance, the threaded oranges dangling across the door, the refrigerator, the staff and the kitchen, the Majestic maharajas hanging on the wall and each and every customer.

Incense and curry have a strangely apposite effect on my palate, I’ve discovered – still, it’s not very often you get to eat and smoke at the same time.

Go for the Chicken Thali.

It comes on a large silver dish – or though, given the surroundings, the base metal may be slightly more humble. There’s a little silver bowl of raita, a little silver bowl of rice, egg curry in a little silver bowl, vegetable curry in a little silver bowl and a slightly larger silver bowl of chicken. Pile on the paratha and you’ve got a Chicken Thali.

The price for this extravaganza? Sixty-eight rupees. At the time of purchase, that was U.S. $1.40.

That’s why everybody eats at the Majestic - because they can. There’s the Sausage family, shoveling a hundred rupees of daily beggary down their throats. There’s Carlotta enjoying the fruits of her afternoon labor. There are two of my massage men, deep in conversation, eking out my lousy tips; there’s the Mumbai Mafia, hunched in a booth; there’s a Jimmy and a Jimmy and a Jimmy, a gang of sneak-thieves chowing down...

There’s a crinkled foreigner with an odd expression on his face.

I think he’s smiling.

dogster

Ahhh.

That's a better place to leave it. Happy Doggy.
If only the next story ended up that way.

Later.

Marija

I'm here, reading and awaiting another thrilling dogster tail! Thanks.

Kathie

Ah, a new chapter in your adventures. What a nice treat to start my day!

travelaw

Reading . . . how could I not?!!!

dogster

Ahhh, it's nice to know I'm not alone.'

As you can see - these pieces really ARE snapshots. There are no death-defying adventures in Mumbai; just an avalanche of detail. So I'm layering them. Hopefully there's a cumulative effect.

For those wishing to feast their eyes on the glories of the Hotel Apollo:
http://www.hotelapollo.co.in/

dogster

‘There’s something in your ear,’ his finger was saying.

I swipe away at the offending lobe.

‘It’s still there,’ the finger said.

I can’t remember anything about him – just a finger waving at my ear. I try again.

‘Still there,’ said the finger, ‘let me get it out.’

I was non-plussed.

He’s poking about in my ear with something soft. It takes me a second to work out what is going on. I pull back.

‘What are you doing?’

I spot the filthy cotton bud. You don’t need a description.

‘Argh-h-h-h! Go away! Rack off!’ He did.

Later I thought I’d been mean.

Here’s a man who has picked up a used cotton bud from the gutter and was trying to make a career out of it. That’s enterprise and invention. I had to admire that.

dogster

‘I’m a carpenter,’ said one solitary young lad. He was freshly showered and neatly dressed, shaved and smelling of cheap cologne. ‘I work every day from six o-clock. Carpenter.’

For the next few minutes he spun his story. Poor sod - works all day, slaving away for a dollar, living in a hovel with thirty five boys, sending money home to his poor sick mother and thirteen younger siblings - on and on, tragedy, pain, the whole darn thing.

I turned my head slowly in his direction.

‘That’s a very nice watch,’ I said carefully, ‘and a very nice mobile phone.’

He pressed a button and I heard the ring-tone. It was an electronic version of the Hendrix version of ‘Star Spangled Banner.’ I could see the gold glinting on his fingers.

‘Wow,’ I said, ‘great rings! Show me.’

He displayed them.

‘Is that gold too?’ I pointed to the chain around his neck.

He wiggled his head and smiled a very white, very broad smile.

I knew his name. It was Jimmy.

We’d had the invention. I guess we’ll have the enterprise next.

dogster

That mangy black dog has found his spot. I’ve been watching him. He’s in the dirt under a tree digging a hole with his front paws. He’s a lazy ‘ol fool dawg, he ain’t in no hurry. He scrapes away, turns round, sluggishly scratches again, hollowing out his bed.

‘Can you help me?’

Just sit and a Jimmy will come. I’m growing bored with Jimmy. He’ll never be bored with me. I meet multiples of Jimmy every day. This is the penance of the single male traveler, old or young, cashed-up, broke or back-packer. Men are men. Jimmy knows what they want.

Jimmy always comes from somewhere else. Bihar seems to produce more than its fair share of them, young men with no options and a head full of Bollywood dreams. Most settle in to a corner with their own kind, five, six of them in a room, struggling to get by - some slip through the cracks. These are the low-level Jimmies, the ones with stretched faces, haunted eyes. They always carry a portfolio – a desperate collection of photos, an identity card, as if they want to prove to both of us they really exist.

‘That’s my girlfriend,’ he said, pointing to the attractive lass leaning on his shoulder. They made a handsome couple.

‘How old are these pictures?’

‘One year.’

A lot had happened to Jimmy in the meantime. He was filthy, obviously sleeping rough, a shadow of the healthy, normal teenager in the pictures.

‘Oh, Jimmy,’ I thought, ‘oh, Jimmy.’

The fool dog stopped scratching and heaved himself into the dirt. He’d made his bed. Now he’d lie in it.

‘Uncle, can you give me something?’

I looked at his arms. They were covered in needle marks. I saw a dozen scars where he had slashed himself. He had amateur tattoos cascading from elbow to wrist. I could see just where any donation I might make would go.

Ahh-h-h-h said the fool dog and lay his head down on the earth.

‘No, I won’t.’

Tough love.

‘But I will give you some words from my heart.’

I stared deep into his eyes. He looked back. I held the pause.

‘I look at this...’ I said, pointing at the photos.

‘I look at this...’ pointing to the track marks on his arms.

‘I see that dog over there...’

The fool dog was sleeping, dancing in his dreams. He was chasing rabbits. ‘R-r-roof!’ he said in his sleep. His paws were twitching. Fool dog thought he was free. He was just a dog in the dirt.

I looked at Jimmy. He gasped.

‘Go home. This is a bad place for you. Go home.’

MrsMarge

I'm addicted to your writing dogster. More adventures please.