Mohammad

Mohammad is a driver from the state of Utter Prasesh in north India. He’s moved to Mumbai in hopes of making money to support his wife and daughter. He and his family are Muslim which Mohammad is very proud of. I’ve known Mohammad for three years, met him through my friend Megan (read more about her on her blog http://blondieinbombay.blogspot.in) who found him and knew he was a keeper. He has met my visiting friends, my parents, is always willing to take me where I need to go, and is full of questions about “Mad’am Megan” and “my country.” Today was no different. I needed to go to the Japanese Consolate to submit paperwork for my pending work visa and Mohammad drove me there. Here is a transcript of the hilarious conversation I had with Mohammad this morning, as so many of them are. 

 

It went a little like this: 

 

M: How many brothers you have? 

A: One

M: How many sisters? 

A: None. Just me and my brother. 

M: Oh, father only has two babies. 

A: Yep. Only 2. 

M: How many marriage you make? 

A: I’ve not yet been married Mohammad. 

M: You are not making any marriage? 

A: Nope. 

M: How many years your brother is? 

A: Two years younger than me. 

M: Oh, he is 43? 

A: No. I am not 45 Mohammad. I am 38. 

M: Ok, so he is 32? 

A: He’s 36. 

M: Is he making marriage? 

A: Nope. He’s a musician. 

M: So father not making marriage for you? 

A: Nope. In my country, we marry for love. 

M: Megan mad’am making marriage? 

A: Not that I know of, no. 

M: Megan mad’am also 45 years? 

A: No Mohammad. Megan mad’am isn’t 45 years old. She is younger than me. 

M: Oh, so 42? 

A: No Mohammad. I am 38, and Megan is younger than me. So she isn’t 42. 

M: Oh. ​

M: How much father is paying for your making marriage? 

A: He’s not Mohammad. I am not making marriage right now. And, my father won’t pay for my wedding. 

M: Megan mad’am’s father making marriage for her? 

A: Probably not. 

M: I am making party in UP. You coming and Megan mad’am coming. I making husband for you. 

A: So we would share a husband? 

M: No! I am making brothers. 

A: You are making brothers? Don’t you think they’ll be a little young for us? 

M: (no response) 

A: Because if you and your wife are making them, they aren’t born yet which means they would be way too young for us. 

M: (no response) 

A: Nevermind. Thanks for the ride Mohammad. 

M: Welcome mad’am

 

 

Glass Ceilings and Dirty Floors

My friend Jane celebrated a landmark birthday the other day. To celebrate, a group of women ate and dined at a trendy bar in downtown Mumbai. We ate pumpkin ravioli, drank French wine (complete with fire sparklers), and indulged our sweet teeth with flour-less chocolate cake.  There we were, six successful women spending our money on the finer things in life. Enjoying the freedom that comes with being a single woman in Mumbai.

Riding home in an air-conditioned cab, I couldn’t help but rest my head on the window and watch Mumbai’s neighborhoods, heavily laden with Diwali lanterns, unfold in front of me. Soaking in the beauty of this city, I was full of appreciation for being able to live the life I have here. Then we rounded the corner and drove straight through one of many annual Muslim celebrations. The scene seemed regular to me at first; loads of people on the street gathered in colorful clothing listening to someone important speaking on a raised platform. Then, something peculiar caught my eye.

There, right in front of me, were hundreds of women, glittering and colorful, crouched together on the dirty street leaning and stretching their necks to see around plastic chairs occupied by men and boys, dressed all in white. Hundreds of women, sitting behind their sons and husbands and fathers barely able to see, but somehow part of the ceremony. It shocked me out of my dream. India has a way of doing that. One second you are sipping on imported French wine, the next you are traipsing a path through oppression and segregation.

As a resident of India, I am aware of the plethora of delicate social imbalances and somehow forget that my experience here, the one peppered with the luxuries of Western life, isn’t the reality of most women living in this country. It’s humbling in a way that I would never have the opportunity to fully understand as just a visitor. For that, I am thankful. Thankful for my home, my health, my friends, my family, my work, my brain, and all the opportunities awarded me simply because my parents chose to give birth to me in a country full of potential for a clever little girl.

I’m lucky. Lucky to be learning every day. Lucky to fall more in love with this country and lucky I don’t have to stay. I’m lucky I have the choice to change the world in which I live. Glass ceilings shatter everyday for women all over the world and I wonder, will these women crouching on a dirty floor ever have the opportunity to climb?

I am Bombay

Bombay is built on trash. It’s incredible story is literally buried under miles of garbage. Waste so deep that you really have to concentrate to see it’s wonder and beauty. But if you are patient and willing to put in the work, the moment you get a glimpse you can see her: glorious, busteling, creative, shining, beautiful. And it’s worth it. All of it. Just to see her true self shine.

I’ve buried my heart. Deep down inside myself, under layers of hurt and disappointment and yearning and breaks. I’ve hidden it so deep that it’s almost impossible to see what and who it really is: glorious, busteling, creative, shining, beautiful. So I am digging, breaking away the layers of detritus until my heart can sing again. It’s been silent for too long. And it is worth it, the digging. Because buried underneath all that crap… is me.

First day shoes, last day shoes.

Give an Inch

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I’ve been thinking a lot about inches lately. Losing them. Walking them. Giving them. Building them. Every inch counts. Which is why this little guy caught my attention today. So driven and focused. I watched him for a while moving inch by inch from one side of a busy Bombay road to the next. Finding his way in this remarkable city, built inch by inch. Each inch crawling with people and dogs and crows and cats and goats and cows and rickshaws and taxis. Inches woven and spun into streets and neighbourhoods and cricket games and memories. And yet, with all the hustle and bustle that is Bombay, this sweet little inchworm is what I saw today. Made me think, if he can make his way here, anyone can. You just have to take it inch by inch.