From Mumbai to Pune

Sunday morning after breakfast, I venture out the Mumbai airport Hyatt gates; I smile and nod at the armed guards. I only have a few minutes, maybe 30, before a driver will come for us, to take us to Pune. Outside the Hyatt grounds there is construction along the streets, and tracts of land with signs indicating it belonged to the airport, though the people who had built homes on it may have quibble a bit about the airport's position.

Across the road there was another community nestled outside the grounds of another large hotel. Just past it, a midden heap and three children playing cricket in the green grass beyond. As I walked 5 or 6 auto-rickshaw drivers offered me a ride. It was only a taste; I headed back to the hotel. We were leaving soon for Pune.

The driver was an artist. As are all the drivers I've seen in India. They feel and sense their way through city streets. The horn means "coming through." The auto-rickshaw ahead moves a few feet left, our driver vectors over and flows through the opening, a couple on a motorcycle squeaks through between us. I could open my window and touch them as they pass. They sway and flow by weaving between cars and other cycles. They buzz by a family on another motorcyle; the father deftly handling the change, his son sitting in front of him, the mother, the ends of her sari (bright with the colors of sunset) streaming in the breeze, sits side-saddle in the back, with their infant in her arms.

We stop at traffic lights, and each inch is filled with vehicle, so that as many cars and bikes make it through as possible. But there are few lights. They aren't needed. At most intersections the traffic simply flows; a hundred unspoken negotiations made each moment, allow us to keep moving as does everyone from all directions.

Our driver takes us through mountains dividing Mumbai from the rest of India, on the way to Pune. The country, at the edge of summer and in the midst of a dry season before the after-summer rains, has green leaves and brown and yellow grasses, crispy in the summer sun. Seeing the grasses, I wonder if I'm still in the desert Southwest U.S. A pretense. Each community we pass appears in the midst of change, all of them brim with new construction. But, unlike my Salt Lake home, there is little demolition here demolition here except that rendered by weather and time; the old remains side-by-side with the new.

A few hours after reaching the Taj Blue Diamond in Pune, Sabya rescues me from the mistake of sleeping away the afternoon. We leave the hotel grounds and Sabya flags an auto-rickshaw, the main form of public transportation here in the city. Auto-rickshaws are a lot like scooters with a wide back seat for passengers. All those I've seen are mostly black inside and out; a handcrank pulled up from the left of the driver starts the engine.

Our driver takes us to a garden and memorial where once in the 1940s the British government held Gandhi under house arrest. I read the placards in the museum. There is some interesting information there, but for some reason what I remember is that Gandhi read more than 180 books while he was there; a feat the writer believes was more that of a young man rather than an old man (the writer's words) in his 50s. The gardens surrounding the building have a calming effect, with large tracts planted with grass and tall trees. I take some pictures of the building and of a family walking in the gardens. They see me and their boy waves at me. Sabya tells me that some of Gandhi's ashes are interred at the memorial. As an aside that makes me smile, the entrance fee is 100 rupees for me and 5 for Sabya, being a citizen of India. 100 rupees is approximately $2.50

Next Sabya has our auto-rickshaw driver take us to an area near the Pune train station. He wants me to experience the crowds. But it is Sunday, so the crowds are few (so he says and yes I've been in greater crowds but not in Salt Lake except the one time I went to see the christmas lights turned on in Temple Square). We walk around. I'm quite happy here, enjoying seeing the city from the auto-rickshaw and walking along the streets. We stop at a sweet shop and have some lassi and an Indian ice-cream whose name I cannot remember.

The plan is to have dinner with some friends and family. Sabya has a car, but his brother Saroff (I'm guessing at the spelling) has it. As the sun begins setting, it is about time for him to finish work, so we take another auto-rickshaw to a completely modern and trendy shopping center where Sabya's brother works. The department store sells everything from Tommy Hilfiger to Givenchy to Wrangler.

Saroff takes us to Sabya's place. I realize, as we go, that the driver Sungard hired to bring us to Pune, was a pretty passive driver. Saroff is an artist on the streets. I tell him and Sabya that there should be an olympic event. At Sabya's place, I meet his wife and some friends staying with them. We go to dinner in the hills that overlooks the valley in which Pune sits. The restaurant is called Khana Peena Jeena (I think), it means "Food, drink, celebrate life." It was a lot of fun; food, conversation, and watching the patron's children play in the playground. A night much like Satomi's description of a perfect time: good food, good conversation, friends.

There is beauty here, in the land and in the people. And there is grace and harmony. There is the din of a hundred vehicle horns, and smoke and dust that sting my nose and make me cough most of my first day whenever I venture outside. There are also scents of the sweet, or spicy, but always rich food. There is great wealth here and great poverty. From Mumbai to Pune, India presents itself as contrasts.

Stay tuned, Amit took us to Koyla for dinner on Monday night. I'll talk about that later.