Part 3 - January 8 (Saturday) to January 10 (Monday)

We decided to walk to the 'Coffee Bean' internet cafe to met Max rather than take a rickshaw. This way we passed the myriads of small shops and street vendors selling everything under the sun...in quantity. Mumbai is a living and thriving Maxwell Street (Chicago's once great outdoor flea market), only substantially larger, more chaotic, noisier, more insistent. The rickshaw would have cost 25 cents.

Shoe Stall, Mumbai (JZ)

Fancy Nighty Wear (JZ)

Since the entire family is here with multiple purposes, we are all painfully aware that we can easily slip into work mode and miss the chance to simply be together experiencing India. I had hoped to jump into the ocean, ideally on the Konkan Coast. Emma spent New Year's in Goa, where a friend she knew from the Prague Film School had a house. Max had just come back from an actual vacation in Varkala with our nephew Ben and with his friend Matt who were visiting from NY. But no one minded hitting a beach again. Then we realized that there simply wasn't enough time—the closest swimmable beach was still 5 hours away. Mumbai is surrounded by water, but...it would kill you. I had no idea how vast India is, and how long it takes to get from one place to another. We compromised on spending an extra day in the city, and then going to Mattheran, a quiet and beautiful mountainous area that is only 2 hours from Mumbai. No cars allowed. You get there by old-fashioned train or on horseback. It's a plan.

Max went to pick up Emma who was returning from her film shoot at the 'Little Rann of Kutch' salt flats in Gujarat. We met back at Max's, whose neighbor had prepared a delicious home-cooked meal (her entire family lives in a room smaller than Max's tiny place.) Calling me “Uncle” and Jerri “Auntie,” Shamim made it clear that Max, and now the rest of us, was family. Max had met her shortly after he moved in when he smelled something delicious coming from next door and, being Max, smiled, and stuck his head in the open door to see what it was.

Shamim in the kitchen with Max and Emma (AT)

Jajo and Shamim (AT)

Shumul with her new book (AT)

When we asked Max what we should bring him from the States, he said “Bagels, salami and children's books.” He has some friends here who started a non-profit called 'Book of My Own' [http://bookofmyown.com] that provides English language children's books for free to kids in Mumbai, in the area featured in Slum Dog Millionaire. We put the word out to our synagogue and promptly collected 120 pounds of books. We asked Lufthansa not to charge us extra for this significantly excess baggage, found a sympathetic ear in the corporate office and, amazingly, they agreed. Emma gave a few books directly to Shumul who was thrilled.

When Shumul stopped jumping n Max's bed (AT)

The musical part of our adventure then began. Max is in Mumbai studying with Shivkumar Sharma (Shivji), recognized as the world's leading master of the santoor, the Indian hammered dulcimer. Max has been traveling with him throughout India, taking lessons, meeting other musicians at that level, teaching Max not just the intricacies of Indian classical music, but how to be a better person. My guitar teacher only taught me chords, but that was Queens and this is India. And this music is a bit more serious.

Rahul Sharma, Shivji's son, was giving a concert that evening at the Nehru Center. We used the performer's entrance, went backstage and meet Mataji (Shivji's wife), Rahul and his wife before the concert. It was a remarkable performance. Max says that while Sivji is the great santoor master, Rahul is number two.

Rahul Sharma on santoor and Satyajit Talwalkar on tabla (AT)

 After the concert, we took a cab to 'Swati Snacks' restaurant. Max had hung out with a NYT food critic who was doing a piece on Mumbai and who took him to this place. We had to wait 45 minutes outside, but it was worth it, except for the masala soda. Don't do that. Jerri had already started to feel queasy before the meal and so ate nothing. By the time the rest of us finished our meals, she was finished too. We took a cab back to our hotel, with Jerri doing her best to stay upright.

Emma and Max (AT)

Indian Alan (MZT)

The next morning found both of us ill. We stayed in bed all day and night, destroying our carefully planned out schedule that had included watching Max play frisbee with the Mumbai Storm Chasers, a group of ex-pats and Indians that plays every Sunday. We slept for 30 hours! I awoke refreshed and feeling fine. Jerri did not and was sick the next day as well. We contemplated going to the hospital, but instead Dr. Merchant, recommended by one of Max's friends, came directly to our hotel. He charged $20 for the visit and was appalled that American doctors don't make house calls.

While Jerri rested, Emma and I went to Max's and walked down to the sea, a few blocks away. We sat on a bench looking out to the sea and to the fishing boats resting on blocks in the high tide. We talked about life and the overwhelming nature of India. Emma was upset about impossibility of “documenting” this place. We agreed that India could not possibly be documented in the classical sense, it simply had to be lived. It is very hard to describe a country where the new and old co-exist, where country and city are simultaneous, where past and present merge. I questioned whether one should photograph at all when so many images have already been made. I know each of our vision's is unique, but how unique? How many beautiful images of fishermen drying their nets in the sunset do we need? It's the postcard dilemma. If you're a good photographer, it is sometimes almost impossible NOT to take stereotypical images that could be made by any competent artist. What's the difference between a well crafted verbal description and an image? Emma and I decide that we can't answer these questions and that image-making is sometimes note-taking, to be used somehow, in some way, now or in the future...or not at all. But keeping this solely in our heads is not an option.

We walked out to a shrine to Ganesh that sits on a walkway out in water. I take off my shoes and smile at the people who understand things that I do not.

'Crazy World' 10th P.T.U # 1233, May 1945

Jerri was still in bed when we got back to the hotel, clearly not going anywhere. Max, Emma and I met his friend Amit, a film producer, and had dinner at a great Italian restaurant, Mia Cocina. I showed Amit the photo collection, which I had put on my iPod. He was excited by the work, especially the one featuring a film poster and suggested meeting with Devdutt Trivedi, a film historian, We called from the restaurant and arranged to rendezvous at a coffee house 10:30 that evening, where I showed him the work. He had many insightful comments and suggested meeting with Virchand Dharamsey of the Asiatic Society of Mumbai. We are starting to put the pieces together.