Mumbai Gets Smashed, "This is India", Bombay Traffic, and a visit to the Kalwa Slum

Mumbai Gets Smashed

A team competes in a Dahi Handi as part of the Janmashtami festival

            Last Friday, groups of men and women, hung off the sides of pickup trucks and cruised on motorcycles looking to get smashed. They had no intention of sipping suds of alcohol. They were on a quest to smash pots as part of the Janmashtami festival. The Janmashtami festival celebrates the birth of Lord Krishna, a major Hindu god.

            One of the most elaborate parts of the festival is the “dahi handi” ceremony. In the Dahi Handi ceremony govinda mandals, groups of about 20-30 men, create a human pyramid in order to smash a pot hanging from a wire. Over the years, the stakes of the dahi handi ceremonies have been raised with the introduction of major cash prizes. Govindas usually practice for a month or two before hand with hopes of breaking as many pots around the city as possible with hopes of accumulating a handsome prize.

            We took a tour of the city that day and saw several dahi handis. Music thumped from speakers, and the crowd erupted when the person at the top of the ladder, usually a boy around 10 years old, smashed the pot and was showered with a pinkish dye. After participating in the dahi, teams would pile into pickup trucks for a joy ride until they reached their next destination. 

The ascent begins

Building the foundation

 

Almost There

So close yet, so far

Victory!

Enjoying a Gatorade Bath and a post victory bus ride

            There were some injuries involved in these acrobatics. Two people died and 225 were injured as a result of falls or other injuries such as coming in contact with electrical wires.

“This is India”

            

The source of Indianized polka music I heard in my neighborhood last Wednesday

       Everyday, I notice something, that from the eyes of a white, Jewish suburbanite is seen as radically foreign.  One day while ordering a sandwich at Subway a pack of 20-30 Muslim men drove by the store holding Muslim flags (which may or may not have been related to riots that had taken place at a major train station that day). This week on my walk home from school, a street performer paraded up and down the street with a thick piece of rope. Each time he hit himself, a loud “thwack” thundered through the air. On Wednesday, at 9:30 at night, a local group that had done well in the dandi handi ceremonies paraded through the street next to my hostel, celebrating their accomplishments dancing to what sounded like Indianized polka music.

            But there are certain things that can be explained with a simple phrase: “This Is India.”

             Last Friday at 1 a.m. a pack of 30 honking motorcycles rolled through my neighborhood, the passengers and drivers hollering at the top of their lungs. I watched the motor rally from the balcony of my hostel. I asked two Indian guys what the occasion was. Was the motorcade related to Janmashtami? Was it just a rowdy group of dudes who were taking a joy ride through town? The answer: “This is India.”

            I was supposed to take an economics exam last Saturday. I spent the night going over my cost curves and memorizing theories. After an eventful taxi ride, a 10 minute ride turned into a 30 minute odyssey because the cab driver had no idea where our intended destination was, I finally arrived at school to a locked room. The international education coordinator and I later learned that the exam had been cancelled for student council elections. For whatever reason, this had not been put on the school’s website, though they preach the importance of checking the schedule daily to ensure mix-ups like this do not happen. When I asked my adviser why things like this happen, at of all places a school specializing in management education, her answer was, “This is India.”

            Later that night at the main railroad station a woman told my friends and I to make sure we protected our wallets, cellphones and keys on our journey to the Matheran Hill Station. Her explanation for her advice: “This is f****** India.”

            A Visit to Kalwa

            About 93 million people live in slums in India. It has been estimated that 60 percent of Mumbai’s residents live in slums. About two weeks ago, my room mate Peter and I spent a few hours with members of the Gabriel Project Mumbai to learn about life in Kalwa, a slum in the northern suburb of Thane.

            The Gabriel Project is a new nonprofit that just launched in June. It is a Jewish nonprofit focused on eradicating hunger and illiteracy in Kalwa. Its volunteers prepare hot lunches for students at a local after school program and teach English and other skills in the classroom where the meals they prepare are served.

            The moment we got off the train we knew we were in a slum. Shanties practically come up to the train tracks and from the bridge of the train station, you can see a long stretch of corrugated roof homes. Peter and I enjoyed getting to know Gabriel Project volunteers and interacting with the warm and friendly residents of Kalwa. I am writing an article about the Gabriel Project which will hopefully be published within the coming weeks in New Voices  magazine.  

Random Photos

 

Enjoying the view at Malang Point at the Matheran Hill Station

Malang Point, Matheran Hill Station

Echo Point, Matheran Hill Station

About to go on the zipline for 300 rupees. A little less than $5.

Into the fog.

Drenched and Muddy From My Zip Line Into Echo Point

A game of Cricket at Juhu Beach.

Beach goers look at the skyline at Juhu Beach. Juhu is known as being the playground for Bollywood actors and actresses.

Playing some good old fashioned horseshoes at Juhu Beach

Bombay Traffic

Traffic rules which for the most part are never followed

 

As an ode to Jimi Hendrix and Mumbai's terrible traffic, I made a pardoy to his classic song "Crosstown Traffic." 

The lyrics are below. They'll make sense if you listen to the video and read along with the lyrics I wrote. Its an inspired by  the wonderful taxi drivers and traffic patterns of the city. 

"Bombay Traffic"

I jump in front of your cab when I,

Know all the time that,

Ten minutes away, is where you won't drive.

You tell me it’s alright, you don’t mind me waiting in the rain,

You say you just tell me to wait for another ride

You’re just like Bombay traffic

So hard to get through to you

Bombay traffic

I don’t need to wait in you

Bombay traffic

All you do is slow me down

And I’m tryin to get on the other side of the town

You’re not the only soul who’s accused of almost killing an innocent son

Faded paint all across your back

I can see you had your fun

But bhai can’t I don’t see your signals turn from left to right

And with you I can see a Bombay traffic jam ahead

You’re just like Bombay traffic

So hard to get through to you

Bombay traffic

I don’t need to wait in you

Bombay traffic

All you do is slow me down

And I’m tryin to get on the side of the town

 

The Consul's Visit, Dirty Clean Laundry, Photos Galore, Batman in Mumbai and Shabbat at Chabad

Chilling at the Kandheri Caves- Hop to the Photo Montage for more pictures from the caves and other places around Mumbai

The Consul’s Visit

U.S. Consul General, Peter Haas, photo courtesy of http://mumbai.usconsulate.gov/consul_general.html

            Last Thursday, my eyes lingered on the following day’s lecture schedule when I noticed the head of the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai, Peter Haas, was scheduled to give a special guest lecture. An accounting quiz, finalizing my lecture schedule made for a long, exhausting week. The prospect of listening to an American accent and hearing American diplomatic jargon for an hour had me giddy.

            The auditorium full of students and faculty treated the Consul as if he were Barack Obama. Everyone stood when he entered the room and remained standing until he took his seat. No one took up the consul’s offer to take off their sport coats during his speech. Every questioner, addressed him as “sir”, the same way students address professors and authority figures. 

             The conversation touched on everything from how the United States and India are working together to improve the status of women in India and security in the Indian Ocean, an area of rising geopolitical importance (check out Robert Kaplan’s Monsoon for more information about the role of India in Indian Ocean geopolitics). Indian students were particularly interested in Haas’s advice on how to improve India (according to Haas, India needs to focus on fighting corruption, make its economy more friendly to business expansion and make education more widely accessible) and why so many B-1 business visas are rejected. The question was asked with a hint of snark and elicited a strong response from Haas.

            “It’s not something we’re ashamed of,” Haas said about rejecting B-1 visas. He explained that many Indian companies have misused the B-1 visa over the past few years, prompting the state department to be more stringent in granting visas.

            My favorite part was when Haas answered my question about the U.S.’s relationships with China and India. At the moment, the U.S. is more interested in China because its GDP is three times larger than India’s and it has a better manufacturing infrastructure he said.  But that could change in the future if India, the world’s largest democracy, morphs into an economic behemoth, freeing the U.S. from having to rely on a communist government that routinely silences its citizens in hopes of stifling pangs for democracy and freedom.

            “The one we watch more closely now is China,” Haas said. “But in the future we hope to rely more on India.’

U.S. Consul General Peter Haas opening an umbrella, a gift from my school, to use during monsoon season

Dirty Clean Laundry

The Dhobi Ghat: Valley of Fresh Laundry

           
       I have a new appreciation for washing machines and dryers after having lived here for a month. At the hostel we air dry our clothes on racks and on clothes lines in our rooms. For washing their clothes, some Mumbaikars send their clothes to the Dhobi Ghat, a large outdoor laundry facility near the Mahalaxmi Rail Station. A series of laundry trough canals connects allows the Dhobi Ghats residents to clean thousands of clothing articles a day. Beneath the glint of South Mumbai’s skyscrapers, freshly laundered clothes flutter lazily through the air in this valley of clothes lines and laundry basins. 

We dry laundry the good old fashioned way at my hostel

Taking down laundry in the Dhobi Ghat

            Initially I did not end up at the Dhobi Ghat observation point. I ended up on what I think was the actual path that led to the Dhobi Ghat. Hawkers lined the streets offering neighborhood dwellers fresh eels still jumping in the sales container, dead fish with flies hovering around their heads and pineapple cut in star shaped patterns (which legitimately looked good). When  I first arrived, I left this street fairly quickly. I did not want to mess around with foul smelling fish. But I went back after looking at the laundry cleaning process. I wanted to take a better look at the dead fish. I needed to figure out if people actually ate those eels and try the star shaped pineapple. In the Dhobi Ghat, no one bothered me (or at least no one had the courage or chutzpah to when I was there). It was a chance to walk around for a little bit and observe with a feeling of invisibility. A way to tell myself that not every eye ball was scanning my facial features and trying to guess which country I came from. It was a brief period of time to reflect and observe in silence.      

Nothing like a bath in Dhobi Ghat.

 Photo Montage 

Getting my zen on at the Kandheri Caves at Sanjay Gandhi National Park

Chilling with a gigantic Buddha at the Kandheri Caves, Sanjay Gandhi National Park

Tourists take a break from the caves to refresh in random pools of water at the Kandheri Caves

A local neighborhood group practices a routine for the upcoming Janmashtmi Festival, which honors Hindu god Lord Krishna

Dabbawallas, who deliver food to men and women at work, load up their bicycles

A hostelite, Animesh, shows off bracelets he received from his cousins for the Raksha Bandhan festival

Roommate Peter shows off his Raksha Bandhan bling

A spider at the Kandheri Caves

Hanging out at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sanrahalaya, aka the Prince of Wales Museum, the home of many artifacts from all over India

Batman in Mumbai

            I finally saw The Dark Knight Rises this week after many failed attempts. I enjoyed watching Christian Bale kick ass and listening to Bane’s voice, which sounded like a deep Barney the Dinosaur voice mixed with a smooth British baritone accent. But when gun shots first littered the screen, I flinched. It’s something I do during movies, but this time it was not out of my instinctual reaction to loud noises. It was out of fear. The image of James Holmes’ and his frizzy red hair bobbing in his court room chair played in my head. I snuck looks  at the theater entrance, to ensure no suspicious onlookers arrived during the film.

            It was a silly thought to have. I watched the movie at an upscale mall with a high level of security. You have to pass through at least two security checkpoints to enter the complex. Additionally, guns are difficult to obtain in India. Perhaps my discomfort during the movie was not a fear that a gunman would enter the theater, but my way of coping with a national tragedy while being thousands of miles from home. Ten minutes of intermission and a few swigs of Snapple eased my fears and made for a more enjoyable second half of Batman. But for me and thousands of others, James Holmes has tainted my memories of the Dark Knight.

Shabbat at Chabad

            After three weeks of eating a steady diet of chappati, daal, rice and other Indian dishes I was craving challah, matzo ball soup and the other staples of a hearty shabbas meal. Thanks to my lovely mother, who worked her connections and put me in contact with Chabad of Mumbai, I have enjoyed a delightful shabbas meal at the local Chabad house the past two weeks. Due to difficulties with its previous building, it is temporarily housed in a hotel in South Mumbai with a view of the Arabian Sea.

            I spent the first few minutes of my first visit giggling as I acclimated to my surroundings. When I first arrived at the hotel, I was greeted with a warm smile from the hotel receptionist, dressed in a starched white uniform and hair tied back in a neat bun. At my hostel, I am greeted by frumpy security guards who try to cajole me into signing back into the complex. The stark differences continued when I entered Chabad’s suite. The suite has two bathrooms flanked by glass walls and a bath tub (which one of the Chabad leaders joked is never used). At the hostel, water has the tendency to seep from the base of the toilets. For a while, one of the hot water knobs routinely fell off when you turned it.

            In India I constantly hear a foreign language. It’s usually Hindi, but it could be Urdu, Gujarati, Marathi, or another language that is spoken throughout the country. But at Chabad, Hebrew was the preferred foreign language.

            A trip to a Jewish place, would not be complete without establishing some random mutual Jewish friend. It took about 5 minutes for me to discover that one of the dinner attendees was an AEPi brother of an old childhood friend.

Indian Frat Stars, the Five Gardens of Eden, The Deadhead’s Wisdom and When Rules Actually Matter

Me and The Most Unlikely Group of Frat Stars

I. Indian Frat Stars

            Last Sunday the residents of the second floor of my hostel were supposed to take a day trip to Sanjay Gandhi National Park, a national park just north of the Mumbai City Limits. We had managed to corral a group together and drum up excitement about exploring the park’s caves and seeing its lions and panthers. The seniors (second-year students) in our hostel had other ideas. Saturday night was hostel induction night for the junior residents. 

            My friends are juniors and were excited about the induction ceremony. They scampered around the hostel like high-schoolers before homecoming taking pictures in their blazers and shorts, the uniform of the ceremony. They repeatedly asked my roommate Peter and I to take pictures and videos of the ceremony.

          I was very surprised my friends were so excited for the ceremony. Many have worked for a year or two. Some are in their mid-20's. They have every right and reason to resist being told what to do after being members of the workforce and earning salaries. But instead of viewing the ceremony as an emasculating procedure, they viewed as a milestone in their MBA experience.

         “We need to have pictures and videos. These are important moments of our life,” a friend told me.

           

Wannabe Frat Stars

            Around 11:00 my friends shuffled up to a room on the top floor of our hostel. They joined 20 other juniors who were packed like sardines in a two-person dorm room. Through the mist of cigarette smoke and in between swigs of beer, the seniors interrogated the juniors about their sex lives, forced them to answer questions while bending over at 90 degree angles and had them address them as “Sir”, a title usually reserved for professors, until 4 a.m.

In The Line of Fire

            The next morning my hostel mates said how the seniors were such assholes for calling them names like “chicken legs” and making them stay up all night in a room with a pungent aroma of sweat, alcohol and cigarettes.  If only they knew what the aspiring fraternity men at Boston University’s AEPi, Dartmouth’s Sigma Alpha Epsilon and Ohio University’s Delta Tau Delta went through during pledging.

II The Five Gardens of Eden

            Last week I stumbled upon the Five Gardens, a series of parks in the Dadar neighborhood of Mumbai. On the weekends droves of Mumbaikars head out to the Gardens’ cricket fields, playgrounds and park benches to play cards and catch up with friends.

            I took a break from my run and watched a group of teenagers play cricket from the top of a jungle gym. Yes I know it, it’s a bit creepy but I’m a foreigner so I can bend the rules.  

            When I was sitting on top of another jungle gym, a 14-year old boy named “Abhishek”, I forgot his name, came over. Moments earlier, he was napping on the ground, undisturbed by a soccer ball whizzing inches above his face. His lethargy was a result of fasting for Ramadan. 

            Abhishek’s friends were delighted to meet a foreigner. I don’t think they had met someone from outside India before. They were eager to catch a glimpse of American money and wanted to know my phone number to invite me back to the park the following week.

            Meeting someone like Abhishek is a foreigner’s dream. Him and his friends are a direct line into the thoughts of Indians with little knowledge and experience with the West. But part of me could not resist viewing Abhishek with suspicion. Did Abhishek really want to get to know me or did he and his friends see me as an easy way to get some extra cash? Why else would he ask to see American currency twice within the half hour period of our conversation?

            I probably over reacted. After talking with me, Abhishek probably went home and bragged to his friends and parents how he held a conversation in English with the random American in the playground.  Not curse himself for missing out on a chance to make some easy money. I’m the one to blame here for letting the horror stories of India’s poverty perpetuated by ignorant peers and fear of the unknown color my thoughts of an unassuming teenager. 

           

 III The Deadhead’s Wisdom

           

            Many students probably embark on their study abroad trips hoping to integrate into the culture of their chosen country. To an extent students do. They learn local slang, pick up some of the language, develop a taste for the local food, even conquer navigating the public transit.  But do they ever become a full blown members of their adopted cultures? Most do not come even close.

            The Deadhead spent a good chunk of our Monday lecture explaining the importance of adapting and respecting cultural barriers in an international business setting. He regaled us with stories of how chewing khat and wearing a sword helped him seal a business deal on a business trip in Yemen. He even used me to illustrate the differences between American and Indian culture.

            The Deadhead: “Gabriel, pretend you have just been promoted to manager of a             unit we’ll call Unit A. The old boss of Unit A is now in charge of Unit B. How             would you feel if the head of Unit B came and give you unsolicited advice on how             to run Unit A?

           

            Gabe: “I’d feel like he was encroaching on my territory.”

            The Deadhead: “Did you hear what language he used? Encroached has a very             negative connotation. He’s upset. What would we do? We’d be running off to the             boss asking for help and advice. ‘Please sir, help us sir. How did you run this             operation?’ That my friends is culture.”

           

            The Deadhead used the remainder of the lesson to give his anthropological assessment of Indian culture. According to the Deadhead, India, a land of Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Parsis, Jews and Jains, is one of the more racist countries in the world.

            “Here we discriminate based on race, sex, class, religion and caste,” he said. “There are certain things I admire about the West. I admire the sense of independence fostered in the United States. In the USA, most MBA students take out loans to pay for their education. Here, mom and dad pay for the MBA, or they might take out loans for their children’s MBA. ”

           

            But the most important thing the Deadhead stressed is to adopt the best elements of different cultures to form your own unique set of values.

            “I admire the German’s work ethic. But my German friends tell me how they set up times to meet their parents. I could never say ‘Ok Mom, I’ll meet you at 4.’ Can you imagine doing that here? The key is to pick the best of both cultures and to realize that as a foreigner you will never adopt another culture, but adopt certain elements.”

IV When Rules Actually Matter

Its totally cool to catch some z's in the middle of the sidewalk but apparently not to play badminton in a public park

            If you want to survive in Mumbai, you’re expected to break rules. No one bats an eye when a driver runs a red light. Slipping a few thousand rupees to a government official so your passport will be processed sooner is no big deal. Show up to the school workout facility in dress clothes when it clearly states you need to be wearing workout apparel? Come on in!

            But try and play badminton in a public park (a safe distance away from other patrons) or swing on a children’s swing set when no one else is using the swings? Unthinkable! The park guards will blow their whistles at you and start yelling at you in Hindi. TII (This Is India.) 

A Pair of Cows Hanging out in the midst of urban Mumbai

Managing the Mayhem, the Deadhead Professor and Upscale Malls

An Intimate Moment Before the Monsoon Rains

I.

            To the non-native eye, Mumbai is a cauldron of chaos. The first sign of mayhem is the traffic. It slogs along during rush hour, a shrieking chorus of honking taxis, motorcycles and trucks. Sitting in traffic for an hour and a half during rush hour is normal. Crossing the street is like playing Frogger. You weave between stopped traffic and hop in front of cars sprinting through red lights.

            The second mark is the scent of trash. Neighborhoods greet visitors with heaps of trash and an aroma that smells like a sewage curry. Flies linger on the peppers and bananas of street vendors, while stray dogs takie a siesta from patrolling the neighborhood.

Snoozing in front of the Dadar train station ticket counter.

            On Sunday, I headed to park with two friends to play soccer with a larger group. Being a naïve American, I expected to play on a well-manicured pitch, with emerald grass, and enough space to accommodate several games. But the chaos from the streets spilled over to the park. We shared the rust colored muck with at least 300 weekend warriors. Cricket and soccer balls routinely whizzed onto our field. Players from different cricket games calmly waited to field our ball, unfazed by a charging midfielder or striker from our soccer game. I had trouble challenging players from the other teams. I was too busy digesting the crush of bodies, the competing thuds of the cricket and soccer balls and avoiding falling into a pile of mud the color of manure. (A note: We agreed to never play soccer at this field again.  Everyone agreed it was too difficult to play in such a crowded area.)

          

Piling onto the Local Train

           The constant symphony of chatter, traffic and the seemingly interminable flow of men huddled around the cigarette counter at the corner store is overwhelming to digest for anyone not from Mumbai. But after a while you learn how to live here. You learn to wait patiently during the two-hour traffic jam. You start cheering on your taxi drive to honk louder during a traffic jam so he’ll blow through the choking traffic. Slowly what was once foreign, bizarre and shocking becomes banal and routine. You learn to manage the mayhem.

           

            II.

            I finally started class on Saturday. After a week of wading through the swamps of Indian government bureaucracy, I was ready to get back into the classroom. My economics professor, who showed up 30 minutes and which is apparently normal, spent a bulk of the session lecturing about the history of India and explaining why he believed the United States has developed at a faster pace than India.            

            The college where I am studying, Welingkar Institute of Management Development and Research, is pretty formal. Men must wear a button down shirt and slacks to class and women must wear either pants, a skirt or traditional Indian clothing appropriate for a business setting. On Monday, I noticed a man with a long ponytail,  wayfarer sunglasses, beat up Wranglers, flip flops and an un-tucked button down shirt walking around the college. He looked like he belonged at a Grateful Dead reunion show. An hour later, sixty students popped up when the ex-Dead Head, who I later learned is one of the most beloved faculty members at Welingkar, walked into my international business class. For the next three hours, the students chuckled at his jokes and listened to every word of his commentary. He didn’t mind saying “fuck”, “shit”, making sexual innuendos and checking his cell phone. It was one of the more entertaining lectures I’ve ever attended.

            III.

             The filth, traffic and poverty is only part of a much larger narrative. I spent yesterday around the swankier parts of Mumbai, where real estate prices are in the millions, Merecedes and BMWs roam, with Jonas, an exchange student from Denmark, Peter, the other participant from my American study abroad program and Smriti, our adviser. We visited the house Gandhi lived in Mumbai, checked out Mumbai’s marquis tourist attractions, the Gateway of India and the Victoria Terminus. We stopped by Leopold’s Café, one of the sights of the 2008 terrorist attacks. The bullet holes from the attacks were left untouched and are very easy to sight.

Victoria Terminus

           
           

The Owners of Leopold's Cafe weren't fans of Bill Clinton

            We ended our day at Phoenix Mall, an upscale shopping center. Phoenix Mall is easily the nicest shopping center I have ever seen. With upscale stores like Gucci,  Chanel, Diesel, and Hugo Boss and American chains California Pizza Kitchen, McDonald’s and Staples, you feel like you’re in New York, London or Cleveland(my hometown pride showing). People watching is interesting at Phoenix. Many young women walk around in skirts, shorts and tighter pants, things you don’ usually see walking around Mumbai. I don’t remember seeing too many saris or kurtas. But you abruptly re-enter India when you exit the mall and start haggling with taxi drivers.

Phoenix Mall 

   

           

Arrival in India

             

Cool Truck Art Spotted in A Traffic Jam

           Before I talk about my experience so far here in Mumbai, I want to let my fretting family home in Cleveland know that I am alive and well.

·      Mom: You’ll be happy to know I am diligently taking my malaria medicine. I carried around a roll of the toilet paper we bought at Dick’s when I roamed around the neighborhood on Sunday in fear of a sanitation emergency.

·      Dad: The adapters are working great, I have enough currency and I saw PWC’s office while we were driving around South Mumbai this afternoon.

·      Anna: Thanks for the emails. I can already tell you’ll be a great Jewish mother. I walked around a movie theater tonight looking for some talent for ICM.

·      Jonah: You’ll be a seasoned pro by the time you’re done paddling the lakes of Algonquin this summer. Screw your finals and come be my tripper so we can go backpacking in the Himalayas in the late fall.

Thanks for all of your help in preparing for the trip. Most importantly, thanks for all of your love.

            The past few days have been all about adjustments: physical, logistical, and emotional. I still haven’t slept through the night. Luckily my stomach has so far held up. Things I did not expect to be shocking; swarms of flies hovering around trash, stray dogs, rows of dilapidated buildings, apparently take some getting used to even if you’ve already been to India. 

            One pleasant surprise has been the neighborhood where my dormitory is. It is not the swankiest part of the city, but it is relatively quiet (its 12:41 a.m. here and I can still here horns blaring on the main road) and easy to go about one’s business.

            I’m excited to start classes on Thursday and begin settling into a routine. I’ve signed up for Accounting, MIS, Managerial Economics, Corporate Finance International Trade and Hindi. It’ll be nice to start interacting with a lot of people and get back to the classroom.

            The past few days have been busy taking care of bureaucracy like registering at the police station (apparently its really important the Mumbai police know my home address in the U.S.A. and the first names of my parents) and picking classes.

            A note about the name of my blog. Hindustan, is one of the many names people use to call India. Hindustan translates to land of the Hindus and comes from the Sanskrit word Sindhu. Persian explorers  incorrectly pronounced “Sindhu”  as “Hindu” and the name has stuck. Historically, Hindustan encompassed Northern India. Other names for India include Bharat.

            Tomorrow, we have to take care of a final bureaucratic procedure and then will do some sight seeing. More to follow.

            Take care and be well.

-Gabe