The third trip of the Winter Trifecta was a 10-day trip with my parents to India in January. I’ve already given you a little taste of what it’s like for an adult to travel with her parents.
The background to this trip went something like this: my dad decided that he wanted to go to India before his health gets any worse, ie, he wanted to go one more time before he dies. I worry about my dad and his health, and the idea of him dragging suitcases all over India for three weeks really bothered me. He’s at the point where walking up stairs gives him chest pains, although he can do plenty of other things, like swimming, just fine. I figured as long as I’m here in Cairo, it’s a lot easier to get to India. And cheaper, And faster. So I suggested that I should join Dad in Cairo – but not for three weeks.
Then my mother started to realize that I wasn’t planning to come back to the US for Christmas, and she figured this would be a good chance to see me and to supervise every action of my father’s. It was shaping up to be a big happy family vacation (ahem).
A little while after these initial conversations, there were 21 bombs detonated in a single day in Ahmedabad. We were planning to go to Ahmedabad because most of the family is there; we planned to use the city as a base. I guess since these bombings happen all the time there, we dismissed this set as not being especially significant.
Then Thanksgiving came. I remember getting up early that morning to shop and cook, and as usual I glanced at the New York Times website over coffee. I saw a headline, something like, “Two shot in Mumbai,” and I thought, oh, that’s too bad. Probably just some stupid random crime … making the international newspapers, for some reason. Whatever. I had more pressing food-related issues to deal with.
Later that evening at Thanksgiving dinner, I off-handedly mentioned that two people had been killed in India. The room went completely still, and I thought, well, at least my friends have a sense of decency about random killings. But when the talk resumed it was my turn to be appalled – I’d had no idea what had been going on all day. My friends filled me in on the extent of the carnage, the state of the siege, and what seemed to be the incredibly well-planned details of a premeditated slaughter – targeting foreigners.
I remember feeling all the blood draining out of my face. A friend shoved a glass of wine into my hands, sat me down, and said, “You don’t have family there, do you?” I just looked at her, and she immediately offered to let me use the phone. I thought about doing just that, but then I realized that I didn’t know who to call. Instead I went online for a few minutes and tried to figure out what was going on. And when I finished, I came back to the party and life continued.
That evening I called my parents to discuss the advisability of traveling to Mumbai in January. The thrust of the conversation would have been comical if it hadn’t involved such dreadful circumstances. My father kept pointing out how difficult it had been for him to get the vacation time from work, and how much hassle he’d had, planning the trip. I was concerned that either a) the good-ol’ Hindu-Muslim riots would break out again, or b) the government would crack down on all movements of foreigners, a la Egypt (I don’t need to travel 6000 miles to be harassed by a government; I can do that right here, thank you). And in classic form, my mother could only talk about what would happen to my brother if the three of us were killed. No concerns over my death, mind you, or her own; only “what would happen” to my 27-year-old brother.
We deferred making a decision for a few weeks to see how things progressed. And when Indians declined to massacre each other in the streets, when war against Pakistan was not declared, and when there were no reports of ridiculous security measures – well done all around, India! – we decided to proceed. I washed my hands of all planning, which was excruciating. But I figured I’d already argued with my Dad enough about this trip – and that was prior to all the additional arguing I was confident would take place on the trip itself.
Fast-forward to January: I arrived without incident in Mumbai on EgyptAir. I got my bags (eventually), found myself a taxi (without a/c I saved a hundred rupees - $2! Woohoo!), and made my way to the JW Marriott in Juhu Beach (a major benefit of traveling with my Dad, whose generosity often manifests itself in mysterious ways). The hotel was lovely, although in the mostly-anonymous style of most western chain hotels. I ate a late lunch, then went up to my room to unpack and change. I’d originally planned to take the train from Juhu to Mumbai and do some sightseeing, but I was tired, so I figured I’d go for a swim and then walk around Juhu before dinner.
About an hour and a half later I woke up on a chaise lounge. I’d made it down to the pool, but no further. Clearly sightseeing was out of the picture for the day. So I went to the fitness center, took advantage of the spa facilities, then had an enormous (and enormously expensive) Thai dinner in the hotel. I left a note for my parents (who were checking in late at night), watched some TV, and tried to enjoy my last few minutes of peaceful solitude.
The next day the madness started. I met up with my parents, reminded them of some dinner reservations I’d made at Trishna, a famous Mumbai restaurant, and we headed into Mumbai for some sightseeing. Incidentally, this was the tail end of an enormous email argument with my family about what we’d be doing in Mumbai. My father had no intention of leaving Juhu (north of the city) for the city itself. I had no intention of flying 6000 miles and seeing nothing. Our heated email exchange finally ended when I dropped the A-bomb of arguments: “Fine! I’ll go by myself!”
Hah. That got his attention. My father was absolutely aghast that his independent, self-sufficient, adult daughter – who lives in a developing nation – would even consider such a thing. I used this tactic a few more times to get my way over the course of the trip, although dragging my parents around, listening to their complaints, soured my victories.
I admit, I also wanted to see how the area looked after the attacks. A few Indian friends had specifically charged me to look around and take pictures. And let me tell you, I was wholly impressed. Except for the security around the Oberoi hotel (which was like Egyptian security, except the metal detectors were actually plugged in and the guards weren’t drinking tea), it was almost impossible to tell that anything had happened. There was a small plaque in the lobby with the names of those killed, and a sculpture. But that was it. Remember those awful pictures of the Oberoi dome in flames? Here’s what it looked like in January.
We walked past the Leopold Café, and my father actually stopped me and pointed it out. I never, never would have guessed that this place had been sprayed with bullets – the joint was hopping, and I imagine just as full of foreigners as ever.
So a mere month and a half after these horrendous attacks, Mumbai was back on its feet. Meanwhile, the World Trade Center is still a gaping hole in the ground, while people squabble over how many fountains the memorial should have. For shame, America.
I wasn’t blown away by Mumbai, but that’s probably because I was with my family. I hear there are lots of great things to see and do. I saw a lot of traffic (constant Cairo comparisons), a few shopping malls, and my “uncle’s” flat. We had two big family get-togethers, which I enjoyed a lot more than I’d anticipated. My cousins who are my age are nice, interesting people with active minds. My Mumbai experience was probably a lot closer to real life than tourism, but not exactly romantic adventure.
Ah, well. Next time, insha’allah.
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