Welcome to the first Manuscript Monday! Every Monday I'll post a little excerpt from the roughest of rough drafts of my book about traveling in India. I have no idea if any of these will make it into the finished draft, but they're here for you, nonetheless.
Today's tiny morsel is set in the Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. I'd been in Mumbai for about two minutes before someone told me to leave:
Still dressed for foggy London Town in khaki pants and a turtleneck sweater, I stepped off the plane and into the humid monsoon heat of October in Mumbai. I walked to the baggage claim, sweating off about 25% of my body weight in the process. I stared at the rickety black-rubber conveyor belt, praying my orange backpack—which I’d last seen in the arms of a baggage handler at LAX—would return to me.
Heat and sleep deprivation had decimated my critical thinking abilities. A small, but vocal portion of my brain began pointing out obvious sights, like an overzealous tour guide. “That’s an Indian security guard!” it yelled. “And over on your right, those are genuine Indian luggage carts!”
A young businessman standing next to me interrupted this useless orientation to ask where I was from. I recognized him from the plane. He’d sat one seat away from me for the last 9 hours and I was pretty sure I'd accidentally elbowed his skull on my way to the bathroom, but we hadn’t spoken a word until now.
“I’m from the U.S.,” I said, trying to smile politely as sweat poured down my face.
“Really?” he said, sounding disappointed. “If I had known you were from America, I would have talked to you before.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but he just continued talking. He was from Mumbai, he told me, but he lived in California now. He was visiting his family, but as soon as possible he was going to ditch them to vacation with friends in Goa.
“Have you been to Goa?” he asked.
I shook my head no. Everything I’d heard about the Indian state of Goa involved raves, drug overdoses and crowded beaches full of jet skis and Western-style bars. Goa was third on my list of places to avoid in India, right under leper colonies and religious riots.
“Isn’t Goa where all the tourists go to party?” I asked skeptically. I inflected the word “tourist” with a subtle disdain, to demonstrate that I considered myself a more serious, soulful kind of traveler.
“Yes!” he said emphatically. “It’s great! You should meet me there!”
“I don’t think so,” I said carefully. He was already writing his phone number out on a slip of paper.
“No, you must! What else are you going to do in India?”
I told him I’d planned two weeks in Mumbai, followed by a 14-day silent vipassana meditation course in the mountains. After that, I wasn’t sure.
He made an exasperated noise and shoved his phone number in my hand. “Mumbai is dirty. People live on the streets,” he said. “Come to Goa. It’s beautiful.”
“Look! Our bags are here!” I pointed to my orange backpack inching its way down the conveyor belt. His determination to change my plans after two minutes of conversation was unnerving. I felt grateful for a distraction.
I slung my hefty pack over my shoulder and nearly toppled sideways from the weight as he looked on with amusement. His bag was nowhere in sight, so I took the opportunity to part company. I stuffed his phone number, already damp with sweat, into my pocket. I waved goodbye and wobbled purposefully towards the nearest exit.
I'd staggered most of the way across the terminal before I heard him shout my name.
“Becca!”
I turned to see him standing with his feet apart, holding a black suitcase, as hundreds of Indian families and businessmen rushed by in all directions. Our eyes met.
“Don’t waste your time in Mumbai!” he yelled.
I nodded, completely befuddled by this anti-welcome, and made my way outside.
It's like I'm there with you.... :)
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