TUESDAY, July 10, 2007
Lion and Tiger and Bears, Oh My
We called Dr. Parikh in the morning when we woke, to find out how our egg was doing, and to find out if she and her husband, a Psychiatrist and avid amateur photographer, would like to join us for dinner or drinks on our last night in town.
The news about the egg wasn’t good. It didn’t seem to have the two orbs in the right place, and, while it did fertilize, did not seem to be dividing at the normal rate. She told us she did not know conclusively, and wouldn’t until tomorrow morning, but obviously anyone who has ever undertaken an experiment in science class knows that deviation from the norm is not a good sign. Dr Parikh suggested that we could come in to the hospital later in the day to discuss it, but, as it was our last full day in Mumbai we’d already planned a trip to the large “urban” park northeast of us, and, since there was absolutely nothing we could do about the situation, we thought we would continue with our plan, and I’m glad we did.
That isn’t to say that the situation didn’t lay in wait at the back of our minds the entire day, occasionally springing forward like the tigers we were going to see, and taking a savage bite out of our peace of mind. To be honest, I had worked so hard to make this plan happen- what with seeing that I kept my ovaries, and researching a way that Hardy and I might try to have a biological child that I never really thought about what might happen if I was simply not able to produce the eggs. I had always thought of myself as very fertile, and anyway, 43 was not so far from 40. I had still had regular periods before my Hysterectomy and assumed, aside from the Cancer, everything was still viable with my reproductive organs. Finding this out has been a blow almost as bad as the Cancer. With the Cancer I had been cured- although I still contend that removing the offending organ is not a cure. This was a much more troubling predicament, because, once again, I had absolutely no control, and worse, not even the option of surgical intervention. I guess I thought that going ahead undaunted with our plan for children would help me to take back my will and life from the Cancer, and in doing so, hadn’t left room for any other “setbacks” especially one that now threatens to be a deal breaker. This did and does fill me with anguish. All of my life I have been free to do as I chose, in my work and play, and in my love, so something like this, piled on top of the Cancer, has really shaken me to the core, because here is a problem I cannot change or fix or run away from. This is especially hard if you are a rational person, because rationality can explain but it cannot comfort, and I have been left feeling paralyzed and incapable for the first time (well second after the Cancer) in my life, and it is the worst feeling imaginable.
In addition it really makes you think about the value of our lives and what we leave behind. It reminds me of a project that I did in photography class at UCLA (I was a BFA there with an emphasis in Photography) about the four roads to immortality- fame, progeneration, existential thought, and, honestly, I forget the last one. Suddenly I was bombarded with the fact that I and who I am might not continue to swim in the Gene pool. I probably won’t look down into a little face and say, “that part is like Grandma,” or “I know where you get your good looks (or temper!).” And, how much does this matter to me, my own desire for immortality? That I could love a child that comes to us, I know for a fact, but if you strip all of the layers of traits and history away, how much does it diminish the experience? I told Hardy that I guess we might be carrying out another great experiment on the topic of nature versus nurture, and we might have to be o.k. with it.
In this state of frustration and sadness we thought it would be a good idea to get out in nature, and so we went off to Sanjay Gandhi National Park- the largest urban park in the world. Hardy had bought a book about the park months ago, and it sounded exciting- with ancient Buddhist Caves and a lion and tiger “safari” park.
But first on the list was the Mahatma Gandhi museum, a couple of block away from our hotel. This was the house, owned by a good friend of the family, which Gandhi stayed in while in Bombay, and from which many important campaigns for Indian Independence had been launched. It sits in a very nice little neighborhood of turn-of-the-century houses- most about 4 stories tall, mixed in with apartment buildings looming from the lots where the other houses used to be. The house itself has lovely Victorian detailing, with beautiful woodwork and exuberant encaustic tile floors. On the upper floor they still have Gandhi’s rooms, monastically set as he had left them. The top floor housed crude but instructive dioramas of the major events of Gandhi’s life. The ground floor (not the same thing as the first floor in India) held Gandhi’s extensive library illustrating his life as a prodigious reader and intellectual, as well as a great leader. It’s a very lovely memorial.
After this we walked over to the train station, passing lots of unusual products on what must have been the Home Improvement street, got lost, had to stop for water so as not to pass out from the heat, and finally found Grant Station. It turns out that taking the train would be the fastest way there, and additionally might be like the romantic portrayal we’d probably seen in some film.
We bought a first-class ticket for our stop, about ten stops away. When the train pulled up to the station, we tried to walk along with the first-class cars, and were whooshed up into the train with the others when the train came to what we like to call in California a “rolling stop.” Being mid-day the train wasn’t so crowded, maybe because it was First-Class, although no one ever checked our car. At the second station, we switched to the Express train, and I had a window seat with a grate over it. No one really bothered us at the station or on the train, because I think they were just so shocked to see us there. This was a typical reaction in almost everything we did. Gone are the days of the Raj- and the white people who ruled them- and being white in Indian -even if you are a European or a Colonial (as an Englishwoman I knew when I lived in London used to call us!) is a fairly rare occurrence at any but the well known tourist spots.
My view from the train afforded me a side of India we hadn’t seen much of- the slums.
Hardy had told me that in Maximum City- another one of the books he’d bought and read some of, in mentioned that the railway land (of which there seemed to be a lot) was an area where slums grew up because the “overseers” of the slum would pay off the particular officials in charge of that spot of land where the train ran through, and charge rent to all of the shanty shack dwellers- and made a great deal of money. Some of the slums looked more like pup tent encampments made out of the ubiquitous blue tarps, and other looked partially properly built with sections of brick meeting corrugated steel, pieces of tin, parts of old billboards, and then the blue tarps. Nevertheless, the laundry was hanging on the line, and the dirty but healthy-looking children played ball while chickens scratched, and no one looked particularly unhappy.
We got off at the Bandiri Station. It was hotter, dustier and poorer than Kemps Corner, and while there were a few taxis, the majority of the waiting vehicles were the motorized bikes that look like rickshaws, that I wanted to get a ride in. We told one of them where we wanted to go, and he, shaking his head, directed us to a string of 3 or 4 white bubble-topped cars that looking like they came off the line sometime in the late 1960’s. Apparently the park is larger and the road rougher than the Motorized bikes could handle. For Rs500, the driver would take us to the park, stay with us and drive us back. Before the trip I thought that was a lot.
So we got into what I thought was his “retro” vehicle (though we later asked him what year his car was made and he told us the unlikely date of 1994), whose shocks had long ago given up, and he drove through the town- still part of Mumbai (not unlike the sprawl of LA) - to the park.
We paid the admission through the car window, and off we went into the park, following the signs to the Andehri Cave, a way our driver had obviously been many times. The park is vast, although there are settlements dotted about inside of it, and after a while we felt that we were really in the middle of wilderness. Although there were very few large trees, the vegetation-especially after several weeks of the daily monsoon rains- was lush and tropical. And when our driver pointed out the caves in front and above us they were nestled in a blanket of green.
At the foot of the hill we paid admission and got a guide, who told us about the Buddhist Monks that had carved their dwellings, about 50 caves of various sizes, one large enough to have a 12foot high 4foot diameter Stupa inside a large temple room. As he told us about the caves, he held my hand to keep me from falling since the rain had made the rock and moss slick. Sometime in the 70s the government had decided to fix up this potential tourist site with concrete and rebar which, ironically, was now the part that was crumbling. While the carvings were somewhat impressive, a river, including waterfalls, ran right through the site, and made the place peaceful and lovely. As a realtor would say, “view property, well insulated, with historical details close to charming stream”.
At the foot of the hill we had seen our first monkeys. I stopped to take my camera out of my bag, and some other Indian tourists who were leaving cautioned me-“they’ll take your bag!” And so on the way down we saw a snack kiosk, and decided to get a drink and some crackers or something. The vendor got us the items out of cages with locks more fortified than a liquor store in Inglewood. As I drew my wallet out of my bag, we noticed that the one or two monkeys that had been hanging around had become about 30. In between the exit and us! And now we had something they wanted. We turned, exactly like a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and walked slowly, and unflinchingly to the steps, 60 eyes from our formerly cute friends boring holes in us. When we got half way down the stairs we made a break for it, but one of the bigger males made a sneak play, coming around Hardy from the left and making one last grab for the bag. Hardy stuck his leg out like he was going to kick him, and in that second we ran to the car and got in. Oh, those cute monkeys! Actually, about ten years ago I did a music video for a band in which the lead singer would be suspended from a tree filled with monkeys. We called around town, and ended up with a motley assortment of Spider monkeys, Gibbons, and something else. I remember that the monkeys needed to be tethered and there was much hissing, fighting, and a lot of biting of wranglers, so I’ve been cautious of monkeys ever since. But, of course, it looks cool in the video!
After this spooky experience, our driver drove us to the Lion and Tiger Safari. While we waited for a group to form we looked through the exhibit about tigers in India illustrated with Mogli, Bagheera and Baloo. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have the rights from Disney.
I think I had never really realized the Jungle Book is set in India, but do have a cousin (my Aunt Tezi and Uncle Howard’s son) who was named Kim after another little boy in a Kipling book. Not very surprisingly he now calls himself by his middle name Chris. He is getting married in January, so congratulations!
When enough people arrive, we get on the old school bus that has had grates mounted to all of its windows. We pass through Jurassic Park style gates, and through some very bumpy and muddy road to find a White Tiger hanging out by the feeding station. In fairness he did come over and lounge by the side of the bus for us, and it was the closest I’d ever been to a white tiger that wasn’t behind glass in Las Vegas. I remember once when the Wayne Brady show (which was shooting next door) had a tiger cub on the show who was waiting to ride in the same elevator as we were (crazy showbiz!) and I was surprised then, and now, how large these cats really are!
We went to the lion enclosure, same thing, and found a pair of young males lying in the road, and until the bus threatened to run over them, everyone went snap happy with their cameras, me included. So now I have some great pictures of the backs of everyone’s heads, their cameras, and a lion somewhere in the distance.
Done, our driver took us back to the train station. Because it was now 4pm, the train was much more crowded, but it just seemed like the New York subway at rush hour to me. We also met some cute schoolboys who were delighted when they could practice their English with us (all school children learn English), and delighted when Hardy gave them each an American quarter. Ah, the simple things.
Once back in town, we showered and changed to go meet my London and now San Francisco friend Jackie (Jax)(just married, Congrats!) Kaur’s friends Deepa and her husband Sushil, who have recently moved to Mumbai (Sushil’s family is here) from Manhattan. We meet them for drinks at The Dome on the top floor of the Hotel Intercontinental, one of the revamped Art Deco buildings that wrap all the way down the Chowpatty seafront. It seems this land was all “reclaimed” in the twenties and built up all at the same time at the height of Art Deco and Streamline Moderne. It makes this part of Bombay strangely resemble Miami (before the Revitalization). There is a book I plan to get that Michael Owen showed me on Bombay Art Deco. They also drew the comparison. The Intercontinental got a facelift several years ago that makes Bandira seem light years away. We had fancy cocktails on the beautiful all-white Conservatory roof deck, with a spectacular view of the Bay. We were having so much fun (Hardy and Sushil both have their MRED, so they both love to talk Real Estate!), they asked us to join them at a dinner they were hosting—at Indigo! Of course we couldn’t say no to that slice of heaven one more time, but knew we couldn’t stay long because we were going to meet Dr. Parikh and her husband at their apartment at around 10pm (does that woman ever sleep?). After a fun but truncated dinner, Sushil’s driver (most of the families in Mumbai who can afford them have drivers), took us to Dr. Parikh’s place.
Although it was late, I was still very curious to see Dr. Parikh’s home and meet her husband Rajesh. Their home was a mélange of marble, Italian Glass, souvenirs, and comfy chairs, with a magnificent fish bowl Hardy would kill for, and another killer view of the harbour. We talked for several hours, with Rajesh holding forth on every topic imaginable. Dr. Parikh had told us he reads a book a day and I don’t doubt it! What a lovely couple, and how nice it was to spend time with Dr. Parikh outside the hospital.
On the way out Rajesh gave us a copy his beautiful book of Kashmiri photographs (I told you he was also an amateur Photographer, although these pictures looked very Pro). On the way down to the Taxi, he asked us about our case- we had not discussed it that evening- and I said I did not think it was going well, in fact, if it had been, I was sure it would have been mentioned. On that note, and with thanks for a lovely evening we hit it back to the hotel, as you can bet we were rather tired.
The news about the egg wasn’t good. It didn’t seem to have the two orbs in the right place, and, while it did fertilize, did not seem to be dividing at the normal rate. She told us she did not know conclusively, and wouldn’t until tomorrow morning, but obviously anyone who has ever undertaken an experiment in science class knows that deviation from the norm is not a good sign. Dr Parikh suggested that we could come in to the hospital later in the day to discuss it, but, as it was our last full day in Mumbai we’d already planned a trip to the large “urban” park northeast of us, and, since there was absolutely nothing we could do about the situation, we thought we would continue with our plan, and I’m glad we did.
That isn’t to say that the situation didn’t lay in wait at the back of our minds the entire day, occasionally springing forward like the tigers we were going to see, and taking a savage bite out of our peace of mind. To be honest, I had worked so hard to make this plan happen- what with seeing that I kept my ovaries, and researching a way that Hardy and I might try to have a biological child that I never really thought about what might happen if I was simply not able to produce the eggs. I had always thought of myself as very fertile, and anyway, 43 was not so far from 40. I had still had regular periods before my Hysterectomy and assumed, aside from the Cancer, everything was still viable with my reproductive organs. Finding this out has been a blow almost as bad as the Cancer. With the Cancer I had been cured- although I still contend that removing the offending organ is not a cure. This was a much more troubling predicament, because, once again, I had absolutely no control, and worse, not even the option of surgical intervention. I guess I thought that going ahead undaunted with our plan for children would help me to take back my will and life from the Cancer, and in doing so, hadn’t left room for any other “setbacks” especially one that now threatens to be a deal breaker. This did and does fill me with anguish. All of my life I have been free to do as I chose, in my work and play, and in my love, so something like this, piled on top of the Cancer, has really shaken me to the core, because here is a problem I cannot change or fix or run away from. This is especially hard if you are a rational person, because rationality can explain but it cannot comfort, and I have been left feeling paralyzed and incapable for the first time (well second after the Cancer) in my life, and it is the worst feeling imaginable.
In addition it really makes you think about the value of our lives and what we leave behind. It reminds me of a project that I did in photography class at UCLA (I was a BFA there with an emphasis in Photography) about the four roads to immortality- fame, progeneration, existential thought, and, honestly, I forget the last one. Suddenly I was bombarded with the fact that I and who I am might not continue to swim in the Gene pool. I probably won’t look down into a little face and say, “that part is like Grandma,” or “I know where you get your good looks (or temper!).” And, how much does this matter to me, my own desire for immortality? That I could love a child that comes to us, I know for a fact, but if you strip all of the layers of traits and history away, how much does it diminish the experience? I told Hardy that I guess we might be carrying out another great experiment on the topic of nature versus nurture, and we might have to be o.k. with it.
In this state of frustration and sadness we thought it would be a good idea to get out in nature, and so we went off to Sanjay Gandhi National Park- the largest urban park in the world. Hardy had bought a book about the park months ago, and it sounded exciting- with ancient Buddhist Caves and a lion and tiger “safari” park.
But first on the list was the Mahatma Gandhi museum, a couple of block away from our hotel. This was the house, owned by a good friend of the family, which Gandhi stayed in while in Bombay, and from which many important campaigns for Indian Independence had been launched. It sits in a very nice little neighborhood of turn-of-the-century houses- most about 4 stories tall, mixed in with apartment buildings looming from the lots where the other houses used to be. The house itself has lovely Victorian detailing, with beautiful woodwork and exuberant encaustic tile floors. On the upper floor they still have Gandhi’s rooms, monastically set as he had left them. The top floor housed crude but instructive dioramas of the major events of Gandhi’s life. The ground floor (not the same thing as the first floor in India) held Gandhi’s extensive library illustrating his life as a prodigious reader and intellectual, as well as a great leader. It’s a very lovely memorial.
After this we walked over to the train station, passing lots of unusual products on what must have been the Home Improvement street, got lost, had to stop for water so as not to pass out from the heat, and finally found Grant Station. It turns out that taking the train would be the fastest way there, and additionally might be like the romantic portrayal we’d probably seen in some film.
We bought a first-class ticket for our stop, about ten stops away. When the train pulled up to the station, we tried to walk along with the first-class cars, and were whooshed up into the train with the others when the train came to what we like to call in California a “rolling stop.” Being mid-day the train wasn’t so crowded, maybe because it was First-Class, although no one ever checked our car. At the second station, we switched to the Express train, and I had a window seat with a grate over it. No one really bothered us at the station or on the train, because I think they were just so shocked to see us there. This was a typical reaction in almost everything we did. Gone are the days of the Raj- and the white people who ruled them- and being white in Indian -even if you are a European or a Colonial (as an Englishwoman I knew when I lived in London used to call us!) is a fairly rare occurrence at any but the well known tourist spots.
My view from the train afforded me a side of India we hadn’t seen much of- the slums.
Hardy had told me that in Maximum City- another one of the books he’d bought and read some of, in mentioned that the railway land (of which there seemed to be a lot) was an area where slums grew up because the “overseers” of the slum would pay off the particular officials in charge of that spot of land where the train ran through, and charge rent to all of the shanty shack dwellers- and made a great deal of money. Some of the slums looked more like pup tent encampments made out of the ubiquitous blue tarps, and other looked partially properly built with sections of brick meeting corrugated steel, pieces of tin, parts of old billboards, and then the blue tarps. Nevertheless, the laundry was hanging on the line, and the dirty but healthy-looking children played ball while chickens scratched, and no one looked particularly unhappy.
We got off at the Bandiri Station. It was hotter, dustier and poorer than Kemps Corner, and while there were a few taxis, the majority of the waiting vehicles were the motorized bikes that look like rickshaws, that I wanted to get a ride in. We told one of them where we wanted to go, and he, shaking his head, directed us to a string of 3 or 4 white bubble-topped cars that looking like they came off the line sometime in the late 1960’s. Apparently the park is larger and the road rougher than the Motorized bikes could handle. For Rs500, the driver would take us to the park, stay with us and drive us back. Before the trip I thought that was a lot.
So we got into what I thought was his “retro” vehicle (though we later asked him what year his car was made and he told us the unlikely date of 1994), whose shocks had long ago given up, and he drove through the town- still part of Mumbai (not unlike the sprawl of LA) - to the park.
We paid the admission through the car window, and off we went into the park, following the signs to the Andehri Cave, a way our driver had obviously been many times. The park is vast, although there are settlements dotted about inside of it, and after a while we felt that we were really in the middle of wilderness. Although there were very few large trees, the vegetation-especially after several weeks of the daily monsoon rains- was lush and tropical. And when our driver pointed out the caves in front and above us they were nestled in a blanket of green.
At the foot of the hill we paid admission and got a guide, who told us about the Buddhist Monks that had carved their dwellings, about 50 caves of various sizes, one large enough to have a 12foot high 4foot diameter Stupa inside a large temple room. As he told us about the caves, he held my hand to keep me from falling since the rain had made the rock and moss slick. Sometime in the 70s the government had decided to fix up this potential tourist site with concrete and rebar which, ironically, was now the part that was crumbling. While the carvings were somewhat impressive, a river, including waterfalls, ran right through the site, and made the place peaceful and lovely. As a realtor would say, “view property, well insulated, with historical details close to charming stream”.
At the foot of the hill we had seen our first monkeys. I stopped to take my camera out of my bag, and some other Indian tourists who were leaving cautioned me-“they’ll take your bag!” And so on the way down we saw a snack kiosk, and decided to get a drink and some crackers or something. The vendor got us the items out of cages with locks more fortified than a liquor store in Inglewood. As I drew my wallet out of my bag, we noticed that the one or two monkeys that had been hanging around had become about 30. In between the exit and us! And now we had something they wanted. We turned, exactly like a scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and walked slowly, and unflinchingly to the steps, 60 eyes from our formerly cute friends boring holes in us. When we got half way down the stairs we made a break for it, but one of the bigger males made a sneak play, coming around Hardy from the left and making one last grab for the bag. Hardy stuck his leg out like he was going to kick him, and in that second we ran to the car and got in. Oh, those cute monkeys! Actually, about ten years ago I did a music video for a band in which the lead singer would be suspended from a tree filled with monkeys. We called around town, and ended up with a motley assortment of Spider monkeys, Gibbons, and something else. I remember that the monkeys needed to be tethered and there was much hissing, fighting, and a lot of biting of wranglers, so I’ve been cautious of monkeys ever since. But, of course, it looks cool in the video!
After this spooky experience, our driver drove us to the Lion and Tiger Safari. While we waited for a group to form we looked through the exhibit about tigers in India illustrated with Mogli, Bagheera and Baloo. I’m pretty sure they didn’t have the rights from Disney.
I think I had never really realized the Jungle Book is set in India, but do have a cousin (my Aunt Tezi and Uncle Howard’s son) who was named Kim after another little boy in a Kipling book. Not very surprisingly he now calls himself by his middle name Chris. He is getting married in January, so congratulations!
When enough people arrive, we get on the old school bus that has had grates mounted to all of its windows. We pass through Jurassic Park style gates, and through some very bumpy and muddy road to find a White Tiger hanging out by the feeding station. In fairness he did come over and lounge by the side of the bus for us, and it was the closest I’d ever been to a white tiger that wasn’t behind glass in Las Vegas. I remember once when the Wayne Brady show (which was shooting next door) had a tiger cub on the show who was waiting to ride in the same elevator as we were (crazy showbiz!) and I was surprised then, and now, how large these cats really are!
We went to the lion enclosure, same thing, and found a pair of young males lying in the road, and until the bus threatened to run over them, everyone went snap happy with their cameras, me included. So now I have some great pictures of the backs of everyone’s heads, their cameras, and a lion somewhere in the distance.
Done, our driver took us back to the train station. Because it was now 4pm, the train was much more crowded, but it just seemed like the New York subway at rush hour to me. We also met some cute schoolboys who were delighted when they could practice their English with us (all school children learn English), and delighted when Hardy gave them each an American quarter. Ah, the simple things.
Once back in town, we showered and changed to go meet my London and now San Francisco friend Jackie (Jax)(just married, Congrats!) Kaur’s friends Deepa and her husband Sushil, who have recently moved to Mumbai (Sushil’s family is here) from Manhattan. We meet them for drinks at The Dome on the top floor of the Hotel Intercontinental, one of the revamped Art Deco buildings that wrap all the way down the Chowpatty seafront. It seems this land was all “reclaimed” in the twenties and built up all at the same time at the height of Art Deco and Streamline Moderne. It makes this part of Bombay strangely resemble Miami (before the Revitalization). There is a book I plan to get that Michael Owen showed me on Bombay Art Deco. They also drew the comparison. The Intercontinental got a facelift several years ago that makes Bandira seem light years away. We had fancy cocktails on the beautiful all-white Conservatory roof deck, with a spectacular view of the Bay. We were having so much fun (Hardy and Sushil both have their MRED, so they both love to talk Real Estate!), they asked us to join them at a dinner they were hosting—at Indigo! Of course we couldn’t say no to that slice of heaven one more time, but knew we couldn’t stay long because we were going to meet Dr. Parikh and her husband at their apartment at around 10pm (does that woman ever sleep?). After a fun but truncated dinner, Sushil’s driver (most of the families in Mumbai who can afford them have drivers), took us to Dr. Parikh’s place.
Although it was late, I was still very curious to see Dr. Parikh’s home and meet her husband Rajesh. Their home was a mélange of marble, Italian Glass, souvenirs, and comfy chairs, with a magnificent fish bowl Hardy would kill for, and another killer view of the harbour. We talked for several hours, with Rajesh holding forth on every topic imaginable. Dr. Parikh had told us he reads a book a day and I don’t doubt it! What a lovely couple, and how nice it was to spend time with Dr. Parikh outside the hospital.
On the way out Rajesh gave us a copy his beautiful book of Kashmiri photographs (I told you he was also an amateur Photographer, although these pictures looked very Pro). On the way down to the Taxi, he asked us about our case- we had not discussed it that evening- and I said I did not think it was going well, in fact, if it had been, I was sure it would have been mentioned. On that note, and with thanks for a lovely evening we hit it back to the hotel, as you can bet we were rather tired.
