Sarah-Kate Lynch's Blog, page 2
March 9, 2014
Roll Out Those Crazy Hazy Days of Somewhat
Reading is a joy but sometimes writing feels like your innards have been scooped out like a Halloween pumpkin and you�re still scouring the insides for enough to make a decent soup.
Yesterday I was reading through the last couple of chapters of the second draft of my next book, Heavenly Hirani�s School of Laughing Yoga, when I was suddenly deeply possessed by the most appalling notion that it wasn�t good enough; that I wasn�t good enough.
Who do I think I am, anyway? What do I know? I�m just someone who mostly just sits at home alone, typing and talking to the dog. Some days I don�t even make it out of my PJs.
Who will care? Why do I bother?
Then, I heard the familiar PING of an email arriving, and from the Heavens into my lap descended the following:
�Four months ago my father passed away and i became obsessed with honey. i had no idea why but started eating manuka honey like my life depended on it. i came across your novel the wedding bees and it all made sense. i wasn�t so crazy after all! Honey really is a healer.
Your book did more to ease my grief than anything else. now i am reading dolci di love and the timing couldn�t be more perfect. thank you for bringing colour back into my world. you are a wonderful writer and your stories dance a joy that�s rubbed off on me. i can�t wait for your next novel. thanks again.�
GG, and all the other GGs out there � you will care, so I will bother, and for the timely reminder, from the bottom of my sometimes battered heart � thank you, thank you, thank you.
XSK
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Yesterday I was reading through the last couple of chapters of the second draft of my next book, Heavenly Hirani�s School of Laughing Yoga, when I was suddenly deeply possessed by the most appalling notion that it wasn�t good enough; that I wasn�t good enough.
Who do I think I am, anyway? What do I know? I�m just someone who mostly just sits at home alone, typing and talking to the dog. Some days I don�t even make it out of my PJs.
Who will care? Why do I bother?
Then, I heard the familiar PING of an email arriving, and from the Heavens into my lap descended the following:
�Four months ago my father passed away and i became obsessed with honey. i had no idea why but started eating manuka honey like my life depended on it. i came across your novel the wedding bees and it all made sense. i wasn�t so crazy after all! Honey really is a healer.
Your book did more to ease my grief than anything else. now i am reading dolci di love and the timing couldn�t be more perfect. thank you for bringing colour back into my world. you are a wonderful writer and your stories dance a joy that�s rubbed off on me. i can�t wait for your next novel. thanks again.�
GG, and all the other GGs out there � you will care, so I will bother, and for the timely reminder, from the bottom of my sometimes battered heart � thank you, thank you, thank you.
XSK
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February 3, 2014
Pour Some Honey In It!
Sarah-Kate Lynch�s Low-fat Banana-Blueberry Honey Muffins
1 cup self-raising flour
1/3 cup rye flour
1 tsp baking soda
pinch salt
2 TBSP grapeseed oil (or olive if you like the taste)
1/3 cup runny honey
2 large eggs
2-3 ripe bananas
1/3 cup runny yoghurt
1 tsp pure vanilla
1 cup blueberries
Mix dry ingredients and wet ingredients separately (although I add baking soda to honey and yoghurt mixture) then add blueberries. Cook at 180deg Celsius for 25 minutes. Eat. Do not feel obliged to share. They also freeze so you can heat one in the microwave whenever you feel the need for a pick-me-up.
1 cup self-raising flour
1/3 cup rye flour
1 tsp baking soda
pinch salt
2 TBSP grapeseed oil (or olive if you like the taste)
1/3 cup runny honey
2 large eggs
2-3 ripe bananas
1/3 cup runny yoghurt
1 tsp pure vanilla
1 cup blueberries
Mix dry ingredients and wet ingredients separately (although I add baking soda to honey and yoghurt mixture) then add blueberries. Cook at 180deg Celsius for 25 minutes. Eat. Do not feel obliged to share. They also freeze so you can heat one in the microwave whenever you feel the need for a pick-me-up.
January 31, 2014
Re-capturing the Buzz
So, the phone rang yesterday which gave me a surprise as usually it's the Ginger ringing me but he was asleep on the couch and like most husbandly-type people can only do one thing at a time, especially snoozing at which he is very good, so I knew it wasn't him.
I answered anyway but the man on the other end of the phone didn't help the general confusion as he didn't seem to know who I was and when pressed seems slightly unsure about who he was. But finally we worked out together that he was Bob, the bee guy: my very first port of call when I started researching The Wedding Bees more than three years ago.
He hadn't meant to ring me at all but we had ever such a lovely chat and when I told him the book I had only started writing when I met him had just come out in the US he said he would tell the bees. "Say hi to them from me," I said. "Good as gold," came his reply.
Meanwhile, the Ginger kept stacking more zzzzzzzzzzzzs.
The guy in the photo is not Bob, by the way, as I seem to have lost all my pictures from that year in a small iPhoto snafu. This is Jimmy Johnson whom I met at the NYC Beekeepers Association and who showed me his bees at the Narrows Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn. It was the first, and in fact only, time I've ever seen a bee poo.
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I answered anyway but the man on the other end of the phone didn't help the general confusion as he didn't seem to know who I was and when pressed seems slightly unsure about who he was. But finally we worked out together that he was Bob, the bee guy: my very first port of call when I started researching The Wedding Bees more than three years ago.
He hadn't meant to ring me at all but we had ever such a lovely chat and when I told him the book I had only started writing when I met him had just come out in the US he said he would tell the bees. "Say hi to them from me," I said. "Good as gold," came his reply.
Meanwhile, the Ginger kept stacking more zzzzzzzzzzzzs.
The guy in the photo is not Bob, by the way, as I seem to have lost all my pictures from that year in a small iPhoto snafu. This is Jimmy Johnson whom I met at the NYC Beekeepers Association and who showed me his bees at the Narrows Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn. It was the first, and in fact only, time I've ever seen a bee poo.
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January 26, 2014
Sugar And The Royals
I came across a scribbled note while cleaning out my office yesterday that reminded me of one of the inspirations for the character of Sugar in The Wedding Bees. I was sitting up in the early hours of the morning at The Vendue Inn in Charleston and as the Ginger snored loudly in the bed, I was glued to the television, sobbing as I watched Kate Middleton transform into Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge. Now there's a fairytale if ever there was one. But it was not the lacy detail of Kate's dress or the cut of Pippa's jib that ended up scrawled on that note; it was the words of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Now as any of the nuns who taught me 104 years ago would tell you, I am most unlikely to scrawl anything religious, much to their chagrin, but on the occasion of the royal wedding, the words that struck me were a quote from the new duchess's namesake St Catherine of Siena: "Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire." In my mind I translated that to mean "be who YOU are meant to be" as opposed to the person you might have accidentally turned into, which could be someone so tangled up in the weeds of the past that the future is starting to look far from rosy. That's the journey for my old-fashioned beekeeper, so thank you, both Catherines, for adding a little Sugar.
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January 22, 2014
Summer (Down Under) Reading
Just a little soup�on of what has been keeping me warm at night in recent months. Just finished Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch, which would have been better if it was shorter, and just starting Alice McDermott's Someone, which is the perfect size.
January 4, 2014
Happy New Year to You
So far, 2014, I love you. The weather at my end of the world has been gorgeous, the husband's remained a lovely person to hang out with, even the dog has not embarrassed himself or us with those sharp little teeth of his. I have a book coming out in the US on January 28 - The Wedding Bees, FINALLY - and I have a little non-fiction something special coming your way if you happen to be Down Under in April too. I hope to go to Vietnam this year and Turkey too, with a little bit of Paris thrown in for good measure if I behave myself and if the balls currently in the air fall in the right pattern. My only complaint is a small one. Although, truth be told, not as small as it should be. Given that 2013 was quite busy for sitting down a lot and writing things, combined with going places a lot and eating things, I found out on Christmas Eve that, erm, to my dismay, blush, I just couldn't exactly, polite cough, fit any of my party dresses. Not even with a strong man helping, zipper-wise. Christmas Eve, of course, is possibly the worst time EVER to find this out because of the smorgasbord of eating and drinking opportunities stretching far into January. Quel horreur I would say had I bothered to ever learn French. Luckily I have a whole second wardrobe of clothes that can take a five kilo hit and actually life is much easier when you only have a choice between that one over there and the other one you wore yesterday. However, I am resolving, in as much as it is ever a good idea, to now not sit down so much and perhaps eat a tiny bit less, especially if it has chocolate in it. Or on it. Or near it. Oh, and to step away from the fries. Mostly. If not entirely. But more likely, mostly. Happy New Year!
August 26, 2013
Paris, je t'aime
It could hardly be said I took the short route to Paris coming as I did via Sydney, Honolulu, Kauai, LA and London.
This may explain why I was wide awake at 4am this morning. After reading for a couple of hours (Meg Wolitzer�s The Interestings, loving it) I decided to get up and go discover Paris before anyone else did.
Last year when I was here I was staying in Montmartre but this year I am across the river in the 6th, just a single block from the Seine and another one from Notre Dame.
At 6 this morning the streets were deserted and it was like being on another planet. The light was gorgeous, the cathedral was reflected in the river, as were the red traffic lights here and there.
It was just me and the street sweepers for the most part, with the odd jogger pounding the quays beside the river and a few sleepy pigeons flapping about. After exhausting my camera battery I stopped in at the delightful St Regis caf� on the Ile-St-Louis and had an expensive but disgusting coffee with a cheap but sensational croissant. I�m OK with that.
But I�m in Paris. I�m OK with everything.
Funnily enough (although the Ginger would say it�s not funny at all) I�m here to research what will be my 10th novel - to be called, at this point, We As In Yes � the idea for which I came up with last year on the LAST day of my two-month stay here.
Oops.
It would have been a tad handier to have come up with the idea on the FIRST day of my two-month stay because then I would not have had to come back. Oh well!
The slight complication with We As In Yes is that in between having the idea, planning the research trip and getting to Paris I accidentally wrote another novel: Heavenly Hirani�s School of Laughing Yoga.
I only finished the first draft of it the day I left for France, therefore finding myself ever so slightly behind the 8 ball on the what-I-actually-need-to-be-researching-while-I�m-here front.
On the plus side, I�ve written another novel.
On the minus side, I may need to come back to Paris again. Again.
This may explain why I was wide awake at 4am this morning. After reading for a couple of hours (Meg Wolitzer�s The Interestings, loving it) I decided to get up and go discover Paris before anyone else did.
Last year when I was here I was staying in Montmartre but this year I am across the river in the 6th, just a single block from the Seine and another one from Notre Dame.
At 6 this morning the streets were deserted and it was like being on another planet. The light was gorgeous, the cathedral was reflected in the river, as were the red traffic lights here and there.
It was just me and the street sweepers for the most part, with the odd jogger pounding the quays beside the river and a few sleepy pigeons flapping about. After exhausting my camera battery I stopped in at the delightful St Regis caf� on the Ile-St-Louis and had an expensive but disgusting coffee with a cheap but sensational croissant. I�m OK with that.
But I�m in Paris. I�m OK with everything.
Funnily enough (although the Ginger would say it�s not funny at all) I�m here to research what will be my 10th novel - to be called, at this point, We As In Yes � the idea for which I came up with last year on the LAST day of my two-month stay here.
Oops.
It would have been a tad handier to have come up with the idea on the FIRST day of my two-month stay because then I would not have had to come back. Oh well!
The slight complication with We As In Yes is that in between having the idea, planning the research trip and getting to Paris I accidentally wrote another novel: Heavenly Hirani�s School of Laughing Yoga.
I only finished the first draft of it the day I left for France, therefore finding myself ever so slightly behind the 8 ball on the what-I-actually-need-to-be-researching-while-I�m-here front.
On the plus side, I�ve written another novel.
On the minus side, I may need to come back to Paris again. Again.
July 19, 2013
Sad Face
The bad news is that I have been an extremely poor bloggist for the past couple of months.
The good news is that I have almost finished the first draft of a new book. I wrote it by mistake - it has literally flown out of my fingers which has never happened before.
It's called Heavenly Hirani's School of Laughing Yoga and it's set in Mumbai.
Don't get too excited, The Wedding Bees took about seven drafts before it was fit for human consumption but the point is that I have not been lying in my bed with a vat of gin watching all three series of The Good Wife; I have been working.
More soon.
Ish.
Probably.
Possibly.
Shutting up now.
The good news is that I have almost finished the first draft of a new book. I wrote it by mistake - it has literally flown out of my fingers which has never happened before.
It's called Heavenly Hirani's School of Laughing Yoga and it's set in Mumbai.
Don't get too excited, The Wedding Bees took about seven drafts before it was fit for human consumption but the point is that I have not been lying in my bed with a vat of gin watching all three series of The Good Wife; I have been working.
More soon.
Ish.
Probably.
Possibly.
Shutting up now.
May 24, 2013
Sheep, Wolves, Goats, Chickens...
Well, it had to end some time, the shame was that after 30 days my Indian visa had expired but my desire to be there had not!
As a law-abiding citizen, however, I vacated Mumbai with only a couple of hours officially left.
The last few days were a whirlwind of trying to visit everything on my list, and re-visit a few as well. I managed it, I think, and right to the bitter end this crazy, colourful, incredible city challenged my perceptions
My last morning, I jumped in a cab and went to Chowpatty Beach for my last session of Laughing Yoga. If there�s anything that�s going to align your body, mind and soul it�s laughing yoga, right?
As I approached the group one of my favourite ladies came up and gave me a hug, her smile as broad as the sun. In fact, there were a few who seemed pleased to see me, grinning, waving, raising their eyebrows in the international sign of �Right, yeah, you, OK.�
The only person who didn�t seem over the moon was Kishore, the yoga teacher. �Her last day in India!� one of the ladies told him.
Kishore took me by the arm and pulled me away from the group and I stood to attention, thrilled that I might be getting a bit of personal guru wisdom to take home, laughter being the best medicine and all, spreading the joy being the answer to the world�s problems etc etc etc.
Here�s what he said:
�You�re supposed to pay me 1000 rupees each time you come.�
Oh my ganesh, I had no idea!
He had mentioned 1000 rupees the first time I turned up but I thought that was if you went to the big group laugh-in he was planning and for which he had printed a banner and some stickers.
I did not realise it was for the yoga on the beach. There was me, turning up every now and then grinning and laughing and having a whale of a time when I should have been paying my way.
I felt so embarrassed. For about a minute. And then I remembered that Kishore had given a very rousing speech one day about laughter being free.
OK, so that clearly wasn�t the case, but not only was it not free, it was jolly expensive. 1000 rupees is about $20 which I would not pay to go to a yoga class at home. It�s only 750 rupees to go to the Taj Mahal!
Yes, Kishore�s price tag was no joke. He might have been aligning my body, mind and soul but he was putting my wallet seriously out of whack.
So, I did the yoga class, although my laughing might not have been as authentic as usual, and if there had been a crying class further along the beach I might have been tempted to join that.
But as I jogged up and down on the sand next to my friends in their flowing saris, I thought how much I had loved the experience of getting together with them on the handful of mornings I had managed it.
I also thought that if I had known it was 1000 rupees a pop I would only have gone once, so not knowing had been a bonus. I had gained from it enormously and so, I decided, should Kishore.
Thus I gave him nearly all the cash I had on me, which was about half of what I �owed� him. I figured it�s India, he would have to be happy with that.
On the other hand, my friendly taxi driver Pinto, as per my last post, proved to be the opposite of what you might expect from someone eking out a living on the choked up streets of Mumbai. He never asked me for a cent, I just made up the fare and gave it to him at the end of our trips and all he ever did was thank me.
In fact, here�s the text I got from him when I was on my way to the airport to fly home.
�U r always be happey. God blase u. Have a nice joriney and u r in my eyes and my heart. I allwayes pear far u. God give u long life. U happey me. Thunk u.�
It�s safe to say that I left India - country of kooky contrasts - with mind, body, soul and wallet all seriously aligned. Joyfully so.
As a law-abiding citizen, however, I vacated Mumbai with only a couple of hours officially left.
The last few days were a whirlwind of trying to visit everything on my list, and re-visit a few as well. I managed it, I think, and right to the bitter end this crazy, colourful, incredible city challenged my perceptions
My last morning, I jumped in a cab and went to Chowpatty Beach for my last session of Laughing Yoga. If there�s anything that�s going to align your body, mind and soul it�s laughing yoga, right?
As I approached the group one of my favourite ladies came up and gave me a hug, her smile as broad as the sun. In fact, there were a few who seemed pleased to see me, grinning, waving, raising their eyebrows in the international sign of �Right, yeah, you, OK.�
The only person who didn�t seem over the moon was Kishore, the yoga teacher. �Her last day in India!� one of the ladies told him.
Kishore took me by the arm and pulled me away from the group and I stood to attention, thrilled that I might be getting a bit of personal guru wisdom to take home, laughter being the best medicine and all, spreading the joy being the answer to the world�s problems etc etc etc.
Here�s what he said:
�You�re supposed to pay me 1000 rupees each time you come.�
Oh my ganesh, I had no idea!
He had mentioned 1000 rupees the first time I turned up but I thought that was if you went to the big group laugh-in he was planning and for which he had printed a banner and some stickers.
I did not realise it was for the yoga on the beach. There was me, turning up every now and then grinning and laughing and having a whale of a time when I should have been paying my way.
I felt so embarrassed. For about a minute. And then I remembered that Kishore had given a very rousing speech one day about laughter being free.
OK, so that clearly wasn�t the case, but not only was it not free, it was jolly expensive. 1000 rupees is about $20 which I would not pay to go to a yoga class at home. It�s only 750 rupees to go to the Taj Mahal!
Yes, Kishore�s price tag was no joke. He might have been aligning my body, mind and soul but he was putting my wallet seriously out of whack.
So, I did the yoga class, although my laughing might not have been as authentic as usual, and if there had been a crying class further along the beach I might have been tempted to join that.
But as I jogged up and down on the sand next to my friends in their flowing saris, I thought how much I had loved the experience of getting together with them on the handful of mornings I had managed it.
I also thought that if I had known it was 1000 rupees a pop I would only have gone once, so not knowing had been a bonus. I had gained from it enormously and so, I decided, should Kishore.
Thus I gave him nearly all the cash I had on me, which was about half of what I �owed� him. I figured it�s India, he would have to be happy with that.
On the other hand, my friendly taxi driver Pinto, as per my last post, proved to be the opposite of what you might expect from someone eking out a living on the choked up streets of Mumbai. He never asked me for a cent, I just made up the fare and gave it to him at the end of our trips and all he ever did was thank me.
In fact, here�s the text I got from him when I was on my way to the airport to fly home.
�U r always be happey. God blase u. Have a nice joriney and u r in my eyes and my heart. I allwayes pear far u. God give u long life. U happey me. Thunk u.�
It�s safe to say that I left India - country of kooky contrasts - with mind, body, soul and wallet all seriously aligned. Joyfully so.
May 9, 2013
Just Taxi
I�m having quite the opposite experience in Mumbai to my beloved.
He�s here working long dusty hours on a film and I�m here sightseeing and having a lovely time.
There�s a strike on that�s making his life a misery � all the small retail shops are shut because owners don�t want a new tax that�s coming in so the Ginger can�t buy any of the things he needs for his sets.
But for me it means the streets are empty so it�s easier to get where I am going. I�m being helped in this endeavour by Pinto, the taxi driver.
Pinto saw me trailing my beloved and another friend on their one day off through the streets of Colaba last weekend as I tried to find a tailor that had been recommended.
My beloved and the other friend were over it but as they were cribbing on my shopping mission I didn�t care. Despite the heat and dust and noise and general chaos I was determined that the winter trousers I had brought from New Zealand would be copied.
A taxi driver appeared at my shoulder and asked if we wanted a ride, but I shrugged him off and said I was looking for �Michele Boutique� which was in my guide book.
The taxi driver said all the boutiques were in the next street over so I should look there. I did and we found it, plus, when we came out with all missions accomplished, there was the taxi driver waiting outside Michele Boutique with his lovely a/c cab glowing like an icy beacon on the heat.
Pinto is his name.
I�ve had three outings with him since: the first time we went to the Gandhi House in South Bombay, which is a house where the Father of the Nation used to live in a lovely leafy part of the city, with a slightly insane but deeply fabulous series of mini tableaux depicting Gandhi�s life.
It�s sort of Barbie-Gandhi in glass cases about the size of an old Philips K9 television.
It starts with Gandhi�s mother letting him leave India for England only if he vows to avoid wine, women and meat then traces him to South Africa where he is the victim of racism, back to India where he becomes the man of the people and on to the many battles he fought on behalf of the many downtrodden.
My favourite was the one where Gandhi meets the King and Queen in Buckingham Palace. Gandhi�s outfit beats hers, big time.
Then Pinto took me to a part of old Bombay famous for its coloured terraced houses and on to Caf� Samovar, an iconic old caf� in Colaba where I had fresh watermelon juice and a really good chicken biryani for about five bucks.
On the way, I got the details of Pinto�s life. He came to Mumbai on his own when he was 12 and slept on the streets for years, although he says this isn�t as bad as it sounds although I�ve seen the streets so I find that hard to believe.
He worked on a banana truck and in restaurants and finally saved up the money for a taxi licence but when he gave the money to the licencing man, he ran away with it.
It took another 15 months to save the money again by which stage Pinto had made a friend whose father helped him with the paperwork and this time he got his licence.
For the next 10 years he slept in the back of the taxi, but for the past 7 years he�s been in a guest house, commuting back to the north of India once or twice a year to see his wife and four children: a big son, a little son, someone else and a very small baby.
It takes him 38 hours non-stop travelling by train and bus to there.
He seems quite cheerful about this. In fact he seems quite cheerful about everything.
We�ve since been to see the amazing swarm that is the dabbahwallahs bringing the lunch boxes into the city from the suburbs and to the famous outdoor laundry. I could watch that forever � it�s like a beehive, always something moving somewhere: a kid bathing in one of the pools, a pile of blue shirts being spread, a bunch of yellow being bashed against the concrete to dry, a sheath or red flapping in the breeze, a near-naked guy lathering up beneath a small city of hanging sheets. Amazing.
Pinto also took me down to the docks to see the fishing boats come in. Photos aren�t allowed down here but I could barely believe my eyes. The boats are hand made, wooden, and festooned with vibrant nets of all different bright shades. They look incredible en masse. And here again it is like a beehive, where the bees are throwing giant fish from one side of the dock to the other, there are blocks of ice being hauled over here, empty hand carts being hauled over there, piles of silvery looking eel type things in one corner, giant fish tails poking out of dozens of blue plastic bins in another.
It�s busy.
Pinto introduced me to guy who owns three of the fishing boats and his lovely son, who spoke good English. The boats go out for 15 days at a time and luxury cruisers they ain�t. The son said he was very happy that he was a boat owner�s son, not a fisherman. The boats travel maybe 100 miles off the coast for the fish because the fish that�s closer isn�t any good. Well, no surprises there. Humans don�t swim in the sea here, after all.
Pinto says the docks are the reality of Mumbai but the boat owner�s son says they�re too old-fashioned. He and his dad want to move to Oman.
Yesterday, a friend I made at the hotel and I went over to Elefanta Island to see the famous Hindu carvings in the caves there. I could�ve stayed longer to watch the monkeys even though the mums have poxy faces, but yeez it was hot.
The boat ride back was something else, watching the vast swathe of Mumbai skyscrapers emerge out of the haze as we approached the majestic Gateway of India and no I don�t want your book of blurry postcards, mr pushy street vendor, thank you very much, or your enormous orange gourd-shaped balloon! (Who would, I wonder? At least with a fan made of peacock feathers you can fan yourself but what are you going to do with a giant inflatable gourd?)
We made our way back to Michele Boutique so I could check on my tailoring (giving that another try) and then dripped into Leopold�s Caf� for lunch and a beer. This is where a lot of action in the best-selling book Shantaram takes place and I would know a lot more about what exactly if I had read the book. I don�t even have the excuse that it�s 900 pages because I�ve got the kindle edition.
Anyways, I was just thinking that I had a couple of chores to do and then wanted to head back to the hotel but that perhaps my friend might like to go to the Gandhi house when � bing! � I got a text, from Pinto, to say he was free in case I needed anything.
I felt bad we only needed a taxi ride, not anything that would help buy his kids school uniforms, so I asked if it was OK just to go back to the hotel.
I�ve watched him text. This is a guy with no formal schooling who has taught himself everything from scratch - just enough to get by, with a bit of extra pizazz.
�100 time yes OK� came his reply.
�Thank you for helping me,� he says, every time I get out of his cab. �Have a wonderful life.�
He�s here working long dusty hours on a film and I�m here sightseeing and having a lovely time.
There�s a strike on that�s making his life a misery � all the small retail shops are shut because owners don�t want a new tax that�s coming in so the Ginger can�t buy any of the things he needs for his sets.
But for me it means the streets are empty so it�s easier to get where I am going. I�m being helped in this endeavour by Pinto, the taxi driver.
Pinto saw me trailing my beloved and another friend on their one day off through the streets of Colaba last weekend as I tried to find a tailor that had been recommended.
My beloved and the other friend were over it but as they were cribbing on my shopping mission I didn�t care. Despite the heat and dust and noise and general chaos I was determined that the winter trousers I had brought from New Zealand would be copied.
A taxi driver appeared at my shoulder and asked if we wanted a ride, but I shrugged him off and said I was looking for �Michele Boutique� which was in my guide book.
The taxi driver said all the boutiques were in the next street over so I should look there. I did and we found it, plus, when we came out with all missions accomplished, there was the taxi driver waiting outside Michele Boutique with his lovely a/c cab glowing like an icy beacon on the heat.
Pinto is his name.
I�ve had three outings with him since: the first time we went to the Gandhi House in South Bombay, which is a house where the Father of the Nation used to live in a lovely leafy part of the city, with a slightly insane but deeply fabulous series of mini tableaux depicting Gandhi�s life.
It�s sort of Barbie-Gandhi in glass cases about the size of an old Philips K9 television.
It starts with Gandhi�s mother letting him leave India for England only if he vows to avoid wine, women and meat then traces him to South Africa where he is the victim of racism, back to India where he becomes the man of the people and on to the many battles he fought on behalf of the many downtrodden.
My favourite was the one where Gandhi meets the King and Queen in Buckingham Palace. Gandhi�s outfit beats hers, big time.
Then Pinto took me to a part of old Bombay famous for its coloured terraced houses and on to Caf� Samovar, an iconic old caf� in Colaba where I had fresh watermelon juice and a really good chicken biryani for about five bucks.
On the way, I got the details of Pinto�s life. He came to Mumbai on his own when he was 12 and slept on the streets for years, although he says this isn�t as bad as it sounds although I�ve seen the streets so I find that hard to believe.
He worked on a banana truck and in restaurants and finally saved up the money for a taxi licence but when he gave the money to the licencing man, he ran away with it.
It took another 15 months to save the money again by which stage Pinto had made a friend whose father helped him with the paperwork and this time he got his licence.
For the next 10 years he slept in the back of the taxi, but for the past 7 years he�s been in a guest house, commuting back to the north of India once or twice a year to see his wife and four children: a big son, a little son, someone else and a very small baby.
It takes him 38 hours non-stop travelling by train and bus to there.
He seems quite cheerful about this. In fact he seems quite cheerful about everything.
We�ve since been to see the amazing swarm that is the dabbahwallahs bringing the lunch boxes into the city from the suburbs and to the famous outdoor laundry. I could watch that forever � it�s like a beehive, always something moving somewhere: a kid bathing in one of the pools, a pile of blue shirts being spread, a bunch of yellow being bashed against the concrete to dry, a sheath or red flapping in the breeze, a near-naked guy lathering up beneath a small city of hanging sheets. Amazing.
Pinto also took me down to the docks to see the fishing boats come in. Photos aren�t allowed down here but I could barely believe my eyes. The boats are hand made, wooden, and festooned with vibrant nets of all different bright shades. They look incredible en masse. And here again it is like a beehive, where the bees are throwing giant fish from one side of the dock to the other, there are blocks of ice being hauled over here, empty hand carts being hauled over there, piles of silvery looking eel type things in one corner, giant fish tails poking out of dozens of blue plastic bins in another.
It�s busy.
Pinto introduced me to guy who owns three of the fishing boats and his lovely son, who spoke good English. The boats go out for 15 days at a time and luxury cruisers they ain�t. The son said he was very happy that he was a boat owner�s son, not a fisherman. The boats travel maybe 100 miles off the coast for the fish because the fish that�s closer isn�t any good. Well, no surprises there. Humans don�t swim in the sea here, after all.
Pinto says the docks are the reality of Mumbai but the boat owner�s son says they�re too old-fashioned. He and his dad want to move to Oman.
Yesterday, a friend I made at the hotel and I went over to Elefanta Island to see the famous Hindu carvings in the caves there. I could�ve stayed longer to watch the monkeys even though the mums have poxy faces, but yeez it was hot.
The boat ride back was something else, watching the vast swathe of Mumbai skyscrapers emerge out of the haze as we approached the majestic Gateway of India and no I don�t want your book of blurry postcards, mr pushy street vendor, thank you very much, or your enormous orange gourd-shaped balloon! (Who would, I wonder? At least with a fan made of peacock feathers you can fan yourself but what are you going to do with a giant inflatable gourd?)
We made our way back to Michele Boutique so I could check on my tailoring (giving that another try) and then dripped into Leopold�s Caf� for lunch and a beer. This is where a lot of action in the best-selling book Shantaram takes place and I would know a lot more about what exactly if I had read the book. I don�t even have the excuse that it�s 900 pages because I�ve got the kindle edition.
Anyways, I was just thinking that I had a couple of chores to do and then wanted to head back to the hotel but that perhaps my friend might like to go to the Gandhi house when � bing! � I got a text, from Pinto, to say he was free in case I needed anything.
I felt bad we only needed a taxi ride, not anything that would help buy his kids school uniforms, so I asked if it was OK just to go back to the hotel.
I�ve watched him text. This is a guy with no formal schooling who has taught himself everything from scratch - just enough to get by, with a bit of extra pizazz.
�100 time yes OK� came his reply.
�Thank you for helping me,� he says, every time I get out of his cab. �Have a wonderful life.�
