Mumbai, shlumbai

Driving around Mumbai last week, I had to play guide to a colleague less familiar with India than I am. In the land of the blind...

Inevitably eyebrows were raised passing by Dharavi, the largest slum in the world. We both agreed it was a great improvement over Rio in terms of guns and violence but not so on terms of sanitation and infrastructure. Here, I point out that, Indian people were entirely wrong to get worked up over Slumdog Millionaire denigrating India. Well, they should have been angry, but for the right reason - Freida Pinto may be eminently cute, but is an awful dancer. No wonder she didn't make it in Bollywood. This is also the only reason I did not ask for her hand in marriage.

On the recommendation of our rotund front desk sweetheart - "I'm Goan" - we went to Goa Portuguesa, a kitschy restaurant with good food and shamelessly self-promoting owners whose faces were plastered all over the menu. I invoked the cultural exception clause.

We finished up and went to the Blue Frog. The establishment is a recording studio, has an eponymous label and is also a restaurant / lounge / club.

We were immediately taken by the decor, quite impressively swanky. It did justice to the converted textile mill ambience. Pod-like tables were arranged, in descending levels from the groovy bar. We had one right in front of the stage. A woman who apparently was trying to mate with plants - talk about a tree hugger - was walking around with large flowers in her hair and a sadly anemic hair attachment. We were expectantly awaiting "Indian flamenco", the event of the night.

After an hour's delay, the event got underway. An invisible female backstage announced it in a titillating French accent. The walking bouquet turned out to be the performer, joined by a Afro-wearing tabla dude, a male and a female vocalist, a string instrument dude and one on the synthesizer.Apparently, not only were they late starting, but they had forgotten to rehearse. The dancer, grinning ear to ear a la Julia Roberts, would start clapping, only to have the tabla dude not pick up the rhythm. The smile would disappear, a frustrated look replacing it and she would shoot unabashedly annoyed daggers at him.

Eventually they got their shit together. She started doing, what to me seemed amateurish, flamenco. She was wearing a long clingy brown dress, with said flowers etc for accesories. Eventually she finished and came back to do an Indian dance, the Kathak, after a change of outfit; a Sufi-type dance attired in what my companion thought was a Bavarian outfit; and finished in yoga pants doing a very strange yoga-pose piece. I was reminded that I hate dance as a highbrow art.

Intermittently, she took over the mike, doing the indian vocal doo-wop (takadikafukabuka)at 72 rpm with the kind of self-enjoying wide-
mouthed, toothy, grinny expression of pleasure that I forgave her for the bizarre and amateurish performance that evening. Imagine the smile seen on the faces of synchronized swimmers, and then imagine it beging genuine because she actually probably believed she was doing something terrific and was probably joyful for that. Bless her soul. Meanwhile, my companion was rather taken by the wild swaying and facial expressions of the tabla dude.

Presently, an, ahem, acquaintance joined. I was happy I already had company, for I could leave them to converse as I exercised my brain deciphering anatomy during the yoga number. (To myself: "You can do *that*? That can touch *that*? But she told me last week that could be done!" etc.). Soon the first companion left us, and as I accompanied her to the car, we were accosted by an effeminate prick  lounging outside who tried to air-kiss both of us and tried to ask for our opinions on the performance. He also wanted our emails to put us on their mailing list. Fat chance.

Soon another couple joined, and I bade farewell to the second companion as well, worrying if it was a good idea to take a cab at midnight. It turns out Mumbai is quite a safe place that way. Or maybe it isn't, since I have not heard back from her on my "I'm just checking on you" email. It's always better to blame the bogeyman than work on my charisma. Hurray.

The couple and I stepped out for a breath of "fresh air". Some drunk asshole tried to make small talk at our table and we shushed him away. Thankfully he was not a gangster packing heat. Some things are universal, eh? Eventually the staff all but kicked us out. I returned to my hotel, having sampled just a bit of the city I was born in.

I can't wait to go back.

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