First, Mumbai is a magical place.  Not magical in an "idylic, fantasy" way, but rather in an "I can't believe the city can even function" way.  Since returning, I've come to describe Mumbai as the city where everything is broken, yet still seems to work.  A business associate of mine who lives in Dehli put this notion in a much more concise and impactful way: "Mumbai runs only by the hand of God."

Second, there's an unmistakable whiff of "future" in Mumbai's air.  What do I mean?  Well, to the downside, the city is a shining example of what happens when you deplete and over-populate.  My main take-away, however, was not apocalyptic.  Rather, it was hopeful:  Mumbai shows very clearly why India will play an increasingly important role in the way we all live our lives.  With increased importance, prosperity should follow.  And with prosperity, should come relief from suffering.

Finally, speaking of the relief of suffering, Mumbai shows why Mother Teresa was right: "Peace begins with a smile."  With the squalor, poverty and suffering that floats on the surface in this city, it's deliciously tempting to throw up one's hands and say it's too overwhelming for civility to matter.  Yet, during our time in a city of 13 million, we saw no fights, no territoriality over personal space and no animosity toward others.  By and large, everyone we passed on the street carried a smile - a smile that said, "yes, I know it's helpless, but nevertheless I stand ready to help."

We look forward to returning to Mumbai, and seeing more of India, in the future.  Thanks for your attention to this blog and do check back from time to time to see how other journeys develop. 

There's more pictures to post and more posts to make (so keep checking), however we can report now that we are home safe and sound.  We had an amazing journey.

As a practical matter, the trip home is considerably longer thanks to the gulf stream.  The headwinds, at one point, registered 177mph, increasing our flight across the atlantic by two hours!

Our return was helped immeasurably by two little words I would highly recommend to anyone that can afford it: business class!  My colleague took the step to call and upgrade the Mumbai to London portion of our return trip on British Airways to "Club World", their business class brand.  It was more money, of course, however I can say with all sincerity that it was worth it.

To begin, we were greeted at the curb by a British Airways representative and ushered through security with no wait in line.  Given the crowd at the airport, this alone saved us a good hour and a half wait in total confusion.  We were through security and in the comfort of their lounge in 30 minutes.

Second, Club World on British Airways features lay-flat seats.  I can't tell you how cool this is when boarding a plane that departs at 2:40AM.  Moments after take-off, we had the seat down and we were racked out.  I slept almost seven hours of the flight, awakening to a "Full English" breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browned potatoes, rolls and tea.  Man, this is a great way to fly!

While many airlines fly to Mumbai, we found that BA had the most convenient connections with an average lay-over at Heathrow of three hours.  If you're going to make the trip, give British Airways some consideration.

To find an appropriate wife, we asked our driver to go to the best location. In Mumbai, that place is Bollywood. Bollywood is the epicenter of Indian's entertainment industry and thus would give us our best chance of finding a gorgeous and eligible actress worthy of my colleague's affection.

Making the challenge harder was the fact that my colleague was unwilling to settle for just any Bollywood Starlet. To be successful, our search must land one young lady in particular: the dazzling Bipasha Basu.

In a city where eight foot wide trucks can fit into seven foot wide allies, trying to find the women recently voted sexiest in Asia in just under two hours did not strike us an impossible task. Like so many times this week, Mumbai did not disappoint.

At the J.W. Marriott - reportedly the best hotel in Mumbai for star-gazing - we found her! There, in the lobby, dressed in black, stood Bipasha looking picture perfect. As we approached, we learned she was there to invite guests walking by to join her for "Nocturnal: the hottest New Year's eve party in Mumbai". This was the big chance.

Without fear, my colleague approached her and, in his best hindi, proposed right then and there. (Actually, he asked her to say "21" in Hindi, which, while puzzling, I assumed was a necessary part of the indigenous courting ritual.) When she did not reply, however, we came to learn that Bipasha, or Bips as she's so well known, was, um, shall we say... a bit wooden. After another minute, it was clear she had the depth and personality of a... words escape me... oh!, the depth and personality of a life-sized cardboard promotional cut-out.

Disappointed, but unfortunately not surprised, my colleague decided this was certainly not the kind of woman that could interest him for long. Sure, he might use her as a trophy back home, but that would get old pretty quickly. (Plus, there was the small problem of smuggling her out of the hotel and lashing her to the roof of the car unseen by security.) With the spell of passion broken, it was time to move on.

While it appears the marriage won't work out, at least my colleague can go home knowing that he gave Bips her shot at the big time. It was the least he could do.

My young one was referring, of course, to the small symbol many Indian men and women wear on the brow between their eyes. I was embarrassed to say that I didn't really know, so instead I gave the wisdom so many parents in my position offer: "it's complicated." From that point, however, I was determined to find out about the dot while in India.

It turns out my original answer was not too far off. First, there's not a "dot" but rather "dots". Women wear a "bindi" to symbolize marriage status, while men's dots are ash or other coloring and symbolize piety; they touch the temple alter, picking up the coloring and touch it to their forehead.

Second, interpreting the markings can be somewhat complicated as it may mean different things for different ages and observances of Hinduism. As I'm still not clear enough on the traditions to give a complete explanation, I'll simply satisfy my child's immediate curiosity. Traditionally, bindis were worn to signified being married. Today, however, I understand bindis are also worn as a fashion item by women who are not married, children, and by women who are not even Hindu.

As for the other dots, I came face to face with lots of them on our visit to Shree Siddhivinayak Ganapati Temple, the temple to Lord Ganesha. Ganesha is one son of Vishnu, a high Hindu god, and is the most popular Hindu deity in Mumbai, making this temple the city's largest and most famous. Most people exiting the temple wore an orange dot to signify their attendance and participation in prayer. (Photography was not allowed, so you'll have to take my word for it!)

This is all well and good, however this Westerner wonders if they haven't taken it a bit too far. What prompted the question? It was the uninvited reception of a very special blessing.

Walking through one of the markets, we passed a large circular cage absolutely teaming with pigeons. This was not particularly interesting in and of itself, however we did note passers-by stopping to pay homage to the creatures with food.

As it turns out, the cage is not a cage at all, but rather a fence, allowing the birds to fly freely out the top. Which they do, alighting to nearby trees in droves. Which brings me to our blessing. (Anyone see where this might be going?) So, on our stroll through the market, we happened to pass underneath one of these trees filled with pigeons. In so doing, we exposed ourselves to the holy experience: being rained on by pigeon poo.

Our immediate action was, I think, quite predictable. We surveyed the damage with grimaces. It was our friends reaction that was noteworthy; he placed the palms of his hands together under his chin in a sign of prayer and told us we had received a blessing that would bring us very good luck.

In the grand scheme of things, I suppose he's right.

The area of the chai shop and the shop itself made no attempt at putting on airs. The place was smack in the middle of one of the city's most pedestrian areas. Beyond the general surroundings, the statement that foreigners never visit this area rang true the moment we exited the car. For example, no english words were posted on signs. All hindi here. More telling was the fact that several of the local children out and about could not help but stare at the white guy. My simply saying "hello" rewarded us with an eruption of children's giggling.

After making ourselves known, we proceeded to get that chai. Chai in India means tea and the variety we were after - cutting chai - is particularly associated with Mumbai. Said chai is a savory concoction of milk, sugar, ginger, masala and green tea boiled together in a large steel kettle and served steaming hot. Cutting tea is so called because its flavor is so strong that it is served by the half-glass. ("Cutting" is the transliteration of the hindi word for "half".)

According to its maker, cutting chai is the favorite of locals, but apparently not well-regarded by most foreigners. The strength of the ginger and spices probably create the dissatisfaction. Because of the ginger, in particular, cutting chai burns the throat a bit on the way down. This sensation gave rise to the frequent misconception among foreigners that the burning is that to which cutting refers.

The "best chai-maker in Mumbai" turns out to be nameless to our driver, who refers to him only as "kaka", the hindi word for Uncle and a term of endearment. All of the tourist car drivers visit Kaka in the morning for their half glass of quality cutting chai. (In a private moment later, I shared that “caca”, which sounds exactly the same as "kaka", is not exactly a term of endearment in English. Explaining further appeared to bring our driver some unintended displeasure, so I quickly changed the subject!)

While Kaka was a shy fellow, he seemed quietly pleased that some foreigners had come to appreciate his work. Mostly through points and nods, he walked us through the process of making his chai, which truth be told shares a common thread with sausage: sometimes things that taste great should not be viewed in the making.

As an added bonus, we complemented our chai with a traditional bun-masca, a bun baked with candied fruit and spread with butter. These buns are associated with Iranian bakeries, at which ours were procured. The reason for Iranians cornering the market on buttered buns, however, was not within the means of those around us to explain. No matter. Together with the tea, they tasted great.

When in Mumbai, give chai and bun-masca a try, particularly if you can find Kaka in the process!

The tabla building process is far more involved and time-consuming than I thought. For starters, the creation of the siyahi - the black pad in the center - takes an unexpectedly long time: about two days per drum. The selection, cutting, stretching and stringing of the skin also requires time and care. Between building up the siyahi and the rest of manufacture, one craftsman can make only about one set per week.

Within the hour, however, mine were completed, the completion announced by a strong ringing note from the small drum and a confident nod and smile from Anand. As if further proof were required, I asked him to play the finished goods just to make sure. Play he did. First, a 16 beat rhythm, which he said I would need to learn early on, and then a syncopated seven beat rhythm which was noticeably Indian in character. After the quick jam, he handed the drums over to me for my first "lesson". I won't bore you with the details; let's just say I have a lot of work ahead of me to make the drums sing!

There's nothing quite like sitting with the maker of a fine product you really want. In today's internet world, I could easily have ordered a tabla with a credit card at the click of a mouse. The experience of watching mine being made and shaking the hand that made it afterward, however, is priceless. I'm sincerely thankful for such a special opportunity.

Aseema, Hindi for "Limitless", is a non-governmental organization (NGO), registered under the Bombay Public Trusts Act, whose mandate is to protect and promote the human rights of underprivileged children. Aseema executes this mission through the management of a full school for underprivileged children from Mumbai's slums ("street kids").

Aseema was established in 1995 in Bandra, Mumbai and conducted its first classes with 18 students. Since that time, Aseema has grown to serve more than 700 children, has adopted and reconstituted an abandoned neighborhood school and has broken ground on a second education center outside the city. Perhaps more important, in the last year, Aseema has seen the first of its alumni graduate from college and enter the workforce as professionals.

Our visit to Aseema and their school in Bandra instantly became the highlight of our trip. Aseema's dedicated staff conveyed both warmth and purpose and their school radiated both efficiency and love. We spent almost three hours with the staff and students of Aseema and left wishing we could have spent more.

I could attempt to craft words to describe our experience, however in this instance I think it best to rely on the age-old truth that a picture's worth a thousand words. Visit our photo gallery to get a sense of the people of Aseema and their accomplishments.

For us, the key memory is that of otherwise option-less children being given a chance to soar. Nowhere is this fact more apparent than in the art produced by the students in their art classes. To view some of this uplifting art, visit the Aseema gallery. While there, consider making a purchase of one or more of their products, or making a donation. Having visited, we can say first hand that the products are worth it and the support is worthy.

(Buy Alien Chatter's new EP here. Right now!)

The tabla is a traditional Indian instrument comprised of two drums, commonly known as the dayaan (little) and bayaan (big), played with the hands like bongos. Unlike bongos, however, tabla drums have a voice. In other words, tabla allow their players many different note and sound options from each drum all from one drum head.

The variation in notes and sound is accomplished in three ways. First, the heads of each drum itself have different thicknesses. The thicker outer ring has a different note than the thinner inner one.

Second, at the center of each drum is a pad known as the "siyahi". The siyahi is a thick, black pad of material built up to deaden the ring of the drum. When tapped directly, instead of a note you hear a clipped thud. At the core of the siyahi's material is an iron compound, however tradition has it that the recipe of each tabla-maker's material is a closely guarded secret. What I can report is that proper creation of this pad is considered one of the finest points in the art of tabla making.

Third, drum tones can be controlled by the manner of strike, as well as the hand's position on the drum. Herein lies the art of tabla playing! The most notable impact of hand position comes on the bayaan of the set, where the heel of the hand can be used to compress and release the skin to create a vibrato effect.

While playing the tabla requires talent, it more fundamentally requires actually having tabla to play. To fulfill at least this base requisite, this morning we went in search of tabla. To be more precise, we went in search of one of Mumbai's most revered tabla makers: Anand. Instead of shopping in an established music store, we decided to see how far upstream we could swim in the supply chain. With the help of our driver, his boss and several other friends at the end of cell phone calls, we located Anand in Dadar, a suburb of Mumbai.

The visit to Anand was a powerful experience. We now know how and in what conditions some of the best craft products from India are produced. Anand's shop consisted of a shack to store materials and the dirt patch in front of it where one sits to craft instruments. That's it.

After a brief series of questions from Anand and an unfortunate series of completely inadequate responses from me, my credentials were established: I was a complete idiot that had no business buying a tabla from Anand. Despite the realities of the situation, however, Anand and his staff took pity on me. Perhaps my genuine interest in their art was communicated or I'd earned brownie points just for approaching them: either way, they proceeded with patience to explain to me what I wanted and why. They also took time to fit the drums to my hand.

Regarding those brownie points: the walk to Anand's shop did create some pause. Their shop, we were told, was in a "quiet place" so he could better hear the tone of the drums. Well, it turns out "quiet place" is code for "down a secluded alley". Had it not been for the trust developed with our driver over the week, the opportunity to see Anand at work would likely never have materialized!

In the end, the exact dayaan he selected for me was not yet finished, so Anand asked us to return tomorrow to pick up the finished product. As he promised to make it "just right" for me, I was pleased to wait the extra day. Tangentially, I also suspect those in the hotel rooms adjacent to mine are equally pleased with his perfectionism.

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Much to post about today - which was truly awesome - so, without further ado, back to our normally scheduled programming.