An Indian Xmas

Mumbai 23 December – 27 December

Although it was my first Christmas, I knew this one would be unlike most Christmases.  Firstly, I was in the middle of India.  Secondly, while it was the middle of winter, it was India, so it was over 30 degrees. 

Mumbai in mid-December,
dirty and hot

I was nevertheless excited for my first Christmas.  I had been invited to Mumbai, to stay at some family friends.  I was forewarned that it would be a big Christmas lunch, filled with interesting people.  And interesting people a-plenty there were.  There were many musicians – a famous concert pianist, a composer, some younger people with different musical skills – a beatboxer, a singer, a percussionist and a rapper made up the ensemble gathered around, all somehow connected, all the while with many not knowing exactly who the other one was. 

My first (Indian) Christmas

I obviously contributed nothing musically to the group, but was happy to be an observer, even as the grumpy, very-proudly German lady was coaxed into singing silent night (in German obviously). 

However, my best story from this time took place on Christmas eve, before the impromptu karaoke carolling, way before walking the empty streets of Mumbai with my British friend to find a bar to carry on the Christmas party.  It was the story of how I came to buy a pair of jeans off a tuk tuk driver.

The origin story for my ugly jeans starts in the same place all good stories start – Nepal.  More specifically the second story balcony of a hostel in Kathmandu, Nepal.  Like many times before this fateful day, my bag (and thereby its contents) had got wet, because Nepal was experiencing a monsoon, and it rained every day, for 2 months.  I know.  Yay.

So, during one respite, I took advantage of a sunny break to dry out my pair (and only pair) of pants by hanging them over the balcony railing.  Now I know, not the start to a crazy story, surmounting 2 countries and thousands of kilometres.  I must admit, I was not expecting, nor looking for, a wild story to come whence I flung my chaps yea over yea palisade.  But sometimes the craziest of stories have the humblest of beginnings.  Like the insignificant worm larvae turns into the majestic atlas butterfly.

Anyway, there I left my pants, in all their glory, drying under the suns rays as they broke through the previously impenetrable blanket of clouds that had occupied the skies for so many days.  Safe, or so I thought, I went upstairs to have a beer and apply for a visa.  All this took no more than an hour or so, when I decided to go down and check on my pants’ drying progress (now is where the story turns).

When I went downstairs to check my pants, I was shocked to see there were no pants.  Where I expected to see brown pants, there was only emptiness.  Where did my pants go?  I did not treat them poorly.  I loved my pants.  I know I got them wet from time to time, but that was not me, it was the rain.  I loved my pants, and I would have liked to think that my pants loved me.  But here I was, facing a grim pants-less reality.  There was no wind to speak of, so they could not have blown off anywhere.  And anyway, there was no where to blow to.  The hostel opened onto a quiet side road, where there was no sign of pants.  There was a hotel entrance on the side of the hostel, and the guards had no idea what I was talking about (now that I think about it, maybe those bastards were just playing coy), when I asked if they saw any falling pants?

Feeling alone, abandoned and without a sufficient smart-causal bottom-half covering, I did all that any man is expected to do.  Carry on.

This is where I found myself, over 2 months later, reeling from loss and having found no suitable replacement for what I can only describe as my pair of brown pants.  My British friend (let’s call her Strawberry shortcake) asked me to come to a party with her at a club, with some locals she knew, and I told her how I would love to, but how I could not club because of my clothing predicament.  As I recounted the tale I have just told you, she assured me it was ok.  “Who needs pants”, she said.  This was good, and went some way to mending my broken heart.  Maybe I did not need pants to feel... real?  Maybe there was life post-pant?, I thought, as I agreed to come along and we made our way to Strawberry shortcake’s friend’s house and then to the club.

Short-lived was my new attitude, as when we walked in the bouncer was like, “Mate, you need pants”.  

But our new local friends were far from the defeatists I had become.  Maybe their youth, meant that they had not experienced loss like me?  Maybe it was the promise of what Christmas represents that gave my new buddy the drive to not let my night end prematurely, despite my reassurances that this was what I deserved, and that disappointment was my only comfort. 

So, at 11pm we got into a tuk tuk and asked the driver to take us to find a pair of pants.  The driver reminded us that it was almost midnight, so all shops were closed.  But we were now on a mission for pants, and the driver felt our energy and was quickly on board.  As we drove around the empty streets of Mumbai, the driver knew he had to make a big call.  He literally then made a call – to his pant’s guy.  

I would not have believed it, if I did not live through it, but 30 minutes later we picked up 3 different options, of different colours and cuts of jeans – new – with their labels still on, as proof of their newness.  As I tried on my pants on the side of the street and got advice from my new guides: tuk tuk driver and side piece of a friend of a friend, I started to feel alive again.  A man with new pants is a man with hope.

We triumphantly arrived back at the club, newly adorned and everyone celebrated as the bouncer let us past, patted me on the back and we celebrated Christmas eve on the balcony of a club overlooking the beach. 

Not all stories have a happy ending, and neither does this.  No sooner did we arrive, did our local chaperones decide that the club was not really their vibe, and wanted to go home.  So was all the effort in vain?  At least I had a nice pair of jeans to take from this night.  Nope, not so quickly.  When I got home and looked at the disaster that I had purchased, I could only think back to a simpler time.  My time with brown pants.

The ugliest pair of jeans I have ever bought
(off a tuk tuk driver, at 12am)