Where do I fucking begin?

20 March. Hampi. Spent the day at The Mango Tree cafe filling out postcards and chatting. Afternoon. Rushed back to hotel to get backpack; rushed back across river to catch an autorickshaw to Hospet, 30 minutes away, whence my bus--expensive, secure luxury bus--to Mumbai departs. Met a Canadian and a Swede en route. Shared rickshaw with them, little time to lose. Reach Hospet barely on time--in fact, rickshaw driver has to intercept bus, which is just leaving. Relief.

20 March. Evening. Settle into seat. Chat with nice Indian man next to me. He explains what's going on in the Bollywood movie playing on the TV, "Aaja Nachle." The production values are high. In the evening we stop for dinner, where I meet one of the few other foreign passengers, Emily, also Canadian. We converse.

21 March. Very early morning hours. Bus stops for fuel. I stagger outside to take a piss. Return. Notice my water bottle in the overhead rack. Alone. My daypack, which I had uncharacteristically placed overhead with it, probably for the first time in my life, is gone. Filled with dread and wonder, I look around the overhead rack, hoping it had just slid somewhere. It is nowhere. I alert the bus attendant. He doesn't speak English. He does nothing. I sit down. I consider causing a scene or demanding the bus be stopped and searched. I don't do this. I know. It's gone. I feel sick. I sleep. Fitfully.

21 March. Morning. Mumbai. Bus stops at the company office. I inform them that my bag is stolen. They jabber and dither. For about two hours. Lady asks why I didn't insist the bus be stopped and searched. I said, I don't know. I've never been robbed. It was 2 am. I told the attendant. Why didn't he insist? Why is she suggesting it's my fault? Just making me feel even worse? She invites me to register a complaint. I write down details. Bus drivers take me aside. Beg me not to complain. Bus company president evil and corrupt. They will be held responsible. Fined. Their jobs at risk. They offer me 1000 Rs. each ($50). A bribe. I am filled with dread and wonder. Never been bribed before. I tear up the complaint. Pointless anyway. I refuse their money.

Nothing valuable to anyone except me lost. But my address book. Lost. Allergy medication. Lost. Convulsion medication. Lost. Headlamp. Lost. Sunglasses. Lost. Hemp hat. Lost. Treasured washcloth from Harrod's--the cruelest stroke of all--lost. Captain Picard figurine. Lost (the second time! fare thee well, captain).

LONELY PLANET. LOST.

21 March. Late morning. Ask Emily to save me. She does. We go to Bentley Hotel in Colaba. We go to airport to pick up another Canadian, Andrew. Mumbai International Airport is pathetic. We have to wait outside. He arrives. Joyous occasion. For them. We return to Colaba. Visit Leopold's Cafe, which is famous. Sidenote. Every traveler in India is reading "Shantaram" by David Gregory Roberts (or Gregory David Roberts or Robert David Gregories). If you aren't also reading it or haven't read it, you must, they tell you. I am getting sick of this. Leopold's features in Shantaram. Johnny Depp will feature in the movie. End sidenote. We eat. I drink. Heavily. Bliss. I buy white Muslim clothes. Return to hotel. Pass out.

22 March. Today is Holi, the Hindu festival of color, noteworthy because everyone is supposed to assault you with powdered and liquid paint of various colors. It can stain skin and hair, poison eyes. I wanted to avoid it. Emily and Andrew wanted to participate. So. Don white Muslim clothes. Lock passport in backpack. Realize I need something from backpack. Realize the key to backpack lock is now inside backpack. Realize that other key is where I usually keep it--with small daypack, now stolen. Hotel employees come and saw lock off the bag. Embarrassing. Leave hotel. Meet Raheem, another Canadian, at random on the street. Head to Colaba market. Colorful men and dirty children assault us with powdered and liquid paint of various colors. My white Muslim clothes act as a canvas. As intended. Had loads of fun. As intended. Bought my own powders of various colors. Assaulted people with them. Chased children down streets, down alleys. I was covered. No touts would approach. Taxis shied away. Clean people were afraid. Finally turned the tables on the Indians. Had loads of fun. As intended. At Gateway to India, a photographer approaches. Takes photos of us. Google "Holi" for some idea of what I looked like. Gateway to India is under restoration. Whole area torn up, dusty, dirty. Pathetic. India, you can do better than this.

22 March. Afternoon. After showering, met Charlie Narayan, a local couchsurfing host. Very talkative guy, which gives me a break. We all wander together around Colaba. Eat falafels. Visit UNESCO listed Victoria Terminal (renamed Chatraapataachchtrai Sivajajari Terminal or something). Old man approaches me. Asks to draw my picture. No. Won't go away. No. Wants money. No. Follows us. For some time. No. No. No. Charlie works in television production, so offers old man job if he can do storyboarding. We go to cafe. Old man tries to draw a scene for Charlie. Charlie asks for changes. Old man bristles, his pride wounded. Charlie gives up.

22 March. Evening. Canadians go to see four hour Bollywood epic. Charlie and I go to Taj Mahal Hotel. Bar. We drink. Charlie is lovelorn. Which is fine, since I am also lorn. We leave, go back to Leopold's. Upstairs, a bit clubby. We drink more. Canadians arrive, quickly leave again. Drunk. I dance a bit, but seems Indian girls won't dance with other people if their boyfriends are with them (or, possibly, at all). So, as my dad likes to say, fuck 'em. Nice Indian guy tries to chat me up. Wants to see me again. Probably thinks I'm gay. Indian girls make me wish I were. Charlie chats up Israeli girl. She also has a boyfriend. Poor Charlie. She offers me unsolicited advice of the usual sage-backpacker fatalism variety. Note to future twenty-somethings: I don't want your fucking advice. That night, I stay at Charlie's.

23 March. Morning. Charlie and I wake early. He's working on a new dance competition/reality TV show called "Heh dai Jalwa" or something. I want to see the shooting process. En route, I read to Charlie "A Piece of Monologue" by Samuel Beckett. I think he likes it. We arrive at his office at 7 am, as requested. Locked. Nobody there. He calls his colleagues. Everyone was told to arrive at a different time. No equipment available. No one responsible around. This is normal. I am told. We look for breakfast. Nothing open. I buy cookies. Return to office. Finally, other people arrive. Equipment arrives. We go to shoot at old woman's apartment. She is in the dance competition. Charlie interviews her and family for some time. For the "reality" segment of the show. It is very hot. I pass out on the floor. Her daughter wakes me and offers lychee juice. Delicious!

23 March. Afternoon. Lunchtime. Crew plus me visits local restaurant. I order Veg. Afghani with naan. I think it's the best thing I've ever had. I ask Charlie if he worries that, by working on a dance competition reality TV show, he's contributing to the corruption and ruination of Indian civilization. He says, overall, yes. I laugh.

23 March. Evening. We visit a few dance studios to watch dance teams rehearse. Each team has a "celebrity" leader. One is a tall Italian woman who is probably too old by now to catch the Bollywood break she desires; another is a woman my age named Rachi (sounds like "Rocky" and I say this while singing the theme song and jumping up and down Sylvestor Stallone-at-the-Philly-Museum-of-Art-style but no one gets it). She has an interesting story--from the slums, became successful, etc. Somewhat of a bitch to her colleagues but nice to me. I tell her to break a leg. I hope she understands. We watch an episode of the show. On Tuesday, I can see a taping if I want. Production values are high. I fall asleep. Charlie wakes me and we visit nearby Western shopping mall. I purchase new sunglasses and new backpack locks. Eat pizza for $2.50/slice. We go home. Watch "Michael Clayton". Sleep.

24 March. Today.