[Krishna Janmasthami Mubarak]

How do you celebrate the birth of historical-figure-cum-god Krishna? You (1) hang a dahi handi (literally a yogurt-pot, but symbolizing a cash prize of as much as Rs 11,00,000) from a wire, 20 to 50 feet above street level. Then you (2) assemble teams of 50 or so men and boys, dress them in identical (usually saffron) tee-shirts, and drive them around the city in flatbed trucks. These teams are known as govindas—whether after the dashing movie-star-cum-politician or Krishna's nickname meaning "supreme cowherd," I can't say for certain. Upon reaching the competition site, the teams race to (3) form human pyramids, à la cheerleaders, which mount to eight or even 10 levels before they (4) collapse violently and/or (5) smash the pots, claiming the prize.

Walking from Mumbai Central down to Opera House, I was shocked and disappointed by the near-total lack of hooliganism. I got hit with a water balloon but otherwise escaped unscathed. Crowds seemed to peak just north of Kalbadevi, where buses had trouble getting through the cross-streets. I only got to witness the govindas in action once I got down to V.T., where it seemed every by-lane and chawl had hosted one. We saw a five-story pyramid fall just shy of the prize, raising that eternal question, "Is it better to be the schlemiel or the schlemozzel?"

In evidence all around the city are the mandapam being erected for the upcoming Ganesh Utsav. I'm hoping to take a look at Lal Bagh's ganpati, which is supposed to be 10 m tall, before it gets dipped in the sea at Chowpatty.

[Back in the saddle]

or the hammock, rather—I had a box seat this weekend for the drama in the parking lot. I'll turn the webcam around and give you a look.



Let me back up, so to speak, to the toilet. Sunday morning I walked into a bathroom so unpleasant that the mess could hardly have been the work of one man. Lalit-bhai, in other words, was off the hook, and in fact was already on the way to fetch a plumber. He, after a valiant effort with a plunger, walked us outside. In an gesture befitting the previous day's celebration of Krishna Janmasthmi, which I'll get to, he clambered up three stools (wooden, not the other kind) and uncapped the pipe down to the sewer main. All clear!

It relieved the pressure on my bathroom by diverting flushes from above—onto the driveway. Though I paid Rs 150 for the favor, the idea came from the building society secretary, who had already called in a specialist. He hadn't, however, notified anyone on the floors above, and so the pipe continued to gush periodically. He had the watchmen, Jha and Singh, set up plastic chairs at what he considered a safe remove, and we chatted about his recent visit to his daughter in Queens and the uses of bamboo while the specialist's lackey poked away at the sewer main with a wire. The mixed legacy of the Raj: buried sewer lines, and the impossibility of finding a plumbing snake in all of Bombay on a Sunday.

More than the futility of the task, it was the roaches' increasingly adventurous sorties from the open sewer (won't ever have to wonder where they come from) that finally got me walking. I set off to the juice stand by Khar Gymkhana. Rs 25 got me two meters' worth of sugar cane. When I returned with it, and demonstrated how strong and flexible it was, Jha and Singh bust a gut. You're supposed to use an old one, they told me, and proceeded to break up the cane and chew on it. At that point I decided to do my watching from one floor up, taking some cane with me. And the dirty waterfall continued to flow periodically.

For two days.

I went into town as much as possible. Last night I returned to learn that the municipal sewer maintenance crew hadn't shown. This morning, however, I was awakened by a knock on the door: would I please flush? Three buckets went down like [simile withheld], and we could all finally rest, and do all sorts of other things, easy.