An open letter to Jayne Bannon

Dear Jayne,

Let me start by saying this: You don’t know me. We’ll probably never meet, which isn’t something to lament since we’ve had a few similar experiences, the most forefront in our minds, I’m sure, are our respective trips to Mumbai. It’s oddly comforting knowing that a complete stranger has stood in the same place as you, don’t you think? I wonder if you let your eyes pause on the same gilded carriage regally rolling in front of the Gateway to India. I wonder if you watched the same elderly woman perform her morning prayer ritual alongside the spiritual Banganga Tank. We can be sure, however, that there was one thing in particular
we both did: visit the National Gallery of Modern Art. I know this because we both signed the guest book. Maybe, like me, you were initially drawn to the building’s exterior and its location amongst a carefully planned esplanade of impressive structures boasting classical and gothic architecture. You know what I’ve always loved about gothic arches, Jayne? How they come to a point at the top as to say, “Screw you, perfect parabolas! What has classical architectures and its Doric columns done for me lately? We will drip with adornments of our own!” I digress.

Maybe, like me, you were surprised by the Guggenheim-esque interior. Curved galleries bathed in white invited you upwards until you reached the zenith, a completely circular space that presented us with 360 degrees of modern Indian visual manifestations. Did you find it peculiar not to recognize the name of a single artist? How horribly limiting and exclusionary our own museums and galleries must be!

Before the artsy gandering could begin, though, we had to pay the entrance fee, remember? Like every other national gallery or monument I’ve visited, foreign tourists have to pay a different fee than that of Indian nationals. In this case, we had to pay Rs. 150 ($3.30) whereas Indians had to pay Rs. 10. This apparently got you into a tizzy as this is what you wrote in the comments section of the guest book:

It is pure racism to ask 150 rupee entrance fee of people from other countries rather than 10 rupee entrance fee from people from India. This is total exploitation and should not be allowed by the Indian government. Shame on your organisation for this fascism. When Indians come to our country they are given homes and loans from the bank to set up a life and you make us pay 15 times the regular entrance fee. This is disgusting. Take better care and respect for your tourists who fund a lot of your economic structure. Change is in order.

Jayne, my Jayne. Sweetheart. Where to begin? First, clarifications. No matter how many strongly worded compositions you may post, the Indian government won’t do a damn thing. They have instituted this policy nationwide. And fascism? Really? You’re being repressed at the tyrannical hands of… who? The man checking your bag? Asking you to pay three dollars is hardly a fascist act. And this statement about coming to your country and receiving loans? I mean, this is just so teeming with your own biases. It undoubtedly makes you sound like an overly-privileged cow of a woman who passively – and perhaps actively – loathes brown people but will visit their country of origin so that you can come back and lunch with your compatriots, emit pseudo compassion as you unctuously bemoan their economic condition, and then display the new silk rug you had shipped back. It makes you seem like the wealthy baron in Deepak Shinde’s painting “Master siesta” who expects to be waited on hand and foot while vacationing when really you should never travel beyond your backyard or the vacuous depths of the Louis Vuitton counter at Harrod’s. Notice, Jayne, that I said “you sound like” and “you seem like.” I didn’t say “you are.” I’m sure you’re a really nice person. Really.

Now, let’s move on to the heart of your grievance, that fire ant that seems to have bitten you where only your husband has touched. (Look at me making assumptions, Jayne. Maybe you’re not married? No worries. I’m not either.) You’re riled up about the tiered payment structure. You called it “disgusting.” You think “change is in order.” Let’s tease this out, shall we? First of all, we must assume that nearly 100% of foreign visitors (yes – you and me) are of a certain financial status. Being able to purchase an $800, $1200, $2000 airplane ticket – for vacation, no less – puts us in a particular bracket. On the flip side, the average yearly income in Mumbai is about $2300 (three times the national average). Clearly, paying Rs. 150 or even Rs. 10 for entrance to an art gallery is unthinkable for millions. Yet, no organization can subsist solely on ten rupee entrance fees. So – in a move towards equitable fees for all – should the gallery charge, say, Rs. 80 of everyone? If so, many more would be unable to enter. Are you okay with that? Would you dare to claim that art appreciation is an elitist activity and would therefore advocate for such a fee structure?

I suppose the ideal system would be a sliding scale based on income, but how would that work without some sort of identity card that was tied to your tax returns? That sounds rather Orwellian, doesn’t it? Another possibility would be to have a “suggested admission” like the Met and the Natural History Museum do in New York. The irony of that system, though, is that it’s mostly the locals who notice the “suggested” part. Those from Nebraska and the Netherlands merely look at the board and see the dollar sign and the fifteen. So the tourists pay more. And so it goes.

Despite 150 rupee entrance fees, I hope that you had the opportunity to enjoy the wonders of this metropolis, some accounts putting it as the second largest city in the world with roughly 14 million people in the city proper, many more if you consider Greater Mumbai. Perhaps, if you weren’t holed up in your hotel, you were able to experience all of the city’s idiosyncrasies, the continual flutter of activities that create this urban song of sorts. Set against the beat of horns and collapsing umbrellas, the stalls and markets sing deals of every good and service imaginable. An hour on Colaba Causeway offered me jewelry, drugs, faux antiques, authentic antiques, a haircut (odd, considering I don’t have much right now), a shave (that’s the exception… as much on my face as on my head), pashmina after pashmina, and an ear cleaning (complete with the hawker sticking his finger in my ear). Did you stop and wonder about the daily routine of the man who slept beneath the overhang of a kiosk, his head resting on his own detached prosthetic leg? Did you walk along Chowpatty or Juhu beach awkwardly trying to prop your open umbrella between your neck and shoulder so you could simultaneously eat the notorious bhel puri? Did you get on the train just to see what it’s like to be part of the most overcrowded public transportation system in the world?

Did you stare at the bullet holes in Leopold’s, remnants of the 2008 terrorist attacks and a badge of grit and perseverance that refuses to be patched? Did you duck into restaurant after restaurant seeking a culinary repose from the climatic rage outside? My favorite moment of the weekend was undoubtedly had in a Rajasthani thali restaurant. First of all, thali? Amazing. Five, eight, ten, maybe twelve different delicacies magically appear, most of which are absolutely nameless to me. There’s that spicy red sauce/soup (do I dip my chapatti in it or drink it?), that fried sweet thing dripping with some sugary syrup, that lentil concoction, the raita which crunches with cucumber, and those dishes that defy my futile attempts at description. As I planned my gastronomic attack, one of the waiters struck up a conversation with me, or rather – owing to my nonexistent Hindi and his limited English - struck up a combination of short phrases, gestures, and smiles. The one waiter grew to a pair, then a trio, a quartet, and finally a small ensemble of six, and a concerto of laughter commenced. It was lovely. Oh – since you’d be happy to know this – everybody in the place is charged the same amount.

These are the moments, Jayne, upon which we should fixate. These educate us, force us to be more compassionate, and grace us with the tiniest glimpse into the existence of our neighbors. They’re like that golden rope lassoed around the red velvet stage curtain. We, the audience, are blessed as it tightens, briefly removing the barrier between two distinct experiences. In Friday’s NY Times, David Brooks had an op-ed piece about moral naturalists. This group believes that the moral fabric woven into modern and ancient

society is not necessarily the result of lectures from our mothers or spiritual leaders, but rather the result of relationships and interactions. Brooks wrote, “People who behave morally don’t generally do it because they have greater knowledge; they do it because they have a greater sensitivity to other people’s points of view.” I couldn’t agree more.

So, Jayne, maybe it’s time to truly benefit from the travels in which we are so fortunate to partake. So we have to pay a bit more to enter a museum. So we probably get driven an extra block by the rick-wallah to get a bit higher fare. So we get a stomach bug. Big fucking deal. It is the experience that draws you, me, and every other traveler.

With that, my dearest Jayne, I must run. An adventurous and head-spinning taxi ride to the airport awaits, as do my upcoming adventures in Udaipur. My greatest hope is that your next trip will find you with your eyes open, your thoughts available, and your heart unbounded.

As the Mumbai railway tickets state, “Happy Journey.”

Be well,

Joe