Photo by Daniele Levis Pelusi THE PURPOSE OF THE TRIP was to see my mother’s father one last time, but on the way in we stopped for a day in Mumbai to stretch our legs. I’d drawn a whole map for myself on the plane and now was following my dotted line through various markets and bakeries, culminating in a visit to the CSMVS, the city’s largest art museum. As with many other of India’s cultural institutions, the price for admission varies for local visitors and international tourists, and as I thumbed through my wallet in the queue, I realized that I’d overspent at the underground zine fest and only had enough cash left to cover the local rate. I don’t speak Hindi, but I thought, if I kept my mouth shut, I might look the part—I had no American flags on my shirt, anyway—but when I got to the front and wordlessly held out my several dozen rupees, the guard saw right through me and pointed to the tourist rate on the sign. Too embarrassed to explain myself or double down on the ruse, I turned around and headed across the yard to the gift shop, where I thought I’d buy a postcard, something to prove I’d been here at least and seen this site with my own eyes. The shopkeeper, perhaps smelling the tourist on me, asked if I needed any help. “No, thanks,” I said, “I’m just looking.”