I wake up and look at my new Casio. I have been on the train for 16 hours.. It's around 8:30 a.m now.. ok that's cool, another 9 hours or so. I can hack it. The book I am reading is like a cheesecake: all lines dense, wondrous, tasty and astoundingly precise. Thank god for reading. I read, I get off my bunk, I walk around(up and down the dirty train), I smoke, I get back on my bunk, I read, I snooze, I have a chai, I eat some peanuts.
Repeat.
Over and over.
My cell phone rings. It's Iqbal, the lovely man that guided my Amritsar trip. his ex boss lives in Kolkata.
"Hi Iqbal!"
" B- have you contacted Gulzar?"
"No"
"Well, why not?"
"uh- well I thought I would do it once I get there."
"call him up."
So I do. Gulzar is wonderful, gets me in contact with Satya, who gets me in contact with Agni. They are all sms ing me with numbers to call and places to see, all reassuring me of support once I reach Kolkata. I should accept this, instead of being my stubborn independent self.
I'm hungry. It's now 6. Hmm we should BE there. Why has the train stopped? It's the second person telling me we will reach at 8:30ish... Nooooo. ugh. Diwali is happening now! The train stops again. Blast! Bang! Boom!.... firecrackers going off like gunshots, lighting up the sky like long neon scarves, and at times like concentrated falling snow. I'm spending Diwali on a crowded smelly train. At least I'm spending Diwali in India with Indians!!! I can't lie: it's bittersweet. I do hope we reach Kolkata before the night is through...
Ahhhh FINALLY! We make it. I say goodbye to all the new acquaintances I made, and to James, but we end up talking our way out of the train station and onto the street. Once outside I see the Hooghly Bridge and yellow taxi cabs and I get hit with a strange nostalgia. New York City. My smile is so absurdly wide. This city is oddly comforting and familiar. Calm yet stimulating. I already know I will feel anonymous here... I already know I will like it here. Some cities touch you. Unreasonable but true.
James and I walk a bit further and take a cab to Free School street. I tap the cabby on the shoulder and point to my pack of ciggies, head bobbing, and he gives me matches... haha, only in India! Here I was trying to ask if I could smoke, and he facilitates my dirty habit. Sweet.
Once on Free School street (and its pronounced freeuh schooluh street) I find a guest house. Its unsavory, just like the pushy hotel owner, with his repulsive Bengali belly hanging out of his wife beater, but honestly, Kali Pooja is happening now and I just want to drop my bag and discover. James follows me. We get a chai and decide what to do. I say lets get to Kalighat, the Kali temple. Bengalis worship Kali, and it's even possible that Kolkata is named after her. She is the goddess of devastation, darkness and rebirth(more on Kali later, my favourite goddess deserves her own post).
The temple is sort of hidden in a maze of alleys, jammed with market stalls selling flowers, religious trinkets, bangles, brassware and of course, pictures of Kali. I ask how much the two white and two red plastic bangles are. First vendor says 30, second vendor says 70, third vendor says 50, so I tell the fourth vendor I will give 25 and he doesn't fight me. Cool. I later find out the significance of the red and white bangles.. I'll tell you about that soon.
OH MY GAAAWD the amount of people is truly AWESOME and the experience is just as explosive and huge and intense. People pushing, but without hardness or aggression (this needs to be lived to be understood, sorry to say). The temple is tiled with floral and peacock motifs (looks quite Portuguese, not Indian at all, actually). I see black haired animal bits. What is that? Then I see blood, then I see a black goat head. Ah yes- the goats are sacrificed to honor the demanding Kali, thereby buying 'God Power'. A man approaches and asks if we want to see Kali, we say yes. He says 50 rupees and we say yes again. We are taken, woven in amongst the hundreds of pilgrims to the front of the line. He discusses something to a man wearing a uniform. Money talks. We cut the line. It's hard to see her for there are so many bodies crammed and in constant flux. then I see the three red eyes and the gold tongue. There she is, crowned, dark and powerful, covered by hibiscus flower offerings. A 'priest' standing at her altar (there is one on each side) gestures for money. I hand him a 5 rupee note and he takes it (I can't believe I finally got rid of it! For some reason Indians dislike the 5 rupee bill) and then we get tikkaed (the reddish orangeish dot the priest places on your third eye, blessing you). We are ushered out. We find our shoes. We look at each other. "Holy Shit (James)! We made it to the Kali temple on the Holiest of days! We rule! Now let's eat something.."
I get my trusted lonely planet bible out and look up yummy places close by. Kewpies is famous for Bengali fish, and it is the only restaurant still open. We rush. It's a bit of a nightmare to find, so many miniscule alleys. I ask a man in uniform. He honestly tells me to ask the cross guard. I bravely cross the intersection with my silly large book open to the map and point. He is busily directing traffic but seems non-plussed by my enquiry. 'Yes, you are very close, just make a sharp left then two intersections then a...."
I hear a deep and confident voice behind me, " let me help you. Where are you trying to go? " I turn around and see these kind black outlined eyes behind stylish glasses. A warm round smile, a round nose, a soft face. She is an angel, appearing out of nowhere.
She walks us to a taxi and firmly tells the cabby where to go and how much to charge us. And as we hop in she looks at me and says, "make sure he doesn't charge you more than 30." Angel.
Kewpies is on Elgin Lane, but we can't find Elgin Lane, only Elgin Road. Must be a typo James says.. 'A typo' I think? Really? It's 9:45. Gah!- are we going to make it?. The restaurant closes at 10. Twisting here and there, we ask again. 'yes yes Elgin lane is the next sharp left.' We retrace our steps. Now I am running almost, and James is a few meters behind me. We will never find it. Let's just give up. It's ten to ten now.. I slump and slow down... and - like a phoenix rising from the ashes (not really, but you know) there lies Kewpies, hidden, dark, but there! Just when I had given up! Yay we made it!
Uh no. Closed. Nords.
'ok' I tell James, 'let's eat wherever'. We hop into a cab to go back to Freeuh Schooluh street and we see a chirpy looking SUBWAY sub restaurant on the way. James looks at me quickly and we both tell the cabby to stop.
We're hungry, after all. I know, shame on me to be eating at a non-Indian joint, but whatever. Once we enter, a woman kindly calls all these restaurant numbers for us, to see if any are open. No such luck. We eat subway subs and chill for a bit.
Cab back to the unsavory hotel. James and I hug it out, exchange emails and part ways. I am thirsty. The nasty hotel owner tries to sell me a bottle of water for 20 rupees (they are usually 12-14)..I look at him. I check if the bottle has been opened. Of course it has. I look at him. He smiles a devilish smile. "You're not new to India, are you maam?"
Despite his obnoxious nature, I smile. I mean, I got blessed on the holiest of days, nothing is crushing THIS spirit!
I start climbing the stairs to my room "No I'm not, unsavory one. Good night."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Journey to Calcutta. Day 1.
4th November, 6:43 a.m.
I am at the Chandigarh train station. For the amount of people that are waiting, it is surprisingly, and to my delight, rather calm. It is Diwali season, after all. I eat a banana, have a tea and wait. This is one of the first times I travel wearing western clothes, and not a salwaar kameez. They are not convenient. The dupatta dragging on the ground, the pant tie-up cutting my midriff circulation, the bottoms touching the nasty toilet floor as I squat to relieve myself. And sadly, I understand now that adopting their cultural clothing does not make me fit in. So I choose comfort over culture, just this once.
I am on the train. 4 months living in this country and just now do I see that wowie they like their tea strong and sugary. They give you two tea bags for one cup and two sugar packets that are noticeably heavier than the ones we have at home. The thermoses they use, I swear it looks circa 1970's. And it's not the colour story that gives it away (beige and brown), it's the grimy layer of incrusted dirt, the cracked mouth. Ugh. Still, I pour the warm water out of it and make my sugary strong beverage. There's a lady in front of me.. her mouth turned downward in a permanent frown... she gingerly picks up the ketchup packets and butter packet and plops them in her purse. This makes me giggle, and she looks up, her frown intact. Oops. I look at her arms, they are fat. I think about a hug, and how I haven't had a good hug in a long time, and how thick people give the best hugs.
Traveling alone is awesome, amazing really. But there are moments when you want to turn to someone comfortable. Comfortably nice smelling, Comfortably familiar, and rest your head on their comfortable shoulder and wrap your arms around their comfortable torso. Skinny stinky strangers need not apply.
Train lands in Delhi. I have a few hours to kill. What else to do but shop and walk. I buy a sweet Casio to add to my growing collection. I find the eggplant purple bangles for my buddy, and I fall in love with someone because of his glasses. He walks into the little restaurant I am sitting in and we both look at each other with surprise. It was odd and instant, and real. Gosh, he is cute. I wish he would turn around and talk to me. Oh! He does! He points to my glasses and gives me a thumbs up. I reciprocate it, along with a dorky smile. Cooome over I am thinking! Why can't he read my mind? This is beloved #1. I like the fact that he is alone. Traveling alone in India is seemingly rare. Come over you hottie, cooome! His glasses are killing me softly. He eats, turns around, waves and leaves. Bye beloved #1.
Okay- so I am on a train to Calcutta in 2 hours, and the ride is 26+ hours. Wow. I have numbers to call and people to meet, if I want. Do I? My cell rings. It's Canon! My camera baby is fixed and arrived from Delhi this morning! Yay.
Better get a move on... Calcutta is calling. I find my grimy bunk. There is a white guy sitting there. He is a dirty hippie. You know the type: leather sandals, MC hammer pants (harem pants they are called here), faded and hole-peppered tie-dyed tee, lots of bracelets and necklaces, long dirty hair. He clings to me. Talks incessantly, and I can already tell he is a bad story teller and that he is young. I want to get to my bunk now. so I do, and he does the same. There is a man sitting on mine and I gesture him to get off, so he plops himself on the American hippie's. James looks at me- (James let's call him, he reminds me of a James I once knew) with contempt. I tell him the brief version of my past molestation and that now no one comes on my bunk. Full stop. 'But', James says, 'where else will they go?' 'That's not my business.' I say. I lend him a book to read and he takes it, as if it is owed to him, without a thank you or a smile. Like since he has two extra bodies on his bunk because I kicked one guy off, I of course SHOULD be lending him a book. He shuffles, he grunts, he looks pitiful. I don't want to share my time with him anymore. Here is the book. That's enough. I like this new incarnation of B. Ever since the train-bad-touch I am ruthless, cunning. Learned.
I look around this new top view, and here comes beloved #2. He. Is. Gorgeous. And we can't stop staring at each other. He holds my gaze with no shame or perversity. I do the same. God I wish I spoke Hindi! He is sooo dreamy. That's it! It's final: I am really going to take Hindi language classes. For if I did, I could ask him more than how he is doing and what is his 'good' name. I could feign discreet curiosity, instead of telling him he is 'bohot sundar heh' (very beautiful) and then exchange phone numbers to then end up hating him because we can't communicate but he calls a million times a day.
Unrequited. I swear that should be my middle name.
It's his mouth. It's beautiful. And the look of soft sensuality in his eyes. I figured it out! What makes a person attractive (to me) is their mouth. All the words that come out of it , all the kissing that happens with it, all the smiling and laughing it gets to indulge in. Yes; a mouth indeed. AND of course the gaze. Not even the shape or size or colour of eyes, it's really the soul behind it, the source ingredient of unique. I can't look away. We are maybe 4 meters apart and I can FEEL him looking at me when I pretend to read my book. Sigh. I look at him again, I can't help myself. I'm a glutton. I hold his gaze. Shit- a whole romance novel could be written with the feelings that are sparking inside me. I LOVE HIM! hahahah.
....This is becoming a teensy bit long, a teensy bit crowded and a teensy bit dirty. Men and women and children are friendly. A woman gave me an apple and an Indian sweet. Another man bought me a tea. Another man gave me some snacks. God I'm feeling tall right now, the top bunk is safe from molesters, but I'm cramped. Beloved #2 has his legs stretched out and they are reaching my bunk. I too have my legs stretched out. His foot is touching my foot. I feel like I'm in the Victorian ages or something because this innocent graze is setting me on fire! We look at each other. We smile. We both know that's all we can share and so we share it 100%.
Bed time.. it must be 9ish by now (the 4th november, still). A man comes up on my bunk and tells me he will just be on the side. I say no. He tells me in perfect English that he will not touch me or take too much space. ugh FIIIINE, I say, but I warn him that if he touches me I yell and punch, with no reservation. He smiles and head bobs.
I wake up to him resting his head and arm on my leg. I push him off with said leg and tell him to get off my bunk. I look for beloved #2's eyes. It's dark. His foot is gone. He is gone. During my strange slumber the train stopped a few times and people got on and got off. Beloved #2 got off. I close my eyes and dream of his mouth.
Diazepam and Disco; Thank you. You both are lulling me to where I need to be now: cocooned in a dreamsphere.
I am at the Chandigarh train station. For the amount of people that are waiting, it is surprisingly, and to my delight, rather calm. It is Diwali season, after all. I eat a banana, have a tea and wait. This is one of the first times I travel wearing western clothes, and not a salwaar kameez. They are not convenient. The dupatta dragging on the ground, the pant tie-up cutting my midriff circulation, the bottoms touching the nasty toilet floor as I squat to relieve myself. And sadly, I understand now that adopting their cultural clothing does not make me fit in. So I choose comfort over culture, just this once.
I am on the train. 4 months living in this country and just now do I see that wowie they like their tea strong and sugary. They give you two tea bags for one cup and two sugar packets that are noticeably heavier than the ones we have at home. The thermoses they use, I swear it looks circa 1970's. And it's not the colour story that gives it away (beige and brown), it's the grimy layer of incrusted dirt, the cracked mouth. Ugh. Still, I pour the warm water out of it and make my sugary strong beverage. There's a lady in front of me.. her mouth turned downward in a permanent frown... she gingerly picks up the ketchup packets and butter packet and plops them in her purse. This makes me giggle, and she looks up, her frown intact. Oops. I look at her arms, they are fat. I think about a hug, and how I haven't had a good hug in a long time, and how thick people give the best hugs.
Traveling alone is awesome, amazing really. But there are moments when you want to turn to someone comfortable. Comfortably nice smelling, Comfortably familiar, and rest your head on their comfortable shoulder and wrap your arms around their comfortable torso. Skinny stinky strangers need not apply.
Train lands in Delhi. I have a few hours to kill. What else to do but shop and walk. I buy a sweet Casio to add to my growing collection. I find the eggplant purple bangles for my buddy, and I fall in love with someone because of his glasses. He walks into the little restaurant I am sitting in and we both look at each other with surprise. It was odd and instant, and real. Gosh, he is cute. I wish he would turn around and talk to me. Oh! He does! He points to my glasses and gives me a thumbs up. I reciprocate it, along with a dorky smile. Cooome over I am thinking! Why can't he read my mind? This is beloved #1. I like the fact that he is alone. Traveling alone in India is seemingly rare. Come over you hottie, cooome! His glasses are killing me softly. He eats, turns around, waves and leaves. Bye beloved #1.
Okay- so I am on a train to Calcutta in 2 hours, and the ride is 26+ hours. Wow. I have numbers to call and people to meet, if I want. Do I? My cell rings. It's Canon! My camera baby is fixed and arrived from Delhi this morning! Yay.
Better get a move on... Calcutta is calling. I find my grimy bunk. There is a white guy sitting there. He is a dirty hippie. You know the type: leather sandals, MC hammer pants (harem pants they are called here), faded and hole-peppered tie-dyed tee, lots of bracelets and necklaces, long dirty hair. He clings to me. Talks incessantly, and I can already tell he is a bad story teller and that he is young. I want to get to my bunk now. so I do, and he does the same. There is a man sitting on mine and I gesture him to get off, so he plops himself on the American hippie's. James looks at me- (James let's call him, he reminds me of a James I once knew) with contempt. I tell him the brief version of my past molestation and that now no one comes on my bunk. Full stop. 'But', James says, 'where else will they go?' 'That's not my business.' I say. I lend him a book to read and he takes it, as if it is owed to him, without a thank you or a smile. Like since he has two extra bodies on his bunk because I kicked one guy off, I of course SHOULD be lending him a book. He shuffles, he grunts, he looks pitiful. I don't want to share my time with him anymore. Here is the book. That's enough. I like this new incarnation of B. Ever since the train-bad-touch I am ruthless, cunning. Learned.
I look around this new top view, and here comes beloved #2. He. Is. Gorgeous. And we can't stop staring at each other. He holds my gaze with no shame or perversity. I do the same. God I wish I spoke Hindi! He is sooo dreamy. That's it! It's final: I am really going to take Hindi language classes. For if I did, I could ask him more than how he is doing and what is his 'good' name. I could feign discreet curiosity, instead of telling him he is 'bohot sundar heh' (very beautiful) and then exchange phone numbers to then end up hating him because we can't communicate but he calls a million times a day.
Unrequited. I swear that should be my middle name.
It's his mouth. It's beautiful. And the look of soft sensuality in his eyes. I figured it out! What makes a person attractive (to me) is their mouth. All the words that come out of it , all the kissing that happens with it, all the smiling and laughing it gets to indulge in. Yes; a mouth indeed. AND of course the gaze. Not even the shape or size or colour of eyes, it's really the soul behind it, the source ingredient of unique. I can't look away. We are maybe 4 meters apart and I can FEEL him looking at me when I pretend to read my book. Sigh. I look at him again, I can't help myself. I'm a glutton. I hold his gaze. Shit- a whole romance novel could be written with the feelings that are sparking inside me. I LOVE HIM! hahahah.
....This is becoming a teensy bit long, a teensy bit crowded and a teensy bit dirty. Men and women and children are friendly. A woman gave me an apple and an Indian sweet. Another man bought me a tea. Another man gave me some snacks. God I'm feeling tall right now, the top bunk is safe from molesters, but I'm cramped. Beloved #2 has his legs stretched out and they are reaching my bunk. I too have my legs stretched out. His foot is touching my foot. I feel like I'm in the Victorian ages or something because this innocent graze is setting me on fire! We look at each other. We smile. We both know that's all we can share and so we share it 100%.
Bed time.. it must be 9ish by now (the 4th november, still). A man comes up on my bunk and tells me he will just be on the side. I say no. He tells me in perfect English that he will not touch me or take too much space. ugh FIIIINE, I say, but I warn him that if he touches me I yell and punch, with no reservation. He smiles and head bobs.
I wake up to him resting his head and arm on my leg. I push him off with said leg and tell him to get off my bunk. I look for beloved #2's eyes. It's dark. His foot is gone. He is gone. During my strange slumber the train stopped a few times and people got on and got off. Beloved #2 got off. I close my eyes and dream of his mouth.
Diazepam and Disco; Thank you. You both are lulling me to where I need to be now: cocooned in a dreamsphere.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tips and Tricks For the Single Gal Traveling Northern India.
....Below are simple yet useful suggestions... stated in random order. Come to India! It's chaotic charm, stuffed into a beautiful Bengali egg roll, washed down by a creamy fragrant chai... oh yeah, and finished off with a soft round Rasgulla. (Can you tell I just came back from Bengal?)
1. Surrender. Don't struggle with reality. Enjoy it, you asked for it.
2. Realize you will get ripped off. Try to bargain and then move on to the next vendor. Be happy to spend the money. If not, don't bother.
3. Don't wear flip flops. It is dirty here.
4. Carry napkins. Take as many as you can from restaurants. You'll be grateful to have them, trust me.
5. Break large bills every chance you get.
6. Paint your nails a dark colour. It will stop you from biting them, if you're so inclined, AND you won't have to witness how dirty they really are.
7. Learn the head bob and use it confidently. Always.
8. Always pack a bed sheet.
9. Always pack a towel.
10. Drink chai from tea stalls. It's the best tea you'll drink in India, guaranteed.
11. Count your change. Mental maths comes in handy BIG TIME.
12. Give beggars food instead of coins, if you can.
13. Ask for directions to your designated destination at least twice. Seriously. AT LEAST twice.
14. Be Patient. Rid yourself of any narcissistic inclinations. You're not the only one waiting in a queue, that needs to catch a train/bus/rickshaw/tram/flight/cab, that needs her change back, that wants a tea. This is INDIA time, lady! Refer back to tip number 1.
15. As a lady, you will be stared at, and you will be touched. Don't use niceties you were brought up with, leave those at home. If (or should I say when) you get fondled: punch hit and yell. Seriously. And when you get stared at, well, you know what? Enjoy it (on the inside).When you go back to NA you won't get the same attention. So- you know... when in Rome....
16. Get ready to have your heart swept away, broken, mended and melted. Maybe every day.
17. Now here's the tricky part. NEVER expect the worst. EXPECT the best and HOPE for the best. Because that's exactly what you'll get.
Love, from yours truly,
B
1. Surrender. Don't struggle with reality. Enjoy it, you asked for it.
2. Realize you will get ripped off. Try to bargain and then move on to the next vendor. Be happy to spend the money. If not, don't bother.
3. Don't wear flip flops. It is dirty here.
4. Carry napkins. Take as many as you can from restaurants. You'll be grateful to have them, trust me.
5. Break large bills every chance you get.
6. Paint your nails a dark colour. It will stop you from biting them, if you're so inclined, AND you won't have to witness how dirty they really are.
7. Learn the head bob and use it confidently. Always.
8. Always pack a bed sheet.
9. Always pack a towel.
10. Drink chai from tea stalls. It's the best tea you'll drink in India, guaranteed.
11. Count your change. Mental maths comes in handy BIG TIME.
12. Give beggars food instead of coins, if you can.
13. Ask for directions to your designated destination at least twice. Seriously. AT LEAST twice.
14. Be Patient. Rid yourself of any narcissistic inclinations. You're not the only one waiting in a queue, that needs to catch a train/bus/rickshaw/tram/flight/cab, that needs her change back, that wants a tea. This is INDIA time, lady! Refer back to tip number 1.
15. As a lady, you will be stared at, and you will be touched. Don't use niceties you were brought up with, leave those at home. If (or should I say when) you get fondled: punch hit and yell. Seriously. And when you get stared at, well, you know what? Enjoy it (on the inside).When you go back to NA you won't get the same attention. So- you know... when in Rome....
16. Get ready to have your heart swept away, broken, mended and melted. Maybe every day.
17. Now here's the tricky part. NEVER expect the worst. EXPECT the best and HOPE for the best. Because that's exactly what you'll get.
Love, from yours truly,
B
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Ugly Truth
I'm at the tailor, again.
It's a hop, skip, and a jump away from home, part of the market complex area I visit daily for chai and produce, cadbury chocolates, Indian snacks, samosas, Chinese food and pharmaceutical needs. It's like the 5th time I come to collect my new punjabi suit- pumped-up at the prospect of wearing it the following day-and every time, I leave empty handed, wondering what to wear tomorrow. This time; I refuse to leave without my new suit, only. (Indian English thrown in there for good measure!)
I walk in, I smile, I head bob and Namaste the lady- my eyes sparkling with excitement- TODAY IS THE DAY, she assured me! Yay- a new suit just in time for my trip to Calcutta. Cool beans! She sees me and looks away, smiling at the other women and muttering. I wait. Swarms of indian ladies are being attended to, It's like I'm invisible or something, a ghost...
This is tiring my patience now, big time.
The tailor lady averts my eyes and smiles and nods, 'yes yes' she says, 'come back tomorrow', 'come back tonight', 'come back in an hour'... smiling this syrupy smile I want to slap off her face! I start to get short with her. I tell her (in embarrassingly badly enunciated Hindi) that I have been waiting A MONTH for ONE suit to be ready, when the first time I came here (with a Brahmin female friend) I had TWO suits done in ONE WEEK! What is the hold up? 'Yes yes', she keeps smiling, syrup drooling off her face, mocking. 'Come back in an hour'...
'Puckaah?' I say(for sure, definitely?)
'Puckaah puckaah' head bob. She finally looks me in the eyes, even if only for a darting second....
Argh!!!
And this, sadly, is how I am treated, sometimes, as a white unmarried 30s something female, in Northern India. I might be the lowest rank, next to, I don't know... the Untouchables, could that be?
I begin to question her behaviour and my treatment as a foreigner here... and I get answers that I don't like. I'm open and all, but come on- a person is a person is a person, right? The customer is always right, right? WRONG!
I discuss this with my Indian guru back home, and she enlightens me with an ugly dark truth. Glass ceiling for white women here..
I got sexually harassed by my boss. It was unpleasant, unprofessional, and frankly, a total abuse of power. I tell my colleague, a woman, a Brahmin. She casually responds with '...Oh well, you shouldn't have gone to the party with him, what were you thinking? Why did you get in a car with him, that wasn't wise of you B.'
I got molested on the train, I tell her. she replies, 'Well, why were you in second class? You know better. And why were you on a bottom bunk? If you were on a top bunk then that would not have happened to you, surely. What were you wearing? A Salwaar Kameez... oh. Was your dupatta slightly off the shoulder?'
WHAT? I look at her, in shock. 'Do you know that your discourse is the very reason women have been caged for centuries? Do you realize that you are blaming me for others behaviour that I have no control over?' she sighs, and smirks. 'This is india Bianca. Welcome, and get used to it.'
'But- but, but.....' my voice trails off. She looks away, focusing on something really interesting on the carpet(nothing) and then starts vigorously fishing for her cell phone in her purse. This conversation is closed, and there won't be another one, puckaah puckaah.
It's a hop, skip, and a jump away from home, part of the market complex area I visit daily for chai and produce, cadbury chocolates, Indian snacks, samosas, Chinese food and pharmaceutical needs. It's like the 5th time I come to collect my new punjabi suit- pumped-up at the prospect of wearing it the following day-and every time, I leave empty handed, wondering what to wear tomorrow. This time; I refuse to leave without my new suit, only. (Indian English thrown in there for good measure!)
I walk in, I smile, I head bob and Namaste the lady- my eyes sparkling with excitement- TODAY IS THE DAY, she assured me! Yay- a new suit just in time for my trip to Calcutta. Cool beans! She sees me and looks away, smiling at the other women and muttering. I wait. Swarms of indian ladies are being attended to, It's like I'm invisible or something, a ghost...
This is tiring my patience now, big time.
The tailor lady averts my eyes and smiles and nods, 'yes yes' she says, 'come back tomorrow', 'come back tonight', 'come back in an hour'... smiling this syrupy smile I want to slap off her face! I start to get short with her. I tell her (in embarrassingly badly enunciated Hindi) that I have been waiting A MONTH for ONE suit to be ready, when the first time I came here (with a Brahmin female friend) I had TWO suits done in ONE WEEK! What is the hold up? 'Yes yes', she keeps smiling, syrup drooling off her face, mocking. 'Come back in an hour'...
'Puckaah?' I say(for sure, definitely?)
'Puckaah puckaah' head bob. She finally looks me in the eyes, even if only for a darting second....
Argh!!!
And this, sadly, is how I am treated, sometimes, as a white unmarried 30s something female, in Northern India. I might be the lowest rank, next to, I don't know... the Untouchables, could that be?
I begin to question her behaviour and my treatment as a foreigner here... and I get answers that I don't like. I'm open and all, but come on- a person is a person is a person, right? The customer is always right, right? WRONG!
I discuss this with my Indian guru back home, and she enlightens me with an ugly dark truth. Glass ceiling for white women here..
I got sexually harassed by my boss. It was unpleasant, unprofessional, and frankly, a total abuse of power. I tell my colleague, a woman, a Brahmin. She casually responds with '...Oh well, you shouldn't have gone to the party with him, what were you thinking? Why did you get in a car with him, that wasn't wise of you B.'
I got molested on the train, I tell her. she replies, 'Well, why were you in second class? You know better. And why were you on a bottom bunk? If you were on a top bunk then that would not have happened to you, surely. What were you wearing? A Salwaar Kameez... oh. Was your dupatta slightly off the shoulder?'
WHAT? I look at her, in shock. 'Do you know that your discourse is the very reason women have been caged for centuries? Do you realize that you are blaming me for others behaviour that I have no control over?' she sighs, and smirks. 'This is india Bianca. Welcome, and get used to it.'
'But- but, but.....' my voice trails off. She looks away, focusing on something really interesting on the carpet(nothing) and then starts vigorously fishing for her cell phone in her purse. This conversation is closed, and there won't be another one, puckaah puckaah.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Delusions of Grandeur.
Name: Eugenio Bolongaro
Profession: Professor of Italian Cinema, McGill University; Copyrighter Ogilvy Advertising; Philosopher.
Age: 40's ( I guess)
Height: 6'4
Occupation: corner stone real estate in Bianca Brandt-Rousseau's heart. Her unrequited love.
He was dashing. Soberly debonaire. He wore bow ties, tweed jackets, and wing-tips. He dramatically parted his hair to one side. Sometimes, dark wisps would step out of line, into his saucer-shaped powder blue eyes. Absentmindedly, he would sweep the strands with his hand. His long, piano perfect hand. He resembled an Italian Donald Draper. He is timeless. Ageless. Like Nature; he is perfect.
One of my most vivid and memorable dreams centered around him, me, Derrida and Chomsky, sitting at a round table, discussing Deconstructionism... How pretentious that sounds now, how hoighty and intellectually grandiose. The best part of this dream, dear friends, was the flirtation underlining it: Professor Bolongaro -I was referring to him as Eugenio in the dream, of course- was playing footsie with me, under the round table.
I attended every class he taught. I was early to arrive, sat in the front row, and would linger afterwards, just so I could hear him speak some more. His face, his accent, and his style made my knees weak, enchanting me in a lovers trance. It didn't matter that he was gay, that my feminine charms eluded him. This one-sided crush was all I dreamed about (think Tiramisu): All the joy was in consumption, nothing else came out of it but gratuitous calories, cushioning me. I just loved to love him! Gluttony: pure and simple. Bolongaro was the beginning of my Italian chapter that hasn't been written. Yet. I have rough copies, scraps written in pencil, scattered in the chaotic corridors of my mind, and echoing halls of my heart.
I loved him. He is my reason for favoring the word 'Indeed'. He used this word with grace and poignancy. A playfully placed punctuation. He too favored this word, it was obvious. When he would use it, his eyes sparkled... So- I slid 'indeed' into my day-to-day vocabulary, because every time I used it, I saw HIM saying it. And I felt timeless, stylish, Italian. How silly this all sounds now.... But it is the truth.
So began my obsession with anything and everything Italian:
Neorealist cinema became my snobby fixation; Mama Roma and Osessione. Fellini or DeSica, usually in my VCR.
Italian fashion- I later worked for Prada. Dolce no doubt!
Italian cuisine- I make a killer Eggplant Parmesan.
Italian language- I received Ital/Eng dictionaries and Italian language tapes for my birthday that year, in vain. Some of the best moments I've had alone were in the bath, shotgunning beers, repeating some Italian sentence over and over.. ah - good oldies!!
(oh my- I almost forgot- I changed my voice mail message to 'Bonjorno Tutti!' Ha! Laughable! Who the hell did I think I was?)
And lastly, an Italian lover- Too bad he was disappointing, but his name, 'Mattia' coupled with his accent- luscious and powerful- sustained me for a week or two.
Before moving to India I had an opportunity to visit Italy with a dear friend. A very dear friend. Things got complicated; financial and family matters thickened the once flowing probability. And I backed out. I was sick over it, but I backed out.
Destiny: she takes you by the hand, directing where to go. Although Italy is still a fascination, I'm not ready for her. I've traveled a lot and somehow opt not to go to her, time and time again. Had I turned this illusion into a truth, I most likely wouldn't be in India today. And that, my beloved reader, is unimaginable! So- I traded a couple weeks of limoncello, 'Ciaos' and touching things Marcello Mastrioni might have, for a year of Butter Chicken, Ohm Shantis, and Namastes ...
Italy and Eugenio: Illusionary. Untouchable. Intimacy denied.
Ah well! I still have the language tapes(somewhere in storage), the tingles and his perfect face in my mind's eye when I utter my favourite word. That is awesome.
In------dubitably!
Profession: Professor of Italian Cinema, McGill University; Copyrighter Ogilvy Advertising; Philosopher.
Age: 40's ( I guess)
Height: 6'4
Occupation: corner stone real estate in Bianca Brandt-Rousseau's heart. Her unrequited love.
He was dashing. Soberly debonaire. He wore bow ties, tweed jackets, and wing-tips. He dramatically parted his hair to one side. Sometimes, dark wisps would step out of line, into his saucer-shaped powder blue eyes. Absentmindedly, he would sweep the strands with his hand. His long, piano perfect hand. He resembled an Italian Donald Draper. He is timeless. Ageless. Like Nature; he is perfect.
One of my most vivid and memorable dreams centered around him, me, Derrida and Chomsky, sitting at a round table, discussing Deconstructionism... How pretentious that sounds now, how hoighty and intellectually grandiose. The best part of this dream, dear friends, was the flirtation underlining it: Professor Bolongaro -I was referring to him as Eugenio in the dream, of course- was playing footsie with me, under the round table.
I attended every class he taught. I was early to arrive, sat in the front row, and would linger afterwards, just so I could hear him speak some more. His face, his accent, and his style made my knees weak, enchanting me in a lovers trance. It didn't matter that he was gay, that my feminine charms eluded him. This one-sided crush was all I dreamed about (think Tiramisu): All the joy was in consumption, nothing else came out of it but gratuitous calories, cushioning me. I just loved to love him! Gluttony: pure and simple. Bolongaro was the beginning of my Italian chapter that hasn't been written. Yet. I have rough copies, scraps written in pencil, scattered in the chaotic corridors of my mind, and echoing halls of my heart.
I loved him. He is my reason for favoring the word 'Indeed'. He used this word with grace and poignancy. A playfully placed punctuation. He too favored this word, it was obvious. When he would use it, his eyes sparkled... So- I slid 'indeed' into my day-to-day vocabulary, because every time I used it, I saw HIM saying it. And I felt timeless, stylish, Italian. How silly this all sounds now.... But it is the truth.
So began my obsession with anything and everything Italian:
Neorealist cinema became my snobby fixation; Mama Roma and Osessione. Fellini or DeSica, usually in my VCR.
Italian fashion- I later worked for Prada. Dolce no doubt!
Italian cuisine- I make a killer Eggplant Parmesan.
Italian language- I received Ital/Eng dictionaries and Italian language tapes for my birthday that year, in vain. Some of the best moments I've had alone were in the bath, shotgunning beers, repeating some Italian sentence over and over.. ah - good oldies!!
(oh my- I almost forgot- I changed my voice mail message to 'Bonjorno Tutti!' Ha! Laughable! Who the hell did I think I was?)
And lastly, an Italian lover- Too bad he was disappointing, but his name, 'Mattia' coupled with his accent- luscious and powerful- sustained me for a week or two.
Before moving to India I had an opportunity to visit Italy with a dear friend. A very dear friend. Things got complicated; financial and family matters thickened the once flowing probability. And I backed out. I was sick over it, but I backed out.
Destiny: she takes you by the hand, directing where to go. Although Italy is still a fascination, I'm not ready for her. I've traveled a lot and somehow opt not to go to her, time and time again. Had I turned this illusion into a truth, I most likely wouldn't be in India today. And that, my beloved reader, is unimaginable! So- I traded a couple weeks of limoncello, 'Ciaos' and touching things Marcello Mastrioni might have, for a year of Butter Chicken, Ohm Shantis, and Namastes ...
Italy and Eugenio: Illusionary. Untouchable. Intimacy denied.
Ah well! I still have the language tapes(somewhere in storage), the tingles and his perfect face in my mind's eye when I utter my favourite word. That is awesome.
In------dubitably!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sonny
*Sigh*.
Sonny and I spend half an hour together, just me and him, at least once a week. He is the one that takes me back to work after my shift at the school in the slum. We chitchat about India and food. We gossip about colleagues. We laugh at my Hindi mistakes and my faulty pronunciation. We hang out. We share time. I love this ride back home. AAAND he is a devilishly good driver. Wowie- the way he masters the stick shift and weaves in and out of traffic (cars and cows. Yes; cattle are everywhere in India, not just the field. Sacred cow- don't hit her!) is admirable.
Sonny.
It's because he has a naughty crooked smile. It's because he has a scar on his cheek that tells of his past gang affiliation. It's because he is responsible and macho. It's because when he talks he is so present, his eyes arrest you. There's no option but to look and listen. It's because he laughs a deep, mellifluous laugh. It's because he looks at me with sex written all over his gaze. And, it's because when I saw him onstage dancing Bhangra, a little piece of me crumbled at his feet.
"B and Sonny", he says in his delicious Indian English, flashing me that winning and naughty smile, his left hand confidently on the stick shift, his other hand drumming to Indian tunage at the steering wheel... "It has too nice a ring to it- isn't it?"
Yes Sonny. Whatever you say..
*sigh*
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Samosas and Tea
In France it's 'un court, ou un allonge avec un petit chocolat'. In England it's 'tea and crumpets' or perhaps 'tea and cucumber sandwiches'. A long lost English lover called it 'builder's tea'. What does that mean?
In India, it's chai an samosas. The sugary milky cardamom and ginger laced black tea marries well with the greasy spicy potato and green pea filled pastry. I love this afternoon snack, more than I thought possible. Indians reeeeeally know their tea. Do they get it from the Brits? This I must find out.
Tea stalls are scattered all over the places I've visited in India. Usually served by men(and boys... lots and lots of youngsters). The best to date is my chai guy in Manimajra, Chandigarh. I watch him methodically spoon loose tea, then heaps of white sugar in cream coloured liquid, crush ginger with a slab (is this hygienic?) and let it boil and boil. He serves me this gorgeous coloured drink. I didn't know it goes best with samosas until I started paying attention to the other stall patrons loitering in the early afternoon. Most of them had a couple samosas in one hand and their glass of tea in the other.
I work at the slum. My boss told me when he bought cups for his staff was when he finally got them to talk, to open up, to dish. A good excuse for taking a break indeed. And once cups were part of the accessories in the staff room, Frederick confided in me that the slum workers felt like 'somebody'. "I was nothing before." said Sangeeta, sipping the near boiling beige drink. Frederick looks at her with astonishment. "Actually! Dr. Frederick you have made me somebody, only!" I think he is embarrassed by her honesty. She puts down her glass and rushes out. He is dazed. Ten minutes later she rushes in with a brown paper big brimming with samosas. "We need to eat this while having chai in the afternoons, Dr. Frederick sir!" And she proceeds in handing out napkins topped with a couple of samosas to each staff member.
It seems like such a luxury, don't you think? Drinking this dessert like beverage coupled with a snack that fills like a meal? THIS is India to me: A breathing paradox. And it's only noon.
In India, it's chai an samosas. The sugary milky cardamom and ginger laced black tea marries well with the greasy spicy potato and green pea filled pastry. I love this afternoon snack, more than I thought possible. Indians reeeeeally know their tea. Do they get it from the Brits? This I must find out.
Tea stalls are scattered all over the places I've visited in India. Usually served by men(and boys... lots and lots of youngsters). The best to date is my chai guy in Manimajra, Chandigarh. I watch him methodically spoon loose tea, then heaps of white sugar in cream coloured liquid, crush ginger with a slab (is this hygienic?) and let it boil and boil. He serves me this gorgeous coloured drink. I didn't know it goes best with samosas until I started paying attention to the other stall patrons loitering in the early afternoon. Most of them had a couple samosas in one hand and their glass of tea in the other.
I work at the slum. My boss told me when he bought cups for his staff was when he finally got them to talk, to open up, to dish. A good excuse for taking a break indeed. And once cups were part of the accessories in the staff room, Frederick confided in me that the slum workers felt like 'somebody'. "I was nothing before." said Sangeeta, sipping the near boiling beige drink. Frederick looks at her with astonishment. "Actually! Dr. Frederick you have made me somebody, only!" I think he is embarrassed by her honesty. She puts down her glass and rushes out. He is dazed. Ten minutes later she rushes in with a brown paper big brimming with samosas. "We need to eat this while having chai in the afternoons, Dr. Frederick sir!" And she proceeds in handing out napkins topped with a couple of samosas to each staff member.
It seems like such a luxury, don't you think? Drinking this dessert like beverage coupled with a snack that fills like a meal? THIS is India to me: A breathing paradox. And it's only noon.
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