8:15 a.m. Delhi. November 24th.
This time more agreeable. Shared time, ain't that the truth. The more time you share with someone (or some place, in this case,) the better it gets, isn't it?
Isn't it.. I am understanding Indian translations now. Teek hae nah? -Isn't it? Bus- Enough. Stop. Only.
....
Last night on the train- geez the food looks nasty but god is it is ever good. No wonder- it's called butter! Or ghee, to be precise. Clarified butter. Indians are fond of eating. I mean, for a 3+ hour train ride I got fed three times! Ha! My country indeed, teek hae nah? I'm smiling to myself because a few moments (read days) I was bitching and complaining about India. But my ever changing and impulsive nature comes back with the yumminess of a warm sugary tea or the sights of some magnificient brown eyes.
I love this country.
Anyway, I get off the train and my sweet punjabi 'boyfriend' is there to pick me up.
"Do you want icecream?"
Do I? (hahah- little does he know I juuust finished two icecreams on the train, only!)
He takes me to a swank Western-y shopping mall where seriously I thought I was home. La Senza, Zara, Tommy Hilfiger, Mango, etc... We go to Haagen Daz and it's like we're royalty or something; so many 'good evening maam's and 'would you like to try this maam?' I got to taste, no joke, 7 different flavours- and not just a little covering on the plastic spoon- I'm talking a heap, each time! Who would've thought Strawberry Cheesecake could compare in deliciousness to Belgian Chocolate?
We go back to his buddy's place and I meet Aman. I have a beer and eat chips. Then I get served a spoon and a jar of Nutella(my weakness) and then a bowl of this delicious Indian dessert made out of grated carrots. Then a chocolate bar..Diabetes! Jason knows me, always feeding me sweeets.
He has his pilot exam in the morning. It's now 1:30, then 2:30 now 3. He is young and looong and stringy like a french grean bean. Haricot vert. The sleep is short, but holding hands in bed is one of my faves, so I sleep soundly. We wake up to three cell phones at 6:30, singing.
Shower. Car. Off we go. Him to his exam, me to the FRO (foreign registrations office).
......
Now I am sitting in reception(it's 8:15 a.m.). 45 mns before they open and already we're six people waiting.
Please Universe. Work. With. Me.
.......I walk to 36A. Mr. Vinod Kumar. He tells me he can help me when I print out my e-ticket, to prove that my ticket is for the 28th December. I do. A bit of a nightmare since his secretary tried but she failed, so I had to leave the building and walk to Khan market nearby to print it. Regardless. Then he says I have to fill out some forms. I do. Then he says he cannot help me. The visa hall can. So I go back through the hideous dirty cabinet-lined corridors, find a seat and wait, and who do I get shoved to, after they can't read the number they wrote on my form (the strangest looking '8' ever), but the original guy that told me to come in December. He tells me to fill out yet another form and to come back at 5:30.
'NO!' I have a train to catch at 5.
'ok maam come at 3:30'. Head bob.
'But sir I am here now, it will take me less than 20 seconds to fill out this form.'
'maam, kindly come back at 3:30.'
'teek hae ji', I say grudgingly. Mr. Kumar had told me if I had any problems to come back to him, which I promptly do, now that I know my way around this dusty sad creepy nightmare of a government building.
'maam I cannot help you. Just sit in the Visa hall.'
'I did. But since you kindly told me to come to you if I wasn't being helped, I am here again.'
'maam I cannot help you. Come back at the scheduled time.'
'So why did you reassure me, then?'
Blank stare. I slump out of there, stomach growling, like it was taking on what my mouth would have snarled had I been a lion.
I wait for Aman, smoke like a milliion cigarettes and down a trillion chai's. I brought my fixed Canon child but am not inspired. Funny how I couldn't live without her and now that she's healthy I just don't feel like taking photographs. I must admit though, Delhi is no where near as abrasive as the last time. A breath of polluted rainy air. AAhhh.
So now I wait. There's a french expression, "Jamais deux sans trois" Never two without three, to which my mum confirmed when I told her I was back in Delhi for my visa extension. Does that mean there's another part of this visa story to live through? I'm calm, a teensy bit irritated but I don't want to struggle anymore. So- I looked up at the white rainy Delhi sky surrendering, under my breath saying, 'You take care of me now, Universe.' Aaaand a bird just shit on my camel leather purse. It highlights the samosa grease stain. It has twice the character now?
.....
I couldn't help but have a bit of a cry. I am too sensitive. Alas; I exacerbated my sentiments by listening to Fleetwood Mac. I am back in the train now. Defeated.
.....
After a super duper lovely beer and sheesha and chicken Biryani and chicken Kebab with Anan, he rushes me back to the FRO and I wait in vain. No one is there to greet me.
'Yes maam, come back at 5:30.'
'Nonono sir I was told to come at 3:30 as I have a train to catch.'
'Yes maam,' head bob. 'Come back at 5:30.' Uh- are you trying to be an asshole?( I didn't dare say that, obviously. ) I call Aman back and he comes straight away. I open the passenger side and there on the seat is a box of pastries and a plastic bag full of chocolate bars. (I have a dentist appt tomorrow, incidentally, and should ask my mum if diabetes runs in the family.) I eat one rapidly and exhale, looking out at the rainy day through the warmth and softness of his car. Nice, I have pastries to eat. He parks his car and walks me to the train and assures that I am well seated. I have a crush on this sweet boy who casually walked into my heart by making fun of Indian English with me, offering me a box of pastries.
....
After wiping the black eyeliner from my cheeks the Sihk gentleman I am sitting next to asks if I want a coffee, and gestures to a train dude to fetch me one. We start talking. Another Indian angel indeed, so mega interesting and warm and hospitable.
I don't want to leave this country.
We spend the full three and a half hours in conversation. I am grateful for him because had he not been so wonderful I might have listened to more chest tightening music and wiped more black eyeliner.
I have two weekends left in India before returning back to Canada.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Only
What is your good name?
Bianca
Priyanka! That is an Indian name, only!
No, no. BEEEianca.
Oh..
From which country do you belong?
Canada
Are you married?
No
Unmarried!?!?
Unmarried
(...silence...)
What is your age?
32
How come you are unmarried?
(....smiling silence....)
How much do you charge at your job?
Uh... (smile)
How much do you charge?
(....smiling silence....)
Why are you in India, only?
because I love it here, only.
Only
Only now I am slightly frustrated about some cultural norms of this country.
Indians try to get away with whatever they can,
isn't it?
I am in perpetual battle, constant.
Being is a challenge, only
Head bob....
I only wish I didn't have to haggle
I only wish I had work papers
I only wish for toilet paper in public washrooms
I only wish for disco clubs and metered yellow cabs
only.
I think I need a hug, isn't it?
Like that.
A hug,
Only.
Bianca
Priyanka! That is an Indian name, only!
No, no. BEEEianca.
Oh..
From which country do you belong?
Canada
Are you married?
No
Unmarried!?!?
Unmarried
(...silence...)
What is your age?
32
How come you are unmarried?
(....smiling silence....)
How much do you charge at your job?
Uh... (smile)
How much do you charge?
(....smiling silence....)
Why are you in India, only?
because I love it here, only.
Only
Only now I am slightly frustrated about some cultural norms of this country.
Indians try to get away with whatever they can,
isn't it?
I am in perpetual battle, constant.
Being is a challenge, only
Head bob....
I only wish I didn't have to haggle
I only wish I had work papers
I only wish for toilet paper in public washrooms
I only wish for disco clubs and metered yellow cabs
only.
I think I need a hug, isn't it?
Like that.
A hug,
Only.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Mother
I want to start this post now, tired, really tired, but mega jazzed at having my mum in town. She and her boyfriend are visiting Chandigarh for the weekend. It's rad to look into her eyes, touch her, and it's incredible to speak and hear French again. French. More french. My mum's accent is special, too. It's France French mixed with sing songy Caribbean. It's demanding, sophisticated and lively. Like her, actually. I described my mother without meaning to!
I love this woman.
I expect her to comment on my weight loss, but she doesn't. It's only when I gain weight that she gently tells me; ' ton corps a changer' your body has changed, like she told me when I came home from Thunder Bay, after spending a year studying and eating pizza and wings and drinking beer in bed with a boyfriend.
When I greeted her at the hotel she saw the old B. The beret wearing, waist-cinched-by-a-vintage-belted, scarf clad B, and wondered where the changes were. Then comes out the head bob and the assertive talk with Indians and she quickly came to see indeed her daughter had evolved in India, despite western appearances. I appeased her and wore a salwaar kameez the next day, and the day after that, to her great delight.
The head bob.
"...alors Bianca explique moi le mouvement de tete comme cas? c'est oui out c'est non?"
"C'est plutot oui, maman, mais parfois non." The head bob is confusing to some, but after a day or two, well, you don't have a choice but to adopt it. Observation, imitation =survival.
My mum is from Haiti; so dirt, grime, poverty and corruption is nothing new to her. She fits into India like a fish to water. I can already tell she is loving it. Putting her palms in prayer and namaste-ing every Tom Dick and Harry(every Dinesh, Sunil, and Gupreet). It is endearing. It is warm and innocent. She wants to live what I am living, and insists on hanging out in my market and observe. We have tea, we eat spring rolls, we watch them set up their food stand for the night feast. She is fascinated. She is laughing and enthralled. I can't get over how much I love this woman, and how I get my curiosity and easily satisfied nature from her.
So- after she joins my class(God was she ever awesome: playing games and being my student. My kids fell in love with her), we go to a beautiful hill station, Kasauli, and have a great time visiting a Kali temple, drinking chai and walking around. I take her shopping for her first Salwaar kameez. We eat and eat and eat, and we talk. My mum is very black and white, and doesn't mince words. This can be cutting, and tactless (like me) but it's genuine and refreshing. She tells me how she feels about my situation here. She tells me how she feels about the city I live in, tells me flat out that "c'as te ne resemble pas" (it doesn't resemble me?) and now understands why I try to leave as much as I can. I take in all. We talk so much. This invigorates and exhausts me. My head swims with possibility and truth. Options. Opinions. Orientation.
Disorientation.
I have a stack unanswered and important life questions that will be resolved this upcoming week. Time is the main character. I play a role but I don't know which one yet, and this gives me anxiety. I am living a crisis that I didn't know was a crisis till I had my mum candidly point it out to me. Have I overstayed my time? Am I still growing here? Can I get more out of my experience? Does this suit me? Am I protected? Do I have to pack up and leave? Will I get my work papers? Will I be replaced without my knowledge?
The next day we go to the rock garden, the rose garden, leisure valley, drive through some residential sectors, sukna lake. The discussing becomes dramatic and I get agitated, for the more we talk the more uneasy I am about my situation, and see just how tenuous it is.
I come back to my room and still adore it, but now see that the life I lead here isn't attracting what I am actually seeking. This dorm life isn't too mature indeed. And this lack of social life is hard on me. Yes I make the best of it and yes I love my jobs, but a tourist status isn't all that cool, and it took my mum to make me understand this. Also, this experience is without a doubt making me a better teacher and you would think this is so on an international scale, but this school isn't registered nor is it academic. How will this help me get a job in an International school?
I don't know.
I eat to quiet the anxiety, to occupy my taste buds, to appease my need for stimulus and satisfaction, with an urgency that alarms me; is this one of my last Channa Bhatura's? How will I replicate this tea back home? Why buy all these Punjabi suits, will I wear them outside of India? Questions I had NEVER ASKED MYSELF BEFORE.
We hug it out and she gazes into eyes that don't look like hers but that sparkle nonetheless. "Ne t'en fait pas cherie. Respire. Laisse la vie repondre pour toi. "
Don't worry honey. Breathe. Let life answer for you.
I am back in my room, eating my sister Vanessa's insanely delicious cookies, scrutinizing my surroundings, crumbs falling on my laptop. Bhangra music is playing through cheap speakers a few meters far away, a train toot toots its' arrival, fireworks sound off -as if announcing attack on the battlefield.
My mind is mush. My stomach is stretched. My eyes hurt a sour pain.
I don't know what to do.
I love this woman.
I expect her to comment on my weight loss, but she doesn't. It's only when I gain weight that she gently tells me; ' ton corps a changer' your body has changed, like she told me when I came home from Thunder Bay, after spending a year studying and eating pizza and wings and drinking beer in bed with a boyfriend.
When I greeted her at the hotel she saw the old B. The beret wearing, waist-cinched-by-a-vintage-belted, scarf clad B, and wondered where the changes were. Then comes out the head bob and the assertive talk with Indians and she quickly came to see indeed her daughter had evolved in India, despite western appearances. I appeased her and wore a salwaar kameez the next day, and the day after that, to her great delight.
The head bob.
"...alors Bianca explique moi le mouvement de tete comme cas? c'est oui out c'est non?"
"C'est plutot oui, maman, mais parfois non." The head bob is confusing to some, but after a day or two, well, you don't have a choice but to adopt it. Observation, imitation =survival.
My mum is from Haiti; so dirt, grime, poverty and corruption is nothing new to her. She fits into India like a fish to water. I can already tell she is loving it. Putting her palms in prayer and namaste-ing every Tom Dick and Harry(every Dinesh, Sunil, and Gupreet). It is endearing. It is warm and innocent. She wants to live what I am living, and insists on hanging out in my market and observe. We have tea, we eat spring rolls, we watch them set up their food stand for the night feast. She is fascinated. She is laughing and enthralled. I can't get over how much I love this woman, and how I get my curiosity and easily satisfied nature from her.
So- after she joins my class(God was she ever awesome: playing games and being my student. My kids fell in love with her), we go to a beautiful hill station, Kasauli, and have a great time visiting a Kali temple, drinking chai and walking around. I take her shopping for her first Salwaar kameez. We eat and eat and eat, and we talk. My mum is very black and white, and doesn't mince words. This can be cutting, and tactless (like me) but it's genuine and refreshing. She tells me how she feels about my situation here. She tells me how she feels about the city I live in, tells me flat out that "c'as te ne resemble pas" (it doesn't resemble me?) and now understands why I try to leave as much as I can. I take in all. We talk so much. This invigorates and exhausts me. My head swims with possibility and truth. Options. Opinions. Orientation.
Disorientation.
I have a stack unanswered and important life questions that will be resolved this upcoming week. Time is the main character. I play a role but I don't know which one yet, and this gives me anxiety. I am living a crisis that I didn't know was a crisis till I had my mum candidly point it out to me. Have I overstayed my time? Am I still growing here? Can I get more out of my experience? Does this suit me? Am I protected? Do I have to pack up and leave? Will I get my work papers? Will I be replaced without my knowledge?
The next day we go to the rock garden, the rose garden, leisure valley, drive through some residential sectors, sukna lake. The discussing becomes dramatic and I get agitated, for the more we talk the more uneasy I am about my situation, and see just how tenuous it is.
I come back to my room and still adore it, but now see that the life I lead here isn't attracting what I am actually seeking. This dorm life isn't too mature indeed. And this lack of social life is hard on me. Yes I make the best of it and yes I love my jobs, but a tourist status isn't all that cool, and it took my mum to make me understand this. Also, this experience is without a doubt making me a better teacher and you would think this is so on an international scale, but this school isn't registered nor is it academic. How will this help me get a job in an International school?
I don't know.
I eat to quiet the anxiety, to occupy my taste buds, to appease my need for stimulus and satisfaction, with an urgency that alarms me; is this one of my last Channa Bhatura's? How will I replicate this tea back home? Why buy all these Punjabi suits, will I wear them outside of India? Questions I had NEVER ASKED MYSELF BEFORE.
We hug it out and she gazes into eyes that don't look like hers but that sparkle nonetheless. "Ne t'en fait pas cherie. Respire. Laisse la vie repondre pour toi. "
Don't worry honey. Breathe. Let life answer for you.
I am back in my room, eating my sister Vanessa's insanely delicious cookies, scrutinizing my surroundings, crumbs falling on my laptop. Bhangra music is playing through cheap speakers a few meters far away, a train toot toots its' arrival, fireworks sound off -as if announcing attack on the battlefield.
My mind is mush. My stomach is stretched. My eyes hurt a sour pain.
I don't know what to do.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Calcutta. Day 5
Sluggishly I put my yoga pants on, put a bra and leave the guest house. Forget the shower, I'll do that later. Luckily New Market is pretty close by, and it's a beautiful and peaceful morning in Calcutta. The trusted Lonely Planet (aka Bible) suggests going early, so good thing I left this experience for this morning.
Despite the 8 am arrival, there are still many men and boys around. I ignore the pestilential touts and admire the grand colonial clock tower. I let myself be drawn inside, for I really want to buy a sari for my sister. I stop at a gorgeous scarf. I must have it. He shows me more. I end up buying 5 of the most beautiful scarves I have seen so far in India, and I bargained expertly (yay- I am gloating inside because I finally get it! It's a Science, or an Art. I don't know. But I got it!)! He directs me to where I can buy a sari. Again I rock the price down. I skip my way back to my hood. Flurys is open. I mean, I gotta have a pastry and an espresso before my travels, right? Right.
I bid farewell to Rahim. In these three days I have become rather fond of him. I ask him how long it will take me to get to the airport. An hour. No. Yes yes maam, an hour. HOLY I GOTTA GOOOO! I get the pastries packed, I hug Rahim and I sprint to my guest house. I wash my pits and face, pack up my sari and scarves and exit quickly.
I beeline to a yellow cab 100 meters away. I am learning to discern honest eyes and mouths now. He seems cool, plus I like his cab because its customized, all festive and lively. I say meter and he head bobs. I tell him the airport. It's 10:15. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. I can't help but chain smoke. ugh.. will I make it? He blares music and I am grateful for this: my loud thoughts drowned. I concentrate on how rad his cab is, and how much I enjoy Indian harmonies.
I eat a pastry.
And then another.
It's past 11. "Challo challo" I say (let's go! ) but now I have learned to say it in Bengali so I say 'Chollo' instead. There is one pastry left, I saved the best for last. Once we get to the airport I break it in half ; give part of it to the cabby, and pop the other half in my mouth. As I scramble with my bag and weave my body through cars and people I think two thoughts at once: Oh please let me make my plane, and gee whiz- this pastry is my ultimate favorite.
Oops I forget the security check my bag. The man at the Spicejet counter says not to worry, points to my bag and nods over to a airport guy who whisks it away. A few minutes later I am on line with a lovely Punjabi lady and a British family. We chitchat about India (duh!) and how flying has changed in the last ten years. I'm getting old; I'm actually initiating conversations that begin with: "Do you remember a time when--" The Punjabi woman is irritated at the turtle speed of the line and gestures me to follow her. We push our way to the front, waving our Delhi boarding passes to all who protest. It's 11:50 now. We make it on the plane.
I am sandwiched between a young mother with her infant child and a dapper looking pilot. The child has eyeliner on. The child cries a lot. The child has black streaks running down her little cheeks. Once out of the plane I wait to take a bus to the train station. I get to the train station right on time and sit with a most adorable Chinese woman. She giggles a lot. She asks me how I can stand the food here, how I can stand the dirt here, how I can stand the body odor here. Things I tend to forget are exotic to some. We gossip the whole ride. I am in the mood for chinese food. Again. Always!
I get back to my room, unpack and lie on my bed.....
I fell into the arms of a familiar hug when I got to Calcutta. I think about the yellow cabs, about the pastries and the typography Flurys uses. I think about Bengali street food. I am a city girl. Stimulus driven. I need lights and crowds. Give me an anonymity that only being enveloped by a volume and flux of people can offer. Give me beer stalls and sidewalks, movie theaters and coffee shops.
Give me parks.
Give me yellow cabs. I need yellow cabs.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
No edit, just write. India I love you like I hate you. Like I love and hate my messy bedroom.
I'm serious when I tell you, beloved reader, that I just got home, washed the dirt and hours of Delhi off my face and sat down to write.
It's all too raw and messy to be edited. Raw and messy, like Delhi, like the Visa extension mess, like my bedroom too, frankly.
ugh.. so journey starts early. I listen to the Magnetic Fields the whole 3 + hours and have such a good feeling about the outcome of today... I am off to Delhi to extend my tourist Visa.
I get there and I sort of forget how much I actually don't like Delhi. Delhi isn't friendly' its accosting, dirty and rushed. After my visit to Calcutta, Delhi is abrasive and mean. Calcutta might be dirty and busy, but at least people let you be and they have yellow cabs.
Anyway, the traffic sucks. It takes me 400 rupees and 45 minutes to reach the FRO (foreign registration's office) but of course, I'm in the wrong building- duh! So i pay another 300 rupees to get to the proper government building, where I wait. and wait. then I get whisked to another building. There again I fill out papers. This is the strangest and creepiest government building I have ever seen. All the hallways are lined with metal armoirs, covered in dust. strange and badly printed signs cover some of them, reading "room 24 >>>>>" room 36 A>>>>. The is no reasonable logic to the numbering of rooms. I am lost and a little frantic. It's stimulating and frustrating and messy. Where is the room I need? I get a sms from my colleague to go this a certain person room 36A, and that I was sent by such and such, an important person, allegedly. I get to the room and there are 4 people sitting on the couch in front of a desk with no one behind it. I wait. 5 minutes pass by, I turn to one of the friendlier faces and ask how long he has been waiting. He looks at the clock and says 'almost 4 hours.' I turn to the other sorta friendly face and he says 3 hours. oh. my. god. Are we going to grow old in here I say? trying to lighten the mood.. hahahah hmm not working. It's now 1pm, official lunch time in India that is most definitely sacred, and means most definitely that Mr. X will not be showing up now. shit. I try again, to see if I can roam the creepy hallways scattered with tired looking Indians and even more tired looking foreigners. Finally I stop a man and tell him I need to extend my tourist visa I am Canadian, he guides me through more cabinet lined hallways and directs me to another man, who takes one look at my visa and says : "... look maam, it says right here. non -extendable. I really cannot help you. you will have to back to your country to renew."
"but but but... but sir my visa expires the 12th but my flight home is the 28th."With this he stops pushing paper around his desk and looks me directly in the eyes.
"Maam this is a serious situation you are in. You must prepone your ticket. Or else you will not be able to leave the country."
"Good- I don't want to leave the country!" Hahahah. Me always trying to lighten the mood.. in vain.
"No, you will be sent to jail, and potentially black listed. You must prepone your ticket."
"And what if I can't?"
"If you can't, come back at the beginning of next month and I'll see what I can do."
"but sir, sir I.... I... "
"Maam. I cannot help you."
I leave the room. Now I am the tired looking foreigner, the sprint out of my step. All urgency and hope dull like the sad colour of the metal cabinets.
Do I want to shop? Will that make me feel better? I go to Palinka underground market and that was a big mistake. HUGE. The claustrophobically low ceilings, the hideous blue halogen lights, the harrassment. A man tried to sell me bags that were so obviously not leather and I kept trying to get out of the store and he wouldnt let me.
PICHAY! I yell. BUS! (step away and stop). Holy I'm turning into mega bitch now. I think food and open space is in order.
I go to Benetton. I get treated like a god-damn princess. I throw money worries to the wind and buy boots and flats. There's nothing like footwear therapy. NOTHING.
I sit at a restaurant and order a beer. wondering what the F am I going to do. My lovely boy Jason meets me. We eat a superb chicken dish and spring rolls, then walk around Connaught Place. He buys me bangles. He cheers me up with his calm and confident way, and his smitten eyes. He drives me back to the trainstation. We kiss. Yummm.
I chat up a lovely fellow sitting next to me. He is an angel. he gets out his laptop and looks up Air Swiss so I can figure out how to proceed with my preponing my trip home.
I am finally home. I come back to my ever so awesome room but am looking for something and I can't find it. It's not the room's fault. It's mine. I am a messy and disorganized girl. And it comes to bite me in the ass. Everytime.
It's all too raw and messy to be edited. Raw and messy, like Delhi, like the Visa extension mess, like my bedroom too, frankly.
ugh.. so journey starts early. I listen to the Magnetic Fields the whole 3 + hours and have such a good feeling about the outcome of today... I am off to Delhi to extend my tourist Visa.
I get there and I sort of forget how much I actually don't like Delhi. Delhi isn't friendly' its accosting, dirty and rushed. After my visit to Calcutta, Delhi is abrasive and mean. Calcutta might be dirty and busy, but at least people let you be and they have yellow cabs.
Anyway, the traffic sucks. It takes me 400 rupees and 45 minutes to reach the FRO (foreign registration's office) but of course, I'm in the wrong building- duh! So i pay another 300 rupees to get to the proper government building, where I wait. and wait. then I get whisked to another building. There again I fill out papers. This is the strangest and creepiest government building I have ever seen. All the hallways are lined with metal armoirs, covered in dust. strange and badly printed signs cover some of them, reading "room 24 >>>>>" room 36 A>>>>. The is no reasonable logic to the numbering of rooms. I am lost and a little frantic. It's stimulating and frustrating and messy. Where is the room I need? I get a sms from my colleague to go this a certain person room 36A, and that I was sent by such and such, an important person, allegedly. I get to the room and there are 4 people sitting on the couch in front of a desk with no one behind it. I wait. 5 minutes pass by, I turn to one of the friendlier faces and ask how long he has been waiting. He looks at the clock and says 'almost 4 hours.' I turn to the other sorta friendly face and he says 3 hours. oh. my. god. Are we going to grow old in here I say? trying to lighten the mood.. hahahah hmm not working. It's now 1pm, official lunch time in India that is most definitely sacred, and means most definitely that Mr. X will not be showing up now. shit. I try again, to see if I can roam the creepy hallways scattered with tired looking Indians and even more tired looking foreigners. Finally I stop a man and tell him I need to extend my tourist visa I am Canadian, he guides me through more cabinet lined hallways and directs me to another man, who takes one look at my visa and says : "... look maam, it says right here. non -extendable. I really cannot help you. you will have to back to your country to renew."
"but but but... but sir my visa expires the 12th but my flight home is the 28th."With this he stops pushing paper around his desk and looks me directly in the eyes.
"Maam this is a serious situation you are in. You must prepone your ticket. Or else you will not be able to leave the country."
"Good- I don't want to leave the country!" Hahahah. Me always trying to lighten the mood.. in vain.
"No, you will be sent to jail, and potentially black listed. You must prepone your ticket."
"And what if I can't?"
"If you can't, come back at the beginning of next month and I'll see what I can do."
"but sir, sir I.... I... "
"Maam. I cannot help you."
I leave the room. Now I am the tired looking foreigner, the sprint out of my step. All urgency and hope dull like the sad colour of the metal cabinets.
Do I want to shop? Will that make me feel better? I go to Palinka underground market and that was a big mistake. HUGE. The claustrophobically low ceilings, the hideous blue halogen lights, the harrassment. A man tried to sell me bags that were so obviously not leather and I kept trying to get out of the store and he wouldnt let me.
PICHAY! I yell. BUS! (step away and stop). Holy I'm turning into mega bitch now. I think food and open space is in order.
I go to Benetton. I get treated like a god-damn princess. I throw money worries to the wind and buy boots and flats. There's nothing like footwear therapy. NOTHING.
I sit at a restaurant and order a beer. wondering what the F am I going to do. My lovely boy Jason meets me. We eat a superb chicken dish and spring rolls, then walk around Connaught Place. He buys me bangles. He cheers me up with his calm and confident way, and his smitten eyes. He drives me back to the trainstation. We kiss. Yummm.
I chat up a lovely fellow sitting next to me. He is an angel. he gets out his laptop and looks up Air Swiss so I can figure out how to proceed with my preponing my trip home.
I am finally home. I come back to my ever so awesome room but am looking for something and I can't find it. It's not the room's fault. It's mine. I am a messy and disorganized girl. And it comes to bite me in the ass. Everytime.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Calcutta. Day 4 (2nd full day)
I have a trillion things planned for today. Technically I reserve sleeping in for days off, but Calcutta and her taxis and sights await. I plan to carry the snack (that was buried in my bag which I hadn't noticed) for Mr. Beautiful Barbados...
I decide today is the day to wear my new punjabi suit. I try it on. Ewww: it's a HORRIBLE fit! I didn't wear a (padded) bra the day I got measured, so it's MEGA tight in the chest area. Not comfortable at all. but I persist, in spite. I leave the guest house in search of the beggar to give him the forgotten snack before I have a Flurys coffee and start my day. He's no where to be found. I give the yummy treat to another beggar and cross the street to enter art deco heaven. I'm tempted by four delectable delicacies. Oh my god- I am so fucking uncomfortable... I take the rest of the pastries to go and return to my guesthouse to get out of this cursed Salwaar Kameez. On my way I see Mr. Beautiful Barbados. Upon seeing me he starts crying, telling me he really needs money to send his sickly child to the hospital, and flings a malaria stamped doctor's note at my face... Oh gosh. I don't know what to say. I give him the packed pastries, telling him I'm sorry but I have to go. He takes the hot pink box, sobbing. Next, he follows me yelling and catapults the box back at me, "You can! You can pay for my child's hospital treatment, but you don't want to, only! I don't want your food!".. oh my god my heart is crumbling like the cakes he's thrown at me. I race back to my room.
I sit on my bed and contemplate what to do. My chest is tight, figuratively and literally. I get changed. I am rife with guilty feelings. What should I do? Who the hell am I to give a god damn bourgeois pastry to a man that obviously needs medical assistance for his child? I leave my room.. feeling really down.
I go to the Indian museum. It's so full of cool stuff and beautiful artworks. A suspended skeleton of a whale, bottled insects, 200 year old smooth Ganesh stone statues, a mummy. Still, my mind is heavy with guilt. I think, 'ok if I see him again, then it's destiny, and I will give him some money'. This notion uplifts me, just a little.
There is this most peaceful drawing of a woman. I am mesmerized. I see a curly haired white boy with headphones and a sketch pad, drawing. he exists the space. I sprint after him, tap him on the shoulder. He removes his headphones. His eyes are big and tremendously blue. I ask him if he could please do me the favour of drawing me the artwork I've been admiring. He smiles and nods.
" Eet wooed be ma pleasuhre." Oh- he is French! He spends like 15 minutes on the drawing. I tell him to stop, he has given me too much time as it is.
I walk through Eliot Park on my way to the Birla Planetarium. A guard in the park points to my red and white bangles then points to my hair part." You make a beautiful bride". Head bob, still pointing to my hair. I don't understand. " Your bangles tell me your married, you are just missing the red line in you hair partition." Ooooh THAT'S what the red and white bangles signify!
He kindly walks me to the Planetarium. What a gentleman. I'm just in time for the star show. I am looking at a prime place in the dome shaped room. Two boys tell me "yeah- this is the best seat in the theater." I sit close to them. We start chatting. They are students in the hotel business, one is an aspiring chef, the other a hotel manager. Both boys are agreeable and sprightly. The slow moving night sky is impressive, but alas, we actually have the worst seats! Hahah. The woman introducing the sky has a lovely and thick accent and is very strict. "Silence!" she demands. "You should only be bringing your children if they can behave. Shut off your mobile! I said SHUT. OFF. YOUR MOBILE!" I like her....
I eat a veg patty outside the planetarium, finally hungry. I couldn't eat those tainted crumbled mini cakes this morning. The patty is dubious. I take two bites and throw out the rest.
Next is the Botanical garden. I find a cab and tell him where I need to go. I tell him I will go by the meter ( a lot of cabbies tell me their meter is broken to justify the inflated flat price). He says fine but add 10 rupees. I say fine- what's 10 rupees? He takes me to where where the world's largest Banyan resides. Once we reach I pay him what is owed. He spits orange stuff out of his mouth and tells me I owe more. "More more more" he says.. But. Oh god, I don't feel well. That patty isn't sitting well, at all. "Teekhai, here" and I give him more money, but he's not satisfied and starts to yell. Men and boys crowd the cab. This is disturbing. His glassy eyes (is he drunk?) and perpetual spitting, topped with the veg patty, is altogether unpleasant. I jump out and walk confidently to the garden gates, letting him yell behind me.
The walk and foliage do me good. Nature cures me of my previous malaise. The Giant Amazon Lily pads are Jurassic in their enormity. The 250 year old Banyan tree is wicked. It's reputed as being the world's largest, but the central trunk rotted away in the 1920's, leaving an intricate forest of mini Banyan trees, like a twisted intertwined aerial and rooted maze.
Next on the list is Mother Teresa's Mission. I have 40 minutes to get there. I decide to take a public bus. The bus rides through the Howrah neighbourhood, onto the Howrah bridge, built in WW11, a 705 m long architectural icon. It is one of the world's busiest bridges. This is a great ride. I have no clue where to get off, though, hahah. The bus boy gestures with his head that it's my stop. I then take a cab and explain where I am going and ask him if I will have time to reach. Head bob, head bob, head bob. Hmmm yes or no? He doesn't hassle me, puts the meter on and drives like a maniac. I get to Mother Teresa's house 10 minutes before closing time. I give the cabbie more than the meter states. "Thats what you get for not treating me like a bloody tourist" I say, handing him the sum. Head bob!
I wonder if the place will be closed.. it's not! I visit her tomb and the mini museum: displaying her sandals, journal, enamel dinner bowl. I walk up the stairs to a sermon taking place. I sit and pray. I think about Mr. Beautiful Barbados, and doing right by him.
As I exit the Mission a woman and her child approach me. She tells me I look like an old friend of hers, asks me where I am going. My immediate reaction is to be open, then to stay shut. I can't figure myself out sometimes, but I do believe somewhere, strangers are drawn to me, like moths to a light, like chinese food lovers to the smell of frying szechuwan peppercorns in peanut oil. I don't mean to come off pretentious when saying this, but I have a feeling some people can smell my perfume. 'Oh, I recognize that- it's 'OPEN' (aka as Naive), by Brandt-Rousseau'..... We walk together. She tells me her daughter has malaria. She shows me a malaria stamped doctors note. She hands me a metal pendant of Mother Teresa. I am touched. She tells me she is alone, homeless, jobless, doesn't have a rupee to her name, and that her husband left her. I must tell you, beloved reader, that both her and her daughter are looking very clean, very fit, and very well dressed; not destitute at all. "Can we go for a little stroll together?" she says. I head bob. We walk a bit and then I say I am turning here. Her eyes plead but her mouth doesn't. She says some people lie and some people don't and only the true good people can tell the difference. We part ways. I keep walking, a bit surprised that I didn't cave in.
"Didi! Remember me?' I turn my head to the summoning voice. It's Mr. Beautiful Barbados, sitting on a stoop, with a mickey of booze and a gigantic grin. No child. He waves to me with the mickey in his hand. I am LIVID! I stop in my tracks, go over to the stoop, and tell him I was worried all day about doing right by him! He head bobs, breathing alcohol all over my face, still grinning. "Ap kya se oh?" he asks me (how are you?) It's like what had happened this morning was a dream or something! UGH! I storm away. My appetite is back in full force now.
I stomp to Hot Kati Roll and order double egg double mutton. Bring it on. I get a beer. I am about to keep walking when I notice that a man has spotted me and stopped, pretending to tie his shoe laces, lurking around the beer stall. I retrace my steps and hang out with the beer vendor, wanting to be in bathed in halogen light. I drink my beer and glare at the dude. He gets it and walks away. This new B rocks!
Now I notice another stranger across the beer stall smoking, stealing glances in my direction. He looks preoccupied. He is chain smoking, checking his cell periodically, almost frantically. He comes over. "Hi, can I talk with you for a moment? I am having girl problems and I have a feeling you will give me sound advice."
" Uhhhhh, ok what's the matter?"
He tells me his dilemma and I am smitten by his romanticism and innocence. He is in love. He is jealous. He is insecure. He is 19, and he is adorable. I want to give him a big hug but I don't.
"Don't worry," I tell him, planting my hand on his shoulder, the only touching I allow myself to indulge in. "Just tell her you love her, and bake her a cake. You'll see."
We talk India, cultural norms and differences. We share views about love and trust for half an hour. It is very pleasant. I'm hungry. Again.
I walk to BBQ, a legendary chinese food restaurant. I order a killer chicken szechwan chow mein, write in my journal, and peruse my photos. I'm satisfied with today, feeling like I aged 10 years in maturity. I go back to Chandigarh tomorrow. Chandigarh hasn't touched me like Calcutta has. Calcutta beckoned me the moment I stepped foot here, that night with James, and it hasn't lost it's luster, in spite of any unpleasantness I have lived. I ask the charming Nepalese waiter to pack up the rest of my meal. As I leave the restaurant I hand the take-out to the old beggar on the corner. She smiles a toothless smile. Good thing she's having noodles for dinner!
I decide today is the day to wear my new punjabi suit. I try it on. Ewww: it's a HORRIBLE fit! I didn't wear a (padded) bra the day I got measured, so it's MEGA tight in the chest area. Not comfortable at all. but I persist, in spite. I leave the guest house in search of the beggar to give him the forgotten snack before I have a Flurys coffee and start my day. He's no where to be found. I give the yummy treat to another beggar and cross the street to enter art deco heaven. I'm tempted by four delectable delicacies. Oh my god- I am so fucking uncomfortable... I take the rest of the pastries to go and return to my guesthouse to get out of this cursed Salwaar Kameez. On my way I see Mr. Beautiful Barbados. Upon seeing me he starts crying, telling me he really needs money to send his sickly child to the hospital, and flings a malaria stamped doctor's note at my face... Oh gosh. I don't know what to say. I give him the packed pastries, telling him I'm sorry but I have to go. He takes the hot pink box, sobbing. Next, he follows me yelling and catapults the box back at me, "You can! You can pay for my child's hospital treatment, but you don't want to, only! I don't want your food!".. oh my god my heart is crumbling like the cakes he's thrown at me. I race back to my room.
I sit on my bed and contemplate what to do. My chest is tight, figuratively and literally. I get changed. I am rife with guilty feelings. What should I do? Who the hell am I to give a god damn bourgeois pastry to a man that obviously needs medical assistance for his child? I leave my room.. feeling really down.
I go to the Indian museum. It's so full of cool stuff and beautiful artworks. A suspended skeleton of a whale, bottled insects, 200 year old smooth Ganesh stone statues, a mummy. Still, my mind is heavy with guilt. I think, 'ok if I see him again, then it's destiny, and I will give him some money'. This notion uplifts me, just a little.
There is this most peaceful drawing of a woman. I am mesmerized. I see a curly haired white boy with headphones and a sketch pad, drawing. he exists the space. I sprint after him, tap him on the shoulder. He removes his headphones. His eyes are big and tremendously blue. I ask him if he could please do me the favour of drawing me the artwork I've been admiring. He smiles and nods.
" Eet wooed be ma pleasuhre." Oh- he is French! He spends like 15 minutes on the drawing. I tell him to stop, he has given me too much time as it is.
I walk through Eliot Park on my way to the Birla Planetarium. A guard in the park points to my red and white bangles then points to my hair part." You make a beautiful bride". Head bob, still pointing to my hair. I don't understand. " Your bangles tell me your married, you are just missing the red line in you hair partition." Ooooh THAT'S what the red and white bangles signify!
He kindly walks me to the Planetarium. What a gentleman. I'm just in time for the star show. I am looking at a prime place in the dome shaped room. Two boys tell me "yeah- this is the best seat in the theater." I sit close to them. We start chatting. They are students in the hotel business, one is an aspiring chef, the other a hotel manager. Both boys are agreeable and sprightly. The slow moving night sky is impressive, but alas, we actually have the worst seats! Hahah. The woman introducing the sky has a lovely and thick accent and is very strict. "Silence!" she demands. "You should only be bringing your children if they can behave. Shut off your mobile! I said SHUT. OFF. YOUR MOBILE!" I like her....
I eat a veg patty outside the planetarium, finally hungry. I couldn't eat those tainted crumbled mini cakes this morning. The patty is dubious. I take two bites and throw out the rest.
Next is the Botanical garden. I find a cab and tell him where I need to go. I tell him I will go by the meter ( a lot of cabbies tell me their meter is broken to justify the inflated flat price). He says fine but add 10 rupees. I say fine- what's 10 rupees? He takes me to where where the world's largest Banyan resides. Once we reach I pay him what is owed. He spits orange stuff out of his mouth and tells me I owe more. "More more more" he says.. But. Oh god, I don't feel well. That patty isn't sitting well, at all. "Teekhai, here" and I give him more money, but he's not satisfied and starts to yell. Men and boys crowd the cab. This is disturbing. His glassy eyes (is he drunk?) and perpetual spitting, topped with the veg patty, is altogether unpleasant. I jump out and walk confidently to the garden gates, letting him yell behind me.
The walk and foliage do me good. Nature cures me of my previous malaise. The Giant Amazon Lily pads are Jurassic in their enormity. The 250 year old Banyan tree is wicked. It's reputed as being the world's largest, but the central trunk rotted away in the 1920's, leaving an intricate forest of mini Banyan trees, like a twisted intertwined aerial and rooted maze.
Next on the list is Mother Teresa's Mission. I have 40 minutes to get there. I decide to take a public bus. The bus rides through the Howrah neighbourhood, onto the Howrah bridge, built in WW11, a 705 m long architectural icon. It is one of the world's busiest bridges. This is a great ride. I have no clue where to get off, though, hahah. The bus boy gestures with his head that it's my stop. I then take a cab and explain where I am going and ask him if I will have time to reach. Head bob, head bob, head bob. Hmmm yes or no? He doesn't hassle me, puts the meter on and drives like a maniac. I get to Mother Teresa's house 10 minutes before closing time. I give the cabbie more than the meter states. "Thats what you get for not treating me like a bloody tourist" I say, handing him the sum. Head bob!
I wonder if the place will be closed.. it's not! I visit her tomb and the mini museum: displaying her sandals, journal, enamel dinner bowl. I walk up the stairs to a sermon taking place. I sit and pray. I think about Mr. Beautiful Barbados, and doing right by him.
As I exit the Mission a woman and her child approach me. She tells me I look like an old friend of hers, asks me where I am going. My immediate reaction is to be open, then to stay shut. I can't figure myself out sometimes, but I do believe somewhere, strangers are drawn to me, like moths to a light, like chinese food lovers to the smell of frying szechuwan peppercorns in peanut oil. I don't mean to come off pretentious when saying this, but I have a feeling some people can smell my perfume. 'Oh, I recognize that- it's 'OPEN' (aka as Naive), by Brandt-Rousseau'..... We walk together. She tells me her daughter has malaria. She shows me a malaria stamped doctors note. She hands me a metal pendant of Mother Teresa. I am touched. She tells me she is alone, homeless, jobless, doesn't have a rupee to her name, and that her husband left her. I must tell you, beloved reader, that both her and her daughter are looking very clean, very fit, and very well dressed; not destitute at all. "Can we go for a little stroll together?" she says. I head bob. We walk a bit and then I say I am turning here. Her eyes plead but her mouth doesn't. She says some people lie and some people don't and only the true good people can tell the difference. We part ways. I keep walking, a bit surprised that I didn't cave in.
"Didi! Remember me?' I turn my head to the summoning voice. It's Mr. Beautiful Barbados, sitting on a stoop, with a mickey of booze and a gigantic grin. No child. He waves to me with the mickey in his hand. I am LIVID! I stop in my tracks, go over to the stoop, and tell him I was worried all day about doing right by him! He head bobs, breathing alcohol all over my face, still grinning. "Ap kya se oh?" he asks me (how are you?) It's like what had happened this morning was a dream or something! UGH! I storm away. My appetite is back in full force now.
I stomp to Hot Kati Roll and order double egg double mutton. Bring it on. I get a beer. I am about to keep walking when I notice that a man has spotted me and stopped, pretending to tie his shoe laces, lurking around the beer stall. I retrace my steps and hang out with the beer vendor, wanting to be in bathed in halogen light. I drink my beer and glare at the dude. He gets it and walks away. This new B rocks!
Now I notice another stranger across the beer stall smoking, stealing glances in my direction. He looks preoccupied. He is chain smoking, checking his cell periodically, almost frantically. He comes over. "Hi, can I talk with you for a moment? I am having girl problems and I have a feeling you will give me sound advice."
" Uhhhhh, ok what's the matter?"
He tells me his dilemma and I am smitten by his romanticism and innocence. He is in love. He is jealous. He is insecure. He is 19, and he is adorable. I want to give him a big hug but I don't.
"Don't worry," I tell him, planting my hand on his shoulder, the only touching I allow myself to indulge in. "Just tell her you love her, and bake her a cake. You'll see."
We talk India, cultural norms and differences. We share views about love and trust for half an hour. It is very pleasant. I'm hungry. Again.
I walk to BBQ, a legendary chinese food restaurant. I order a killer chicken szechwan chow mein, write in my journal, and peruse my photos. I'm satisfied with today, feeling like I aged 10 years in maturity. I go back to Chandigarh tomorrow. Chandigarh hasn't touched me like Calcutta has. Calcutta beckoned me the moment I stepped foot here, that night with James, and it hasn't lost it's luster, in spite of any unpleasantness I have lived. I ask the charming Nepalese waiter to pack up the rest of my meal. As I leave the restaurant I hand the take-out to the old beggar on the corner. She smiles a toothless smile. Good thing she's having noodles for dinner!
Friday, November 12, 2010
Calcutta. Day 3
No remembered dreams. I awake to the TV on, blaring National Geoographic: Raging elephants killing innocent(?) people. Alrighty then.
I take a shower. And by shower I mean bending my body forward to a tap that runs cold water. I get dressed and pack my bag and depart. I check new Casio for the time...blankness stares back at me-fake Casio!
I walk down Freeuh Schooluh Street to grab a tea and map my next move: where to stay...A man approaches me, dirty, missing teeth. His t-shirt reads: Beautiful Barbados. He is with child.
"Didi,(sister in Hindi) where are you going? You should go to Sunflower Guest House. Very clean."
I sip my scalding tea. I know he's about to ask me for money, and before he does, I remove ALL my eatables from my back pack -peanuts, peanut brittle, coconut, channa(chick peas), sesame cookies- handing him a cloth bag containing all the said snacks. He doesn't look that happy about it. But still thanks me. I move on. I find the guest house on Royd(uh) street.
The Sunflower Guest House is a1865 Solomon Mansions building. It's a dusty rose, and it's really tall, with the original 1940's elevator functional and awesome. (I couldn't help but think of 'Inception', that grate closing...) I take the Inception elevator to the garden roof top and inquire. A teenage boy takes me back to the elevator, down to the first floor, shows me a room. It's the size of a shoe box, there's no TV, but the ceiling is high and I could eat off the freshly tiled floor it's so sparkling! Yes. I'll take it. I drop my bag and go hunting for a bakery... 'Flurys' came highly recommended, and lucky me, it's just around the corner.
What a place, or should I say palace! Art deco heaven. Am I in Miami ? Hahah just kidding.. but still. All the waiters are old and gracious, wearing chocolate milk shake coloured uniforms. I have the best espresso ever and a mushroom pattie. My cell rings. it's Agni. "let's meet up." Ok- cool beans! Him and a colleague walk in 15 minutes later and order a round cappuccinos. Fancy!
We drive to the Victorian Memorial. It's the White House meets the Taj Mahal. It's beautiful, but well, I don't really care so much... We drive on the suspended Hooghly bridge and THAT is fun! I take a photo and a guard rushes over, snatches my camera and yells to Agni that it's illegal (?) and demands 200 rupees before begrudgingly handing over the camera. Agni smiles as he places the camera in my hand. "Welcome to India!" he chimes. Hmm ... Where have I heard that line before?!
We eat at a small nondescript restaurant, and now I am noticing the difference in Bengalis as compared to Punjabis. They are darker in skin colour and have rounder features. They speak waaay more English mixed into their Bengali (no Hindi here). Somehow these characteristics, along with the English, comes to me as a little more approachable. Also, Bengalis stare less; I'm not being gawked at as much. Indeed, there are more beggars, more poverty; so in that sense I am attractive, but apart from that, I am anonymous. My initial feeling about this city is realizing itself.
The fish is DIVINE! Bengali food is sweeter; it has a coconut and poppy seed undercurrent, and is more delicate. The rice was by far one of the best I have ever eaten, and I've eaten a lot of rice. I do love spicy, ergo Punjabi cuisine is close to my heart. But in Punjab they favour chapati, and in Bengal rice. I am a rice girl through and through. We finish off the meal with a legendary Rasgulla: syrupy sponge balls. Splendid.
Agni takes me to the lake, where lovers come to gaze and whisper sweet nothings to each other, on a boat or lazing on benches. It's peaceful.
I want to visit Tagore's 1784 family mansion turned museum. He is India's greatest modern poet. I have read inspiring things about him since moving to India, and here's my chance to be close to greatness. The mansion/museum closes at 4. Let's go! Of course we get there at 3:50 and it's closed. Aw come on! I snap some shots. He accompanies me back to my part of the city to walk around Chowringee(uh) street. We say farewell. I buy a super purse, a couple scarves and a beer. I drink the beer and chill. I eat a kati roll, Bengal's trademark fast food. A grilled roti, fried on one side with an egg, filled with sliced onions, chili, lime juice and choice of meat or paneer. It is one of the most beautiful taste bud experiences EVER!!!! I buy another beer and another roll, this time Single Egg Chicken in lieu of the initial Single Egg Double Mutton. Mutton is an ugly word, but very very tasty indeed.
I walk, I observe, and not the other way 'round. How refreshing this is: the beer, the walk, and the being-left-alone. I'm getting a little sleepy; the king cans of Kingfisher and kati rolls sloshing about inside me.
I go back to my guest house, sit on the stoops and stare out. I finish my beer and go over pictures on my dinky point-and-shoot camera. The ancient and ever-so-calm guest house owner joins me on the stoop. Silent. We share a moment, looking forward onto the street. We don't exchange polite or inane niceties. Simple silence. Together.
I like it here.
Period.
I take a shower. And by shower I mean bending my body forward to a tap that runs cold water. I get dressed and pack my bag and depart. I check new Casio for the time...blankness stares back at me-fake Casio!
I walk down Freeuh Schooluh Street to grab a tea and map my next move: where to stay...A man approaches me, dirty, missing teeth. His t-shirt reads: Beautiful Barbados. He is with child.
"Didi,(sister in Hindi) where are you going? You should go to Sunflower Guest House. Very clean."
I sip my scalding tea. I know he's about to ask me for money, and before he does, I remove ALL my eatables from my back pack -peanuts, peanut brittle, coconut, channa(chick peas), sesame cookies- handing him a cloth bag containing all the said snacks. He doesn't look that happy about it. But still thanks me. I move on. I find the guest house on Royd(uh) street.
The Sunflower Guest House is a1865 Solomon Mansions building. It's a dusty rose, and it's really tall, with the original 1940's elevator functional and awesome. (I couldn't help but think of 'Inception', that grate closing...) I take the Inception elevator to the garden roof top and inquire. A teenage boy takes me back to the elevator, down to the first floor, shows me a room. It's the size of a shoe box, there's no TV, but the ceiling is high and I could eat off the freshly tiled floor it's so sparkling! Yes. I'll take it. I drop my bag and go hunting for a bakery... 'Flurys' came highly recommended, and lucky me, it's just around the corner.
What a place, or should I say palace! Art deco heaven. Am I in Miami ? Hahah just kidding.. but still. All the waiters are old and gracious, wearing chocolate milk shake coloured uniforms. I have the best espresso ever and a mushroom pattie. My cell rings. it's Agni. "let's meet up." Ok- cool beans! Him and a colleague walk in 15 minutes later and order a round cappuccinos. Fancy!
We drive to the Victorian Memorial. It's the White House meets the Taj Mahal. It's beautiful, but well, I don't really care so much... We drive on the suspended Hooghly bridge and THAT is fun! I take a photo and a guard rushes over, snatches my camera and yells to Agni that it's illegal (?) and demands 200 rupees before begrudgingly handing over the camera. Agni smiles as he places the camera in my hand. "Welcome to India!" he chimes. Hmm ... Where have I heard that line before?!
We eat at a small nondescript restaurant, and now I am noticing the difference in Bengalis as compared to Punjabis. They are darker in skin colour and have rounder features. They speak waaay more English mixed into their Bengali (no Hindi here). Somehow these characteristics, along with the English, comes to me as a little more approachable. Also, Bengalis stare less; I'm not being gawked at as much. Indeed, there are more beggars, more poverty; so in that sense I am attractive, but apart from that, I am anonymous. My initial feeling about this city is realizing itself.
The fish is DIVINE! Bengali food is sweeter; it has a coconut and poppy seed undercurrent, and is more delicate. The rice was by far one of the best I have ever eaten, and I've eaten a lot of rice. I do love spicy, ergo Punjabi cuisine is close to my heart. But in Punjab they favour chapati, and in Bengal rice. I am a rice girl through and through. We finish off the meal with a legendary Rasgulla: syrupy sponge balls. Splendid.
Agni takes me to the lake, where lovers come to gaze and whisper sweet nothings to each other, on a boat or lazing on benches. It's peaceful.
I want to visit Tagore's 1784 family mansion turned museum. He is India's greatest modern poet. I have read inspiring things about him since moving to India, and here's my chance to be close to greatness. The mansion/museum closes at 4. Let's go! Of course we get there at 3:50 and it's closed. Aw come on! I snap some shots. He accompanies me back to my part of the city to walk around Chowringee(uh) street. We say farewell. I buy a super purse, a couple scarves and a beer. I drink the beer and chill. I eat a kati roll, Bengal's trademark fast food. A grilled roti, fried on one side with an egg, filled with sliced onions, chili, lime juice and choice of meat or paneer. It is one of the most beautiful taste bud experiences EVER!!!! I buy another beer and another roll, this time Single Egg Chicken in lieu of the initial Single Egg Double Mutton. Mutton is an ugly word, but very very tasty indeed.
I walk, I observe, and not the other way 'round. How refreshing this is: the beer, the walk, and the being-left-alone. I'm getting a little sleepy; the king cans of Kingfisher and kati rolls sloshing about inside me.
I go back to my guest house, sit on the stoops and stare out. I finish my beer and go over pictures on my dinky point-and-shoot camera. The ancient and ever-so-calm guest house owner joins me on the stoop. Silent. We share a moment, looking forward onto the street. We don't exchange polite or inane niceties. Simple silence. Together.
I like it here.
Period.
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