a little reminder, or a big reality check?

i wasn't going to go home at xmas, partly because it takes 30 hours just to get there. although it's nice to see my family it's a bother, i thought (and expensive, if you consider i'm paid in rupees). but there is something terrible about missing christmas at home. i missed christmas two years ago when i was in indonesia, and i regretted it.

one of the things i like best about returning home to the house where i grew up is encountering new objects in the house or how they have been changed, moved or rearranged...different wallpaper here, a new appliance there; a whiter coat of paint on the floorboards; furniture and houseplants with new homes in different rooms. each time i go home i like to discover the changes that have occurred since i'd last left, and my mom gives me a kind of walk-through while she demonstrates some of the most noticeable differences and home improvements.

it's also entertaining to observe my brother and sister noting and voicing their opinions about those same things when they arrive on later flights from phoenix and new york, respectively. of course, once the "exploration" is done, the best part is breaking into good, red wine and exchanging stories late into the night.

so the idea of the christmas tree, cinnamon rolls, and seeing my family warmed my heart. but i was also somewhat afraid that if i went home then i would probably not want to return to india. i didn't want my cosy american lifestyle to interfere with giving bombay one last shot, so two weeks ago wednesday, just hours before the terrorist attacks, i went into the air india building to inquire about changing my flight to a date in may or june. it turned out that i could actually change the ticket date, for $125. i said i'd think about it and from there went to meet a friend in colaba.

just a half hour after i'd returned home that night, i got a text message from my roommate. she was having a drink at the bar-restaurant just across the street from where i had been only an hour before. it read something like this: "hi, where are you? there are men shooting people in the streets by leopold's cafe. they have machine guns."

well, that was just about the most unbelievable text message i'd ever received in my life, and at first i figured it was a ridiculous rumour. how could i have known that it was the beginning of a reality that would become the world's focal point the following day? i knew that it wasn't a joke when an indian friend called me later and told me not to go out and then explained everything (i have no t.v.). i felt sick. i felt the same way when i logged on to the internet the next morning, only to find shocking photographs on the NYTimes' and Times of India's homepage: the beautiful taj mahal hotel, one of mumbai's most beautiful buildings, was illuminated by night in its own flames.

so it only took few hours and that handful of extremists to remind me about why i actually should return home to visit my family. i only needed that as a wake-up call. two weeks ago last night, on the night of the attacks, i was sitting at indigo deli in colaba, having dinner with an american friend. we were just 100-150 metres down the street from the taj mahal hotel, and had left in a taxi only about 15 or 20 minutes before the men struck there. we were probably standing in the street and hailing a cab just as those guys were pulling up in their ammunition-filled boat.

the most horrifying realisation came a few days later, when a dud of a bomb was found planted across the street from the deli where my friend and i had dined. Had it gone off, the four-by-two metre arabic windows would have shattered and exploded in on all of us. the bombs were set to go off just as we were leaving the deli.

so it has been a lot to think about, that we hadn't randomly been just down the street at leopold's café that night, where seven diners and several waiters died when those guys paid their bill, got up, unzipped their backpacks and opened fire...that i hadn't stopped at victoria terminal on my way home, that i wasn't at the taj having a drink with friends...that this bomb just across the street hadn't detonated. in some respects, i don't think i've really processed what's happened here yet. today i'm just looking forward to seeing our christmas tree, jumping around in some clean snow, breathing fresh michigan air, and hanging out with the fam for a short week.

when he kissed me, i yelled bloody murder

i had totally forgotten to write this when it happened three weeks ago. i was so pissed off when it happened i could not see the humour in it. looking back now, it is kind of funny.

it was 11 p.m. i was coming back from gold's gym in bandra in a rickshaw and getting out at the train station to get home. i'd noticed my driver kept stealing glances at me in his rearview mirror, but this has become so commonplace to me that I don't usually think twice about it (red hair/white skin combo seems to be fascinating to everyone here, so they stare...especially children).

since i'd done this trip at least 50 times, i knew the fare was 12 rupees (about a quarter). so i'd folded the ten rupee note into a quarter of its size and placed the 2 rupee coin on top to hand it up to him once he'd stopped the rickshaw. it looked like a little placemat with a plate on it. in order to keep the coin from slipping off, i actually had to press the note/coin combo into his palm, and i carefully but quickly did this (as was the norm for me as i exited the ride).

but something strange, and unfamiliar, happened this time. as i started to move to the left to get out of the rick, i felt that something held my right arm back. i looked up to find that the driver had grabbed my hand, the one that was placing the money into his palm, and had begun to kiss it.

in india, it is Absolutely Forbidden to touch women, or for women to touch men: this is yet another taboo and i'm really careful to obey that unwritten rule. so, shocked, i snatched my hand away and cursed myself for not knowing something witty yet angry to say in hindi. instead, i yelled at him in english. "WHAT are you doing?" i yelled. then i yelled it a second time, louder.

people all around the rickshaw started to stare, and then i got out and moved really close to his face, shaking my index finger near his nose. "don't you ever, EVER! touch a woman like that!" i screamed. now people were stopping on the street to see if i was okay, and were peering over at me with curious eyes. the rick driver recoiled as if he was a turtle going back into his shell and then hurriedly, abashedly raced away at full throttle on his lawnmower engine. it was then i realised i should have slapped him.

i was left there on the street thinking, why did he do that? as i walked toward the trains i wondered if it was because i am western, and therefore a slut in his eyes, which gave him an open invitation to do that when i tried to put the money in his hand? (by the way, NO, i did not touch his palm.) is it that this man was sexually frustrated, perhaps a young guy who could be either muslim or hindu, with a wife in a faraway village, and he just hadn't thought before his instincts had gotten the better of him? or could it just be that he has seen some western films and felt this would be a romantic thing to do, because richard gere or james dean had done it? he saw that the western chicks dug it, and it seemed to work quite well for those guys. so i'm left with that question and am still wondering. still, my workmates found the story entertaining. "that would only happen to you!" they laughed when i told them.

an indian friend said it is all the above and none of the above (regarding my hypotheses on why he did it). an american friend said i need to make a game of all my frustrations re: living in india, and discover the fascinating social behaviors and phenomena, esp. male. he said i should see it as an experiment and bring sociology and anthropology into it all. my indian girlfriend told me, solemnly, "anne, look, you really need to start being more careful now." that scared me! and my iranian friend told me to cover my hair. then she started laughing.