As I finish up my last two weeks of work, the heat and humidity grow more stifling and oppressive. This morning on my way to the office, I was thinking: what have I learned here? What WAS my purpose in this city, now that I'm leaving? Already drenched in sweat from my brief walk to the station I waited for the train in the slim bar of a shadow, created by a steel beam against the already burning 8 a.m. sunrise. Here's what I came up with.
1. It's not (supposed to be) about the material stuff
To India I am leaving behind my SLR camera, my wallet, cash, a plane ticket that I won't be reimbursed for, and more...some of my sanity, a youthful look on my face, perhaps. India ate that, too! I don't think I learned Not to care about the material things. But I exchanged many material things for a beautiful nightmare, and I dealt with it, and that comes without a price tag.
2. YES HORN PLEASE
It seems like every prospect that Bombay offered was met with a polite declination on my part. Like a demanding child, the city bombarded me with unfamiliar, uncomfortable questions and decisions and requests and sounds and smells and inconveniences, many to which I responded, "WTF?!" in my mind. That city siphoned up all of my energy by the end of each day. The memory of silence was forgotten. The city encourages relentless noise, from the "YES HORN PLEASE" sign painted on the back of each truck, to the swarming throngs of people and cars and heat and trains and bicycles and crying babies and vendors selling coconuts...the list goes on. Here, it's sink or swim...and I was treading heavily. I managed to accept it and I did, somehow, survive.
3. Horrifying yet fascinating: my favorite combination
The things I have hated the most about India I also loved: the throngs of people on the train, the chaos, the noise, the stares, the occasional pungent wafting of incense combined with other unidentifiable odors into my rickshaw each morning, and the inconveniences that I have never before encountered in such extremes. I was thrown together into a city where Bollywood stars walk shoulder to shoulder with the homeless, where people sleep on the medians at midday. Needless to say, it was a complicated relationship but I tried to accept everything for what it was. Bombay is not for ninnies.
4. Just let go.
Nothing can be perfect, and Bombay is just that: take it or leave it. Perhaps this blog showcased my complaints, but I feel it was a shelf upon which I displayed my crazy collection of experiences. I know that when I get back to my home village, the silence will be deafening. I suppose I have changed in that I have learned to accept an environment of chaos more than deny it. And for the rest of my life I'll just laugh when someone complains about a "traffic jam" unless I'm experiencing it in Delhi, where there's not even a method to the madness.
5. It's okay to be different
In India, it was simple to spot me in a crowd. Beggars and cripples and mango vendors and children selling vases and hawkers make their way to me first because I was such an easy target. I'm not married, and I don't have kids, and I don't need to. And yes, keep staring. Because I don't even notice anymore. All the world's a stage!
6. India was my classroom
India, although I will only have been here for seven months, was a master guru. What I learned here is not something that can easily be explained on my CV or have any financial worth. I see it as my last hurrah long-term abroad (for this decade, I think), and an experience that jarred my most set beliefs and ideals. For that, I am grateful. And Frank Sinatra had it wrong. It's whether you "can make it" in Bombay (NOT New York) that you "can make it" anywhere.
7. Persistence pays off
Something that Indians taught me, whether beggars or businessmen, is that you should never give up. I think success comes from believing in yourself, or as Einstein put it, only a little inspiration with a lot of perspiration. I'll keep that in mind as I return to my homeland and seek a job in a tanked economy with 8.25% unemployment. Bring it on. JAI HO!
Monday, March 16, 2009
My OCD with Textiles
I have a small problem. It's called fabric addiction. I am completely obsessed with the high quality and quantity of raw Indian spun silks, linen, cotton, and other natural fibers available on the subcontinent. India's fabric selection, certainly, is one of its finest and strongest assets.
The fabric store, which I have been frequenting at a rate of about once per week, actually assigned a personal assistant to me for every time I arrive at the shop. If he is with clients, he finds an assistant for them and comes out to greet me. They all know my name. They serve me tea within five minutes of arrival. Yes: it is ridiculous.
One night I needed a new sari for work. There is something really sensual about the Indian sari: It shows a woman's curves but with such modesty and elegance, it's much like a Greek or Roman toga. On that night at the shop I found a jade green, pure silk sari with a gold border. One of the men came forward to drape the sari, and it was quite entertaining to watch him in the mirror as he made every effort to avoid coming into contact with my body. When it was done, I was walking back and forth across the room for an audience of the shopkeepers in front of the mirror-covered wall, feeling (and looking, perhaps) like an ancient goddess. I then chose a gold fabric with a contrasting pattern against the border for the blouse, which I had stitched.
I cannot describe the feeling of standing around and so nonchalantly selecting fabric that can (perhaps) be found nowhere else. It's like I'm in Narnia or a Tolkien novel, running my fingers over the rich textures and patterns unknown to other Westerners who have never been here and knowing that this is the stuff Armani and all the designers import for their new season lines. Shockingly, even "Irish linen" is spun here.
Advised by my trusty fabric consultant, Hiran, we go through the reams of new arrivals and choose some things for my tailor. At the end, I've spent around $20-30 for around six-seven meters of fabric. So between this fabric and the fabulous work of my tailor, I feel like the Barbie doll of the richest girl in town. No doubt I will miss this aspect of my life here.
The fabric store, which I have been frequenting at a rate of about once per week, actually assigned a personal assistant to me for every time I arrive at the shop. If he is with clients, he finds an assistant for them and comes out to greet me. They all know my name. They serve me tea within five minutes of arrival. Yes: it is ridiculous.
One night I needed a new sari for work. There is something really sensual about the Indian sari: It shows a woman's curves but with such modesty and elegance, it's much like a Greek or Roman toga. On that night at the shop I found a jade green, pure silk sari with a gold border. One of the men came forward to drape the sari, and it was quite entertaining to watch him in the mirror as he made every effort to avoid coming into contact with my body. When it was done, I was walking back and forth across the room for an audience of the shopkeepers in front of the mirror-covered wall, feeling (and looking, perhaps) like an ancient goddess. I then chose a gold fabric with a contrasting pattern against the border for the blouse, which I had stitched.
I cannot describe the feeling of standing around and so nonchalantly selecting fabric that can (perhaps) be found nowhere else. It's like I'm in Narnia or a Tolkien novel, running my fingers over the rich textures and patterns unknown to other Westerners who have never been here and knowing that this is the stuff Armani and all the designers import for their new season lines. Shockingly, even "Irish linen" is spun here.
Advised by my trusty fabric consultant, Hiran, we go through the reams of new arrivals and choose some things for my tailor. At the end, I've spent around $20-30 for around six-seven meters of fabric. So between this fabric and the fabulous work of my tailor, I feel like the Barbie doll of the richest girl in town. No doubt I will miss this aspect of my life here.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
some thoughts on englightenment
There's something about meditating that is really good for me, maybe because I am such a type-A personality. It's one of the few things that helps me to calm down and focus.
I first meditated about 15 years ago, when my roommate's Indian dad hosted a "how to" session with us in our Ann Arbor living room. It wasn't until years later that I started to read about it and consequently meditated for a year or two, but somehow got away from it. Lately I've started to think that it's a really good way for me to deal with my crazy life in India.
I happened to be telling my friend Mahender that I should start again, and as a favor he ended up taking me to his friend's flat, where about 50 of us hosted and meditated with Guru Mohan, who was in town from Dubai. After having lost his daughter in a car accident, Mohan divorced and gave up his big-time corporate job to do what he's doing now: guide people spiritually.
I was somewhat distracted when we began but after a half hour I felt mentally focused and lucid. In the middle of the session I could feel him wandering about the room, but in front of me Mohan stopped and pressed his thumb against my forehead and between my eyes (here known as the third eye, or where your mind receives its enlightenment). Afterwards, someone asked him, Guru Master, why did you touch my third eye?
He told us that he acknowledged those of us who had the strongest energy during the session; those students were the ones who were most connected to him. Mohan said that he could almost see a flickering light there on our foreheads. For me, I thought: what an amazing way to teach and a powerful experience...to be connected to students like that, on such a personal level, despite that most of us sitting in on that session were strangers. Mohan said that it was a good session and that we would feel the effects of our focused energy over the next few days.
If that is the case, I look forward to some clarity and calming effects in my mind depite being surrounded by chaos (the city itself and my own mental preparation to return to my homeland ...a country from which I've been absent for the past six out of seven years.
I first meditated about 15 years ago, when my roommate's Indian dad hosted a "how to" session with us in our Ann Arbor living room. It wasn't until years later that I started to read about it and consequently meditated for a year or two, but somehow got away from it. Lately I've started to think that it's a really good way for me to deal with my crazy life in India.
I happened to be telling my friend Mahender that I should start again, and as a favor he ended up taking me to his friend's flat, where about 50 of us hosted and meditated with Guru Mohan, who was in town from Dubai. After having lost his daughter in a car accident, Mohan divorced and gave up his big-time corporate job to do what he's doing now: guide people spiritually.
I was somewhat distracted when we began but after a half hour I felt mentally focused and lucid. In the middle of the session I could feel him wandering about the room, but in front of me Mohan stopped and pressed his thumb against my forehead and between my eyes (here known as the third eye, or where your mind receives its enlightenment). Afterwards, someone asked him, Guru Master, why did you touch my third eye?
He told us that he acknowledged those of us who had the strongest energy during the session; those students were the ones who were most connected to him. Mohan said that he could almost see a flickering light there on our foreheads. For me, I thought: what an amazing way to teach and a powerful experience...to be connected to students like that, on such a personal level, despite that most of us sitting in on that session were strangers. Mohan said that it was a good session and that we would feel the effects of our focused energy over the next few days.
If that is the case, I look forward to some clarity and calming effects in my mind depite being surrounded by chaos (the city itself and my own mental preparation to return to my homeland ...a country from which I've been absent for the past six out of seven years.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
mommy, i want a guru
This is India, and anything and everything can happen. Gurus are ubiquitous, but you're blessed if you find a good one.
My friend Tarun told me about his guru over dinner a month ago. He comes here from Canada every year to visit her in Kerala, S. India. I was supposed to go to the gym that night, but ended up staying late to listen to this story. After hearing about her, I believe that Amma is a kind of cross between St. Francis of Assisi and Mother Theresa.
Amma was born with a huge smile on her face, according to the legend. She grew up singing and laughing, yet seemingly “mature” for her age. Her family regarded her as strange for not acting like the other children, and less superior because she had darker skin. For these factors she became a servant and worker for her immediate and extended families. But soon she found that she had a love growing inside of her which she could no longer contain. She began to hug people, mainly the people in her village, to the great shame of her family. Soon after that, her family shunned her from their home, citing that she was strange and disrespectful, and not acting appropriately for a child.
Animals brought her food in the forest. Hawks dropped fish so that they fell upon her and the forest floor; she picked up and ate the fish raw. So it was only by her own choice to escape in order to live alone in the forest that she was able to survive, and be faithful to what she believed in that she was able to become who she is.
One day after she had been living in the forest for quite some time, she was walking through a village, when she came upon the good monks of that place. In front of the hare krishna temple, she struck a pose that demonstrated that she was completely possessed by God. Upon seeing her, the monks knew that Krishna was present in her body and that she had transformed into God. All these men prostrated themselves before her then and there in complete adoration.
Tarun, a soft-spoken fellow who follows Amma all over the world, happens to be half Indian. He told me that he feels complete in India, and he is considering leaving his job as an international DJ to seek her advice. He said that when he goes back to Vancouver and tries to meditate, something isn’t right: He feels the emptiness of his Western upbringing there. And that point made me think: I was raised to be Christian, but our American culture doesn’t foster spirituality... in fact, it mocks it.
I feel that I’m content sans spirituality in my life, but after I consider stories about people like Amma, I do acknowledge that this factor is missing from my daily routine. I do hope to find some peace of mind (or soul) through my stay here, maybe by going back to meditation and finding myself on a more intrapersonal level. Perhaps that is one of the big factors that has brought me here.
My friend Tarun told me about his guru over dinner a month ago. He comes here from Canada every year to visit her in Kerala, S. India. I was supposed to go to the gym that night, but ended up staying late to listen to this story. After hearing about her, I believe that Amma is a kind of cross between St. Francis of Assisi and Mother Theresa.
Amma was born with a huge smile on her face, according to the legend. She grew up singing and laughing, yet seemingly “mature” for her age. Her family regarded her as strange for not acting like the other children, and less superior because she had darker skin. For these factors she became a servant and worker for her immediate and extended families. But soon she found that she had a love growing inside of her which she could no longer contain. She began to hug people, mainly the people in her village, to the great shame of her family. Soon after that, her family shunned her from their home, citing that she was strange and disrespectful, and not acting appropriately for a child.
Animals brought her food in the forest. Hawks dropped fish so that they fell upon her and the forest floor; she picked up and ate the fish raw. So it was only by her own choice to escape in order to live alone in the forest that she was able to survive, and be faithful to what she believed in that she was able to become who she is.
One day after she had been living in the forest for quite some time, she was walking through a village, when she came upon the good monks of that place. In front of the hare krishna temple, she struck a pose that demonstrated that she was completely possessed by God. Upon seeing her, the monks knew that Krishna was present in her body and that she had transformed into God. All these men prostrated themselves before her then and there in complete adoration.
Tarun, a soft-spoken fellow who follows Amma all over the world, happens to be half Indian. He told me that he feels complete in India, and he is considering leaving his job as an international DJ to seek her advice. He said that when he goes back to Vancouver and tries to meditate, something isn’t right: He feels the emptiness of his Western upbringing there. And that point made me think: I was raised to be Christian, but our American culture doesn’t foster spirituality... in fact, it mocks it.
I feel that I’m content sans spirituality in my life, but after I consider stories about people like Amma, I do acknowledge that this factor is missing from my daily routine. I do hope to find some peace of mind (or soul) through my stay here, maybe by going back to meditation and finding myself on a more intrapersonal level. Perhaps that is one of the big factors that has brought me here.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
a sandal shine and a lesson learned
today i was on the street in bandra, standing on the sidewalk, eating a mcdonald's ice cream cone dipped in choco sauce that hardens when cold....yes, i have supported the yellow arches with a $0.40 contribution today. and i felt just like a child again. i also noticed that the indian at the cash register pronounced its name as the brits do: a MACswirl, he called it. that made me smile. anyway, it's great stuff, whatever it is, and prob filled with millions of free radicals and god knows what other chemicals.
as i stood there, trying to just ignore the world and eat my child-size ice-cream cone, a man armed with maps approached me. after only a few minutes, and because i was in a fairly good mood, he had convinced me that i must buy this map of india. i finally gave in...because i did, in fact, need a map of india's states and layout. i learned nothing about indian history or geography ...or anything, for that matter, about this country, so it's high time i did.
just as i was walking away with my $3 map and half-eaten ice-cream cone, another man approached me, begging me to let him shine my shoes. i started to laugh. they're not shoes! i said. they're sandals! (they amount to approximately five square inches of leather.) i said no, thanks, and kept walking.
but he was persistent and followed me. 2 rupees! only 2 rupees ! he called after me. finally i could see in this poor fellow's eyes that he was desperate. i took out my wallet and gave him 10 rupees (about 0.20 u.s.) and said, i want you to have this. but he got angry and said, i am not a beggar. now if you'll please step aside and into the street, i will shine your shoes.
well, this guy was really good...because i do not have the time or patience to give in so easily. he had convinced me to allow him to shine away.
after we'd chatted a bit, i realized he had excellent english. he started to tell me that he feels that he looks like a beggar because he did not have a shoe kit, the standard for a shoeshiner. in order to be deemed shiner of shoes, you must have a kit. his english, i noticed, was remarkably good....strange for a shiner of shoes.
he asked me, do you know how much one costs?
how much? i asked.
350 rupees, he said. (that's $7, exactly.) and i cannot save enough to live on in order to buy one.
red flag, i thought. this guy is pulling on my heartstrings and probably lying. i saw it coming: he was going to ask me to buy the shoe kit. i started to imagine a scam where the shoe kit was a ploy, used again and again, between him and the 'owner' of a shop. but something told me to trust him. yes, i am crazy.
he said, didi, if you could just go with me to that shop, and buy me the box, i swear i will pay you back every rupee. my mother is a beggar, and it kills me to know she is out there begging right now.
in the meantime, the mapman came back. madam! he began again. look at THIS map! and he showed me an even bigger map of india. i flicked him away with my wrist and turned back down to my sandal-shiner. how old are you? i asked. 23, he said. i told him i'm 34 and that he could call me didi. he was just finishing up when i'd made up my mind. and surprisingly, my gold sandals looked much improved!
look, i said. next week i will be living right here, near this corner. if i come around and see you here on this corner shining shoes, we will go together to buy the shoe kit. okay? even i couldn't believe i was going to give this guy a loan.
the man had tears in his eyes. so he was either a really good actor, or i was right.
as it turns out, i told my friend about the investment i was about to make. all in the name of humanity, and kindness, and hope, i said. the world can be a better place! i'm paying it forward when i see him again.
my friend's reaction was ...somehow...not surprising.
by any chance, was this in front of the bandra mcdonald's? he asked. why? i asked. well, a guy asked me the same thing last time i was there, that's all.
two things. my shoe-shiner loan client could be lying... or telling the truth. maybe he's just been asking a lot of people over the course of the last few weeks, in hopes that he will score the shoe kit. but i think we all know the probability of this equation.
is the world made of suckers like me, to have cold hands and a warm heart, in order to provide entertainment for the gods (or the non-suckers)? why is it that as i age, and despite the number of times i've been duped, now... i'm still becoming more liberal when i'm supposed to be going further right on the political spectrum, as my dad had once assured me? is life more fulfilling to trust the bad people, too, even if only to deceive oneself?
i want to be a good person in this life, but i don't want my faith to make me that vulnerable. on a night like tonight i feel as if my coupon book for faith in humanity has just expired.
as i stood there, trying to just ignore the world and eat my child-size ice-cream cone, a man armed with maps approached me. after only a few minutes, and because i was in a fairly good mood, he had convinced me that i must buy this map of india. i finally gave in...because i did, in fact, need a map of india's states and layout. i learned nothing about indian history or geography ...or anything, for that matter, about this country, so it's high time i did.
just as i was walking away with my $3 map and half-eaten ice-cream cone, another man approached me, begging me to let him shine my shoes. i started to laugh. they're not shoes! i said. they're sandals! (they amount to approximately five square inches of leather.) i said no, thanks, and kept walking.
but he was persistent and followed me. 2 rupees! only 2 rupees ! he called after me. finally i could see in this poor fellow's eyes that he was desperate. i took out my wallet and gave him 10 rupees (about 0.20 u.s.) and said, i want you to have this. but he got angry and said, i am not a beggar. now if you'll please step aside and into the street, i will shine your shoes.
well, this guy was really good...because i do not have the time or patience to give in so easily. he had convinced me to allow him to shine away.
after we'd chatted a bit, i realized he had excellent english. he started to tell me that he feels that he looks like a beggar because he did not have a shoe kit, the standard for a shoeshiner. in order to be deemed shiner of shoes, you must have a kit. his english, i noticed, was remarkably good....strange for a shiner of shoes.
he asked me, do you know how much one costs?
how much? i asked.
350 rupees, he said. (that's $7, exactly.) and i cannot save enough to live on in order to buy one.
red flag, i thought. this guy is pulling on my heartstrings and probably lying. i saw it coming: he was going to ask me to buy the shoe kit. i started to imagine a scam where the shoe kit was a ploy, used again and again, between him and the 'owner' of a shop. but something told me to trust him. yes, i am crazy.
he said, didi, if you could just go with me to that shop, and buy me the box, i swear i will pay you back every rupee. my mother is a beggar, and it kills me to know she is out there begging right now.
in the meantime, the mapman came back. madam! he began again. look at THIS map! and he showed me an even bigger map of india. i flicked him away with my wrist and turned back down to my sandal-shiner. how old are you? i asked. 23, he said. i told him i'm 34 and that he could call me didi. he was just finishing up when i'd made up my mind. and surprisingly, my gold sandals looked much improved!
look, i said. next week i will be living right here, near this corner. if i come around and see you here on this corner shining shoes, we will go together to buy the shoe kit. okay? even i couldn't believe i was going to give this guy a loan.
the man had tears in his eyes. so he was either a really good actor, or i was right.
as it turns out, i told my friend about the investment i was about to make. all in the name of humanity, and kindness, and hope, i said. the world can be a better place! i'm paying it forward when i see him again.
my friend's reaction was ...somehow...not surprising.
by any chance, was this in front of the bandra mcdonald's? he asked. why? i asked. well, a guy asked me the same thing last time i was there, that's all.
two things. my shoe-shiner loan client could be lying... or telling the truth. maybe he's just been asking a lot of people over the course of the last few weeks, in hopes that he will score the shoe kit. but i think we all know the probability of this equation.
is the world made of suckers like me, to have cold hands and a warm heart, in order to provide entertainment for the gods (or the non-suckers)? why is it that as i age, and despite the number of times i've been duped, now... i'm still becoming more liberal when i'm supposed to be going further right on the political spectrum, as my dad had once assured me? is life more fulfilling to trust the bad people, too, even if only to deceive oneself?
i want to be a good person in this life, but i don't want my faith to make me that vulnerable. on a night like tonight i feel as if my coupon book for faith in humanity has just expired.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
my bollywood début
again, i was supposed to have posted this back in november, when it happened. this is too funny, so i must share it now before i forget the details.
we were approached in the hawking district of colaba one day when we were shopping. someone named imran came up to us and asked annika and me if we'd like to be extras in a film. no thanks, we'd said.
two days later, he came up to me again (this time i was alone). since i was curious about the film, the actors, and the fact that he'd said it was going to be a blockbuster, imran had me hooked. so i was in. eventually annika and our aussie friend, alan, joined in.
so, here's how it happened. we were picked up in a bus (imagine a kind of 'magic bus' meets brady bunch van crossed with an old vw van...industrial size) headed north to goregaon, or film city, as many call it. the bus was filled with freaks, and i mean funny and freaky, weird, and, well, interesting people. for those of you who don't know, the agents pick out us westerners to act as extras in the movies...since the fairest skin is, in india, the most beautiful.
on the bus and in front of me sat a team of six or seven swedish tech people, here for training in bangalore. they were just visiting bombay for a few days and got lassoed in. behind us was a french israeli woman with dreadlocks, her hare-krishna clad lover, and their six-year-old son. there were tourists from south africa, the u.k., and the u.s. there was a dutch pothead lesbian. there was a seedy, bukowski-type junkie deadbeat in the back of the bus, talking to himself and later wandering about the set, clueless and chain-smoking, probably stranded here from ten or twenty years back. there were curious people like annika and me who, obviously insane, chose to live and work here. like i always say, you've got to try everything at least once. that goes for living in bombay as well as being an extra in a film.
once we arrived, we were whisked into an open corridor where we had to select costumes from a few racks of clothing. mine turned out to be a strapless velour wine coloured piece from hell that clung to my body as if it were painted on...we're talking woman-of-the-night wear, here.
soon after, with the arrival of the makeup team, i became known as the 'troublemaker' when i refused to let them apply the disgusting, neon-pink lip gloss that had probably touched the lips of hundreds of unknown women. finally, the only thing i could do was lie and tell them that i was allergic. (you can get all kinds of diseases from that!! i told my setmates. they grimaced with already glossed lips. when you're in your 20s, maybe you don't think about these things. but i'm a germaphobe to start with.)
the morning began with us holding up martini glasses filled with fake colourful liquid (our 'drinks') with one hand and slowly waving the drink back and forth in a 'festive' mood, and waving the other hand simultaneously to the beat of the horrifyingly 'happy' music (listen with the link below). the director and asst. director kept bellowing, 'be happy! smile! dance!' i have to admit, i got cramps in my cheeks from laughing so hard (as did the other participants). the whole thing was just too ridiculous to be true.
time seemed to be going fast. but by 4 p.m. we were ready to get the hell out. we had spent hours either standing around and "acting" (waving our hands with the drinks), or sitting and watching the russian girls do their dances in their red and yellow costumes. at one point, the assistant director and the director got into a discussion in which the drinks were distributed, then collected, and then redistributed. the other argument was regarding whether we should snap or clap on the staircase while we held (or didn't hold) the drinks. that was pretty hilarious. so it took about 20 minutes just to prepare the drinks for that scene, which never made it to the final cut, anyway.
lo and behold, those agents had been through enough cuts to predict our dissipating enthusiasm. they had locked all of our personal belongings into a huge room for "safe keeping." a south african told me that his friend had tried to escape a few months back in a rickshaw (he'd even left all his personal belongings!) but was actually 'captured' at the exit gate and escorted back to the set. the story annoyed us because we knew we were doomed. by that point in the afternoon, we'd heard the film's theme song hundreds (yes, literally hundreds!) of times.
my most memorable (yet least favourite) moment occurred when the famous and one of the biggest directors in all of india, subhash ghai, grabbed me and put me in the front row for one scene, so that i would be standing directly behind the even more famous and beautiful katrina kaif, for the shot of her playing the bass cello.
so here i would be, perhaps noticed for a moment behind goddess katrina, on the big silver screen. but alas, my hopes were dashed all too soon. before i could start to fantasise about my sudden flash of fame, subhash pointed his thick finger at me, yelled, "HIDE!" and grabbed two tall, blonde swedish girls to stand in my place. i humbly sank back into the crowd, or as a michigan farmer might put it, 'sucked hind tit' for the rest of the evening.
by 11 p.m., we'd each received a 500 rupee payment for a 12-hour day (about $10 u.s.). our 'agent,' imran, gave us a ride home and rekindled new hopes for my bollywood career when he asked me to show up for another, 'bigger' part. a week later, it turned out that he needed me for an advert for a watch, but this time for 1000 rupees. i couldn't have made it that day, so he is going to ring me back when something else good comes along.
if you are a masochist and have the time, patience, and sanity to sit out the credits, then feel free to watch our moment of fame via the link below. still cannot find myself, but my students and colleagues said that i was visible in at least three shots in the cinema.
http://se.youtube.com/watch?v=YdAGOH6v-I0
we were approached in the hawking district of colaba one day when we were shopping. someone named imran came up to us and asked annika and me if we'd like to be extras in a film. no thanks, we'd said.
two days later, he came up to me again (this time i was alone). since i was curious about the film, the actors, and the fact that he'd said it was going to be a blockbuster, imran had me hooked. so i was in. eventually annika and our aussie friend, alan, joined in.
so, here's how it happened. we were picked up in a bus (imagine a kind of 'magic bus' meets brady bunch van crossed with an old vw van...industrial size) headed north to goregaon, or film city, as many call it. the bus was filled with freaks, and i mean funny and freaky, weird, and, well, interesting people. for those of you who don't know, the agents pick out us westerners to act as extras in the movies...since the fairest skin is, in india, the most beautiful.
on the bus and in front of me sat a team of six or seven swedish tech people, here for training in bangalore. they were just visiting bombay for a few days and got lassoed in. behind us was a french israeli woman with dreadlocks, her hare-krishna clad lover, and their six-year-old son. there were tourists from south africa, the u.k., and the u.s. there was a dutch pothead lesbian. there was a seedy, bukowski-type junkie deadbeat in the back of the bus, talking to himself and later wandering about the set, clueless and chain-smoking, probably stranded here from ten or twenty years back. there were curious people like annika and me who, obviously insane, chose to live and work here. like i always say, you've got to try everything at least once. that goes for living in bombay as well as being an extra in a film.
once we arrived, we were whisked into an open corridor where we had to select costumes from a few racks of clothing. mine turned out to be a strapless velour wine coloured piece from hell that clung to my body as if it were painted on...we're talking woman-of-the-night wear, here.
soon after, with the arrival of the makeup team, i became known as the 'troublemaker' when i refused to let them apply the disgusting, neon-pink lip gloss that had probably touched the lips of hundreds of unknown women. finally, the only thing i could do was lie and tell them that i was allergic. (you can get all kinds of diseases from that!! i told my setmates. they grimaced with already glossed lips. when you're in your 20s, maybe you don't think about these things. but i'm a germaphobe to start with.)
the morning began with us holding up martini glasses filled with fake colourful liquid (our 'drinks') with one hand and slowly waving the drink back and forth in a 'festive' mood, and waving the other hand simultaneously to the beat of the horrifyingly 'happy' music (listen with the link below). the director and asst. director kept bellowing, 'be happy! smile! dance!' i have to admit, i got cramps in my cheeks from laughing so hard (as did the other participants). the whole thing was just too ridiculous to be true.
time seemed to be going fast. but by 4 p.m. we were ready to get the hell out. we had spent hours either standing around and "acting" (waving our hands with the drinks), or sitting and watching the russian girls do their dances in their red and yellow costumes. at one point, the assistant director and the director got into a discussion in which the drinks were distributed, then collected, and then redistributed. the other argument was regarding whether we should snap or clap on the staircase while we held (or didn't hold) the drinks. that was pretty hilarious. so it took about 20 minutes just to prepare the drinks for that scene, which never made it to the final cut, anyway.
lo and behold, those agents had been through enough cuts to predict our dissipating enthusiasm. they had locked all of our personal belongings into a huge room for "safe keeping." a south african told me that his friend had tried to escape a few months back in a rickshaw (he'd even left all his personal belongings!) but was actually 'captured' at the exit gate and escorted back to the set. the story annoyed us because we knew we were doomed. by that point in the afternoon, we'd heard the film's theme song hundreds (yes, literally hundreds!) of times.
my most memorable (yet least favourite) moment occurred when the famous and one of the biggest directors in all of india, subhash ghai, grabbed me and put me in the front row for one scene, so that i would be standing directly behind the even more famous and beautiful katrina kaif, for the shot of her playing the bass cello.
so here i would be, perhaps noticed for a moment behind goddess katrina, on the big silver screen. but alas, my hopes were dashed all too soon. before i could start to fantasise about my sudden flash of fame, subhash pointed his thick finger at me, yelled, "HIDE!" and grabbed two tall, blonde swedish girls to stand in my place. i humbly sank back into the crowd, or as a michigan farmer might put it, 'sucked hind tit' for the rest of the evening.
by 11 p.m., we'd each received a 500 rupee payment for a 12-hour day (about $10 u.s.). our 'agent,' imran, gave us a ride home and rekindled new hopes for my bollywood career when he asked me to show up for another, 'bigger' part. a week later, it turned out that he needed me for an advert for a watch, but this time for 1000 rupees. i couldn't have made it that day, so he is going to ring me back when something else good comes along.
if you are a masochist and have the time, patience, and sanity to sit out the credits, then feel free to watch our moment of fame via the link below. still cannot find myself, but my students and colleagues said that i was visible in at least three shots in the cinema.
http://se.youtube.com/watch?v=YdAGOH6v-I0
Sunday, January 18, 2009
we take stuff for granted, or experiences on an escalator
i tell people that stuff happens every day here that i have to stop and think, wow, that blows my mind. well, when this happened just the day before i left for the u.s., it honestly brought tears to my eyes. when i told my family, they couldn’t believe it.
there’s a new thing in bombay. it’s called the escalator. yes, really. the reason why it’s so new is a fascinating mixture of socio-economics and urban planning trends. take a rising middle-class group in a developing country. throw in increased purchasing power en masse, more trade with china and then add dozens of malls and new skyscrapers to a city in the financial capital of this developing country. suddenly, you’ve got people, old and young alike, who are just getting onto an escalator and using the lift for the first time in their lives.
so, as you can imagine, many indians have never been on an escalator or a lift. those things came with the gleaming buildings that outsourcing brought to india. but there's a little, dirty secret hidden behind all of this too: only around 50% of india's population can actually afford to go INTO those gleaming malls, residence buildings and calling centres with escalators and lifts. it's only the rich and the growing middle class who have access to enter and shop there. so begins my story.
in the first week of school, i'd promised two students (my top student and my most improved student) that by the end of the term, i'd take them out to dinner just before i flew to the u.s. for xmas. the point was to motivate that group of 15 kids. ultimately, two hard-working girls won the prize. i let them choose from a list where we'd dine (including some of the top spots in the city). because they're kids, though, they chose the food court at the mall at nariman point here in bombay.
we took a taxi over to the shopping mall in nariman point, to the girls' amazement. we stepped inside, had our bags examined per safety protocol, and proceeded forward. i was just stepping onto the escalator when i turned around to face them...and was already three our four steps up. as i watched them, i could see that they were trying to "jump" onto the moving staircase. then, the shocking realisation came: they had never been in a mall before, and they had never used an escalator. because malls are for middle and upper class people, not slum dwellers.
they finally managed to jump on, as i watched from about halfway up, and i called down to them something like "you are TOO funny!" and then kind of tried to laugh it off, but i had tears in my eyes. the idea hit me like a slap in the face: we take everything...EVERYTHING... for granted.
after we finished dinner, i told the girls to get ice cream cones while i waited with our stuff in a booth. they came back eating huge waffle cones, and with chocolate smeared all over their faces. they were so cute and it was then that i'd realised i'd forgotten my camera (or would have posted the shot here). i asked them as they ate if they'd had a good time. one said, 'didi, this was SO expensive!' and the other: 'we've never had ice cream cones like THIS before!' i got all bleary eyed again and averted my eyes. the thing is, dinner and ice cream for the three of us amounted to less than $6 u.s.
so this little episode made me think a lot about my role here as i left india for xmas on my continent, and i continued to ponder coming back to another job (where i would cater specifically to india's privileged bourgeoisie). how is it justifiable, any of this? truth is, i'm still thinking.
there’s a new thing in bombay. it’s called the escalator. yes, really. the reason why it’s so new is a fascinating mixture of socio-economics and urban planning trends. take a rising middle-class group in a developing country. throw in increased purchasing power en masse, more trade with china and then add dozens of malls and new skyscrapers to a city in the financial capital of this developing country. suddenly, you’ve got people, old and young alike, who are just getting onto an escalator and using the lift for the first time in their lives.
so, as you can imagine, many indians have never been on an escalator or a lift. those things came with the gleaming buildings that outsourcing brought to india. but there's a little, dirty secret hidden behind all of this too: only around 50% of india's population can actually afford to go INTO those gleaming malls, residence buildings and calling centres with escalators and lifts. it's only the rich and the growing middle class who have access to enter and shop there. so begins my story.
in the first week of school, i'd promised two students (my top student and my most improved student) that by the end of the term, i'd take them out to dinner just before i flew to the u.s. for xmas. the point was to motivate that group of 15 kids. ultimately, two hard-working girls won the prize. i let them choose from a list where we'd dine (including some of the top spots in the city). because they're kids, though, they chose the food court at the mall at nariman point here in bombay.
we took a taxi over to the shopping mall in nariman point, to the girls' amazement. we stepped inside, had our bags examined per safety protocol, and proceeded forward. i was just stepping onto the escalator when i turned around to face them...and was already three our four steps up. as i watched them, i could see that they were trying to "jump" onto the moving staircase. then, the shocking realisation came: they had never been in a mall before, and they had never used an escalator. because malls are for middle and upper class people, not slum dwellers.
they finally managed to jump on, as i watched from about halfway up, and i called down to them something like "you are TOO funny!" and then kind of tried to laugh it off, but i had tears in my eyes. the idea hit me like a slap in the face: we take everything...EVERYTHING... for granted.
after we finished dinner, i told the girls to get ice cream cones while i waited with our stuff in a booth. they came back eating huge waffle cones, and with chocolate smeared all over their faces. they were so cute and it was then that i'd realised i'd forgotten my camera (or would have posted the shot here). i asked them as they ate if they'd had a good time. one said, 'didi, this was SO expensive!' and the other: 'we've never had ice cream cones like THIS before!' i got all bleary eyed again and averted my eyes. the thing is, dinner and ice cream for the three of us amounted to less than $6 u.s.
so this little episode made me think a lot about my role here as i left india for xmas on my continent, and i continued to ponder coming back to another job (where i would cater specifically to india's privileged bourgeoisie). how is it justifiable, any of this? truth is, i'm still thinking.
Monday, January 5, 2009
gold's gym, my former anti-intellectual outlet
this is a post that i was meaning to write back in october, and i've only now just now remembered that i need to post. i joined gold's gym, to my own astonishment, back in the fall. normally i would not have joined a gym filled with the kind of people who frequent that particular gym. not to be a snob, but in my op it's a haven for anti-intellectuals and a meat market for people who don’t think so critically about the world in general. now that i’ve left the gym and have moved on to a better, cheaper place (and within walking distance to my new flat), i must take the opp to divulge some of my experiences there.
why did i join that particular gym, my friends ask. well, it came down to these factors. first, you cannot run in this city without risking your own life. it is a developing country, after all, so the sidewalks in this vicinity are either non-existent, torn up for repair, or occupied with squatters and/or weavers weaving baskets. so there's the option to run in the street, which is an option only if you would like to risk getting run over by the constant flow of bombay traffic.
secondly, even if i did have a sidewalk in this neighbourhood, i could not run in my running gear. you see, women cannot really show much leg, midriff, or skin in general in india, esp. if you're white! (so i have to do that privately: in a gym where people who are rich enough to understand that i'm not advertising myself when i wear a sports bra.) finally, the other gyms, with their outdated and/or broken equipment, did not meet my standards. so i was spending around $55 u.s. a month...a hell of a lot, for india... at gold's. and might i add: these people are the most high-may ppl i've ever seen in my entire life. esp the women.
just a quick snapshot of the typical female gym-goer at gold's: she exits her suv at the front door, dropped by her driver. over the shoulder is a huge patent leather gucci handbag with gold chain straps. she’s wearing peep-toed jimmy choo stilettos, with pearly silver manicured nails. she’s hot: has huge boobs, tiny waist, face totally made up and hair done in a ponytail by a stylist for the gym. she is speaking vacuous parle on a diamond-encrusted phone. you know what i mean. i’ve never, ever seen so many women like this in one place at one time. these women are married to oil magnates, or bollywood stars, or ARE bollywood stars, or inherited all their money from their wealthy gujarati fathers when they passed away. bottom line: it's all about how you look and what you have, hon.
so the women were superhot. the men looked good and had great bodies. i recognised quite a few from bollywood movie adverts and t.v. but i couldn’t handle all the pageantry, especially after working with kids from the slums every day (and it really IS a big circus, a place to see and be seen). i would just go in there, not make eye contact, head directly upstairs to the treadmill, run 6 to 8 k, and then row for 15 minutes. i avoided any type of interaction b-c i didn’t wanna become part of that elitist attitude. and believe me, i could have reveled in it. b-c it would have been major bonus points for many of those people to chat or associate with me, a westerner.
i'm not saying that i must belong to a gym for intellectuals. all i can say is that i had a very interesting experience, at least from an observer's perspective, on that very far spectrum of india's tax bracket.
why did i join that particular gym, my friends ask. well, it came down to these factors. first, you cannot run in this city without risking your own life. it is a developing country, after all, so the sidewalks in this vicinity are either non-existent, torn up for repair, or occupied with squatters and/or weavers weaving baskets. so there's the option to run in the street, which is an option only if you would like to risk getting run over by the constant flow of bombay traffic.
secondly, even if i did have a sidewalk in this neighbourhood, i could not run in my running gear. you see, women cannot really show much leg, midriff, or skin in general in india, esp. if you're white! (so i have to do that privately: in a gym where people who are rich enough to understand that i'm not advertising myself when i wear a sports bra.) finally, the other gyms, with their outdated and/or broken equipment, did not meet my standards. so i was spending around $55 u.s. a month...a hell of a lot, for india... at gold's. and might i add: these people are the most high-may ppl i've ever seen in my entire life. esp the women.
just a quick snapshot of the typical female gym-goer at gold's: she exits her suv at the front door, dropped by her driver. over the shoulder is a huge patent leather gucci handbag with gold chain straps. she’s wearing peep-toed jimmy choo stilettos, with pearly silver manicured nails. she’s hot: has huge boobs, tiny waist, face totally made up and hair done in a ponytail by a stylist for the gym. she is speaking vacuous parle on a diamond-encrusted phone. you know what i mean. i’ve never, ever seen so many women like this in one place at one time. these women are married to oil magnates, or bollywood stars, or ARE bollywood stars, or inherited all their money from their wealthy gujarati fathers when they passed away. bottom line: it's all about how you look and what you have, hon.
so the women were superhot. the men looked good and had great bodies. i recognised quite a few from bollywood movie adverts and t.v. but i couldn’t handle all the pageantry, especially after working with kids from the slums every day (and it really IS a big circus, a place to see and be seen). i would just go in there, not make eye contact, head directly upstairs to the treadmill, run 6 to 8 k, and then row for 15 minutes. i avoided any type of interaction b-c i didn’t wanna become part of that elitist attitude. and believe me, i could have reveled in it. b-c it would have been major bonus points for many of those people to chat or associate with me, a westerner.
i'm not saying that i must belong to a gym for intellectuals. all i can say is that i had a very interesting experience, at least from an observer's perspective, on that very far spectrum of india's tax bracket.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
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.
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.
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