Killer sardar and Delhi roundup

First up, there's an excellent photo exhibition starting in Delhi. The exhibition is titled 'Juvinilia Juxtaposed' and features some really good photographers like Udit Kulshrestha, Sephi Bergerson and Bandeep Singh. For details about the exhibition, mail galleryragini@gmail.com or for those in Delhi, call 011-29522077.


For all those who have not heard of the revolution... here goes to this song and to mera Bharat mahaan. Pass on to all those who would appreciate it.

The fire within

1998-1999. I had recently moved to Delhi with my parents. So many things were new. Opinions were new, I discovered I had them, I was allowed to state them and no one said, "You can't say that because I am your father."

The biggest shock though was calling "seniors" by their names... In the army, everyone is aunty or uncle, even those just two years older to you. In the 'outside' world, you were judged by what you did, the stories you cracked, not by who's daughter you were.

The outside world was also not as protective as dad (or the army). I wasn't 'baby' anymore, no one was there to collect me from school. Older men weren't scared of my dad to approach me. Older women weren't maternal figures anymore, they had claws. I developed mine. I learnt to use the public transport system, to haggle with autorickshaw drivers, to not trust older men, be wary of older women. I longed to validate my identity, my existence.

I wanted roots. My roots. Delhi rooted me. Hah, literally. (grin) Jobs, houses, friends, lovers, attitudes formed, morphed, lost...gained. Heartbreaks, promotions, scandals (oh yeah), pets!, vices, gods... Everything was new, everything was different, everything was to be learnt, discovered. Ten years went by.

2008-2009. I have recently moved to Australia. So many things are new. Opinions are new, I have had them, I am changing some of them. I'm learning to respect other opinions as well. Of course, sometimes I forget. It's funny how from discovering you have opinions, we grow so possessive about them to let go...

The biggest shock was calling someone else's parents by their names. Toughest was calling Partner's parents by their names. Strange was when at times Partner would refer to his parents by their name!

The world outside India (and the media) is not the same. I am judged by how I adjust, what I learn and un-learn, by what I bring to the plate... Not by the stories I've done, the bylines I collected or who's girlfriend/wife I am. Both my press card and my Indian driving license mean nothing. My passport and the 'India' on it is my identity; legally and in many other ways. So far that is...

Oh yes, I also eat cow and am not in hell.

After 10 years of working for the best media houses, I've made sandwiches for people and cleaned tables. My resume has so far been worthless; even for getting a job at a bookstore. :) Friends, associates, attitudes, vices, interests are forming, morphing... No promotions or scandals (yet). Lover remains the same. :)

I moved so much in India, then moved out of India and now... I am stepping over boundaries, geographically, mentally, hell even physically. Like piling on kilos (hrmph).

It's like a dream. Things and places I read about in Readers' Digest and National Geographic, saw movies about, read in fiction novels... Those things, places, people are real. Real enough to touch. feel and taste (er, not the people).

I am happy and I am humbled....AND we are flying to three awesome, awesome places on Sunday evening. See if you can guess them?

Dil for daal?

Most people I know have at least two food items they hate with all their heart (or stomachs) and will only eat them intravenously, if they were unconscious. When friends tell me about their hate-foods, it’s usually goes back to their childhood and involves some form of force-feeding story. For some, it’s been a case of having mothers who were really adventurous in the kitchen… with disastrous results.
Read full post Read daal recipe

PS: Have always had a weird, can't-name-it relationship with my the college I studied in. Yet, proud that some women do this.

Love and the Holi mess

I really don't understand men. This was supposed to be a nostalgic post on Holi, some cooking, Lucifer the cat and a sort-of-expose on Gaudiya Vaishnavites in Melbourne (if you're going huh, we'll get to that later in the post)... TILL Partner called. Now you get two stories in one post.
(Pic = http://www.zazzle.com/great_perfume_insult_t_shirts-235957917253053515)

Story 1: Men are weird

It could have been a usual checking-on-you call, but what makes this call significant was that Partner did it again. Him doing it again also goes to prove that despite age difference, cultural differences and the bloody Indian Ocean separating Australia and India... ALL men are alike. Partner and my father are so similar in so many ways that if I wasn't losing hair, I'd be pulling my hair out. You'll soon read why...

Partner announced a couple of evenings back that we were to go for dinner at this couple's place. (It's so my dad) Of course it is no big deal -- I could live with being 'informed' instead of being 'asked' -- and I was/am only happy to go out for dinner. Except that I am further informed that the "boys have decided" that the dinner is supposed to be a curry-cook-off between the "girls". As in the other bloke's wife and I are supposed to cook curries. Since I love cooking and all, it was/is still okay. So I called the lady this morning (it's 1.07 pm now) and decide on what I will bring to the table. Please note that other than 'informing' me that I am supposedly cooking a curry, Partner has given no inputs on what, hot curry or not (this is Australia), preference for meat, Indian or other curry etc. I let him know nonetheless about what is being cooked -- I've offered to make dessert as well -- and go off to the supermarket to buy the requisite items and am in the process of tying the apron... When Partner calls.

His opening words, "Do you realise how all you women are weird?" Since I am thinking gosht and not Gucci, I go "huh". Then Partner explains how he had been walking around this huge department store when he happened to pass the perfume department. With absolute incredulity he says, "And there were five women, all strangers to each other, all standing in a line SNIFFING at those silly perfume cards and behaving as if it was a cocaine hit. Women are weird," he says.
(Pic= http://www.liewcf.com/blog/archives/2004/06/perfume/

Point to be noted here is that Partner does not usually walk around department stores. He avoids them like the plague and visibly pales every time I even mention a department store. Even if it were to buy him something. Now Partner was at this department store because he 1) needs to buy a wedding present and 2) needs to buy a suit to wear to the wedding. Before you think I am throwing a fit for no reason, please let me tell you that said wedding is day after tomorrow. After repeated reminders about buying a gift, it is again at the last minute. After repeated suggestions about going to a store and buying a suit -- and him throwing tantrums that he doesn't need one -- it too, is at the last minute. And women sniffing perfume cards are weird?

Once I point out the fallacies in his "women are weird" theory, Partner scoffs and asks me what I am up to. So I tell him I am about to cook at which point he does it again. "Cooking? Oh yes, the dinner. Just cook something okay, you don't have to spend the whole day cooking the best of the best," he says. Right. WHAT THE HELL DOES COOK "SOMETHING" MEAN AND THAT TOO WHEN I DID NOT ASK TO COOK? AND SINCE I AM BLOODY HELL COOKING I COULD DO WITH SOME FRIGGIN' APPRECIATION.

(That felt good) (Hmm) (Do you think I'm being unreasonable here?) (Anyway...)

Story 2: Did Krishna do yoga?

So yesterday (Wednesday) was class and we were all sitting outside the Victoria State Library lawns -- a minute's walk from uni -- bitching about the redundancy of a Masters course when all they do (so far) is make us do silly grade-10-exercies when I hear, "Hare Krishna, Hare Rama, Hare Krishna" accompanied by the sounds of the dholak and manjira. I turn around and see a group of people, a couple of Indians and majority white, dressed in saris and dhotis and dancing away to their chants. For the first time in my life, I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people. The Hare Krishnas are also called Gaudiya Vaishnavites and are followers of the Hindu god, Krishna. It is known to most (in India at least) that Holi is a major Vaishnavite festival and is celebrated with great aplomb by devotees of Krishna.

For those who don't know, yesterday (Mar 11) was Holi, the Indian festival of colours. Being my first Holi away from India -- and spent studying! -- I was very excited to see the Hare Krishna people and was sure they would either have some colours or would at least wish me a heartfelt Happy Holi. When I saw them, I gave an excited yelp -- to the surprise of my Aussie classmates -- and ran over to the chanting group to wish them Happy Holi. As I ran towards them, one of the Hare Krishnas, this white girl in a green cotton saree with sandalwood smeared on her foreheard came running towards me...

"Happy Holi!" I yelled jubilantly with a big grin on my face... Only to have a business card -- Urban Yoga -- thrust into my hand. I stopped mid-sentence, looked at the card and then looked at the girl who - in a very Aussie accent -- had launched into the efficacies of 'mantra meditation and philosophy from ancient Indian scriptures." I mumbled I was not interested -- by now she was holding my hand -- when she pulled out another business card and handing it to me said, "Every Wednesday night, we have vegetarian dinner for $ 5." I could not think of anything else to say so asked her if they were celebrating Holi...

(Pic = Holi 2008, New Delhi, India)

"Holi? What's that?" she said.
"Holi. HOLI! It's the Indian festival of colours," I replied looking at her and the rest of the dhoti-clad, choti-flaunting, yoga-with-cheap-dinner selling frauds group.
"Oh is it now. Sounds good. You should come for the yoga," she added, pulling out a third business card.
"You DON'T know about Holi?" I asked, refusing to take the third card now being waved in my face.
"Naw, we don't celebrate it," she responded, throwing her arms in the air and adding, "Sing with me Hare Rama, Hare Krishna..."
I just turned and walked away. Vaishnavites who don't know about Holi but know how to sell yoga.

That was my reaction yesterday, but I had to find out more. How could they not know? I did some research and found out that the day of Holi is also the birthdate of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu, the founder-father of Gaudiya Vaishnavites. He is also seen as a reincarnation of Krishna. Apparently, Holi is a major day with the Vaishnavites. Today, I called the Melbourne Hare Krishna Temple; the phone was answered by a lady with the name of, Sarva-Mangala Devidasi. I asked her if they celebrated Holi, she said they didn't. I asked her if they weren't Vaishnavites. She said they were but that their sampradaya celebrated Holi as 'Gaura Purnima', more as Chaitanya Mahaprabhu's 'appearance day' than as the festival is popularly celebrated. Oh well. So I was wrong and the Gaudiya Vaishnavites don't celebrate Holi as I know it. Duly chastised. However, shouldn't the woman dishing out business cards have explained what they were doing instead of simply selling yoga?

Sigh. My Holi would have been absolutely colourless -- and I was secretly quite despondent -- except for a miracle. It was 7.30 pm, the sun was still up in the sky, there was a light drizzle and I was walking back home from the station. My head was down and my thoughts were in India... on Holi the previous years and imagining how friends back home would be all drunk on bhaang and dirty in all shades of the rainbow. I turned on to our street when I heard a familiar I-know-you mewl. It was Lucifer, the black cat who lives 500 metres from our house and always welcomes me.

So I bent down to pet him and talk to him, when he suddenly looked right into my brown eyes with his green-gold ones and looked up at the sky. I laughed because it looked as if Lucifer was trying to talk to me. I looked up. Right there, on my street, next to two railway lines, above our houses was the brightest, most perfect rainbow I had ever seen. All the colours. It was amazing.

PS: The pictures are small and crap because I forgot to change my phone-camera settings. Sorry, wish I could show you'll, it was really beautiful. My heavenly Holi, up in the skies.

Craving for calories

<---- Just LOOK at those... they just want to be bitten into.

There has been something seriously missing in my life... at least gastronomically. I've tried everything from croissants, doughnuts, the fraud tandoori chicken that you get here, the simple-yet-tasty Japanese chicken curry (Don Don) and chicken laksa (Laksa King).

Nothing's working!!! :( Everything is just so.... BLAND!

At a restaurant last week, when I asked for my Bloody Mary to be made spicier... I was given a whole bottle of tabasco sauce. WTF??! I might as well have bought my own tin of tomato juice, vodka and chewed on some celery while at it. The restaurant I worked at, the chef made daal and put - choke! - chopped chives in it. Sorry, it was tasty and all, but THAT was not daal. No wonder restaurants here spell it as 'dhal'. My arse.

Then yesterday -- again while watching another documentary on SBS, this one on 'rising India' -- they showed this bloody British bloke chomping away on - gulp! - moong daal pakore and mirchi pakore. "These are so good. Fried chillies, who would have thought of it?" he says. Yessir, bada sahib, a nation of a billion -- and it's neighbours eat it -- but of course if Your Highness has not heard of it, it's not supposed to exist.

I WANT MY BHAJIYA!!!

I don't care about pavloas, I want pakore. Fuck the tiramisu, gimme tikki any day. And gol-gappe at Nathu's. Here I put like two, little black peppercorns in my daal and people go, "My god that's hot." Arre, what bloody hot! No jalebees either and it is a national insult to call those things-that-come-in-tins as rasgullas.

My life is ruined. Partner better make up for it. :(

My current fantasy list includes:
1. Jalebee that I had at India Today office: Karol Bagh, Jhandewalan

2. Mirchi pakode: from anywhere

3. Gol gappe: always Nathu's...and please, the real ones are not called water balls (scoff)

4. Aloo tikki: Sarojini Nagar, after loads of shopping while jostling with other women

5. Pyaz parantha: Moolchand, mere pyaare Moolchand paranthe...

6. Kulcha-chana @ Rs 5: outside the Times of India office, ITO...

7. Bhel puri: For Rs 7/- outside LSR, he just knew how to make it

8. Kaala-khatta: the joy of slurping, South Ex part 2

9. Aloo-chaat: as you enter Noida from Kalindi Kunj side, there are these dudes who make fried
potato chaat in tins, with three other tin scraps to keep the wind out. Oh lord, divine.

10. Samose followed by gulab jamun: at Ber Sarai, even Partner misses them.

11. Bread pakore: again India today office, Karol Bagh, Jhandewalan...really oily, really unhealthy, but bloody good for the taste buds.

12. Meetha paan: only and only from Prince Paan Bhandar, GK 1. Partner never understood my fascination for paan. He has no appreciation for the good things in life.

Oh my life is ruined.

PS: Am hungry, what to eat? A sandwich. Wow.

Sizzling hot. Oof!

Scorching. Sweltering. Sizzling. Stifling.

That's exactly what the weather report here reads like for this week. Yesterday was my first experience of the heat of the Australian summer. Despite it being only 41 degrees -- I am from India, seen much worse, ahem -- the sun seems to sear through the skin. I could feel my scalp burning and my skin turning from the hue of milk chocolate to dark cooking chocolate in a mere five minutes. In Delhi, the heat radiates off everything... in Melbourne it does not radiate because everything starts melting way before that.

In 2008, I had pretty much managed to skip the Delhi summer. April-May 2008 had seen Partner and me travelling to the beautiful Leh-Ladakh (-->) and then to Kuala Lumpur for Partner's (<--) cousin's a wedding with a short, five-day stint in Melbourne. While KL had been pleasant, Melbourne had its winter then. Subsequently, once we moved here in July 2008, I had altogether managed to skip the Delhi summer. The last year also saw Melbourne having a freak summer where instead of it warming up in December, most of that month and January fluctuated between pleasant and wearing sweaters ('jumpers' here). Now apparently the state of Victoria is suffering a heat wave, the likes of which haven't been since 1908. At least 20 localities lost power supply, newspapers suggested that people without airconditioners move to shopping malls (er, with sleeping bags?!) and people walking on the roads seemed to be steaming, me included.

Funny that power cuts, heat waves, no water and no airconditioner was pretty much the way of life for me for a long while.

In June 2002, after three months of sleeping under the office table at the India Today Group Online office -- didn't have a house and was young and fool-hardy enough to think I could live like a nomad -- I had rented a one room hole in Lajpat Nagar. This hole was bang in the centre of Gupta Market, best known for salwar-kameez materials and mannequins. At night when I'd come back from work, the streets would be deserted. The only inhabitants were stray dogs hiding under cars and behind dustbins and hundreds and hundreds of naked mannequins -- stripped off their glittering finery for the night -- lining up the street that housed my hole. It was one of the most bizarre experiences. I would return from covering a fashion show or some party to be greeted by naked plastic men and women, staring dead ahead, oblivious of me or the dogs.

The hole was on the first floor. To get up to it you had to cross huge mounds of plastic wrapping, discarded cloth strips from the many local tailoring shops, dog poo hidden like land mines amongst the piles and paan (betel leaves) stains on every bit of vacant wall that wasn't already covered with posters of paan-chewing local politicians. Sometimes the paan was spat out on the politicians' faces, it really didn't make a difference though. Their sinister smiles and hollow promises seemed to overpower even the stains...

Adjacent to my hole were seven other holes, three on each side. Each of those holes had families of at least six living inside. All holes were basically one room. I didn't have anything other than a rucksack with my clothes, a Rs 300 moulding mattress and Papa's old Philips tape recorder. At any given time, you could hear at least three different channels from the neighbouring holes. It usually meant listening to a medley of Sa Re Ga Ma ( the antakshari show, Anu Kapoor used to anchor it back then), Hindi news channel with cheap ads Aaj Tak (remember PP Jewellers?) and some obscure soap opera at the same time. The only other sounds were those of husbands shouting for food, babies crying and old people coughing.

And I would lie there in the sweltering heat with only a ceiling fan. Rather a tired ceiling fan that was bored of circulating the stifling, non-existent breeze and refused to move at anything faster than the speed of 1. I earned a mere Rs 8000 then (without taxes) and was paying Rs 3,500 for rent. Before going to bed, I'd pour two mugs of water on me -- a borrowed bucket of water, there was none in the taps, landlord said it wasn't part of the deal -- and then lie under the tired fan. I could only sleep till my sweat-mingled-with-water dried off.

I didn't cook back then... had only saucepan and a plate and no money for anything else. Also the fact that the 'terrace' had bats hanging from the awning and the kitchen was on the terrace wasn't much encouragement. There was a charpai/ charpoy (literally 'four legs', a basic cot with criss-crossing hemp ropes) that I used as a walk-in almirah. Hah, it rested on its sides and my clothes hung on it... I was buying drinking water and the kitchen was full of empty bottles. When Ma came visiting and opened the kitchen door, 250 empty bottles of water had tumbled out. Ma had just sat down and started crying. I had still refused monetary help. The stupid resilience and even stupider pride of being 21-years-old...

Then and now. Friends had laughed at me when I had marvelled at the amazing shower heads in the Kuala Lumpur hotel room. But kya kare, I was amazed. (smiles) Either I am getting soft now or I'm getting old because I have borne much worse, without any or much lesser complaint.

Now I wonder if the basics of life -- considered a right here, how different from Delhi -- available at the push of a button provide enough impetus to start all over again. I have uprooted myself, but will I be able to re-establish myself?

Indian arrested for street fire cracker display in Melbourne...

...or that WILL be the headline if I decide to get on the road, like India, like home, and throw some patak bombs and a couple of anars. Some would think I have terrorist links. If I were to decorate the outside of my house with candles and diyas, it would be deemed a fire hazard. Sigh. HAPPY DIWALI everyone!

Other than screaming HAPPY DIWALI in all-caps on this blog, there is no "feel" of Diwali. Dussehra too went by without a whimper, no lights, no new clothes and no Ravan burning. At least I can blame Hindustan Times for the new clothes; had they paid me on time -- and in full since I am still expecting payment from them -- I would have bought something new.

For the first time in years, my house will be dark on Diwali. Last year, November 7th was the date, Partner, my brother and myself had stood on the fourth floor terrace of my New Delhi home and enjoyed the crackers going off in the haze-filled Delhi horizons. Golu and Loona, my dogs, had run across the terrace in mad circles barking at the rockets that whooshed atop us and exploded in myriad coloured sparks... Year after year, newspaper and website headlines have screamed how Diwali is disastrous for Delhi pollution.

Maybe I am being selfish, but oh! How I would love to have the peace on my "street" (there are only streets, no colonies here) disturbed by kids setting off random loud break-your-window-pane bombs or the 1000-strong ladi. I have always--- HAD always -- loved looking at the bedecked houses, some with fairy lights, some with diyas and others with candles as they stood trying to twinkle amid the smoke and the smell of explosives. I LOVE that smell though have been known to be a big coward when it comes to igniting the fuse on the 'bombs'. I am the stuff-my-fingers-in-my-ears type of person and usually enjoy crackers -- bomb variety -- standing behind someone else. Or used to enjoy...

Diwali with my parents and brother meant cleaning up, dressing up in Indian finery, arranging the candles and diyas on a big plate and going around the house, decorating it with lights. That was Ma and my duty. The boys -- Dad and bro -- were in charge of the crackers and entertainment. Every Diwali, Dad would wait patiently to find the perfect bottle to hold the rocket stem so that it would rise really high...

As I grew, Diwali also became synonymous with betting and gambling. I know friends in Delhi who live for the Diwali time gambling. Interestingly, this period is also one of gambling in Australia-- or at least Victoria state -- though it's on horses. It's the derby season, November 4th being the Derby day. Like most festivals, most celebration is about drinking. Birthday? Let's drink. Anniversary? Let's drink. Christmas? Let's drink. Marriage? Let's drink. Boxing Day? Let's drink. Anzac Day? Let's drink. Hmmm...

So I reported to work at 7 am and I'm currently supposed to be working on a business proposal that has to be submitted coming Monday. It's part of the coursework. And am wearing a grey noodle-strapped top (called a 'singlet' here), jeans and there is no indication around me that today is one of the biggest festivals in India.

I miss Diwali. I miss India... I miss being with the menwhopause (last four Diwalis), I miss Ma-Pa and Bhai, I miss the rangoli that office would have, I miss the free Diwali office gift (even though most would bitch about it later), I miss schools signing no-fire-cracker campaigns, I miss old people tut-tutting at young people who delight in startling people with sudden bombs. I miss narkol nadu at Lokkhi pujo. I miss houses looking beautiful...

I really, really miss home. I am sorry I've not written for this long. For once, I am keeping all Diwali messages in my inbox.... and am craving my phone buzzing with greetings and wishes. It stays silent though. It's now an international number.

Oh Golu.

PS: To You who has been mailing and I have not replied; no, I am not heartless. I don't know what to write back. Yes, I am in good health and considerable good spirit. But something yearns.

to DJ: I had never realised how much those mid0-week cups of coffee meant to me. I miss you terribly too.

to menwhopause: thankyou for all the times when alone in Delhi, I celebrated festivals with you boys. From Holi, Diwali to Christmas...

Bombed

What would we/you do if we wake up to our neighbourhood being bombed and tanks patrolling our streets? Will we stock up on food or will we take backups of our hard drives?

That was written a month back (make love, not war), on the eve of the Indian independence. A month later, the city that was my home for the last 10 years has had serial blasts. (Pic: GK1 market)

Prince Pan Corner at the Greater Kailash (Part 1) market in New Delhi, is stuff made of legends. Apparently the owner (is he called Prince?) is a real-life rags-to-riches story. Or in this case, a betel leaves to Mercedes Benz story. I had first heard about PPC in 1998, the same time ‘GK 1’ market became synonymous with ‘posh’ in my understanding. That was my first year in Delhi, the PVR Anupam multiplex complex was just about coming up and the shopping mall invasion and hoardings of Parsavnath Developers and co. were still a distant dream (nightmare?).

So much changed in the 10 years I lived in that city.

(Pic: flower market, Lado Sarai, Saket)
From being the centre of public transport chaos -- used to board the 727 Palam airport bus -- the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) centre crossing changed forever with the new clover-leaf flyover. Dhaula Kuan turned into a maze though the Naraina road junction is still a traffic bottleneck. Celebrated as Delhi’s first multiplex, the PVR group changed the face and the cinema history of the city. As the multiplexes and malls that housed the many screens mushroomed, the single-screen movie halls died out. From being the hub for catching the latest ‘English’ movie, Chanakya cinema (Yashwant Place) became a poor cousin to PVR. Once upon a time as a first year college student, we lined up outside Priya cinema for a Rs 10 ticket. Now the cheapest ticket is Rs 100 and you can watch the same movie lying down with a blanket and snacks served to you for Rs 700.

(Pic: Delhi Haat)
There was a time when you would never go hungry in Delhi. There were colony-corner, boiled-egg hawkers at dawn and aloo-parantha masters at the wee hours of the night. With those you got sweetened, ginger tea. Outside AIIMS, under the Moolchand flyover, opposite IIT Delhi, egg, paneer, onion and aloo paranthas with pickle were devoured by those on bikes and in BMWs alike. Not anymore. The city municipal council wants to regularise street hawkers. Gol gappas are served with gloves on, bhelpuri that cost Rs 7 is now Rs 20, samosas have to be eaten with knives and forks and the roadside tea stalls are being replaced by swanky Baristas and other coffee chains. Chai too now comes in jasmine, ginseng and other flavours and has become so alien, it’s called a health drink.

(Pic: Sundar Nursery, Nizamuddin)
The commercial hub of Connaught Place (CP) in central Delhi was a frequent haunt for coffee indulgence. There was an interesting piece in the now-defunct afternoon paper, Today, where they had photoshopped the pan-stained, dirty pillars in CP, cleaned the garbage, set up umbrellas and imagined what a clean, shopper-friendly CP would look like. Even though imaginary, it looked beautiful. Now you see roads dug up everywhere, somewhere for the Metro, at others for the high capacity bus corridors. Early this year, the Delhi Municipal Corporation chopped up healthy trees on Panchsheel road to make way for buses and cars even as Tata Motors introduced the Nano so that every Indian can have a car. Shudder.

Development on one side, demise of a city’s ethos on another.

Saturday (September 13, 2008), a series of bombs went off in Delhi, killing 30 people. Both CP and GK1 were bombed (along with Ghaffar Market). In the latter, it was near Prince Pan Corner. In CP, it was on Barakhamba (12 pillars literally) road. I commuted on that road frequently. Though in recent times unrecognisable - thanks to Delhi Metro rail project and other ‘development‘ work -- than what it looked like first when I arrived in Delhi.

Yesterday (Tuesday), when I asked friends back in Delhi if things were all right with them, the response was more or less the same from everyone. Bordering from lacklustre, to ludicrous and downright lackadaisical. Serial blasts and 30 dead as invites for weekend DJ gigs were being sent out on Facebook. Is it just Delhi? Or is it India? Or the fact that we are a billion plus and have many to kill?

Daily after the primetime news, one American TV network (forgetting the name, will find out) flashes faces of American soldiers who are being killed daily in Iraq. No music, no sound effects, just pictures and names. Do we remember a single name -- without being related to him/them -- of the soldiers who died in the Kargil war? One boy went missing in Melbourne -- Indian child, adopted from Mumbai -- and it made headlines here. I am not too sure if we even have a complete database of missing people in India.

As I logged on to various websites to get more details on the bomb blasts, I came upon a slideshow on IBNLive.com. Just pictures of dead and injured with haphazard captions. Another game of hit counts without any thought or feeling. Not one site bothered with interviews or insight or even a post/piece that spoke about how or what people felt. No one seems to care and life goes on. But why don’t we care?

And what would we/you do if we wake up to our neighbourhood being bombed and tanks patrolling our streets? Will we stock up on food or will we take backups of our hard drives?

PS: Thanks Silvara! Guys n girls, read this and this as well.

Blah, blah black sheep...

Top questions on my mind, in no particular order:
1. If I come back my to India, what will I do? Will those I've worked for/with, hire me back? What if there are no vacancies?
2. Will I come back to Delhi, elsewhere... will it mean the same headaches with landlords?
3. Will my friends be happy to see me back... or not care?
4. Do I even want to write a book? And if I do, why should I write fiction first? And why can't the blog be a book if at all it's the blog that is making people say, "You should write a book." Why do we need yet-another author? What's so new that I have to say or that someone else will not say if I banish the book from my Scheme of Things?
5. Will my parents be happy to have me back... or will they think I am a 'problem' never to be resolved? The child who never settles down, who can't get a thing right? They've never called me a 'problem'... so why do I think like that?
6. Will I be able to complete the first assingment and hand it on Wednesday, which is supposed to include at least 15 research books and I haven't even started on one...?! Eeesh.
7. Will gol-gappas sell in Melbourne? How about paapri-chaat? It can be called puffed bread with cumin-flavoured yoghurt (add fat-free!) and salad. Why not?

I hate college. I mean, why can't I be the judge of whether I've learnt anything or not? Why should someone else judge it? Shouldn't they be happy taking the fee and shutting up? I HATE assignments. I hate them more than I hated deadlines.

I HATE being MADE to write things.

I hate reading books that are not fiction and that I cannot throw if I don't like the first few chapters or even paragraphs. I HATE Umberto Eco. All these years I did so well avoiding him completely. Now he has come back. The professors call him a "gap in the literature". Not him, but the fact that I haven't read him. For that matter, no one in class has read him, THAT's how popular he is. And I have a suspicion that if it weren't for research students, no one would read him either. Except for my best friend who was reading him when she was 17.

Why doesn't Ma ask me more than "how are you, do you need anything, is everything ok?" Why does she always add, "Don't spoil this, keep him happy." What if I can't? What if I don't want to? What if I want to fight? Why do I have to keep him happy and how/why is she sure that it will be ME who will spoil "it"? I wonder if she understands (? empathises? comprehends?) what motivates me. Or if I understand what motivates her...

I think there was a time when the 'welfare of the kids' motivated her. Now, I am not too sure... and guilty. If that was her motivation, now it's not there and neither is the assurance that this 'kid' is well-fared. I don't know my mother anymore... and perhaps it's the same for her. Isn't growing up supposed to bring one closer to parents? Mother-daughter? Or is it because of me...? Has it happened with any of you? Or is it JUST me? Disfunctional? Black sheep? (brown?)

When in Delhi, Dad used to send me cuttings of interesting newspaper and magazine articles. He highly recommended Bismillah from Nayee Duniyan. Please read him, in Hindi, but brilliant humour. I don't think he can send my writing to anyone. Ma dutifully (lovingly?) maintains the cuttings of my HT columns and says, "I keep them beta, I don't understand them. I never understand anything that you write."

What's the fucking point of writing then?


PS: I want mangsho-bhaat with aloo in it. Or I want shorsher-maach with nebu and begun bhaaja. I don't want to cook it. I want mutton -- GOAT mutton -- lamb is a fraud. (black sheep?) Stupid, fluffy things. I was delighted to find Maggi in the stores and then despondent to realise there's no Masala Maggi. :(
Did I mention I HATE sandwiches?
Can't upload a pic, the Explorer is PMS-ing.

Smack my bitch up. Please.

Or, Chaos, serendipity and reflection

Pondering: What’s the longest that pubic hair can grow to? Can’t Google-it in the library, dont want the admin to think I am surfing porn. Sad.

Learnt: Too much reflection will never get the work done. I reflect all the time. It’s inversely proportional to word count dished out.

Felt patriotic when: One, Shashi Tharoor was being interviewed on an Aussie news channel and despite never having any particular fondness for him, felt an immense sense of pleasure seeing him up there. However, he didn’t sound too convincing when explaining why India is not a willing party to cutting her carbon emission rates in ways that would make the US and Australian governments happy. And the world a better place. Presumably, since no one wants to guarantee that.

Two, on discovering a Karsh Kale track when uploading Windows Vista on new laptop. The tabla is divine! Three, when teaching how to say “up your mother’s” in Hindi to two Sri Lankan chicks. One of them should soon be saying “thik hai” too.


Inspired: By Aussie lad-mag called Vice, had a picture of a 35-something mother, holding a rifle with a 6-year-old boy suckling on her right nipple. Also some pictures of bums, the photographer felt that since everyone shoots face-pictures, he needed to do something about it. Poorly executed idea, nice bums though. Guess no one minds the execution then. I am going to shoot bums too.

Realised: Relationships can be a pain in the arse. You are forever doing something wrong. Or forever looking for something wrong. Perhaps some of us like some pain in the arse. Or are plain stupid. Have you ever had the feeling that if there is nothing wrong (or nothing going wrong) in your life, it could mean there’s something really sinister happening somewhere? And that it will hit you in the face when you least expect it to?

Confession: I am really angtsy today, have been so all day. I could be missing the Delhi chaos. Maybe. The daily fights with autorickshaw drivers for one. Here everything is mechanical. Punch preference, put money in, get on with it. No humans. Most things are very efficient, so much so they can be boring. Like all my glassware is intact. No maid to rush through washing dishes who would break them. Funny that the song playing on the laptop right now – of the five songs I could download before the Internet died at home – is Ironic (Alanis Morisette).

There are fond memories associated with the song.

First year of college, N and me going to participate in the intracollege annual festival at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Delhi. The fest is called Rendezvous. She participating in the western music competition and me in the on-the-spot story writing one. She sang an acoustic version of Ironic. I wrote “I am a bitch but I didn’t want it to end this way”. It won the first prize. Shrug. College did not publish it in the college mag, they wanted stories on feminism, not psychopathic killers. N never made it to the western music society and I pulled out of the creative writing one.

That was also the time both of us would while away time at the bus stop outside college concocting imaginary stories about what-would-life-be-when-we-grow-up. I was only 19 then, ten bloody years AGO. Where? When? How? What the fuck happened? She was the only one who said that of the 22 girls in class, I would be the first to get married but it would end in a divorce. I had scoffed at being the first to marry. (Smiles) She is married today, I am not. Fortunately or not so, I’ve always been quick at undoing mistakes. Or running from them.

Right now, thanks to all the author names that people throw around, sitting amongst other “writers” seems like a BIG mistake. “Have you read Umberto Eco?” Er, yes, but put down Focault’s Pendulum after page-four because it made no sense to me. My best friend though has read most of his work... but she is into management now. Ironic?

I also want to fight, kick, scream, lunge, lash, hit out. Writing requires sitting in one place. And reflecting. I can do that, perhaps. But what about action? There’s no chaos here. I miss chaos.

I miss home.

PS: Dont think Golu would like it here, he wouldn’t be able to run around freely.

PS2: I think I saw Tinkuji in the market today...

Ok tata, bye bye!

Oi people,

As of tonight, am flying out to join Partner in Melbourne. It's a year and a half of studying and writing and missing Delhi and those I met here... and learning a new way of life. DAMN. I won't lie, I am excited, nervous, terrified and cannot eat anything right now. Bile tastes real yucky I tell you.

Hopefully Melbourne and me will adapt to each other and no one will feed me to the crocodiles. Given my size and lack of meat, don't think the crocs will enjoy me either. Have no idea about jelly fish though and prefer to see them from this side of a glass wall under artificial life. I SUCK at sport and need to learn swimming. I can only doggy paddle now and the lack of a tail makes that difficult as well. As for 'net ball', playing it with specs on is kinda tough and without the glasses I am blind.

Then again, people have told me they enjoy my food BUT I don't think Aussie dishes use haldi (turmeric) or garam masala. So tad nervous about how does one know when a steak is rare and when its medium-rare when cooking at home. And the moment I think of how happily a kangaroo hops BEFORE it lands on the dinner table reduces me to tears. But then, if i am quite happy watching a chicken die and eating it, i hope i can harden my heart about the roos as well. HRMPH. Shall learn.

Recently when packing, my dad called my clothes 'chindhi', which means 'rags' in Hindi. Now that has made me nervous too since well, I wear small things and well, if I dont like the size I tend to run scissors through it. So well, a lot of my clothes have irregular hemlines because I have chopped them off. And some of my favourites are stuff that have Golu -teeth marks on them... And chicks in Melbourne dress real well... Man!

My best friend called - and she's studied and lived overseas a lot -- and told me to take it easy. So well, no more frantic typing for lack of anything better to do. Shall keep repeating the following to self:

1. What I don't know I can learn.
2. What I cant wear, I shall carry off like the latest fashion statement.
3. NEVER to embarrass my Partner. (will need practice)
4. Learn to keep my mouth shut or speak softly if at all I get the itch to say it as-is.
5. TRUST people. HMMM.

OH... PLEASE mail me your phone numbers and email ids as my current Delhi phone will be out and I am most likely to lose the SIM to retract numbers from it. Eve Emancipation the blog, will continue...let's see if it changes or how. And perhaps Mishraji will visit Melbourne...

To all I have met along the way -- sorry if I said and did things you didn't deserve and if you DID deserve those, let's hope we can start afresh some other time. If you're not interested, let me know, will save me trouble. (Woman, you just said 'learn to keep my mouth shut!)

Aaaaaaaaaa, am blabbering. Am off for second cup of coffee and DO something about this drasted RAT that's running around my friend's house and has jumped OVER my legs twice. Shit rodent.

Ok tata bye bye!!!

Lecka cocka, bullfrogs and missing buckets

Day 1, May 9, 2008: Kuala Lumpur

It was an overnight flight on Malaysia Airlines and early morning on May 9th, we reached the Kuala Lumpur International Airport (KLIA). The flight was pretty uneventful except that my hair was irritatingly FULL of static and standing at all ends. Also, while I have not flown other international airlines – but have seen and met enough hostesses – I found the hostesses on Malaysian airlines to be very rude and have a peculiar ‘we know better’ attitude. Initially I thought it was my “black armband” as Partner calls it, but over the trip it proved to be more a case with Malaysian Airlines. More on that later…

<--- Kuala Lumpur International Airport
Since we were flying into KL in the morning I could have a birds’ eye view (or plane’s window view) at Malaysia. My first impression was of the country being very, very green. Actually manicured green since all the trees seemed to have the same height. Before it could register, Partner helpfully pointed out that the trees were palm tree plantations for palm oil, one of the biggest sources of income for Malaysia with India being one of the major importer’s. As we got off at KLIA, I was a bit surprised to realize that there were no ‘buses’ waiting to herd-in the passengers, instead you walk out to the terminal, get into a swanky train that then takes you into the main terminal. That was just the beginning; Kuala Lumpur is ALL about efficiency.

The in-flight ad for KLIA says, “It’s impossible to lose your way at the airport,” and they were right. That’s something that super impressed me about both KL and Melbourne – the signage on the streets and the detailing in the road maps – as long as you can read English, even a first-timer to the cities will manage her way around. The same cannot be said about Delhi though: Imagine asking a new-in-town person to find Jhandu Singh Marg*, or locate the right house number in Greater Kailash 1. Once out of immigration, I was further pleasantly surprised that there was no rushing, stomping or fighting over taxis. It’s smooth and was smoother still for us since we had the hotel limousine service waiting for us.

<--- Renaissance Hotel that stands in the KL Golden Triangle
During the ride from the airport to the hotel, we got a complete lowdown about Malaysian economy, politics and a rush-through of places to visit from our cab driver, Malay with origins in Tamil Nadu. Both Partner and I were super impressed with his knowledge of the situation in Malaysia and his individual perspective. Also, unlike Delhi, cabbies in KL don’t keep looking into their rearview to see what’s happening in the back seat. Education, awareness and an opinion were something in common to all the south-Indian-Malay cabbies we rode with in KL. We stayed at Renaissance hotel that was neighbour to the Petronas Twin Towers and Partner took the piss out of me since for a first international holiday, I was having a shamelessly luxurious one. And he should know, his first visit to India was way back in 2000, as a backpacker and here I was staying at a posh five star and then moving to an exclusive, manicured resort for the next four. Funnier still is how fast a human being can adjust to luxury… like showers.

Pic courtesy: http://anneromano.com/images/india_bucket.gif
Some of you might laugh at this – and I do sound like a yokel, but not going to lie – but after having lived in rented accommodations for the last 10 years (17 house shifts) and before that in Army accommodations that aren’t really examples of architecture or amenities – what REALLY struck me were, er, the showers in the bathrooms. Haha, it’s so funny, our perception of how things should be and the kind of things we take for granted. Like in our first winter together, Partner was shocked to find me washing dishes in cold water. “Don’t you have hot water for the dishes?” he had asked incredulously. I had looked at him even more incredulously and pointed out that we didn’t even have a geyser in the bathroom and used an emersion rod for heating water and it was a bit too much to expect hot water for bloody dishes.

ALL my experiences with showers in India have included either houses not having showers at all, or the shower not working, or the shower head skewed at a weird angle where it spews water everywhere but on you, or the knobs rusted with disuse, or the water pressure being too low for the shower to work at all. Or if at all the shower works, most of the holes in the showerhead would be blocked and of course, the faucet head will ALWAYS leak, as a rule. I don’t think we realize, but the balti (bucket) has become SUCH an integral part of the Indian way of life ( also because we are not as toilet-paper friendly). If once I had laughed at Partner because he had been perplexed at the entire procedure of heating-water-bathing-from-bucket, he got his chance when he sweetly laughed at my excitement over “such nice showers”. Ha, ha, no amount of reading or watching movies can prepare you for some things, even if they are just showers. (It’s nice to have a comfort with another to not feel like an ignorant dunce all the time)


<--- KL monorail service makes travel far easier but there is debate on whether it conserves fuel or not
A little rest later we headed out for our first taste of Kuala Lumpur. My first impression of the traffic in Kuala Lumpur can be summarized in two sentences: “I want one of those bikes!” and “What are such young kids doing driving around in such posh cars?” Cabs, few buses for intercity travel, 135 cc bikes, cars, local trains and the ‘monorail’ constitute the transport in KL. Since Renaissance was located bang next to one of the monorail stations, moving around KL was a lark. As I wrote earlier, the maps make things pretty simple and the cab drivers are knowledgeable. From Renaissance we got off at Bukit Bintang, which would be the main shopping area in KL. From small stores with good bargains – we caught 50 per cent clearance sales in almost all stores – to showrooms for the biggest retail chains, KL is like any other major city the world. However, Partner said that the city lacked in “soul,” it was much later that I would be able to make my own judgment of that… For the first few shops, after a long while I was DELIGHTED to find clothes my size. We roamed around for an hour or two in the market and headed back to the hotel since we were to catch up with the family there. Post lunch it was pool time and the beginning of my love affair with the pina colada.

After lunch and burning that lunch in the pool -- constitutes me flapping around -- we all headed to the main market area for some dinner. That’s when I realized that KL comes to life at night. While in the morning people had been out on the streets, it seemed as if the entire city had descended on the roads at night. With lights all around, shops and young people dressed to their heels, it was with surprise that I realized it was 12 am. While the nighttime crowd was mainly young people or families out for a meal, it took only a glance to know that the girls dressed well. If the Chinese girls wore designer outfits, the girls in hijab did up their eyes in the most beautiful way. However, I hardly saw any Indians out…

We were a group of 12 and our dinner was an assortment of fish, bullfrog legs and Malaysian curries. Since I had been practicing using a chopstick in India – simply because Partner could use choppies and I of course was insulted that I didn’t know and therefore HAD to learn, heh – I insisted on having all my meals with chopsticks. For first time chopstick users I would suggest keeping a spoon (even if you have to hide one in your purse) as things slithering off your plate and landing on the floor is not very graceful. Oh yes, bullfrog legs are kinda crispy-chewy... and not something that I would be trying again, no matter what the French say. After dinner some of us headed towards China Town (open 6-11 pm and supposedly has awesome bargains but everything is fake) and four of us – Partner, me and his aunt P and uncle M – went out to check out some nightspots.

Our first stop was this restaurant/bar called ‘Lecka Lecka’, which thanks to my being blind – I am shortsighted and had sat on my specs the night before the trip – I read the sign as “Lecka Cocka” (the logo, look at the bloody logo!). Amused, I also pointed it out to Partner’s aunt, like five seconds before I bit my tongue and realized that that’s NOT something you point out to someone’s relative five hours into meeting them. (scowl) Next time I shall learn to keep my amusing observations to myself. After my initial reluctance at stepping into the place, which was alleviated once I read the sign properly, it turned out to be quite nice. In both Melbourne and KL, I realized that street side cafes are huge business and special care is taken to make the outdoor seating as attractive as the indoor. I couldn’t help but think how a little paint job, some lights and inviting outdoor seating could change the face of Connaught Place in Delhi. For instance, United Coffee House has such a forgotten British charm to it, clean out the exterior, put some umbrellas and chairs and we might just have a truly international shopping experience in CP.


As we smoked our hookah/sheesha at Lecka-Lecka, which was playing some Latino tracks, we all got into the mood to salsa. The fact that neither of us knew how to salsa was not considered and we thought it wasn’t important… We were to be proven wrong. The first salsa place was ‘Q Ba’ where there was a rocking live band belting out tunes with such gusto that we all were dancing even as we approached the bar… However, before we could order a drink we were asked to leave the place as M was in shorts and the place only allowed formal clothes. The seriousness of salsa! While I appreciate keeping the ‘integrity’ of a dance alive, snobbery because some others might know the moves and yet want to revel in it, is not so right… For me dance is about letting go and having fun. Anyway, disappointed we decided to find another joint and after some enquiries, headed off to the Federal Hotel and its bar called ‘Havana’. It was no match for ‘Q Ba’, which was quite obviously a happening place, but it had its share of salsa followers shaking it on the dance floor.

Again, I noticed the lack of Indians both at Q Ba and Havana. KL is supposed to be a multicultural city with many Indian immigrants and locals and yet all day, I had hardly seen any Indians. Senior people I could understand, but didn’t the young Indians go partying? I HAD to ask and cornered the salsa instructor at Havana; he turned out to be Punjabi! My suspicions were right, according to the dude (unfortunately have forgotten his name), most Indians in KL are VERY conservative and do not approve of their kids learning salsa or such. If at all the Indians there party, they apparently usually head for ‘Bollywood’ bars!

Indians abroad being more conservative than those back home is something many people who travel have told me. To me, it seems that it’s either a case of wanting to hold on tight to what you have left behind or a fear of learning new things. Like going to a new restaurant and ending up ordering Indian food all the time. Or it could also be a case of not valuing what we have till we step out of our comfort zones. Hmm… I think I need to travel more to figure that one out. Ha, ha.

After the sojourn on KL streets, it was back to the hotel and sinking into a very tired but happy sleep. My holiday had just started…

PS: Jhandu Singh Marg is the left turn (if you’re coming from South Extension side) before the Hyatt Regency left turn.

PS2: While there weren’t any salsa-ing Indians that I met, it made me very proud that our very own Kaytee Namgyal is VERY well known in the salsa circuits. And to think that I had written about him in the obscure Around Town (published by Ogaan that also publishes Elle, the magazine is now dead) makes me feel real nice. Shows how people with true talent will always prosper…as long as they pursue it with all their energy.

PS3: The other posts wont be this long!!!!

Back in India, holiday withdrawal

Thank god that Delhi has rains, though was much surprised as we flew into the capital on Tuesday night to find clouds hovering and lightning outside. While we had been telling all and sundry that Delhi was boiling at 42 degrees -- the temperature when we left for Malaysia-Melbourne on May 8th and given that Malaysia was not more than 28 degrees while Melbourne was 10 degrees -- it was quite a pleasant change to find Delhi much, much cooler. And to think that Victoria, Melbourne almost has it's third consecutive year of drought (it rained a bit, but nothing like what we get here). Now it's been two days since I've been back and it's taking me some time to get used to. NOT because of any time difference or such but just because I STILL want to holiday... So am moping.

<--- first look at the Himalayas from the plane
Till as such time as I get the Delhi-Malaysia-Melbourne-St Arnaud posts ready, you guys have a look at the rest of the pics from Leh. For those who didn't know or missed, was in Leh-Ladakh for the weekend of April 18-21, 2008. For those who look at the picture and think they want to get to Leh, PLEASE DO SO. The tickets are bloody cheap as we paid Rs 12,000 return for two people and without any prior booking. We flew Jet Airways and came back on Deccan.

<--- Atop the Leh Palace, even today, most constructions are made of sun-dried, mud bricks

Since we were there for the last of the off-season weekends, we got a discount on the hotel room. We paid Rs 1,990 a night for the hotel room and stayed at Omasila Hotel, one of the best in Leh and apparently the one where Brad Pitt stayed during the shooting of Seven Years in Tibet. Amitabh Bachchan has also stayed there and well, now there's me on the list. Bwahahaha.

For those who might decide to stay at Omasila, be sure to ask for the ground floor rooms as those are centrally heated and the upper floors are not. The hotel however has these LPG heaters and you should ask for one if you plan your trip in the colder season. In the tourist season -- which is now to about end October -- accommodation is available starting from Rs 500.

Food is not an issue as there are restaurants and smaller hotels that sell everything from croissants, dal-roti to thukpa and manchurian. However, in the season when it snows, you might not get meat and chicken products -- as was the case with us for a day -- because land slides and snowing might block the road ways.

<-- Etched on stones by the lamas, these messages are either prayers or directions

The most money we spent in Leh was on transport. You can hire a jeep, Innova, Sumo or Qualis, or two wheels are more your style, you can hire an Enfield. However, from the view of fuel consumption and comfort, go for a four-wheeler.

The best way to go around Leh and to chalk out what you want to see would be either a good guide book or asking someone at your hotel. However, it would be better still to ask someone who's been there. Like another day and we would have managed to see the Nubra Valley too, which we missed out.

\

<--- shot at the Hemis monastery

We visited: The monasteries of Shey, Thiksay, Hemis and Alchi; walked up to the Leh Palace that's in the city, drove up to Pangogtso Lake, which is in a valley after you cross the second-highest motorable pass in the world. Don't be fooled by the monasteries, i.e. don't think that if you have seen one, you've seen all because pretty much all the monasteries have something unique to offer.

One of the smaller monasteries located right below the Leh Palace--->

If you can catch a prayer session, it would be great -- more monks (lamas), the merrier -- it's a simple ceremony but the drums, incense and chanting have a way of entrancing you. Shoes are not allowed inside the monastery, so it's a good idea not to wear footwear with intricate laces etc. While a head-covering is not required, hot pants, backless tops etc are not appreciated. If you're wearing those -- can get warm in the sun during summers -- it's advisable to carry a shawl you can cover up with.

And yes, please carry extra camera battery, an extra storage card (or laptop), don't forget the camera transfer cable, lenses AND the camera charger. It would be absolutely criminal to go there and NOT take pictures or forget some vital camera part at home.

Pangongtso lake, frozen-->

Camera apart, aclimatisation is very important: With far less amounts of oxygen up there, it would be silly to run around without proper rest, particularly if you are flying up. Usually, bedrest is not needed for those who drive up. We crashed out for 6 hours before venturing out.

Confluence of the Indus and Zanskar rivers --->

Have heard horror stories about army officers' wives who go to Leh to shop -- known for cultured pearls -- dont take adequate bed rest and drop dead in two hours due to pulmonary edema (lungs flood with fluid). So for those who decide to fly up there, please take rest. You really can't enjoy the place if dead. And again, DO give Leh a visit. "Starkly beautiful" will make perfect sense...

Hijab and hooker heels

OR Shit fry for a white guy…

I swear to Jesus or Sai Baba or whomever you may please that this bloody blog is allergic to happy posts. Even as I sat down to convert the notes I have been taking over the days into ‘Episode 1: Virgin Affairs’ – after the mandatory email checking, friend request ignoring and birthday walling – the calmness of my early morning was fucked by ‘a person’ sitting on the computer next to me. I am at a cyber café on Elizabeth Street, Melbourne and was quite happy with the holiday I’ve had so far and with the people of this city TILL ‘a person’ walked into the café, sat on the comp next to me and upon realizing he is sitting next to an Indian, has crossed himself at least six times since.

It’s funny because firstly, it has never happened to me before. Of course people have remembered God when around me or because of me --- bwahahaha – but that’s not usually because of my skin colour. (er, it's called putting the fear of God) Secondly, because I thought one is supposed to cleanse oneself after meeting an Indian, remembering God really doesn’t help, you know. Anyway, so the guy walks in --- (oh wow, he just left, perhaps typing in font size 18 WHILE he was staring into my monitor worked, maybe he will knife me or punch me in the face when I step out, maybe I should kick him in the groin first, NOT going down without a fight unless am shot in the head or something) – takes one look at me and goes, “E gad” and crosses himself. I am surprised at my reaction, since I simply looked away, stared into my monitor, smiled and started typing. Maybe I will hang a laptop around my neck and walk around.

That apart, I really have not felt much of any racist vibes… Maybe two days is not enough to feel it! (Am SUCH a cynic) People are friendly or at least helpful when you ask them for directions or some such thing. In both Kuala Lumpur (KL) and Melbourne, if I have caught another’s eye and smiled, people have smiled back… except for the Indians. In both cities, the Indians or those of Indian origin are the last people to smile at a stranger and first to look uncomfortable when spoken to. At least three people were horrified when I spoke to them in Hindi and pulled a really twangy Australian accent on me with an, “Excuse mai?” All three were women, who had been speaking Hindi (two of them had) just before I spoke to them and were in Indian outfits, one was also wearing chooda (red and white bangles that recently married Punjabi women wear). The first two times I apologized and switched back to English but the third time – the chooda chick – I couldn’t help but go, “Anywhooooo”, wink and walk away.

Both yesterday and today (Friday), I’ve come into the city with Partner at about 9 am. He leaves for work – he’s here on an official thing – and I roam around the city, checking cafes, looking at buildings, drinking loads of coffee (8 cups yesterday, determined to not have as many today), wondering why Melbourne women don’t wear more colours (maybe on the beach? But it’s cold…) and REALLY enjoying the fact that am getting a fair bit of nice-male-attention. No men stared/ checked out/ looked in Kuala Lumpur but a fair bit – both ‘white’ and non-white – have been doing so in Melbourne. It could be because I DO look the smallest creature walking on the roads – I mean there are other 5 feet tall/small women, but WHY do I look such a runt?! – or because I seem to be strolling while everyone else is pacing about. THAT’s one instant way of knowing who is NOT from Melbourne… People here pretty much run instead of walking. Maybe it’s a big city thing, or maybe it’s a city-with-train-network-thing. But even in Delhi (doesn’t have local trains) or Mumbai (has local trains), I’ve never seen people walk this fast. Or purposefully…

When I say nice-male-attention, it means that the blokes check you out but it’s not like in Delhi (or Indian cities) where they seem to strip you with their eyes (and sometimes you can even feel their disgusting paws on you). Here it’s more like a top-to-toe and quick look away if you catch them looking at you, or a longer thorough glance if they don’t know you know they are looking at you or a shy or cheeky smile if you catch them looking and look back. Hmm, however, majority of those who looked were tall boys. Perhaps they thought I was a midget… or perhaps because I look ‘man-handle-able’? (Tsks at self for being SUCH a cynic)

However – and I can’t say it enough – it is SUCH a relief, a huge, huge, relief to just walk around the roads of an unknown city without anyone whistling, without eyes boring into your back, your butt, your breasts, without walking through a throng of people crossing red lights wondering if someone is going to grab your tits. I don’t know the city, I don’t know streets and yet I feel very comfortable just walking or getting on a tram, asking people for directions or sitting alone outside cafeterias with a coffee and a cigarette and watching as the city wakes up. It is such a relief that even when a man looks at you or checks you out, he does not threaten. Of course there are some jackasses, but unlike India (or the Indian subcontinent) where we seem to produce them in masses, not everyone is a jackass. In fact the ONLY dudes who offend with their staring seem to be the Indian/ Pakistani boys here… (Sri Lankans don’t, they are way too cool)

Perhaps some will give the argument that since boys and girls here grow up watching each other on beaches and wearing short skirts or cleavage showing outfits, they are more used to such stuff and therefore don’t stare. (Between, the sari shows much more than jeans and a tee shirt does or with stockings on, you don’t see skin at all while there are no skin outfits worn under saris when our women show off their midriffs) But you know what, in Kuala Lumpur, MOST Malay women wear the hijab (almost like a burqa except that the face is not covered but the rest of the body is) and YET the Malay men do NOT stare. In fact girls in KL – Chinese majority that is –wore MUCH shorter dresses (and higher heels) than the girls in Melbourne (also since its winter here and was bloody warm in KL).

IF hooker heels and hijab can coexist in a country WITHOUT men molesting women on New Year’s and without staring or eve teasing, I say WE need to do something. HOW are the mothers bringing up the boys in these countries that makes them NOT stare? What are we doing wrong that makes generations of men in India into such personal space invading, boob-staring, butt-grabbing monsters? Please don’t give me rape and how it happens in other countries – it does and there’s no denying – but EVE TEASING is what am talking about. It’s different and it’s really rampant.

Anyway, this is getting longer and there is much to write but those will come in subsequent posts. It’s 11.20 am now and I wonder what I can do today till Partner gets free… I checked out the Melbourne aquarium yesterday and I don’t think many will be impressed when I say that I found the jellyfish more impressive than the sharks. But that’s me. Heading out for more coffee, more notes and trying to understand what makes this city tick and why it’s so difficult for Delhi to pick up tips from truly international, truly multicultural cities… And what might it take if at all we were to change our men.

PS: Of all things about India and home, I miss Golu Dawg, he is at a dog resort. IF I move to this city… I will have to find a home for him in Delhi. NOT going to think about it, makes me cry.

Holi Mess!

Hello hello…a very Happy Holi to all of you…even those who have no clue about ‘Holi’. This is our version of mud-wrestling, the Spanish tomato festival or simply put, getting down and dirty. Just that we do it with colours – preferably ones that leave you with pink or green or even purple ears for the next week or so – and plaster each other with all shades that stick.

My dad used to call Holi a ‘dirty’ festival because he reckoned that men used the fest as a way of feeling up women. Well, there’s no harm in that I say if it’s someone you really want to be felt up by. Grin.

Holi is also the festival where you can get everyone officially drunk on bhang (extract of Cannabis sativa, aka hemp). You can drink it in milk (called ‘thandai’, literally means cool), you can eat it in pakoras (veggies fried in a gram flour batter), you can kill yourself with laddoos (round, sweetmeats stuffed with bhang) and as some friends are planning, you can make a mozzarella pizza and use bhang instead of oregano for garnish. The result is the same: On mild amounts you crack up and laugh maniacally for hours, with slightly more you pass out and with shit loads in your system, you can get a paranoia attack.

It’s sensible to drinking/having sensible amounts and laughing your head off. Holi is also interesting as this is the festival to let all barriers of decorum fall. Shy housewives, mother in laws and even strict fathers to pretty girls usually let their guard down and let people mingle, get stoned or drunk and have some fun.

Yes, you can get very dirty. The best trick is to step out slathered with oil, so that whatever colour you get can easily be washed off. Also, as long as you don’t get the colour in your eyes or mouth, you’d be bloody fine. If someone is coming at you with colours or a water gun, it’s prudent to shut both your eyes and your mouth. And get them back! Wearing white is fashionable, but girls should be mindful of not wearing white that’s transparent. Unless that is what you’re planning.

Now I gotta go… wish you all a very happy holi... and it's bloody great that we can do this in India.. officially throw water balloons at people and not get sued for it. What a place to be. Sigh.
PS: The pic's from last year... what fuckin' fun!