I leave India in less than 24 hours. I should probably write some sappy post, but I don't have the emotional energy for that right now. It induces too many tears. I'll try to write something when I get home, I suppose.
One of things I'm going to miss most about India is living bilingually. Now, don't take this to mean I am bilingual and fluent in Hindi. Abso-freakin'-lutely not. I am faaaar from fluent and am reluctant to even call myself proficient (though people tell me my high intermediate/low advanced/able-to-get-by-and-have-slightly-above-basic-conversations level actually is the definition of proficiency).
Regardless of my proficiency or lack thereof, I will miss the frequent code-switching into Hindi. I'm going to miss joking about the dearth of shakarkand (sweet potatoes) with my local subziwallah (vegetable salesman), interviewing members of the Gujjar tribe about their way of life while walking in the foothills of the Himalaya, asking my tabla teacher about the tabla-making industry, chatting with families sharing my compartment on trains, and even, yes, bargaining with autowallahs. I'm going to miss all of the basic, everyday interactions that take place in Hindi, from ordering daal-chawal for lunch to flagging down a cycle-rickshaw to shopping for kurtas.
I'm also going to miss speaking in Hinglish, from false-flirting with Ahluddin to discussing Arundhati Roy's pro-Maoist politics with Surabhi. And of course, I'm going to miss injecting individual Hindi words into my English speech (or "chutnefying" my English, if you will)--although I'm not sure this will be an easy habit to drop when I get back to the States (I apologize in advance!).
Living in another language, even if only half the time, is a lot of fun. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm going to miss it.
...I'm going to be that weird white girl who seeks out Hindi-speaking people at the Indian grocery store, aren't I?
Recently I have, unfortunately, been a victim of explosive diarrhea. Whatever, it's India, that happens. I had the following Hindlish conversation with my Hindi teacher:
Teacher: आपकीतबीयत कैसी है? / How is your health?
Me: आज... बहुत अच्छी नहीं | / Today... not so good.
Teacher: क्यों?क्या हुआ? / Why? What happened?
Me: हिन्दी में "explosive diarrhea" का मतलब क्या हैं? / What is the meaning of "explosive diarrhea" in Hindi?
Teacher: हम "explosive diarrhea" नहीं कहते हैं | Diarrhea का मतलब "दस्त" है | / We don't say "explosive diarrhea." The meaning of diarrhea is "dast."
Me: लेकिन मैं "explosive" कहना चाहती हूँ | यह साधारण दस्त नहीं था | / But I want to say explosive. This was no ordinary diarrhea.*
Teacher: ठीक है | आप "ब्लास्ट" कह सकती हैं | / Ok, you can say "blast."
Me: दस्त का ब्लास्ट? / Diarrhea blast?
Teacher, laughing: हाँ जी | तो क्या आपने दवा ली? / Yes ji. So did you take medicine? ("take medicine" = "davaa li")
Me: Diwali? DIARRHEA DIWALI?! BAHAHAHAHAHA
Teacher, laughing: I was asking if you took medicine.
Me: OOOHH, DAVAA LI!! BAHAHAHAHA
Teacher: आपको कभी कभी ज़्यादा ध्यान देनी की ज़रूरत है | / You need to pay more attention sometimes.
Me, still doubled over in laughter: माफ़ कीजिये | दस्त के ब्लास्ट मेरे मन में थे | ब्लास्ट | दिवाली | समझ गए? समझ गए?! / I'm sorry. Diarrhea blasts were on my mind. Blasts. Diwali. Get it? Get it?!
Teacher: समझ गया | It was Diwali in your toilet. / I get it. It was Diwali in your toilet.
Me: YES. YES IT WAS.
Further research has revealed to me that "explosive" in Hindi is विस्फोटक, "visphotak." So explosive diarrhea would be "visphotak dast." But I kinda prefer the ring of "dast ka blaast." Either way, these are not not the most useful phrases I've ever learned in Hindi.
*Explosive diarrhea is, arguably, ordinary diarrhea in India.
My friend Molly recently wrote a great blog post about body image in Nepal. Check it out here. I had been thinking about writing about this for a while too, so now that she's started the conversation, I'll chime in.
The other day the gym-wala complimented me on losing weight. The gym-wala said to me, in Hindi, "aapko weight loss hua!" I find this linguistically interesting because it literally translates to "weight loss happened to you!" whereas I would have translated from English "aapne weight loss kiya!" ("you did weight loss"--in English weight loss is something that we do, not something that just "happens" to us. Well ok maybe it does just happen but that's not how we would phrase it.)
What I find even more interesting is that he said "weight loss" in English--and this is a person who could not hold a conversation in English. There actually is a way to say this in Hindi ("vajan kam ho jana" = "to reduce weight"), but he chose the English. Often (but definitely not always), phrases borrowed from English are for concepts that are new to India and thus not expressible in the local language. Computer, mobile phone, TV, etc. The fact that this man decided to use the English phrase "weight loss" to me means that weight loss, as a goal that people work towards, is a concept imported to India from the West.
How was this concept imported? My guess is through the usual vehicle: Bollywood. While Bollywood is certainly unique from Hollywood, I do think Bollywood producers look to the West, especially to the US, to see what's "cool." Bollywood then projects these Western ideals and trends not only to the 1.2 billion people of India (according to the new census) but to all of South Asia, from Pakistan to Bhutan to Sri Lanka, and arguably to audiences all over Asia Pacific.
I'm not going to go into an extended discussion about body image in India, because I think one look at Bollywood's sex symbol Katrina Kaif, often voted the "sexiest woman in Asia" (who is actually not Indian, but British and raised in the US, with one Indian parent), says it all. Or maybe you need to see her most recent song, "Sheila Ki Jawani" ("Sheila's Youth"):
You should really click on that video. Not only because of its implications about how Bollywood projects women, but because it is a fun, catchy song with a good beat (you will understand my love-hate relationship with this song--I love the music but hate the lyrics).
This song easily shows up on the filmi songs channels at least twice an hour. Autowallahs, dukans, and dhabas blare the song. You can't escape it; it's ubiquitous, and has been for months (despite the fact that its movie Tees Maar Khan was a box office bust). And the message being conveyed to Indian women on a constant basis isn't even subtle: Katrina Kaif's body is the definition of sexy, the ideal woman's body. Men are supposed to want her, and women are supposed to want to look like her.
Interesting, related fact about Kaif: she didn't speak a word of Hindi when she entered Bollywood. All of her lines were dubbed up until last year (when her Hindi finally became passable). How can an actress act without speaking? Isn't that half the job? Her entire film career is based on her looks, her fair skin and skinny body, not on any acting talent.
By the way, I don't think it's fair for Katrina to represent the Indian vision of beauty; she's half Caucasian (and her Indian half is from the fairest of Indians: Kashmiri), and without those white genes, it's really not possible for an Indian woman to ever be that light-skinned. She is, quite literally, the unattainable ideal. As the lyrics of the above song say, "I know you want it but you're never gonna get it, you're never gonna get my body." True words, right there.
Switching topics slightly: a day before I got the compliment from the gym-wala, some Indian guy commented on a picture of me and my friend Neha in her Facebook photo album, saying "u looking gud but who is this aunty wid u??" Apparently, these days not only is being overweight not sexy, but is also associated with being an "aunty," which is a whole other stereotype in itself.
Although the stereotype annoys me, I actually think being overweight has been very useful in India. I get significantly less attention from men than my thin expat friends. Men don't stare at me (as much), men don't catcall or wolf-whistle at me (as much), and I don't get any stalkers or gropers (most of the time). My belly has probably kept me safer. So being a Firangi Round-Round isn't all bad! :) But of course I don't have a wildly successful Bollywood career.
There are 8 geckos in my bathroom. One is on the light switch so that I am forced to pee in the dark. And I have a squat toilet, so light is particularly important.
Also, another gecko just fell from the ceiling and landed on my bed. Not on me this time, but clearly this was an intended attack. If not an attack on my person, then an attack on my sense of safety and as a result, my sanity.
Furthermore, that other gecko still hasn't left my mirror. I know he's not dead because (1) he'd probably fall to the ground and (2) I've seen him move around. But only on the mirror.
And did you ever notice that geckos have CLAWS?! I noticed yesterday that they have sharp cat-like nail-claws extending from their toes. I didn't know lizards had friggin' claws. Think of the damage these creatures could do to me in my sleep!!
Today I started taking tabla lessons from a guy who makes tablas for Zakir Hussein! Being a good tabla maker doesn't necessarily translate into being a good tabla player/teacher, but I think the photos of him jamming with Zakir on his wall are pretty friggin' sweet.
How did this happen? I had free time yesterday and was aimlessly wandering through some galiyaan (tiny alleyways). (Varanasi has a whole web of these galiyaan and it's fun to get lost in the maze.) As I was walking back toward the main road, I randomly stumbled upon a tabla-making workshop.
Unexpectedly, I ended up spending two hours in the tiny shop. We sat on the floor among half-made tablas and assorted tabla parts as the owner explained, in a mix of Hindi and English, the process of making a tabla. His two apprentices showed me how it's done, and then we all chatted some more about the shopowner's tabla-playing and -making history over chai. The owner's family has been in the tabla-making business for generations, since his father's father's father's father's father's father's to-the-infinitieth-power father's father. After chai, they let me hit the drums a bit!
applying ground iron ore to the center of the tabla
I really enjoyed the atmosphere of the workshop and have always secretly wanted to learn to play some percussion instrument. So, despite my utter lack of musical talent, I signed up for tabla lessons! And here we are.
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Today I was supposed to go to Ramnagar Fort, across the Ganges from Varanasi, with Surabhi, one of my new Benaras Hindu University (BHU) friends. However, she had to cancel because all the students are protesting the mess (cafeteria) food and obviously she had to be there.
Aaahh, deja vu. When I spent a semester at Pondicherry University, the students there protested the mess food as well. Guess that's pretty common here in India! But I'm fairly certain the administration ignored them and nothing came of the protests. Fun times. Hopefully the BHU students will have better luck.
*******
A few more reasons to love Pyaar Kii Ye Ek Kahaani, or PKYEK, as it is affectionally called:
11. The sound effects that accompany facial expressions. For example, when someone has an epiphany, the "ah-ha!" face is supplemented with a spring-like "boing!" sound. And crushing disappointment, such as when the boy you like asks out your worst enemy to prom, comes with a car crash noise. Each face has its own distinct sound, of course.
12. The echoing voiceover when characters are thinking. When the characters are thinking, not only do their faces contort in all sorts of strange ways I didn't previously know were humanly possible, the thought voiceover echoes. "Mujhe-jhe-jhe asha-sha-sha hai-hai-hai ki-ki-ki voh-voh-voh mujhe-jhe-jhe prom-prom-prom le-le-le jaaega-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-ga." ("I hope that he will take me to prom.")
13. The occurrence of prom during college. That's just... incorrect. I would say it's an Indian thing to have prom in college instead of high school, but I've actually never heard of a prom happening at all in India. And I would find it surprising if a college administration allowed such an event. The show is trying to adopt a classic element of American teenage dramas, but it's all wrong! But it almost doesn't matter, because they do it so much better than those American shows and movies.
14. The 70's theme of prom night. It is unfortunate that the PKYEK website doesn't have any good pictures of this episode, because I want to show you the boys' bitchin' costumes. Only three words can describe their attire: stereotypical flaming homosexual. One character actually is gay, and he was the one who chose the 70's costumes for the others (who do not know that he's समलैंगिक ("samalaingik"/gay); I think they must be blind and deaf). And he did excellent work, because my god do these people come off as overly-flamboyant caricatures of gay disco men (and their little dance number at prom only reinforces this image). Also, one was dressed up as Elvis.
PKYEK is the best thing to happen to television. Ever. In the entire history of television.
*******
Geckos are my newest enemy. Not only did one of them face-plant me (in that he planted himself on my face, not that he fell onto his own face), they are all over my room and bathroom and always in the way. One hasn't removed himself from my mirror for the past two days so I can't examine the post-Holi damage (my pores are so clogged with Holi colors that I now have purple- and greenheads).
Sushma and I clog each other's pores during Holi.
I think the entire animal kingdom is conspiring against me. Except the elephants. They still love me.
Look at this elephant's happy face! If this isn't unadulterated love, then I don't know what is. But I'll tell you which creatures don't know how to love: monkeys and geckos. Heartless bastards.
*******
It is possible for women to pee standing up. I know because my thighs were sore from going to the gym for the first time in.... uh, I'm too embarrassed to say.... and I really didn't want to squat (the family with whom I'm staying doesn't have a Western toilet). The trick is to spread your legs far apart (warning: remove your pants). TMI? Too bad. You should expect this kind of talk on my blog by now.
*******
Speaking of women, here are two interesting articles about women in India:
Minding Their Gaps, about Western women on their gap year in India being exploited for the sexual and status-raising appeal of their white skin. Courtesy of Alice.
This song has been stuck in my head for the past week, and I love it:
"Darling" is a Hindi take on a Russian folk song. WIN. Also, you should see 7 Khoon Maaf (7 Murders Forgiven). It's based on a book by Ruskin Bond and is a very unusual movie for Bollywood, in a good way.
*******
This song has been playing repeatedly on the filmi songs channel, and I swear it's copying an (or multiple) English song(s):
Does anyone know what song(s) it's copying? I've Googled it and people seem to disagree about whether it's copying Flo Rida's "Low," Black Eyed Peas' "My Humps," and/or Lady Gaga's "Pokerface." When I first heard it I thought elements were from "Low," and I suppose I can hear remnants of Black Eyed Peas, but I don't know see "Pokerface." But I'm not so sure. Thoughts?
*******
ZOMG A MONKEY JUST INFILTRATED THIS CAFE. ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG! YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED IN HERE, MONKEY DEVIL!!! THIS IS MY HAPPY PLACE AND I WILL NOT LET YOU TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME!!!!
Er, or maybe I will, for now. I'm outta here before the monkey ends me and all I love.
Here in Varanasi I'm staying with a nice host family that spends their evenings watching Hindi "serials" (soap operas that air during primetime). I used to be unable to stand these TV shows. That is, until I saw Pyaar Kii Ye Ek Kahaani (This One Love Story).
Basically it's a vampire soap opera. Here's the back story, as told to me by my host sister Pooja (she had to get me up to speed, naturally): in the 1800's Siddharth, Abhay, and Maithili were all regular people living regular people lives. One day Siddharth and Abhay, who are brothers, get turned into vampires and Maithili gets killed (how did this happen? I don't know. Pooja left these details out). Siddharth's and Abhay's transformations give them the ability to live forever without aging as long as they don't touch silver, in which case they get seriously injured or die (I guess their equivalent of Superman's Kryptonite?).
Fast forward to present-day. Siddharth is the "bad" vampire and Abhay is the "good" vampire. Both Siddharth and Abhay are in love with a college human named Piya, who looks identical to Maithili and is supposedly Maithili's reincarnation. Abhay is dating Piya while Siddharth is a player who seduces women in order to kill them and drink their blood. Siddharth's targets are usually girls he thinks are easy--"T" (that's her nickname, I don't know her real name) dresses like a slut (by Indian standards) so he goes for her. And he was right in thinking she's super easy; she really does act like a slut on their date, practically throwing herself all over him. But Abhay comes to the rescue, which leads to an epic battle of facial expressions (see below). Meanwhile, Piya's best friend Panchi (who is also Piya's half-sister, but Panchi doesn't know that) is in love with Siddharth. When Panchi finds out Siddharth went on a date with T, she is super jealous. But Siddharth understands that it will be even easier to steal Panchi's blood, so he dumps T and tells Panchi that he loves her. Abhay warns Piya to keep Panchi away from Siddharth but doesn't say why (Piya doesn't know they are brothers or that Siddharth is a vampire; it is unclear to me if she is aware that Abhay is a vampire). Piya responds that if Siddharth makes her friend happy, then she doesn't want to interfere, and she gets pissed at Abhay. Another layer to the story is that Siddharth and Abhay's father is the caretaker of some all-powerful vampire ring, and of course the evil Siddharth wants to steal the ring from his father to acquire the superpowers. I have surmised from the license plates (everyone is rich and has a car) that this show takes place in the Himalayan state of Uttarakhand, probably in the capital city of Dehradun. This provides for lots of creepy hill forest scenes.
There is also a slew of other characters who have complicated back stories with each other (for example, there's some story about another girl who is pregnant but unmarried and her friend Misha, who is also Panchi's sister, pretends to be pregnant to protect her somehow, and then Misha's father finds out that she's "pregnant" without knowing it's a lie. another example: Panchi and Misha's father is also Piya's father, but the father is completely unaware that Piya is his daughter. And these just two of many, many stories). You can read the insanely long and complex paragraph here in Wikipedia describing everything that has been going on in the series (yes even more insanely long and complex than what I've just written, and no I didn't read the article).
...and I love every second of this show. Why?
1. The language. The Hindi isn't spoken nearly as quickly as in other serials so I'm actually able to pick up most of what is going on. And the vampires speak unusually large amounts of English for a Hindi serial, and their English is excellent (who knew vampires were multilingual?).
2. The fight scenes. They involve absolutely zero fighting but employ the classic Hindi serial technique of rapidly spinning the camera around the characters to the point of making the viewer dizzy and repeatedly zooming in on the same unmoving, unnaturally overexpressive faces (the expression during fight scenes: I am really, really, really mad and am going to kick your ass like no other ass has been kicked before) (but the ass-kicking never actually happens, you only see the threatening faces). One fight scene was put to an end when Siddharth and Abhay's father rushed to intervene and out-facially-expressed both of them into submission.
The teeth-baring (and associated hissing sounds) indicate that they are angry. The background is blurry because the camera is spinning around them at a very quick pace.
The father out-stares his sons, thereby putting an end to the fight.
3. Siddharth's art of seduction. He is super smooth and not at all creepy. ...that was a lie.
Siddharth seduces T by telling her she smells tasty. He even calls her "Tasty T" several times.
4. The aforementioned creepy hill forest scenes. Always at night and with lots of mist. Siddharth's favorite place to take girls on dates. Of course these girls find the forest romantic, despite the darkness, mist, middle-of-nowhereness, and scary music, and can't wait to jump into bed (er, under a tree?) with Siddharth. Also where fights take place. See all of the above pictures.
5. Vampire smell detection. Vampires use their sense of smell to detect the location of other vampires, even miles away. This involves several characters exaggeratedly sniffing for extended periods of time. These actors really know how to take a good, long whiff!
6. T's response to Siddharth dumping her. "How GAY are you?!" (said in English)
7. The intellectual challenge. There are so many characters with so many intertwining stories I could never possibly dream of understanding or following it all, especially starting in the middle of the series.
8. The ginormous amounts of drama. Did I mention the battles of the facial expressions?! The constant camera-spinning and face-zooming are not limited to the fight scenes, but happen every time something dramatic happens. Which is quite often.
9. The lack of logic. Nothing on the show ever makes any sense.
10. The frequency of new episodes. In America, our TV series give us a new episode once a week. That means we have to wait one entire week to find out what happens next, and god knows how agonizingly painful that can be! Not in India, folks. Here we only have to wait 23.5 hours, because there is a new episode every single day! (Except Sunday. After Saturday night's episode you have to wait 47.5 hours, and man will that be difficult for me!)
Ok so I guess several of these reasons are really the same reason: this show is HILARIOUS. Seriously it's like nonstop laughter for 30 minutes (ok, fine, there are stops for commercials) (actually, many of those commercials are also laughter-inducing). I can't wait to spend more quality time with my host family following the lives of these vampires and their human love interests.
In other news, I'm awake now because a gecko woke me up by landing on my face while I was sleeping. Yes, a gecko actually fell from the ceiling and landed on my nose, with one leg in my right nostril, another leg on my left eye, and the tail crossing my lips and curling around my chin. I had no idea what to do (screaming may have resulted in the gecko falling into my mouth so I stayed quiet) and just lied on the bed with my face paralyzed for about a minute before the gecko decided to move off my face and back toward the wall. The longest 60 seconds of my life, man. I didn't even know it was possible for geckos to lose their grip and fall (India is full of surprises, I suppose). And now I'm too scared to fall back asleep, so I decided to kill a few hours writing this blog post.
As I think I mentioned in a previous post, I'm currently in Varanasi studying Hindi. This is my second time in Varanasi; the other time was back in November 2007, when I was backpacking around India post-semester abroad program. And oh what a difference 3 years 4 months makes!
Last time I was in this city, I thought it was a truly magical place: sunrise on the Ganges, constant activity from simple daily bathing to extravagant weddings to cremation on the ghats (stairs leading to the Ganges), ancient architecture, mazes of tiny alleyways, etc. I had described this city, which could be seen as India's Jerusalem (Hinduism's holiest city and the oldest continuously-inhabited city on the subcontinent), to many as "India amplified" or "all those stereotypes of India rolled into one." No other place had so many animals in the streets, no other place had so much religious activity, no other place was so colorful, etc.
Or so my memory told me. Now, well, Varanasi seems like your typical mid-sized North Indian plains town with a dirty river and a splash of religious fervor. It doesn't really have more cows roaming the streets than other places in North India. To be fair, the last time I was here it was my first visit to a mid-sized North Indian plains town, and by now I've visited more than I can count.
A few things do set Varanasi apart from the rest, but the most obvious thing: tourists. So. many. tourists. And I know I'm about to go all hypocritical on you (if I'm here as a foreigner, obviously other foreigners should be allowed to come here too), but here's why that annoys me:
1. Tourists = hassle. Where there are tourists, there are people looking to get your money. People try to sell me things (anything); rickshaw-wallahs follow me asking "where you going, madam? rickshaw, madam?"; children run up asking me to buy them chocolate; beggars beg me for money; and then there are your creepy snake-charmers and monkey-handlers who want you to pay to take their photo. I cannot walk two feet down the street without being bombarded by someone. And it's exhausting. (I never had this problem in Delhi or Shimla, where I lived outside of tourist areas and people knew I was a resident and left me alone.) (My Hindi teacher teaches in a touristy area and I would like to live within walking distance, hence why I'm in a touristy area in Varanasi.)
2. A noticeably large minority of tourists dress inappropriately. This morning I saw a Western woman wearing a tube top and booty shorts. In Hinduism's holiest city. And you wonder why almost all Western women who come to India get unwanted attention at some point? Because of women like that, who dress with no regard for the local culture, who give off the image that Western women are overtly sexual and looking for action. A few Western women dress like whores and all Western women get treated like they're whores.* Anyway, almost nothing annoys me as much as people dressing inappropriately in someone else's culture, and I get irritated every single time I see some white chick in a tank top.
This #2 brings me to another topic: foreigner types. There are a few types of tourists that visit Varanasi, but I'll save that for another post. Let me gather some visual aids for you first (in other words, let me sneak some pictures of them).
I don't know why the tourists annoy me so much more now than they did over 3 years ago. My guess is that tourism is seasonal, and perhaps March is during high season and/or November is during low season. So maybe there were fewer tourists and thus less hassle.
I guess I'm not really being fair to Varanasi. There is something special about this city, that attracts pilgrims from all over India and tourists from all over the world. It is difficult to put into words, but you feel it in the atmosphere at certain ghats while watching the Hindu hair-cutting ceremony or a wedding, you feel it from a boat on the Ganges at 5am as the sun rises to illuminate the age-old riverside temples in a purplish hue. But you know what? That special element can easily get lost for the long-term foreigner in the everyday hassle. (And it's only been one week for me so far!)
In other news, this past weekend was Holi! Luckily, this year I wasn't arrested. I celebrated in my Hindi teacher's village in the state of Jharkhand. My skin is still stained rainbow. :)
*I am no way trying to say that the men who catcall and ass-grab are not at fault. Obviously they are behaving in a disgusting manner. However, that doesn't mean that Western women can dress however they want, outside of cultural norms. They are, in some ways, inviting the attention.
I left Shimla and am now in transit to Varanasi for an intensive Hindi course. More on that later. For now, here's how I spent my last day in Shimla:
Naturally, I couldn't take everything in my apartment with me, so I had to ship some stuff home. I put everything in two cardboard boxes and headed to the post office, thinking this would take only 20 minutes.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
At 2pm, I arrived at the Sanjauli post office to find my landlord's wife Geeta staring at me from across the counter. This was my first surprise: I didn't know she worked at the post office! I thought she worked at a bank. Anyway, Geeta informed me that the Sanjauli post office does not send "parcels," as they call packages here in India. "But it's the post office's job to send mail!" I insisted. "No parcels." "But parcels are mail! The post office sends mail! Therefore the post office must send parcels!" "No parcels." "But you received my parcels when my mom mailed them from the US!" "No parcels. Go to Shimla."
I went to the Shimla post office--not that close, by the way, especially when you're carrying two boxes amounting to 18.8 kg. En route I passed a few private couriers and decided to check them out, but they were all absurdly expensive. So back to the post office plan.
I arrived at the Shimla post office with my two packages, certain that these people would be able to send them. "Seal?" the postal employee asked me. I was prepared for this, I thought. I purposely kept my packages open, because in Delhi they had opened up my box anyway to see the contents. I knew not to waste any tape this time, and I assumed the guy was asking me for a seal because he saw my boxes were open. In response to his seal inquiry, I smiled and held up my tape. "I have a seal!" I exclaimed triumphantly. A look of confusion crossed his face. "No, not tape. Seal. SEAL!" Now a look of confusion crossed mine. "But... tape does seal the parcel. Tape is the seal." "No, no, SEAL!" then rapid-fire Hindi that was too fast for my slow mind to comprehend. Luckily Harsh was with me, so he explained that the postman was telling me that I needed my parcel wrapped in a very specific white cloth, said cloth must be sewn and not stapled, and a "M.O.M." seal made of red gooey stuff would have to be stamped along the seams. Now this sounded familiar to me; when I sent a package from Kolkata in June 2008, the postman there wrapped and sewed my package for me (but this had not been required in Pondicherry in November 2007 nor Delhi in June 2010). I handed my packages over to the guy, assuming he would do all this. But no no no, I was told to go to a tailor.
Thus began the hunt for a tailor with the right cloth--not just any ol' white cloth, mind you, but a very specific material--and MOM seal. I went to the alley of tailors in Middle Bazaar below the Mall and had to visit several tailors before finding one with the right material. First the tailor asked me to come back tomorrow, but (a) I wouldn't be in Shimla the next day and (b) I'm not leaving a box with semi-valuables at a tailor's!! I insisted it was an emergency, and he agreed to do the job right then and there. But the tailor took AN HOUR AND A HALF to wrap the packages. I have no idea why he took so damn long. In Kolkata, I swear it took the guy about 5 minutes. AND the tailor charged me more than I pay for a salwar kameez. Ridiculous.
And then the tailor didn't have the MOM seal. Even though he said he did. So I had to run around with my packages to find another tailor who did have the seal. Luckily, he turned out to be only two doors down.
Finally, FINALLY my packages were ready. I RAN to the post office--and I do not like running--to mail them. I showed up at 5pm, and the post office closes at 5:30pm. Barely made it! I thought. Or did I?
"We don't accept parcels after 3pm." "I was here at 3pm, and you didn't tell me that. And there is no sign that says that. The post office is still open." "But we don't accept parcels after 3pm." "Why not?" "Because that's when the day's parcels are sent." "So? I don't care if you send them tomorrow. Why can't you accept my parcels and just send them with tomorrow's batch?" "We don't do that, madam." "But that makes no sense." and the conversation went on like this for a while.
Then I remembered: this is India. When you keep your voice at normal decibels, nobody listens to you. I turned into the madwoman I would never recognize in the States but I so often turn into in this country. I yelled at the postman, telling him the whole story, starting from Sanjauli. I think I ended with "why on earth does one have to go to a TAILOR to MAIL a parcel?! and if you're going to require something as stupid as white cloth, then why don't you provide the wrapping services yourself?!" The postman sat there stunned (I think my ranting in English--when I'm flustered my Hindi pretty much goes out the window--was way too fast for him to understand), and he sent me to the postmaster, the guy in charge of the post office (and no, he was clearly not intending to get his superior involved before I raised my voice). Harsh came with me to explain the situation in Hindi, and the postmaster agreed to send the packages. By this time it was 5:30pm and the post office was closing. This of course led to another argument, because the employee didn't want to stay overtime, but I won. It took a surprisingly long time for the guy to register my parcels in the system, but at 6:02pm on March 11, 2011, my packages were put in the mail room for delivery.
This morning, while waiting at the bus stop on my way to work, I noticed a cardinal-colored hooded sweatshirt out of the corner of my eye. At the angle he was standing in relation to me, all I could see were the letters "ORD." But that was enough.
I became stupid-excited. I ran up to this stranger, and as I expected, it was indeed the same Stanford hoodie that I have owned since high school and still wear with pride (oh how elitist I am). I practically yelled in Hindi, "मेरे पास यह स्वेटशर्ट है! मैं स्टन्फोर्ड गयी!!" ("I have this sweatshirt! I went to Stanford!" In retrospect, I'm fairly certain "sweatshirt" is not a word in Hindi, and I should've said "sweater.") His response? He spoke no words but shot me a look that whispered "please don't molest me."
Of course, I continued to molest him (not physically, only verbally, I promise):
Me: "Stanford? University? I went there!"
Victim: Stare pleading, "please get away from me."
Me: "Your sweatshirt! It says Stanford." Pointing at his chest: "See, STANFORD!"
Victim: Glance upwards, asking Vishnu or other Hindu god, "why won't this insane woman leave me alone?"
Me: "Stanford is a university, I attended that university, and I have the same sweatshirt you're wearing!"
Victim: Shifts his eyes back and forth, and then spins his head around, in a desperate search for someone, anyone, to rescue him from his attacker
Me, excitement subsiding: "FINE. I'll go."
Ok, I lied. My excitement still hasn't subsided. SOMEONE WAS WEARING MY FAVORITE STANFORD HOODIE, THE ICON OF MY UNDERGRADUATE EXPERIENCE, TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!111oneone.
(No, I do not know how Indians manage to get American university sweatshirts. I have seen Maryland, Florida, UMiami, Harvard, Ohio State, Nebraska, Brigham Young, etc. I assume these sweatshirts are donated by Americans to some organization or another, and then they end up being sold for super cheap in secondhand markets or on the street in India. How the sweatshirt travels from point A to point B is beyond my comprehension.)
1. A week or so ago, two opposing troops of monkeys staged an epic battle utilizing my terrace as their boxing ring. After hearing an unusal amount of squealing (a little bit is normal), I looked out my window to see six monkeys fighting to the death. The result of the war? A sleepless night (so much squealing!) and a new carpet on my terrace--a carpet of feces. Unclear if these feces were flung as ammunition, or if the monkeys just had to poop as the battle raged on for hours (at some point, you just can't hold it in anymore). And guess who has to clean up their mess? Ugh, damn monkeys, clean up your own filth! I am not your maid!
2. I finally got my water back today, after a week with no water. I had to buy bottled water for everything, including bathing (I would boil water so as not to freeze, then add some cold water so as not to burn) (by the way, boiling enough water for a shower takes quite a long time). Naturally, this resulted in, well, not bathing (2 boiled-bottled water "showers" in 1 week. I'm so sorry for my stench). So why did I have no water? One word: monkeys. Apparently the monkeys had messed with the pipes feeding water into my apartment. These pipes were broken and leaking, so no water reached my faucets. (And my landlord had been away in his village for the week and only returned late last night, so no one could call the plumber until today.) It's like the monkeys want my life to be as stinky as possible. First they precipitate shit on my terrace so it's covering it like a blanket of brown snow, and then they cut off my water supply so I can't properly bathe. Thanks a lot, monkey assholes.
...or should I say, monkey terrorists:
Translation: "MONKEY TERRORISTS." And an explanation about how you shouldn't feed them, because that will only encourage them to terrorize you and all you love even more so. (ok, I think the literal translation is actually "monkey terror," but a friend explained to me that "terrorist" is what the sign means.) This sign is posted in colonial Shimla but should probably be placed at intervals of every 5 feet all over the greater Shimla area.
Today was the last day of work for a coworker, Tarachand. I think he found another job somewhere else, so he's leaving after a year and a half here. To thank him for his service and contributions, our organization threw a farewell party for him.
I had assumed this would be like TERI parties. There would be food and drinks laid out on a desk or table, and we'd all stand around in small groups schmoozing. You know, like a normal office party.
I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Everyone walked into the conference room (which is where I work because it's the warmest room in this freezing building) and sat down around the table. And everyone was completely silent. They didn't talk to me or each other. Not even a hello or namaste. This is strange, I thought. It's like they're coming to an execution, not a farewell party. Then the director and his wife walked in, and everybody stood up. Well, this is oddly formal for a party. Is this a meeting now? Or are we paying respects to the executioners? The director gave some brief farewell speech that lasted no more than 20 seconds. Everyone continued to sit in silence. You could taste the tension. Finally Bhim, the office cook, brought down some chai and pakoras (check my glossary if you don't know what this is), which taste significantly better than tension.
But the tension did not disappear. After 6 minutes of complete silence--no, I'm not exaggerating, I checked my watch--the ridiculousness of the situation hit me (a party of endless awkward silence sitting around a conference table?! qlwkasjdoarslkcs!!) and it took every fiber of my being to control myself from bursting into a giggle fit. I took my tea cup, though it was now empty, up to my face in an attempt to hide my toothy about-to-laugh grin. I had trouble breathing, it was so difficult to control.
Shreshtha, who was sitting next to me, noticed my suffering and passed me the plate of pakoras, just so that I would have to move the cup away from my face. I glanced at him and shook my head, keeping the cup in front of my mouth. "Kuch lena [take some]," he whispered, his voice dripping in sweetness. Switching into English, he continued menacingly, "You know you want to." It was a cruel joke. If I put down the cup and reached for pakoras, I would lose all control and crack into obnoxious cackling! And that would be beyond embarrassing in this room of deathly silence! Luckily Harsh saved me and broke the silence by posing a question to Tarachand about his experience at our organization and what his next step in life would be. Once Tarachand started talking, the awkwardness decreased slightly and I could regain composure. Sort of.
As soon as the "party" ended (by the way, it lasted all of 15 painful, painful minutes) and everyone left, I finally let the laughter pour out of me. I'm fairly certain my coworkers in the next room heard my chortling.
This story was probably neither entertaining nor funny to you. BUT THE AWKWARDNESS WAS SO INCREDIBLE. A new feat of awkwardness has been achieved today, and I think we should all be proud of ourselves.
One of my favorite foods in the whole wide world (perhaps second only to Maggi) is cheese. Unfortunately for me, finding cheese in Shimla is no easy task. There is no glorious heaven filled with angels and rainbows and sunshine and fluffy-white-clouds-that-somehow-can-hold-the-weight-of-happily-dancing-people-despite-being-composed-of-suspended-water-droplets-and/or-ice-crystals like The Cheese Ball in Delhi.
One Sunday back in October I spent seven hours looking for cheese. I wish I was exaggerating, but my watch, which as far as I know never lies, told me my hunt lasted from 11am to 6pm. I scoured Sanjauli, Dhalli, Chhotta Shimla, New Shimla, regular Shimla. All the Shimlas. But I found nothing. Not a single slice of edible non-paneer cheese (I did find plenty of slices of processed cheese, but those have the consistency and taste of plastic--actually, they taste worse than plastic--and frankly don't count as edible). Luckily, however, one shopkeeper informed me of a small grocery store (probably the only grocery store in the entire Shimla area) that carries Western goods but is closed on Sundays. So I went on Monday and voila! cheese! :)
Today I schlepped all the way to regular Shimla to this grocery store solely to buy cheddar cheese. (It legit takes an hour to get there from my apartment.) To my dismay, they were completely sold out of cheddar cheese. Don't these people realize how much I struggled to get there? (If they don't realize, I'll tell them: 15-minute walk, followed by a 20-minute wait for a bus, followed by a 20-minute bus ride, followed by a 10-minute walk. See, that's more than an hour!) After I undertook such an arduous journey, how could they not provide me with life-sustaining cheddar cheese? However, my spirits were quickly lifted when I found what would be my long-lost treasure chest of Aztec gold had I been a pirate of the Caribbean: a shelf fully stocked with the new Maggi flavors. I proceeded to buy 8 packs of Tricky Tomato and 6 packs of Thrillin' Curry.
Wait, let's back up a sec. What is Maggi? Maggi is basically ramen (instant noodles) for the Indian tastebuds. The basic Maggi is "masala" flavored. Obviously, as a person who is super lazy and can't cook, I eat Maggi with greater frequency than I should. Maggi was an integral part of my diet in Delhi, and it still is in Shimla. Yeah, I'm that ramen-eating grad student, but without the grad school.
traditional Masala Maggi: my source of sustenance.
And what is a "Me & Meri Maggi" story? Basically Me & Meri Maggi is Maggi's 25th anniversary ad campaign. Maggi eaters send in their personal Maggi stories ("meri" = "my" in Hindi), and the best stories get "published" on the backs of packs, made into commercials, or featured on the Maggi website. It is best explained by this video:
Now for my Me & Meri Maggi story:
Recently (as in a few months ago), Maggi came out with new flavors. Somehow some of these new flavors managed to be better--significantly better, in my opinion--than the original Masala flavor. I didn't know such a feat was possible, but I can't get enough of Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry.
new Maggi flavors. om nom nom.
Unfortunately, neither can the rest of Sanjauli. I can never find Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry. The general shops (as they are called; basically, little convenience stores) (Sanjauli doesn't have grocery stores) carry only a limited supply of the new flavors, and they are almost always sold out. Except of the Romantic Capsica flavor. Because honestly, who really wants capsicum-flavored instant noodles? And who thinks of capsicum as "romantic"? That was a poor choice, Maggi.
More times than I'd like to admit I visited every single general shop in Sanjauli in search of Tricky Tomato or Thrillin' Curry. And most of those times, I came up empty-handed and had to buy regular Masala Maggi. One time I got so frustrated with the search I even called my mom to whine. "I can't find Tricky Tomato Maggi! And I visited 20 shops already!" "Why don't you just buy a different flavor?" "Becaaaaauuuse I want Tricky Tomaaatoooooo! Waaaaah!" This is how I waste money on long-distance phone calls: calling from India to the States to complain about the unavailability of instant noodle flavors.
(By the way, a few minutes ago I talked to my mom on the phone and told her about this blog post I'm currently writing, and she claimed to have zero recollection of this conversation. I swear I'm not crazy, it really happened. She probably doesn't remember because at the time she was bored of my trivial noodle dilemma and zoning out.)
One time I found a general shop that actually had numerous Tricky Tomato packs (usually, since there is such high demand and such low supply, shops only have 1 or 2 left, if they have any at all, which they most often don't). I shamelessly bought every single one, so that I could hoard for the future. I have returned to this same shop multiple times in hopes of restocking my kitchen, but alas they have been sold out of both Tricky Tomato and Thrillin' Curry every single time.
So, Maggi makers: fix your distribution! Send more Tricky Tomato and Thrillin' Curry to Sanjauli!! I promise my demand can single-handedly consume your entire supply. For the entire town. Pinky promise.
I hope this tale of desperation ends up on the back of a Maggi pack one day.
(PS: "2-minute" noodles is a lie, especially here at altitude. It takes well over 2 minutes for my water to even boil! I'd say making Maggi takes me 8 minutes. And even in Delhi, which does not have the slow-cooking-at-altitude problem, it took me 5 minutes. I'm fairly certain making Maggi in 2 minutes is not possible. Maggi, I know you know I'll eat you anyway, but I don't appreciate false advertising. Please stop lying to me!)
(PPS: I'm aware that this blog post could come across as an ad for Maggi. I promise they are not paying me to write this. It's just that Maggi is such an important part of my life in India I thought I should share this with you all. ...I realize how pathetic I sound.)
(PPPS: This is my life: Maggi and monkeys. If you ever had the idea that my life in India was full of glamor and adventure, you thought wrong. My life is full of instant noodles and simian shit.)
(PPPPS: When I first wrote this post, I spelled everything the British way without even realizing it, e.g. flavour, glamour. I've been in India too long.)
I'm back from Cambodia and Thailand. It was awesome, as you can see:
Angkor Wat, Cambodia
a tree growing out of--and devouring--a temple Ta Prohm, Angkor Thom, Cambodia
Dr. Fish massage--the fish are eating the dead skin off my feet. and it tickles. Siem Reap, Cambodia
another tree swallowing a temple Ta Som, Cambodia
Cambodia's answer to India's autorickshaws and Thailand's tuk-tuks: the remork-moto. Yes, that's a motorcycle with a carriage attached to the back. road between Siem Reap and Beng Mealea, Cambodia
one of Angkor's temples was left as found, without cleanup or restoration, and you can still climb all over the place Indiana Jones-style. here, I conquered a pile of fallen stones, some with carvings. Beng Mealea, Cambodia
Vishnu between my legs is probably offensive. But fallen carvings and vines inside a temple! And vines you can sit on! Beng Mealea, Cambodia
Did I even take pictures in Thailand? Yes, but apparently none with me in them.
Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the real issue of the day (of every day, really):
Monkeys.
Remember when I bitched that the monkeys are multiplying? It's not my imagination. My neighbors are all commenting on how many monkeys there are--more than they ever remember, and some have lived in Sanjauli for 20 years. And they are all quite surprised by this. Apparently, Himachal Pradesh attempted to sterilize Sanjauli's monkeys. Key word: attempted. Fail. The monkeys and their impregnation abilities are clearly out of control.
And I'm here to tell you why. Or at least to tell you my neighbors' explanation.
Shimla recently completed constructing the largest Hanuman idol in the world, appropriately at Jakhoo Temple. According to my Hindu neighbors, the larger the Hanuman, the larger his monkey army must be. Thus, with the new huge Hanuman in town, Shimla's monkey army must grow. As a result Hanuman ensures that his troops are impervious to any population control efforts. (My Hindu neighbors claim that, as Hanuman is Shimla's protector deity, these simian soldiers are actually defending the town, but I have to disagree.)
I am 100% serious. Big Hanuman idol --> monkey population explosion. That is the only logical explanation anyone can think of here. ...and I might just believe them.
Monkeys. As a young lass in the US, I thought monkeys were cute and playful and pretty much the best land animals ever (but my favorite overall animals were, naturally, whales). At age 6, I had a plush monkey with exaggerated arms and velcro on the hands so that it could hug things (and me) that I bought at the Baltimore Zoo. I loved that toy. I even went through a phase in middle school when I only wore Paul Frank, the monkey-lover's answer to Hello Kitty (it was an awkward time in my life, ok?). Seriously, just ask my mom, Jessie S., and Mayan, and they will tell you: 12-year-old Emily loved monkeys (by the way, Jessie S. and Mayan were totally guilty of going through a monkey phase too! And I was totally jealous of Jessie's Aeropostale monkey pajama pants, even though I had the Paul Frank version. Her monkey design was just cuter).
This was all before I came to India, a place that has shattered my dreams of adorable monkeys playfully swinging through trees and not threatening human life. My earliest evil monkey encounter occurred in Gingee (pronounced Sinjee), Tamil Nadu. A bunch of us in my study abroad program decided to take a fun weekend away from campus to visit the fort in Gingee and the temples in Tiruvannamalai. Fun, we thought. Until we were attacked by monkeys.
Gingee Fort
view from the fort
When we finally reached the uppermost section of the fort, we decided to stop and eat lunch. As we were eating, we slowly realized that more and more monkeys were approaching. Soon, we were surrounded by monkeys on all sides, with nowhere to go. One monkey even snatched Fred's bag of dates right out of his backpack! They clearly intended to steal more food from us. They hissed, bared their teeth, and crouched in about-to-pounce position--very intimidating. So we did the only thing we could: we ran. I remember jumping off the structure because monkeys were blocking the stairs. And I ran all the way down the hill. I then refused to climb up to the second area of the fort, because I had had enough of these monkeys (Zeliha would later tell me how the monkeys at the second section tried to steal her juice box right out of her hands, and I was happy with my decision to stay put).
evil monkeys who stole our food
Unfortunately for me, Shimla is the epicenter of monkey madness. Shimla's monkeys are infamous all over India. If I tell an Indian I'm living in Shimla, one of the first things they ask is "how do you handle the monkeys?" Indians often mention monkeys before the beautiful mountain scenery, the colonial architecture, and the (relatively) pleasant climate. These notorious monkeys steal ice cream out of children's hands at the Mall and glasses off of faces at the Jakhoo Temple.
Jakhoo Temple is appropriately dedicated to Hanuman, the Hindu monkey god. This temple surely must be Hanuman's Lair, as thousands of monkeys--every single one of them evil--populate the area. In fact, these monkeys are particularly evil. A neighbor once told me that she saw a monkey pry a 4-month-old baby out of his mother's arms and then bring the baby up a tree. The monkey only released his hostage after banana negotiations. In my opinion, it was terrible parenting to bring such a young child to Hanuman's Lair. Needless to say, I will NEVER step foot in these glasses- and baby-stealing monkey-infested temple grounds.
monkeys on the Mall plotting their next attack. as you can see, I tried to keep my distance.
The state of Himachal Pradesh has tried numerous measures to control the monkey population, but to no avail. The most recent desperate attempt? The state has declared open hunting season on the monkeys; farmers can shoot to kill these monkeys if they feel their farms are threatened.
The monkeys in my neighborhood are no exception. They are just as menacing. My landlord installed grills on my windows so that monkeys would not break into my apartment (yes, it happens, usually through the kitchen). I hang my newly-washed clothes to dry on the terrace, despite the risks (I have heard stories of monkeys ripping up expensive saris left out to dry), and I have paid the consequences. One time, a monkey unclipped a kurta from the line and threw it over the terrace onto the street below. Luckily, a shopkeeper picked up the now-filthy garment and returned it to me. Another time, I found all my underwear missing; clearly, monkeys stole my underwear. From time to time, monkeys leave me gifts: their feces. I'm afraid to go out onto a my terrace at night, because sometimes I hear monkeys fighting and shrieking out there. Or even if they're not fighting, they are hanging out there and G-d only knows what they'd do to me. Every morning I'm woken up by the monkeys and dogs having an all-out epic battle, and there is no question in my mind that the monkeys win every time.
The monkeys in my neighborhood gave birth recently. There are tiny--and I mean tiny--baby monkeys stumbling around everywhere or clinging to their mothers' undersides. Adorable? One might be fooled into thinking so, but let's not forget that these monkeys' mothers will train them to become monsters. So another generation of devils has been brought into this world, and I am not happy about it.
spawn of Satan
In conclusion, don't let these monkeys fool you: they are not cute, they are evil menaces to be shot by angry farmers.
Tonight I was telling some neighbors about the Ice Road Truckers: Deadliest Roads TV show and how they featured our beloved NH-22. Their response? "Oh yeah, we saw them filming. Right here. We weren't entirely sure why those trucks had cameras surrounding them and thought it was अजीब/ajib [strange]."
So there you have it. My neighborhood was filmed in IRT. Sweet!
(Mom: for the love of G-d and your sanity, do NOT watch this trailer. Or even read the rest of my post. Please.)
I take a short section of that road, National Highway 22, a.k.a. the Hindustan-Tibet Road, to and from my office every day; my office is actually located on this road. And I have taken that road between Chandigarh and Shimla 6 times (so far), and the road past Shimla to some villages for field work several other times. And to Kalpa for a fun mini-vacation weekend with Helene. In fact, I've gone the full length of the NH-22, all 459 km of it, from Ambala (Haryana) to Khab (Kinnaur, Himachal Pradesh), over various trips. So yeah, pretty familiar with the good ol' NH-22, and yes I recognize sections of the road from the trailer. The crumbling piece of road at 0:53, for example, drove within inches of that just 2 days ago (yes it's still there; maintenance on this road is difficult due to the rough terrain).
I think it is unfair to call these Ice Road Truckers "today's toughest truckers." I mean, there are Indian truckers and bus drivers who take these roads EVERY DAY, and I bet they aren't nearly as afraid as these North American truckers. I, perhaps naively, have full confidence in my bus drivers. I'll admit there have been moments in which I've thought "OMG WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF OMG THAT TRUCK IS MILLIMETERS AWAY FROM MY BUS OMG WHY DO WE HAVE TO BE THE ONES BACKING UP AROUND A HAIRPIN TURN OMG WE ALMOST HIT THAT HERD OF GOATS OMG THIS BRIDGE HAS HOLES IN IT OMG WE ARE GOING TO DIE OMG" but those moments are not that common. Because you know what? These Indian drivers DO know what they're doing. They have experience. They know the unwritten, unspoken rules of the Himalayan roads. So I trust the bus drivers. I trust them because I have to trust them. If I didn't trust them, I'd probably live my life in fear and never leave my apartment. ...which my mother would probably consider a good thing, because then she'd have much less to worry about. (Mom, I wish you would have as much faith in these drivers as I do! Seriously, it will make your life so much less stressful.)
PS: That trailer, and probably the TV show (I've never seen it), dramatizes how dangerous/scary the Himalayan roads are. I swear, they're not nearly as bad as this trailer makes them out to be.
I have encountered something in Himachal Pradesh that I have encountered nowhere else in India, even after spending approximately 1.5 years here and traveling all over the country: people calling me "अंग्रेज़"/"angrez," or "English."
I have been called many things in India (usually "गोरी"/"gori," or "white"), but never "English." And I haven't just been called angrez once or twice in Himachal Pradesh. No no no, I've been called angrez more times than I can count, all over the state from the Punjab border to the Tibet border and on a near-daily basis in Shimla. I don't know why Himachalis call all fair-skinned people English, but it drives me पागल (mad). Whenever I hear someone say "angrez"--whether to my face or talking about me right in front of me as if I don't understand a word of Hindi--I automatically get all defensive and yell "मैं अंग्रेज़ नहीं हूँ! मैं अमेरिकन हूँ!!" ("I am not English! I am American!!") Honestly, it has never annoyed me when people call me gori. Because I am gori. But boy do I hate when Himachalis call me English. Why? Well, mostly the following reasons:
There is a lot of negative colonial baggage associated with angrez people. Because, you know, they ruled over India for a few hundred years, and in a pretty brutal manner. But hey, wait a minute, my people never ruled over you! Don't think of me as one of your former imperial overlords! I don't want the baggage of angrez associated with me.
Indians generally like Americans. Yes, you may think there would be negative baggage associated with some American foreign policy actions, but there really isn't much (though people express curiosity as to why the US supports Pakistan so much). The vast majority of people's reactions to hearing I'm American are very positive and excited. I actually think it's one of the best foreign nationalities you can be in this country.
I'm proud to be American. There, I said it. And don't think I won't start singing the song, because I can. I can and I will.
So, my dear Himachalis, despite what you may deduce from my white skin, I am not, have never been, and never will be English. Please stop calling me अंग्रेज़. If you're not going to recognize my American citizenship (...or my status as an Indian resident, like you'd ever recognize that! HA!), I much prefer being called गोरी or even the semi-derogatory फिरंगी. Thanks!
I agree with and have experienced every single thing this woman writes. Well, except I've never actually hit a person (though I have wanted to, and certainly have screamed like a mad woman to the point where I didn't recognize myself), nor have I ever had my drink spiked. And replace seeing someone falling under a train with seeing someone on a motorcycle being hit (and killed) by a bus.
India, despite our at-times rocky relationship, I will always love you.
Siddharth seduces T by telling her she smells tasty. He even calls her "Tasty T" several times.
