Carolime Time

Hey!It is Christmas Day and I’m writing a blog post! A lot of my loved ones and friends live in India or are visiting this winter, so I am reminded of my past travels to this region. I don’t wish I was there, but do remember good times spent on the streets of Mumbai, beaches of Goa and boats of Cochin. I don’t lay claim to being a pro on India, but these are the basic recollections I gathered about a month ago after a friend asked for suggestions on his trip. It’s about time I posted it on my blog!!!

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There are parts of Dubai that have been left to the hands of suspended disbelief, a figure of development, capitalism, juxtaposed against a backdrop of browns, greys, and unending streams of men with the glaze of hard work on their faces. Read the rest of this entry »

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I just watched Slumdog Millionaire with my parents and brother(s).

It is referred to as the “feel good movie” of the year. As the winner of the Toronto International Film Festival’s Cadillac Award, with high ratings from pretty much every self-proclaimed movie critic I know on the ground, I went in with my expectations reined in. When I say reined in, I tried not to expect anything, but secretly knew I’d be fine.

Rightfully so, I was laughing and engaged within the first ten minutes. Off with a bang, the movie had my mom sitting upright. Having been brought up in Mumbai, she was immediately disgusted by the idea of a slum depicted on the big screen. “Chi, chi, what shit is this we’re watching?,” I heard her mumble when the lead character jumped into a pile of feces. I found this reaction particularly interesting, as I know there are Indians around the world from a generation before mine who have grown up in this place I’m not from directly. They are not as prone to pitying the slum kids without the charming texture of film, and are moreso desensitized to the poverty if not disgusted by it.

Using the timeline of a police interrogation and the popular TV show “Who Wants to Be A  Millionaire,” a young slum boy/chaiwallah is shown answering pop culture and general knowledge questions accurately and easily, one after another, much to the distaste of those in classes above him.

Directed by Danny Boyle, of Trainspotting fame,  the film plays on the current world fascination with Mumbai, India in general, and the exoticism of India’s scents and colours in pop culture. Like the speed of change in India, Boyle uses careening cars, trains, and chappal’d feet to tell the story of India’s race to success. The corruption, which every Mumbai’ite nods their head to, is apparent in Slumdog Millionaire, and those of us who are shielded from such harsh realities drop our jaws in awe. I was pleased to see my mother’s heartstrings sufficiently tugged. She was pulled in within a half hour as death, fire, and fighting struck the lives of innocent children. Truthfully, as I watched the film, I could’ve sworn I’d seen those same little girls and boys at my window and rickshaw openings in Bandra, asking for change or trying to sell me books. Really. I can’t tell the difference.There is so much truth to this film.

I guess this is Boyle’s modus operandi, in that he takes themes that are otherwise a harsh reality, jazzes them up a bit, perhaps glamourizes them to an extent to make them audience and ratings-friendly, and throws them out there to be gobbled up. It’s really prettily gift-wrapped and is told in the perfect Bollywood-esque style. And, like the Bollywood stories that are all the rage in India, Slumdog’s lead character is the object of much affection from all classes towards the end of the movie. One scene stood out to me in which the window of the slum-kid-turned-chaiwallah-turned-millionaire was being tapped on not for the sake of begging and getting some money, but to root for a slum kid on his way out and living what one may call “The Indian Dream.” ..to become a star, to be chosen from the masses, by chance, a city of 12 million or so people, and to have the opportunity to not only be rich but also famous.

I definitely felt good afterwards, although it’s obvious not all endings are so happy for the slum kids of Mumbai. You may as well hand one a hundred rupee note from your rickshaw and remind yourself that you’ve done your good deed for the day.

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so it’s saturday…story time..
some of the things i’ve been doing here?
well..i’ve gone to town a few times on my own, by train..
i’ve gone to a few of the clubs here in bandra, with my cousin and some random friends through the fam..
done a lot of eating..hit up the best restaurants, apparently? everything tastes good to me, here
done a shitload of shopping..(NO MORRRRRRE SHOPPPPPPPING!!!!)
walked A LOT through the bandra west area..and taken lots of rickshaws..
i’ve hung out at the worli seaface, carter road, and chilled on the queen’s neckline, just about where her necklace hits the nape…
taken a bunch of drives through the night, past the gateway (which is under construction), malabar hill “the most poshy poshy” hood in mumbai..st michael’s church..
visited a lot of bathrooms, including those on the way to goa..had a bit of a shocking run in with a man in a bathroom on the way to goa..but ask me about that in private..
i’ve been tempted to flirt with the hijras..really really tempted..but i’m afraid they’ll punk me…some of them are SO FREAKIN PRETTY…and hot….slim arms (something i’m not blessed with), shapely or svelte in figure, naughty smiles, perfect makeup…dressed in fashionable salwar kamis or saris..devilish, carved eye brows…i’m attracted…so delicate, and lovely….
btw, hijras..for those who don’t know..are the eunuchs..’the third sex’..either with ambiguous genitalia, male genitalia, or sometimes castrated..they take on the female gender role and presentation, though..sigh..

after my first run in with the hijras, i raced home and looked them up online, a little thirsty for stories from others on their run-ins…one man tells a journalist of how he was put into some cult-like foresty environment,drugged, and taken advantage of…oooooh…umm creepy, but who knows if it’s true..
the first run in was on the train going to town..
the hijras were on the train to town asking for money..they were clapping in front of this one girl’s face, trying to get her attention and asking for money..she wouldn’t give them money..and then they pushed her head and she pushed their hands away..and they kept clapping..i was a little appalled, wondering what else they would do besides push her head..they slapped her, next!!
sitting across from her, i was like, ahhhhhhh pleeeease don’t come to me!! (saying this to myself, in my head)..i quickly concocted a plan..
in toronto, i sometimes make ugly faces on the late trains so people don’t pay attention to me..to the point that i am so repulsive that they can’t look at me..these are very natural ugly faces, mind you..
so in this case, i just looked back in a daze when they approached me..i was kinda scared..could they tell?….it’s very easy to give yourself a blank and vapid look..empty the eyes and stare back..they asked, and clapped..and i just stared back…little did they know, i was sorta shivering..a catch in my lungs..they left me alone;)
the other night, i was at one of the seafaces..there are so many here, i love it..a friday night can just be spent walking beside the water:)…and that’s enough..anyway these two lovely lasses came up to us..white salwars..and they kept giggling with each other…flirting with each other? i wanted to get in on it..they were holding hands, calling my friend salman khan and me aishwarya haha trying to charm their way into our pockets..i wanted to give them 100rps right there and then! but no, can’t..i wish they’d stayed a little longer..

sigh..

anyway yeah apparently the hijras are invited to weddings cause apparently they’re good luck..or it’s just bad luck to mess with them..they can curse you..sometimes they come uninvited and ask for money..and you have to give it out of fear of them cursing you..but there are generally no negative stories regarding them..

i’ve also been to some of the clubs and little restaurants here..there are definitely some cute places here…i wouldn’t mind living in mumbai, so long as it’s not out of a suitcase. hmmmmmm…and don’t get me started on how hot some of the guys are..! i still haven’t decided whether i think the indian girls are more attractive here or in canada..the hijras here are definitely pretty;)

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i went to bangalore for a meeting and well, drove around for the whole day, chatted with the driver, who didn’t speak english..so we conversed in his broken english, my broken hindi and attempts at tamil, and…music..we chatted in music, it’s true..he played my beatles, he played his kannata music (which i thoroughly enjoyed!! i thought tamil classical was good, but kannata may be beyond competition) (i’m really getting used to listening to music without knowing the spoken language..cause i eventually translate it according to the musical language) (learnt this necessary technique through arabic music)
i really think we made up our own language..

i must say, a large chunk of the insight on india has been offered to me from the humble hands of the lower classes…..through the divisive contact we’ve had..the complexities of the otherwise worthless are endless from this beginner’s POV..and i can defend that statement..
maybe i’ve just never found the keeper as intriguing as the cattle..;) to quote..
so, think ANIMAL FARM!

can’t find a ticket back before the 14th and have to do a stop in the uae for some time..suitcases are currently my only constant..i wish for snow, and i find myself trying to give the cold a good name, on this side of the world..
my bones need a place to call home..maybe it’s got something to do with that scorpio thing i keep hearing about. i’ll live just about anywhere i can call home, right now.

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arrived in goa dec 29th..we left at 5am this morning to return to mumbai…i thoroughly enjoyed the 10hr ride there and back…the morning air was as crisp as the skin of the vada baji we ate at 6am, with tea..the bathroom reeked so badly that i couldn’t use it, and i later found a lovely bush on the side of the road…when i got back in the car, we spent a minute trying to figure out if i had left the bush with bugs attached to my shirt..or if they were just dead leaves.. i then had to wipe my ankles with antibacterial wet wipes that my virgo driving buddy was smart enough to bring along..i kept the towels for a souvenir, and they will be on ebay shortly..

keep you updated on the next move

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ok ok i’ve been meaning to tell you about this..
from my cousins’ house, in the centre of bandra “the queen of the suburbs”, i hear a ZiLlIoN sounds..i smell a zillion more other things, but maaaan..
so i’m going to come back here everytime i smell or hear something new..

just now, i heard a man scrape the back of his throat..i CRINGE when i hear this sound. really, i can’t even hear someone doing it if they’re in the privacy of their own bathroom. it’s just one of those things, i think. it’s basically when someone presses the back of their tongue to the roof of their mouth, in an effort to SCOUR the mouth of..phlegm? saliva? ahh i’m so bad with bodily functions, i can’t even say more at this point. this is a personal habit i can never grow accustomed to, much licking ones fingers is unacceptable. needless to say, a second date does not follow;)

last night, i jumped out of bed in the throes of my insomnia..and i watched a cat limp across the courtyard, moaning. i had just played ear-witness to a cat scramble. it lasted a good ten minutes, with all sorts of foreign gurgles and shrieks…entertaining, at that hour.

in the morning, i can wake up and hear all the ‘wallas’ on the street…people walking around selling…whatever it is they sell..flowers, paan, little christmas toys..if u can find something to sell, sell it..
sitting on the terrace at my cousins’ , i’ll hear kitchens clinking with metal serving dishes, and i’ll smell the preparation for tonight’s meal..spices and the frying of masalas wafting through the air..perhaps it’s the closeness of the buildings, or the bustle of every room that makes everything feel so in reach..i think new york and mumbai must have late night trysts in some starry galaxy, cause apparently neither of them sleep….

the streets here are abuzz with the hum of construction…these songs of drills and clattering steel are almost a testament to mumbai’s growth..slowly, but surely, is how i see it so far. it’s not like dubai, too big for its britches, where cranes make up the skyline..or maybe mumbai’s just bigger and it looks more subtle for that reason..i obviously do prefer mumbai to dubai–though i do like sharjah and it would be a close competition..

as for smells, yesterday i got lost. i figure, the only way to find my way is by getting lost. i did have a problem though, as i kept coming upon the people who don’t speak english. i wasn’t desperate, but i found myself walking into dark streets with few people in them..haha..it was about 7pm..i figure my cousin has planned way too much for me to show up a bruised and black-eyed bridesmaid, so i shouldn’t get into any trouble yet..anyhow, there was this one point on the street where i walked past about 5 smells..roasting nuts on one cart, burning incense in a stall lit by a single candle, glistening and sizzling onions in the next, rotting fruit in the space in between, only to be followed up by a fresh fruit stand..where i asked, ‘waterfield rd?’ and received the response, ‘eh?’ ‘ennnh?’..
ahhhhh

btw, i don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it seems that the more money i make, the more i hate shopping..i hate it..i do love bargaining, though;) and i’ve posted a note on that thread in my other journal..

i’ve been writing some scraps on my comp, but it’s all very scattered..i’m pasting it in my LJ if anyone wants to read it (as some people have said they wanna know the gossip on my travels)-/\(:)

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alright, so i’m in sharjah, u.a.e…
just got back from 2.5hrs at the salon..tiring..can you believe i walked barefoot on the street because i forgot to wear sandals for my pedicure? mind you, it was only a few steps and then i hopped into a car, but..i would never dare tell my mom, and definitely not my brother!!! so i’ll just tell facebook..yesterday, my bro wouldn’t even let me lean against a wall because he was sure i’d get dirty…(i did it anyway, and i did get dirty)..dirty dirty rubbish she she.

I have a revived appreciation for food today, triggered by my lunch feast..i just had the YUMMIEST fish curry…i think there’s a reason the food here has been tasting so good, besides the fact that i’ve left behind a dark existence in toronto..
see, i can get away with eating with my hands here. i can’t, so much, back in toronto. my parents just won’t have it. i mean, sometimes i can ask permission at home and do it, or if they’re not around, i’ll sneak a few bites with my hand and think myself clever. but really, i’m just a coward.

i remember in our first year of university, in the first couple of months, tania and i sat down and ate with our hands. it was such a glorious thing. she mastered it, and soon we were making chicken curry and salty vegetable medleys..

i think eating with your hands is a skill you can really show off. i know, it may sound gross, but that’s only if you don’t wash your hands!! it’s a matter of grasping a mouthsize morsel with just the right pressure, and gathering just enough so that it doesn’t slip out of your fingers. this method of eating also taught me to choose wisely for each bite. it’s necessary to include the perfect amount of rice, vegetable, and, if available, papadam..for those who aren’t familiar with papad, it’s this crispy sorta fried chip. oh, and if you’re non-veg, you must of course include a smaller chunk of meat. but that’s just my approach..everyone has a different way of eating. my mom, for instance, hates to mix her food up..
speaking of my mom..nothing tastes better than skin and food. especially your mom’s skin. and i’m not trying to a make a ‘your momma’ joke. seriously, you love your mom (i love your mom), and she really knows how to feed you. when i was young, i used to leave my plate behind and just eat out of my mom’s, simply because i knew she’d feed me with her hand. to this day, if i can finagle a hand feed from her, i will take it!!! it’s been awhile, though..i am running out of excuses..

i must say, i’ve always been a little unsure of the class and social implications of eating with my hands. i can’t tell if it is the Catholic Indians who think they’re too good to eat with their hands, or the Westernized Indians in general, or what..i mean, can i go to a party and eat with my hands? I don’t know if I would..it’s a long walk to the bathroom when there’s dahl dripping down my arm and onto my dress..

see, when i was in india two years ago, we had a bit of a fiasco..perhaps a culture clash..the Indians from the West could not fathom eating with their hands, and demanded utensils.. the locals were unaware that we had such needs..but why would they be? we were from their country originally, no? i mean, the “Indians from the West”, fully knew how to eat with their hands from their childhood..so why didn’t they? It’s because, in public, they just can’t do it. It can’t be done, it’s unheard of! I’m sure the Goans and Anglo Indians know what I’m talking about..anyhow, we got spoons and forks i think..

This past October, I was hanging out with a South Indian (Tamil) film crew in Scarborough…this was a team of about a dozen people visiting from India..They were here a month, and I had a role in this film..I’ll post publicity stills later..it’s called Arasangam..anyhow, each day, they’d have the lunches and meals catered by local South Asian restaurants. On location outside a hotel, they pulled out trays of food…an array of tandoori chicken, white rice, samba, and chicken curry was spread out on a table..In search of a spoon, I noticed there was none. Okay, I thought, cool, and I scooped rice from the tray with a broken piece of styrofoam plate. I used the same foam to lift chicken curry into my plate, and poured the samba on top of this whole plate. Yea, I like to mix.
Next I searched for a spoon and fork…none..the only non-Indian person on the team, who was hired in Toronto, glanced at me sympathetically…he’d ordered a sandwich from the hotel, he just couldn’t take the South Indian spice, he admitted:P..anyway, there were a lot of non-Indians around who were staying at the hotel…and I guess I could’ve gone upstairs and grabbed a fork and spoon..but…I didn’t….I sat down, and i dug in. oh yea, and it was gooood. I called my mom immediately after, with my hands still sticky from samba..”guess what i just did, mom…oh yea, in public…” ….I remember pulling the phone away from my ear and finding an oily film on it where my hand had been.

The fact of the matter is, we don’t need forks and spoons. We always have our hands. Same with lovers..we don’t need them..for the same reason. Tee hee…

Who wants to borrow my phone now?

{post disclaimer: i am working on getting a life beyond writing, hopefully once i get it i’ll be too cool to write about it}

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i really don’t get why everyone at the canadian passport offices and indian consulate have something stuck up their asses. is it the same object? is it sharp? do they have it inserted daily or is it placed there for the whole working period, when they first get the job?
cause really, they don’t even proffer a smile, let alone any semblance of amiability…

yesterday, i walked in and the guy at the front info counter for the indian consulate didn’t even crack a smile. he just pointed in the direction of the other crazy man, who was yelling things in hindi and walking away from everyone mid-conversation..for some reason, this man decided to give me the time of day and talk to me, understandably saying things extra loud so he wouldn’t have to explain them again to the crowds of people surrounding him trying to grab his attention..

i recall visiting the canadian gov. offices in whitby last month to get my passport renewed..the info desk guy just looked at me sternly, as though expecting the worst from me before anything..maybe i look scared, yes i tend to have the look of a deer in the headlights but geeezzz at least be nice enough to accommodate my fear, and i think it’s a rightful fear considering i always feel like i’m about to get slapped on the palm by a nun with a thin reed stick..ARGH

today i went back to the indian consulate..i passed the man from yesterday, at the front desk..he recognized me, i am sure. i gave him a big perky smile and said, HOW ARE YOU?
and he said, no, go out. and i said, huh?
apparently, my tea wasn’t allowed in there. and they say tea is a leading indian export..he didn’t look at me when i re-entered a second later, empty-handed. ugh!

i swear, i felt like i was in the pages of a couple of books i’ve read..one, ‘trespassing’ (uzma aslam khan) , was based on Pakistan and had a scene of complete and utter disorganization over water shortages..where a character would spend the whole day in line waiting to collect a ration for water..and get to the front of the line only to be told the office is closed for the day, or that they are missing the TINIEST thing–which means they have to come back the next day…it’s a woman-in-waiting’s worst nightmare!
right now, in shantaram, the character is in a train..the rush for the train in this instance really takes the shape of Darwin’s survival of the fittest..it literally is every man for himself..it’s ruthless, as we all trample each other to get noticed and get what we’re all sure we deserve..
i felt that way today! there are few smiles in the room (which can fit max 151 people), and everyone stands in line, a little weary of what the main guy will say..he could pass us on to the visa/passport officers, or he could tell us something is missing..i tap my foot, while others avoid eye contact..finally, i get approval. he doesn’t smile at me..do i smell??

i sit down. i’m breathing fine, and so is everyone seated around me. like shantaram, this is when everyone relaxes and resumes their indian politeness. in the book, knees bump lightly and apologies are in abundance. the sikh man behind me lets me use his pen and offers me his thick envelope to write on (yea, that’s right, i didn’t fill out my forms completely!)

i get to the actual visa lady. she hates me. i just know it. i came forward when my number was called and she told me to wait. i wait and then she beckons me forward. she has a stapler in front of her and makes me walk to the back of the room to use the communal stapler. i bow my head in shame as i pass 100 people awaiting their doom. they all hear my boots clacking and wonder why i got sent to the back of the room, i return, and she does everything possible to sustain her exasperation with me..i forgot to put my signature. I FORGOT!!!!! i apologize, and try to show her how sincere i am. i REALLY wanted someone in that room today to accept me. i ask her if i can borrow her pen to sign my signature..

and so, i will return at 3pm to pick up my passport and visa..

i can’t wait till i have to renew my 1month visa in india, one month from now..
i’ll report back with just how kindly they treat me in the motherland..

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“I looked at the people, then, and I saw how busy they were—how much industry and energy described their lives. Occasional sudden glimpses inside the huts revealed the astonishing cleanliness of that poverty: the spotless floors, and glistening metal pots in neat, tapering towers. And then, last, what should’ve been first, I saw how beautiful they were: the women wrapped in crimson, blue, and gold; the women walking barefoot through the tangled shabbiness of the slum with patient, ethereal grace; the white-toothed, almond-eyed handsomeness of the men; and the affectionate camaraderie of the fine-limbed children, older ones playing with younger ones, many of them supporting baby brothers and sisters on their slender hips.”

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