When I arrived in Auroville, I didn't know I was there. I caught a bus from Madras to Pondicherry, thinking that some time on the beach would be good for me after the recent encounter I had with a pair of X chromosomes (as Yoav put it) who ruined me in typical style. I wanted to surf and I was thinking that maybe the full moon would help the waves a little. I arrived at night and strolled down the beach until I saw a light in the doorway near some new-agers doing Yoga in the sand by moonlight. I asked if there were any vacant beachside huts where I could spend the night, and the man at the door answered "hashish?" That's when I knew I was close to the largest hippy communal living experiment on earth.
I had heard that Auroville, a community which began with the best intentions had long since deteriorated into a bunch of hippies smoking weed and playing "redemption song" on the guitar. The community began in the sixties (I think) when westerners were increasingly drawn to the strange spiritual allure of India, not yet recognizing yet another form of dogmatic persuasion and what inevitably just amounts to a power grab by people who claim to know what God is doing or "fools" as Kurt Vonnegut said. Foolishness aside, I was drawn to this place by the fact that I was once an idealist, the intellectual curiosity I have worked to cultivate as a replacement for my apathy, to gain direction and insight, to "train" for the exhausting task of hanging out with hippies all summer with Outward Bound, and because there might be chicks there.
After spending an over-priced night in a hut on the beach, I rented a motorcycle to get me into Auroville, which isn't as easy as one might think. To even skim the surface of this community, one needs to agree to a set of values and complete a series of steps. The first is to be invited in. I was. Next, one has to commit to two weeks of living in one of the communities and working on the organic farm, following the myriad rules which include no outside money, no chemicals of any kind, and a 100 percent Vegan diet. I could do that. No beer, no drugs. I was looking to de-tox anyway, or perhaps just "pre-tox" which is where you get healthy before you go binge drinking. You also have to have read the community charter which sates that "Auroville belongs to humanity as a whole. But to live in Auroville, one must be the willing servitor of the Divine Consciousness." Not sure about that one.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Saturday, February 7, 2009
My brother's revenge
Growing up,when I was cruel to my brother, which was often, I was warned by the people in my life that some day things would be different-- some day he would have the upper hand. I always interpreted these warnings in the narrow light of youth, thinking that it meant that someday he would grow taller and larger physically and would be able to return my physical abuse with physical abuse of his own. I dismissed all such predictions as absurd in the manner of an incredulous 9 year old who has just been told that "there is more to life than video games."
"As if!" I would say, borrowing the quaint response from Alicia Silverstone from "Clueless."
I used to torture my younger genetic counter-part with taunts about how only wussies played soccer. I thought of soccer as a baby's game where the players would express their skill through fancy footwork and trickery, to me reminiscent of the trickery of a little brother yelling "Mom, John's hitting me!" as soon as I entered the room. Soccer players would feign injury to get sympathy from the referee even though they weren't even bleeding. They were more actors than anything, I always thought, and this was something I availed myself of every possible opportunity to remind him.
When my friends in Chennai asked me if I wanted to go play football for the afternoon over in a park in the city, I immediately said yes asking if it was contact football or touch football. They gave me the quizzical look of someone who has just identified the silent farter at the tea party, and then one of them said "soccer, mate."
"Oh, soccer."
It had been days since I had any significant amount of exercise other than walking around the city, so I had to take them up on their offer and borrow some acceptable shoes.
We rode the train downtown and I watched out the window as scenes of India flew past the open doors as it conveyed us on electricity over the slippery tracks on an elevated platform--ka-chuck ka-chuck ka-chuck. We looked down at cows eating garbage by the oily roadside gutter ka-chuck, kids pushing tires with sticks through the crowded streets laughing ka-chuck, colorful laundry hung on rooftops to dry in the sunlight ka-chuck, peremptory palms protruding from cracked city sidewalks ka-chuck, arriving in a dizzy haze at a college campus in what looked from the fancy design elements and modern facade to be Los Angeles.
As we signed in at the gate and paid the 100 rupees each for use of the field, I was transported to another reality, as is so often seen in India. There is the life of the people on the street and then there is the insular and privileged life of the elite who might as well be living somewhere else entirely with the degree to which they hide in their mansions and chauffeured petrol-guzzling foreign automobiles and private schools. We walk through the campus over to the field where we greet a crowd watching a soccer match already in progress. Many of the onlookers have brown skin, but speak with impeccable British accents, clearly the new elite. I tie my shoes and sub in as a member of the white team, temporarily assigned the role of forward. This should be easy. They're all a bunch of foppish British talking Indians.
The ball sails past my head and I duck. Whoa, that was close, but then I remember that hitting the ball with your face in this game is a good thing. Oops. I quickly learn that my role is to get in the way, since my first effort to kick the ball in the right direction goes horribly awry. I try the "interfere with the other guy" strategy and I get in a kicking match with one of the red guys which ends with both of us on the ground and him whining like a baby and looking up at me astounded like I just licked his sister's face. He has a "how could you?" look and I apologize, thinking he must be really hurt. I'm about to run for the sideline and call 911, when he suddenly picks himself up and sprints down the field, proving that soccer players are more actors than anything, however fit and good with the feet they might seem. I start to think of it like ballet.
I run back and forth. I chase the ball. The ball goes over there. Somebody kicks it. I run over there. I get tired and jog toward the ball. The ball goes somewhere else. I lose my concern about where the ball is. A more pressing question is "why can't I breathe?" I stay where I am. Suddenly the ball comes to me. Think! React! Because of my laziness in chasing the ball, I'm now in a position to score. I kick the ball over to another guy and he kicks it in! Yes! I have earned the respect of the soccer players. I run with my hands up screaming "goooooooaaaaallllllll!" If respect is hard to earn it is easy to lose.
We run some more and kick the ball over there then back and then over there again. Somebody kicks it out of bounds, and sensing an opportunity, I rush over to the sideline to throw the ball in at the guy who's open and in a position to score. I grab it out of a tangle of net that is on the sideline and throw it in with a running start, but my foot catches in the net and I fall on my face. The few who see this laugh.
As the sun fades and people start to get tired, we wrap it up, and tally the goals and such, but it is unclear who won. We congratulate each other on the sideline and one Indian guy actually says to me "good show, old chap." My brother has had his revenge as was once prophesied. I have been defeated by a bunch of soccer playing wussies and thoroughly embarrassed, and they say "good show" at the end.
"Glad I could put on a show for you" I say and we make our way off the brilliantly green field rimmed by palm trees, benches and manicured gardens out to the foyer of the private school or university or whatever where we drink purified water out of the tap. We walk into the street in the darkness and are soon assaulted again by the open sewers, predatory packs of dogs fighting in the street, and the smoke plume from a pile of burning garbage that wafts into the air and disappears like the hopes of Gandhi for an India where the poor were no longer ruled by an elite whose lives they can no more comprehend than the whims of their Gods, one part kind, one part cruel, but united in their indifference.
"As if!" I would say, borrowing the quaint response from Alicia Silverstone from "Clueless."
I used to torture my younger genetic counter-part with taunts about how only wussies played soccer. I thought of soccer as a baby's game where the players would express their skill through fancy footwork and trickery, to me reminiscent of the trickery of a little brother yelling "Mom, John's hitting me!" as soon as I entered the room. Soccer players would feign injury to get sympathy from the referee even though they weren't even bleeding. They were more actors than anything, I always thought, and this was something I availed myself of every possible opportunity to remind him.
When my friends in Chennai asked me if I wanted to go play football for the afternoon over in a park in the city, I immediately said yes asking if it was contact football or touch football. They gave me the quizzical look of someone who has just identified the silent farter at the tea party, and then one of them said "soccer, mate."
"Oh, soccer."
It had been days since I had any significant amount of exercise other than walking around the city, so I had to take them up on their offer and borrow some acceptable shoes.
We rode the train downtown and I watched out the window as scenes of India flew past the open doors as it conveyed us on electricity over the slippery tracks on an elevated platform--ka-chuck ka-chuck ka-chuck. We looked down at cows eating garbage by the oily roadside gutter ka-chuck, kids pushing tires with sticks through the crowded streets laughing ka-chuck, colorful laundry hung on rooftops to dry in the sunlight ka-chuck, peremptory palms protruding from cracked city sidewalks ka-chuck, arriving in a dizzy haze at a college campus in what looked from the fancy design elements and modern facade to be Los Angeles.
As we signed in at the gate and paid the 100 rupees each for use of the field, I was transported to another reality, as is so often seen in India. There is the life of the people on the street and then there is the insular and privileged life of the elite who might as well be living somewhere else entirely with the degree to which they hide in their mansions and chauffeured petrol-guzzling foreign automobiles and private schools. We walk through the campus over to the field where we greet a crowd watching a soccer match already in progress. Many of the onlookers have brown skin, but speak with impeccable British accents, clearly the new elite. I tie my shoes and sub in as a member of the white team, temporarily assigned the role of forward. This should be easy. They're all a bunch of foppish British talking Indians.
The ball sails past my head and I duck. Whoa, that was close, but then I remember that hitting the ball with your face in this game is a good thing. Oops. I quickly learn that my role is to get in the way, since my first effort to kick the ball in the right direction goes horribly awry. I try the "interfere with the other guy" strategy and I get in a kicking match with one of the red guys which ends with both of us on the ground and him whining like a baby and looking up at me astounded like I just licked his sister's face. He has a "how could you?" look and I apologize, thinking he must be really hurt. I'm about to run for the sideline and call 911, when he suddenly picks himself up and sprints down the field, proving that soccer players are more actors than anything, however fit and good with the feet they might seem. I start to think of it like ballet.
I run back and forth. I chase the ball. The ball goes over there. Somebody kicks it. I run over there. I get tired and jog toward the ball. The ball goes somewhere else. I lose my concern about where the ball is. A more pressing question is "why can't I breathe?" I stay where I am. Suddenly the ball comes to me. Think! React! Because of my laziness in chasing the ball, I'm now in a position to score. I kick the ball over to another guy and he kicks it in! Yes! I have earned the respect of the soccer players. I run with my hands up screaming "goooooooaaaaallllllll!" If respect is hard to earn it is easy to lose.
We run some more and kick the ball over there then back and then over there again. Somebody kicks it out of bounds, and sensing an opportunity, I rush over to the sideline to throw the ball in at the guy who's open and in a position to score. I grab it out of a tangle of net that is on the sideline and throw it in with a running start, but my foot catches in the net and I fall on my face. The few who see this laugh.
As the sun fades and people start to get tired, we wrap it up, and tally the goals and such, but it is unclear who won. We congratulate each other on the sideline and one Indian guy actually says to me "good show, old chap." My brother has had his revenge as was once prophesied. I have been defeated by a bunch of soccer playing wussies and thoroughly embarrassed, and they say "good show" at the end.
"Glad I could put on a show for you" I say and we make our way off the brilliantly green field rimmed by palm trees, benches and manicured gardens out to the foyer of the private school or university or whatever where we drink purified water out of the tap. We walk into the street in the darkness and are soon assaulted again by the open sewers, predatory packs of dogs fighting in the street, and the smoke plume from a pile of burning garbage that wafts into the air and disappears like the hopes of Gandhi for an India where the poor were no longer ruled by an elite whose lives they can no more comprehend than the whims of their Gods, one part kind, one part cruel, but united in their indifference.
Monday, January 26, 2009
To tour the ruins or ruin the tours? Hampi, India
Hampi is a boulder strewn moonscape of ancient ruins amid palm trees and banana plantations. It is bisected by a river which over the eons carved the granite bedrock into formations which cause endless speculation by climbers like me and the dreadlocked Israeli hippies alike, who flock here to achieve enlightenment via a gigantic spliff. Hampi is fascinating in it's sprawl of ruined statues and temples which defy time itself, but for some reason it just reminds me of the song "my humps." I can't get it out of my head. "My humps, my humps! My lovely lady lumps!"
Every day tourists flock to Hampi to observe the antiquity of the turbulent world of ancient India. As western tourists, we're the definite minority. Most of the people who come here are Indian in origin, and many of them are on a sort of pilgrimage to the site either out of intellectual interest or genuine spiritual devotion. We are therefore outsiders in so many ways, and we always feel like intruders as a result.
So when it comes time to deny the inevitable offer to join a "tour" we decide instead to remain in ignorance and wander around the ruins in a world of our own-- a world full of catch phrases and remembered lines from television shows and "my humps! my hump, my hump!" which I sing loudly as we walk. We walk through a crowd of Muslim women in Burkas and my friends are momentarily embarrassed as I do the motions which I assume correspond with the lines "don't pull on my hand boy, you ain't my man boy, I'm jus' tryna dance boy, and move my humps. In the back and in the front." I'll never know whether these Muslim women were embarrassed or offended. I can't see the expressions on their faces through their all-cloaking garments designed I'm sure to protect them against my humps.
I am wondering if there are other ways to ruin the tours. Should I go out of my way, or just be myself? Is my mere presence there enough? I feel like I am offending people who journey miles and miles to seek out the 500 year old statue of Ganesha and throw themselves at its feet in supplication, misery and joy all mixed confusedly together like vegetable curry. I non-chalantly take a picture and move on to the next boulder problem.
Bouldering is sort of a spiritual art, I tell myself. One can experience bliss and disappointment in the constant pursuit of perfection. This one doesn't have a good landing. It's too high-ball. Too slopey. Too much over-hang here. Certainly it involves a long journey and confronting new and unframilair things, like any other spiritual quest. I have come all the way to India for this Boulder. What makes the Indians so different from me? My musings are interrupted by Ritik's query.
"Should we go over here to the other temples whose names we can't pronounce?"
"They do have more letters."
Yentrodharaka Anjaneya temple. Yent- ro- dar- ah -ka. An -jah- ney? Whatever. I still feel bad about the women in Burkas and how I offended them. I pretty sure they don't understand my humps. I'm not even sure I understand them. So maybe they didn't know to be offended.
I lieback a small flake and lunge up to the highest hold and hit it. I try to find the right foot-holds before my body creeps earth-ward to the dirt, but my foot slips off the tiny crystal of granite and I fall. Try again. This time focus and don't be thinking about the woman in the Burka or what you're going to do with all that junk, all that junk inside your trunk.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Move b%$#@! Get out da Way! A lesson in Indian driving
I remember so clearly so many days where I would be flying down the highway, feeling the wind in my hair, watching the malevolent summer sun dip beneath the horizon on a curving road through the mountains, the air chilling my sunburned body, only to see those familiar blue-lights in the background. In my experience, the police officer who pulls me over usually expresses his outright contempt for my reckless disregard for life and threatens some kind of steeper more punishing fee than has been levied, scaring me into compliance with his authoritarian threats. At least India is lawless, I thought one day as I was handed the key to a drastically underpowered motorcycle which I had rented for 10$.
Not "lawless" exactly as it turns out. There are rules, but given India's history of road construction (most of the major roads have been built in the mid-1990's or later)it's lack of infrastructure including law enforcement vehicles, officers and the lack of clear laws render these necessary, these rules are mostly de-facto codes which dictate an informal road etiquette. I speak of simple rules like honking all the time for any reason with no explanation. It's just common courtesy.
Many of the vehicles that we pass on our stint on the Goan roads have signs painted on their bumper which remind us to "Horn ok please" "honk honk when pass" and my favorite-- "horni" which I am sure I am interpreting in the wrong sort of way.
The speedometer on my bike doesn't work. But this is just an inconvenience really since I have no idea what the speed limits are or what any of the other rules might be for that matter. Traffic consists of pedestrians, motorcycles, bikes, trucks, cars, rickshaws, cows and other animals including the very traffic savvy inbred Indian dog. Obstacles include all of the above plus potholes, road garbage (occasionally on fire), dead things, sand, and the dreaded Indian "hill" which very few Indians have successfully learned to navigate. Give them some credit-- their country is flat. Indian drivers on hills are like Californian drivers in snow.
My gas gauge doesn't work either. I just watched a guy pour three liters into the tank and the dial is reading very close to empty. I noticed this several minutes ago, but I begin to reevaluate my theories about the malfunctioning dials when my bike starts to lose power and lurches to a grinding halt in the trash speckled sand of the roadside-- right next to a cow eating garbage who looks up at me with an indifferent cud-chewing stare. This isn't the first time this has happened to me in India.
When I first rented a motorcycle we asked the owner deferentially if he had filled it up with gas. He nodded "yes" and we decided that the gas gauge was just another non-functional part of the decorations of the bike, like the big racing stripe down the side of the gas tank. I blame the miscommunication on misinterpreted body-language. In India, the nod means "maybe" and the head bob can mean anything. We've all started doing it. It's really convenient when you're just not sure how to answer. "Do you love me?" she might say, and your head bob will express nothing but get you off the hook. Also, in India it's not acceptable to give an unfavorable answer. Rather than tell you they don't know which way to the bank when you ask them for directions, they'll just motion wildly with their hands in the general direction in which you were already walking. This keeps everyone happy. I was surprised when I ran out of gas the first time, and totally un-shocked when it happened again.
Luckily, everyone keeps gas for such an occasion, and if they don't have it on hand, they'd be happy to siphon it out of their neighbors tractor for you and charge you an exorbitant amount for the spare liters which the neighbor may be paid for, or maybe not. You'll never know. But you're on the road again.
Laurel clings to me as the engine of this beautiful 1950's classic motorcycle rumbles down the pavement, the sensual vibrations of the motor propelling us faster down the winding road, into the future at a blinding pace. Suddenly, a man with a whistle jumps out in front of me confrontationally, and I swerve and slam on the brakes. The foot-brake is on the left side for some reason, and it takes me a second to react. I slow to a stop, nearly missing this lunatic road jumper who blows his whistle loudly in my ear. Is this just typical Indian madness? What is going on here?
He identifies himself as a police officer and asks me "where is your helmet?" sounding like a stern grandmother admonishing reckless youth. I look at him, stupefied. I'm thinking, "since when does India care about this?" and I'm trying to think of how to appropriately bribe him. What do you say "I've got four Mahatmas that say I was wearing a helmet"? I watch a man cruise past with three unhelmeted young children on the back of his bike. "Why didn't you stop him?" says Laurel. "Rules only for driver" says the Indian cop in the classic illogical fashion that characterizes this country and it's laws, or its semblance of laws. I sit there and stew, wondering what he will do to me. Will he beat me and then send me on my way?
Instead he stands out into traffic and pulls over another unhelmeted motorist who slams on his brakes, nearly killing a road-side goat, and comes to an enraged but powerless stop in the middle of the freeway. Seeing as how this officer was now busy with another gentlemen, he simply writes me a ticket for 100 rupees (2 USD) and sends me on my way with a handful of educational literature.
Later while nursing my fragile driver's ego over a few beers, I peruse the educational literature. One pamphlet is shaped like a cell phone and warns "if you steer, don't talk. If you talk, don't steer" and threatens that "while you steer if you talk your driving concentration gets reduced." Another pamphlet tells us that "two wheeler is meant for two and not too many." I wonder if the motorcycle which held a helmetless and nursing mother received a ticket like we did, as the happy father drove recklessly through the palm forest's winding roads.
Two things are certain with regard to Indian driving. The first is that this whole thing is relatively new and therefore they are making an effort not only to form the appropriate laws but also to enforce them in all cases, recklessly stepping in front of every lawbreaker. The other certainty is that I'll be more careful next time officer.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
What's love got to do with my Punjab? Attending an Indian wedding with an ex-girlfriend
On the drive from Ahmedabad to Sundarna, we passed sprawled cities, filthy crowds, piles of burning garbage, driving past cows in the road and an endless sea of human gristle, all with little dots on their foreheads. We stop in some kind of human traffic jam and urchins crawls all over our car, tapping on the windows, looking for handouts. I have a powerful, passionate and overwhelming apathy that allows me to remain blind to their suffering as I mutter “misery loves company.” Brant is equally apathetic and declares “of course the glass is half empty! What are you blind?” Eventually the tangle of flesh clears and we stagger forward through the morning fog. Soon, the cities give way to a more pastoral landscape of golden mustard seed, the traffic thins out, and we reach the unheard-of speed of 50 km/hr. We watch the landscape change gradually and monkeys resurface alongside the road, now unafraid of their human counter-parts who often threaten to eat them. We are headed for a remote village to attend an Indian wedding ceremony.
I am accompanied by Brant Wilkinson, a teacher atSalinas High School and my best friend in Salinas
For the duration of the wedding. We do this merely to avoid confusion and questioning. Older generation Indians simply refuse to understand how two people of opposite genders who can marginally tolerate one another and have some reasonable amount of compatibility could fail to marry one another. Any explanation we could offer would be met with the international sign of complete confusion, recognizable in the thizz-face-like expression of the befuddled local who will not “wipe that stupid look off [his] face” until you tell him something he can understand like “we’re waiting to get my father’s permission” or something. Telling people you’re already married can avoid awkwardness in any culture really. For me, a source of great bitterness and heartbreak is the recent memory of Jason Goldman’s wedding wherein I was questioned as to when I was going to marry my then girlfriend (whatsername I forget) to which she immediately replied without hesitation or remorse “oh us? We’re not getting married.” It’s better just to get married for a few days and live in a romantic fantasy world and then return to reality.
The taxi moves through the alleyways in the small town of Sundarna, and Brant notices that “it’s so crowded! It’s almost like there’s 1.2 billion of them. Where’s Vikram?” They’re all little Vikrams, and as much as this sounds like a racist comment, it’s quite true as all of these people are related to Vikram in some obscure way. We find the real Vikram next to a cow with his cell phone in hand, the perfect image of the modern Indian anachronism. We exchange introductions and greetings, and then we begin a process which will take several days—the process of meeting the family. After awhile, Vikram introduces people using a clever trick which absolves us of the obligation of actually learning their names. He simply says “John this is my other Uncle.” It makes sense.
We arrived at just about the right time for lunch. In the massive courtyard which has been temporarily converted into a dining hall, there is a large full-color banner which displays Vikram, his brother Jayvir Patel (the betrothed) alongside their mother and grandmother. Above the family, there is a little floating head of someone who looks photo-shopped into this family portrait. I ask Brant if he recognizes this man whom we have not met but is displayed as an integral part of the family unit in this portrait. Brant tells the story of the Patel American Dream, which he recounts according to his best memories of the event(s).
I am accompanied by Brant Wilkinson, a teacher at
For the duration of the wedding. We do this merely to avoid confusion and questioning. Older generation Indians simply refuse to understand how two people of opposite genders who can marginally tolerate one another and have some reasonable amount of compatibility could fail to marry one another. Any explanation we could offer would be met with the international sign of complete confusion, recognizable in the thizz-face-like expression of the befuddled local who will not “wipe that stupid look off [his] face” until you tell him something he can understand like “we’re waiting to get my father’s permission” or something. Telling people you’re already married can avoid awkwardness in any culture really. For me, a source of great bitterness and heartbreak is the recent memory of Jason Goldman’s wedding wherein I was questioned as to when I was going to marry my then girlfriend (whatsername I forget) to which she immediately replied without hesitation or remorse “oh us? We’re not getting married.” It’s better just to get married for a few days and live in a romantic fantasy world and then return to reality.
The taxi moves through the alleyways in the small town of Sundarna, and Brant notices that “it’s so crowded! It’s almost like there’s 1.2 billion of them. Where’s Vikram?” They’re all little Vikrams, and as much as this sounds like a racist comment, it’s quite true as all of these people are related to Vikram in some obscure way. We find the real Vikram next to a cow with his cell phone in hand, the perfect image of the modern Indian anachronism. We exchange introductions and greetings, and then we begin a process which will take several days—the process of meeting the family. After awhile, Vikram introduces people using a clever trick which absolves us of the obligation of actually learning their names. He simply says “John this is my other Uncle.” It makes sense.
We arrived at just about the right time for lunch. In the massive courtyard which has been temporarily converted into a dining hall, there is a large full-color banner which displays Vikram, his brother Jayvir Patel (the betrothed) alongside their mother and grandmother. Above the family, there is a little floating head of someone who looks photo-shopped into this family portrait. I ask Brant if he recognizes this man whom we have not met but is displayed as an integral part of the family unit in this portrait. Brant tells the story of the Patel American Dream, which he recounts according to his best memories of the event(s).
The Patel Family moved to Salinas California when Vikram and Jayvir were children, or perhaps before they were born, I don’t remember. They immediately purchased a convenience store, apparently unconcerned about reinforcing that old stereotype. This was of course in the worst part of town. After several years of the type of happy living that’s possible only for the recently immigrated that are working toward a “better future,” life took that tragic American turn, and there was violence in the East Salinas Kwik-E- Mart. Mr. Patel dove in front of a bullet to save his son and was killed, which explains why I have not yet heard the words “John this is my father.”
But the enormous family soldiers on, benefactors of the cultural stoicism that has witnessed death and hardship since before the time of Buddha, and ever since. I am not surprised when I don’t hear the words “John, this is my step-father.” Vikram’s mother is a widow for life, evidence of the triumph of the old world over the new world, a battle just as ambiguous and unresolved as the battle between nature and nurture.
As Laurel is whisked off to the “girls’ side” of today’s festivities, we realize that old world wins as long as the relatives and the ever watchful eyes of propriety are present. And they will always be present. So for the moment, despite her arrival into my life just a night earlier, after a 3 year absence, Laurel is gone to begin preparing for the wedding with the girls, and to talk (no doubt) about whatever it is girls discuss when they are doing each other’s hair. I think this may have been a good thing despite my reluctance to part with her, because Laurel has purchased three Saris and has no idea how to wear them.
Brant and I wander around the wedding ceremonies for awhile, absorbing the old world wedding music which has live singers, horns of some kind, and an assortment of drums. When the song ends, the mooing of cows complements the brief silence before the next song begins. We follow the band as it marches down the street in the fashion of a spontaneous parade, until we are strong-armed off the street and into the house of yet another relative.
We sit and drink Chai-Tea in this new and unfamiliar house belonging to Vikram’s other aunt, and are received as honored guests there as well. As we sit and pour tea from the cup to the saucer, slurping it loudly as per the custom, we notice that people from the village are walking in and out of the house freely without warning or invitation. During a wedding, it is explained to us, the whole village is as communal property. This presents a unique contrast to Salinas where walking into a neighbors house unannounced is likely to result in a shooting. It seems quaint and warm to me, but that is only until someone walks into the room where I am changing into my wedding clothes. All notions of privacy that I have heretofore relied upon are gone now, and I must ready myself to share the floor where I will sleep tonight alongside12 strangers.
As we sit and talk with the relatives, we can’t help but bring up some of the infamous events in the history of Gujarat, and Ahmedabad, the closest large city. Although this region seems peaceful now, we are told not to stray too far into the “Muslim area of town.” As recently as two years ago, a band of Muslim zealots hi-jacked a train and slaughtered it’s occupants as a protest over India-Pakistan relations, which many interpret through the lens of Muslim-Hindu relations. As revenge for the massacre, Hindu residents of Gujarat went to every Muslim household and killed the father of the family, in many cases burning them alive in front of their families. The women and children were made to march out of the province and into Pakistan. Owing to the fact that civil servants in India are intolerably corrupt, the police did nothing. The events seem almost forgotten now, beyond the warning to stay away from the Muslim areas. Even in this volatile environment, members of this family fear America and love their home, a sentiment that is mirrored by my American friends in reverse. "I'm mortified that you're in India" was one reaction to my travels. I'm sure that someone in the Patel family could be heard uttering "I'm mortified that you're going to America" to the young married couple, in the relatively obscure language of Gujarati, somewhere past the braying sound of the cows.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Fuck-it list item #213-- watch a movie in a language you don't understand
The Indians have a saying, which they express often along with their characteristic head bob--"why not?"-- and it seems very apt to the "fuck-it" concept which is such a welcome addition to my life at present. In keeping with the spirit of "why not?" I decided to take Brant to an Indian movie the other night-- all in Hindi with no subtitles. Why not?
The movie, "Rab De Bana di Jodi", has been a big hit in India, and was so thoroughly weird, that we decided to take Michael a few days later, watching the movie in it's entirety for the second time. This is no small feat, given the fact that Indian movies, mostly produced in Mumbai--or "Bollywood" as it's known abroad, tend to last no less that 3 hours and encompass all genres from comedy to action to romance to musical--all in the same movie. The first time Brant and I went in Delhi, the theatre was packed and the audience reacted to every scene with a boo or an excited yelp or some other interjection, as if these were live players and not celluloid bits of film distributed worldwide. In the end, we didn't have the patience to sit past the intermission, so we missed the climactic ending, thinking the film exceedingly predictable, rendering an ending simply unnecessary. Days later, we would regret this choice and elect to attend one more time, and this time sit the thing out. After all, Indian movies are anything but predictable since the movie starts with a tragic death and then quickly becomes a comedy. Maybe everyone will get machine gunned to death by terrorists in the end, we think.
Or should I say.... we hope. "These characters are ridiculous" Michael notices immediately. I wonder what it was that made him say that. Was it the male protagonists who bursts into song upon receiving a lunchbox from his new wife? Was it the female protagonist who doesn't recognize her husband in a clever disguise consisting of styled hair and sunglasses? I'll never know.
A word on the plot-- it concerns a young man who works for an electric company (Punjab Power-- lighting up your life) who is desperately in love with..... his wife. She doesn't share his sentiments though, as this is an arranged marriage in the traditional Indian fashion. She feels bound to the union because of her father's deathbed wish, so she grudgingly proceeds with the whole thing while he tries desperately to impress her. One of his desperate attempts to win her fancy is signing up for a dance competition which she has entered and disguising himself carefully with wedgie tight jeans, J-lo sunglasses and spikey hair. It was a good disguise apparently, because when he becomes his wife's dance partner by the luck of the draw, she doesn't recognize him.
A word on characters-- he's a nerd who has a Saddam Hussein mustache, glasses, pocket protector, and hair combed in a neat part down the center of his Clark Kent-like dome. His friend is an ambiguously gay boy like from "la cage aux folles" or something whose dealings with the protagonist verge on homo-erotic but probably go unnoticed in India where they have made being gay illegal and thus assume that everyone is totally straight, ignoring all indications to the contrary. Like man on man dryhumping that masquerades as humorous "dance practice." She is a beautiful but vacuous traditional Indian girl who doesn't recognize her husband in his metro-sexual disguise but cock-blocks him (pardon the expression) because she's married to him. By virtue of her beauty, she is also allowed to be so horribly inscrutable that everyone in the audience looks shocked whenever she does something. Pretty girls can get away with that sort of shit, even in India.
The whole thing is reminiscent of that terrible 70's song about liking pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. I'm sure they're into Yoga though, unlike the song. Nonetheless, every American should be as familiar with the plot as they are with the many Hindi-English (Hinglish) eक्स्प्रेस्सिओंस ठाट expressions that decorate the movie like polka-dots on a fat man. Some of the more interesting Hinglish expressions from the film, which I took note of much to the chagrin of the man to my left, included: you know how these people are; mention not it; never say goodbye, always sayक्ष्प्रेस्सिओन्स ठाट ऍक्स्प्रॅशन ; no flirting; last chance; never fear Raj is here; yellow yellow dirty fellow; dance and romance 5,6,7, 8; it's all yours; dirty bitch; mind your tongue; and my favorite "I can't take it anymore."
Which pretty much describes our sentiments after about 2 and a half hours.
A word on culture-- Since we understand neither the language nor the folkways that inform Indian cinema, we have to continually guess at meaning. I assume that the female protagonist in the movie is falling in love with the "hot" version of her husband, but she is struggling to remain faithful to the Steve Urkel version because of the culture she lives in which is extremely sexually conservative. It's so sexually conservative that they simply assume that there will be no infidelity. This frees them from the poisonous prison of jealousy and suspicion, or so I assume from watching this movie. In one scene, the female protagonist comes home and tells her husband that she will not be sharing the meal she has prepared for him because she has just had an eating contest with her dance partner (also her husband--are you following this ok?) and is no longer hungry. To continue the ruse, dork husband has to sit through the meal and act as he is enjoying the food even though he too has just stuffed 50 somosas down his maw to celebrate their dance victory (as his alter ego- and therefore unrecognizable now). This sets up a bit of comedy as he then goes down and lays on the bed and groans for a very long time at his over-stuffed belly. The interesting thing though, is how husband and wife are able to openly talk about what essentially would amount to infidelity in a westernized culture (just because of the possibility for sex to follow). I find it interesting that the woman in the movie makes no attempt to conceal her relationship with her dance partner (which is way too intimate for comfort) simply because it's so unspeakable that she would cheat on her husband. This is of course entirely a huge assumption on my part, since most of the time I have no idea what's going on in this movie.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching this film. Not because of the film itself, that part was absolute nonsense, but because of the experience of inventing an explanation for the events as the film progressed. I had no idea what was going on moment to moment, so I had no choice but to construct reality as I went. This led me to a profound realization about myself-- that I simply prefer my version of the truth to the actual truth which is perhaps more true.
Which pretty much describes our sentiments after about 2 and a half hours.
A word on culture-- Since we understand neither the language nor the folkways that inform Indian cinema, we have to continually guess at meaning. I assume that the female protagonist in the movie is falling in love with the "hot" version of her husband, but she is struggling to remain faithful to the Steve Urkel version because of the culture she lives in which is extremely sexually conservative. It's so sexually conservative that they simply assume that there will be no infidelity. This frees them from the poisonous prison of jealousy and suspicion, or so I assume from watching this movie. In one scene, the female protagonist comes home and tells her husband that she will not be sharing the meal she has prepared for him because she has just had an eating contest with her dance partner (also her husband--are you following this ok?) and is no longer hungry. To continue the ruse, dork husband has to sit through the meal and act as he is enjoying the food even though he too has just stuffed 50 somosas down his maw to celebrate their dance victory (as his alter ego- and therefore unrecognizable now). This sets up a bit of comedy as he then goes down and lays on the bed and groans for a very long time at his over-stuffed belly. The interesting thing though, is how husband and wife are able to openly talk about what essentially would amount to infidelity in a westernized culture (just because of the possibility for sex to follow). I find it interesting that the woman in the movie makes no attempt to conceal her relationship with her dance partner (which is way too intimate for comfort) simply because it's so unspeakable that she would cheat on her husband. This is of course entirely a huge assumption on my part, since most of the time I have no idea what's going on in this movie.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching this film. Not because of the film itself, that part was absolute nonsense, but because of the experience of inventing an explanation for the events as the film progressed. I had no idea what was going on moment to moment, so I had no choice but to construct reality as I went. This led me to a profound realization about myself-- that I simply prefer my version of the truth to the actual truth which is perhaps more true.
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