Flashing Images

The awesomeness of today’s Unique Moment is a wonderful opportunity to break the silence of this blog. But I must warn you: this incident is shocking. It is disturbing. It is life-altering!

As I walked through my neighborhood I did feel a certain excess of interest in my person, but heat-induced flashes of Megalomania prohibited me from locating the source of this extra-interest. I just put it down to the Hot Mama Effect, and I don’t know why I should not revel in it just a teeny-weeny bit. Or rather: i did not know. Because now i do!

But I did not find out until about an hour later. Until after presenting myself at various shops and parading through the entire neighborhood along my usual route. Just to make sure…
Until – at last!!! – a woman in the park kindly pointed out to me the fact that my trouser was torn at the back. You get the image of the sheer, white moon breaking through dark night clouds? That’s the image everyone got.

This was a moment of revelation realizations.
Firstly, you understand the importance of that tiny moment in the day when you decide on your underwear.
Secondly, you instantly understand the merits of a witness protection program.
Thirdly, I think I want to die!

It was less of a wardrobe malfunction than a case of disproportionate love. I just loved these trousers so much that I have worn them to shreds. Now of course I have cast the offending garment out of sight, and no, I did not first have a look at the extend of the damage. I do not think the image of flashing skin could ever be erased from my memory. Speaking of which: I am sure there are ways of forgetting this incident. I think binge-drinking is one of them.

Wish me luck.

Aristotle for Beginners

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Let me provide a very simple explanation for that one:

1. Summer is coming to Mumbai.

2. A/C conked out last night.

There you have it. :yes: Clear to one and all.

Sunday’s Little Pleasures

Bentley hasn’t been having much luck with his food lately, but the best seems to be allocated to promising Sundays: Chicken Biryani from the local take-away counter, for example. One bite of this concoction was enough to extract one of Bentley’s concise but deadly comments:

„How to make chicken biryani?
Take chicken and red chili.“

Only the coming days can tell whether I ought to tag this under „health“ issues. :))

Tea Time’s Over

After a shamelessly long extensive baby break, I shall pick up the loose ends of this blog and continue writing here.

Naggin Queen

I have been told the French were even more Jerman than the Germans. Naturally, my tender feelings have been injured and I have come to the conclusion that the only thing for me to do is to instantly pull up a couple of ferocious complaints. As luck would have it, this has to be the day when I am so content with life that I am beginning to suspect my wedded husband may have slipped something into my tea today morning. 8|

But never you fear, Frenchmen. I cannot bring myself to babble about any of the current news items, so I write instead about an article in a not-so-fresh edition of OUTLOOK magazine: A fat lot of trouble. It’s about the fat youth of India. I’m only mildly interested in the younger generations weight struggles, but the very first sentence strikes me as somewhat odd.

Burger-fattened youth should watch out.

What do you mean by that, Amba Batra Bakshi? Should the samosa-fattened youth not look out?

I cannot perceive the reason why Indians would stubbornly believe that the evil ingredient responsible for their ever-expanding waist size was the burger they shove into their mouth once a fortnight. It’s not the aloo-stuffed paratha or puri for breakfast, the samosa for brunch or the Malai Kofta for lunch. Don’t suspect the innocent sugar-chai with pakodas for tea and never ever fear detrimental consequences from your 11pm dinner. It’s the AlooMcTikki you had three weeks ago that’s to blame. |-|

Quite so.

Wery Jerman

You can no longer hear it when I speak in English*, but it’s true, still. I’m very, very German. And like most
all
most
all Germans, I have one hobby. Complaining. Why, Bismarck, the first Reichschancellor, knew that to be true! He called it Germany’s National Sport. Complaining. And it outlasted everything. There is no pleasing for some people. And there is definitively no pleasing for Germans. 😉

No-one knows India

Indians don’t like the Slumdog, and they are still not done saying so even six weeks after its release.

Some Indians think that Slumdog shows India in a bad light. The BigB is one of them. He thought Slumdog Millionaire unjustly focused on the murky underbelly of India, thereby doing the country great mischief.

Ogden Nash on Mumbai

I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
I’ll never see a tree at all.

Well said.

Where is my wedding? (Wedding Marathon, part II)

Remember, if you will: we were all sitting in a certainly not air-conned bus on our way to a big, fat Bhopal wedding. But where is it going to happen? Our bus wheezed through the traffic and we lost our way twice. :yes:
The hotel (venue) apparently belongs to the Pataudis. „Apparently“ since nobody ever knows anything for sure. The Pataudis, some distinguished Muslim lineage, also include Saif Ali Khan in their fold. Must. Show. Off.
But even this royal circumstance could not make us reach before 9:30pm. We scrambled out of the bus, which was not exactly easy in our pretty, by that time sweat-soaked saris. This bus had obviously not been constructed bearing in mind certain handicaps, so that the step hovered half a meter above the ground. A perfect, filmy moment to cast yourself into the arms of your husband. 😳

Once we had recovered from this free fall, we fumbled with our saris, adjusted our coiffure and were subsequently told: sorry. Wrong hotel. Get back into the bus.

Wait a minute. I have to :)):)):))

My German brow began to twitch. But that does not signify, since it’s getting increasingly difficult to shock me. We all climbed back into the bus, which roared dangerously, and eventually managed to reach the venue. :wave: Time for the barat. The bridegroom mounted his glitzy carriage. The music began and would not stop for forty five torturously loud minutes. Everyone danced. Well, almost. Some Mamas carried around a special scent with them. An alcoholic scent. We all remember our secret scented session a long time ago (German, but with explicit photo). Mamas, by the way, are maternal uncles.

Before S was allowed to enter the venue and cast an appropriately shy look at his soon-to-be, there was a quick welcoming ceremony. I did not know it at that time, but I was to perform this same ceremony less than 24 hours later. :yes:

The party was incredibly relaxing up there on that breezy hill. Apparently, there had been one thousand guests. 8| What a tight squeeze. But since it was past 10:30pm the lawn had cleared and we enjoyed a perfectly calm stroll. Meanwhile, the couple braved gifts, photos, handshakes, photos, utterances of joy and some more photos up on the stage. We devoted our attention to the buffet and munched altogether too much. The lusty old bloke from the living room popped up next to me a couple of times, prompting me to run off each time. But then there was the inevitable. The secretly desired moment. The highlight of every party: The dessert counter. It was juicy hot jelebis and forbiddingly tasty cream. Umm! 😳

My infernal heels sank into the soft lawn a couple of times so that I had to dig them out again, until I made the most sensible decision of the evening and walked barefoot. We plopped on the lawn and just sat there for some time, having green soda (the in-thing this season along with blue and purple soda) and contemplated another round of desserts. :yes: Yes, please. ;D

But time marched on. The orchestra had packed up already and we were to follow suit very soon. We left about 1:30am (our train was to leave at 2:15am). Bhopal station – let me just pack this nicely – is not pretty. :no: We found ourselves amidst a distinctly unpleasant odour, lots of creepy, crawling animals and heaps of digestive end-products on the tracks. No, it was not pretty. And it was to last much longer than anticipated since the train was announced to be 30minutes late.

Eyes. Getting. Heavy. :yawn: Tired. Very tired. :yawn: Rahul plopped himself on a bench and dozed off. I could and would not. I sleep like a log and nothing can wake me :lalala: so I decided to walk around in circles on the platform, always listening to the metallic speaker-voice which announced the delays. Some trains were 12 hours late. XX( Not pretty. Definitely not pretty. 30min had become an hour and I was still making my rounds on the platform until I almost dove very ungracefully onto the tracks. I daresay that might have been entertaining. To others. So I sat down and waited some more.

3:20am. The Rajdhani Express from Chennai finally decides to show up in Bhopal, we hop on and are shipped back to Delhi. And to think that we were to go through all of this again. Today, in fact!

Bhopal Express (Wedding Marathon)

On special request I’ll translate two instalments of the huge, seemingly unending wedding marathon (taken from my German blog).

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Bhopal Express (Wedding Marathon)

Two weddings in the course of 24hrs at two different venues more than 700km apart in India? This may require some prior planning…

We decided to leave on 18th morning and travel from Delhi to Bhopal. By train. We chose the Shatabdi Express, which is known for its excellent cars and excellent speed (up to 150km/h on the Delhi-Bhopal track). This is fast indeed. :yes: This way we were supposed to reach Bhopal in just about 8 hours, where Mr. S was going to make Ms. A into a respectable woman. It’s a so-called „love marriage“ – not at all the thing in India. Even Bollywood couple Ajay Devgan and Kajol sneered at love matches. Except, one would expect, their own. Apparently, they sneer at principles, too. :lalala:

Never mind. We had a wedding to get to.
So we left the house at 5:05am (our all-time punctuality highlight since we were late by a mere five minutes) and looked for a rickshaw. Ten minutes later we had to make do with a bus, the passenger density of which (even at this unearthly hour) would have sent the staff of the German transport corporation into whoops of delight. As soon as we found a rickshaw-wallah who’d stoop as low as to ferry us, we switched vehicles and managed to reach the station at 6am. The train was to start at 6:12am. It was supposed to be a sparkling new train, but we had not considered that the Delhi-Bhopal sector is not meant for premium treatment. Consequently, we had to make do with slightly elder cars.

Eight hours in a semi-somnolent state. It was darn cold. So cold, in fact, that the Bentley and I were fighting about my dupatta, until the Bentley decided he’d much rather fight with one of the train boys to induce some climate change. 😉 The situation either improved thereon or we simply did not notice since we were off in a doze again and woke up only for meals. Oh, and once in Jhansi where I saw a tourist bustle across the platform, puffing a cigarette, which, my dear, is very verry strictly prohibited. :yes: Jhansi seemed to be rather popular with the tireless traveller since we saw hordes of them board and de-board the train at that station. B)

2:45pm in Bhopal. 42°C. A sun stroke is imminent. Having spent eight hours in arctic conditions, I notice how my skin begins to prickle while we crawl through Bhopal in an open car for about an hour while enjoying the driver’s rendition of Beethoven’s 9th on the horn. When we finally reached our destination, it was to find the entire bridegrooms family in the house. Upstairs. Downstairs. Inside. Outside. Having lunch. Preparing for the wedding. Braving the heat rolled up in some corner, sleeping.
We crept into S’s room and barely managed to reach the bed, where we collapsed in a heat-induced coma.

5pm and time to doll ourselves up. Fifty relatives turned the house into a gigantic locker-room experience while getting dressed. We flocked together in small groups, barricaded ourselves in different rooms and let loose the petticoats, the hair pins, the lipsticks and brushes. To quote a neat movie-line: Sausages and women. You don’t want to watch the preparation process of either. Which is all the better. I sneaked into the bathroom where someone had just taken a shower and tried to get dressed until that wicked sari blouse fell down, soaked up some good frothy shower water and sent me off in a mood of slight displeasure. |-| Breaaath. Unlock the door. Run upstairs. Stand in line for ironing. Run downstairs. Getting dressed again. Mission: Completed successfully.

It was all a very colourful chaos with people peeping around from behind curtains. Men and women in various states of dress and undress scrambling up and down the stairs. The smell of deo. Ghee (clarified butter). And expectation. Everyone doled out neat compliments. And so on. And so on. Until I found myself standing in the foyer, somewhat lost, committing a cardinal sin: I forgot my own Rule 1, looked across to the living room and brushed everyone with a smile. After a week of meet-and-greet in Delhi I was way past remembering who I have met, and since I did not want to cut anyone I just gave them all a big, non-committing, yellow-yellow-dirrrty-fellow grin. There you go. Some bloke had an odd Kylie-Minogue-moment. You know, when she sparkles into the camera and sings „Especially for you…“. So he jumped up from his seat, pulled two kids along and introduced himself, standing altogether too close to me. |-|
I, on the other hand, had a forbidding What-have-I-done-moment 🙄 and swiftly removed myself to one of the rooms reserved for the fairer, much better behaved sex.

Later. Much. Much later we were finally done. Done and ready. It was time to formally send off the bridegroom who was trying very hard not to look nervous. Time for some poojas. Since I did not harass anyone for explanations, there is not much to tell at this point other than: Some more pooja outside. Some colourful rice. Some tears. And off we were. We hopped onto the bus that was hired for this occasion and drove off – not into the sunset which was long, long time ago and we were ever so slightly late – but into we-knew-not-where since nobody had actually managed to find out the way. You may all guess what happened next. :wave:

Part II „Where is my wedding?“ …. coming up next.