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.

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.

Fear Factor

*Machchar = Hindi/Urdu, mosquito

For all those who are not conversant with the astonishing range of insecticides available in the Indian market: „All Out“, the product in the picture, is a mosquito repellent.

AIDS Sutra

Though TEHELKA does not appear to be able to handle subscriptions (I receive between three and zero magazines per week), they do write articles about remarkable topics, such as an anthology published through an initiative of Avahan (India AIDS foundation backed by Bill and Melinda Gates). This act of graciousness is called AIDS Sutra and contains sixteen essays to do with HIV/AIDS authored by reputed Indian writers.

Sadly, the book has not received much attention so far – much less anyway than the hugely popular Condom-Ringtone sponsored – again – by the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. Even so, I picked it up about a month ago and did not regret it. For the most part, AIDS Sutra is a horrifying collection of facts you’ll wish to un-know. Apart from AIDS in India I learnt about a society so intrinsically layered that you cannot even reach some of the tucked-away folds, not without getting your fingers dirty with the slime of disintegration, disfigurment and disrespect.

The other day I sat in my beloved women’s compartment and read one of the stories about an Andhra village which survives – if not entirely – at least to a large part on prostitution, with women charging Rs. 50 „per shot“, sneering at those women across the river who are not descendents of a long line of esteemed devadasis, thus going by a rate of Rs. 30. I looked up from these disturbing pages and surveyed the faces of my fellow passengers. And I wondered: Which one? As I passed by another station platform with an enormous crowd I wondered: Which one?
(Once you read the essay about the largely invisible sex workers in Mumbai, you are likely to ponder the same question. How is it that such amazingly large parts of society go entirely unnoticed? If I wanted to, I could live out my entire life in India without ever paying attention.)

I remember a woman from Bangalore. She used to work Brigade Road, clad in dull Western clothes with scary make-up and a worn expression on her face. Sometimes I observed her talking to what could only have been clients. If my untrained eye could spot her, she must have been very visible to the police as well, which makes me wonder whether Bangalore Police adopts similarly punishing methods as Mumbai Police, described unwaveringly by Sonia Faleiro in what I perceived to be the most gruelling story, partly because it picked up where Maximum City (Chapter One, „Power“) let off.

At times, reading AIDS Sutra made me feel like a voyeuristic pervert snorkeling the depravity of humanity, shopping miserable lives, feeding on unimaginable suffering. But it is rewarding still. Apart from my contribution to Avahan (proceeds of the book flow back into the pool) there is a sense of social awakening. Not so much in the sense that one has been a staunch believer in the flowers and the bees, suddenly realising that even a country like India is painted with a lot more shades of muddy brown than vibrant colours forever thrown into your face. But rather because these things are never talked about. You just don’t get to know this stuff. And one ought to.
I felt that most stories (with the notable exception of Kiran Desai’s slightly condescending tone) are written with empathy. They may shock, but they always, always sensitize.

I therefore hope that many more people may read AIDS Sutra, write about it in their blogs, write newspaper articles and reviews about it. If for nothing else, at least to put government programmes into perspective, like the 2004 programme whereby 100.000 HIV-positive persons are to receive free ART-treatment (antiretroviral therapy, a three-stage cocktail of medicines capable of prolonging an infected person’s life by 15 to 20 years). Reading AIDS Sutra, I wondered where this programme works? Where it reaches? Because it as pretty plain where it does not.

So. Go read.

___________________________
Another notable organisation is InfoChange India whose quarterly publication Agenda is a collection of essays, interviews and case studies highlighting one topic per issue. Amongst these is HIV/AIDS. The entire magazine is available online (free of charge) and can also be ordered/purchased from Headquarters Delhi.
HIV/AIDS: Big Questions

The Local Trains Women’s Compartment

The Women’s Compartment of Mumbai’s Local Trains heralds, I am certain, the death of feminism in the not-so-distant future. That’s because the evils of the Women’s Compartment by far surpass the horrid discomforts suffered in the General Compartment, where salivating stares can at least (and under application of rioting fantasy) lead one to the conclusion that one is, in fact, an excessively juicy, gorgeous piece of double-X-Chromosome.

Not so in the Women’s Compartment, henceforth shortened to W’s C, which must – after minimal travel time – lead one to the irrevocable conviction that, truly, women are a mere spin-off of the male, and a sub-standard one at that. Nothing more could possibly have gone into the production of the female than a sodding spare of rib-cage.

There are rules to the Local Trains. What looks like a rush of madness to the uninitiated newbie is a finely tuned mechanism of in&out, which has converted countless carnivores into vegetarians – assaulted as they were by a sudden onslaught of compassion for sardines. For example, one needs to learn just how far you can push those in front of you before they plant you a facer.

Another rule of the Locals is „Ek aur ho jaye“ (One more/Einer geht noch), which means that a seat manufactured for three standard butts can easily hold four. So you are expected to „thoda adjust karo“ (Adjust a little/Rutsch ma rüber) for a fourth person to squeeze onto the bench. The logic behind this is simple: why allow three people to sit in comfort if you can harass them with your close presence and sit yourself? Get the point?
Me neither.

„Thoda adjust karo“ is in fact a pleasant if deceptive euphemism for „move over, b-„ (henchod/itch, depending on the addressee).

However, the „Ek aur ho jaye“ rule does not apply to First Class. But females, their Gray Matter wholly consumed by detailed recollections of past shopping escapades and the anticipation and careful planning of any such future event, cannot be made to comprehend such higher principles as „Comfort“. :. Therefore, you are required to adjust just a little in the Women’s First Class Compartment as well. The very purpose of the First Class having been successfully eliminated by the overpowering female desire to attach her bum to any horizontal slab regardless of its size (both slab and bum), led to me travelling Second Class.

The occasional fisher woman, bag of leafy vegetable or betel-chewing beauty is so much more bearable than First Class office women travailing in an unpleasant cloud of assumed superiority.

However, the W’s C Second Class is still hazardous! Yesterday, a woman with large storage compartments for fat cells attached to her buttocks demanded us to adjust just a little, so that she could be the Fourth on our seat. I was instantly prompted to doubt she would be able to force anything more than a quarter of her gigantic derriere onto the seat, but I had not reckoned with the momentum such a monstrous piece of jelly flesh develops when swung very hard. I swear my hips have been compressed by two inches at least, while I calculated just how many truck loads of soap Brad Pitt could have made from this fine example of gluttony.

Another fatal flaw of the W’s C is the noise level. There’s such a vicious strumming of vocal cords that any attempt at a meaningful telephonic conversation must be frustrated, while any reading activity is frequently interrupted by graphic images of bloodshed. I am now convinced that polygamy is prohibited for the benefit of the male, since no man could be with more than one such euphoric female speech organ without suffering severe hearing loss. :lalala:

It is due to these ignominious conditions (amongst others) in the W’s C that I have come to believe that having two exemplars of one kind is not necessarily a good thing. X-Chromosomes for one. ;D

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.

Of Anger, Acidity & Ambassadors

It is Sunday afternoon. We pass by Sarojini Nagar market when a car stops right in front of us. The driver, a man oozing smugness, had chosen a parking spot neither hither nor thither. Not at the side of the road designated for parking by those funny No Parking signs, nor in the centre of the road to clearly identify himself as the bugger he was. He had carefully positioned his car in a way that said, I won’t move for quite some time, and neither will you, since his front bumper bumped right into our lane. So we followed the Indian protocoll. We honked.

He turns around with this Now what is it you want look on his face and, with his index straight up, says „Ek minute“. It gets my hackles up. Like so. And I did it again. I sunk low and snorted at him.

It was at this moment when I realized that Delhi is not suffering from acidity because of all the chole bhature it gobbles. It’s road rage. That sour feeling crawling up your food pipe has got nothing to do with any food orgy but with simple things in life. Such as traffic. And the anger it causes. Unless you choose to stay aloof. Which I don’t.

I rewind this entire episode in my mind and play it again, only this time I am driving one of those ravaged Ambassadors. That’s because an Ambassador never stops. Unless of course it breaks down. But it never stops voluntarily, especially not to give way. So when that driver pokes his index at us I stomp the accelerator and I do what Ambassadors do: I make way.

Roasted Cat Leg

Pets are becoming increasinly more popular in this country in which having an animal run around the house does not strike most people as a smart thing to do. And yet, it is. A fine breed of dog is just as good as a Bentley to piss off your neighbour, and a cat – though no source of envy – can work out your belly muscles while you chuckle away. Don’t believe me?

Watch our very own feline prepare tandoori billi raan (roasted cat leg):