Marry Me!

Sometimes things happen that cannot be explained. Well, maybe someone can. They just can’t. For example a recent court order that slapped a fine of Rs. 1.5 lakh (roundabout 2700 Euros) on a man who ‚failed to marry his live-in partner‘.

Wait a minute. What does that even mean ‚failed to marry‘. Shouldn’t it read something like ‚felt no longer inclined to spend the rest of his life with the person in question?‘

The former couple’s been together for three years. And then they split. Sort of. What would you do if your partner runs off? Call up your best friend and have a little sob-chat on the phone? I mean, what happened to getting properly sloshed and turning your ex’s stuff into a bon-fire? I thought these were quite reasonable ways to deal with pain.

Not in India. The woman in question chose to do something truly original and sued that bugger. Go honey, go! Well, since my genotype contains two x-chromosomes and I am currently living in India where that turns out to be a major disadvantage, there surely are times when I am tempted to think all of those >:XX should be >:XX. But let’s get real here: dragging your ex to court because he dumped you? Have a little self-respect!

I know this guy who got rid of his girlfriend once someone better came along. What would have happened if she had sued him? After all, the thought of marriage had already crossed their minds. And then he changed his mind I changed his mind. You see where this is going? If that girl had sued that guy I wouldn’t be here and you wouldn’t get to read this. Great loss, I know. But thanks god this is purely hypothetical.

I believe that this is one of the cases when people don’t seem to understand how this works. Boy meets girl. Boy proposes. Girl turns out to have bad breath. End of engagement. This stinks. That’s life. If that woman doesn’t know how to handle rejection, maybe she should’ve asked her parents to get her a pucca (proper)husband. The Sunday paper’s full of men eager to marry without trial period. They might even keep the girl with odour problems. Go figure!

Roti-Shoti

Every morning I open the door to my balcony to check the nature of the surprise my friendly neighbours deliver daily. Sometimes it’s a tuft of hair which is but natural since many Indian ladies prefer to get rid of dead hair beautify themselves outside their home, standing on the balconies. On several other occassions I picked up mysterious strips of plastic with blue checks. At the end of a thourough investigation stood the conclusion that some neighbour’s blinds (that cheap blue plastic type) was coming un-done strip by strip by bloody strip. Once I found a more useful gift – a comb!

But today it was a bunch of roti-pieces. Of course. I understand. Even I usually rack my brain how to ditch the chapatis lying on my plate. You see, I’m not a big fan except if I happen to sit at Karim’s. So it is comprehensible that there may be more people like me who come up with creative ways to let mother’s rotis disappear in places other than their oesophagus.

However. Rahul tries very hard to further my understanding of Indian culture by explaining that it’s not uncommon for Indians to cut up left-over rotis for the birds and fling them some place they can’t see them. I see. Aha! That place is usually the „chhajaa“ – that little stone slab above the windows. Yeah, and you thought it was some sort of sun protection. Mysterious are the ways of architecture, food recycling and animal welfare. Sometimes, of course, a cheeky little wind gust might swish the rotis off to, let’s say, my balcony. But thou need not worry for the birds, since they just switch on their chapati-tracking-system and feast on the wheat-offering (with or without ghee).

By the way, this rustic animal-aid-programm is cultural candy from U.P., a state known for its unconventional approach to every-day problems.

So. There it is. I’m not the victim of a naughty neighbour’s attack pelting my home with rotis. It’s for the birds!

Birds?, I say. You mean those flying creatures that feed on grains, seeds and fruits and occassional bits of non-veg?
They eat rotis, too, says he.
Well. Seems like they didn’t.

But why would any of those happy-go-pooping-all-over-Delhi pigeons let go a sumptuous roti so I wake up to the dried, crunchy version of it strewn all over my balcony? And yet deep, deeep inside I know he’s right. Chapatis are a staple for Indians as they are for their pets. I remember a neighbour’s labrador gorging rice and rotis. Daily. And why not? Have you never seen a wolf hunt down a juicy cabbage on NatGeo? Strange.

I finally understand why Rahul and I were the only ones at a different time and place who’d feed the stray dogs (oh yeah we did!) with left-over chicken bones while our neighbours chucked a couple of rotis packed in a plastic bag, usually referred to only as ‚cover‘.

For a brief moment I receive flashes of newspaper cuttings dealing with a young vegan couple in the U.S. trying to feed their new-born with soy milk and apple juice. I think it’s very useful to have apple-juice-glands in your boobies. Juices are expensive in India. A reasonably tasty packet will set you back by seventy-odd rupees.

Ultimately, I resign myself to the fact that diet varies considerably across cultures. Maybe the birds just weren’t hungry last night. So I take out my broom and sweep away those sad pieces of roti-shoti.

You win.

It’s about time. Having scribbled frequent blog entries for almost two years and having done so exclusively in German, it’s time to bow to public demand and pen something in English. So here’s the deal: I finally show my true face to all those who thought they know me so well by writing my trademark beastly texts in a language they can understand. And you get to read it. Now we’re even.

As if that wasn’t enough I shall also – very carefully – add a few Hindi words to pretend interest in picking up that language. That should put to rest any rumours I was actually reading those language books I am displaying in my bookshelf. And yet there have been instances in which my Hindi vocabulary has stunned listeners. Those who had that pleasure know that such situations usually coincide with Happy Hours. But let’s remember here that the ways of inter-cultural adjustment are subtle and varied. :yes:

That should do.