I'm not usually fascinated by transport trucks, but in India I stare at each one that rumbles past like a gobsmacked 4 year old boy. In a country where over-the-top ornamentation is the norm, trucks truly outdo themselves. Every available surface is covered in a rainbow of colour - small murals of Indian landscapes, Hindu gods, flowers, and the front windows are festooned with cascades of pom-poms and brightly coloured aluminum banners like you'd see at a tacky New Year's Eve party.
Farmers get into it too, and I often wonder how they can see out the front window of their tractors for all the tassles and ribbons. Usually hindi music is blaring loudly from the speakers as though at any moment a gaggle of Bollywood dancers might pop out of nowhere, dodging cow patties as they shake their hips across the fields. Apparently professional artists are hired to do the actual work, so perhaps this is a new career idea for me - definitely an avenue for creative expression, and something I could do from the farm! But more importantly, I've been looking for the appropriate souvenir for my Dad, and I think I may have found it. Because upon reflection, I think his tractor is missing a little something. I imagine that if Blake starts driving the backroads of Bosanquet Township with his tractor decorated in tassles and floral garlands this summer he might get some looks, but I think it's important to keep your public on their toes.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Vanity
It turns out I share a vanity with Indian gentlemen - the desire to cover my grey hair. After whining about my hair for the last 2 weeks I finally got tired of listening to myself the other day and splurged on a visit to a salon in Jaipur. The salon boys did a lovely job, and freshly coloured and blown-dry for the first time in a couple months, I felt like a movie star. It's a look the local 50 plus male crowd are going for as well, but perhaps with slightly less success. The cost-conscious gentleman can pay 5 rupees (15-20 cents) for a large bag of henna, which, when applied to white and grey hair, turns it a bright, almost neon orange. At first I wondered whether orange hair had its roots (ha! I kill me) in some religious tradition, but my Group Leader Sunny explained that it was just a combination of vanity and frugality. Unfortunately, contrasted against their naturally black hair, the application of henna actually fails miserably at subtley achieving its objective. Instead, it just sort of screams 'Yes, I'm going grey, please look at me'. I've turned into a paparazzi in the last couple of days, desperate to capture an image. So far the shot has eluded me, as I'm always riding by in a rickshaw and my subject ends up being blurry. Or I'm in a situation where it would be incredibly obvious that I am taking the photograph of an old Indian man, and well, that would just attract attention I really don't need. But I'm determined, so stay tuned.
Flight From the Ashram
Aside from the debacle at the airport in Mumbai, my trip to India has been planned with a military-like precision. My objective was to have as little alone time in India as possible. I see the irony in this now - with a billion people wandering about, there's no such thing as being alone here. But the basic thinking was this - minimize time alone wandering as a single female tourist and reduce the likelihood of, oh, I don't know, wandering down the wrong street and just 'disappearing'. A paranoid view of things? Yes, by all means.
So I really did intend to do the sun salutation pose in yoga class for a full two weeks, then hop in a pre-arranged taxi to the airport, and make my way north to Delhi to join my tour group. By day 4 at the ashram things were looking up - my appetite was shrinking, so moaning over the meals was gradually on the decline, I'd made peace with the fact I was going to skip daily lectures and wasn't going to gain a deeper knowledge of yogic theory, and while I still hadn't found a 'comfortable, seated, meditative position', I think I had acclimatized to life at the ashram.
While I still was a reluctant attendee at satsang, as my pathetic attempts at medication were getting me nowhere, I'd even started to enjoy some of the chanting. The ashram had two Swamis, or spiritual leaders, Little Swami and Big Swami. Their spiritual names were much more complicated and impressive, but I never got a handle on them, so my friend Cate and I took the liberty of renaming them based simplistically on their respective girth. Little Swami, the director of the ashram, was a medical doctor in a former life, quite dishy for a monk, but a bit monotone in his delivery and therefore lacked the sparkle or pizazz to catch my attention. Big Swami was a large guy in his 60's whose orange lunghi (long wrap skirt, sort of like a sarong) stretched across his abundant gut in a way that defied the low fat diet the ashram served up. (I am convinced he must have had a contraband supply of snacks - beetroot salad and lentil stew would not maintain this gut for long.) He had a large, booming, super-impressive voice and really got the temple rocking during the opening chant. And any monk who can work a joke about Michael Jackson into a spiritual lesson has got my attention, I admit it.
Nevertheless, cheetos and an obnoxious Hindu festival combined to make me seek escape from the ashram ahead of schedule. But perhaps I should explain.
A week into the yoga vacation program we were given a day off for good behaviour. Cate had done some research and found mention of a hilltop look-out about 35km away from the ashram which featured views of the surrounding tea plantations, so we set off in an autorickshaw with high hopes. We wound through quiet villages for an hour and a half, and with each passing kilometre it was clear we were travelling where few Western tourists bother to go, as people would stop what they were doing so they could take a good look at us as we slowly rode through town. We chose to look at the experience as a karma yoga gift to the people of Kerala, rather than the other take on it that was possible (feeling like a star of a circus freak show). About an hour and a half into the ride our driver stopped at what appeared to be the outpost for the Indian equivalent of the Ministry of Natural Resources. No one, our driver included, spoke English very well, but the rough translation was we'd ended up at an entry to a national park, and entrance to the park was restricted unless we had permission from the head office in Trivandrum (2 hours away) and paid a ridiculous fee of 6000 rupees each. And we were not even allowed to get out and take photos (which would have been crap, as we were on the side of the road in a bush) because there was a temple nearby which beadie little lady eyes were not allowed to view. I've since learned that a couple Hindu gods were bachelors, and as a result, women are not allowed to view temples that are dedicated to these gods, but at the time it sounded highly sexist and just wrong. So we headed back down the hill, and simply to amuse ourself, had our driver stop off in a small town for a little retail therapy. We purchased anklets at a tiny jewelery shop and bought some much needed snacks. I think it's possible that the chemicals that are in cheetos may have messed with my brain a bit, because after I inhaled a bag in 2 seconds flat, the ashram lost a bit of its appeal. Sort of a been, here, already done this feeling.
The second contributing factor to my flight from the ashram was the zeal with which the local village was paying tribute to a gaggle of Hindu gods. Our first morning at the ashram, along with the morning bell at 5:20 we were greeted with Hindu music echoing through the darkness. At the time, I mistakenly thought the ashram used the music to get us in the spirit of things, and I found it added to the atmosphere quite nicely. But it turns out we'd arrived at the ashram right in the middle of what must be the longest festival in the south Indian calendar, because for the next week and a half Hindu music was blasted from a series of loudspeakers about 18 hours a day. It started around 5am and played solidly till early afternoon, took a couple hours off (probably while the villagers were on siesta), then started again around 4ish and went till midnight. The chances of me actually succeeding at meditation were pretty low, I admit it, but there's no way I could find any inner focus with Hindu music blaring all the time. We kept hoping optimistically that the festival was almost over, but once my masseuse explained that it would continue till late March, Cate and I decided to hit the road for a couple decadent days at a nearby beachtown.
So I still can't meditate. I still can't sit still for more than 2 minutes without some muscle in my inner thigh starting to twitch. But I mastered the shoulder stand, which I'm quite pleased about, and more importantly, can now actually relax in a yoga class and not get all frustrated and pissy because I'm not 'accomplishing something'. And people, that's huge.
So I really did intend to do the sun salutation pose in yoga class for a full two weeks, then hop in a pre-arranged taxi to the airport, and make my way north to Delhi to join my tour group. By day 4 at the ashram things were looking up - my appetite was shrinking, so moaning over the meals was gradually on the decline, I'd made peace with the fact I was going to skip daily lectures and wasn't going to gain a deeper knowledge of yogic theory, and while I still hadn't found a 'comfortable, seated, meditative position', I think I had acclimatized to life at the ashram.
While I still was a reluctant attendee at satsang, as my pathetic attempts at medication were getting me nowhere, I'd even started to enjoy some of the chanting. The ashram had two Swamis, or spiritual leaders, Little Swami and Big Swami. Their spiritual names were much more complicated and impressive, but I never got a handle on them, so my friend Cate and I took the liberty of renaming them based simplistically on their respective girth. Little Swami, the director of the ashram, was a medical doctor in a former life, quite dishy for a monk, but a bit monotone in his delivery and therefore lacked the sparkle or pizazz to catch my attention. Big Swami was a large guy in his 60's whose orange lunghi (long wrap skirt, sort of like a sarong) stretched across his abundant gut in a way that defied the low fat diet the ashram served up. (I am convinced he must have had a contraband supply of snacks - beetroot salad and lentil stew would not maintain this gut for long.) He had a large, booming, super-impressive voice and really got the temple rocking during the opening chant. And any monk who can work a joke about Michael Jackson into a spiritual lesson has got my attention, I admit it.
Nevertheless, cheetos and an obnoxious Hindu festival combined to make me seek escape from the ashram ahead of schedule. But perhaps I should explain.
A week into the yoga vacation program we were given a day off for good behaviour. Cate had done some research and found mention of a hilltop look-out about 35km away from the ashram which featured views of the surrounding tea plantations, so we set off in an autorickshaw with high hopes. We wound through quiet villages for an hour and a half, and with each passing kilometre it was clear we were travelling where few Western tourists bother to go, as people would stop what they were doing so they could take a good look at us as we slowly rode through town. We chose to look at the experience as a karma yoga gift to the people of Kerala, rather than the other take on it that was possible (feeling like a star of a circus freak show). About an hour and a half into the ride our driver stopped at what appeared to be the outpost for the Indian equivalent of the Ministry of Natural Resources. No one, our driver included, spoke English very well, but the rough translation was we'd ended up at an entry to a national park, and entrance to the park was restricted unless we had permission from the head office in Trivandrum (2 hours away) and paid a ridiculous fee of 6000 rupees each. And we were not even allowed to get out and take photos (which would have been crap, as we were on the side of the road in a bush) because there was a temple nearby which beadie little lady eyes were not allowed to view. I've since learned that a couple Hindu gods were bachelors, and as a result, women are not allowed to view temples that are dedicated to these gods, but at the time it sounded highly sexist and just wrong. So we headed back down the hill, and simply to amuse ourself, had our driver stop off in a small town for a little retail therapy. We purchased anklets at a tiny jewelery shop and bought some much needed snacks. I think it's possible that the chemicals that are in cheetos may have messed with my brain a bit, because after I inhaled a bag in 2 seconds flat, the ashram lost a bit of its appeal. Sort of a been, here, already done this feeling.
The second contributing factor to my flight from the ashram was the zeal with which the local village was paying tribute to a gaggle of Hindu gods. Our first morning at the ashram, along with the morning bell at 5:20 we were greeted with Hindu music echoing through the darkness. At the time, I mistakenly thought the ashram used the music to get us in the spirit of things, and I found it added to the atmosphere quite nicely. But it turns out we'd arrived at the ashram right in the middle of what must be the longest festival in the south Indian calendar, because for the next week and a half Hindu music was blasted from a series of loudspeakers about 18 hours a day. It started around 5am and played solidly till early afternoon, took a couple hours off (probably while the villagers were on siesta), then started again around 4ish and went till midnight. The chances of me actually succeeding at meditation were pretty low, I admit it, but there's no way I could find any inner focus with Hindu music blaring all the time. We kept hoping optimistically that the festival was almost over, but once my masseuse explained that it would continue till late March, Cate and I decided to hit the road for a couple decadent days at a nearby beachtown.
So I still can't meditate. I still can't sit still for more than 2 minutes without some muscle in my inner thigh starting to twitch. But I mastered the shoulder stand, which I'm quite pleased about, and more importantly, can now actually relax in a yoga class and not get all frustrated and pissy because I'm not 'accomplishing something'. And people, that's huge.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Can I Have A Loincloth, Please?
Without even realizing it, by heading to the state of Kerala in the deep south of India, I inadvertedly ended up smack in the middle of the massage headquarters of India. Ayurvedic treatment spas litter the landscape here and I don't think they let you board a plane back north until you've had a treatment. I heard of ayurvedic massage for the first time in Mumbai, as a friend Andrew described his experience with it in less than glowing terms. Uncomfortably clad in a tiny loincloth with a small Indian man rubbing oil into his body, I can understand why he was slightly disturbed by the whole thing. At the time, I struck it off my 'Must Do in India' list and dismissed it from my mind.
But 2 days into my stay at the ashram I found myself in the doctor's office whining about the torturous pain in my lower back. I'd yet to find a 'comfortable meditative seated position' and this little problem, combined with the torture device that passed as my bed, was making it challenging to roll out of bed in the morning with any dignity. It turns out ayurveda is a form of medicine, not just a type of massage, and I'd unknowingly landed in the office of a doctor of ayurveda. He gave me two tiny containers of ghee (purified butter that's supposed to have curitive powers), some foul smelling pills and a prescription for 5 consecutive days of ayurvedic massage.
Here's the guidebook's description of ayurveda, so I don't butcher it completely:
'An ancient Indian science of herbal medicine and holistic healing, which focuses on treating the whole organism instead of just the illness, using herbal treatment and massage.'
Living in an ashram, one with a rigid schedule, means following simple instructions for the injestion of medication is seriously complicated. Two pills a half hour before you eat is tricky when you only eat twice a day and you're in the middle of the headstand pose in yoga class a half hour before breakfast. And the ghee - it looked like congealed lard, and well, I was not keen at all. Luckily on my first attempt of trying it the container exploded as I tried to pour it into my tea, and I ended up chucking it in relief. So all my hopes were pinned on the massage.
One really good thing about ayurvedic massage treatment is you're treated by a member of the same sex. This became especially important at my first appointment, when I was told to take off all my clothes and not provided a loincloth. Not that a loincloth would have actually covered much, but there's something unsettling about being completely naked in front of a woman you met 30 second earlier. And given her English vocabulary was limited, it seemed pointless and a little prudish to carry on about my naked state, so I just tried to go with it. Surrendering to India to stay sane is something you read about in guidebooks, so I just stayed silently horrified and kept my hang-ups to myself.
Ayurvedic massage starts with a head massage, so I was quickly seated on a small plastic stool having herbal oils massaged into my head. It should have been relaxing, but I spent most of the time wondering about whose bare bottom had warmed this stool before me and speculating on the likelihood that any sort of disinfectant had been used. After the head massage I got up onto the massage table - a massive wooden structure, turned dark, almost black by millions of beads of oil dripping off other naked bodies and soaking into the wood. At first I sat cross-legged and she put a dot of oil on my forehead, palms, belly button and feet. Then, after having my back oiled, I lay down face-up and spent the next hour and fifteen minutes being marinated, tenderized and battered like a giant piece of raw chicken. Ayurvedic massages isn't deep tissue massage, but rather a repetitive massaging of herb-infused oil into pretty much every square inch of your skin. Nothing was left untouched other than the area where my loincloth should have been. I admit it, I had to supress a fit of giggles at times because it was just so weird. Periodically during the marinating stage she stopped to pick random hairs off my oil-soaked skin - which as I'm sure you can imagine, horrified me. Later in the process I found a small hairball stuck to the back of my leg, which was very traumatic for me - especially as on quick inspection it was clear other people had contributed some materials for the mass. This led to more internal freaking out as I pondered the cleanliness of the massage table, so the experience was less than relaxing.
After 45 minutes of marinating we moved onto the tenderizing stage. Herbs wrapped in satchels, heated over a propane stove came next, which were pounded into every surface of my body. As each satchel cooled another heated one replaced it. This should have relaxed me, and on a certain level I recognized it was quite nice, but I was still hoping for a more aggressive treatment of my back pain, so in my head I was just like 'can we just get on with it, please'.
And yes, I mentioned a battering stage as well. Obviously after all that oil and herbs being rubbed into your body, you're just one massive oil slick. Using a minimum of instructions, I was led, naked, into the bathroom. Showers in India are traditionally bucket baths, which means you fill a large bucket of water and use a small bucket to pour manageable amounts of water onto yourself. The masseuse grabbed a handful of chickpea power and quickly mixed up a paste. While she did this I sort of just stood there desperately wanting to cover myself, but the rational part of me realized that this was now pointless. She then demonstrated the battering and showering procedure, rubbing some of the chickpea paste on my arm, then dumping water on it to rinse it off. She sat on the plastic stool outside while I showered, with the door open, so I felt like some crazy exhibitionist, but just sort of went with it anyway.
As you can imagine, I was sort of dreading my next appointment. At appointment number two a loincloth was produced, without my prompting. I don't think the lack of loincloth at the first appointment was deliberate to see how much it would make me squirm, I think they just either have some on supply or they don't, and you just sort of adapt accordingly. I'm not exactly comfortable with semi-public nakedness now, but my loinclothless days have made me a stronger person.
But 2 days into my stay at the ashram I found myself in the doctor's office whining about the torturous pain in my lower back. I'd yet to find a 'comfortable meditative seated position' and this little problem, combined with the torture device that passed as my bed, was making it challenging to roll out of bed in the morning with any dignity. It turns out ayurveda is a form of medicine, not just a type of massage, and I'd unknowingly landed in the office of a doctor of ayurveda. He gave me two tiny containers of ghee (purified butter that's supposed to have curitive powers), some foul smelling pills and a prescription for 5 consecutive days of ayurvedic massage.
Here's the guidebook's description of ayurveda, so I don't butcher it completely:
'An ancient Indian science of herbal medicine and holistic healing, which focuses on treating the whole organism instead of just the illness, using herbal treatment and massage.'
Living in an ashram, one with a rigid schedule, means following simple instructions for the injestion of medication is seriously complicated. Two pills a half hour before you eat is tricky when you only eat twice a day and you're in the middle of the headstand pose in yoga class a half hour before breakfast. And the ghee - it looked like congealed lard, and well, I was not keen at all. Luckily on my first attempt of trying it the container exploded as I tried to pour it into my tea, and I ended up chucking it in relief. So all my hopes were pinned on the massage.
One really good thing about ayurvedic massage treatment is you're treated by a member of the same sex. This became especially important at my first appointment, when I was told to take off all my clothes and not provided a loincloth. Not that a loincloth would have actually covered much, but there's something unsettling about being completely naked in front of a woman you met 30 second earlier. And given her English vocabulary was limited, it seemed pointless and a little prudish to carry on about my naked state, so I just tried to go with it. Surrendering to India to stay sane is something you read about in guidebooks, so I just stayed silently horrified and kept my hang-ups to myself.
Ayurvedic massage starts with a head massage, so I was quickly seated on a small plastic stool having herbal oils massaged into my head. It should have been relaxing, but I spent most of the time wondering about whose bare bottom had warmed this stool before me and speculating on the likelihood that any sort of disinfectant had been used. After the head massage I got up onto the massage table - a massive wooden structure, turned dark, almost black by millions of beads of oil dripping off other naked bodies and soaking into the wood. At first I sat cross-legged and she put a dot of oil on my forehead, palms, belly button and feet. Then, after having my back oiled, I lay down face-up and spent the next hour and fifteen minutes being marinated, tenderized and battered like a giant piece of raw chicken. Ayurvedic massages isn't deep tissue massage, but rather a repetitive massaging of herb-infused oil into pretty much every square inch of your skin. Nothing was left untouched other than the area where my loincloth should have been. I admit it, I had to supress a fit of giggles at times because it was just so weird. Periodically during the marinating stage she stopped to pick random hairs off my oil-soaked skin - which as I'm sure you can imagine, horrified me. Later in the process I found a small hairball stuck to the back of my leg, which was very traumatic for me - especially as on quick inspection it was clear other people had contributed some materials for the mass. This led to more internal freaking out as I pondered the cleanliness of the massage table, so the experience was less than relaxing.
After 45 minutes of marinating we moved onto the tenderizing stage. Herbs wrapped in satchels, heated over a propane stove came next, which were pounded into every surface of my body. As each satchel cooled another heated one replaced it. This should have relaxed me, and on a certain level I recognized it was quite nice, but I was still hoping for a more aggressive treatment of my back pain, so in my head I was just like 'can we just get on with it, please'.
And yes, I mentioned a battering stage as well. Obviously after all that oil and herbs being rubbed into your body, you're just one massive oil slick. Using a minimum of instructions, I was led, naked, into the bathroom. Showers in India are traditionally bucket baths, which means you fill a large bucket of water and use a small bucket to pour manageable amounts of water onto yourself. The masseuse grabbed a handful of chickpea power and quickly mixed up a paste. While she did this I sort of just stood there desperately wanting to cover myself, but the rational part of me realized that this was now pointless. She then demonstrated the battering and showering procedure, rubbing some of the chickpea paste on my arm, then dumping water on it to rinse it off. She sat on the plastic stool outside while I showered, with the door open, so I felt like some crazy exhibitionist, but just sort of went with it anyway.
As you can imagine, I was sort of dreading my next appointment. At appointment number two a loincloth was produced, without my prompting. I don't think the lack of loincloth at the first appointment was deliberate to see how much it would make me squirm, I think they just either have some on supply or they don't, and you just sort of adapt accordingly. I'm not exactly comfortable with semi-public nakedness now, but my loinclothless days have made me a stronger person.
My Bollywood Crush
On my first day in Mumbai I picked out a Bollywood film soundtrack to get myself into the spirit of India. Perhaps its a superficial part of Indian culture, but its one that quickly appealed to me. I picked the soundtrack based purely on the packaging - it was very over-the-top in a Harlequin sort of way, which made me nostalgic. The back cover featured the star, Shah Rukh Khan, and his 8 pack of abs, and well, I was mesmerized. Farah's cousin Zarik informed me that the film it was based on, 'Om Shanti Om', was crap, but that I might like the music. Over the next couple days, I forced Farah to endure the cd non-stop while we were in our hotel room and conscious, and by the end of the week I was singing the title song, 'Om Shanti Om' under my breath as we shopped our way through Mumbai. And my boyfriend, Mr. Khan? It turns out he's India's #1 star, and he makes gobs of money on endorsements, so while we were stuck in traffic in the back of taxis I could admire him from multiple billboards around the city. I'm conflicted however, now that I'm at the ashram. Apparently 'Om' means universal consciousness and 'shanti' means 'peace'. We end yoga class and chanting sessions with the chant 'Om shanti, shanti, shanti'. And while I try to concentrate and be all pure like I'm supposed to be, I'm usually giggling to myself and thinking about Mr. Bollywood's abs. I mean, I could be wrong, but I don't think lusting over abs is going to help me reach another level of consciousness.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Bling & Naan - My Own Personal Paradise
Some people come to India seeking spirituality. My motivation is much more shallow, and I make no attempts to disguise it. I've often wondered if in a prior life, I may have been Indian. My evidence, you ask? Let me explain.
1) The Bling Factor: There's something about the oppulence of colour and explosion of glitz that I associate with India that has always appealed to me immensely. While it's possible I've just watched one too many Bollywood movies, I don't think that's it.
2) The Naan Factor: I am obsessed with naan bread. I love it, love it, love it, much to my thigh's disgust. I'm contemplating installing a tandoori oven in my imaginary future home, just so I can have a constant supply of naan.
That's right. I ended up in India determined to satisfy two of my favorite hobbies - shopping and eating. Last Fall when my friend Farah spontaneously suggested that I meet her in Mumbai to help shop for her wedding, I hesitated for only a nanosecond before I started mentally rearranging the itinerary of my trip so I could squeeze in a trip to India.
By setting myself the goal of experiencing Bling and Naan, Indian-style, I think I've probably got it easier than those here in search of a spiritual awakening. My gurus came in the form of the Mullick ladies, who quickly introduced me to the magic that is shopping in Mumbai. My days were filled with sarees and silks, bangles and ribbons, and an exhausting selection of jewelery. I've never shopped so hard in my life - and it was fantastic.
But the Bling extended beyond the shops and the markets. Mumbai is a city dripping in jewel-toned hues and fairy lights. Mosques that sparkle at night like a tiered wedding cake, lit with a thousand candles. On a daily basis we'd drive past 5 or 6 Hindu weddings in full-swing, canopied tents leading right to the sidewalk, garishly festooned with strings of flowers and twinkling lights. At the Gateway of India tourists can catch horse-drawn carriages and ride along the bay. But they were blinged-out carriages, punched tin pieces of art elaborately decorated with pulsing lights - it was like riding along in your own mobile carnival. And everywhere, women and young girls walking through the streets of Mumbai, their sarees painting the city every colour imaginable.
And as for the naan? I'm happy to report that its even better than I'd hoped. In India I've been introduced to buttered naan, which is nothing more elaborate than the name describes, but frightfully tasty. I'm slightly bitter at my years of wasted opportunities, before I knew buttered naan existed. But discovering it here in India somehow makes it worth the wait.
1) The Bling Factor: There's something about the oppulence of colour and explosion of glitz that I associate with India that has always appealed to me immensely. While it's possible I've just watched one too many Bollywood movies, I don't think that's it.
2) The Naan Factor: I am obsessed with naan bread. I love it, love it, love it, much to my thigh's disgust. I'm contemplating installing a tandoori oven in my imaginary future home, just so I can have a constant supply of naan.
That's right. I ended up in India determined to satisfy two of my favorite hobbies - shopping and eating. Last Fall when my friend Farah spontaneously suggested that I meet her in Mumbai to help shop for her wedding, I hesitated for only a nanosecond before I started mentally rearranging the itinerary of my trip so I could squeeze in a trip to India.
By setting myself the goal of experiencing Bling and Naan, Indian-style, I think I've probably got it easier than those here in search of a spiritual awakening. My gurus came in the form of the Mullick ladies, who quickly introduced me to the magic that is shopping in Mumbai. My days were filled with sarees and silks, bangles and ribbons, and an exhausting selection of jewelery. I've never shopped so hard in my life - and it was fantastic.
But the Bling extended beyond the shops and the markets. Mumbai is a city dripping in jewel-toned hues and fairy lights. Mosques that sparkle at night like a tiered wedding cake, lit with a thousand candles. On a daily basis we'd drive past 5 or 6 Hindu weddings in full-swing, canopied tents leading right to the sidewalk, garishly festooned with strings of flowers and twinkling lights. At the Gateway of India tourists can catch horse-drawn carriages and ride along the bay. But they were blinged-out carriages, punched tin pieces of art elaborately decorated with pulsing lights - it was like riding along in your own mobile carnival. And everywhere, women and young girls walking through the streets of Mumbai, their sarees painting the city every colour imaginable.
And as for the naan? I'm happy to report that its even better than I'd hoped. In India I've been introduced to buttered naan, which is nothing more elaborate than the name describes, but frightfully tasty. I'm slightly bitter at my years of wasted opportunities, before I knew buttered naan existed. But discovering it here in India somehow makes it worth the wait.
Paan
You can't walk very far down a sidewalk in Mumbai without coming across a cigarette stall. Cigarettes are sold individually, and while this may reduce consumption, I would guess it has more to do with meeting the demands of its ruppee-conscious customer base.
Also available at cigarette stalls is paan, sort of an oversized Indian after-dinner mint, but absolutely nothing like a mint at the same time. On our first afternoon together in Mumbai, Farah and Andrew (Harlequinite based in Mumbai, and our tour guide/social director for the day) both campaigned fairly hard that I should try some paan. I was reluctant - I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that the paan was assembled right there in the cigarette stall. In this case, seeing your mint assembled is actually a bit of a turn-off.
But around 12:30 that same evening, I surrendered to the paan. I'm incredibly paranoid about trying new foods - but usually somewhat open-minded when it doesn't involve unidentifiable meat products. A lot of stuff goes into paan, but thankfully no mystery meat. Suffering the after-effects of little sleep, my protests were feeble and ignored. My defenses were down, and I soon found myself agreeing to sample paan. So in amongst the cigarettes are the ingredients for paan. In a small bucket, spear-shaped green leaves float in water. The stall attendant, a worn-looking grandmother somewhere between the ages of 50 and 80, selected a leaf from the bucket and started opening small tupperware containers. Each container held a different substance - random mystery pastes, which I later learned were betel and ground dates, coconut, spices and those tiny crunchy candies that top short-bread cookies. Each substance was smeared or dropped into the center of the leaf, with Grannie's bare finger, which she then wiped on a rag between ingredients. As she constructed the paan I surveyed the cleanliness of her stall and hypothesized how long it would take post-paan for me to be violently ill. She then rolled up the leaf and passed the package to Zarik, who laughed as he handed it to me.
What I hadn't realized, or no one had explained, is you actually consume the entire leaf. I'd naively assumed it was sort of like a serving utensil and I'd somehow delicately eat the contents without injesting the whole leaf. I was quickly educated, and before I could obsess further, I stuffed the whole thing in my mouth. It was massive, crunchy and very juicy - sweet with an after-taste something like cough-syrup. Apparently mid-chew, locals will spit out a stream of red juice onto the sidewalk. I didn't think I was capable of pulling that off, so kept determinedly chewing on my wad of paan. I was about half way through and quite pleased with myself when Andrew began to critique the cleanliness of the rag Grannie had used during the construction of my paan. I began to gag on the remaining mass in my mouth, and proceeded to spit it into a tissue as delicately as possible. I think I pulled it off, almost.
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