Is It Ever Really The End?

Saturday October 20th, 2012
9:30pm

A month has passed since Alice escaped from Wonderland, Dorothy awoke from Oz, Chelsea boarded an incredibly infuriating plane and traveled through 24 hours of agonizing economy class to find her way back home. But oddly enough, just like her fellow unstable, and possibly high, jet setters (they had to be high to wind up where they did, and the same could be said for me) upon returning home, everything seemed like a distant dream. Just hours after landing on familiar (and incredibly spotless) ground, I questioned if I was actually ever gone. It was the strangest feeling. Like when you can't remember if you locked the front door, or unplugged your curling iron. You run back into the house, only to find it unplugged and you questioning if you've had a minor stroke, or are experiencing early onset Alzheimer's. I was warned about the possibility of culture shock when returning to Canada, but this was something else. Fitting really. My entire summer was one un-expectation after another, why not complete it with yet another left field reaction. 
'Returning culture shock' might be a tad exaggeration but there were definitely things that blew my mind over the first week of reuniting with my country. Everyday things that one would never think twice about while going about their cushy Canadian day. Fresh air. Oh heavenly father who art in a heaven I can actually see, free of smog and billowing pollution. I didn't smell a single thing when I left the airport. Not a single smell. Do you understand, I mean really understand, what it feels like to just breathe in air. Empty, scent free air. No you don't, because you spent your summer exactly where you are now. Your nose was not raped by a 30 smell orgy every time you left your also odour-some home.... 
I digress. Fresh air. Empty streets. Cool breezes. Friendly faces. Green grass. Quiet places. White people. 

Home, sweet home. 

And now here I am, sitting in my own bed, millions of miles away from what once was my Indian bed, returning to my daily routine. My blog. I do apologize for what may have seemed like a desertion on my part. I assure you it was not. More so time to reflect. To look back on my whirlwind country affair, and determine what exactly came of it. Where has it led me? And what do I do now? 

People say that experiencing the world changes you. Traveling changes you. I don't agree. I don't believe that being somewhere foreign changes you, I think it just forces you to discover who you really are. It thrusts you into situations where you react as you. Not who you are depending on who you're with or what role you're playing in that moment, be it a friend, a wife, an employee. It's just you. Surrounded by strangers and strangeness. And in these moments you make decisions based on you. Just you. And this is the rawest form of yourself. Zero influence, just you, and your instinct, calling the shots, reacting naturally. It's like standing in a giant open field and life handing you a shovel and saying dig. So you do. With each experience and each moment you dig a hole. And then another. And you find things. Things about yourself. Things you may not have known, or maybe you did but hid under the comfort of your home. Sometimes what you find is good, sometimes you just dig up shit. I dug up a lot of shit. But what I learned is that it isn't about what you find, it's about what you do with what is discovered that defines your travels as worthwhile. Everyone loves to find gold, but when you do come across the shit, do you deal with it, or just cover up the hole and keep digging? It's incredible to see yourself react and live in ways you never anticipated you would. But it's even more incredible to see yourself learn from it. So maybe that's the change. Seeing the things you don't like and learning from them. Learning to like what you do see and change the things you don't. But then again, sometimes the shit is just there to help you appreciate the gold that much more. And trust me, I'm an expert in shit. I just spent 3 months in India. 


But now I am home, and India has become a memory, one that will grow farther from my thoughts as time goes by. I am not a religious person (though Lord Krishna and I did get a little chummy during my stay) and I don't know if I quite believe that everything happens for a reason. But I do know that if this experience hadn't of been as challenging as it was, I never would have learned my strength. I have found my strength, the depth that it goes. I am a fighter. India has given me reason to fight and the endurance to keep fighting long after it's memory fades. I would be lying if I said I loved my experience, but I do appreciate it. It has brought to light a whole new world, around me and within me. This trip will become my past, but it will always be a part of me. The part of me that holds my strength. My persistence. My me.  

Fifty Shades of Pachouli

Sunday September 2nd

8:00pm
So I've been reading this 50 Shades of Grey business, and quite frankly, it's bullshit. Ladies,(and gentlemen, I don't hate or discriminate) if you want to be aroused, just go to an Indian spa. Use that worthless excuse for a steamy romance novel for kindling to make a sexy fire that you'll want to roll around in front of on a mink rug after experiencing what I just experienced. It was not my intention of course, to get aroused at the spa, I simply felt that after two months of dealing with a shit dance studio I deserved a little lovin. To escape the bullshit and pretend for a day that I was on vacation. Well let me tell you, I got much more than I bargained for...

First of all, lest we forget I am still in India so prices may be cheap but with them come minimal customer service. Minimal effort period for that matter. For $150 I received a 60 minute full body hot oil massage, a 60 minute facial, a much needed brazilian wax, even more necessary eyebrow threading (I basically have only one right now), hair spa (translation:deep conditioning treatment), and a manicure. Today I would be getting the body massage and the facial, the rest will be saved for closer to when I leave so I don't return to Canada looking like a Yeti. I arrive there and they have everything mixed up and my appointments are all over the place. I am not surprised. Regardless of it being a "high standard" spa, again, I am still in India. So I wait another half an hour on top of the 15 minutes it took for them to even register the fact that I was here waiting in the first place. Finally we are on track and I am summoned for my massage. Now this massage was chosen for it's anti migraine benefits; a 40 minute head massage with a constant drizzle of hot oil on the forehead, followed by 20 minutes of full body rub down. 

I enter the room and am given a potato sack in disguise as a robe. I nude up and sack on and sit on the side chair and wait. Wait for the unexpected. A woman enters, another woman enters. One woman heats up oil while the other woman stands there, they are both blabbing in hindi. The oil woman brings over a bowl of oil and literally dumps it on the top of my head while I'm sitting in the chair. She starts massaging. And I am really trying desperately to keep an open mind and praying to god that this is not the 40 minute "oil drizzling" head massage. I am sitting in a chair, with a bowl of oil on my head, dripping down my face, listening to two Indian hens jibber jabber. Ah yes, relaxation at it's finest. She rubs my head a bit (perhaps she is just warming up?) because finally she tells me to lay down on the table. Thank god. I was really getting worried there. I am spread on a wooden massage table underneath a giant pot with a funnel on the bottom. The oil lady wraps some gauze like eye piece around my eyes and everything goes black. Blackness and hindi jabber. I wrongfully assume that once human meets massage table the hens will shut the fuck up. No. The entire hour I listened to them talk. At least it was in Hindi. They could have been talking about me for all I knew. Stupid white girl. 
But back to my massage. Once I managed to tune out the Indian cast of The View, I was actually able to enjoy myself. Do you even realize what a constant flow of hot oil on your head feels like? I get all hot and bothered just thinking about it. It's incredible. Mind blowing even. And they move the pot so the drizzle changes from still, to back and forth, to figure 8's and circles. It's tantalizing. And on top of this you are getting a complete head rub down. I have a lot of head. This woman, I swear, grew 3 more pairs of hands, cuz she was all over that shit. There were parts of my head she caressed that I didn't even know existed. I was in heaven. There is no other fitting way to describe what was happening north of my body. And of course because I am in India, the masseuse misunderstood what she was supposed to be doing and gave me a full 60 minute head massage. So when they said I was finished, I was all uh hell no. So on top of this, I also got my 20 minute full body bliss (despite the masseuses reluctancy to continue... she was pissed. Lovely, an angry masseuse, hot oils, and a naked, helpless Chelsea.)
This is where things got heated. I mean heated. Now granted, I have only ever received one professional massage prior to this, so perhaps I'm a tad naive (but still smart naive, not stupid, pansy ass Anastasia naive... if we're still comparing this to 50 Shades), but I'm not confident what went on from this point on is even legal... 
I am now standing in the room alone with the masseuse. She throws me some paper granny panties and tells me to lose the sack. So I do. Lay down. My lack of experience makes me ask on my back or front? Back. Well this is odd, but ok. So there I lay, back down boobs up. Lady Masseuse turns around to face me, her eyes go wider than her sockets and she yells EXCUSE ME! OTHER SIDE! Like I'm some pervert assaulting her with a titty show. Lady you said on my back, come on now. So now it's awkward. I've now angered and offended her. Hello 3rd degree burns and unnecessary pressure points. But to my ever so pleasurable surprise, her 4 pairs of hands showed no hatred. Just a whole lot of sexy times... 
She started at my feet, worked her way up to the calves, check, thighs, check, buttocks... alright, quite thorough, check, back, shoulders, arms, hands, neck, check, check, check, check, check. Ok turn over. Oh really? So now you're cool with seeing my boobs. This country really is bipolar. So I turn over and the process repeats face up. Feet, check. calves, check. And so on and so forth. Have you ever had your stomach massaged? There is something so incredibly sensual about having your stomach rubbed. I don't know if it's because it's seldom touched, or perhaps it's  due to some baby making hormone signals that surge through a woman's body when your uterus is being stroked, but sweet lord is it sensational. But then this happened. The stroking continues onward and upward and I suddenly find my breasts her next target. Yes, for the second time in India, my boobs have been grabbed without my permission. Grabbed is an understatement. Grabbed, tossed, rubbed, jiggled, milked..insert any adjective here; she did it all. Of course I was caught off guard, how nuts is this? But I mean... it's been 3 months people, the girls could use a little lovin and really, this is the most recognition they've gotten since they sprouted some 10 years ago. They deserve a little spotlight. All breasts aside, it was incredibly fantastic. I've never been so lubed up and rubbed down in my life. I could have mounted a rocking horse and been happy at that moment. Ok calm yourself Chelsea, it's over. Now pull yourself together, it's facial time. Now I'm a facial virgin, and I'm not ashamed to say it. So again, perhaps I'm just inexperienced but I am not sure I was ok with what went down in that room. I do not think I liked it. But then I did like it. And then I reeeaaally liked it. 
It starts with goop. Ridiculous amounts of goop, all over your face. The first layer was not good. It smelled of something that belonged in my dance bag. Old, sweaty mildew and decaying ballet shoes. And it's not like I could avoid the smell either, the woman practically suffocated me with her mildew goop drenched fingers. Her process was constant, vigorous finger strokes over my face, focusing mostly around my chin and lips, meaning directly under my nose. She kept swishing her fingers back and forth under my nose covering my nostrils to the point that I literally could not breathe. And she shellacked my mouth shut so no help there. I thought for a moment I might die. That moment was when, on top of depriving my body of oxygen, she put some kind of sauna like heat lamp directly in front of my face. So now I'm hardly breathing, and any air I am grasping at is hot, steamy sauna air. Cause of death: vanity. I'm sure I can see the heavens about to open up when she finally frees my nose. I can feel the colour purple slowly leave my nearly deceased face as I struggle to regulate my panting. 
The next layer of goop was pleasant though, borderlining on delicious if you could eat smells. This goop was super thick, gobs upon gobs being smothered over my face, the rich smell of peppermint welcomed by my expanding nostrils. It reminded me of peppermint frosting and I imagined my face a giant chocolate cupcake as she swirled the frosty goop in circles and loops, a line of drool escaping my shellacked lips and forcing its way down my frosted chin. I'd be embarrassed if I wasn't so wrapped up in the idea of a chocolate peppermint buttercream bliss of a cupcake. And with sweet, sugary carbs on the brain, the face massage that followed became that much more R rated. Now maybe it's just me, but the only thing more seductive than getting your belly rubbed is the caress of one's eyebrows. Don't even knock it till you've tried it. Ok, granted, my idea of sexual might be a bit tainted considering I've pratically been revirginized over here but I swear to you, you let a woman rub a brow and you'll never know such pleasure. I moaned. I did. I moaned. Ecstasy in the form of a fresh face and a limber bod. Screw Christian Grey and his wench of a cry baby. You want sultry, go to Pachouli. I don't even know what that translates to, I assume so sort of soft core prostitution ( I did pay a woman to touch my boobs) And hey, if it's really the S+M that turns your crank, just schedule a brazilian first. Done. But be warned... they will wax your ass. And I don't mean the standard back door business, they will wax you cheek for cheek. I felt robbed. But I guess smooth as a baby's bottom has a whole new meaning now...
And the best part of all of this? When you're done you just walk right out of there and leave without hearing anyone say "laters baby". Who writes this shit? Honestly. 

Flashing and Tragging

Saturday September 1'2012

5:15pm

I just got flashed by a 6 year old boy. And not while stopped in traffic like usual. No, this was in the comfort of my own home. He ran into the room, ripped off his towel, shook his teeny weeny  then away he went, grinning from ear to ear. Meet Yve. Raj's youngest son and my fifth limb. Raj has finally been given custody of this little nudist after not seeing him for 4 whole years. This all happened last Wednesday, which was easily the happiest day to date in the Sharma household. And since Wednesday, it's been hard to be seen without little Yve joined at my hip. Pretty confident my little buddy has a crush on me. Case in point: Just the other day he says to me, "Jelsea, I want to tell you something to your ear... I LOVE YOU MISS YOU" Then there's the kisses (regular, eskimo, and butterfly), and the always wanting to cuddle in my bed (He likes to lay on top of me... this boy is going to be trouble), waiting outside my door for me to come out in the morning (this routine began only after I explained to him that if the door is locked, it isn't wise to try to break it down in order to get in). He's even met my mother. He walked in to my room once when we were skyping and had quite the conversation with her. Now ever since, he asks daily, without fail, if I will be talking to my mom today. And then there was the bathing suit. As you all know, I spend almost every day sunbathing on the terrace. The first day it was sunny enough to do so again, I donned my suit out I went. Yve saw me and said "WHOAAAAA!" And again, came his giant grin, much like the one he crafted when flashing me. Now it's, "Are you going to put your suit on today?" 

He is pretty cute, not gonna lie. For a girl who generally dislikes children, admitting this is a big step for me. He's definitely weaselled his way into my heart, clothes or no clothes (there have been several more pantless encounters following the first. The boy just doesn't care for pants)But it makes me very happy to see Raj happy. And he does bring some craziness and excitement into this house. For once, a positive change. This kind of change I welcome.

Here's where I am perplexed. While sitting in my auto teacup, stuck in traffic, glaring at the auto driver for glaring at me instead of focusing on the road (every time, every bloody time this happens) I was suddenly distracted by a new form of beggar weaving through idling vehicles. I am used to seeing men with cheap toys, naked babies with sad faces, aggressive women holding naked babies with sad faces, but this was something new, and quite outrageous. Transvestites. Indian transvestites. Men dressed in saris and kirtis, makeup clad, and wig adorned, strutting circles around cars, seductively begging for money. Trannies in India. Who knew? I call it Tragging. Tranny begging. 

Why am I even surprised? It's India. 

No Starry, Starry Night.

Friday Aug 31'2012

11:58pm
The nights have started to cool off now that September is here. The days have too I supposed, but really that just means I can wear my hair down without it instantly shellacking to the nape of my neck. It's almost cool tonight, as I sit for the first time on the floor of my balcony, comfortable under the starless night sky. It's amazing that it's taken me two months to realize there are no stars in the Indian sky. How little we pay attention to such big things. The power has gone out again, this time for most of the night. I have drained the battery on both forms of entertainment, my phone and laptop, so I sit under the navy sheeted sky and write, by the dim light of my Indian cell phone flashlight, god bless 90's technology. I am pleasant. Content. I could just sit here all night long, but I have just been rudely bitten on the ankle by a mosquito who has graciously reminded me that regardless of how beautiful the night is, Malaria is a chronic illness and I have sweet tasting blood. How can a night this calm and gentle (minus the incessant biting) belong to such a chaotic and loud city? This is India, in all its bipolar glory. Today was spent weaving in and out of hordes of traffic, deafened from honks and yelling, and now this. Crickets. I went to an underground market today, literally underground. Like a gofer, tunnelling through the even more chaotic underworld of an already over crowded country. Barely lit hallways leading this way and that, severely pushy and aggressive salesmen shouting at you everywhere you look. It was surreal. 
There is a tea place I read about before coming here (in my Woman's travel guide to India book) that I've been determined to find. We finally did today. I swear it was like some creepy side street, dark alley, invite only, secret password, kind of place. I was surprised there wasn't some giant fat guy in a fedora at the front door to pat us down. It could have been the Darjeeling black market for all I knew. Then you enter to find the sweetest, kindest man behind the counter, ready to help in any way he can. This is India. The strangest of things, the most opposite of things, all rolled up into one big metaphorical roti. 

The Kingdom of Dre...

Monday Aug 27'2012

So I started writing this massive, in depth description of my experience at The Kingdom of Dreams but never finished it. Now over a week has passed and I'm all, what's the point? It seems lame to finish something that bores me even before I find the energy and commitment to type it out. Well that's just asking to put my readers to sleep, is what that is. So here's what you get:

I went to The Kingdom of Dreams, an amusement dome for Indians and tourists alike. 
I traveled around the country in a single evening, ate more South Indian food, and came to the firm conclusion that I do not like South Indian food. 
I watched a less than mediocre musical about a dead Bollywood star who possesses a man with his spirit to make him sing. Nothing was sung live. I'm not kidding. But I bought chai at the intermission and managed to stay awake.
A mob of teenage Indians asked to take a picture with me. Still famous for being white. 
Raj surprised me with a bracelet he secretly bought at the Kingdom. It's very pretty. 
Oh and I saw a pig cross the road. 

Dukhi

Saturday Aug 25'2012

6:20pm
One of my student's father passed away today. I was coming out from the metro when I saw her on the stairs. Usually so bubbly and happy, she looked empty. Latika. She says to me, Chelsea I am sorry but I don't think I can attend class today. My father has just expired. Expired. It took me a moment to register what this meant. My father has just expired. What a strange way to phrase something like this. Expired. Like we are all walking around with a date stamped to our backs, waiting till our time is up. I looked at her. Standing alone on the other side of the railing, completely swallowed by space. He usual large frame looking so small, her skin more pale than mine. Latika was the first student to make any kind of impression on me, the first I recognized. She asked me at the end of our first class if fat girls were allowed to do ballet too, her eyes gleaming with hope. What do I say to that? Fat primas? Ya, that's why I'm a world renowned ballet dancer. Of course they can do ballet, anyone can do ballet if their heart is in it. And you're not fat! A huge grin consumed her face, spreading her tiny, plump lips as wide as her eyes. I looked at her again now, those eyes instantly flooding with tears the moment the word "expired" leaves her mouth. Oh my god. What do I say? I wish I could lie to her, sugar coat something like the fat ballerinas to bring that glowing smile back to her ghost like face. But I have nothing. She is spilling sadness all over the metro stairs and all I can think to do is hug her. This woman I barely know, in the middle of the Delhi metro station. I hug her so tightly, even I am thrown by the embrace. How does this happen? A girl walks to ballet class and then her dad is gone. Just like that. Expired. I hold on for a moment longer then let her fall out of my arms. She felt like nothing. Weightless. 
If it's ok, I think I need to go home.
Yes, of course! Go, be with your family. I wanted to say more, but what do you say? We are strangers. I should have done more. Done something. I made sure she found an auto and watched her drive away. I should have had Mukesh call the company car. I should have gone with her? How do you know what should be done? I wish I had done more. But I just watched her drive off. I couldn't imagine how it would feel to make that drive home. To know what you're driving towards. As Mukesh and I walked the rest of the way to class, I felt heavy. Like hugging Latika had stripped her of all matter and weighted it on me. Like she left herself behind. What an incredible sad feeling. To expire. I keep seeing her drowning eyes. She is probably my age but today she looked just years old. Just a child. 
My heart is with her. 
   

Stairway to Hell

Friday August 24'2012

5:46pm

On the final stretch, just weeks before I can smell the sweet, fresh air of home, time seems to be standing still. The world is a sadistic bitch. All the little things I once loved and found appealing here, now just annoy me. The Food Bazaar has none of the original foods I became obsessed with months ago. Now every trip there is one disappointment after another instead of what once was a tantalizing scavenger hunt of delectables. Mahabali has been getting in trouble for being lazy, and it shows. He never asks me for chai anymore. Which means we hardly speak. AJ quit. I was mortified to hear this but I have been assured that this is a common occurrence with him. He will return in a few months when he needs work again, all knowing Akshee tells me. I won't be here in a few months. This blows. Even roti and I have drifted apart. You're boring me, wheat flour. I've been forced to introduce peanut butter into our relationship in order to spice things up and salvage what's left of our disintegrating affection for one another. And peanut butter is not cheap here. Of course it's not. And chai, I love you chai, always will. But with Mahabali's lacklustre approach to manning the kitchen comes a lack of flavour in my tea cup. A man who fucks with my chai is no friend of mine. At least I have more room in my suitcase now that I'm not bringing him home against his will anymore. Sorry Mahabs, there's only room for one lazy ass in my apartment, and I'm not going anywhere. So this leaves me with Shotgun. And I am happy to say all's well with my boxing buddy. Thank god for that. The minute something happens to him, I will have nothing left. I will be dead inside. It just seems like the world I created here, or the world that was created around me, is quickly vanishing. Raj is even thinking about going back to Toronto at the end of the month. I doubt he will, he's been saying he's going back for the past 6 months apparently (he is, after all, still an Indian) but if that were to happen then there's no question I would be racing him to the airport. He told me he felt I was part of the family today. So that was nice. And I did find a big tub of instant badam drink mix at the bazaar today that I can take home so that's nice too. I think if I could just find some Shrikhand I might believe there is still hope for the remainder of my Indian life. Just maybe. And at least I'll always have the image of AJ shaking his applebottom while watching Dancing with the Stars in the living room to keep me warm at night. He does this. Or did this. Damn it. 

8:13pm

It has come to my attention that there is a very good possibility that Mukesh has a fear of escalators. I don't know how I missed this before. It's quite fascinating. He will stand at the base of the escalator and let at least 3 stairs take form and depart before he cautiously lifts one foot, hesitates, and steps back. Foot forward, foot back. Until finally, he will commit to his step, always managing to land between two steps, grasping tightly to the rail. My bodyguard has a fear of escalators. Let's hope I don't get abducted at the metro station cuz I'm basically a goner. One foot and then the other Mukey. That's all there is to it buddy.