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. 

Mama Mia! Conna Dido!

Saturday Aug 18'2012

4:00pm
Today Akshee and I set out on an all female excursion. She has requested that I make pasta, why the hell I decided to make spaghetti and meatballs in a vegetarian country is beyond me. But never the less, out we went to gather the ingredients for my potentially catastrophic attempt at a home cooked italian meal. No Ma'am, no parsley. No Ma'am, no parmesan. And of course we're having chicken meatballs because beef doesn't exist, unless of course I took two steps outside my front door and butchered one of the 15 standing on the road... But then I'd most likely find the same fate as the cow. Without access to most of the ingredients, I'm basically heating up ridiculously over priced tomato sauce and smushing breadcrumbs (curtesy of Akshee and a toaster), chicken, eggs, and SOY milk into balls. Yumm-o. But if nothing more, it was fun to spend the afternoon hopping from grocery store, to market, to food stand to... indian butcher. Just us gals out on the town doing the lady business. Tomorrow night the kitchen belongs to Mama Chelsea. God help us all.


Sunday Aug 19'2012

6:00pm
Hmm. I don't quite know how to express what just happened in the kitchen. Indian stoves are intense. If I had my way, India would live off a raw food diet, and never turn that god forsaken stove on again. No wonder most people have cooks. Make them sweat out their entire body fluid supply all for one meal. No one in their right mind should ever cook a meal in India. It makes sense why their meals are all salty. Seasoning? No, try sweat. Ok so I melted. I literally put my blood sweat and tears into my meal. Except not my blood. I could have been crying over how hot it was but I wouldn't have noticed through the sweat. 
First of all there is no "low heat" on stoves here. Simmer is a joke. So for meatballs that are supposed to slowly cook in simmering sauce for 4 hours, well no, that didn't happen. 1 hour I see that they are looking kind of cooked. Like a lot cooked. So I cut one open to see. Well, all I can say to that is I definitely didn't have to worry about concocting a disease from the meat. If the chicken wasn't already dead, it certainly was now, along with anything else microscopic that might have been festering in it. Thems balls were fried, dried, and stupified. Oh Chelsea, why do you agree to doing things you shouldn't? And in this very moment I had a startling realization. I have not cooked a meal (grilled cheese and soup not included) in one whole year. It has been an entire year since I actually put the effort in to create a well balanced, microwave and delivery free meal. I am not exaggerating. Holy shit. And now I'm standing over a scorching hot stove top, watching my chicken balls become rocks floating in burning overheated sauce. Potentially poor life choice numero 3?
To my jaw dropping surprise, it actually turned out ok. I actually managed to pull it off, and even finish with a homemade garlic buttered garlic bread. Yes, the balls weren't the most moist balls I've tasted, but they did manage to have some kind of flavour other than cardboard, so that was good enough for me. And everyone else apparently. 
Basically what I'm saying is I have magical powers. I have a horseshoe up my ass and I can do no wrong. 
But chicken meatballs are still very wrong. I do not condone what I did here tonight. 

Appreciation

Wednesday Aug 15'2012

8:48pm
Today I appreciate bathtubs. If nothing else, living in India has given me a new perspective on how blessed I am to live where I do. I have learned to appreciate everything I have and everything I have taken for granted or considered insignificant. Like drinkable tap water, Dairy Queen Blizzards, and bathtubs. God I could really use a bubble bath. But what I have learned to love the most about Canada is what I used to dislike the most; it's diversity. I used to complain about the fact that Canada has no real, individual culture and that we just steal everyone else's to become a giant melting pot of other people's everything. But what I didn't see is that this is exactly what makes us so amazing. So vast and full of life, life from all over the world. Being here, eating a slight variation of the same meal every night after night, I can't help but long for my country's little world culture. How much did I not realize how cool it is that I can go to Belgium for breakfast, Japan for lunch, Italy for dinner, then back home to relax over a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, a classic bag of ketchup chips, and my clean bare feet sprawled across a coffee table atop a clean wood floor (because even my house is clean compared to India). How lucky am I to have every nationality living under one star spangled roof. I can go to China Town (being in Vancouver, I practically live in Asia) and hell, if I'm ever missing India, Surrey is only a hop, skip, and a disgusting amount of traffic away. I can see women in saris right in my own back yard, and I can learn to hula dance at my friendly neighbourhood community centre. So if September rolls around and I have yet to discover my life altering purpose for spending my beloved summer in the armpit of the world, I can at least say it was to fall in love with my home. They do say, absence makes the heart grow fonder. 


Thursday Aug 16'2012

6:45pm
Yesterday was India's Independence Day. Surprisingly, nothing really exciting happens. I was a little disappointed actually. Apparently I slept through all the fun stuff. And by slept through I mean just slept in general. I am sorry but unless there is a parade constructed entirely out of pickles and bacon, I see no reason to attend at SIX O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. Why? Why, out of all 24 hours in a day, would you choose 6am for a parade? Why? Then I guess other stuff happens which also has nothing to do with salty deliciousness so I obviously slept during that too. There was tradition that I did manage to experience (only because it happens throughout the entire day and is impossible to miss). Kites. Everyone flies kites. Isn't there a movie about Indians and Kites? The Kite Runner?... Nope, that's Afghanistan. Thanks google. Anyway, as I was saying, everyone flighs Kites. Everyone, everywhere. The streets, at work, even gas station attendants will roll their eyes at you when you pull in to get gas because you're forcing them away from their high flying fun. But most people will be found on their terraces; families, kids, full grown men, spending hours upon hours navigating through a kite filled sky. They even make a game out of it. It's called, stay the hell out of my way or I'll cut your kite down with mine. I played for all of about 30 seconds before I got cut. It only makes sense really, they cut you off on the road, they cut you down in the air. Regardless of who is cutting whom, the sky is just littered with little flying squares. It's really cool to see, especially from the road. As we drove to the Lotus temple, every rooftop was crowded with little tiny stick figures and what looked like square shaped birds floating above them. On and on for miles as we drove, the image continued. This was much more interesting than the Lotus Temple. Granted, I got a migraine after only 10 minutes of being there (seriously, my body has completely rebelled against this country) but I wouldn't have wanted to stay any longer anyway. It was a hollow building shaped like a metal flower, surrounded by a very plain pool. Actually, the landscape surrounding the temple was really the only thing that I was drawn to. Green as far as you could see. Absolutely stunning. The land would be the only reason worth staying. Under different circumstances, I would have stayed and just laid on the emerald grass and rolled around. Maybe climb a tree, run zig zags across the open field, feeling the warm breeze against my face. But since I couldn't feel my face, we went home. Ya it was a bust, but I can add it to my list of bragging rights. So there. 


Friday Aug 17'2012

11:15am
I had a dream last night that I was back home in a grocery store with my brother. We were passing through isles when I realized I never got him anything from India. I had meant to but didn't get around to it. The all these things that I had wanted to do and wanted to get flooded my mind and I started balling my eyes out in the middle of the sporting goods section (apparently grocery store have these). As we continued down each isle, I got more and more worked up about all the things I didn't do. And then we passed the chocolate section and I couldn't find any Take Five Bars, and it hit me that I could never get the things I ate and loved in India here at home. And I cried even more. No badam milk, no shrikhand. I became hysterical. My brother tried to calm me down by giving me a rye sandwich he had made and packed for me but I dropped it just as the grocery store floor opened up into a black abyss and swallowed it. My brother tries to assure me that he has another while he fishes through his bag, but when he looks up I'm completely naked. 
I don't think I really need to think all that hard about what my subconscious is trying to tell me. It's blatantly obvious. And I hear you inner Chelsea, wise and all knowing. Loud and clear. Except the naked part. That, I'll have to stew on. But I do love being naked...

My Love Story Involves a B.L.T.

Monday August 13'2012

I've really become quite tired of sweating 24 hours a day. Really, quite tired. I've started window shopping online for fall clothes. Each of them, little pieces of heaven. A reminder that cool weather does exist. Layering. I miss layering. I wore two tank tops the other day and Raj laughed at me... Boots, beautiful boots. Oh hello leather bomber jacket, you are wonderful to me. Although I did pick up a few uber cute Indian skirts at Dilli Haat last night... but even then I've been mentally searching my closet at home finding ways to transform them into fall attire. Yesterday was a lot of good times. Until I got tired and cranky again, but for the most part good times. Probably because I spent money. This usually results in a good time, unless it has something to do with my jeep. Gas, parking tickets, speeding tickets, parking tickets, parking, parking tickets. Anyway, Dilli Haat is a handi-craft market in South Delhi. It's beautiful. Just adorable. It's gated and you have to pay to enter (like the equivalent of 50 cents for 4 people) but because of this, there are no homeless people begging you to feed their children, no vendors bombarding your already invaded space, pushing their low quality merchandise on you. No pant-less babies guilting you to feel like a selfish, rich, pant wearing bitch. It was lovely. And CLEAN! It even SMELLED clean (this was a first for my nostrils, what a relief it was to not smell anything. for the first time in 2 months my senses were at peace)
You walk through the gate and your in a completely different world of tropical greenery, straw and wooden huts, cobble stone pathways, and colourful merchandize. I was immediately drawn to the faux pashminas (the real ones being banned and retardedly expensive) I bought 4. Plus the one from Connaught Place. Obsessed. See, even here I am thinking fall, scarves. There were fifty scarf stands, at least, all with amazing colours and designs. I finally committed to one, only because they offered me a seat and pulled out a million and one different scarves to show me. How could I leave now? So this is how they get you. And here you have to barter, and I was good. Damn, was I good. It's funny how little things like this show you how much you've grown up and grown into yourself. I remember when I was in Mexico five years ago, the thought of bartering was uncomfortably intimidating. I sucked at it. I didn't have the balls to fight for what I wanted. Now, shit, I barter like a mader chod. Got exactly what I wanted every time. I even got aggressive. Say whaa? 950?! The shop two feet down is selling those for 500! Too much. No, no. 
Then they'll say, 900? Pfft, no way. I say 400? Pfft, no way. They say 600. Nope (I walk away) And then you have them... OK! OK! What you pay? 400. 450? Deal. (There was no store two feet down selling the same thing for five hundred, but now I've won) And that was my evening. A grand one at that. I could have spent all night there (stays open till 10pm) but my non-system comprehending companions were fading. None the less, the Haat was a success. 4 faushminas, 2 skirts, gifts for Julie and Cristina (not telling, it's a surprise!) and a MUG! A wooden hand carved hunk of a mug. It's handsome. I love mugs. 
But I also love food, and Dilli Haat was full of it, like most places in Delhi. Upon arriving, we went straight for Kulfi- you must properly fuel before take off. Only this kulfi was in a little clay pot served with a stick as a spoon. Like those malt cups you used to get at gas stations and convenient stores. God, I used to eat those all the time when I was a kid, another clue to solving my childhood obesity. Pretty sure this form of kulfi makes the top three favourite things to put in my mouth here. I kept the pot. I'm gonna plant something in it. Like... peas? Or basil. Pansies. Or I'll use it to store my pennies. Or a sugar bowl! Done. Mid way through my spree, we stopped at the outdoor food court. It was so quaint, equipped with giant air conditioners. I could have sat there for hours, sipping my fruit beer (if regular beer tasted like this stuff I'd be a raging alcoholic. A completely guilt free dead beat drunk.) We shared some DIY pani puri, aloo chat (my fave) and aloo tikka (a new dish for my pallet. Potatoes fried and covered in yogurt and various thick and creamy sauces) Holy Moly. We also stopped at a coconut stand on the side of the road on the way to Dilli Haat (I'm backtracking, I forget things) These things are all along major roadways. They're hilarious. A GIANT pile of big green coconuts, beside a bathtub, beside a man, all covered by a flimsy tarp held up with sticks. I am going to assume the bathtub is where they store the cool coconuts..? I really don't understand it's purpose. But it's funny. You pull over, they fish a coconut from the tub, chop the top off with a machete, throw a straw in it and bam. Coconut water. And they stay there all day long. And night too. You'll drive down the road at 3am and there is coconut man, sleeping next to his coconuts. I wonder if he ever actually leaves his station? If you can sleep at your work place, eat and drink your merchandise, legally pee on the side of the road, what reason could you possibly have to leave. Poor hygiene? You're sitting beside a bathtub. After Dilli Haat, Raj Eddie and Akshee took me to a spread of malls in South Delhi. The "fancy malls". I was already done for the day at this point but when I saw one of the malls had a Forever 21, I perked right up. 30 seconds in the store and Raj says Ok, moving on. See, this is why I shop alone. No one in their right mind spends less than 30 minutes in Forever 21, let alone 30 seconds. Fine. So long pretty clothes. Now I'm done. I'm ready to call it quits. But we must wander. Then it's time to eat (10:30pm) I'm not even hungry. Me. Not hungry. Exhausted? Yes. Cranky? Absolutely. We're having punjabi food, I am told. If you've paid any attention to me you'd know I've sworn off Indian meals all together (minus aloo chat. But that's just potatoes. And it's more like a snack, anyway. Doesn't count. Shut up) Ya so I say no to punjabi with a pout. Bah humbug. And then I see it. There in the food court amid back to back Indian fast food hubs and a KFC I see... A crepery! Sandwiches, sweet and savoury crepes, all day breakfast, cookies! Thank you Jesus. Thank you. And the Lord blessed me with an appetite, shawn upon me and said, Eat child, you are home. 
The hardest part was deciding if I wanted breakfast or a sandwich. It was actually a really difficult decision. South Delhi is far away, who knows if I'll have another opportunity like this for another whole month. The pressure. Then I saw the B.L.T. and there was no question. Bacon. Bread. Mayo. Magic. I need that. Not I'll have that, or Could I please have that, No. My mouth exploded with, I NEED THAT! as my trembling, pig depraved finger pointed to the glorious sandwich. 10 minutes later I was sitting in front of a delicious ciabatta filled with gift from Jesus, a real salad with lettuce, fries, an ICE TEA and a cookie. Nothing else existed. I tried my best to savour this moment. Thoroughly enjoy every last bite, every flavour. I created a bubble around me and the romance that was my plate of food. Nothing could penetrate this moment. I tuned everything out, even those sitting next to me. It's just you and me, Sammy. You and me. The sandwich wasn't even that good, but shit it was the best sandwich I have ever had. Thank you God, for bringing me back to life. 

Monkeys are Assholes

Monday August 6'2012

12:34am
I ran into someone I knew on the street today, dirt road, whatever. Granted it was Dingy and her friend Salena Gomez (the most recent addition to the Sharma residence) and we were only like 3 blocks from home but still, it counts. And it was nice. I had a pretty lame day, missing home a lot, so it was nice to see a familiar face in a crowd of strange and invasive ones. It made me feel at home. Like proof that I temporarily belong in this city. This made me think of home, made me think of Granville St. Where it is almost impossible to walk down without bumping into someone you know. There is a specific block on Granville that always comes to mind when I'm day dreaming nostalgically. Between broadway and 10th. On the side with Chapters and Bank of Montreal. Then following around the corner to Cactus Club and eventually Soups etc (Jason's and my favourite cafe... which has now been shut down, RIP) I don't know why this area in particular has such continuity in my mind but it's comforting. It's home. And in my mind it is always raining on that corner block, and I love it. I appreciate it. It's Vancouver. 

Thursday Aug 9'2012

9:57pm
Today I ate an entire loaf of bread to myself. Granted it only cost me thirty cents but none the less, a whole loaf. In less than 24 hours. It was white. Shit. If only the slices were hugging a perfectly concocted variety of salami, havarti, avocado,  tomato, lettuce, mustard, and herb and garlic cream cheese. And a pickle on the side. Although butter was sufficient at the time. I have become obsessed with toast and butter as of late. It could only be because that is all I trust to put inside my body right now, but the taste of bread that is just toasted enough that the butter melts and makes the middle soggy while still leaving a crispy edge, divine. It's the closest thing to home right now. Well that and my cadbury chocolate bars. Last night I couldn't sleep so I looked up dinner recipes on my Food Network App. The Food Network App to me, is like 50 Shades of Grey to the average female, which I happen to be reading right now and quite honestly is not nearly turning me on as much as say Shrimp and Pork Tacos with Tomato Salsa and Creamed Avocado... Needless to say I drooled myself to sleep. When I woke up the next day I skyped my Dad and requested a list of food I would appreciate upon my return home, mostly revolving around a BBQ and dead animal carcass. Steak, hamburgers, hotdogs, all wrapped in bacon, smothered in chunky beef chilli. And a pickle on the side. Or a jar. Yes a jar of pickles on the side. 

Shotgun and I have formed a strange but special bond. He's always laughing at me and I'm not sure if it's "with me" or "at the crazy little white girl running around in a bikini". He mimics me all the time. I say thank you, he says thank you, in a squeeky high pitched voice then giggles uncontrollably. yes giggles. I would like to assume that this is our "thing" and we're both equally in on it, and it's not just pick on Chelsea then laugh about it. So I always laugh back just to prove it's a two way street. Then I will get in a threatening stance, make fists and fake out a few jabs to his shoulder and gut. He always puts his dukes up and chuckles, showing off his semi tooth goofy smile. Ya, it's our thing. 
Mahabali even said good morning to me today! He usually just nods at everything I say. It only took a month but our relationship too, has flourished. We have grown from, "Chai?" "Chai." to "Good morning" "Morning" "Chai?" "Chai". Marvellous.
And AJ? Well AJ seems to think I have miraculously become fluent in Hindi over night because he now has full on conversations with me. I have no idea idea what you're saying. You play baseball? You swept the roof? You want me to go to the roof? There's gonna be a meteor shower? You like swings? Nope, no idea. All I can do is pat him on the back and walk away. Sorry dude, I did all I could. 
I'm going to miss the stooges. Mahabali even makes me extra roti every night , and he tells me too, with such pride and excitement. Three! Three! He holds up three fingers and points to the container on the kitchen counter. Mahabali will you come home with me? He nods. He would nod if I asked him to go to the moon with me, but regardless he agreed. Remember this if I am charged with kidnapping on the way through customs....

Saturday Aug 11'2012

12:30pm
I just made chai! All by myself! Well that is a lie, Akshee helped a little. Another lie, Akshee basically did everything. But I took notes! And I added the sugar and tea leaves and milk! And I strained it into the jug. So there. I made chai. And it was good. Now I can make it at home, which basically means the best part about India is coming home with me. Well the best would be if Mahabali came home with me and made chai but you take what you can get. 

Sunday Aug 12'2012

2:00pm
I just saw a monkey sitting in front of a doctor's office eating from a bag of cheesy puffs. We both stop and look at each other, his little hand frozen in the bag, his eyes fixed on mine. Keeping his glare, he slowly removes his hand from the bag and pushes a puffed ball of cheese into his mouth. His face saying, What the fuck are you looking at? As if it's less weird to see a monkey snacking on trans fats than it is to see a white girl in India. He's probably right. Even the monkeys know I am out of place. 

Foreign Affairs are Resolved with Cookies. I am Resolved with Chocolate.

Sunday Aug 5'2012

12:42pm
I'm not 100 percent confident that what I did last night actually happened or if I dreamt it, but I do know I was hardly conscious for any of it. At around 12:30am, Akshee informs me that Eddie is on his way home and to get ready because we are going to India Gate. Why are we going to India Gate, we were just there. We will go and get ice cream. Oh ok. Not like I'm ever going to turn down ice cream. We did not get ice cream. No we did not. We didn't even go to India Gate. No, we went to a hotel. Le Meridian Hotel to be exact. Raj and Eddie have this strange fascination with wanting to show me five star hotels. We always drive by them and they point them out to me, regardless if we've passed by them 5 times before. And now apparently we are actually going into them. I try to be polite but I really couldn't care less. I basically grew up in a hotel. This does not appeal to me. But we wander around anyway because I choose to bite my tongue and pretend I am in awe. Thank you performing arts college, my acting skills have finally come in good use. I even took pointless photos to further my faux enthusiasm. I'm not even staying in this hotel, but yes, let's make memories. Ok cool, I've seen, I've documented, let's go. Nope, instead let's go to the cafe inside the hotel for dinner (reminder: it's now 1:30am) Pizza no less. What is with this country and the need to butcher the sacred standard of traditional pizza? It's just awful. And of course five star hotel means five star prices. Six bucks for a friggen cup of masala chai, and watery luke warm masala at that. And the sorry excuse for a pizza ran at 20 bucks. No thank you. Alrighty, what an experience! Homeward bound! Nope again. At this point I am exhausted and starting to feel very agitated. Eddie wants to show me his office... at the airport. I look to my side to hide my obvious expression and see a dog sprawled out on the street, completely unconscious, and I have never felt such jealousy. I could have done it. Right then and there I could have curled up beside Lassie and been absolutely content. Asleep in an instant. But Eddie has been wanting to show me his work for a while and I didn't want to hurt his feelings or disappoint him. Alright, let's do this. And then it was silence. I was getting grumpy, I could tell, so silence was best for me and everyone in the vehicle. As we got close to the airport Eddie pointed and said, There, can you see, that is the airport. Ya, how do you think I got here, by boat? Stay silent Chelsea. It's clearly for the best. We arrived and it took all the strength I had not to fall asleep standing as we ascended the elevator to the airport control room. If I hadn't been sleep walking, I might have found it kinda cool, to be behind the scenes, watching the entire airport through cameras on giant screens. But right now nothing was cool. You could have shown me Leonardo Dicaprio sucking face with that werewolf dude from True Blood/Magic Mike, laying naked on my bed, welcoming me with open arms and I would have asked them nicely to move the fuck over and let me sleep. We stand over a desk near the back of the big important room while Eddie introduces us to his manager. He tells me, If you have any questions, this is the guy to ask. Silence. Ask him your questions..... You don't have any questions? ....Nothing you would like to learn? (Ya, when can we go home?) Nope. Silence. Everyone looks at me like I'm supposed to be just dripping with wonderment and thirst for any and all information about this place. It's pretty self explanatory, I start. Those are cameras of the airport. The ones on the left with the planes are of outside, the right are inside, that's your desk, and this is your boss. Got it. (Probably should have stuck to being silent, easy girl) I'm dying inside. More silence. Finally Raj thanks the manager and I practically run for the door...Now let's take a tour. Huh...? Deep breaths. Eddie goes to his desk and turns on all 4 computer screens. With every button pressed, a part of me dies. Will I ever see my bed again? I get a lesson on the function of each screen while teaching myself not to lose it. It's now 3:18am. He finally turns off the screens and I look longingly at the exit sign, knowing fine well this is not the end. Sure enough, on to the next part of the tour. Now to show me Eddie's favourite part of the office. Let me guess, the cafeteria? I sneer. Yes! How did you know? Wild guess, let's move. He shows me the staff room and offers me coffee. No. Tea? No. Have some coffee. No! Tea is delicious here, you will like. I'll get you tea. Eddie! It's 3:30 in the morning, I don't want any tea! Why not? Because people sleep at this hour, they don't drink tea! I am not having any damn tea! And she's been released. Angry Chelsea is out. It is really time to go. I thank the manager kindly for allowing us to visit and drag my barely lucid self to the exit. 4 am we get home. Needless to say I am not the most pleasant of company this morning. Although I did manage to catch a glimpse of a fax (top secret Indian airlines fax?) at the airport stating that the Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of Chile will be arriving in Delhi today. He has requested aerated water and cookies upon arrival and departure. So the Minister likes his cookies. That information could almost pass for making my night worth while. No, not even remotely close. 

4:10pm
Just as I warned, I am a giant grumpy pants today. You can't keep me out until 4 in the morning (and sober no less) and expect me to be all peaches and cream the next day. I'm not even peaches and cream with a full night's sleep. But I still got up and ready by 11:30 to stick with our Sunday Funday plans (I should really know better at this point) We had planned last night to go to Dilli Haat, South Delhi, and Qutab Minar. Today it was, Ok what do you want to plan to do today? I thought we already planned... Apparently not. By 3:30, with everyone still lounging around in bed, I could feel my lack of sleep getting the best of me and felt it was necessary for the well being of everyone if I took my leave. I needed to walk it off, or sweat it out more appropriately. I walked to the Food Bazaar and picked up a few things for the week, despite their evil male dominated, sexist ways. I ran into Ellen there. Funnily enough we both felt the need to get out of the house, some alone time was necessary, which led us both to our meeting place, the chocolate isle. It was nice to confide in someone who understands the importance of personal space and the need to have time to yourself. 
Here's something you should know about me, if you don't already. I am a loner. The lifestyle of a hermit is often very appealing to me. I may be, as some say, a "social butterfly" but this is all circumstantial. If I know I can come home to a completely empty house and stay there hidden away for days of recuperation, then yes, bring on the people. Smart people, I don't handle stupid well. And I can't handle people for long periods of time. When I used to have sleep overs as a kid, I was always ready for parent pick up time when the AM rolled around. If I was single, you can guarantee the phrase, "I'd totally have you stay the night if I didn't have to get up so early." would just roll off my tongue. I just get edgy. People just piss me off too easy. So I bought chocolate bars. When I came home everyone was still in the master bedroom, eating lunch and hanging out... We will be leaving shortly. Ha! I'll believe it when I see it! I actually said that. And there was the blatant sign that I needed to lock myself away for the day. So I told the guys and Akshee that I was taking a rain check. I'm tired and crabby and really just want to be a hermit today. Eddie asks, Why are you so tired? You're kidding right? Tell me you're kidding. If there was any chance I might change my mind and want to go out with them, that killed it. Right there. Nope. I'm just gonna have to say no today guys. So I believe I have enough chocolate bars, badam milk, and Shrikhand to stay comfortably hidden for the next 24 hours. Goodbye world. 

Would You Still Love Me With Only Eight Fingers?

Thursday Aug 2'2012

1:06pm
Eddie keeps giving me little gifts and treats. It's so sweet, literally. First it was a chocolate bar, then a box of assorted chocolates, then a coconut (he remembered my obsession with them and their water) and this morning he gave me his heart, or several hearts for that matter. Strawberry flavoured candies called Heart Beats. Either he is the only man who truly understands and appreciates my sugar addiction, or he's just trying to fatten me up in preparation to become a good, sturdy Indian wife. 

Today my classes were cancelled because of Raksha Bandhan, an Indian holiday that celebrates the unique bond between brother and sister. Here, they do not have Mother's Day and Father's day because here everyday should be about appreciating and celebrating your parents (at least this was the case until western influences took over and now they do celebrate our special days, same dates and everything). But from a traditional stand point, they do have one day a year to celebrate brother/sister love. A brother's main role in life is to always protect his sister, whether she is married or single. On this day, the sister ties a holy thread around the brother's wrist and prays that he is successful, strong, and prosperous in order to always be able to protect her and keep her safe. In exchange, the brother gives her money. They feed each other sweets and participate in a Puja. This day is a very important day. These events are to be practiced in the morning, freshly showered, and on an empty stomach. The bond between a brother and sister is one of the closest and is very important. A girl's brother is her protector, even more so than her husband. He is meant to always keep her safe and secure no matter what. There is an image that keeps coming in to my head, the same one that usually does when I'm reminiscing about my brother and my childhood. I was around 10 or so, I fell off my bike and wound up in the hospital with a hole in my knee. While I was waiting for stitches, laying in the hospital bed, he drew me pictures of mermaids. I have no other memory of Josh drawing other than that day. And the mermaids. 



Saturday Aug 4'2012

5:06pm
You won't believe me when I tell you this but now, in order to enter my Indian home, I need my fingerprint scanned. Oh yes, it's true. At this point you may be starting to think I am completely full of shit and you are contemplating going over to my apartment just to make sure I haven't locked myself away all Howard Hughes style peeing into glass jars, growing my finger nails out, and making up stories about a futuristic foreign country where you get your retina scanned just to enter a coffee shop. This is not the case, there are hardly any coffee shops, and if there are, they sell shit for coffee. I digress. Raj has in fact set up a security system at the front door that requires my right index finger in order to enter. These people don't have toilet paper, but finger print activated security systems, no sweat. No sweat shouldn't be a saying here. There is always sweat. But that's just how upside down this world I temporarily call home is. It's just funny is what it is. It has to be. Especially when it comes to things like being patted down and checked for explosives on a daily basis. You have to just laugh, otherwise you realize how potentially scary this place is. Back home, you get stopped by the police for speeding or driving intoxicated. Here, you get pulled over to be checked for ammunition hidden in your vehicle. Before entering any major public facility, you are searched for bombs and weapons (pretty sure my Dior Addict in my purse was momentarily mistook for a hand grenade while trying to enter the metro) Once on the metro, the overheard speakers will repeat a warning that any unattended object is probably a bomb. I could get bombed. A Russian woman got raped here in Delhi about a week after I arrived. It was big news; a foreign tourist attacked in New Delhi. I could get raped. I've already had my boob and ass grabbed, it could have been a gateway grab, in which case it's only a matter of time. I could get bombed and raped. Although, if that's the case, I'd prefer them to be simultaneous. You know, two birds one stone kinda thing. 
I ventured out on my own again today. It's been a while, hence the previous thought pattern. I took the metro alone for the first time. Didn't get lost though, to my surprise. Or raped, which was nice. I went to the malls, again. Lord Shiva knows why. I was bored, needed to get out, private time was calling. Plus I figured if shopping for myself was impossible at these sorry excuses for malls, maybe I could at least find some souvenirs to bring home. Even that's a challenge. I think what gets me is that the malls are so huge. How can there literally be absolutely nothing, not a single store worthwhile in such a giant space? Baffling. But I did manage to buy a few bangles, really cute actually, and cheap. All the bangles I'd been eyeing were like $30-40 a piece, but today was like seven for $8, and ten for $4. Then a really pretty single lotus flower one for $2. See, I still got it. However, I have discovered my one shopping insecurity and that is bracelets. To be honest, the real reason I never bought those expensive ones was because I have atrociously fat man hands and they wouldn't fit over my bear claws... like at all. Even the ones I did buy today barely fit. I have to practically fight to the death to get them on. And I have battle wounds to prove it. The buggers ripped skin off my thumb knuckled. But I look pretty. Almost dainty. But its embarrassing. I have officially found something that embarrasses me. And it hurts. Deep. Especially when you ask the 250 pound sales lady if she has a bigger size and she says harshly, No, and follows with, Big wrists, yes. Very big (while her own wrists are ridden with all sorts of colourful bangles) You're the equivalent of two of me! How is this fair?! I'm actually contemplating how much I'd really miss my pinky fingers... Probably not that much. But then I might be insecure about only having eight fingers. It's a lose, lose. 


Monkeys are assholes. I'm pissed. Yesterday, Iago got attacked by an evil gang of monkeys. Like I said, assholes. I am so not bringing a monkey home anymore. Mahabali maybe, but no monkey. We let Iago hang out in the garden area outside during the day now. The devil monkeys, who had been plotting this attack for days I imagine, swung in and threw his cage, with him helplessly in it, on the ground. Two seconds later there's Raj running to the rescue with his pellet gun blazing (awfully similar sight to my dad chasing after squirrels with his). These are the same monkeys that take one bite out of the mangos from Raj's mothers tree then throw them carelessly away. The ones that jump and swing on our satellite dish causing us to lose signal during our dramatic soap opera time. These are not Abu monkeys. These are like the monkeys from The Wizard of Oz. Or the evil pirate monkey from Ice Age 4. Monkeys are assholes. 

From Ralphing to Religion

Tuesday July 31'2012

1:45pm
The power has been going out on and off throughout the past few days. It sucks ass. When it happened 3 weeks ago it was fun, now it's just retarded. And hot. On sunday night (around 3 am) the power went out in all of Northern and Eastern India (apparently this has become world news). During this time, I just happen to be in a state worse than death. Since saturday, I have seriously considered ripping out my entire digestive system and running it over with an auto rickshaw. Several times. I have never felt that sick in my life. I know I've complained about having the plague and all since being here, but that was bullshit. That was me being a baby. THIS was the plague, I swear to gods, I thought it was over for me. I'd lived my life and it was going to end here, in India, next to my stupid enclosed shower, lying helpless on a dirty Indian floor. 
It started around 4:30pm on Saturday, shortly after lunch. The same lunch that everyone else ate and didn't wind up praying for death to relieve them from such excruciating pain. I felt kind of nauseous but nothing serious and then I just puked. Blegh. Like that. And then I thought I was fine. Laid on the couch, focused on the little bollywood dancer boy on TV. Ten minutes later the flood gates opened, and I am telling you, it was a friggen tsunami. Over 5 hours of uninterrupted explosions of my innards becoming outards... from both ends. Did you read the 5 hours part? I'm not exaggerating. At 9:30pm I was still running (well more like dragging myself) back and forth to the bathroom. I really should have just camped out on the bathroom floor like I usually would at home, but that's more just for attention than anything else, so I never really considered it a logical position in this state. Not to take it too far, but I will, at one point I actually pooped and puked at the exact same time. Simultaneous and horribly aggressive poop pukes. Hey, you all wanna feel like you're here with me, living vicariously through me, it doesn't get any closer than that. Seriously though, I have never felt that incredibly ill. Ever. It was like I was being attacked by a malicious Punjabi gang (I'm from Vancouver, it makes sense). One was stabbing me repeatedly in the stomach, while another was pulling out my insides through my rectum with a rusted pair of old pliers, and finally another giving me the Heimlich equipped with brass knuckles (they are a very strong people). After 3 hours I could hardly make my way to the bathroom a foot from my door. I had nothing left inside of me. I was completely hollow, like the henis. Only it continued for another 2.5 hours. I was dying. This was it. I know I have a tendency for the dramatic, but this was for real. I cried. I did. I cried in between ralphs and poop shoots. I called my mom and Jason and cried some more. I was dying. Finally, my body came to the conclusion that I had hours before and decided there was nothing left to violently remove from my system and the death subsided. And I slept. When I woke on sunday I was such a skinny bitch, which was cool, but I had the energy and agility of an overweight sloth. I had some bread and tea and felt much better. We all decided to get me out of the house and head to Connaught Place (a british built market area). We browsed shops, saw Ice age 4. All day I felt great until around 10pm when my stomach started to boil over while I sat watching everyone eat south indian food at a restaurant in Connaught place (like hell I was gonna even attempt to go there) I could literally feel it bubbling and moving, just anticipating it's own mass expulsion. It calmed though, and I thought I was in the clear. Nope. 3am and death returned. This time bringing his friend, the power outage. How sweet that the two decided to sync up and simultaneously attack me. So I basically repeated the night prior, only now in pitch black and with no air conditioning. Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse. There is nothing worse than being deathly ill and trapped in a humid, sweaty, thick and stuffy room. I tried to open my balcony door for some "fresh air", but the varied smells of India only made my nausea escalate. India has got to be the worst place to be sick. The worst. I woke up on monday and headed straight for my suitcase. I'm getting the hell off this asshole of a continent. But I calmed myself, called my mom, moved my suitcase back into the corner of my room. I have decided to stay on the condition that Indian food and I will not associate, or even so much as acknowledge each other's presence for the remainder of my imprisonment. Bread, yogurt, and bananas, I love you. Anything else can rot in hell. Even you roti. Chai's ok. Chai can stay. 


Wednesday Aug 1'2012
Religion is something that leaves a sweet yet sour taste in my mouth. I find it incredibly interesting and at the same time completely ridiculous. But here, here there is something different. It seems more honest here. Simple. Tonight I went to both a Hindu Temple and a Sikh Temple. Two worlds that derived from the same place could not be more different. (The Sikh religion actually stems from Hinduism. When hindus were being forced to convert to Muslims or face decapitation, hindu families gave their eldest son to become a punjabi, a warrior to defend against the muslims.)  The Hindu Temple adorned with hordes of homeless people, dirty floors, smells, bugs, vendors. The Sikh Temple gold and prestige, silent, serene, spotless. What I loved about the Sikh temple, besides it's obviously gorgeous architecture, was it's doors. If you know me, you would know I have a strange fascination and obsession with doors. But it wasn't the look of these doors that drew me in, but what they symbolized. There are several entrances that surround the room of worship. These doors represent each religion. They are there to show that any and every religious follower is welcome in the temple. It does not matter who or what you believe in, their doors are always open to you. I couldn't believe it. All I could manage to let out was "wow". Repeatedly. I was even annoying myself. But it was wow. From a little christian girl's jaded perspective where she was taught that any religion other than her own was of the devil and those who followed would burn in hell, the idea of a religion so welcoming and loving towards others left me speechless. 
On top of all this, the temple also doubles as a shelter for thousands of people every day. Rich or poor, young or old, Punjabi or Canadian. No matter who you are or where you come from there is a giant hall beside the temple that will serve you food whatever time of day it is, day or night. And this hall could easily host weddings, it was so incredibly beautiful. All this beauty, all the gold and marble, and stunning designs, all to humbly serve people. Not Punjabis, not hindus, but people. Wow.  The Sikh temple was stunningly beautiful, and there was something about the place that made me feel incredibly grounded. It could have just been the pristine marble floors, but I'd like to believe it was more than that. Tonight made me want to believe in a lot more than that. Yes, the Sikh temple greatly outdid the Hindu temple in more ways than just it's beauty, but the Hindu temple made me feel something. Something very strong that still resonates from within me. I can't explain. Maybe because I had been to a hindu temple now once before and things felt familiar to me, but something felt so right as I kneeled before the intricately decorated spiritual figures. There was a connection. It wasn't necessarily a connection to the gods, I don't feel I know them well enough yet, but it was more a connection to myself. I felt like I was completely open. It was such a brief moment, but in it, it seemed to last the perfect length to be able to feel content within myself, a rare and incredibly satisfying feeling. I had allowed a very honest part of me to be released in the strangest of places. I didn't pray for much, I hardly thought at all. I simply asked for forgiveness. And in an instant my eyes filled with tears, and I felt so weak and yet so strong all at once. I felt me. I was in there somewhere, and had finally surfaced. 

You are the Kevin Cosner to my Whitney Huston

Friday July 27'2012


11:55am
On Wednesdays and Saturdays, I teach in Safdarjung and get the privilege of an auto rickshaw instead of the much hated metro. I love driving in autos. It's like riding in one of the tea cups in disney land that has gone off it's track and is being steered by an angry, out of control, money hungry Indian man... that is when you actually get to ride in one. Auto drivers choose you, you do not choose them. You flag one down, ask them to take you where you need to go and most of the time they say no and zoom away, probably on to refuse another potentially fine paying customer. I'm sorry, isn't it your job to drive people where they need to go? I'm confused. But the best are the ones parked on the side of the road, sprawled out asleep in the passenger seat. You would think they might be waiting for a customer, but oh no, you'd be wrong. I swear they refused people more often than drive them, like we're inconveniencing them with our business. How do you make a living? Oh right, you live in India. My point to all this is, Mukesh has now asked every auto driver on the street to take us to Safdarjung and every one has refused. So we move to another street, same thing. We are going to be late. We quickly walk to the metro station (there are always autos hanging out at the metro). Still no. Seriously? It's not like we asking for a favour here, this is your JOB. Finally Mukesh gives up and says something with the word metro in it. Oh hell no. No. There is no way I am taking the metro on my auto tea cup day. No. So I stomp over to the first driver Mukesh asked (I have quite the aggressive strut) smile, place my hands in a prayer position, bat my eyelashes, pout a little, but not enough to look weirdly stroke like, and say, Please Safdarjung. Please, Please. Safdarjung? (yes dumbass, the same place Kevin Cosner asked for 10 minutes ago and you shook your head you lazy bastard). Yes, yes. Safdarjung. Please?
Head nod. Invite into cab. Done. 
Aha! Hell yes I did! I called Mukesh over from his half climb up the stairs to the metro where he had witnessed my magic. He looked pretty broken up. I think it is safe to say it is a very rare occasion here when a woman can do something a man cannot. Especially one who deems himself so highly a bodyguard and protector. So I chose not to gloat. I wanted to. So tempted to. But I didn't. But I was definitely beaming the entire auto ride. The auto that I hired, that is. 


On a side note, just to build Mukesh back up, last night he thought he was taking me to work but "it" did instead (god he just rubs me the wrong way) It dropped me from Rajouri Gardens to Patal Nagar and left. Typical. Good riddance. I get into class and a young man, one of my students, comes up to me, After class tonight, I will be walking you home (he says this very seriously). Oh no, that's ok, I live very close, I can walk myself. 
Mukesh told me I have to walk you home. I will walk you home. (Oh Mukesh, you are too much, sigh) Don't worry about Mukesh. I am fine to walk alone, I promise. I've done it many times. (He looked concerned) And you can tell Mukesh you walked me anyway. He smiled, the concern disappeared. Oh Mukesh. Of course I ended up getting lost on my way home that night. A one street walk, the same walk I had done just earlier that day and I managed to get lost. Ya. 


I really should be talking more about my teaching but there's really nothing worth talking about. The company itself is a mess, the studios are almost all cement floors, but the students are awesome, or at least they will be until their dreams are crushed when their knees give out. There is one student, Somya, one of the few I remember by name. I am mentoring her to teach kids ballet. So every tuesday and friday I observe and supervise while she teaches. It's funny to watch her reuse the same metaphors I use when I teach her in her class, which are actually my mom's metaphors, so in theory, my mother's legacy will live on forever half way across the world: en dehor- out the door.