In a haze...

To me, there's maybe no other drink that symbolises partying in Bombay more than Old Monk rum. To quote an alcohol website:

"A velvet smooth dark rum with a hint of vanilla, it has an alcohol content of 42.8%. Honored the world over, Old Monk had been awarded gold medals at Monde World Selections since 1982. Its a classic 7 yr blended dark rum. With the first drop of Old Monk Rum, the sheer aroma of distilled cane sugar grown in lush green fields of India, stirs up the age old legend. Old Monk Rum is a form of the legendary 'Som-ras' of India's centuries old scriptures--The Drink of Gods and Lords of India."

Well, I can tell you I don't feel like a Goddess at all after last night's session with the monk at Bombay Gymkhana. I always drink it large, with Diet Coke and no ice. I always blame Ferzin and Gilles for getting me addicted to this drink when I was still a "good girl" in France. It's been my favourite ever since, although it is not considered "elegant" and "lady-like" to have rum and coke. For Indians, this is mostly a macho drink.

The only difference between drinking it then and now is that now I need not less than 12 hours to recover. And of course, the embarassing memories of jumping around the dance floor, "let's be honest" drunken conversations and throwing up (excuise my French). Well, I know that as much as I promise myself "never again", I will look for the naughty monk's company again next Friday!

Rantings of a frequent traveler

I have finally understood… Every single Indian is a CEO! The completely indispensable kind, who has to be reachable 24/7, on his/her mobile of course. I used to get intensely angry at people keeping their mobiles on during flights, despite repeated requests from the flight attendants, but now, I know… You can’t mess with important people.
Especially with the housewife type, which has to call home the minute the plane has touched ground to instruct the maid to start cooking the dal. Or with the bespectacled, middle aged gentleman who picks up the phone while boarding a 5 am flight, looking as if he is striking the deal of a lifetime (but instead giving instructions to the wife on when to go and pick up so and so from uncle’s house).

The pits was a flight from London to Mumbai, when an elderly man sitting next to me kept screaming in the receiver while the plane was picking up speed on the runway (a moment when everything, absolutely every electronic device has to be off). I couldn’t help but glare at him, so he asked the person at the other end to hold, and earnestly explained: “Madam, that’s exactly what I am trying to tell them – to stop calling me now as we are taking off!”. What on earth could I have replied to that?!

Flights to Delhi are the worst. Almost all mobiles on board are on, all the time, and at the moment we touch ground, a myriad of loud beeps and alarms resound from every seat. The CEOs take on a serious expression and start checking their messages, and invariably a thunderous voice from somewhere will say: “Haaaaa? Kon hai? Haaaa! Just landed! … Haaa? Nahin, Rinku teek hai… Uska blood pressure todha sa high hai… Haaaa!” All essential information which has to be conveyed at this very moment.

The same stands when exiting the plane. The CEO tribe is in such a hurry, that seat belts are unbuckled at the very second the plane’s tyres touch the runway. So the beeping of mobiles is complimented with click clack clack from everywhere. The race is on! Everyone around me is on the edge of their seats, ready to pounce. As soon as the plane comes to a stop, the smartest ones jump up, and if their fellow passengers occupying the aisle seats are still wasting time sitting around, they don’t mind continuing to stand in all sorts of contorted positions, waiting for their chance to fling themselves at the overhead compartments to collect their precious hand luggage. A small battle of bodies and wills ensues (all while talking on the mobile), and finally everyone is standing, breathing in each other’s necks, waiting for the doors to open (I agree, it’s not a good idea to be left behind, locked up into an empty plane just because you waited around).

When we can finally go, the rule is ‘gentleman first!’. The competition is so intense, that’s it’s actually a bit dangerous to try and edge your way out of your seat – your feet may get smashed under a trolley, pulled along by some man obviously in a hurry for his kidney transplant operation. My question is: why all this struggle, when we will all end up in the same bus, going to the same terminal, waiting for the same luggage belt to start screeching and rolling out our luggage? But logic doesn’t seem to be the order of the day, and as I almost get pushed out of the bus (I have the audacity to stop to pull out my trolley’s handle and block the way of five cardiac specialists on their way to save someone’s life), I just remind myself… We are all a nation of CEOs.

Another 12 hours in India...

• Yesterday 2.30 pm - I leave for the airport. I am flying to Delhi to attend the reception in honour of the Bulgarian Prime Minister who is visiting India. I am flying Jet Airways, so I expect no surprises.


• My driver is again imagining he is on a Formula 1 track. I try to buckle up, but the buckle is neatly concealed behind the seat. Who needs seat belts in India anyway?


• At the airport, I indulge in a Baskin & Robbins English Candy ice cream. Mmmmmm! Delicious!


• I have printed out my boarding pass, so I am ready to go through security. Suddenly, a problem - a new rule has come into place - even passengers who have checked in online have to physically go to the check in counter, show an ID and get the boarding pass stamped (oh how much we LOVE stamps in this country!). I refuse to go back. Luckilly, a Jet employee is hanging around, so he stamps my boarding pass after an incredulous look at my Indian driving licence. The girl who is searching me is so thrilled I speak Hindi that she continues chatting oblivious to the growing queue.


• I go in and start watching the news. India has fired a test missile. A VIP passes by, dressed all in black, with a mignion from the airline carrying his briefcase and newspapers.


• Boarding. Everyone is rushing as if they are going to miss the plane. Surprise! Another hand luggage screening at the boarding counter... Only for Delhi-bound passengers. Those going to Bangalore just go through... Bombs are only allowed to Bangalore today! I am tempted to make a joke, but remember that at American airports just mentioning the "b" word may land you in prison. So I keep quiet.


• Desperate paging for someone who has left their mobile phone at the security check.


• On the plane. Have a great seat but the lady next to me decides to partially drape me in her sari.


• The Jet crew have new awesomly handsome uniforms. Just as I admire them and mentally praise the finish, the material and colour, I notice the cheap transparent plastic buttons and the horrendous pumps (how do I even describe them?). Why invest in new uniforms and forgo the small last details?


• Have the best airplane nap ever!


• Arrive in Delhi. It's 6 in the evening and its 36 degrees C!!! At the moment we touch ground, people start flipping out their mobile phones, despite repeated requests from the crew not to. Dinner cooking instructions and "han ji"s start resounding. The crew gives up...


• On the bus, a member of the crew rushes in and asks passengers if anyone has mistakenly carried out someone else's laptop bag.


• Trying to get out of the bus, I am almost trampled by three netas (a word for politicians which I would like to think is derogatory) who abide by the rule "gentlemen first".


• Now the interesting part comes - trying to get a pre-paid cab. I first go to the government counter and I am quoted a ridiculous price (500 bucks to just drop me to Chanakyapuri). At my astonishment they answer "Then go to Easycabs" - which is basically their competition. I notice a new booth and go to enquire. A rerale decent Delhiite informs me that these cabs are very basic and don't have a radio, but it's my choice. I almost choose this company just for this guy's sake, but decide in favour of Easycabs. While there is a long queue at other counters, Easycab is empty. I ask them why. Thyey say it's because they are more expensive and have better cars. Tired, I just go for them.


• I get out of the airport and as usual am surrounded with touts offering hotel rooms and cabs. I finally find my cab and driver and get in. I explain where I am going and how exactly I want to be taken there. He gesticulates reassuringly and seems as if he has taken this route thousands of times. I am promptly taken by the wrong, longer way, of course. En route, he stops to put air in his tyres. And the car makes an incredible noise, as if the wheels are going to fly off at any moment. To reinforce the fact that it is an AC cab, the blast is to the maximum, and the deep freeze ironically adds to the fire of my anger. But fortunately, in this car, the seat belt is fully operational and I have the semblant of a feeling of security in Delhi's frenzied traffic.


• At the moment I reach the Embassy and crash on my mom's sofa with a sigh of relief, I get a call. A cheery voice: "Hello, M'am, I am calling from Indian Airlines!" (I am flying them on my return). A bad predicament creeps up my spine. "I am sorry to inform you that your flight has been delayed by 1 and half hours! But you can come to the airport right now and we can give you a booking on an earlier flight." COME BACK TO THE AIRPORT??? I try to keep my cool... And decide to just "f..." it and enjoy the evening.


• The reception goes well. I meet the honorary council of Bulgaria in Calcutta, and his son happens to be married to the daughter of my newspaper's chairman. That's India for you - one billion and still small like a village!


• Next day, I go to the airport and manage to get onto the 9 am flight. I am rushing to the gate, but a security guard directs me to another gate for "my class". At the other gate they send me back to the first gate. I run there and the guard tries to send em back to the other gate. I scream! And soon enough I am in the business class bus full of netas in white kurtis and lunghis. Of course, why should they fly economy if they have so much of public money??


• It's a 9 o'clock flight, but needless to say, we only fly out at 9.20...


• Finally back home. I love the first few minutes of being in Bombay - the faces, the manners, change completely. People mean business here and touches of coolness are everywhere. To confirm my feeling, a bright red Bentley with a huge sign "government of Karnataka" overtakes us. The driver is wearing huge silver rings depicting bones and skulls.

If you can't see this smile anymore, blame the system...

It was a shock to read about the man who drowned two of his daughters because they were a “shame” and a “burden”, since they were not “blessed” with a son. I know I am discussing an age-old issue and that probably I won’t say anything Indians don’t already know. It has been like that for thousands of years and it is going to remain like that? It is part of Indian culture to prefer sons. I have heard all that and tried to sink into comfortable apathy. I have grown to love India and made it my home… But each time I come across such story in the newspapers, I feel such a sinking despair, and so much doubt with my own judgment. How can this exist in the 21st century? Does this man realise that if it was not for a woman, he would never been born? And that he is married to one, for God’s sake! Or does he hold her in contempt every day of their life together? You might call me a naïve phirang and maybe this is what I am. A lot of people around us live in such unimaginable poverty, that I understand their despair – feeding 3 children (he had 3 daughters, one was spared as she was with her mother) and saving for three marriages, must have not been easy for him (why did he have three daughters to start with?????). But killing them?… You need complete lack of thought and logic not to understand that natural, or any evolution, is impossible without both sexes coexisting. That women are as important as men. But here I am stating the obvious!

I can’t help thinking that we, women, are somehow responsible for this. It is a woman who brings up the child, and if she instills in him that women are not a lesser species, something somewhere will rub off. And maybe this man will treat his wife, his daughters, his maid, the women he meets on the street and at work, with a little bit more respect. And maybe if we decide that we will never accept it, never sink in comfortable apathy, something sometime will start changing. I browsed the net and realized that many women have gotten their act together and started NGOs, resource centers, shelters, to support less fortunate women from men’s exploitation and violence. So I feel that if we, the fortunate ones, start spreading little doses of awareness, non-militantly, respectfully, so that we are understood, to our maids, drivers, by giving a little bit of our time, we might earn the right to protest and be appalled.

Beware, your dreams may come true!

Even in my wildest fantasies, I never imagined that after living in Paris, I would live in India… I didn’t know anything about it. Actually, in my mother tongue (Bulgarian) there is an expression “it’s India to me”, meaning “I don’t understand”. But I fell for a Sikh. And soon the Euros I was saving for a backpack trip around England materialised into a Paris-Bombay-Paris ticket. Then two more later… I was getting addicted to life in Bombay, Goa trance, rum & coke and cold coffee, the crows waking me up, drives in an open Gypsy on Marine Drive, lunches at Fountain Sizzlers. I imbibed the Bombay accent like a sponge, learnt to bargain like a pro, had a crush on Salmaan Khan and learnt to eat garam khana (with a tissue handy). Until one day it was just a one-way ticket.

Thus started my great firang experience. My husband’s jeeves welcomed me in the house with trepidation, but soon realised that I was clueless about the local ways, and sunk comfortably in his role of the boss, twitching with displeasure every time I entered the kitchen and watching over my shoulder every little thing I put in “baba’s” food (I had to significantly curb my creativity to fit his standards). The cleaning lady came in shyly, throwing curious glances at the strange new m’em sahib, who let her fake cleaning, sitting in a corner with her feet on the couch. Then in came my Hindi tutor, who, excited to have gotten her hands on such soft clay, proceeded to teach me with great enthusiasm how to pronounce “Mera pati parmeshwar hai” ("my husband is my god"). My driving school appointed the most handsome and perfumed instructor for me, who reassured me, with artistic gesticulations, “Madam, India – many people. You kill one, two? No problem!” And of course, I fell head first into every single tourist trap imaginable.

But I have to admit, my fascination in return was not less. And I almost miss it now, having acquired a significantly thicker skin and having learned to play the firang game to my full advantage. For example, if a policeman stops me for honking (in a country where survival depends on honking) in front of the Bombay Court, I can look at “uncle” with blue innocent eyes and pretend I don’t speak a word of Hindi. Until poor chap, frustrated of me not understanding that he simply wants a bribe, lets me go. Or when an exasperating repairman gives me an insane estimate, I just act dumb and say I need to call my husband (it works every time!). I revel the moments when I can give a full lecture in civic sense to an unsuspecting taxi driver, in Hindi of course (pathetic grammar though) and shout at him to watch the road and not turn around, giving me a surprised look. I now even reply to other newcomer’s puzzled questions “we are like this only!” Thus provoking even more puzzled glances from my Indian friends. Has the big adventure really turned into a comfort zone? I struggle to keep it alive, and search for a hint of the old me in the enthralled eyes of every foreign guest I give the grand Mumbai tour to. And just when I get desperate, Bombay makes sure to throw something or the other at me: It keeps me awake at night with the story of a little boy who ran 68 kilometers just to see this crazy city; makes me thank god for surviving another ride with my driver who thinks my red Alto is a red Ferrari; or makes me want to become a neuroscientist, just so that I can understand what’s going on in the brain of my carpenter who beams with pride every time he infallibly hangs a painting upside down. And keeps me longing for my daily dose of chaos whenever I travel abroad. I am far from having enough of it.