Indo-Western fusion

These pics of Nicole Richie have popped up on the Interwebs (here and here and here too) -- and though they don't really explain why she's holding a keyboard double the size of her body or wearing a salwar kameez, I'm intrigued.

Is this part of a publicity stunt? Is it a costume or is Richie trying to start a new trend? Will the "Punjabi dress" -- apparently so popular among travelers to the subcontinent that leering touts find a mere whisper of the phrase brings firangs calling -- make its way into the American cultural conscience?

I started thinking it would make a lot of sense once it became fashionable to wear dresses over jeans or slim black cigarette pants -- not such a far cry from the kurti combos so fashionable in India's metros.

Then again...grain of salt. Most of the sites commenting upon Richie's sartorial style said she was wearing a sari.

(Bonus points: Another gossip blog has pics of Aishwarya at Cannes. There's a fever for Indian fash!)

Trousseau shopping

So, S and I decided we want to have a traditional engagement ceremony before his parents move to the States, which has thrilled mum-in-law-to-be to no end. And, though we don't plan on having the celebration until September, we're already talking clothes, food, magnitude of event.

Yesterday, S and I hit South Ex to start checking things out. The big question now is, Indian wear or Western wear? We examined Deepson's and Benetton, designer duds by Rina Dhaka and company, and weighed them against more understated basics from ColorPlus. I secretly covet Indian designs, but I know how out of place white women can look in them, all elbows and sucked in stomach and pallid countenance. Usually I hate fripperies like this, but there's something oddly satisfying about being such a base consumer, caring not about price tags (thanks, fam-to-be!) but about the impression my magnificent rags will have upon the extended Punjabi family I am about to enter.

But after tromping through the stores, fingering fine silks and ostentatious organzas, S and I were still noncommittal; and I can hardly fathom spending hundreds of dollars on a garish get up I'll wear only once before consigning, sheathed in plastic, to the upper reaches of my cupboard. So he turned to me: "Fab India?"

It's hardly the "Rs 13,000 to an obscene amount that cannot be mentioned" Times of India's wedding supplement suggests today, but it's honest. It's comfortable. It's simple and understated and yet it's fabulous; "sequins and hand embroidery and lots of lace and net" be damned.

I'm not so sure about that...

In the May 31, 2006, issue of Delhi City Limits, Hirsh Sawhney writes:

"Why move to Delhi from abroad?...us firangis -- NGO workers, diplomats, corporates, NRIs, zealots, spiritualists and writers -- come because we can impose ourselves on the Capital, much like our colonial predecessors. Our presence here is transient, and our integration tenuous. We live out fantasies of philanthropy, celebrity or religion while enjoying servants, cheap rent and obsequiousness. This type of behaviour wouldn't be tolerated in London or New York" ("Cheap Thrills," p. 7)

I'm not sure if I could disagree any more with Sawhney's assessment.

One: I am of the mind that you can't really generalize about anything, so immediately I am wary of the claims. I don't understand why this couldn't have been written as a narrative, without pulling me and hundreds of other individuals into it.

Two: Not all of us plan on being transient. Not all of us want to avoid integrating. Some of us have moved here because...well, because we're not seeking anything. I for one aim only to absorb what is going on around me. To live as a person in Delhi lives (which, admittedly, is difficult because I make more than 98% of people in the city and I live in a posh flat and have an air conditioner and can afford to eat out frequently, etc.). But, nonetheless, I am trying my best to be respectful, to fit in while, simultaneously, consciously attempting to avoid an unnecessary, artificial imposition of my Americanness upon an environment that is not my own.

Three: While you may have gotten me on the cheap rent part...really, not everyone likes having servants. S and I employ a woman to wash our clothes, as we can't afford a washer/dryer, but it's a strained relationship. I, fundamentally, am uncomfortable with a strange woman touching my soiled underthings. And I think most Americans -- particularly those who have any recollection of, say, U.S. (and world) history pre-1960s -- are more than a little uncomfortable with the division between servant and served, employment and exploitation.

Four: New York wouldn't accomodate transients? The city demands everyone to be a native? Have you ever BEEN to New York? Read a book about New York? Heard of Ellis Island?

Five: Colonial predecessors? Do you really want to go there?

Oh, did I forget to mention?

I fell down a flight of stairs this morning, a la an event two years ago that cemented my determination to return to India.

My back is bruised and I can't straighten my left arm. Life is a circle.

Life's like an hourglass glued to the table...just breathe

I'll admit it: I've been Depressed. With a capital "D" because...because it hasn't been this bad in years. And there is no good reason for it to be this bad; it's a moment that frightens me a good deal. Despite my faith in science and neurology and medicine and progress, it all comes back. Haunting nightmares. You can't jump the track with nine cars on the cable.

Music Video Code provided by MySpace Video Code

I present you Anna Nalick, because listening to this song calms me a bit, at the very least.

"There's a light at the end of this tunnel, you shout, because you're just as far in as you've ever been out...and these mistakes you make, you'll just make them again."

S told me he's going to Nepal next week; I've been checking fares. There is a good chance I'll fly to Kathmandu on a whim, because...I am itching in my skin. Change is essential. And Delhi is a home I can return to.

The woman in me

I was looking back at old entries, and suddenly realized that I don't ever seem to write about my personal life. I pontificate on the media and odd travails, I snag talking points from other blogs, but I rarely reflect on...on what I'm feeling.

I've been told I can be a little cold and aloof, which I've always attributed to my predisposition toward polarities -- black or white, all or nothing. Living here has confounded me. Black is white, all is nothing, and I can oppose any argument I formulate with an anecdote from my three-block walk home from the point at which the company car drops me.

I'm beginning to adjust to the heat; it rained during the night and the air is clear, which makes the city a little more bearable. I haven't slept for more than a few hours at a stretch in the past few days, and the unsettled aggravation that has come over me is confounding. I love my job and feel as if I am making a measurable contribution to MNC; I love coming home to my little kittens, my naughty noodles; I love lazing around in my flat and reading newspapers and reading in bed while S reads beside me.

So now I've babbled on and on, and I still can't reveal much beyond platitudes about how great things are. You think writing is your passion, and then words fail you. And THEN where do you go?

The world's oldest profession

Prostitution, which is legal in Jammu and Kashmir (but not in any other Indian state), is about to be abolished, according to a front page story from the Indian Express.

All very interesting, yes, but the best part? The paper's citation of the legal definition of a prostitute (the law was enacted in 1921): "The rules define a public prostitute as 'a woman who earns her livelihood by offering her person to lewdness for hire.'"

Hee.

Also -- and a private prostitute is...a woman?

Why copy editors must pay attention to page design, reason no. 621

From The Hindu MetroPlus, Delhi, Saturday, May 13, 2006, in a story headlined "Down the tequila!" (an advertorial, more or less, about the introduction of Sauza tequila at a bar in Connaught Place):

"...some mouth-watering cock-"

This is one line of the story. Granted, most people read entire stories, but if you're someone who is alert to things like line breaks, etc., this stops you in your tracks.

(The sentence is, "It's a bartender's delight to play with Sauza tequila and create some mouth-watering cocktails"; it is split over three lines and the person who copy edited it is either a) very dirty or b) incredibly dense.)

Thoughts while pooping

Seriously. Every time I go into the bathroom to make some business transactions, the toilet roll is specially folded. They may not pay me the big bucks, but boy -- MNC cares.

We hate jaundice!

Oh, advertising in Indian newspapers? New lows.

Hippos have never been, um, cool. Not even when they're, like, funky 3-D hippos with sunglassess (presumably from Ray Ban) and headphones.

Although I applaud the social justice stance adopted by a sprawling, ridiculously profitable pharmaco...no. Just no.

And, a side note...what about hep C?

Current craving

Bhel puri.

I could eat it all day right now. My appetite varies by the season, and I'm a habitual eater -- sometimes I'll eat nothing but yogurt for a week, then I'll eat nothing but mangoes for a month, before finally deciding that it's really it's peanut butter and honey sandwiches that will sate me.

Because I'm too wary of street vendors (and S would kill me if I got dysentery just to get a taste of delicious, gritty snackies from men with bells and grotty carts), I have improvised a home recipe. Yum.

1 teaspoon imli chutney, diluted with water
Two handfuls (my-sized hands) puffed rice
1/2 handful raw chana
1/4 handful raw small, black chana (I totally don't know the name)
1 handful peanuts
1/2 small red onion
1/2 diced tomato
1/2 lemon
1/2 green chili

Take a spoon and stir, then eat. Preferably while laying in front of the AC and dreaming of actually being able to have an evening snack in the sultry winds of a Delhi afternoon.

"Mallika I Hate You" is a love song?

The radio jockeys twitter about in Hindi, clearly excited about the upcoming track. It starts off with "traditional" sound (i.e., tricksy reedy noodling), then launches into canned techno that makes me want to stand under a disco ball, clad only in shiny spandex, and repeatedly nod my head to the left side, reminiscent of that crappy SNL sketch with Chris Kattan and Will Ferrell that was eventually turned into a movie.

Every so often, a woman's voice breaks in: "Just kidding, yaar! In your dreams!"

Then the singer launches nasally: "Mallika, I hate you I hate you...Mallika I hate you I hate you..." The voice drops an octave, the verbal embodiment of the men in Chandni Chowk who love to give my breasts a squeak when the crowds swell to overwhelming proportions, "but I wanna touch you, I wanna touch you."

Download as ring tone (incredibly annoying, mono) or head here for an MP3/wav/whatever. Click on the box to the left of the first track listing, then hit the button that says "Play selected." After a short ad, the song will play. And it's definitely worth it.

Basically, this whole song squicks me out (ummm, yeah -- is it really necessary to spew such vitriol about women and then say it's about loooooove?), but it is an interesting listen. If only it wasn't hitting the Hindi radio stations -- a favorite of MNC chauffeurs, played constantly and loud -- so hard during rush hour.

(P.S.: Mallika Sherawat is a Bollywood "star" most famed for her large breasts and ample hips; if you're American, you might have seen her for, like, five seconds in a recent Jackie Chan movie.)

By popular demand...

Everyone keeps sending me links to this, so I suppose it's my duty to make some comment here.

Yes, it's the infamous Indian traffic. But watching it? Wasn't so impressed. Where are the zipping buggy rickshaws? Where are the cows lazily meandering down National Highway 8?

I suppose about three hours in the traffic every day inures one to its sheer chaos, and perhaps I should shoot video of my daily commute. But once you've seen several accidents, watched a man on a rickety bike get plowed over with nary a driver batting an eye, and sitting through no fewer than five fender-benders (so routine they didn't cause the driver even to pull over and inspect), people hanging U-ies are no longer so appalling.

Tear it down

Yahoo! India: Over 80 boundary walls of residential buildings in Defence Colony were pulled down today as part of MCD’s drive against illegal walls in the Capital. A total of 300 houses have been affected in the drive so far.

According to the MCD, the boundary walls of many Defence Colony houses encroached on the municipal land and public roads. ...

Brigadier VK Dandekar, a resident, said, “My wall is well within the permitted area... but they still destroyed the wall. They were not even willing to look over the official plans, and now they are asking me to pay Rs 7000 as demolition charges.”

An MCD official said, “Though the MCD is taking action based on visible evidence only, and do not measure the plots, there is little room for error. These people break the laws themselves and then blame us.”

They destroyed my landlord's wall this week; see the picture, taken from my balcony, of what is left of the front yard. Dr K is in blue.

Although I do agree that there are a lot of illegal constructions in Delhi, and took a great deal of pleasure in watching fashion designers beat their breasts as their MG Road malls were razed, this effort seems so arbitrary. Dr K has already rebuilt his wall, and it's...about a foot from the previous location. The detritus of the former bound now clogs the nalli, the protection of which was the ostensible reason for the drive.

Some things feel so futile here; break down, rebuild, break down, rebuild. Life's like that, I guess.

No more ovaries...and feelin' fine!

Adventures in interior decor

A Nagarjuna (we assume) mask S bought in Nepal while he was shooting.

It's old and the person S bought it from would only say, "from hills! Old from hills!", probably because S didn't speak Nepali and the proprietor didn't speak Hindi or Punjabi.

And...I love Samuel L. Jackson, so I thought it was only appropriate for my snake-themed mask to advertise his new snake-themed movie (I love the internets).

This post is dedicated to Ms. Melanie Bostwick, esquire

'Dead' baby returns (5/7/06, Times of India, Delhi edition, p 5)

'Dead' baby alive: Probe underway (5/7/06, The Indian Express, Delhi newsline, p 4)

'Dead' baby cries just before burial (5/5/06, Times of India)

Father finds 'dead' baby alive (5/5/06, The Indian Express)

An interesting story, but I was expecting more zombies and eating of the flesh. You've let me down again, media!

And, one for the road --

Q: What's more fun than stapling dead babies to the wall?
A: Ripping them off again

(Also, I know dead baby jokes are sick and these are real people and whatnot, but...irreverence. It's the new black.)

I'm singin' hot hot hot!

Dude, I can't go on like this much longer!

Yesterday = 113 degrees Fahrenheit, the hottest in Delhi in five years. Which would be okay if it was an isolated event, but...this is the beginning. Five more months of this.

Yaar.

Reading: A Fine Balance, Rohinton Mistry -- a welcome change; excellent narrative, minus the overdone, mind-bogglingly high-minded language of my latest selections

Listening to: Indie Pop Rocks! on iTunes radio, courtesy SomaFM

Cooking: Beans Paruppu Poriyal

Thinking about: Immigration

Approaching: My 23rd half-birthday

Hail to alma mater...

Inspired Colbert speech at the White House Correspondents' Dinner, which the press didn't find entirely hilarious. I, however, am proud to be an alumnus of the same grand institution from which Colbert also hails. Very, very astutely criticizes the press for drinking the President's Kool Aid for five years and is, um, entertaining in its complete mockery of the Beltway circus.

And, something that might as well be taught in the hallowed halls of Fisk (or is McTrib the more appropriate venue now?):

"Let's review the rules, here's how it works. The president makes decisions, he's the decider; the press secretary announces those decisions, and you people of the press type those decisions down. Make, announce, type, just put 'em through a spell check and go home."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcIRXur61II
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HN0INDOkFuo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rJvar7BKwvQ