These things we cannot change. We can only observe.
(Principal Dhatt of Landour Language School, regarding the oppressive place of women in Indian society.)
Some of my best friends are Muslims.
(Dr. in Dharamsala.)
That is a tall man, a very very tall man. Very tall, very blond.
(Stranger walking behind Nathan and I at the India International Trade Fair in Delhi, November 17, 2007.)
Is Canada a democracy?
(Rickshaw driver in Delhi)
Canada. Oh, Canada, Australia, right? Oh, I don’t know much about geography.
(Nurse at Max Specialty Hospital, November 22, 2007, just after she inserted an IV needle into my arm.)
John! John! Stop hitting him while the foreigners are here! Wait until they’re gone!
(Liquor store employee in Kahn Market, Delhi, about a man who had been caught stealing a bottle of whisky.)
Oh look. Foreigners just walked in here.
(Man at table in Britannia Restaurant in Mumbai.)
No honey. You’re not foreign. They are.
(Woman in Mumbai restaurant, pointing to the whitey couple at the next table.)
Where are you from? Oh, America and Canada. Good countries. I’m glad you’re not from Israel. Very bad country.
(Taxi driver in Mumbai.)
Monday, 31 December 2007
Favourite Signs, etc.
Please allow us to frisk you for your safety.
(On the screen at the PVT Saket movie theatre in Delhi during the previews of Leonardo di Caprio’s film The Eleventh Hour.)
Not suitable for children.
(On the label of a sugar free ice cream.)
Gluttony Restaurant
(The Library Mall, Mussoorie)
My husband forgot to use his contraceptive last night. What should I do?
(I-pill advertisement on Mumbai commuter train - I added the bold, but not the italics)
A huge billboard advertising cardamom (all over Kerala).
Poster inside auto-rickshaw in Trivandrum: Two toddlers, one boy and one girl, each wearing jeans and a baseball hat. Both are topless, and they are kissing, under the words “True Love is True Hearts.”
Badonis Shop – We Know What You Need Best
(Landour, Mussoorie)
(On the screen at the PVT Saket movie theatre in Delhi during the previews of Leonardo di Caprio’s film The Eleventh Hour.)
Not suitable for children.
(On the label of a sugar free ice cream.)
Gluttony Restaurant(The Library Mall, Mussoorie)
My husband forgot to use his contraceptive last night. What should I do?
(I-pill advertisement on Mumbai commuter train - I added the bold, but not the italics)
A huge billboard advertising cardamom (all over Kerala).
Poster inside auto-rickshaw in Trivandrum: Two toddlers, one boy and one girl, each wearing jeans and a baseball hat. Both are topless, and they are kissing, under the words “True Love is True Hearts.”
Badonis Shop – We Know What You Need Best(Landour, Mussoorie)
Best Things Seen on Modes of Transport
Two men and a goat on a motorcycle (outside Udaipur, Rajasthan).
Two men and a bicycle on a bicycle (on highway in Punjab).
Four goats in a basket on the back of a scooter (Trivandrum).
Nine mattresses on top of an auto-rickshaw, which was filled with pillows (Trivandrum).
About 25 flats of eggs and a man on a scooter (Trivandrum).
Two men and a bicycle on a bicycle (on highway in Punjab).
Four goats in a basket on the back of a scooter (Trivandrum).
Nine mattresses on top of an auto-rickshaw, which was filled with pillows (Trivandrum).
About 25 flats of eggs and a man on a scooter (Trivandrum).
Thursday, 27 December 2007
A real good rub-down
I finally made it to Kerala, and more importantly, I'm finally on vacation. I arrived here with my nasty chest cold still hanging on, so I figured I should take advantage of being in the birthplace of ayurveda and get some treatment. I went to see the doctor at Ayush Bhavan Ayurvedic Hospital in Thiruvananthapuram who gave me a mysterious collection of black tablets (which had to be CHEWED!) and brown liquids. Tasted horrific, but after 3 days of it I felt much much better. The more pleasant part of the treatment was a series of ayurvedic massages with specially prepared oils. These were unlike anything I have previously experienced. I went into the room with Aysha, the masseuse, and was told to strip naked. She then dressed me in what I can only describe as a loin cloth - a string around my waist with a strip of muslin hanging in the front, which Aysha pulled through my legs and tucked into the back of the string.* I sat down on a stool while she took some heated oil in her palms, seemed to pray over it, and then rubbed it into my scalp. Once the head massage was complete, I climbed onto a high, elaborately carved, wooden table. What felt like litres of warm, scented oils were poured onto me and rubbed over every part of my body (and do mean every part) in an intricate pattern. When I was finished, I had to be helped off the table because I was so slippery with oil.
What came next was perhaps the most memorable part. Aysha took me into the adjoining bathroom so I could wash off. This seemed reasonable; otherwise I probably would have broken bones just trying to get up the stairs, let alone home, because I was so slippery. What I hadn't realized, however, was that Aysha was going to bathe me. She dumped warm water over me, lathered up my hair, and soaped my whole body with her hands. She rinsed me well with buckets of warm water. It was a little awkward at first, but actually kind of nice. I guess this is part of the whole package. I couldn't relish it as much as I could have because I was trying so hard not to let any water get in my mouth and trying to keep the oil from running into my eyes. On top of that, all I could think about was the memory of walking through the Latin Quarter in New Orleans a few years ago and stumbling upon a "wash-your-own-girl" bar. I didn't go in to check that one out, but the idea kept coming back to me at the Ayur hospital. Somehow, though, I think I had the better experience of the two.
*On the second day, no loin cloth was offered. When I asked if she was going to put one on me, she flicked her hand and said "No" as if this was the most ridiculous thing I could have suggested.
What came next was perhaps the most memorable part. Aysha took me into the adjoining bathroom so I could wash off. This seemed reasonable; otherwise I probably would have broken bones just trying to get up the stairs, let alone home, because I was so slippery. What I hadn't realized, however, was that Aysha was going to bathe me. She dumped warm water over me, lathered up my hair, and soaped my whole body with her hands. She rinsed me well with buckets of warm water. It was a little awkward at first, but actually kind of nice. I guess this is part of the whole package. I couldn't relish it as much as I could have because I was trying so hard not to let any water get in my mouth and trying to keep the oil from running into my eyes. On top of that, all I could think about was the memory of walking through the Latin Quarter in New Orleans a few years ago and stumbling upon a "wash-your-own-girl" bar. I didn't go in to check that one out, but the idea kept coming back to me at the Ayur hospital. Somehow, though, I think I had the better experience of the two.
*On the second day, no loin cloth was offered. When I asked if she was going to put one on me, she flicked her hand and said "No" as if this was the most ridiculous thing I could have suggested.
Parsi Pulav
Mumbai is famous for its food, and although I was still sick and having trouble breathing, I wanted to get out and experience some of the local eats. So last Saturday, I dragged myself away from the comfort of the air conditioned hotel room and wandered the back streets well off the tourist track to find the Britannia Restaurant. I found this place thanks to my handy Rough Guide, which sometimes includes little gems not in the Lonely Planet (meaning they are not on the main backpacker trail). We were just about to give up when we saw this grubby sign with the painted letters nearly worn off. It looked more like a garage than a restaurant; the whole front was open, there was not much resembling décor, and it didn’t look like it had seen a paint brush since it opened in 1923. We were really hungry, and there wasn’t much sign of other options in the area, so we took our chances and went in.
The first sign we were in a good place was a voice from the table near the entrance saying “Hey look. Foreigners just walked in here!” Apparently this was a place known mainly to the locals. We sat down and an old Parsi man came to greet us. (Parsis are Zoroastrians who fled to India from Iran.) He had impeccable British English, and looked old enough to have been around during British rule. Nathan ordered something called a Chicken Sali, a chicken stew with crispy potato sticks, and I got the berry pulav – one of the dishes Britannia is famous for. It arrived and was FABULOUS. A mound of roasted vegetables buried in huge plate of perfectly cooked and sautéed rice was topped with crisp caramelized onions, cashews, and dried zereshk berries that are still directly imported from Iran. We were starving and in need of some really good soul food, and the Britannia didn’t disappoint.
The ambiance of the place was just as satisfying as the food. It was clearly a place that was all about the food and not at all about glitz or pretension. A bit dowdy, but clean. The napkins were printed with the outline of a chicken and the words “There is no greater love than the love of eating.” These were obviously my kind of people. The old man, who turned out (not surprisingly) to be the owner, kept coming by to make sure the food was ok. I was looking for something in my notebook when my food arrived, so I didn’t dive in right away. The old man, Mr. Kohinoor, promptly stopped me and told me to eat first and read later. His reputation was on the line if the food got cold and I didn’t like it! I thought I’d best listen to him, and he can rest assured that his reputation remains intact.
Dessert was in order, so Nathan got the caramel custard, another tasty Britannia specialty. I couldn’t resist the mishti dohi (literally: smoked curd), a Bengali delicacy that tastes a hell of a lot better than it sounds. It’s sweetened curd (yoghurt) made in a small earthen pot and smoked. You have to taste it to believe it. It’s hard to find outside of Bengal, but a friend in Delhi introduced me to it and thankfully showed me the best place in Delhi to get it. I now order it whenever I see it on the menu, which isn’t often enough. Anyway, Mr. Kohinoor seemed impressed that I knew what it was, and his mishti dohi was the best I’ve had.
Mr. Kohinoor kept stopping by for little chats, and often I was reading something when he did. Finally he came by the table, sat down, and said “You must be doing a PhD.” Just like that. To which I had to reply “Actually, yes I am.” He wanted to know where we were from, what we were doing in India, who we were. He told us the entire history of the restaurant, which was opened by his father who took out a 99-year lease on the place in 1923. He also answered my burning curiosity about Bombay Duck. I knew it wasn’t duck, but could never remember what exactly it was. They had it on the menu, so I asked. It’s a dish made of salted dried lizardfish that’s landed on the Bombay docks. He also told me – chuckling - about the American tourists who sometimes come, order Bombay duck, and then complain about the absence of duck on their plates. There was some discussion of the mysterious origins of why the fish is called duck, and a little more about politics and how he’d like to see some other leaders try to run a huge, relatively new country like India. In the end, he concluded that the world will be a whole lot better place when it’s run by women like me. I’m not so sure I’m the one to do it, but I think he might be on to something there.
The first sign we were in a good place was a voice from the table near the entrance saying “Hey look. Foreigners just walked in here!” Apparently this was a place known mainly to the locals. We sat down and an old Parsi man came to greet us. (Parsis are Zoroastrians who fled to India from Iran.) He had impeccable British English, and looked old enough to have been around during British rule. Nathan ordered something called a Chicken Sali, a chicken stew with crispy potato sticks, and I got the berry pulav – one of the dishes Britannia is famous for. It arrived and was FABULOUS. A mound of roasted vegetables buried in huge plate of perfectly cooked and sautéed rice was topped with crisp caramelized onions, cashews, and dried zereshk berries that are still directly imported from Iran. We were starving and in need of some really good soul food, and the Britannia didn’t disappoint.
The ambiance of the place was just as satisfying as the food. It was clearly a place that was all about the food and not at all about glitz or pretension. A bit dowdy, but clean. The napkins were printed with the outline of a chicken and the words “There is no greater love than the love of eating.” These were obviously my kind of people. The old man, who turned out (not surprisingly) to be the owner, kept coming by to make sure the food was ok. I was looking for something in my notebook when my food arrived, so I didn’t dive in right away. The old man, Mr. Kohinoor, promptly stopped me and told me to eat first and read later. His reputation was on the line if the food got cold and I didn’t like it! I thought I’d best listen to him, and he can rest assured that his reputation remains intact.Dessert was in order, so Nathan got the caramel custard, another tasty Britannia specialty. I couldn’t resist the mishti dohi (literally: smoked curd), a Bengali delicacy that tastes a hell of a lot better than it sounds. It’s sweetened curd (yoghurt) made in a small earthen pot and smoked. You have to taste it to believe it. It’s hard to find outside of Bengal, but a friend in Delhi introduced me to it and thankfully showed me the best place in Delhi to get it. I now order it whenever I see it on the menu, which isn’t often enough. Anyway, Mr. Kohinoor seemed impressed that I knew what it was, and his mishti dohi was the best I’ve had.
Mr. Kohinoor kept stopping by for little chats, and often I was reading something when he did. Finally he came by the table, sat down, and said “You must be doing a PhD.” Just like that. To which I had to reply “Actually, yes I am.” He wanted to know where we were from, what we were doing in India, who we were. He told us the entire history of the restaurant, which was opened by his father who took out a 99-year lease on the place in 1923. He also answered my burning curiosity about Bombay Duck. I knew it wasn’t duck, but could never remember what exactly it was. They had it on the menu, so I asked. It’s a dish made of salted dried lizardfish that’s landed on the Bombay docks. He also told me – chuckling - about the American tourists who sometimes come, order Bombay duck, and then complain about the absence of duck on their plates. There was some discussion of the mysterious origins of why the fish is called duck, and a little more about politics and how he’d like to see some other leaders try to run a huge, relatively new country like India. In the end, he concluded that the world will be a whole lot better place when it’s run by women like me. I’m not so sure I’m the one to do it, but I think he might be on to something there.
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