From Inseams to Insomnia

March 6-9

Still sporting Holi evidence on my finger and toe nails, and the remnants of the silver streak remain in my hair. Best holiday ever! I really think it needs to transfer to the US, maybe San Francisco could handle it in the Castro during Pride Month? Or the Folsom Street Fair?

Anyway- some interesting revelations/observations this week. Starting with the mundane, yet amusing: based on my informal observations, I’m convinced that approximately 15% of all Indian men (in Mumbai) lack the proper inseam pant length. In the words of Steve Martin and Dan Akroyd, “we were tight pants which give us big bulges.” Sometimes it just looks like there’s a segment of society still living in the 70s. It’s ever so quaint.

- Went to two movies, setting a new all-time personal record of visits to a movie theatre in such a period of time. The Departed was excellent (and made me kinda homesick for Boston- I got all excited at the line about Somerville in the beginning!), Last King of Scotland not as excellent (dreamy leading man with Scottish accent notwithstanding). In a movie theatre, it is as if one is transported out of India. I’ve heard that there are previews with varying types of religious or political propaganda (which may, in fact, be one and the same) in which people throw things at the screen when the deities of choice appear. I have yet to see this happen- maybe it’s more from the old school, and the theatres I’ve visited are newer multiplexes.

Bombay has a rich tradition of cinema houses, though, and I look forward to exploring them in the remainder of my time. I bet you can’t get doughnuts and soft serve ice cream at the indy houses, though. Hmmm, trade off. My friend Paul reports that there is Dunkin’ Doughnuts in Lahore, Pakistan. (www.levantine18.blogspot.com), and that makes me furiously jealous. Lahore gets the joy that is New England’s greatest export, and San Francisco can’t even handle it?! Someone should do something about that.

- As I’ve previously mentioned, we share the top floor of this office building with the Kala Ghoda Association, the folks who brought you the Surf Excel Times of India Kala Ghoda Festival (like that Simpsons episode: “Pepsi presents: AFRICA”). One of the gents who works in that office, Ram, often comes into ours, hangs out, chats, etc. He’s very good looking, well dressed, tall, carries himself well. Based on these entirely superficial qualities, I assumed he’s a professional the Association. It occurred to me that he barely ever speaks English (I’ve been practicing my meager beginnings of Hindi with him), as opposed to the rest of the office workers who speak in English more than Hindi (or Marathi, the language of Maharashtra state). Then this week our Office Boy, Raj, has been out, and suddenly Ram was the one bringing the afternoon chai. I commented to Benita that Ram’s tea is sweeter than Raj’s, and she responded that one of our trustees who also sits on their board is always complaining of the same. So I realized that in fact Ram is not a ‘professional’—he is the Kala Ghoda Association’s Office Boy, and this shocked me. Regardless of his level of education, he is essentially tied to this position for perpetuity. He just doesn’t look like an Office Boy, and it seems to upset the carefully guarded hierarchy here. I’ve been thinking of him as an equal, but now the hierarchy demands that I consider myself superior to him. Obviously this doesn’t sit well with me.

Ironic, isn’t it, that India is where so many people come looking for spiritual purity and enlightenment for personal improvement- including the elimination of judgment, and refusal of attachments. But in fact, the very foundation of Indian society relies on gradations of personal worth and material wealth. There is a built-in system of discrimination against the have-nots. Of course, in writing this I realize how not dissimilar this is to the US, or probably plenty of other places, but here it is screaming in your face all the time. Maybe another difference is that in the US, we all take part in the myth that regardless of your original station, with hard work and determination you can climb the ranks and live the American dream. Here, the climbing of ranks doesn’t happen during one’s lifetime. That myth of self-improvement is just beginning to take root in the rising middle class (thank you, globalization), but the roots of preserved inequality run deep. Ram is an Office Boy, and that’s how it goes. Wow. Don’t even get me started about the ramifications of this in what is supposed to be a socialist economy. Max Weber’s head would spin around the Subcontinental Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Hell, it makes my head spin. More on this as it is revealed to me, hopefully.

-Wednesday night as the train approached Santa Cruz station, I heard all sorts of loud popping explosions and could vaguely see smoke in the not-so-far distance. Somehow I knew this wasn’t some sort of violent uprising, but rather another crowd celebrating something represented by the color orange. (Orange, from saffron (or marigolds?), is a color associated with Hinduism, and has been largely appropriated by the fundamentalist Shiv Sena party.) And, in fact, there was a parade celebrating the birthdate of Chhatrapati Shivaji, a Maharashtrian hero. This parade was less extensive than the electoral victory version witnessed a few weeks ago, but still included incredibly bright lights hoisted onto trucks (Goods Carrier), drum lines, blaring Hindi music, and lots of people in orange, including a few people carrying Holi over, evidently. In addition, one truck pulled a float with characters commemorating the hero and some others- maybe his entourage, maybe a goddess? I honestly couldn’t tell if they were real people or mannequins- they kept incredibly still and had so much makeup on, under the lights they appeared plastic and inanimate. This Shivaji dude is remembered in all sorts of places- in the names of airports, museums, parks, et al, and is particularly celebrated by the Sena. He’s like the Shapiros at Brandeis… except, um, a warrior king.

Right in the middle of the market road, surrounded by shops, stalls, people, and vehicles, the marchers set off fireworks—hence the popping noises and smoke. I’m amazed that nothing caught on fire or blew up or anything- the explosions were as close as a few feet from people at certain points. It reminded me again of the sign in Delhi saying “no crackers.” In any case, I’m sure that events like these set off whole new rounds of pyromania in the young men of the neighborhood. I still don’t understand why the Sena parades in Santa Cruz, as the population is mostly Portuguese/Goan Catholic, or Gujarati, not hard core Maharashtrian Hindus. Like Shas in Israel, the Sena’s main support comes from the lower classes, and provides a tricky combination of human services and human intolerance. Maybe they are trying to flex some muscle just to prove the point. Shocker: few women hold leadership positions in the Sena, as opposed to the Congress party and numerous other groups here.

Looking forward to a chill weekend, starting with Shabbos dinner at Erin and Batya’s this evening. Perhaps my brain is overwhelmed by the continuous onslaught of new information to process, and can’t wind itself down… I’ve developed insomnia, and it’s not fun. Wish me luck getting past it.