Holi Purim!

March 2-4
Best weekend yet in Bombay! Friday night after work I went down to Colaba to do some street shopping. As if writing in my blog announcement email that I hadn’t made it into Bollywood yet were the magic words, I was scouted! Right on the street, just like it says in all the articles and guidebooks. All the hawkers and peddlers are always calling out to the pedestrians/shoppers, usually falling on deaf ears. But my friend Benji and I heard a male voice saying “excuse me,” which is a different opening line than the usual “Hallo madam you like shawl? Hallo sir you want sunglasses? Hallo madam I give good price for Indian shirts” etc etc. So we turned around after hearing those unusual words, to be followed by the magic words “Do you want to be in a Bollywood movie?” !!!! Without a moment’s pause I said “Yes! Desperately!” Unfortunately my Saturday morning Hindi lesson interfered with the shooting schedule he offered, but we exchanged info and hopefully my dreams will be realized very soon. I told Imran, the scout, that I wanted to be in a dance number. Props to Benji for talking up my Indian dance skills. :-)

Later Friday night I met up with a bunch of AIESIC expats at Rock Bottom, which is a pretty nice club but the DJ left much to be desired, and large cocktails were Rs. 400. That’s ridiculous considering the local cost scale- that’s over $9. Although, true, we got in for free. It’s amazing to me that clubs are willing to give up the cover charge just for the cache and prestige of having a bunch of whites and other foreigners in their space. How much money must they lose?! Going to clubs like this is such a difference from my American life. Here, in many ways, I live the high life.

So Saturday had my Hindi lesson, learned a few more verbs. In the afternoon I ventured farther down Linking Road until I reached the bazaar (shuk/market) with repeating stalls of women’s shirts, shoes, and bags, with copious map, handkerchief, earring, and tank top peddlers all mixed in. This place makes the Santa Cruz station road market look like its sleeping- so lively, bustling, competitive. I’ve never heard so many shopkeepers calling out to me- it honestly got to the point where I put my hands over my ears and just shouted “no!”. Twice I went into stalls where the shopkeeper took out tons of items to show me, and then I decided not to get anything after considering something. They thought this was a bargaining tactic and kept lowering the price for me, but truthfully I just didn’t want to buy the items, which was rather difficult to explain. I think it’s almost insulting to buy something so far under the authentic price, so I’m learning to be more discerning. Great things can be found on the street, but they are diamonds in the rough. More than ½ of what I bought doesn’t fit somehow or another.

The gender dynamics of retail are worth noting. In the bazaar, there are absolutely no women working. Men work and women shop. Even at more upscale shops in proper buildings with lights, a/c, etc, there are no women. So it’s a man who takes all of the measurements, takes out outfits to display, etc. Most of the stores and stalls just have tons of outfits stacked on shelves in cellophane bags, so you can’t see what’s there until the man pulls it up and unwraps the bag. In this way, I as a customer am entirely at the whim of the man. I can only see what he shows me. And the men think they know what will fit me, but even large sizes here don’t fit because evidently foreigners are huge beasts compared to the average Indian woman (although I certainly have seen women of all shapes and sizes, although definitely on average shorter than me). Anyway, especially in the bazaar they keep trying to sell me whatever size they happen to have, regardless of my insisting on needing a bigger size. This leads to a rather comical scene where I hold the shirt up to me and show them that it would be absurdly tight across the chest, which usually embarrasses them into submission. But yes, it takes such drastic measures. They are so insistent about making the sale, it’s admirable, albeit really frustrating. In any case, it feels like men dictate women’s appearance by controlling the supply of clothing options. It’s a gender monopoly. It’s a fashion cartel.

On a larger scale, the workforce is definitely dominated by men in much higher numbers than in the states. I get the impression that if women work, it is either as domestic servants on the low end of the socioeconomic scale, or in offices from the middle sector. Upper class women don’t work, but they may volunteer- as in the “aunties” on the UDRI board. Women are only occasionally seen in retail outlets, as in the Hutch mobile phone shop, or the Shopper’s Stop department store. On the street, the only women trying to sell things are beggars with some small quantity of fruit or fabrics or household item. And yet, India has had women in the top political posts for decades longer than the US. Befuddling.

So back to the bazaar- one of these map sellers approached me when I first came in, and asked if I’m Australian. I explained that I’m from the US, and said no thanks to the map and walked on. He followed behind at a close distance and said, “I am thinking you are movie star from America.” That was too good of a line for me to just ignore, so I let him catch up to me and then he started in about how he also is a masseur in Goa, and “I can give you massage madam. I will take you with me to Goa.” Right…. Sure. So I walked on, but kept on running into him as I made my way through the market. Each time his lines became more and more ridiculous, finally peaking:

Raj: “I think you are not liking me, madam.”

Me: “You will only think I like you if I buy your map.”

Raj: “No, madam, I am really liking you and you are breaking my heart.”

Me: “Oh really? Well why? Why do you like me?”

Raj: (flustered) “I like you, madam, because I love you.”

I knew it couldn’t get better than that so I finally made my exit from Raj’s pursuit, chuckling all the way. I love these conversations that can only take place here in India. “TII,” we’re starting to say. This is India. (like TIA- This is Africa in Blood Diamond.)

Finding the Tiferet Israel synagogue near Mahalaxmi station I felt like some sort of Jewish Sherlock Holmes, following clues until I reached the destination. This shule is much smaller and less ornate than my next door neighbor from work, and actually full of Indians. Amazing to see a room full of Indian men in kippot and tzitzit, and women with their hair covered with scarves or folded handkerchiefs. Erin and I pulled our dupattas over our heads- women covering their hair seems to bypass the married rule. I was surprised at the number of young men in the service- most people were elderly (including a woman with two thumbs on her left hand, I’m not kidding), only a few middle-aged people with young children, but then there were a bunch of young men, probably between 18-25. Apparently the majority of this community has emigrated to Israel, so there’s kinda a missing generational link. Maybe I'll meet a nice Jewish boy here and live out my Jewish-Orientalist fantasy forever. Ha. I'd love to bring Aunt Suzie (my father's brother's wife, from Kerala in South India- raised Christian and converted to Judaism when they were married) here and see what she thinks.

Again, there is a feeling of unfamiliarity and familiarity at once in trying to follow the service- some parts are familiar, but the specifics are not always. The crowd was much more restrained in responding to the reading of Haman’s name- they just pound their feet or clap. Erin and I sat with a bunch of little kids and created a louder booing section, much to the glee of the children and the amusement of the old men. Oy! These Indian toddlers are the most adorable little ones EVER. I seriously want to pack a few in my suitcase and keep them at home. Within minutes I had one of the girls I saw at the JCC Fancy Dress contest sitting on my lap, petting my hair, and kissing my cheek while repeating ‘thank you’ over and over again for no apparent reason. Adorable!

Services ended with the blessing of the moon. Observing this ritual in India somehow felt more authentic and historic than when I’ve done it before in the US- more rooted in the span of time, somehow. I’m still not entirely sure how and when Purim was introduced to this Bene Israel community, but I have a feeling I’ll be back and able to ask then.

On our way back to her place an older Indian man started talking to us, and we wished him Happy Holi. He said “I’m holy all the time.” How great is that?! Had my first real pizza in India at Erin’s afterwards- actually really good. A few other friends came over and we watched The Big Lebowski (sadly without white Russians to drink). This is my life in India- fighting my way through the bazaar, observing Purim with Indian Jews, meeting holy men on the street, eating pizza and watching a classic American film in a Maharashtran neighborhood. Wacky.

And even wackier- Holi! America really has to adopt this festival. I think San Francisco is uniquely suited to incorporate these customs into Pride, in particular. Sunday was the most pure, unadulterated, childish fun I’ve had in some time. Celebrating the arrival of spring with color, Holi is a festival where people party in the streets, smearing colored powder on each other, throwing water balloons, and indulging general giddy revelry. http://www.holifestival.org/. Trolling the streets looking for Holi action as a foursome of White westerners, we were greeted with extra special hospitality—both in the form of sweet food and drinks from adults, and major color attacks from kids. Luckily we were entirely game to play back, and we pelted balloons and smeared color with the best of them. In different neighborhoods people seemed to stick to one main color, as if there are colored areas like gang territory. In Erin’s neighborhood, the kids were all decked out in silver, which made them look undead and freakishly cool. Other areas were all red, or green, etc.

After playing in her neighborhood Robbie and I headed up to Andheri for a party at our friend Chris’s apartment complex (or as they say, housing society). That place really went all out, from an open bar and a long catered buffet to a makeshift water park with constantly spraying water that sometimes spouted paint instead. Apparently earlier in the day the bar included bhang, a form of cannabis that’s imbibed at festivals or for general spiritualism, I gather. Suffice it to say, there were lots of hammered people around, included a dishwasher boy who kept on falling over while doing the dishes. Eventually he passed out under the dish table, and pounding music and direct hose sprays couldn’t rouse him.

I’ll post pictures soon of the fun. Even after two scrubbing showers, I’ve still got hot pink dyed finger and toe nails, and lots of streaks of colors left on my body and in my hair- but the silver streak in my hair is awesome and I don’t want it to wash out. Today I got more looks than usual on the train and walking to work because of the Holi evidence. If there was any ever doubt before, now I am convinced that Indians most certainly know how to party.