Blogger Disappearing Act…

So here I am. Been blogging since July 2007, and for the first time ever…it’s time to step away.

Not step away for “good”, but for a while.

This inevitable decision was caused by the following things:

-Seven weeks remain until my sister’s wedding, but with family flying in before the big occasion (and three full days of events prior-to), let’s call it six weeks shall we?  This wedding means it’s time to have a lot more sessions at the gym, which means far less discretionary time in the evening.  And the other big thing is that I’m pouring any word count that I DO have left into a novel, the one that is based on my blog from 2008 (Year of the Chick…remember that?).

So it’s time for a bit of a break.  I’ll miss hanging around but I’ll try to come and visit all your blogs when I can.

And what about you? Will you be able to survive my absence?

I’m pretty sure YES, and when I do return sometime in July, it might be the perfect time, to describe what was certainly a big fat Indian wedding.

Until then, have a samosa for me won’t you?

Farewell ’til we meet again,

Voyage to India: Sunsets in Bombay…

As the sun began to set on our five-week vacation to India, it was time for some excitement in Bombay (it was still called “Bombay” in 1995, so that’s what we’re sticking with).

Our cousins lived in Delhi, so we dropped in for a visit on the way to the airport. It was my cousin’s birthday that day, which meant a cake had been arranged, along with a plethora of Indian sweets.

I quickly discovered that the cake was neither moist nor decadent as cakes should be, so I turned my attention to the gulab jamuns. After twenty minutes of behaviour that I cannot recall, I’d supposedly eaten five or six of them. For those of you who don’t know a lot about gulab jamuns, let’s just say: sugary syrup, milk solids, double cream, and they’re fried.

It was a bad idea but I hadn’t eaten lunch.

My bad idea followed me to the driveway as we said goodbye to make our way to the airport.  Seconds later, my bad idea unleashed itself in a three-foot radius covering half of the driveway. It was my greatest performance of projectile vomit to-date.

I vomited again when we arrived at the airport, and once more when I found the nearest bathroom. About a half an hour later we discovered that our flight would be delayed until the following morning.

As the news set in to the weary travelers, we found ourselves a spot on the floor that we could sleep on.

In the next few hours I puked five or six more times.  At last I was sent to the airport “doctor”, who had set up his practice beyond a bunch of darkened corridors, in what looked to be a glorified closet. He didn’t say much, but approached me with a big-ass smile and an even bigger needle.

By the time I returned our flight had moved ahead a couple of hours. It was time to go.

So that flight to Bombay…hmm. It was ninety minutes, and that’s all I really know, since I spent the ninety minutes passed out and drooling on my sister’s shoulder.  I think I still owe her for that one.

With my body weakened and my belly fragile, I took in what I could of the bustling city. Bombay offered the first I’d seen of beaches and ocean waves. Now THIS was a vacation.

For our first afternoon we squeezed our way through a crowded bazaar, realizing very quickly that Bombay was indeed a “tourist” spot. In other words everything was over-priced, times ten. For example, where you’d normally buy any clothes and shoes for a fraction of the price that you’d see in North America, everything here was…equal. The audacity.

For some odd reason I found myself entranced by a shoe store. I couldn’t explain the feeling at the time, but something about the modern look of the store, and its contrast to everything else that felt traditional was intriguing. It also had all the latest “Western” styles of boots and shoes. Could it be that I was feeling homesick?

My parents decided to enter the store and try to find some shoes for my dad. Knowing right away from the product selection and the rude-looking staff that the place was over-priced, I cringed in preparation for my parents to make a scene.

“How much are these shoes?” asked my dad.

“Two thousand rupees”

“Two thousand rupees?!?! I could go back home and buy three pair of shoes at a price like that!” he lied.

Awkward silence, sales staff rolling their eyes. Sigh.

Once we had firmly established our middle-class lot in life, we stuck to the food stalls and stuffed our hungry faces as the sun began to set. Everyone except for ME, that is. I was stuck with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, except there wasn’t any chicken or a single noodle. Just a bowl of hot yellow water, salted to the extreme. Nice try, India.

The following day was much of the same, but in our last evening  in Bombay, we hit the beaches.

Now don’t get confused with your typical concept of hitting the beaches. This means something very different for an Indian family of twelve. For me it meant a bright red t-shirt tucked into my jeans, with sandaled feet so I could get a little wild and feel the sand. So wild.

I had come to this place for an adventure, so when I saw the big white horse and the man with the sign saying  “Forty Rupees”, I wanted in.

Forty rupees later I was striding across the beach atop this beautiful steed. I looked like those chicks on the romance novel covers, minus the shred of silk that was supposed to be a dress (and plus  a red t-shirt and a pair of jeans).  For forty rupees I was allocated two whole laps across the beach. It lasted five minutes and I felt like a girl who’d been finally released of her over-protective life. This feeling only lasted as long as I didn’t look down, since the horse was on a leash with its master on the other end, running along to keep up.

A horse on leash? Yes. But it was Bombay baby, and at last I had my very own Indian adventure…

[This concludes my back-track of my family's trip to India, circa 1995.  I visited India once again in 2006.  I will post about that trip at a later time, since it involved a whole different set of recollections, mostly surrounding: perverts, the Dalai Lama, propositions, gold, a magnificent look at textiles, and being followed by more perverts in an air-conditioned mall. And of course, here's the very first post on the Voyage to India, if you feel like starting from the top...]

Voyage To India: Mystery Burgers and Stainless Steel

With less than two weeks to go in India, it was time for us to pack in the tourism. But before we arrived in Bombay or drove up high into the mountains, we had some smaller bits to deal with first.  This involved a day full of shopping in the city of Chandigarh, which in 1995 was the leader in variety of shops, quality of living and modern eats.

The drive to Chandigarh took a full three hours from where we were staying. This threw a little wrench in my mom’s excited plans to run through the shops in a state of immediate ecstasy. No mother. Food would have to come first.

For three and a half weeks, we’d been filling up our bellies with more Indian food than you could ever imagine. Or maybe you can imagine it, if you picture three weeks of a constant buffet. It sounds like a dream, but back then we were kids and we wanted some damn fast food.

In an age before India was ripe with McDonald’s, KFC and Pizza Hut, we still found a place that could meet our needs.  I wish I could remember the name of the place, and I doubt if it’s still in existence, but to us it simply seemed like McDonald’s: The Indian Edition.

My ten-year old brother immediately ordered the signature burger, which he must’ve been craving for weeks. At the time no one  thought to remind him that cows are sacred in India, and that Indian “burgers” aren’t made of beef. But anyway I’ll get to that later…

A few minutes later the family was scarfing down some chicken burgers, while my brother sat still with the oddest little look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” asked my mother.

“This hamburger tastes really weird. It’s all rubbery,” he replied.

“Well of course it’s going to taste different. It’s made out of mutton.”

“WHAT? What is that?” asked my brother with a greenish face.

“It’s like lamb. But it’s from a sheep that’s much more mature. So it’s called mutton.”

Our family had never eaten lamb. Or sheep of any kind. For this reason, I couldn’t decide why my parents hadn’t urged him to go with the chicken option. Maybe they wanted him to have a little food adventure.

If that was the case it was mission accomplished, since he puked all over his plate. Ha. Live ‘n learn kid.

My brother refused to eat another bite from that fast food place, but as we walked across the square to all the shops, we spotted a soft-serve ice cream stand. For this my brother was immediately ready to partake. I decided to have one too, not realizing though that homeless Indian kids have a strong nose for icy treats. In fact the second we had our cones we were ambushed, with the saddest faces and loudest wails I’d ever heard. I was literally being pushed by little children as they clawed for my yummy ice cream.  My current self would’ve felt really bad for the kids. But then I was a grungy teen, and only seconds away from smacking up those little brats.

My dad got them off our scent when he tossed a bunch of rupees in the other direction. They went after them like hungry pigeons.  I don’t mean to compare India’s homeless to hungry pigeons, but I’m simply playing back the memory from age fourteen. Ahem.

From the ice cream stand we strolled into the Indian shop. I couldn’t really place what sort of shop it was, except that it carried almost everything. Home decorations, trinkets, cassettes, and lots and lots of kitchen gadgets. It was my mom’s little heaven, and already she’d picked up twenty different items made of stainless steel. By the way, what is with Indians and stainless steel products? They love that stuff, but I’m not sure why. Is is superior performance? Durability? I’m not too sure…

As my dad took his spot by the Indian cassettes, us children roamed around with nothing to do. For me that is always a bad thing, since “nothing to do” tends to spring my bowels into action. This time I was hopping to and fro in the kitchen gadget aisle, trying to discourage whatever was pushing through. It was my scariest moment of the trip. Like what do you do if you poop in our pants when you’re a teenager?

At last my dad turned around and he saw rocking back and forth in the corner, with my face now dripping with sweat. Since my mom was still all drugged by the stainless steel, my dad walked me back to the fast food place for a poop.

Phew.

As the sun began to set on our food and shopping day, my parents took the driver to a nearby village. I had no idea why we were there, until I overheard my parents utter “fortune teller”. Huh?

They didn’t confirm or deny, but they told us to wait in the van.

This waiting turned out to be an hour and a half of siblings in violent heat. We  yelled, smacked and punched each other out in our upper arms (faces were off limits). We took a little break in between to eat some melted Oh Henry! chocolate bars, but after it was back to the fighting.

It was nightfall by the time my parents returned, and they didn’t say a word about the fortune teller. How mysterious. I did however catch both my mother and father shooting me suspicious looks from the review mirror.

So what on earth did that fortune teller say in 1995? And did any of it come true? Hmm…I never did find out, but the trip continues…

[This post was another in the series of my first family trip to India in '95.  Here is the first installment]

Voyage to India: Taj Mahal

In my last post the primary reason for our five-week trip had settled itself, since my uncle had gone ahead and married a woman he’d met only three days earlier.

This left us with some time to ramp up the activities.

First on the list was the Taj Mahal, which was a four or five hour train-ride from where we were.  Whenever I see depictions of Indian trains on television, I’m overwhelmed with the images of locals stuffed into grimy cars with limbs sticking out from every window, and tourists being sandwiched in between (and groped).  These trains do exist, but little do you see of the roomy train cars with comfy blue bench seating, and not to mention all the loads of leg room.  To think that this could all be yours for just a couple hundred rupees (i.e. ten dollars) extra! So there’s your lesson for today, don’t believe everything you see on TV.

Once we arrived at the looming outer structure of this totally epic edifice, we were asked to remove our shoes by the outer entrance. Unlike our visit to the Golden Temple though, here the shoes were scattered everywhere.  Which of course means that Slumdog Millionaire wasn’t lying: some hood-rats might just come along and steal your shoes!

Luckily for us our family’s shoes were nothing to admire in 1995, as none of us owned Reebok Pumps or fancy Doc Martens of any kind.

One of the most amazing Taj Mahal moments was turning the corner from the outer entrance and the gift shop. In that very moment we saw it: it was the Taj Mahal in perfect symmetry, with beautiful gardens at its front, and a backdrop of an azure sky.

Things became even more amazing as we got up close.  I was literally standing right in front of the very marble walls that had been built by Shah Jahan, as a tomb in the  memory of his wife Mumtaz Mahal.  At first I had that frightened museum look on my face: am I allowed to touch this? I looked around and everyone else was groping the walls with a sense of wonder. So I did too.  That’s right folks, I touched it. Wow.

The fun wasn’t even over yet, as we actually got to inside the tomb, hell ya! (I didn’t say “hell ya” out loud, but I was damn excited).  Walking inside was the eeriest feeling.  It was dimly lit, and when you looked up above the domed ceiling caught your eye with its beautiful designs.  I could not imagine being put to work on such a massive edifice. In fact it had taken almost twenty years to complete the Taj Mahal, which tells  you it is not so easy to carve all these intricate (and symmetrical) designs into marble, and then add colour to them too!

Back to the eerie part, we were standing in front of two very large and impressive sarcophagi.  Again we saw the intricate marble designs, though they were slightly obscured by all the flowers.  This activity of tossing flowers onto the coffins was a popular one for tourists. I could imagine the excitement, because  although these weren’t the actual coffins with the bodies inside, I spotted a grate in the floor right below them.  It was in that lower level that their real graves sat.  And so the tourists were allowed to to take an orange flower and toss it onto one of the coffins.  It was said that if your flower landed on a coffin and stayed there, you’d experience great prosperity.  My flower fell off the side of Mumtaz Mahal’s coffin.  Shit.

As we exited the tomb feeling totally exhilarated and a little creeped out, I started to notice something.   All of the people that “looked” like tourists (i.e. white-skinned folk, folks with modern clothing, myself with my modern hair and awesomeness) had been ushered inside for the special tour.  The only cost had been a tip to the tour guide. All of the ones that looked like locals or borderline beggars were kept at a distance, never allowed to come too close to the tomb.  I suppose they didn’t represent enough potential on the “tip” front.  I’m not sure if continues to be that way today, but then it was a notable divide.

By late afternoon we hopped back on to the comfy train and traveled home, with the glow of sunset as our guide.  All the while my heart danced away at the thought of having seen, touched, and smelled all the history.  This was about the time that I officially became obsessed with nerdy things like history and art and books ‘n stuff.

Go me!

Alright then, more India entries to come (and yes, it looks this will carry over into May. I suppose I have more memories than I even knew about…)

[This post is another in the series of my first family trip to India in '95.  Here is the next installment]

Voyage to India: And a Bride is Bought!

Beyond tourism, a pilgrimage and good old fashioned “family time”, one of the biggest reasons for our trip was to find my uncle a wife.  Naively, I thought this process would include a variety of meetings, an eventual decision, and perhaps a wedding in the following year.   But this is India remember?  A country far more capable of churning out “arrangements” in record time…

***

…Two weeks into our trip, my (native) uncle’s house was abuzz with excitement.  It was like wedding-planning on speed.

“But who’s uncle marrying?”, I inquired.

“We don’t know yet, but we’ve almost made a decision,” replied my mom.

So a wedding was being planned with only half of a couple? This sounded vaguely familiar, if only for the way obsessive girls in North America plan out every detail by the age of twelve.  Beyond that though I was baffled.

My mom followed up with the photographic evidence: “It’s between these two, we’ll be seeing them one more time tomorrow.”

I studied the small crinkled photographs, with the frightened-looking women staring back.  They both looked fairly average I suppose, with one photographed from further away to highlight a skinny body, and the other with a closed-in shot to distract from a plumper figure.  My uncle himself was nothing more than average either, with his moustache and normal-looking features.  But of course his appearance was of zero-consequence, since the woman is forever the lucky one (happy to be chosen, thank you for the invite).

With the homestead chaos carrying on ’till well after 2am, I closed my eyes with confusing thoughts…would I grow up with an arranged-marriage future too?…

…The following day at approximately 3pm, the iron gate creaked opened and the van zoomed in, kicking up dirt and grinding to a halt by the cow that was chained to the tree.  Out marched the five of them: my parents, my grandmother, native-uncle, and bachelor-uncle.

My cousins ran out to greet them with excitement, with their yammering Punjabi coming out at sixty words per second.  I stood there crunching on an Indian apple (smaller and sweeter there), trying to decipher the multiple layers of Punjabi code.

A few screams later and I’d figured it out: bachelor-uncle had chosen his bride.  She was the skinnier one who’d been photographed from far away.

And the wedding date was set…three days from now. Three days.

It wouldn’t be hard to imagine every second of the madness that ensued from then until the ceremony three days later, but I’ll still offer up some highlights: giant bags of flour, samosas being fried in the yard by moonlight, neighbours dropping off all their extra chairs (too late for rentals), my one-year old cousin pouring diarrhea by the bucket-load (was I the only one who noticed?), and my mother going off on her stressed-induced rants approximately once an hour.

Which brings us to the wedding day.  I actually hadn’t met the bride or my “aunt” as she’d very soon be, so when she inched her way through the temple, draped in all those pounds of gold and thick red fabric, it was the first I’d ever seen of her.

Meh…she was alright.  Not that I was writing her off, but with all that “face gold” and hastily applied make-up, it could’ve been anyone (note to self: look classy and gorgeous on wedding day, with professional make-up applied via airbrush, and a limited amount of jewelry on the face).

The ceremony progressed as all Indian weddings do: some readings I didn’t understand, four (or five?) walks by the groom and bride around the altar, and boom: they were married! My favourite part of this wedding (and all Indian weddings) was the costume change before the party.  I had chosen a stunning Indian dress in pink, purchased on a last-minute trip to a textile shop.  Looking back it was more of a “Pepto Bismol” hue that makes my stomach turn as soon as I even picture it, but in the moment I was feeling good.

I was feeling good even though the dress didn’t fit me right, since it was pre-sized and readymade vs. tailored.  But it was glittery and pink and I looked sexy…even with my zero makeup, bushy eyebrows and lack of curves.  I looked sexy.

I hadn’t felt this sexy before, and it almost made me feel like I’d return home to my high school as the “hot girl”.  I mean…why else was the videographer pointing the camera in my face? It had nothing to do with the fact that the party was occurring in my uncle’s yard, where the space was small, putting the camera in everyone’s face for a while.  That wasn’t the reason. It was my glorious Pepto-Bismol Indian dress, I was a woman now.

Fourteen-year-old sexiness aside, the mission was officially accomplished: my uncle had his bride. Afterward I had the chance to speak to her one-on-one, and to my surprise, she wasn’t so meek after all.  She was kind of…aggressive.  But it was fine I guess.  And so my uncle would take her back to Canada…

***

Side-note: by the time this wedding was over, my trip was only halfway through.  I’ll continue with that in the following post, but just as an added note, that bride my uncle bought? She became a psycho somewhere along the way.  You know the usual stuff, like going into psycho control fits, and shutting out her Canadian family, while taking my uncle along for the ride.  I guess it’s still going on, since I now have three young cousins living fifteen minutes away, and I’ve only ever seen them twice in my life.  Ahem…yay for arranged marriages!

[This post is another in the series of my first family trip to India in '95.  Here is the next installment]