Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Day Eight – the Big Day


I managed to sleep, somehow. Not the longest or most restful of nights sleep but not bad given that I’d thought I would hardly sleep a wink. Prised one and then the other eye open and was surprised that the world looked … cloudy. I blinked hard …. Still cloudy. Murky even. I could hardly see the door from the bed. Couldn’t work out why I should have been afflicted by a sudden half blindness on such an important day and then a corresponding pain in my eyeballs helped me quickly to the dreadful realization that I had, for the first time in YEARS, gone to sleep with my contact lenses in. On the night that I am stone cold sober, focused and charged about my big day... I go and forget to pull out those wicked little discs which normally enable 20/20 vision but which on this occasion were glued to my eyeballs rendering me half blind and with huge puffy bags below each eye thanks to the overnight oxygen deprivation to the eye. Fabulous. I managed to prise the lenses out of my eyes (with a disconcerting sucky sound), hoped I hadn’t removed too much of my corneas, and looked at myself in the mirror. The horror! Two slits peeking out of two bright pink golf balls. Black bags under the golf balls in which I could have carried my entire wedding trousseau. Thank goodness Jo works for an airline as I ran to the fridge for ice and found some iced cold towels which I immediately pressed to my poor eyes. Slowly, finally the freak show started to subside and I saw my face returning to normal. I had that whole “bridegroom bolts at altar” thing going on for a while and it wasn’t pleasant.
With face more or less returned to normal Julie and I headed over to the posh parlour where we were due the full bridal/bridesmaid treatment (fancy hair and makeup), picking up Sarah and Justine on the way. They were both tense and tempers were overall a bit frayed. But after settling into our bridal suite and starting to get pampered, the tension visibly dissipated, until I pulled out my dress and found it to be creased. Actually the creases were fairly minimal and I should have hung the damn thing up earlier in the week (I had asked the salon to bring an iron but they had assumed I could send the dress out to the dhobi wallah … yeah right .. visions of little man scrubbing away at my satin and antique lace bridal gown …). But as the girls pointed out the reases were only really visible to my over-exacting eye. We also had to send someone to the bank for a last dash for cash to pay for the booze in the evening which was a bit of a saga but worked out in the end.
Finally we emerged, looking nothing short of fabulous. I had my hair pinned up in a gorgeous and complicated bun arrangement with curls and swirls and twirly bits hanging down. Another slight panic when we discovered that the beautiful tiara which had been painstakingly attached to the veil did not detach and could not fit over said tresses, but it looked ok perched on the top of my head instead. The girls all looked great with their hair washed and blow dried and flowing. I discovered that the itty bitty diamante stones covering my blingy shoes kept catching on the net inside the ‘hoop’ (cancan) which went under the dress. Try as I might I couldn’t help my feet getting stuck to the inside of the skirt, and it felt like another disaster in the making. Kick out, kick out was the helpful advice from the girls and on practicing this deft move my shoes behaved themselves. Dad had arrived very early at the parlour and was nervously sipping coffee, and fretting about getting me down the aisle. He was panicking about a coughing fit, falling, or generally getting over emotional. That made two of us. The car arrived (merc) and we headed for the church. Realising the futility of trying to stuff two bridesmaids, a maid of honour, a small child, the father of the bride and the bride in a full skirted dress into one car, Justine Donald and Sarah hopped into a cab.
We arrived at the church half an hour early (hoorah) and slipped into the back. Somehow the agonizing wait came to an end and it was 2pm, time to start. I was so excited and happy, and so emotional that I knew I’d start to blub if I even caught the eye of a single friend in the pews. The bridal party set off – tiny kids in the front, girls looking adorable in little handmade purple dresses and boys handsome and regal in tiny purple bow ties and black suits. Julie, Sarah and Justine followed, poor Julie walking solo and the others arm in arm with handsome (last minute) groomsmen. And then Dad and I started our slow walk, after a short pause to create maximum “entrance effect”. We reached the front, me without catching the eye of anyone, and I could sense my husband to be’s eyes boring into me and willing me to look at him., Hardly surprising really given this was the biggest moment in our lives to date but I just needed to compose myself and control my emotions, so I stared resolutely ahead and then leaned forward to catch his eye. He was looking so handsome, the suit which he’d had made looked absolutely fantastic, the cream silk cravat and waistcoat looked gorgeous especially against his dark skin, and he had his hair pulled back and a huge smile on his face. From the moment I caught his eye (and I know it sounds cheesy) everything was just fine. I visibly relaxed, and loved the entire ceremony which somehow seemed so much less complicated than during the rehearsal. The vows and the exchange of the rings part was simply amazing, and I will never forget those powerful words. We had considered writing our own vows but eventually stuck with the traditional version and I’m glad we did. The exchanging of the rings was amazing, though VIvek initially reached for his ring to place on my finger bless him so excited to get his hands finally on his ring. Then a couple of hymns, the lighting of the candle, a quick communion for the bride and groom only, and we were done. I am so happy that we eventually married in the cathedral, what a beautiful place. Simply stunning. I have to say that I had never ever pictured myself walking down a traditional churchy aisle in a white dress with a veil but that’s exactly what happened. And it felt fantastic.
So, we were married. Amazing. Big burst of pride in my heart and hanging onto my new husband for dear life through all the endless photos.
Then we all ran off to transform for part 2. Julie and I ran back to the parlour and cracked open the bottle of sula which had been intended for the morning but I couldn’t handle the thought of drinking that early. Hair washed clean of hairspray and backcomb, blow dried into swingy curls, new makeup applied (more Indian bridal less English virginal) and time to pull on the lehenga. One gorgeously shimmery number, bedecked from top to bottom with hand sewn sequins and stones, heavy as hell but a perfect fit. Husband called twice as I was squeezing into the thing – turns out we were late and he and his entire family were waiting on the street, him in horse driven carriage, with full band ready and waiting, and only the bride missing. Damn! Rushed out of there faster than you can say “don’t forget to pin the dupatta” and of course, forgot to pin the dupatta. Result, heavy scarf which slipped down over one eye all night, but apparently no-one noticed.
I felt like an Indian princess next to my Indian prince. I have to say, we both looked utterly fabulous, as did all the guys and gals from the UK in their sherwanis and sarees. We all looked like something out of a movie set. The actual reception part was a little dull as we had to stand on the stage and greet everyone individually but it was fine as we were doing it together and it was nice to meet everyone. We also managed to make speeches and have a toast, and I made an impromptu speech. My dad had been terribly nervous about speaking but in the end he did a fantastic job though I think I was more nervous than him as I knew how much it meant to him. So the evening passed in a blur of feeling princessy, greeting hundreds of wellwishers and receiving gifts, quaffing the odd glass of wine and finally collapsing at a table to sample some of the food. There were a couple of minor disasters – it seems the wedding organizer had forgotten about the need to provide toilet facilities so guests had to use the revoltingly unhygienic bathrooms in the main house, and the promised aircon didn’t work so no-one went inside to hear the FANTASTIC band and so we never got to dance. But that aside, we had a brilliant night and a fabulous end to a truly magical day which I will remember for the rest of my life.

Day Seven - the filling in the sandwich

So the penultimate day of being single came and went rather unremarkably. It was like discovering that filling in the middle of your fresh store bought sandwich is not the juicy prawn and avocado mix with creamy mayo that you had anticipated, but rather the dried up remnants of a tin of spam with a lick of salad cream. We’d had a wonderful run of days and the anticipation of a fabulous finale to follow so little wonder that the ‘day before’ was generally a damp squib, especially given the size of the hangover which I woke with. Never mix tequila and Moet … haven’t I heard that before somewhere? Result – a sharp piercing pain above the left eye, a day long nausea and a general sense of apathy and mild hysteria. But we both managed to get through the day. Afternoon saw the wedding rehearsal which meant a fierce concentration throughout as my addled brain tried to remember the details of when to walk, kneel and speak. It seemed terribly complicated and the thought of forgetting some fairly significant part of my own wedding ceremony only added to the churn in my gut. I tried to record the feelings of the “day before” for the sake of posterity as and when they were happening but the time ran away in last minute organizing and I felt a little too sick to write. I remember though that the feeling was one of nervous excitement combined with a slight paranoia at being late to the church / having a last minute dress disaster/losing the bridesmaids etc. Not a moment’s concern however about losing the groom at the altar, I felt totally and utterly secure in the knowledge that my husband to be would be waiting there for me with a shine in his eye looking utterly fabulous in his tails and tie.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Day Six – Mehendi and Madness


Thursday morning had been scheduled for the Mehendi session, a traditional event during which all the ladies sit for hours having beautiful and intricate mehendi (henna) designs piped onto arms and feet in preparation for the big day. The mehendi is painstakingly applied by a team of young women and girls who have been trained by their mothers and grandmothers to in the art of creating stunningly elaborate swirls and designs each of which tells a secret story which winds around palms and fingers in an age old tradition. The mehendi is applied onto the skin using a kind of miniature piping bag and takes a while to dry, and then begins the fun part. It must be left to dry naturally and left to flake off rather than being rubbed off or peeled off, and only then will the colour really ‘take’. The temptation to scratch off the crusting goo is unbearable, yet I managed to get to the parlour (barefoot) and last an entire hour’s facial with my henna designs drying on hands and feet throughout. The final colour of the henna stain, is apparently a test of the bridegroom’s love for the bride – the darker the better. A dark blackish brown colouration means that your intended is burning with passion and love for his intended. An insipid muddy tinge means presumably that he can’t really be bothered either way.
And so I used all the tricks of the trade to produce a healthily dark colour – avoided scratching off the crusty dried henna, left it for hours, cleaned it off with mustard oil and didn’t wash til the next morning. The last bit was particularly vile and it took a few glasses of wine at the hen party in the evening to make me forget my sticky hands and feet, reeking of henna and oil.
I headed back to Jo’s place to meet the girls for the hen night. We’d decided long back to split forces and stay true to the hen/stag tradition. The girls (led by my sister Julie) had done themselves proud – apparently spending all afternoon deep in the nooks and crannies of New Market buying up their entire supply of anything which fitted the “bright, shiny and purple” requirement. I arrived back to find the house festooned with purple balloons, glitter and candles, with everything covered in shiny pink wrapping and a neat set of pink fluffy angel wings, mask and wand waiting for me to adorn complete the look. First I needed to get clean after a long day of being mehendied – no mean feat given that my hands were not supposed to touch water. Eventually Bridget (a trained nurse and accustomed to these things) gave me a sponge bath – bliss. Finally I felt clean enough to don said wings and mask, along with Christmas tree bauble earrings and sexy dress, and we were ready to go. Several glasses of Julie’s finest punch later, things were becoming only slightly raucous, when the doorbell rang. Tired of being without the girls, and with the best man unable to organize much of a party, the stag party landed.
We ended up in a fantastic club, half empty until we arrived to enliven the scene. Vivek and I consumed copious amounts of tequila shots and champagne (a lethal combination as we discovered the next morning) and generally had a fantastic last night of ‘freedom’ even though we were together which if you ask me was the very best way to celebrate my hen night – with my closest and dearest friends, family and beloved.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Day Five – Mehendi and sticky hands


Thursday was the day of Mehendi application – when I most uncharacteristically sat still for an entire five hours whilst henna was applied to my hands, arms and feet. It was intensely boring but after a while became strangely relaxing, with the gentle tickling of the henna being piped into elaborate swirls all over. The waiting for the mehendi to dry was the most boring part, and eventually I wiped the thick layer from my feet, ran out in bare feet, and into the Bridgette Jones parlour where I had booked my bridal facial, the first in a set of luxurious treatments which would culminate in hair and makeup for the wedding itself. Lying back whilst the henna dried into crispy swirls, whilst various unguents were applied to myface and wiped/scrubbed/polished/peeled off was a fairly surreal experience, but the facial was absolutely wonderful and left me feeling as clean as a new pin for the first time in ages.

Day Four – the throwing of yellow goo


Wednesday saw the Haldi ceremony, which I knew involved an awful lot of yellow goo being rubbed into the faces, arms legs etc of the bride and groom but I hadn’t realized quite how involved it all was. We arrived at V’s parents house, the location for the ceremony and I was quickly wrapped up in a yellow sari. No timid yellow colour this, but rather a particularly fetching shade of luminous banana, which looked pretty dreadful against my white skin, but a lot better once the haldi had been rubbed in. Haldi is basically turmeric, which is ground and mixed with water to form a thick gooey paste, and apparently does wonders for the skin in terms of brightening it and making it glow. It seemed to be pretty resilient stuff, and I was a bit concerned that I’d end up tripping down the aisle like a giant banana in a white dress, but I was assured by everyone that it would wash off in a couple of days and as this was only Wednesday, it seemed safe to plunge into the mayhem. All of the English guests were wearing white kurta pyjamas and looking like members of some weird cult, and they all lined up to take their turns in covering Vivek and I with haldi. Before they were given access to the gloopy bowlful however, the four sisters demanded money from them, in an elaborate ritual which saw people dancing around with notes, hiding money in pockets, pretending to give a few rupees and then whipping out a few thousand, and generally participating in the ritual. Everyone present got a good chance to throw some slop over us, by the end we were covered from head to foot, and Vivek had even had his trousers cut off and haldi rubbed into his every crevice.
After everyone had taken their turn with the haldi, we went to shower. After scrubbing myself all over I managed to get the bright yellow to fade to a jaundiced shade (in fact I looked exactly how I did when I did have jaundice except without the dodgy liver) and as I changed into yet another, prettier yellow sari, I admired my all over yellow tinge which I hoped would soon fade to the healthy glow I’d been promised.

Day Three – of car mixups and lost boys


Having learned from the lessons of the previous day (plan in advance, don’t hang around waiting for boys, go to ATM well in advance) we set off bright and early prepared to finish off the last minute shopping for the girls, as the boys had of course finished all their shopping the day before (sherwani – check, pointy shoes – check, dupatta (scarf for sherwani) check. Over and out.
WE managed to make it to the bangle shop where everyone whipped out their pieces of saree fabric and set about co-ordinating coloured bangles to match. Cheap and cheerful, everyone got away with armfuls of bangles for around 300 rupees, to add to the general glamour and glitz for Saturday night. Patience ebbed and tempers were occasionally frayed in the sultry heat as we all waited for each other to complete examining, purchasing, packing and wrapping but generally we all remained calm.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Day Two - of chaos and changing plans

Day 2 of the pre wedding preparations saw chaos in motion. Trying to co-ordinate 14 people and a three year old, for lunch and shopping may seem like a fairly simple task but in reality and amidst Calcutta’s very own brand of pandemonium, it was no picnic. We managed to get to the airport bright and early to meet the 2 latest arrivals from the UK, Rich and Nadine who arrived looking frazzled and dazed but delighted to have finally reached the end of a very long journey. Rich revealed that he’d slept for only 2 of the past 48 hours but nevertheless was up for the shopping expedition which we had planned for everyone to pick up their gear for the wedding reception. So after a delicious lunch during which I suddenly remembered that I had left everyone’s sarees at the guesthouse and had to charge back to pick them up so they would be able to select bangles to match, we headed to New Market. Imagine trying to steer a large party of foreigners through the dark twisted interiors of New Market, whilst from all sides hawkers and salesmen and beggars and scruffy street urchins pulled at clothes and tried to touch bright blonde locks of hair and pale skin, hoping to appeal to the soft hearted westerners who would be more than likely to dip into pockets give generously.

We headed first to pick up sherwanis for the guys …. And waited and waited … and waited … as they chased around to find a cashpoint. Apparently the UK banks have introduced new tougher security rules which basically means that none of our lot were able to get any money out of the ATMs so everyone was in a bit of a panic. Somehow they managed to beg borrow and steal enough rupees to get by, and joined us for the sherwani shopping. Boys all looked like white maharajahs in their gorgeous outfits, and I think they primped and preened more than the women. Next, salwar shopping for the girls. Having dispatched the boys to the Oberoi coffee shop, girls were free to shop to their hearts’ content – oohing and sighing over stunning fabrics bejeweled and glittering, shimmering and shining.

Interesting to see the British dealing with the mayhem that can be India. Brits are so used to having their lives measured out in 15 minute intervals, making plans weeks in advance for even a dinner date, and heaven forbid anyone who might just drop round for a coffee on the spur of the moment. We are, as a nation, bound by our collective need for order and for everything to be proper and in its correct place, for meetings to start on time, trains to run on time (though they rarely do, which gives us fodder for the moaning which we love to indulge in) and meals to arrive on time. India is the complete opposite, bound by chaos and the need to create chaos to be able to offer solutions, meetings which never begin on time and always due to ‘the traffic” (as if its not part and parcel of life), and trains which ironically DO run on time. In India its unusual for a plan not to change, in fact any preparations however painstaking will normally be turned upside down and back to front before the day is done, and that’s all acceptable and normal. We Brits (and I include myself even though I’m used to this system now) get so uptight when plans change, because we are programmed to make things happen on time and without delay. In India, there are delays for no reason (or so it seems) or for reasons which may seem unacceptable or odd to us (traffic, prayers, stopped for chai, illness in family etc). When plans change here, Indians take it in their stride and adapt to the new arrangement without asking too many questions. Brits huff and puff and generally get hot under the collar. When there are delays which make waiting a necessity, the Indians calmly get out their dabbas, drink chai, read the paper and smile all the while. Whereas the Brits huff and puff some more, grinding their teeth with the effort of not wringing anyone’s neck. Always fun to see afresh the cultural differences between our countries.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Friends and Family

Vivek's Granny .... somewhat bemused by all the activity ....

Day One - of worlds colliding


So the first of my friends arrived from England into Calcutta yesterday, and we all met up at VIvek’s sister’s place for lunch. Talk about twilight zone, it was just so bizarre to see my two best girlfriends Sarah and Justine and Sarah’s adorable 3 year old , one of my oldest and dearest friends Jamie and his Israeli friend Maya, old friend Jimmy and his wife Sha … sitting in Jo’s living room in Calcutta tucking into Biryani. It was truly one of those – am I awake or am I dreaming moments, and as I’ve been having increasingly bizarre dreams for weeks about the wedding, it was hard to differentiate.
All the guests have settled into the cutesy little guesthouse we’ve booked, and acclimatizing themselves to Calcutta’s pace. Those who have visited before are fairly relaxed and enjoying the familiar sights, sounds and smells which are so generic to any Indian city, those who are coming to the continent for the first time are a little more wide eyed, a little more challenged by the spicy dishes, and certainly not entirely relaxed as we hurtle around the streets in Calcutta’s traffic.


Sunday, November 2, 2008

One week countdown ....


One week today and I’ll be waking up as a newlywed. Can’t believe the time has finally come, and we’re actually living all those excel lists and plans and e mail promises. Seems like we’ve been planning this forever, I can’t even remember a weekend when we haven’t had to shop for lehenga, go for wedding dress fittings, send e mails to guests reminding them to confirm flight details, speak to sister in laws about accommodation plans in Calcutta, order rings etc etc. But I think we planned it all pretty well and down to the last detail, finally. Now all that remains is to see how far life imitates the plan.
Of course, the best laid plans always go awry, and last minute hiccups should be savored rather than stressed over. My ability to relax and go with the flow was sorely tested yesterday when I decided to show Mum my amazing bridal lehenga …. And so I shook out the jewel encrusted skirt, flaunted the backless bodice and reached for the dazzling dupatta … the dupatta (scarf part and very integral to the entire outfit) … which was nowhere to be found. After scrabbling frantically through the cupboards and searching my brain for its whereabouts whilst my husband to be tried to calm me down, it was clear that the dupatta had not accompanied the other parts of the lehenga home. WE rushed to the store …. I tried to stop my voice from going squeaky as I breathlessly asked the patient salesman – my lehenga, my lehenga, no dupatta, see …. Calmly he reached for his book of receipts, located one and informed me that I had in fact left it back for minor alteration a month previously. Doh!!! Shamefacedly I retrieved the gorgeous item and finally banished all nightmarish thoughts of being the world’s first dupatta-less bride.
Mum and Dad and Julie arrived 3 days ago, and we’ve enjoyed catching up and getting them prepped for the wedding events. Picked up a lovely salwar for Mum, another dazzling lehenga for Julie (though of course not as blingy as mine J) and a sherwani for Dad. Then went shopping for bangles and bindis, the best part. Simply hold out your lovely bright saree/dupatta/blouse, stand back and allow the banglewala to mix and match from his vast and glittering collection of brightly coloured bangles, some silvery hued, others all colours of the rainbow, some studded with crystals and pieces of glass which catch the light as you glide through the room. Within a few seconds, he has feverishly unwrapped and mixed and matched a set of bangles, one for each arm, which perfectly complement your outfit.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

So near .....


Picked up the rings .. (but had to lock them away for safekeeping ... waa waa)

Three weeks and counting

So we crossed the 'one month and we'll be married' point ... couldn't work out if the 'one month to go' countdown started from Weds 8th Oct or 4 Saturday's before D day, but both seemed significant anyhow. Today we went to church and heard the first banns being read which was awesome and kind of strange at the same time. 

So now everything is really done, lists and lists written and rewritten and ticked off and everyone organised and sorted and flights booked and invites out and accomodation booked for foreign guests and clothes organised and church booked (that took some doing as they required M15 style security check in form of proof from various sources that I'm REALLY 38 years old and omigod actually unmarried yes spinsterish and withering away on that top shelf with ovaries rapidly dessicating into sultanas I may be BUT NO I AM NOT MARRIED). Finally, it took a letter from a Brit Member of Parliament and a letter from one of
 India's Top 25 Businesswomen (according to Business India Today) to prove to the Cathedral's fogeyish committee that I am free to be married and that after marriage it is unlikely that husband and band of 5 kids will turn up and claim otherwise (an event which actually did recently happen, hence their paranoia). But now, finally, I am set to glide swanlike up that long long aisle .... 
We had fun getting the 500 invites printed at this wonderful little homestyle printers tucked deep into one of Andheri's little communities ... every invite hand printed, this was one place which the digital age hasn't touched. We did end up laser printing the envelopes, but still the desi hand touch defined our invitations. The invites were loudly claimed to be 'awesome' by one and all - a particularly flattering pic of the 2 of us taken at a party last year (and a bit of retouching of lines and freckles Praise the Photoshop) and with a tracing paper cover and the invite inside in silver lettering. Gorgeous. 

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Indian Shocker

So I was in the office today when in bounds Ashok, visiting from Delhi. Last time I saw Ashok, he was lamenting his single status and wished he could find a nice girl to marry and settle down with. that was 3 or 4 months ago. He rushed into my office today, huge grin on his face, and thrust  card into my hands. No ordinary card this, but a wedding card - Ashok marries Priya. My face must have showed its confusion, but the Indians in my office nodded wisely. From single to married in a heartbeat .... sometimes I think the whole Indian system of arranged marriages has its benefits. Whilst a million western girls wilt bridget jones like on the shelf, their perky Indian counterparts are advertising for their spouses in the newpaper, interviewing them, and arranging their nuptials if their horoscopes match. 

Monday, October 6, 2008

Buying sarees

Made a trip to Chennai this week, where I shopped til I dropped … for sarees. Tradition has it that the bride to be has to give sarees to various relatives of the groom, plus I wanted to pick up sarees for all the girls coming from the UK to wear at the wedding reception. I had heard that Chennai is India’s silk saree capital with rock bottom prices and huge saree stores everywhere but was total unprepared for the reality – cavernous three and four storey saree shops ringed with sarees stacked floor to ceiling in every imaginable colour, fabric and price range – from the cheap and cheerful 50 rupee number to wedding sarees for 2 lakhs or more. Hundreds of little men in dhotis whisking lengths of gorgeous fabric onto cushioned counters for inspection by hordes of aunties, chaiwallahs roaming around to refresh those parched from the selection process, crowds pushing and jostling to make payment. The entire process was amazing – simply select your saree type (silk, chiffon, georgette, silk mix, etc), your price range, grab the attention of a salesman and try to keep hold f your senses (and your wallet) as saree after saree in all colours of the rainbow are spread before you. I picked up 25 odd sarees in about 45 minutes, not bad going for a gal who can browse for hours. Having picked the colours which I thought would suit everyone in the price ranges as per protocol (most expensive for mother in law, expensive ish for sisters in law, less for the myriad relatives and frankly cheap and cheerful for the UK guests who won’t anyway know the difference) I joined the queues for payment, receipt stamping, delivery and wrapping.
Later in the week I made a trip to Goregaon market, a brilliant indoor market with fabulous Indian clothing shops jostling along narrow walkways. Picked up one saree which I have to wear on the day of returning to the marital home (bought by my future mother in law) and one red and silver number which I’ll wear in the office for diwali. Indian clothes are so fabulous, so bright and ostentatious, makes me laugh when I think back to my drab old English wardrobe full of greys, blacks and browns punctuated with the occasional dark red. I must, simply must, learn to tie a saree.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Thoroughly Spoilt

So we have entered into the realms of Thoroughly Spoiled Indians with the recent acquisition of a full time maid living in our house .. primarily to take care of Bailey, the 4 month old Labrador puppy. This probably seems like a travesty and the height of indulgence to any westerner used to picking up after themselves and scrubbing the bathtub/dishes/floor on a daily basis, but believe me, in a country where maids, nannies, drivers, coffee boys and peons are not only a luxury but a necessity to support hundreds of thousands of poor families, its thoroughly acceptable. Once I had got over my typical western reaction to having a maid (slave labour/can't bear to watch someone cleaning up after me/its an invasion/archaic) and got into the indian groove of understanding that providing a good salary, a roof over head, and an opportunity for a woman (in the case of a maid) to earn something for herself which can often be vital in a typically patriarchical society, then I started to relax and enjoy the experience.

We started off a year back with Tara, lovely Tara, mother of 3 grown up boys who want to take care of her but she is just too independent, who arrives in the late morning and cleans the entire house in a whirlwind of efficient energy, cooking up a maharastrian feast at the same time and managing to convince herself that I really do understand her incessant hindi chatter (I get about one word in four). She started off on a relatively modest salary and we insisted on increasing it, much to her delight of course. A year later and we had fallen for the chocolate box melty eyes of the puppy and realised that leaving her alone for more than a couple of hours at a time was simply not an option.... and so Akala the sweet girl from Nagaland arrived to live in the house. Akala is 18 going on 12, with a sweet giggle and an inability to raise her voice above a whisper. She loves the dog and the cat, and has quickly developed a fascination with Saas-Bahu tv (crappy homegrown dramas always featuring an evil mother in law, smouldering but forbidden hunk, and shy innocent girlie) and is also infatuated with the mobile phone we gave her. She walks the dog twice a day, feeds her 4 times a day, the very self sufficient cat twice a day, makes us coffee every morning at 8, tea when we walk in the door, and keeps the house clean as a new pin. Its a luxury and a half and she seems to be gaining in confidence by the day, and of course earning some decent money to send back to the folks in Nagaland. And Tara is still with us, we can't bear to let go of her awesome prawn curry, kheema, biryani, etc etc etc ... (did I mention needing a flat stomach in the previous post??!).

Friday, September 19, 2008

Bridal Shopping


So the time is racing past … and the wedding which for so long has seemed like a distant dream is now right around the corner .. though I can’t work out what happened to the weeks in between. I am veering between a mild panic, not at the thought of the commitment (which I can hardly wait for) but rather a nagging feeling that something somehow will be forgotten (my current fixation is that we’ll forget the legal stuff, get to the altar and go “whoops”) and the high of the wedding shopping.


Shopping for a wedding in India is something else, seriously. We landed at Amarsons, me, hubby to be and two of his sisters, and sat languidly drinking chai whilst dozens of shimmering lehengas were laid reverently before us. The lehenga is a particularly Indian garment, worn by the bride at the wedding reception, the stuff of bollywood heroines and item girls, the blingier the better, cropped tight across the rib cage and sitting low on the hips to reveal a swathe of belly - see pic above. My bare stomach isn’t too bad, could do with a bit of tightening but happily the lehenga was designed for the curves of the Indian woman, and it nicely flatters my british pear shape. I tried on the first lehenga rather gingerly, wondering if I’d topple under the sheer weight of the heavily bejeweled and very full skirt, but once on, the thing seemed light and airy and swished around my legs in a very pleasing manner. The second, third and fourth I tried felt even better and soon I felt like an old hand at the lehenga, strutting from the changing room each time with a roll of the hips and a glint in my eye. I kept liking each one more and more and thoroughly confused myself and everyone else with my inability to decide on The One. I loved the bling (silver and white) but hated the insipid turquoise of one particular number, and was busy lamenting my woes until the charming salesman told me that it could be made in any colour I wanted, hand tailored according to my requirements, and with the extra bling I wanted on the dupatta (the scarf bit which drapes tantalizingly across the body revealing hints of the belly). Hoorah thank goodness for India and its ability to solve any problem.



Later that day, and somewhat paradoxically, I went for the first fitting of my wedding gown – a traditional (non meringuey) ivory number. My head still reeling with rainbow iridescent silks and satins, I stood in front of the full length mirror and gasped at the simplicity of a beautifully hand cut gown, stunning in its minimalism and thoroughly elegant. India is all about contrasts and this was one of those moments when you realize that you really can have it all. In the space of a single day, I’ll be a traditional bride in white and a vision of Indian elegance (I hope) … though I don’t suppose that too many brides are wearing mehendi (henna designs) at the altar.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Lazy weekend ...

The perfect end to an utterly lazy weekend .... sitting listening to the traffic, new purple candles wafting some mellow scent into the still air, the stillness interrupted by the occastional lorryload of drum bashing young boys on their way from celebrating the Govind festival (the one where people climb on top of each other to create huge human pyramids). Haven't stepped out of the house at all today, and just now managed to lazily dial a curry .... the house is looking spotless thanks to the usual superhuman efforts of Tara who came bright and early this morning whilst I was still snoozing, and my feeble attempts to spring clean this afternoon ... (OK i cleared out one cupboard and washed a few plates but it felt energetic). Beloved has been working all day but happily from home .. we have a studio in what is actually the guest bedroom ... millions of gigabytes of fancy editing stuff ... I can hardly turn the computer on let alone make use of the fcp (first cut professional if you really want to know).

Last night we made it to a party in Malad. For the Bombay uninitiated, thats Very Far Away in the suburbs, and a choking drive through the pollution and grime. It was quite a nice evening though, a surprise birthday party. We took the puppy along with us as we didn't want to leave her alone for too long ... she predictably pooped and pissed and tried to eat cigarette butts out of the ashtrays (well they were shaped just like her water bowl) but she was universally adored so all was good.

Old posts ... observations on life ...

Posting some of the entries from my old blog, which I took down .... kept some of the more interesting stuff through ....


India inc – the future is male

Reading the Economic Times week long effusive coverage of their “CEO Roundtable” summit made me feel distinctly uneasy. Initially I couldn’t work out why this seemingly innocuous self congratulatory tirade was making me feel squeamish, and put it down to my usual aversion for pompous bluster (remember the English rule – ‘no boasting’). On being bombarded by yet more coverage of this event this morning, I decided to think more carefully about why I’d chosen to quickly turn these pages rather than studying them more intently, and it suddenly hit me – of the 8 corporate heavy hitters chosen to represent India’s finest business brains here and overseas, all are men and the coverage of the event distinctly male oriented. The photographs and accompanying captions underline this testosterone enhanced theme – showcasing the talent of the various male delegates with captions describing their activities as “networking’, ‘making a point’, “talking shop” and “riding the wave”, whilst the event’s seemingly solus 'heavyweight' female attendee, Sudha Murthy, is described as “sitting pretty” and a couple of other attractive women delegates as representing “the beauty quotient”. This breathtakingly sexist coverage is striking in its audacity, yet I guess even more incredible that readers probably wouldn’t even notice the male bias, which makes it all the more sad. And then we come to the Economic Times Awards - "raising a toast to the locally fearless, the globally restless". Every award taken by a businessMAN, excepting the obvious category of "Businesswoman of the Year".

If the 'thoughtleaders' of this country, who by definition set the standards for attitudes and the zeitgeist of a nation are treating women as purely decorative fluff then what hope for women of India?

Visiting London

ts only August, and yet England has already put its brief flirtation with colour far behind it. When I was there in May, the shops were bursting with vibrant colours and neons so vivid that window shopping placed a strain on the eyes. It looked as if someone had taken a huge pot of multicoloured paint and splattered it recklessly around, bringing an uncharacteristic intensity to England’s usually drab High Streets. Hope was in the air, the richness of colour clearly setting an expectation for a sizzling summer, when those delightful bright strappy tops and garish floral dresses could attire gently tanning bodies.

Ripple dissolve to a mere 3 months later, and the message is out – the weather has returned to its typical pre global warming awfulness – lashing rain, gloomy skies and bone freezing wind chill. And so, the high streets have regained their characteristic muted tones – grey, brown and black, with a dash of regal purple thrown in (this season’s ‘hot’ colour, for the second year running). In equally typical fashion, the English are perversely enjoying this opportunity to moan. They also seem to have forgotten that up until fairly recently, this drab summer weather was very typical. Since I left England, in 2000, the summers have undergone a transformation. My annual July return (for birthdays of sister and granny) have been characterized by gorgeous weather, which I’ve waxed lyrically about on more than one occasion on this blog. I recall a wedding at Regent’s Park zoo circa 2003, when temperatures hit 35 degrees plus, sending the champagne bubbles coursing through the veins at a faster rate than normal. I remember burning my feet on sun seared pebbles on Budleigh Salterton beach in 2004. I nearly suffocating inside a bus jammed with sweaty commuters in 2005 as the scale climbed into the forties. This was not usual weather for England, and certainly a far cry from the limp seasons of my memory. A few decent, quasi tropical sultry summers later, however, and it seems that the whole of England is in denial that the weather has ever been less than fabulous. This collective amnesia is striking by its consistency. When indulging in the typical English habit of bemoaning the weather (whether good or bad the English will moan - the theme of the last few summers was the unpleasantness of the heat) my friends and family this year claimed that an English summer has never been this dire, that summers are good ‘these days’ and were struck dumb by a collective indignancy when I suggested that actually, this weather was kind of normal for England. I had committed the vast faux pas of accepting rather than challenging the climate, a 7 year absence from the motherland breaking in-built social coding. For if the English cannot talk about the weather, then how else are they to conduct any kind of interaction given a national condition which renders them (us) in a permanent state of social awkwardness?

I was also struck, on this visit, by a change in my attitude towards popular media. What I had missed so very much about the British media landscape including the celebrity gossip, the ever more ridiculous reality TV shows and the pages of indignant editorial on any given topic only served to fill me with ennui this time. I think perhaps the limits have been reached and madly over-recycled. I watched the X Factor for the first time (the ‘new’ and almost identical version of Pop Idol) and was overwhelmed with cynicism at the obviously manipulated sob stories from the plucky young singers who had overcome terminal illness / been nominated by dying fathers / were pinning all their hopes upon winning the X Factor to rid them of a life of endless grinding poverty. Simon Cowell was irritating, Danii Minogue (the new judge) was brittle and grating with that awful Australian accent, and Louis someone or other was seemingly well loved by the public but I’d never heard of him, and he was terribly dull. I read all of the gossip magazines, and yawn, they were STILL full of tales of Kerry Katona the catatonic mother, Jordan and her unfeasibly large breasts (and her incredibly named new daughter Princess Ennuiiii or something similar) and of course now the other Wags who I know not from Adam. Even the newpapers were full of last season’s stories (the disappearance of ‘tiny tot” Maddy and the rise of violence on the streets). Sigh. Nothing there to appeal to an appetite jaded by a diet of Saas-basu and Bollywood.

Still, England’s contrary weather, muddled seasons and boring media were a welcome brief break from Bombay’s consistently damp monsoon humidity, mindless newspapers and no TV at all (I haven’t yet got cable installed). I was taking advantage of the fact of two holidays in one week, and a bank account bolstered by the windfall, to escape to London for a few days. I planned to shop, and took a near empty bag with me in order to do so. I was overweight at the airport, my fat suitcase jammed full of sausages, bacon, boxes of wine. And I return, delighted in the knowledge that not only is the end of the monsoon just about in sight, but also that joy of joys, purple is the colour of the moment, and therefore I am the girl of the moment.

Facebooking it

There’s a new word on the tip of everyone’s tongue and top of their Favourites list. That word is Facebook. Originally the province of teeny America, Facebook has done what all of the other networking sites have failed to do – give credibility to the concept of social networking, even amongst the die-hard cynics. Admittedly, when I first received an invitation to Facebook, I deleted the invite immediately. But when I met up with friends, normal, interesting people who asked why I wasn’t on Facebook, cos ‘everyone is’, I of course joined up, not wanting to miss this cyberparty. Facebook is without question too cool. Highly addictive, sexy interface, new applications, add-ons launched daily, and opportunities to reconnect with friends from all over the world. And 150,000 new members a day, apparently. I’m poking people who I haven’t even seen for 10 years or more, checking out their pics, catching their news and swapping stories. I’m spying on people, seeing what they’re up to, and what they are watching / listening to / talking about. I’m also joining mad, bad and crazy groups, hunting for people to fill jobs, advertising my car, and getting superpoked (I’ve been variously bitten, licked, bumped and I’ve had a few sheep thrown at me).

All well and good. But as with all addictions, Facebook has its downsides. Apart from the temptation to surf during office hours (it’s surely only a matter of time before the office firewall swallows this site) it poses a set of interesting 21st century dilemmas. Is it really healthy to collect friends like commodities, jealously checking out the long friends lists of others and wondering why our own is so pitiful in comparison? Once rediscovered, are old friends simply re-discarded once that initial euphoria of reconnection is over? Is the Facebook divergence of business and social lives going to end badly for most? It’s the latter that I really have trouble with. Collecting friends has always been something I’ve instinctively done. I’m a compulsive networker, rarely to be found without a contact in any city when travelling, getting endless highs out of introducing people and seeing new friendships take off. Of course these friends come and go, and these relationships shouldn’t be over-estimated – they are fun, social, superficial connections, which may open doors to more meaningful interactions but which normally remain in bubblegum territory. Occasionally necessary when you want to escape from life, keep conversation light and on the frivolous side. Other, more serious friendships don’t require to be kept sticky via the glue of a social networking site, those are friendships which anyway will never be replaced. And as for discarding old friends once the thrill of rebonding has worn off, well if they’ve lasted 10 years or more without contact, they’ll last another 10. It’s the rather incestuous mixing of work and pleasure that makes me a little uncomfortable. On the one hand, there are the fun party pics, the crazy comments, the invites from bars lounges and clubs, the Heather is “hungover after a big night” daily status updates. On the other there is the slightly squeamish realization that one’s office colleagues, bosses, influential business types may also be scanning your profile. Keep it real, honest and fun, but keep it under control. I guess that’s the way to go.

A spoilt child

My new maid is a dream come true. She came to me through a friend, and in 3 days ahas already changed my life for the better. She breezed in on Sunday, took one look at me and at my house, and took control. A whirlwind of activity, accompanied by a stream of nonstop hindi which I let wash over me, replying in the brief spells when she paused for breath. She peered into my fridge and kitchen cupboards, clearly unable to understand how I managed to live for so long with a couple of battered saucepans and a lot of fancy glasses. She went to the market and returned with ingredients for cooking daal, chaval and some nice fresh sabzi. And lots of gorgeous bright spices, a small pressure cooker, lots of tiny plastic pots to keep everything in, and some other strange objects one of which I think is for rolling out rotis. My kitchen has finally become indianised. I jumped with joy when I returned home to a fridgeful of delicious home cooked healthy food. My friends will be so impressed, they've rarely seen food in my house, at least not outside a pizza box.

The other complete delight which came along with my new house is four teeny tiny kittens and momma cat. Despite being tiny bags of bones, they manage to make the entire lift shaft ring with their piteous mews. Luckily I was well stocked up with Whiskas (both the wet and dry variety) after the temporary residence of Fat Diego the spoilt ginger persian. SO I've been feeding them every day and hoping to make them a little plumper. Funnily enough, I discovered that the other firangs who just moved in are doing the same, so these little waifs are being doubly fed. I found one of the little beggars atop the front wheel of my car this morning, clinging onto the tyre with sharp claws, a second from being squished under said wheel as my driver advanced the car. Thank goodness the watchman spotted the quivering thing, and I managed to pull him (her?) off. I'll have to remember to check the wheels every morning.....<

Beauty salon

heaven is .... reclining in a deep comfy chair, whilst your temples are firmly kneaded and a rhythmic pressure applied all over your aching cranium, hot coconut oil sinking into your tender scalp replenishing every tired and hungover nerve. And as if this isn't pleasure enough, at the same time both your feet and hands are being massaged and manipulated, dead skin scrubbed away and nails perfectly shaped.

This is what India does so well, complete dedication to the beautification and relaxation of the chosen few, who still manage to moan and whine throughout their hour of being pampered and plucked. The Indian Beauty Parlour is an institution. Unlike the Thai salons which have popped up on every street in Bangkok and which range from piss poor to pretty good (but generally average), the Indian parlour is a haven of perfectionism and attention to detail. When threading the chin, lip and eyebrow, the skin is closely scrutinised in case any rogue hair dares to remain, and is whipped out accordingly. When waxing legs, arms, chests (indian ladies have a tendency to hirsuitism) the wax is lovingly applied and even the ripping out of hair is managed perfectly and almost painlessly. Well, perhaps not painlessly, but compared to my waxing experiences by the hairless Thai's (cold wax and subsequent plucking of stubborn hair with tweezers) its a breeze. Manicure and pedicure is taken to a new height of perfection (and accompanied by a delicious massage of both arms and legs) and of course then there is the has to be experienced to be believed Indian head massage. First the hot oil (coconut, almond or olive) is soaked into a cotton wall ball and rubbed all over the head. The bliss as you feel it soaking into the parched cranium and nourishing the aching roots. Then the head is vigorously massaged, pummelled, pressed, rubbed and scratched, your shoulders are given a similar treatment relazing every hunched tense muscle, and finally, the piece de resistance, a vibrating, buzzing machine arrives which is rubbed all over your head neck and shoulders, making your eyes cross in ecstacy and vibrating all the way through to your teeth.

And once every muscle in your face has been relaxed with a gentle circular rubbing movement, loosening frownlines and easing skin parched by the humid weather, you are led off for a rejuvenating hairwash and subsequent blowdry. Half an hour later you emerge sparkling glossy and with a spring in the step. Nails freshly painted and twinkling from your sandals. Hair swinging in one glossy sheet around your face. Facial muscles relaxed and aiding an expression of pure contentment. And a dent of only $20 in your wallet.

Its like some form of Chinese water torture …

.. drip drip drip goes the tap in the corner of the dirty room, as the beads of sweat roll in tandem down the oily face of the shabbily dressed bureaucrat shuffling self importantly through reams of yellowing papers. The line of foreigners in front of his desk is growing longer and longer with every minute that passes, a varied assortment of dreadlocked and bejeweled bodies pressed urgently together, caught between the urge to push aggressively to the front of the queue in Indian style, or to wait patiently as they have been taught at home. I breeze confidently to the front of the line, avoiding the evil looks and heavy sighs, and the room rings with the rattle of cheap goan jewellery, as the foreigners bristle at the fact a fellow westerner seems to behaving like an indian. After all, I am smug in the knowledge that I have a Contact in the visa department, access to a Name which should speed my path towards a final declaration that I can live and work in India legally. Sweating Bureaucrat number one gestures vaguely in the direction of a corridor outside, as I manage finally to reach the front of the queue and blurt out my contact’s name. Again he gestures, angrily this time, irritated perhaps by the fact that I have managed to bend the rules and usurp his small man authority. I walk purposefully outside, searching for a door with my contact’s name. Past rooms full of men smoking, gesturing aggressively to me, telling me to go back into the main room. Head up, dupatta swinging, I carry on undaunted. Into another room crammed with scruffy men dressed in various shades of brown, bashing away at aged typewriters surrounded by towers of yet more yellowing papers. Again I blurt out the name of my contact, and I am aggressively directed in the direction of a door marked “visitors room”. Finally it appears that I’ve found my target, or at least come across the secretary of the man I’m looking for. He looks me up and down with distaste. A pale English girl wearing glasses (for that serious look) and bindi (for that “I love India” look), sporting a strange fusion of east and west – jeans, heels and a billowing kurta with dupatta. Again I mention my contact, and the friend of a friend who is connected to this important man. His brow furrows, and it looks as though he is going to ask me to leave. He is shouting at me in “hinglish”, no doubt outraged that I have managed to penetrate this inner sanctum. With a smug flourish, I produce my business card, and the card of my friend. The words “Lintas” and “Vice President” on my card seem to calm him, and he is visibly relaxed when he sees the words “Standard Chartered” on my friend’s card. The promise of hefty baksheesh flits before him, and he allows me to take a seat upon the grubby couch. As I wait patiently, he flicks slowly through his copy of the Times of India. Slowly, scanning every word on every page, impervious to the vibes of frustration which I am sending his way, through the smoky, humid air. My smugness however is premature. It appears that I am in the wrong office. After an hour an a half languishing on the grubby sofa, pretending not to be affected by newspaper reading bureaucrat who is exercising the limited power he has over this helpless foreigner, I am sent back outside to see one of the same bureaucrats occupying the tables which I had earlier smugly circumnavigated. Again, I adopt my fixed grin, which masks a set of teeth firmly clenched. Alas, Sweating Bureaucrat number three tells me, with a half grin on his face which belies the apologetic tone of his voice, that I am in the wrong building entirely, that the place I have now wasted 2 hours in is in fact for Delhi residents only.I jump in a rickshaw and we career across town to the correct place. Its hot and I’m sweating, and my composure is fast fading, but still I keep smiling. I even smile at the rickshaw driver when he overcharges me, which prompts him to charge me the local rate instead. Justice done, I enter the outer sanctum of the (correct) Foreigners Office, where I am assigned a number and told to wait. There don’t seem to be too many people waiting, and I assume I’ll be whisked in and be out in time for a cool languid lunch at the hotel. Wrong again! It soon transpires that this is only the holding area for the utter chaos which is the office proper. My number is finally called, and I make it to the correct office. I can’t even begin to detail the frustration of the next hour, but it includes … being pushed and shoved on arrival, fighting my way to the front, being handed a form and told to wait, identifying another “contact” who my friend had told me to meet, trying to get to him, being told too sit because my standing was “looking odd”, running off to another contact who was unable to help, getting lost on the way back, arriving back in same packed hall, being given another form, waiting and standing and sitting and sweating and overhearing the visa officers conducting every and any excuse to reduce hapless foreigners to tears of frustration .. all the while dying to use the loo and totally parched. Finally, I make it to the front. As all around me fight to get their forms seen, the man behind the desk snatches my pile of photocopied papers, scribbles on a couple of pages, throws the lot back at me and turns to someone else. Some time later (by now the minutes are melting into hours and even days) he grabs my form again and begins to interrogate me about the TV ads that Lintas have made. Smoothing his oiled hair back, he breaks into a wide, nicotined smile, smowing only a couple of broken teeth … “I am maybe being model for you, no?”. “Yes, yes” I say, “very possibly. You never know”. This appears to seal the deal. With a flourish, he throws the forms back to me yet again, and tells me to “come back at 4pm, I am looking at your files until then”.

Why I'm in love ....

... with a city. Bombay to be precise. I've been thinking about this all week .. pondering the attachment that this city, and indeed this country, have upon me, the hold which I don't think will ever leave me. I feel like a lover. in the throes of a long love affair, unable to leave, unable to survive without my omnipresent fix of this city. Irrational, incomprehensible, and completely emotional. I remember the exact moment that Bombay took my heart. I'd arrived late the previous night into Bombay... driven slowly through streets choked with ragged people, rickshaws spewing out obnoxious fumes, and a general cacophony of sound, sight and smell overwhelming every sense. Usual India stuff, I'd thought, as I contemplated my future life in Bombay. I woke the next morning to a blinding bright cerulean sky, cloudless and luminous in its intensity. I was picked up from the transit flat I was staying in at Kemps corner, and driven to the office. As we entered the lanes of cars weaving haphazhardly across lanes, I lost myself in the contemplation of life in this new city. As we suddenly swung a left into Marine Drive, past Chowpatty, I looked up and saw the curving expanse of Marine Drive ahead. In that very moment, inspired by the vast beauty of that arc stretching far into the distance, and the sun glinting off the immense stretch of ocean, something inside me just ... dislodged. I fell in love with this view, with this energy, with this bright expanse of possibility and my future never seemed brighter. I know that there are cynics who believe that my emotional reaction to Bombay is simply one borne from the comforts of the expat, living in a smart area, with all mod cons. I know that there are those who will never truly understand what it is to feel something for a place. But remember that every city in the world, every town, village, farm and even the humblest dwelling is held together by the energy of the people who live there. And Bombay's inhabitants, though often poorer than we can even begin to imagine on this side of the fence, are the most positive, inspiring and intensely giving people I have ever had the privilege to meet and spend time with. And that lifeforce simply fills Bombay's atmosphere, infusing the city with an electricity which overwhelms and invigorates. No other city I've ever spent time in, has had this kind of effect upon me. Forget Hong Kong, Singapore, London, LA, San Francisco, Jakarta, Manila, Bangkok, Rome, Paris. All intense and interesting in their own way, but always somehow leaving me a little cold, compared to the passion I feel for my Bombay.The depth of feeling I hold for Bombay is recharged with every experience here. Though life here can be intensely frustrating, difficult and often despairing, small events and incidences drive my love deeper every day. Walking out of my building after a quick chat with the ever smiling doorman, and catching a glimpse of the boiling ocean at the end of the street. Setting off in my tiny car, bumping over potholes, past the Haji Ali mosque extending for a mile into the sea, on a trip to the suburbs. Sitting in the parlour having my toenails painted fuschia pink by a sweet tempered man lost in concentration on getting the brush strokes of polish perfectly even. Lying on my bed as the humid air wafts gently around my bedroom, being massaged by my massagewallah with homemade ylang ylang, lavender and sandalwood oil. Walking into a private party and being overwhelmed by the welcome from virtual strangers, making friends all night long and engaging in long and earnest conversations with complete strangers. Watching the sunrise over Bombay's coastline, seeing the light gradually turn from indigo to the brightest baby blue. Sitting in the office, listening to the heated debates emanating from every corner, one moment in English, the next in hindi and then an indecipherable mix. Dancing to the latest hindipop remixes, pretending to be a bollywood star, grinding and bumping and preening. Stuck behind a lorryload of boys chanting, smiling and waving, as they transport their ganesha idol to the sea for immersion. Sitting in the back of a crowded movie theatre, as the cellphones ring, the conversations get louder, the cheers and moans annotate every moment of the hero and heroine's burgeoning love affair. The list is simply endless. And at every moment, every time these small events take place, they add to the emotional connection I hold for this city.

Men in Crisis?

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, a beautiful princess, hidden away from an exciting social life, parties and strong handsome young men by less attractive women all jealous of her beauty, waited sweetly and patiently for her prince to come. And come he did, galloping through the dust and the mud to sweep his lady off her delicate feet. Broken free from her chains, the princess flashed a glimpse of her pearly white teeth through rosebud pink lips, sank gratefully into the strong, capable arms of her prince, and was carried away on his sturdy white charger to a life of happy ever after. Long gone are those uncomplicated, fairytale days when women sat at home simpering sweetly and waiting to be romanced and taken care of by a strong, financially independent prince. The waiting and sighing and fluttering of eyelids was all part of a complicated but necessary ritual designed for women to prove their innocence, test their man’s endurance and finally bag that big, expensive wedding, frilly meringue dress and a series of beautiful children to fill that fabulous house. All clear symbols of a woman cherished, adored and cared for, and the envy of her less fortunate single girlfriends. These were the good old simple days. When men were men – true to their hunter gatherer roots, brave, fearless protectors of the weaker, fairer, emotionally dependent fairer sex, in a land where sharply defined roles provided behavioural guidance for both men and women. We are moving into a world where traditional gender based roles are shifting, and where conventional codes of masculine and feminine conduct are becoming hazy and obscure. For now women are more driven than ever before, often making more money than their partners, moving quickly up the career ladder and through the so called glass ceiling which limited women’s progress in a male dominated workplace. Working women are fast becoming economically independent, juggling their lives, and thus moving away from the emotional dependence which they once had on men. No longer simply defined by their reflection in the eyes of the beloved, women are redefining themselves and their sense of self worth. We can no longer rely on archaic stereotypes to guide us through a modern world where the sexes are not only battling, but often reversing gender typecasting. Conscious that they no longer need to rely on a man for financial or even emotional security, women are raising their standards, realizing that they can afford to be fussy, and that there is simply no need to settle for second best any more. According to Esther Daswani, former model and Mumbai socialite, “Women have grown incredibly, become aware of themselves. They are looking good, they are confident, they are walking into jobs. At a party all the women are looking fabulous, all the men are standing pot bellied at the bar, talking about business. Women are leaving men behind”. In the post “Sex and the City” era, its no longer embarrassing to be single, and women are holding out for an intellectual and physical equal. Gone are the days when fat balding unattractive men could count on a bulging wallet and a hefty bank account to secure them a pretty partner - these days its men who are being left on the shelf. Marriages are happening later and later, if at all, and its hardly surprising that the birth rates in Asia are at an all time low. Most men rhapsodise (in theory) about a woman who knows what she wants and who doesn’t require endless games, long convoluted and expensive courtships, and the frustration of having to wait until marriage to consummate the relationship. No longer stigmatized by the archetypal virgin-whore paradigm, women are experimenting sexually, calling the shots in bed and moving through casual sex partners. A woman can easily meet a man in a bar, take him home, have sex with him, and quietly slip out in the morning, leaving a note behind her if she feels like it. The modern woman is not content to dumb down her natural intelligence to appear sweet, helpless and in need of protection. Women have demanding standards, emotionally and physically, and they are enjoying the feeling of being in control. With this clear shift in the delineation of roles, with the move to sexual and economic equality, men are no longer in control when it comes to the dating game. The boundaries of control and responsibility are shifting even for men already settled in relationships. As their careers take off, women are driving themselves to excel in the workplace, putting in long hours, and men are having to take on more responsibilities at home – organizing meals, and even looking after the children. It feels an unnatural and unwelcome change for many men and it causes huge friction in many homes. Women still juggle their roles, balancing work and family life, but gone are the days when a man could return from a hard day in the office and expect a hot meal to be waiting on the table. These days women are expecting their man to take their turn in the kitchen, to give them a soothing backrub after the stresses and strains of their working day, and to be a willing listener as the events of the day are sifted through. One would logically expect this new female confidence, self sufficiency and the resultant balance in the way relationships are playing out to be a positive and progressive development. Men can now date strong, intelligent women without having to pile on the charm or play out the long waiting game. They no longer have to be prepared to invest emotionally in every relationship – sometimes a girl just wants sex without strings, and isn’t afraid to ask for it. Finally husbands can share the burdens of managing a household and caring for kids. Men no longer have all the pressure of climbing the career ladder and succeeding in the workplace. Plus, they can confide in their autonomous and emotionally stable partner who not only knows what she wants from life, but understands the societal pressures to succeed in the workplace and before one’s peers. But this new world of fast changing gender stereotypes is fraught with angst. Men seem to be navigating this new territory with difficulty. Not only have men always been confused about what women really want, but now they are bewildered and unsure about how to behave, how to respond, how to deal with conflicting demands. Some women use their emancipation to conveniently change roles whenever it suits them, a seemingly random act which only serves to confuse men used to consistency and sweetness. Indian men in particular, used to women playing traditional roles, find this behavioural to and fro-ing confusing. According to Niketan Madhok, model, “As women are becoming more financially independent, they become more demanding. They are not always balanced. Some women have lost it! 10 years ago men were getting away with bad behaviour. Now we’re seeing similar traits in some women”. The new man is expected to be simultaneously strong and vulnerable, generous and successful, macho and now metrosexual, unshaven and wearing a pink shirt, but the confusing part is working out when to turn on which button. Your average guy is no longer sure what he’s supposed to be, and often too steeped in years of conditioning and social stereotyping to be able to make a smooth transition into this brave new world. Many male egos simply cannot cope with being displaced, with handing the breadwinning baton to the traditionally more passive female, for this has defined and shaped his very identity for centuries. Even today earning less than a woman is socially unacceptable for many men. Whilst there are some men secure enough in themselves and in their own abilities to be able to proudly applaud their wife’s achievements, there are other, less confident men, who battle with a confusing emotional rollercoaster of hurt, frustration, bitterness and depression. For these men there’s a crisis of masculinity, and a feeling of being threatened by women’s emancipation. According to Toffael Rashid, Global Marketing Manager for Unilever - “For men who are secure – its great to finally meet women who are challenging, substantial, and not just a pretty face. But for insecure men – this emancipation threatens the only thing they had to fall back on. Now they have to woo and win their woman, and often they get knocked back”.Women have always had support systems, and been able to express and share their emotions – with their girlfriends, their mothers, their peers. Men on the other hand bottle their feelings up, more often than not turning to drugs or alcohol to vent their frustration. Undermined by women financially, outsmarted by women from college days onwards, and finally asked to measure up to ever increasing standards, many men simply cannot cope. According to Anthony Clare, author of “Masculinity in Crisis”, ‘Suicide is between two and five times more common in men than in women in Europe. The rates of male suicide in all age groups and in most countries have shown a striking increase over the past 30 years, and this is most dramatic in the 15-24 year age group’ The rate of change which male and female roles are going through leaves one wondering where this gender bending phenomenon will end up. Right now, women are at a developmental stage in building their own emotional and financial independence. They are assertive to an extent, but they haven’t lost their femininity. They like to be in control, but they also like to be looked after. Men are hanging on by their (manicured) fingernails, and except in extreme cases, seem to be managing to keep up with the rate of female change. But just how far will this change and its emotional ramifications go? Women, according to some men, are becoming more and more emotionally manipulative. They are using and abusing their new found freedom, demanding attention when it suits them – choosing to turn the emotional tap on an off according to their whims, and even resorting to infidelity. According to Niketan Madhok, “this is the price women are paying for not handling independence in a mature manner. They are not handling themselves well, and they need to understand why. They need to think about the motive behind that financial security – is it to give you confidence and a strong personality, or to give you the liberty to screw around? You would expect an independent man to be faithful to you, and this is what you should do”. Women should accept and understand that its difficult for a guy who has been used to being in a dominating position to suddenly turn around and accept a new status quo overnight. Its tough on the ego to see an intelligent, smart, savvy socially conscious women flying high, when you’ve been used to being calling all the shots. Especially when that successful woman is rejecting your advances, or has suddenly ended a relationship when you thought everything was going well. Women are also going to have to learn to balance their lives. Whilst men may be struggling to cope with the stresses of internalizing their emotions, according to Niti Patel, successful Mumbai based boutique owner, “indian women should not forget the basic Indian values. We have been taught simple, good ethics, and for lots of women, a bit of arrogance tends to come in, which can be dangerous. I’ve been married for 5 years, and it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give my husband respect. Balance and respect is key in any relationship”. Certainly things have come a long way since our princess sat wistfully and prettily in her ivory tower waiting for her prince to come along. But if women jump too fast towards financial and emotional independence, want success on their terms in the office and in relationships, want to call the shots whilst being cherished and adored, earn a fat salary yet expect a man to pay the bills, then life is going to be one long battle of the sexes. The ideal is to find the middle ground, a balance between men and women which complements rather than contradicts, plays to each other’s strengths and brings out the best. Now maybe that’s a fairytale.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

Into the groove

So Beloved and I have slipped into a comfortable routine ... involving my leaving work on time (working all the way home in the car to assuage the guilt trip which pervades DESPITE my hours exceeding the requirement anyway) reaching home and showering the office grime away, pouring a glass of wine if its a Monday (makes contemplation of four more days til the weekend more bearable) Thursday or Friday, and working out which DVD to watch. Sounds possibly a bit dull to those who inhabit partyland, but having been a long term resident of planet partytiltheweehours, I'm kind of lovin it. Nothing like snuggling with a cool DVD and a hot Beloved. 

I've never found it easy to shift gear from work to home, relax and chill without constantly checking phone, Blackberry and laptop ... but now I'm realising that a personal life without those props is not only desirable but healthy, in all senses of the word. Yes, I do still succumb to a crafty Blackberry check before bed, and sometimes whip out the laptop just in case a Very Important Mail has landed in the inbox (almost never) but I'm getting better at managing work and play. Cutting off the physical dependency is one thing, but quitting the emotional tie of the office is something else entirely. 


Monday, August 18, 2008

On Big Brother, Bigg Boss .. and more

2 weeks later ... and I am still on the subject of crap TV. Though crapness is always relative, I'm still avidly checking out the latest Big Brother UK on You Tube. The marketeers are smart .. very smart. One fix was all it took to create the addiction .. the opening episode, where all the wannabes parade and primp and pose ... which had me hooked, and racking up thousands of rupees worth of You Tube downloads (I kid you not). 

So with my Big Brother fixes limited to downloading ONLY on a Friday night (eviction night), I was completely over excited to see that Jade Goody was to enter the Bigg Boss house (the limp Indian equivalent, now into its second series on Viacom's latest GEC the misspelled Colors). So, now I'm hooked onto Bigg Boss, and I haven't even started watching it yet (first episode was last night .. but I forgot to turn on). So I went onto the website today ... aaagh it was awful, misspelt, bland and a total disappointment .... and not only that but the opening episode when they all trip merrily into the house WASN"T EVEN TELEVISED ... er the logic???? So someone missed a trick, and the chance to create an addict ... but maybe tonight's episode will do that. Stay posted for the writeup. 


Sunday, July 27, 2008

Crap TV and great DVDs

ooooo blogging is so great. I'm so glad I have returned to the blogosphere, somehow capturing all the triviality of life is somehow more meaningful when attached to a url. Anyway, what's on my mind right now, apart from the wedding of course, is TV. Beloved and I spend hours glued to various TV serials, which we discover, watch obsessively until they are over and we are left bereft hanging on until the release of the next series. So far this year we've been through 3 Seasons each of House, Grey's Anatomy and Prison Break,  Seasons One of Heroes, 3 Seasons of Lost (which bored me eventually), 2 Seasons of Life on Mars and finally Ashes to Ashes, which is wonderful. The latter saw the Beloved popping his Brit TV Series cherry, prior to that it had only been Americana but with the help of the subtitles, he's loving Gene Hunt and his Mancunian dry as a bone, offensive wit. 

So now we are on to Brothers & Sisters, a US series which took us a few episodes to get into, and a while to get over the lollipop headed Calista Flockhart, but which now has us both gripped (and a record breaking 8 episodes last night ... er 8 x 42 minutes thats er .... ). The saga of an American family beset by atypical self loathing and introspection, and all the drama of a nation obsessed with itself (complete with storylines wound around 9/11, Iraq and New Republicanism) but its enthralled us already. 

I just wish that india's plethora of channels would show some decent TV. Last week saw the launch of yet another GEC (General Entertainment Channel), catering for the masses with its one music show (check), one reality show (Bigg Boss 2 AND Fear Factor, check check) and its desi mythological yarn (something about Lord Krishna). With a reported 4crores (USD 1 million) spent in marketing in Bombay alone, the hoardings are full of it. 

Its Raining Again ....

So this, my 5th monsoon season in bombay, seems a little less taxing than in previous years. Maybe its just tougher for a single girl to navigate the rains, perhaps I'm just not partying as much as before, and the meaning of 'romantic rains" has suddenly hit home. I used to scoff at my indian friends who waxed eloquently about the romance, the mists, the opportunities to cuddle up and drink hot chai and eat fried pakoras ... claiming that no Brit could ever appreciate the rains after years of feeling persecuted by the rain god. But now, I kind of see what they meant. The monsoon season is an excuse to cuddle up and be romantic, and an unnecessary interruption for anyone who doesn't need, want or have that option. 

Its interesting how the rain has pervaded a national consciousness and become almost an ally in managing life's challenges. Being a few minutes late for meetings which is anyway normal in the land of IST (India Standard Time) stretches into hours of delay, caused by waterlogging (or "waterclogging: as its oft referred to) and the fear of a 2005 flood is never far from the mind of any Mumbaikar once the clouds open up. Paranoia (understandably) sends office workers scuttling home, images of Mumbai afloat and the death of hundreds still fairly fresh in the mind. Yesterday was the anniversary of "26/7", the flooding which brought Bombay to a standstill and created havoc in the lives of so many. Papers were full of it, and the rains fell heavily in commemoration.  Its tiresome if you are trying to manage a busy schedule with the kind of punctual inner clock which I seem to be unable to shake off, and I find myself unable to relax when the rain messes up my carefully planned schedules, but then again, sitting on the couch earlier this evening with a cup of tea (which has since been replaced with a glass of red wine) and snuggling up to my beloved, watching Brothers and Sisters on TV and hearing the rain lash against the windows makes me more appreciative of this annual ritual. Rains, bring em on. 

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Couture ... and all that ....


Found a sweet sounding dressmaker via the internet, in Bandra. V and I went to check her out (helps if he comes along, to help manage any potential 'white skin syndrome' - ie the miraculous ability for any goods or services in India to double in price when the negotiatee is a foreigner). She showed us into her lovely, albeit dusty Bandra drawing room, all musty smelling faded grandeur, and proudly showed her the albums of her 'creations'. Hundreds and hundreds of the sweetest catholic girls, squeezed into yards of shiny, frilly, lacy, beribboned, sequinned ... monstrosities. I know its difficult when you are getting married in a country which frowns on off the shoulder, but overdoing the frippery is not the answer. Anyway, we politely turned our back on that option and then the internet threw up up another option ... a really funky chick who just gets it (and can produce my dress, bridesmaids dresses and all). So I picked the design, asked a little nervously about the cost and was very relieved to find that the wedding gown will cost me less than a handbag in England. Or not far off, at least. 

Next stop, fabric shop .... acres of gorgeous material - silk and chiffon and selected the most beautiful regal purple shades for the bridesmaids dresses .... have sent a bunch of designs to the girlies and asked them to choose and send their measurements .... and the price of said gorgeous fabric ....??? Roughly 1.50 pounds a metre .... gotta love India. 

 

Sunday, July 6, 2008

A date change ....

So we picked the prime date of the year for an Indian wedding ... bang smack in the middle of the auspicious season for hindus .. luckily the beloved is a Christian and so we were able to shunt the date. And happily also in time, as none of the guests who'll be winging their way from Europe have yet booked tickets .... so we are now done and dusted with downpayment made to the Military club of Calcutta ... for an unkempt patch of green which right now looks like a field which desperately needs a mow, but which I am assured will be transformed into a heavenly wedding venue once the decoration wallahs have had a go. We've also booked a guesthouse near the house and the venue for all the firangis to put up in, so that's another thing done. Now I really have to turn my attention to ... the dress. I was kind of thinking ... dress vs saree .... but I think I'll keep it Western for the wedding ceremony and desi for the evening reception. Looking forward to dressing up all the girlfriends in sarees also .... 

Vivek and I went to a wedding on Friday evening. I had hoped for some inspiration but it was not forthcoming in a traditional indian wedding - booze free, vegetarian and full of people popping in and out to wish the bride and groom, stuffing food into face, and running away. Guests coming to our bash will be forced to sit through a whole round of speeches, and then coerced to strut their stuff on the dancefloor. Vivek has booked a rocking band - friends of his who I saw play in Calcutta and they are just awesome. 

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Becoming Desi - the launch

A return to blogspace, and an attempt to chart the next few weeks, months and beyond as I navigate the previously unchartered waters of marriage to become officially desi. Though an indiaphile through and through, with 5 years under my belt, I've yet to officially seal the deal. Marrying Vivek means taking an Indian name, becoming a Person of Indian Origin, formalising my relationship with this country as well as my beloved.