Monday, September 26, 2005
I don’t know if the drag queen aesthetic that seems to predominating here is a conscious or unconscious choice but I have noted that Indian magazines are crazy about M.A.C. cosmetics and gush about them at every turn, and most of the cover looks are carried out with the help of M.A.C. products. Now, if I’m not mistaken, wasn’t that fairest drag queen of them all, Ru Paul, the ambassador for the company when they first launched? And I’m quite sure that I have seen people I have seen perform in drag shows manning the M.A.C. counters in places like Macy’s in New York. If you have a way with sparkly eyeshadow, it’s as good a look to aspire to as any, but there is something quite amusing about women impersonating men who impersonate women. non-sequitur
Wednesday, September 21
This McDonald’s, though, is so chi-chi. They separate their waste into biodegradable and non – doesn’t it all just get mixed up again when it’s taken away? I can’t imagine that waste stays sorted here – and is full of hip kids and middle class men and women talking on cell phones and giggling. Once I saw what looked like an entire cadre of lower-level political party members dressed in trademark white pajama and kurta.
The only thing on the menu that is the same, thankfully, is the fries. And they really do taste the same as the ones in New York. In a complete non-sequitur, for anybody who read the article on traffic and flyovers, you might be interested in a post by an Indian journalist about how disconcerting it is when a familiar city becomes unfamiliar. And on this page you can see a picture of the nine-lane clover leaf flyover on Ring Road by the All India Institute of Medical Sciences. Sunday, September 18 Lots of anniversaries this weekend: my sister’s birthday, three months to the day of my arrival in India and one month to the day of my parents arrival.
The car is compact but high so you can get a good view of all the other cars, and its gears are really easy. Maybe too easy -- you can practically start the car in fourth gear. But, even so, driving here is such a nightmare. Sometimes I just feel like taking my hands off the steering wheel and letting the car go. In fact, keeping my hands on the steering wheel is very deceptive because it gives me (and my passengers) the idea that I have some control about what’s going to happen. And really I have none. I am the first to concede that I am not a particularly good or predictable driver. My spatial perception is very poor. And I’m very variable – I tend to speed up and slow down and wobble in my lane. But at least I try to keep to a lane. It is very stressful to have to adjust for people who overtake from the left as well as the right, or cut across three lanes diagonally without indicating. But the worst is the people, including kids, who will run from the median and cross three lanes of traffic going at 50 kmph or more. It just makes me want to cry. But since I've been learning to drive for only about 12 years, come what may, I have to leave India this time knowing how to drive well. Correction. Make that knowing how to drive fearlessly. Having been both a driver and a pedestrian under difficult circumstances, I am struck by how easily it is to change teams and forget one's former allegiances. Whenever I walk anywhere, I feel angry when cars don’t slow down when they see people crossing. When I’m feeling particularly feisty, I dawdle in front of them. (Actually, to be honest, I’ve only ever done that in the U.S., not here. Once I tried to do this “talk to the hand” tactic that some people use here to stop traffic and cross but a big orange truck was coming towards us and it sped up and I panicked and almost pushed my father under it. He was very angry.) Also, when I walk, I feel the people in the cars are alien beings, and the cars themselves are hostile beasts – don’t they sometimes look like sharks when they’re all lined up at a red light? But as a driver, I don’t remember every had a sense of kinship with the crazy people darting out of the bushes and in front of high-speed traffic. Don’t they know they could get run over? I feel like they’re trying to do me an injury, or being willful, by crossing like that. And they never look around them to see if cars are coming, or walk on one side. Why don’t they just keep out of the way?
In fact, I have a strong suspicion we live in Uttar Pradesh, the poorest, most populated state in the union.
Wednesday, September 7 Every city has a time of day when it’s at its best and for Delhi that time is 7 a.m. I would never wake up at this time of my own accord, but now that I’m being forced to, it's a revelation. The streets are blissfully empty, the air is fresh, there’s no traffic and all the freshly scrubbed schoolchildren in their school uniforms make the city somehow seem old-fashioned and much more peaceable than at any other time of day. It reminds me vaguely of a city I used to know and like.
My mother is very depressed about her neighborhood because it is on the other side of a very polluted river and located next to refugee colonies she had only ever come across in the newspaper. Also, the local markets are unpaved and quite different from the upscale markets she used to frequent. To wit: Saturday, September 3 One must be a very dedicated lover of the arts here to attend plays, concerts and the like. I went to see an opera at Siri Fort Auditorium on Friday and hope not to return very soon. I had already been forewarned that if you have a cellphone on your person you will not be allowed in so I had left all my phones at home (I now have two, one personal and one for work, and I can’t quite figure out how to juggle the two). This policy might seem draconian but really, like the two-foot high pavements that are mean to deter drivers from parking there or running over poor people, it is just a nod to the realities of life in Delhi. If cellphones are allowed in people will use them.
“Since I have no lighter, can’t I take in the cigarettes,” I asked. To which the woman retorted, “You can always ask for matches from someone.” Um … haven’t they all being confiscated? I posed this question to the lady and lacking a reply she glared at me but let me keep the pack. My fears that I would be shut out of the first act of the 7 p.m. show because I had arrived at exactly seven were completely unfounded. I had plenty of time to look around for my friends. Peering down from the elevated Rs. 300 seats, I spied them in the Rs. 500 section, which was far from being sold out as we had told. The show didn’t get under way till about 7.45 p.m., after a severely admonishing message directed towards those who had managed to smuggle cellphones in and begging the rest of us not to hop around from seat to better seat during the performance. At the best of times I tend to get distracted during performances, but this time it was especially hard to know what to watch: the epic drama on stage or the one going on in the aisles. All through the first act people kept coming in. Barely having sat down they would up and change seats, at which point the intrepid ushers would dart forward and try to force them to sit down again. These pitched battles went on for the entire three hours, often entirely blocking the audience’s view of the stage. The leisurely pace at which people occupied their seats was matched inversely by the rapidity with which they departed them at the end of the performance, with the result that when the curtain rose for the last time and the cast came forward expecting a rousing round of applause, the theater was almost empty. If the theater was empty, naturally the parking lot must be full, thus we had a 20-minute wait to get out again.
We also spent a great deal of time looking for cars, both at showrooms and second-hand ones, where I found that being a woman makes it harder to buy a car. In between all this, I managed to enter the corridors of power. After days of phone calls to officials dealing with transportation went unanswered (I was working on an article on Delhi traffic which you can read here), I realized that I would have to spend a few days roaming around the Delhi Secretariat where the city’s government officials sit. Incidentally, they have a very nice cafeteria where idlis can be had for Rs. 10.
I was ushered from the outer waiting room to an inner waiting room, then to the further seats in the minister’s own office and finally to a chair right in front of him. The interviews themselves only lasted about five minutes, but during the waiting I was able to overhear some interesting conversations, including one where the minister in question paled at being asked to appear in front of a live audience on a television show to be held in an empty field in a neighborhood that is having electricity problems. “What sort of audience? Not people off the street?” he asked the television crew, in horror.
After spending my last two weeks of unemployment in this fashion I realized that as long as I am in India, there is only one place where I can really put up my feet with a nice cup of tea and read the newspaper from cover to cover: At work.
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