Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's Blog, page 158
July 7, 2013
Women In Fairy Tales Part One: The Frog Princess
Once upon a time there was a prince who was told to shoot an arrow and find his bride and he did and he found a frog at the other end and he was like, "I don't want to marry a frog!" but his dad was like, "Dude, that's too bad, but you know, it's not like this is some completely arbitrary way of finding a bride, the arrow method has been tried and tested, so you will marry that goddamn frog." And his
brothers had rich beautiful human brides and they were like, "Ha ha, sucks to be you" and everyone was unhappy. Except the frog apparently.
And then the dad king said, "Hey, it's not enough that my sons have to marry girls that they basically catch with their arrows, let's make it a True Test Of Woman Skills, so make me some bread." And the prince was very sad and his amphibian wife was like, "Dude, chill, just leave me to it, you'll have it in the morning." As soon as he left, she kicked off her frog skin and called for her servants, because OBVIOUSLY, you can't do that without help and made a lovely shirt and it was the Best. Shirt. Ever and the other wives were jealous, and the king didn't help matters much by saying, "Um, you guys suck and Froggy is my favourite" because I think we're establishing that he was a really good parent.
So the next test of Woman Skills was the bread making and this time the rich chicks (who suck because they're not magic frogs, so let's hate them) watched their sister-in-law, but she saw what they were up to, and instead of being all, "Okay, let's do this together" did a really mean and bitchy thing and threw her dough into the fire. Women are really horrible to other women sometimes, but it wasn't really her fault, because as the frog she was working with some disadvantages. ANYway, so the other two princesses produced burnt pieces of dough, and the frog had some awesome MasterChef type sugared loaf and everyone was like, "We want frogs!" and there was suddenly a lot of human-amphibian marriages in that kingdom.
And then the king was all, "I'm going to have a party and your wives had better be presentable" and the other two princes were all, "SCORE!" because they had trophy wives and what is housekeeping but an old fashioned accomplishment and a man needs a wife who is perfect in the kitchen AND the drawing room. So the prince was very sad and his frog said, "Chill, I'll come, but I'll be a bit late, and the thunder will be my chariot" and then at the party there was thunder and lo and behold, the frog was actually a lovely lady and everyone at the party said, "Your wife's HOT" and the other two princesses, fearing for the slim foothold they had in that household, decided to do as she did, which was put chicken bones up one sleeve and dregs of wine up another.
But when she waved her sleeves, a stream came out of one and swans came out of the other, whereas the sisters-in-law just got their bones and wine in the king's face and he sent them out and their husbands were really pissed and they probably had really bad marriages afterwards, but we don't know because that's where their story ends.
But the prince ran back into the bedroom and saw the froggy skin where she had discarded it and was like, "FUCK inner beauty" and tossed it in the fire because no one had ever taught him that a woman's body belonged to her alone and it was not for him to burn her frogginess, it was her choice, entirely.
So the frog-lady came back and said, "OMG, what have you done? In three days, I would've been seventeen, and we could have been married sans frog and now I have to go and live out my curse because I was cleverer than my dad and he couldn't bear it and cursed me, so goodbye forever."
To rescue her, the prince had to prove he was a good person by not killing animals who rewarded him for NOT killing them by helping him out and then she was free, and probably learned how to be a bit stupid when talking to men so that the curse was never put on her again, because this is how we teach women that being too smart can be bad for you.
The End
PS: I made a Tumblr, please go look at it, it's funny!
brothers had rich beautiful human brides and they were like, "Ha ha, sucks to be you" and everyone was unhappy. Except the frog apparently.
And then the dad king said, "Hey, it's not enough that my sons have to marry girls that they basically catch with their arrows, let's make it a True Test Of Woman Skills, so make me some bread." And the prince was very sad and his amphibian wife was like, "Dude, chill, just leave me to it, you'll have it in the morning." As soon as he left, she kicked off her frog skin and called for her servants, because OBVIOUSLY, you can't do that without help and made a lovely shirt and it was the Best. Shirt. Ever and the other wives were jealous, and the king didn't help matters much by saying, "Um, you guys suck and Froggy is my favourite" because I think we're establishing that he was a really good parent.
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So the next test of Woman Skills was the bread making and this time the rich chicks (who suck because they're not magic frogs, so let's hate them) watched their sister-in-law, but she saw what they were up to, and instead of being all, "Okay, let's do this together" did a really mean and bitchy thing and threw her dough into the fire. Women are really horrible to other women sometimes, but it wasn't really her fault, because as the frog she was working with some disadvantages. ANYway, so the other two princesses produced burnt pieces of dough, and the frog had some awesome MasterChef type sugared loaf and everyone was like, "We want frogs!" and there was suddenly a lot of human-amphibian marriages in that kingdom.
And then the king was all, "I'm going to have a party and your wives had better be presentable" and the other two princes were all, "SCORE!" because they had trophy wives and what is housekeeping but an old fashioned accomplishment and a man needs a wife who is perfect in the kitchen AND the drawing room. So the prince was very sad and his frog said, "Chill, I'll come, but I'll be a bit late, and the thunder will be my chariot" and then at the party there was thunder and lo and behold, the frog was actually a lovely lady and everyone at the party said, "Your wife's HOT" and the other two princesses, fearing for the slim foothold they had in that household, decided to do as she did, which was put chicken bones up one sleeve and dregs of wine up another.
But when she waved her sleeves, a stream came out of one and swans came out of the other, whereas the sisters-in-law just got their bones and wine in the king's face and he sent them out and their husbands were really pissed and they probably had really bad marriages afterwards, but we don't know because that's where their story ends.
But the prince ran back into the bedroom and saw the froggy skin where she had discarded it and was like, "FUCK inner beauty" and tossed it in the fire because no one had ever taught him that a woman's body belonged to her alone and it was not for him to burn her frogginess, it was her choice, entirely.
So the frog-lady came back and said, "OMG, what have you done? In three days, I would've been seventeen, and we could have been married sans frog and now I have to go and live out my curse because I was cleverer than my dad and he couldn't bear it and cursed me, so goodbye forever."
To rescue her, the prince had to prove he was a good person by not killing animals who rewarded him for NOT killing them by helping him out and then she was free, and probably learned how to be a bit stupid when talking to men so that the curse was never put on her again, because this is how we teach women that being too smart can be bad for you.
The End
PS: I made a Tumblr, please go look at it, it's funny!
July 3, 2013
Reading list, July week one.
I've been reading SO MUCH lately, that I thought I really should get it all down somewhere, make notes and tell myself how much I love a certain book. See, while the Kindle is great, fantastic, life changing, I can't put down a book I've loved half way through, gaze at its cover adoringly, run my finger up the spine, all the weird kinky things people who love books more than other people do to their books. Buying physical books however makes you face the problem of waiting to have it. Downloads are instant. I love instant. Priscilla, Queen of the Maggi.
So, here's what's kept me up and curled in armchairs over the past two weeks.
The Madness Underneath & The Name Of The Star by Maureen Johnson, who you have probably come across if you looked at the cool Cover Flip project. Kind of like Buffy meets Ghostbusters, an American girl goes to school in London, "sees" things, and joins a young team of cops fighting supernatural crime. I can't say much more without giving it away, but HURRAH Maureen. *claps*
(Buy
The Interestings
by Meg Wolitzer which is basically this year's Gone Girl. No kidding, everyone is reading it and recommending it to other people, so let me add my voice to the fray. It begins and you think, "Oh I've read this story" (two examples: The Secret History and Special Topics In Calamity Physics) because the Interestings are a group of young, precocious teens at a camp for precocious teens, but then it's so much more epic as it spans their lives from 15 to 55, disease and deaths, 70s and 80s and 90s and noughties, and honestly, it's quite a deep and intense exploration of people and love and lives. (Buy here.)
Some Girls Are by Courtney Summers is the ultimate, ULTIMATE book for anyone who adored Mean Girls. See, there's a popular girl, except thanks to one fateful evening, she's no longer popular and her friends--the A group--are cruel and nobody likes her because she too used to be powerful and cruel. Read it to revist just how sucky high school was for some of us. (Here's an old post about me, class seven, eight, nine and hating it all.)
(Buy here.)
The Ocean At The End Of The Lane
by Neil Gaiman which I probably shouldn't even mention because I've never read Gaiman before, but it was so good, I immediately went online and ordered the first volume of Sandman. I love writers who convert me to their way of things. I loved it because it was so spooky and surreal, a child's nightmare, the faraway laugh of a little boy in your dreams and you wake up and it's still haunting you, the imaginings that are still so close to those of us who haven't let go of our childhood brains completely, dark pressing in on you, imaginary friends who were so real and yet so not, it's all there in this book, so maybe don't read all alone at night in a big house whose sounds you aren't yet familiar with. (An aside: do you suppose Neil Gaiman ever got teased for his last name?)
(Buy here)
Sisterland by Curtis Sittenfeld continues my relationship with an author I've loved since her truly terrific debut, Prep. All of Sittenfeld's characters are a bit alike, reserved ladies with not too much emotion, but I like that each reserved lady has her own way of quiet rebellion. On the other hand, I'm also a bit like, "CURTIS! WRITE AN ACTIVE VOICE HEROINE!" Sisterland is about twins with ESP and how one denies it and the other uses it regularly and a sort of soft back-and-forth in time story about siblings and family.
(Buy here.)
Currently reading, but already fathoms deep in love with A.S King's Please Ignore Vera Dietz . King is like John Green with a cigarette and a raspy whiskey voice. Spot on, spot-fuckin'-on. (Buy here.)
As you can see it has been a very girly-YA month for me. I'm feeling drawn towards adolescent narratives at the moment. The stuff lined up on my Kindle for the rest of the month is going into an entirely new set of genres though: short stories, dystopian novels about poets and non-fiction books about the mouth. Interesting. I'll keep you posted.
What are you reading?
So, here's what's kept me up and curled in armchairs over the past two weeks.
The Madness Underneath & The Name Of The Star by Maureen Johnson, who you have probably come across if you looked at the cool Cover Flip project. Kind of like Buffy meets Ghostbusters, an American girl goes to school in London, "sees" things, and joins a young team of cops fighting supernatural crime. I can't say much more without giving it away, but HURRAH Maureen. *claps*
(Buy
The Interestings
by Meg Wolitzer which is basically this year's Gone Girl. No kidding, everyone is reading it and recommending it to other people, so let me add my voice to the fray. It begins and you think, "Oh I've read this story" (two examples: The Secret History and Special Topics In Calamity Physics) because the Interestings are a group of young, precocious teens at a camp for precocious teens, but then it's so much more epic as it spans their lives from 15 to 55, disease and deaths, 70s and 80s and 90s and noughties, and honestly, it's quite a deep and intense exploration of people and love and lives. (Buy here.)
Some Girls Are by Courtney Summers is the ultimate, ULTIMATE book for anyone who adored Mean Girls. See, there's a popular girl, except thanks to one fateful evening, she's no longer popular and her friends--the A group--are cruel and nobody likes her because she too used to be powerful and cruel. Read it to revist just how sucky high school was for some of us. (Here's an old post about me, class seven, eight, nine and hating it all.)
(Buy here.)
The Ocean At The End Of The Lane
by Neil Gaiman which I probably shouldn't even mention because I've never read Gaiman before, but it was so good, I immediately went online and ordered the first volume of Sandman. I love writers who convert me to their way of things. I loved it because it was so spooky and surreal, a child's nightmare, the faraway laugh of a little boy in your dreams and you wake up and it's still haunting you, the imaginings that are still so close to those of us who haven't let go of our childhood brains completely, dark pressing in on you, imaginary friends who were so real and yet so not, it's all there in this book, so maybe don't read all alone at night in a big house whose sounds you aren't yet familiar with. (An aside: do you suppose Neil Gaiman ever got teased for his last name?)(Buy here)
Sisterland by Curtis Sittenfeld continues my relationship with an author I've loved since her truly terrific debut, Prep. All of Sittenfeld's characters are a bit alike, reserved ladies with not too much emotion, but I like that each reserved lady has her own way of quiet rebellion. On the other hand, I'm also a bit like, "CURTIS! WRITE AN ACTIVE VOICE HEROINE!" Sisterland is about twins with ESP and how one denies it and the other uses it regularly and a sort of soft back-and-forth in time story about siblings and family.
(Buy here.)
Currently reading, but already fathoms deep in love with A.S King's Please Ignore Vera Dietz . King is like John Green with a cigarette and a raspy whiskey voice. Spot on, spot-fuckin'-on. (Buy here.)
As you can see it has been a very girly-YA month for me. I'm feeling drawn towards adolescent narratives at the moment. The stuff lined up on my Kindle for the rest of the month is going into an entirely new set of genres though: short stories, dystopian novels about poets and non-fiction books about the mouth. Interesting. I'll keep you posted.
What are you reading?
July 2, 2013
The best places to watch movies for free in Delhi
* I discovered
Iron Curtain
, HKV, a few months ago, when friends who do this sort of thing more than I do and are forever an inspiration, asked if I wanted to go along and watch Woody Allen's Manhattan. Lovely comfy seats, AC at just the right temperature and armrests wide enough to balance your drink--because yes, you can drink inside. I took the Good Thing again on his birthday, we watched an Argentine movie, and each time I go, I wonder why I don't more often. (Then I remember, "Oh yes, there's Hauz Khas Village outside.") The hitch is that their DVD or whatever they're using often skips, leading to a lot of "TCHAH" noises from the audience. But! Free! * All the Centres--by which I mean foreign cultural centres. But you already know this. The two best are the American Centre (sticky about security, leave everything in your car, but then, the parking situation is a bit bad, so maybe just carry your wallet + ID) and the Japan Foundation Cinema Club (where I've never been, but gosh, doesn't it look lovely? All those animated movies!)
* The Habitat Film Club often has some obscure and lovely Indian movies. Okay, this is not FREE-free, but for Rs 938 a YEAR, you get to watch movies all the time, and join workshops and things if workshops are your thing. (I personally am a bit fidgety so not an ideal workshop participant.)
* There's a place in Gurgaon called Epicentre that screens some nice movies. I don't know anything about it because I don't go to Gurgaon.
* Cine Darbaar organises a lot of the American Centre screenings, but you should keep an eye on them, because they regularly do fun shit. A Japanese animated movie festival, for example.
* Just stumbled across Enlighten in my various internet wanderings. It looks cool and spiffy, the website is slightly confusing in that hipster, intimidating way, but it looks like most events are in Bombay. Bombay! You're so cool! I miss you!
June 28, 2013
How wonderful life is, now you're in this world.
"You’re not going to see name plates decorated with gorgeous calligraphy on any of the dinner tables that I’m in charge of. And I’m not sure everyone had matching silverware. That’s not my area of expertise. What I CAN do is provide a place and an atmosphere where people, both friends and strangers, can gather and forget about all that other stuff for a few hours."
From this post on Dooce.
After a long time of being unhappy in my old flat, I had the chance to move into a home I'd been eyeing since my friends had it back in 2011. Because it's such a gorgeous place, my friends were loath to give it up, but I made sure that I was first in line if they ever did.
The nice thing about moving into a home that you used to love as a friend's home is that it's still filled with their good vibes. I can sort of sense the love that was in the flat, it welcomes me home when I turn the key, I can see their echoes in the bedroom, pottering across the kitchen, sitting in the large airy living room, it's been inhabited by people I care about, and so the house has sort of taken on their aura. There may not be such things as ghosts, but surely people leave behind a little of themselves in every place they are in a for a while?
From the balcony, looking in
The problem with moving into a NICE house, a comfortable house, is that you feel at home almost instantly, which means there was very little reason for me to unpack my boxes for oh, like TWO WEEKS.
I've become something of a serial mover, and all within the same neighbourhood. I can't even sing the praises of Nizamuddin West over other South Delhi neighbourhoods, but for some reason, this is essentially home. There are many crappy things about Nizamuddin West, not as posh as East across the road, parking, with the basti becoming prosperous and having no place to park, the little residential colony is overflowing, which leads to bad tempers, and shady elements. I almost got followed home at 8 pm the other night when I walked to my local market. And someone tried to accost me and make conversation with me in the middle of the day a few feet from my home. There are too many young men in Nizamuddin with nothing to do.
So, that's the bad part. The good part is that there's lots of random beauty. We have a tree, a massive neem, which reaches into the balcony and is full of birds and squirrels. It's attached to a Shiv temple downstairs which also has a cowshed. Yes, a real cowshed.
Cows next door
Another feature is how close everything I like is. The Good Thing thinks a good neighbourhood is one with a market IN the 'hood, but I disagree. I like markets to be at least 10 minutes away, easy to get to, but not so close that all the traffic is clogged up and there are people everywhere. I know, I used to live in Bandra and one of the lovely things about Bandra is that you basically had cupcake shops and cigarette guys living next door, but in Delhi, I'm beginning to enjoy a certain remove. The Good Thing is beginning to have a strong dislike of Khan Market so I've introduced him to other places next door--the superior Cafe Turtle in Niz East, Pig Po and Steak House in Jor Bagh, Bhogal Market for day to day. I still like Khan Market however, and so I'm glad I'm only ten minutes away.
Morning sunlight
It is the Good Thing's birthday today, and to celebrate, we had a little housewarming-meets-birthday party last night. This house has such a good vibe--I'm not joking--it truly does, that it felt like the kind of house you want to have your friends round a lot. They've been coming over the week and last night we called a lot in a collective bunch. It was a Thursday, and yet, the last people left at 3 am. We had forgotten to buy paper plates and plastic cups and yet all my china and wine glasses are intact (the only casualty was a beer bottle). All the smokers automatically stepped out on to the balcony, where I've placed a little round table and two cane chairs. This morning, the only mess was the empty glasses and plates and once those were cleaned up, I'm back to sitting in my living room as if nothing ever happened last night--except for a wine headache, but hey, you can't win them all, the house is nice but not MAGIC.
I looked around me at people being happy and drinking and eating and celebrating a random Thursday, and I was filled with a sense of well being. My parties may not be the best organised parties (everything is pretty much last minute, but it seemed to be working, the aura of the house and the people combined.
My last house made me unhappy coming home. The stairs were depressing, it was too small--actually, it wasn't that small, but it felt like it was closing in on me. I had a few parties there, but I never looked around with a sense of well being. After a while, I didn't even feel like entertaining, and I entertain a LOT.
I'm so happy also that the Good Thing was there from the beginning of this moving process. It sort of felt like co-ownership, "our" house, even though we have two different leases in two different cities. It's been a good year for us, and now we're settling in.
Cropped to protect identity
I got him this cake specially made from Ipshita's Cakes Mamma Bakes.
A friend had brought over one of her cakes for my thirtieth, and it had been really good, and I had something special in mind for my Good Thing. His all time favourite children's book is Where The Wild Things Are, and I liked the idea of him as Max sailing across the world to meet the wild things. I thought it was a good birthday wish: "many wild rumpuses!" and something to keep in mind for 32, when you're meant to be buckling down and steering straight and all that.
{The inside is red velvet. It's all finished, and that makes me sad. But, excellent cake, and she does a super job with decorating it and what not, so you should give her a shout the next time you have a special occasion. Or just want cake.}
My Good Thing. My new home. I'm almost afraid to breathe in case this will end as soon as I exhale.
You guys, I'm happy.
June 22, 2013
Notes on Hauz Khas Village & Fete de la Musique That Happened Last Night
Went to the Fete de la Musique in Hauz Khas Village yesterday. Traffic jam from the beginning of the road, all the way up to the parking lot. As we ditched our car in the earliest open spot and walked in the sweat dodging cars and hipsters, it gave me some time to ruminate on this--what once had scope to be Delhi's most urbane spot, a place where khaadi wearers and handbag swingers alike could mingle, a place where chi-chi bars opened up into street side stalls, where you could get your last drink at 2.30 in the morning after having just spent an evening listening to live music on a rooftop. Honestly, how did we manage to fuck that up, eh?
Let she who is without hipster cast the first stone.
Loads has been written about HKV since the rents started going up and the original "villagers" (who were really the people who rented FROM the original villagers) began to complain in the media about little establishments being swallowed. Some didn't even complain, simply and quietly closed the doors, never to open again. I never really felt strongly about the place when it first became trendy, but those feelings quickly grew to a deep and abiding hatred of everything it offered. I should have stuck to hating the bad parking, how suddenly everything you wanted to do was there, and no one ever wanted to go anywhere else, but instead my hate grew and swallowed all of it. I hated the twee establishments, scorned the bad menus, wondered how someone could spend so much money making a restaurant look good while not paying any attention to the food. "Do we really NEED two vintage clothes shops?" I railed, "Anyway, in India we have another word for vintage. We call it second hand."
Over the last year, partly because of work, I had to make more trips to HKV than I would like and I became intimately acquainted with hip KV more than I ever wanted to be. The anger grew: I was fiercely glad when places shut down "what can you expect from HKV?" when places caught fire "oh, but the administration is so bad". I even warned people against going there: "Death trap. Plus it's full of super pretentious people." My rage included the regulars there as well--if I saw one more kid in oversized glasses and uncombed (or TOO combed) hair, I was going to kidnap them, toss them in the boot of my car and throw them into the Yamuna. I hated it so much, I didn't see it for what it was. And now it's dying.
Let me tell you what HKV could have been. HKV could have been what it was last night. We did our long trek, dodging and jumping and holding our noses past the garbage dump. I felt the familiar "why oh why do I ever come to Hauz Khas Village" bubble up inside me already weary at how many people loved it and therefore how much of a disappointment it was going to be.
But as the evening went on, something funny happened. Through all of it, though its demise had been predicted in all the papers and the blogs and Twitter and Facebook, Hauz Khas remained resolutely charming. No, I'm serious. It was actually charming. The Fete de la Musique is something organised by the Alliance Francaise and is meant to be this totally chilled, free street music-y event where you can listen to bands on the streets and then hop from bar to bar enjoying various kinds of music. Unfortunately, the AF booked some pretty terrible bands, except for maybe, Adil & Vasundhara, who were playing at a place called Thirty Nine. Never heard of it? It's okay, last night was probably the only time since they opened that they had people lining up to get in, and going COMPLETELY against the MEANING of all that Fete de la Musique is, they were charging a cover of Rs 500 a head. Bullshit, said we, all suddenly coming round to the MEANING of HKV and ready to embrace all its hipster values (which include not paying for things). But we wound up having a pretty good night of it all in all. The Good Thing and I went to Downstairs At Zo, which is attached to Upstairs at Zo aka Zo Cafe. Now, Zo is a little old guard but still new enough that everyone was all "grumble, who let the GK1-wallahs in?" but they transformed themselves last year by opening a gig only venue, previously mentioned Downstairs At Zo, and what do you know? It's actually kinda fun, I admit grudgingly. It's small enough that it feels like a party and yet not so small that you're nose to armpit with someone who doesn't believe in deodarant. It's.. cool, okay, HKV? You got me, but the irony is, this is your wannabe Lajpat Nagar sister without the over precious interiors that is cool. Ho ho. I laugh in your face.
After, we went to Imperfecto which is ONLY over-precious interiors, but which I still like, because hey, I'm a woman and I'm allowed to be full of contradictions. I think what I like most about Imperfecto is their pretty terrace with an actual water feature, but also the round jolly chef lady who comes around table to table, often with nothing more than chicken ham, but it's the way she offers you the chicken ham that sort of makes or breaks your experience. (Also nice wine by the glass.) We had, like non-rolling stones, gathered some moss, by way of two friends I hadn't seen in while, and while meandering, met a few more. It felt a bit like HKV was throwing us a big ol' house party, people were actually smoking inside bars, and you moved from group to group, fluidly, saying hi, because you all knew the host.
Thai wisdom totally applies in this case too
That's what it was meant to be like, I think. Last night was the epitome of all the awesome HKV still had the potential to have. At Zo, we began by mocking a "Delhi" dude, in a shiny black shirt and a red baseball cap, bouncing up and down and basically doing the bhangra to the jazz music. Next to him, his "Delhi" girl, strapped into a tight bandage dress, kept giving him "sit down now, Karan" looks, until he persuaded her to get up and dance with him. And do you know? They were the only people dancing, all the other audience with their plaid caps and arm tattoos bobbed their heads into their Coronas with practiced self conciousness, any minute now, someone could be Instagramming them, any minute now they had to look either like they were enjoying themselves so much, hectic smiles and raised glasses or not enjoying themselves at all, "chee, ya, what has this place become, such locals come here."
I hope HKV therefore is like the ruined city in Mowgli's jungle. Some men built it till the jungle took it away, and the only creatures having fun there now are the monkeys. I wanna be like you-hoo-hoo, sings King Louie in the Disney version of The Jungle Book, and now I think Delhi born-and-breds are singing it to the urban elite who are running away as far as they can in the opposite direction, abandoning a palace that could, if a little care was put into it, be beautiful.
Let she who is without hipster cast the first stone.
Loads has been written about HKV since the rents started going up and the original "villagers" (who were really the people who rented FROM the original villagers) began to complain in the media about little establishments being swallowed. Some didn't even complain, simply and quietly closed the doors, never to open again. I never really felt strongly about the place when it first became trendy, but those feelings quickly grew to a deep and abiding hatred of everything it offered. I should have stuck to hating the bad parking, how suddenly everything you wanted to do was there, and no one ever wanted to go anywhere else, but instead my hate grew and swallowed all of it. I hated the twee establishments, scorned the bad menus, wondered how someone could spend so much money making a restaurant look good while not paying any attention to the food. "Do we really NEED two vintage clothes shops?" I railed, "Anyway, in India we have another word for vintage. We call it second hand."
Over the last year, partly because of work, I had to make more trips to HKV than I would like and I became intimately acquainted with hip KV more than I ever wanted to be. The anger grew: I was fiercely glad when places shut down "what can you expect from HKV?" when places caught fire "oh, but the administration is so bad". I even warned people against going there: "Death trap. Plus it's full of super pretentious people." My rage included the regulars there as well--if I saw one more kid in oversized glasses and uncombed (or TOO combed) hair, I was going to kidnap them, toss them in the boot of my car and throw them into the Yamuna. I hated it so much, I didn't see it for what it was. And now it's dying.
Let me tell you what HKV could have been. HKV could have been what it was last night. We did our long trek, dodging and jumping and holding our noses past the garbage dump. I felt the familiar "why oh why do I ever come to Hauz Khas Village" bubble up inside me already weary at how many people loved it and therefore how much of a disappointment it was going to be.
But as the evening went on, something funny happened. Through all of it, though its demise had been predicted in all the papers and the blogs and Twitter and Facebook, Hauz Khas remained resolutely charming. No, I'm serious. It was actually charming. The Fete de la Musique is something organised by the Alliance Francaise and is meant to be this totally chilled, free street music-y event where you can listen to bands on the streets and then hop from bar to bar enjoying various kinds of music. Unfortunately, the AF booked some pretty terrible bands, except for maybe, Adil & Vasundhara, who were playing at a place called Thirty Nine. Never heard of it? It's okay, last night was probably the only time since they opened that they had people lining up to get in, and going COMPLETELY against the MEANING of all that Fete de la Musique is, they were charging a cover of Rs 500 a head. Bullshit, said we, all suddenly coming round to the MEANING of HKV and ready to embrace all its hipster values (which include not paying for things). But we wound up having a pretty good night of it all in all. The Good Thing and I went to Downstairs At Zo, which is attached to Upstairs at Zo aka Zo Cafe. Now, Zo is a little old guard but still new enough that everyone was all "grumble, who let the GK1-wallahs in?" but they transformed themselves last year by opening a gig only venue, previously mentioned Downstairs At Zo, and what do you know? It's actually kinda fun, I admit grudgingly. It's small enough that it feels like a party and yet not so small that you're nose to armpit with someone who doesn't believe in deodarant. It's.. cool, okay, HKV? You got me, but the irony is, this is your wannabe Lajpat Nagar sister without the over precious interiors that is cool. Ho ho. I laugh in your face.
After, we went to Imperfecto which is ONLY over-precious interiors, but which I still like, because hey, I'm a woman and I'm allowed to be full of contradictions. I think what I like most about Imperfecto is their pretty terrace with an actual water feature, but also the round jolly chef lady who comes around table to table, often with nothing more than chicken ham, but it's the way she offers you the chicken ham that sort of makes or breaks your experience. (Also nice wine by the glass.) We had, like non-rolling stones, gathered some moss, by way of two friends I hadn't seen in while, and while meandering, met a few more. It felt a bit like HKV was throwing us a big ol' house party, people were actually smoking inside bars, and you moved from group to group, fluidly, saying hi, because you all knew the host.
Thai wisdom totally applies in this case too
That's what it was meant to be like, I think. Last night was the epitome of all the awesome HKV still had the potential to have. At Zo, we began by mocking a "Delhi" dude, in a shiny black shirt and a red baseball cap, bouncing up and down and basically doing the bhangra to the jazz music. Next to him, his "Delhi" girl, strapped into a tight bandage dress, kept giving him "sit down now, Karan" looks, until he persuaded her to get up and dance with him. And do you know? They were the only people dancing, all the other audience with their plaid caps and arm tattoos bobbed their heads into their Coronas with practiced self conciousness, any minute now, someone could be Instagramming them, any minute now they had to look either like they were enjoying themselves so much, hectic smiles and raised glasses or not enjoying themselves at all, "chee, ya, what has this place become, such locals come here."
I hope HKV therefore is like the ruined city in Mowgli's jungle. Some men built it till the jungle took it away, and the only creatures having fun there now are the monkeys. I wanna be like you-hoo-hoo, sings King Louie in the Disney version of The Jungle Book, and now I think Delhi born-and-breds are singing it to the urban elite who are running away as far as they can in the opposite direction, abandoning a palace that could, if a little care was put into it, be beautiful.
June 20, 2013
eM's list of awesome drugs & home remedies
I get sick a lot. Not sick-sick, but random infections tend to stay in my body for longer than they normally should. It's not terrible, I'm not dying, but it is annoying.
This might be related (might) but I also hate going to the doctor. Nothing against doctors, most I have met are cool and non-lecture-y, but I hate the smell, the waiting, the sick people. While my germs are elite germs, germs that stick to themselves, thankyouverymuch, it seems like every time someone coughs, their germs go scurrying across the room to me, anxious to make friends. Fuck off, germs. I don't need any more friends.
So, as a result, I've built a list of things that help me with my most recurrent ailments. I'd love for this to be a directory of failsafe drugs/home remedies, so if you have any recommendations, leave them in the comments and I'll build them into this post.
Colds (just runny noses, not fever)
D Cold Total (banned in some countries, take it sparingly, but it is like MAGIC.)
Colds (allergies)
Allegra 130 mg.
Cough
(Chesty): Honitus. This is a bit mild for some people, so just go ask for an anti-allergy cough syrup at your chemist. Usually illustrated with pictures of lungs. KNOCKS. YOU. OUT, so maybe not right before you have to drive.
(Tickly): Lozenges. I like the Vicks lozenges still, but two of my friends swear by Sualin. (It tastes disgusting but does the trick.)
Home remedy: Milk + haldi. GROSS, but instant relief.
Flu (fever, cough, cold, the works)
Johar Joshanda (get in packets at most well stocked chemists.) It's a bunch of herbs you have to boil and drink. Makes you feel better for a couple of hours at a time, so get lots.
Crocin (obviously)
You could also have a hot rum toddy, which isn't very effective, but at least you get nice and toasted and can sleep easier.
Headache
Water. No kidding. Drink lots.
UTI
I get this a LOT. Apparently it's quite common for this to be a recurrent thing, especially if you're dehydrated.
Bangshil: Ayurvedic, pop two at a time, and work in about 30-45 minutes.
Cranberry juice: By glass three, you're back to normal.
Upset stomach
Coca Cola (or something fizzy)
A friend recommends ajwain boiled in water and Pudin Hara as her two failsafes, but I've never tried either.
This might be related (might) but I also hate going to the doctor. Nothing against doctors, most I have met are cool and non-lecture-y, but I hate the smell, the waiting, the sick people. While my germs are elite germs, germs that stick to themselves, thankyouverymuch, it seems like every time someone coughs, their germs go scurrying across the room to me, anxious to make friends. Fuck off, germs. I don't need any more friends.
So, as a result, I've built a list of things that help me with my most recurrent ailments. I'd love for this to be a directory of failsafe drugs/home remedies, so if you have any recommendations, leave them in the comments and I'll build them into this post.
Colds (just runny noses, not fever)
D Cold Total (banned in some countries, take it sparingly, but it is like MAGIC.)
Colds (allergies)
Allegra 130 mg.
Cough
(Chesty): Honitus. This is a bit mild for some people, so just go ask for an anti-allergy cough syrup at your chemist. Usually illustrated with pictures of lungs. KNOCKS. YOU. OUT, so maybe not right before you have to drive.
(Tickly): Lozenges. I like the Vicks lozenges still, but two of my friends swear by Sualin. (It tastes disgusting but does the trick.)
Home remedy: Milk + haldi. GROSS, but instant relief.
Flu (fever, cough, cold, the works)
Johar Joshanda (get in packets at most well stocked chemists.) It's a bunch of herbs you have to boil and drink. Makes you feel better for a couple of hours at a time, so get lots.
Crocin (obviously)
You could also have a hot rum toddy, which isn't very effective, but at least you get nice and toasted and can sleep easier.
Headache
Water. No kidding. Drink lots.
UTI
I get this a LOT. Apparently it's quite common for this to be a recurrent thing, especially if you're dehydrated.
Bangshil: Ayurvedic, pop two at a time, and work in about 30-45 minutes.
Cranberry juice: By glass three, you're back to normal.
Upset stomach
Coca Cola (or something fizzy)
A friend recommends ajwain boiled in water and Pudin Hara as her two failsafes, but I've never tried either.
June 19, 2013
Write.
I took a poll on my Facebook page. You can view it here, and maybe even vote if you want to. Which may explain why no one commented on my Thailand travel blog (part two!) because you guys just don't want to read stuff that isn't stuff that is happening inside my head. Fair enough. (I might also suggest you follow me on Twitter because that is a LOT of head stuff.)
But I'm trying to spread out this blog a little bit. I'd like to be less personal, less day-to-day and more a repository of good writing. And I don't just mean my writing--although, I would like to do more stuff, I mean you could write too. I'm going to be taking guest contributors, and you can view more details on the Submit page.
This doesn't mean what I say is going to change. It just means that more stuff might be able to happen. It's still a personal blog--but maybe a personal blog with a few different points of view. That's nice, isn't it? I think so.
But I'm trying to spread out this blog a little bit. I'd like to be less personal, less day-to-day and more a repository of good writing. And I don't just mean my writing--although, I would like to do more stuff, I mean you could write too. I'm going to be taking guest contributors, and you can view more details on the Submit page.
This doesn't mean what I say is going to change. It just means that more stuff might be able to happen. It's still a personal blog--but maybe a personal blog with a few different points of view. That's nice, isn't it? I think so.
June 17, 2013
Thailand Diary Part Two: Oh, the shops! Also, we eat bugs
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.compulsiveconfessions.com/... style="font-size: x-small;">(Part one here)</span></a> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Drawn by chanting, we leave the backpackers behind and go
into a temple. It’s Buddha’s birthday after all, and we’re feeling a bit like
we should note the occasion. Inside the temple, I pull my scarf around bare
shoulders, signs warn us against PDA, we weren’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">going</i> to, but now the thought is in our minds. We buy incense and
flowers—“In Hong Kong,” says the small Indian voice inside my head, “The
incense was free.” But surely no one would rip you off on Buddha Day? – and
then we walk down the rows to place the offerings in front of the sleepy eyed
gold statue and I pray a little bit for a good year, love and prosperity, and I
hope it works, oh Buddha, I know it’s a bit wrong asking for prosperity in
front of a man who shunned it, but I’m doing the thing where you put it out in
front of the universe and the universe delivers. And love. No one can deny love
is.. lovely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even the gods.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;">When the evening falls, we walk through the rain towards
chanting elsewhere,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but get diverted by
a street side market, large and maze like. It’s not in the guide book, it’s so
local, that no one goes there except the Thais, and we feel like we’ve stumbled
across something underground and cool. In the maze are mobile phones—fake—and
contact lenses to make your eyes look bigger, and t-shirts, I buy two, one with
Nutella on it and the other a little one with cats. I’m turning into a cat
lady, and Thailand enables me.
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Shall we take a minute to talk about the cats? A little
Siamese crosses the road and flees when it sees us, but otherwise the cats are
friendly, accepting all offerings as if it’s their right. A white cat called
Coconut is laid across the table at a little seafood restaurant in Koh Lanta,
there’s a pregnant grey one at the Seven Eleven, with fur as soft as mist. Cats
wind themselves round posts and question mark tails on our ankles, the Thais like
cats, and that in itself, makes this a country I identify with deeply. In
Buddhism, cats are sacred creatures, and so even my own miaow miaow, who I
dearly hope has not escaped again in my absence, is holy and should be treated
with respect. Unfortunately, my interactions aren’t very respectful, more of
the delighted “HI KITTY!” variety, but I think they get it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In the market, the rain grumbles, and we shield our chicken
soup from the falling water, trying to eat as fast as we can. All we can do is
point, and pointing yields a bowl of noodles, with one chicken leg on top of
it. Later that evening, we make our way back to Khao San, by which time the
street is serving contraband alcohol, and we get some in paper cups, pretending
like we’re drinking coffee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The next day, we actually take guidebook recommendations and
try and get our shopping out of the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spend (waste) an extraordinary amount of
time in the search of a better price for the Samsung Galaxy S4, but once the
boring business of that is over with (conclusion: it’s not that much of a price
difference between Bangkok and India), we head to two more street markets at
the further end of town. Chatuchak is loud and crazy, with lanes dedicated to
exotic pets sweltering in the heat (that makes me sad) and several hat shops
(that makes me happy—and on my head as I write this, wide and floppy brimmed
lives one of them). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But then, after drifting around from one end of the market
to the other, we decide to go a little more off-the-beaten track. Granted, it
is a Planet recommendation, and the Planet has achieved mentor status at this
point. I imagine the Planet as someone with a kindly voice, who steers us in
the right direction. We’re walking down the street and the Planet says, “Why
not try that restaurant? It has a great catfish salad, even though the loos are
a bit grungy.” The Planet loses its touch a little bit later, but that could be
our fault for misinterpreting it. For now however, the Planet is everything,
and it is the Planet that suggests we stop by Talat Roi Fai. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now midsummer, proper midsummer, and
Thailand was left behind almost two weeks ago. Only two weeks! It seems like a
lifetime. In between, the monsoon descended and I moved house and in settling
in, haven’t been able to update in a while. Forgive this line break, this
hiccup, and think of me instead late at night at my dining table, low music and
a cup of green tea, fingers moving as fast as they can to tell you everything I
can remember and everything I thought I forgot. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Talat Rot Fai is an Instagrammer’s wet dream—I take as many
pictures as I can on my SLR, but (I can’t believe I’m saying this) I sort of
miss my cellphone camera and instant connection. We’ve dropped off from the
world, but around me young Thais are photographing things and suddenly, I want
to claw my way back into the world of the living, get someone to see where I
am, how cool is this? </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NRDZDoqTGvM..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NRDZDoqTGvM..." height="320" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do the next best thing: I eat a bug. In fact, we eat a cup
full of bugs. 20 baht gets you a massive scoop, so with sign language we
indicate that we’d like half, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“For ten
what get?”</i> and so the man shrugs (foreigners, eh?) and gives us the ones I
pojnt to, the least squishy looking of them all, deep fried and golden
caterpillars. But it turns out in retrospect (and retrospective Googling) they
weren’t caterpillars after all, but fried bamboo worms.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>I sort of wish I didn’t know that, worms sound so much grosser
than caterpillars, but also sort of cool. Like a dare, like a sentence you
would say at a party.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I was in Bangkok, I went to a very cool underground
retro street market, and walked around it eating a cup of fried bamboo worms. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Except it’s not really underground if it’s in the Planet,
and it’s not really very daring if every traveller to Thailand worth their salt—at
least those with adventurous palates—has tried the bugs. Maybe some even tried
the scorpions the vendors offer you with an I-dare-you look on your face. Maybe
that’s how they make their money, drunk foreigners going, “I dare you to eat
that bug.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Question: can vegetarians eat insects? I feel they are in
the fish grey area of meat. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">(Here’s <a href="http://www.bangkok.com/magazine/eatin... good article</a> on
what kind of insects to eat I found in my retrospective Googling. A review on
my bamboo worms: “<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For beginners, the most
‘friendly’ insects are probably the bamboo worms, more commonly known as ‘rod
duan’ or express train. Despite how crunchy they look, rod duan are rather
mushy, soft and nutty, similar to the silk larvae.”</span>)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I kind of fall in love with Talat Rot Fai. We wander the
flea market atmosphere, </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">check out action figures or test riding
folding bicycles or taking photos of creepy dolls in prams, everything is super
cool and super hipster including the bar we end up in, made out of the actual
station part of this abandoned train yard, and we grab a sofa and get a bottle
of Thai whiskey-rum (they call it whiskey but the label says ‘rum’, which makes
me wonder if there isn’t a separate classification in Thai). Of course, it is
Sang Som, clever reader, and we’re charged extra for a bucket of ice. Himself
wants a beer, and I begin bravely on my bottle, but soon, he’s two drinks ahead
and helps me. Everything is hysterically funny, from the public loos which cost
money to enter and how the Thai girls are all waving their hands in front of
their faces and going EW THIS IS DISGUSTING and I step in and find pretty much
the cleanest public loo I’ve ever seen in a street market with a bar attached
to it. Um. Please. Come to India before you wave your hand about like
that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will show you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true</i> smelliness and you will rejoice in
six months when you realise that there is no potty on the floor, only in the
unflushed pot. (#cleanpeopleproblems)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This is the night we also run into a bar with ladyboys and
buoyed by experimenting, watch some sad shiny strippers, but you already know
that story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The next day we are due to leave Bangkok and I’m a little
sad, it’s been so awesome,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost
don’t want to go to a beach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get pad
Thai and go to Jim Thompson’s house. “One day, we’ll move to Bangkok,” I say,
and he agrees. </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.compulsiveconfessions.com/... style="font-size: x-small;">(Part one here)</span></a> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Drawn by chanting, we leave the backpackers behind and go
into a temple. It’s Buddha’s birthday after all, and we’re feeling a bit like
we should note the occasion. Inside the temple, I pull my scarf around bare
shoulders, signs warn us against PDA, we weren’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">going</i> to, but now the thought is in our minds. We buy incense and
flowers—“In Hong Kong,” says the small Indian voice inside my head, “The
incense was free.” But surely no one would rip you off on Buddha Day? – and
then we walk down the rows to place the offerings in front of the sleepy eyed
gold statue and I pray a little bit for a good year, love and prosperity, and I
hope it works, oh Buddha, I know it’s a bit wrong asking for prosperity in
front of a man who shunned it, but I’m doing the thing where you put it out in
front of the universe and the universe delivers. And love. No one can deny love
is.. lovely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not even the gods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N3ar3I-h25s..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N3ar3I-h25s..." height="213" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;">When the evening falls, we walk through the rain towards
chanting elsewhere,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but get diverted by
a street side market, large and maze like. It’s not in the guide book, it’s so
local, that no one goes there except the Thais, and we feel like we’ve stumbled
across something underground and cool. In the maze are mobile phones—fake—and
contact lenses to make your eyes look bigger, and t-shirts, I buy two, one with
Nutella on it and the other a little one with cats. I’m turning into a cat
lady, and Thailand enables me.
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Shall we take a minute to talk about the cats? A little
Siamese crosses the road and flees when it sees us, but otherwise the cats are
friendly, accepting all offerings as if it’s their right. A white cat called
Coconut is laid across the table at a little seafood restaurant in Koh Lanta,
there’s a pregnant grey one at the Seven Eleven, with fur as soft as mist. Cats
wind themselves round posts and question mark tails on our ankles, the Thais like
cats, and that in itself, makes this a country I identify with deeply. In
Buddhism, cats are sacred creatures, and so even my own miaow miaow, who I
dearly hope has not escaped again in my absence, is holy and should be treated
with respect. Unfortunately, my interactions aren’t very respectful, more of
the delighted “HI KITTY!” variety, but I think they get it. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4QF4cHf5cw..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-p4QF4cHf5cw..." height="213" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">In the market, the rain grumbles, and we shield our chicken
soup from the falling water, trying to eat as fast as we can. All we can do is
point, and pointing yields a bowl of noodles, with one chicken leg on top of
it. Later that evening, we make our way back to Khao San, by which time the
street is serving contraband alcohol, and we get some in paper cups, pretending
like we’re drinking coffee. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The next day, we actually take guidebook recommendations and
try and get our shopping out of the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We spend (waste) an extraordinary amount of
time in the search of a better price for the Samsung Galaxy S4, but once the
boring business of that is over with (conclusion: it’s not that much of a price
difference between Bangkok and India), we head to two more street markets at
the further end of town. Chatuchak is loud and crazy, with lanes dedicated to
exotic pets sweltering in the heat (that makes me sad) and several hat shops
(that makes me happy—and on my head as I write this, wide and floppy brimmed
lives one of them). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">But then, after drifting around from one end of the market
to the other, we decide to go a little more off-the-beaten track. Granted, it
is a Planet recommendation, and the Planet has achieved mentor status at this
point. I imagine the Planet as someone with a kindly voice, who steers us in
the right direction. We’re walking down the street and the Planet says, “Why
not try that restaurant? It has a great catfish salad, even though the loos are
a bit grungy.” The Planet loses its touch a little bit later, but that could be
our fault for misinterpreting it. For now however, the Planet is everything,
and it is the Planet that suggests we stop by Talat Roi Fai. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now midsummer, proper midsummer, and
Thailand was left behind almost two weeks ago. Only two weeks! It seems like a
lifetime. In between, the monsoon descended and I moved house and in settling
in, haven’t been able to update in a while. Forgive this line break, this
hiccup, and think of me instead late at night at my dining table, low music and
a cup of green tea, fingers moving as fast as they can to tell you everything I
can remember and everything I thought I forgot. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Talat Rot Fai is an Instagrammer’s wet dream—I take as many
pictures as I can on my SLR, but (I can’t believe I’m saying this) I sort of
miss my cellphone camera and instant connection. We’ve dropped off from the
world, but around me young Thais are photographing things and suddenly, I want
to claw my way back into the world of the living, get someone to see where I
am, how cool is this? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NRDZDoqTGvM..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NRDZDoqTGvM..." height="320" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">I do the next best thing: I eat a bug. In fact, we eat a cup
full of bugs. 20 baht gets you a massive scoop, so with sign language we
indicate that we’d like half, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“For ten
what get?”</i> and so the man shrugs (foreigners, eh?) and gives us the ones I
pojnt to, the least squishy looking of them all, deep fried and golden
caterpillars. But it turns out in retrospect (and retrospective Googling) they
weren’t caterpillars after all, but fried bamboo worms.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>I sort of wish I didn’t know that, worms sound so much grosser
than caterpillars, but also sort of cool. Like a dare, like a sentence you
would say at a party.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">When I was in Bangkok, I went to a very cool underground
retro street market, and walked around it eating a cup of fried bamboo worms. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Except it’s not really underground if it’s in the Planet,
and it’s not really very daring if every traveller to Thailand worth their salt—at
least those with adventurous palates—has tried the bugs. Maybe some even tried
the scorpions the vendors offer you with an I-dare-you look on your face. Maybe
that’s how they make their money, drunk foreigners going, “I dare you to eat
that bug.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Question: can vegetarians eat insects? I feel they are in
the fish grey area of meat. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">(Here’s <a href="http://www.bangkok.com/magazine/eatin... good article</a> on
what kind of insects to eat I found in my retrospective Googling. A review on
my bamboo worms: “<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For beginners, the most
‘friendly’ insects are probably the bamboo worms, more commonly known as ‘rod
duan’ or express train. Despite how crunchy they look, rod duan are rather
mushy, soft and nutty, similar to the silk larvae.”</span>)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A7D3D2WFtek..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A7D3D2WFtek..." height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I kind of fall in love with Talat Rot Fai. We wander the
flea market atmosphere, </span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">check out action figures or test riding
folding bicycles or taking photos of creepy dolls in prams, everything is super
cool and super hipster including the bar we end up in, made out of the actual
station part of this abandoned train yard, and we grab a sofa and get a bottle
of Thai whiskey-rum (they call it whiskey but the label says ‘rum’, which makes
me wonder if there isn’t a separate classification in Thai). Of course, it is
Sang Som, clever reader, and we’re charged extra for a bucket of ice. Himself
wants a beer, and I begin bravely on my bottle, but soon, he’s two drinks ahead
and helps me. Everything is hysterically funny, from the public loos which cost
money to enter and how the Thai girls are all waving their hands in front of
their faces and going EW THIS IS DISGUSTING and I step in and find pretty much
the cleanest public loo I’ve ever seen in a street market with a bar attached
to it. Um. Please. Come to India before you wave your hand about like
that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will show you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true</i> smelliness and you will rejoice in
six months when you realise that there is no potty on the floor, only in the
unflushed pot. (#cleanpeopleproblems)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">This is the night we also run into a bar with ladyboys and
buoyed by experimenting, watch some sad shiny strippers, but you already know
that story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">The next day we are due to leave Bangkok and I’m a little
sad, it’s been so awesome,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I almost
don’t want to go to a beach. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We get pad
Thai and go to Jim Thompson’s house. “One day, we’ll move to Bangkok,” I say,
and he agrees. </span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a5llQjuMM9o..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a5llQjuMM9o..." height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<script language="javascript" src="http://rpc.blogrolling.com/display.ph..." type="text/javascript"></script><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/blogsp..." height="1" width="1"/>
May 27, 2013
Thailand Diary Part One: Ladyboys and lovely shoes
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seedy areas at night. The lights flash, the girls in a
window high above you beckon. Everywhere you go, there are murmurs in the ear
of your boyfriend, “Ping pong, ping pong?” One daring vendor even winks
obviously, says in sotto voice, “Come back alone, eh?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Walk till your new flip flops—fake Havaianas—give you large
black bruises on each foot. Buy a plaster, feel a bit traveller like with your
patched up feet. The first day, we both get a manicure and a pedicure, in the
window of a beauty parlour also advertising foot massages and oil rubs. We are
the advertisement, and once we’re propped up, for show, our feet in tubs of
lukewarm water, a girl comes in, a young blonde from Texas, who is almost home
now, after 14 months around the world. We wish we were her—except at the
beginning, not the end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The food. Some smells, on days like Sunday, turn your
stomach, when Saturday night you drunk so much, you were sitting among girls in
short skirts who touched your nose and said how beautiful it was. They twirl on
poles in front of you, smiling at themselves in the mirror, the mirror behind
them reflecting bare buttocks. On the wall a sticker says, “All of our girls on
stage are available for your enjoyment.” We are the only ones there, stumbling
in on a sort of dare to ourselves, being seated by the madam in the same
uniform of pleated skirt and blouse, except she’s 40 and the girls who wriggle
up next to you, are only 20, they say, and probably are much younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three drinks arrive, we are presented with
the bill, I’m too embarrassed to do anything except stare at the floor but he
is not shy and denies having ordered them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We stumble out as soon as we can, one drink for the prostitutes, a tip
for the madam and we’re a little more broke than we were when we started. At
least no one was peeling a banana with their vaginas. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Speaking of girls, they’re everywhere, young Thai women with
older white guys, even writing this I see a tussle behind me, a woman with long,
long black hair is disinterested in the man mauling her, but she’s still here,
holding a hotel key.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the girls,
bowing, smiling, are everywhere, but what catches my attention more are the
lady boys, who seem to be an integrated, respected part of society. Braces seem
to be a fashion among the girls, and therefore among the lady boys, last night
at a bar serviced by buff topless waiters, we get to watch a show where three
different groups of lady boys, each with an entourage of straight-ish boys, do
a little dance to a medley. One lip syncs a mash up of I Will Survive and It’s
Raining Men, and since I’m singing along heartily, she turns and serenades me.
It’s oddly lovely, and her braces glint in the strobe lights. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re staying at a boutique hostel called Lub*d. It’s not
quite the romantic holiday place I imagine, but nor is it standard business
hotel, beds made with hospital corners and someone paid to pick the
unimaginative landscape in the corridor. In fact, whoever designed the Lub*d is
nothing if not imaginative, we have the double room on top for ourselves, it’s
teeny tiny, but the sink in the bedroom is scarlet. To walk down the industrial
style stairs, you have to pass some wire and wooden dogs, the theatre room on
the first floor has a sign that says:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">PLEASE REMOVE YOUR LOVELY SHOES. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our lovely shoes are removed before all sorts of things,
even right now, writing this from a hut in Koh Lanta, my lovely shoes are in
front of the door, but more about that later, now I’m still telling you about
Bangkok, where you’ve been a million times, and you looked at me before I left
and said, “Have you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> been to
Thailand?” For that reason, I thought it would be swimming with Indians,
absolutely s-w-i-m-m-i-n-g, but the only other people I see are brown on white,
hair even darker gold, and the locals. Thai girls have not packed for a beach
holiday, so unlike me, they are modest, buttoned up all the way, but at night,
on Khao San road, they shimmy in tight bandage dresses with waist cut outs or
cropped t-shirts with cut off shorts or mom jeans. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But back to Lub*d, at 1500 baht a night, it’s cheaper and
nicer than anywhere else that got good reviews on Tripadvisor or Lonely Planet,
the staff is happy to help and it’s central enough that we can go anywhere we
like. If we chose, we could also make conversation with the barefoot
backpackers on the ground floor, but we’re a couple, and backpackers avoid
couples, we’re too on our own to be of use to anyone else. Or so I hear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as we arrive and shower, we ask to be taken to Khao
San road “Bangkok’s Pahargunj,” he explains to me, and I wonder why we have to
seek that out, but by this time it’s already 4 pm, it turns to 4 pm so very
fast when you’re on holiday, and so I follow suit. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m glad I do, because Khao San is like Bangkok Lite. We’re
reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beach</i> together, out loud
to each other right now, and we’re already at the stage of nodding familiarity
with Khao San. Anne Fadiman had a lovely essay about reading books in the
places they’re set, and how it’s a completely different pleasure, and it is!
Also, we switch up our voices, do accents when required, and reading aloud is
so much more fun than watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It happens to be a Buddha Day when we visit, the day he was
born, achieved enlightment and died, so there is no alcohol, but we do stop at
a street food vendor and get a pad thai tossed up for us, right there on the
street. Pad Thai! Can you imagine? It’s a silly joke: in China, do they just
call Chinese food, food? In Bangkok do they call an expensive restaurant dish a
street side snack? Either way, it’s delicious, and we carry it along in its
disposable container, pointing out sights while I try and not gouge out my eyes
with the chopsticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every bar is serving
coffee instead, so we stop and I fall in love with a wooden frog<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with a removable stick which you can run up
and down his spine to make frog music. I want to take it home and make frog
music for myself at night when the power goes out. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seedy areas at night. The lights flash, the girls in a
window high above you beckon. Everywhere you go, there are murmurs in the ear
of your boyfriend, “Ping pong, ping pong?” One daring vendor even winks
obviously, says in sotto voice, “Come back alone, eh?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Walk till your new flip flops—fake Havaianas—give you large
black bruises on each foot. Buy a plaster, feel a bit traveller like with your
patched up feet. The first day, we both get a manicure and a pedicure, in the
window of a beauty parlour also advertising foot massages and oil rubs. We are
the advertisement, and once we’re propped up, for show, our feet in tubs of
lukewarm water, a girl comes in, a young blonde from Texas, who is almost home
now, after 14 months around the world. We wish we were her—except at the
beginning, not the end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<a name='more'></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The food. Some smells, on days like Sunday, turn your
stomach, when Saturday night you drunk so much, you were sitting among girls in
short skirts who touched your nose and said how beautiful it was. They twirl on
poles in front of you, smiling at themselves in the mirror, the mirror behind
them reflecting bare buttocks. On the wall a sticker says, “All of our girls on
stage are available for your enjoyment.” We are the only ones there, stumbling
in on a sort of dare to ourselves, being seated by the madam in the same
uniform of pleated skirt and blouse, except she’s 40 and the girls who wriggle
up next to you, are only 20, they say, and probably are much younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three drinks arrive, we are presented with
the bill, I’m too embarrassed to do anything except stare at the floor but he
is not shy and denies having ordered them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We stumble out as soon as we can, one drink for the prostitutes, a tip
for the madam and we’re a little more broke than we were when we started. At
least no one was peeling a banana with their vaginas. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Speaking of girls, they’re everywhere, young Thai women with
older white guys, even writing this I see a tussle behind me, a woman with long,
long black hair is disinterested in the man mauling her, but she’s still here,
holding a hotel key.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, the girls,
bowing, smiling, are everywhere, but what catches my attention more are the
lady boys, who seem to be an integrated, respected part of society. Braces seem
to be a fashion among the girls, and therefore among the lady boys, last night
at a bar serviced by buff topless waiters, we get to watch a show where three
different groups of lady boys, each with an entourage of straight-ish boys, do
a little dance to a medley. One lip syncs a mash up of I Will Survive and It’s
Raining Men, and since I’m singing along heartily, she turns and serenades me.
It’s oddly lovely, and her braces glint in the strobe lights. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We’re staying at a boutique hostel called Lub*d. It’s not
quite the romantic holiday place I imagine, but nor is it standard business
hotel, beds made with hospital corners and someone paid to pick the
unimaginative landscape in the corridor. In fact, whoever designed the Lub*d is
nothing if not imaginative, we have the double room on top for ourselves, it’s
teeny tiny, but the sink in the bedroom is scarlet. To walk down the industrial
style stairs, you have to pass some wire and wooden dogs, the theatre room on
the first floor has a sign that says:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">PLEASE REMOVE YOUR LOVELY SHOES. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our lovely shoes are removed before all sorts of things,
even right now, writing this from a hut in Koh Lanta, my lovely shoes are in
front of the door, but more about that later, now I’m still telling you about
Bangkok, where you’ve been a million times, and you looked at me before I left
and said, “Have you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> been to
Thailand?” For that reason, I thought it would be swimming with Indians,
absolutely s-w-i-m-m-i-n-g, but the only other people I see are brown on white,
hair even darker gold, and the locals. Thai girls have not packed for a beach
holiday, so unlike me, they are modest, buttoned up all the way, but at night,
on Khao San road, they shimmy in tight bandage dresses with waist cut outs or
cropped t-shirts with cut off shorts or mom jeans. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But back to Lub*d, at 1500 baht a night, it’s cheaper and
nicer than anywhere else that got good reviews on Tripadvisor or Lonely Planet,
the staff is happy to help and it’s central enough that we can go anywhere we
like. If we chose, we could also make conversation with the barefoot
backpackers on the ground floor, but we’re a couple, and backpackers avoid
couples, we’re too on our own to be of use to anyone else. Or so I hear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">***</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As soon as we arrive and shower, we ask to be taken to Khao
San road “Bangkok’s Pahargunj,” he explains to me, and I wonder why we have to
seek that out, but by this time it’s already 4 pm, it turns to 4 pm so very
fast when you’re on holiday, and so I follow suit. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m glad I do, because Khao San is like Bangkok Lite. We’re
reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Beach</i> together, out loud
to each other right now, and we’re already at the stage of nodding familiarity
with Khao San. Anne Fadiman had a lovely essay about reading books in the
places they’re set, and how it’s a completely different pleasure, and it is!
Also, we switch up our voices, do accents when required, and reading aloud is
so much more fun than watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It happens to be a Buddha Day when we visit, the day he was
born, achieved enlightment and died, so there is no alcohol, but we do stop at
a street food vendor and get a pad thai tossed up for us, right there on the
street. Pad Thai! Can you imagine? It’s a silly joke: in China, do they just
call Chinese food, food? In Bangkok do they call an expensive restaurant dish a
street side snack? Either way, it’s delicious, and we carry it along in its
disposable container, pointing out sights while I try and not gouge out my eyes
with the chopsticks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every bar is serving
coffee instead, so we stop and I fall in love with a wooden frog<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with a removable stick which you can run up
and down his spine to make frog music. I want to take it home and make frog
music for myself at night when the power goes out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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May 16, 2013
If it's the weekend, I'm probably not in Delhi
By popular (which in this case means an aunt) demand, I will be doing a reading in Hyderabad this weekend. So exciting!!
Here's the invite:
Details:
HYDERABAD!!
SATURDAY MAY 18!!
6 pm!!
Landmark Bookstore, Banjara Hills!!
I'll be in conversation with Kinnera Murthy who is with a bookclub with the coolest name: The Bindass Bakwaas Bookclub. Also, like Bangalore, I will be happy to give tips to aspiring writers or anyone who would like some life advice, really. Or you know, talk about my cat.
Drinks afterwards would also be very welcome.
Come?
Here's the invite:
Details:
HYDERABAD!!
SATURDAY MAY 18!!
6 pm!!
Landmark Bookstore, Banjara Hills!!
I'll be in conversation with Kinnera Murthy who is with a bookclub with the coolest name: The Bindass Bakwaas Bookclub. Also, like Bangalore, I will be happy to give tips to aspiring writers or anyone who would like some life advice, really. Or you know, talk about my cat.
Drinks afterwards would also be very welcome.
Come?
