Jane Thomson's Blog: But I'm Beootiful!, page 14

They should have paid attention at school!!

The first time I went to India I tagged after my elder brother, squinting around (owing to the fact that I hadn’t yet discovered sunglasses) at the strangeness of it all… whole families stretched out together on the pavement, men with no legs wheeling themselves around on what, at home, we used to call ‘billycarts’, clutching kids running after picee.

But the forts and the colours and the temples dazzled me and the cripples seemed unreal, like something in a circus. They didn’t worry me.

The second time I went, I hoped to show my 12 year old son how the other half lived. He saw the poverty and squalor clearly enough and hated it. But he concluded that it was their own fault. “They should have paid attention at school” he used to say disapprovingly.

And now, the third time, I find that I can’t quite ignore the casual cruelty and brutality of this country, and I can’t convince myself that it’s nothing to do with me and just step over the bodies. In Australia I would never ignore a starving old man or dog; why am I as a tourist able to do that? It puzzles and troubles me.

I feel responsible for not acting, guilty, and yet, aside from the occasional cash donation to a beggar, I still don’t act. I feel that if I ever come again, I must come prepared to do what I can.

Next time.

Behind the glass

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It’s sometimes horrifying to me to reflect on how my own thoughts and feelings can be almost completely concealed behind that opaque window, my face.

I could be sitting with a friend, smiling and listening, responding with polite interest, and yet my inner thoughts might terrify that person, if only they could see them. If my mind was an open book, it would at times outrage, humiliate, crush and confuse. The barrier between us is frighteningly thin, but impermeable: you can only guess.

And yet, people do guess. Sometimes I’ve thought I was doing a great job of keeping my feelings under wraps only to have someone say, you hate me right now, don’t you. Or, you’re angry. I’d like to think that any outward expressions were under my control but they’re not. You can tell.

Up to a point. Suppose I was picturing how much better you would look in several pieces, or under the wheels of a large truck…or in my home made dungeon? Would you know it?

I don’t think you would.

You think you’d like me better if I was more like you…

But then I wouldn’t be me, would I?

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Wandering around Cochin, India, it’s interesting to look at the faces of the other Westerners as they peer anxiously out of tuk tuks or trudge past yet another purveyor of fine silks.

[image error]Tomb of Vasco da Gama

They often look a little desperate, and is it any wonder? It’s so hot here in India’s deep South that you’re pretty much bathed in sweat ten minutes after you step out the door; salespeople are frighteningly dedicated to their vocations, and that odd rule seems to apply according to which, if it’s a cup of tea you want, all the chai shops are closed, and if it’s a beer, you’ve just hit the teetotalling part of town.

In short, our fellow travellers from the West seem to be not so much enjoying as enduring India.

It’s tempting then – when I’m in that frame of mind – to think, God, give me absolute power over this place for a year and I’ll sort the whole mess out. Literally. I mean pick up the rubbish, ban plastic, fix the footpaths, modernise the bureaucracy, send every grinning overweight politician to Nauru…

[image error]Hundred year old rain tree

But suppose I got my way, then what qwould I have achieved? New Australia? Didn’t we just fly 10 hours to get away from that smug nation? And then of course we have our own messes to sort out back home, and plenty of fat smirking politicians to go on with.

[image error]Cherai beach.

I think we are, in the West, relatively good organisers. But Indians are the best salespeople I have ever seen. The average Indian may not be able to organise a pissup in a brewery but they can sell you the brewery while the average Aussie is still putting together the guest list.

[image error]Very swanky hotel/restaurant.

So basically, back off, Kipling, and mind your own business.

Just say no, trust me, it’s easier in the long run

Are you the kind of person who says Yes to life?

Then Mysore, India, could be very dangerous for you… and your wallet.

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But let’s accentuate the positive. The palace of Tipu Sultan, Tiger of Mysore (by all accounts a prize idiot who provoked the British once too often) is a feast of teak and ivory, chandeliers and mirrors, not to mention the rows of entitled looking royalty and their plump beady eyed kids lining every wall.

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The zoo is a fun and seemingly kind place, full of enormous birds straight out of the movie Madagascar and signs exhorting visitors to treasure their wildlife. From what I read about chained elephants and poisoned tigers, these exhortations are sorely needed.

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And now for the other stuff.

Here’s the thing. I don’t know if it’s possible to catch a tuk tuk in Mysore without being kidnapped and taken to a place of retail execution..if it is, I have yet to experience it. A common taxi experience goes like this…

We’d like to go to the palace thanks

Palace yes but first see beautiful silk, incense… just look, only one minute..

No just palace, thanks anyway

We go to old bazaar many oils spices only twenty rupees?

No thanks

Just for five minutes…only ten rupees..

Nooooo!

Oh well then. He who gives up and goes straight to the palace lives to fight for his commission another day..

I did read a blog by someone who agreed to every suggestion made to her in Mysore. It makes horrifying reading. Among the many helpful ideas presented to her was this one,

Marijuana is legal here. Why don’t you come to my basement alley and try some hash/special coffee/medicinal chai?

The man gets that a lot here because of the beard and long hair. Sadly for him, I refuse.

And the final interesting aspect of this southern town is the enthusiasm of its citizens for taking selfies with huge ugly Westerners. To be fair it’s not just Mysore: everywhere we’re followed by cries of”Sir! Madam! Just one photo please?” And the next thing you know we’re surrounded by hordes of sareed beauty queens, teenage princes and doe-eyed princesses, all the while trying to maintain a toothy grin through multiple takes…

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I’m beginning to see what life must be like for Angelina and Brad.

Found religion. Also home decor.

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Here is one of those phrases you really don’t want to hear when you’ve finally and with immense effort located the correct station, platform, train, car and seat, and your trip from Mumbai to Aurangabad is just about to begin. Or so you think…

Sorry, looks like your ticket is unconfirmed madam. Now, if you just go and see the station master…

The brilliance of India lies partly in making the eminently simple ( book online, print ticket, get on train) magnificently convoluted (who would’ve guessed that the railways would find it necessary to post your name up on the platform wall complete with a completely different car and seat number to the one on your print out?). Makes sense…if one just left the details up to some faceless computer, half the railway staff would be out of a job…

But hey, thanks to a kind stranger who correctly identified our expressions of panic and despair, seven hours later, we got to the fabled stamping ground of Mughal Emperor Aurangzeb..

And found religion, in the form of a homestay maestro called Edward and his devoutly Christian adopted family. Who invited us to a garden party on our last night in town, complete with cheerfully sozzled uncle, dance-crazed 11 year old (that’s her in the pink tee shirt) and earnest slum missionaries hinting with the utmost delicacy at the possibility of future contributions to the cause.

My atheism hanging by a thread, we headed on to Bangalore, city of sin… and I was nearly converted at one blow. I’m in the hotel room recovering from last night’s godly festivities when I hear chanting and banging from outside. I hurry out to see, and it turns out to be a joyous root of turbans and garlands, drums and sabres, saris and song, as Bangalore’s Sikhs celebrate their tenth Guru’s birthday.

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Maybe it was because I’d only had three hours sleep that day, but I was entranced to the point of tears (I had to quickly put my sunglasses on). They all seemed so genuinely delighted…and they were sword-dancing, and sweet-throwing, and singing, and whizzy-whirling… and the men were so dashingly handsome with their beards and turbans and silks and daggers. Seriously, I think I’d like to be a Sikh. If they let me wear a cutlass.

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Changing the subject, my own bearded companion has decided he wants our home to look more like this…

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The Ajanta cave temples near Aurangabad are thought to date from the second century BC, while those at Ellora are a mere thousand years old or so. Stunning. However, inspired by the 200 percent fee hike for foreigners at practically all Indian monuments, I’ll be proposing to the Australian government when we get back that all our sights should charge Indians ten times as much as anyone else. It’s only fair.

So is this the face of apocalypse?

A nest of scuttling, striving humanity, swarming over a destroyed landscape. Ruined slums amid stagnant marshes, crumbling towers rearing above like the monsters from War of the Worlds. Over all, a low slung sun sinks red into the toxic fog.

Yep, it’s Mumbai.

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A bit negative? Sure. There’s lots to like about this place…the spicy and delicious cuisine, the long exuberant promenade on Chowpatty Beach, overlooking the soft grey glow of the Arabian sea, the way pedestrians and vehicles dance like demented dodgems, the joyous kitsch of candy floss temples, the monumental remnants of colonial oppression which, let’s face it, offer pretty much the best of Mumbai’s architecture..

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And yet, everywhere, Mumbai is falling apart, decaying, overwhelmed by the assault of dirt, neglect and traffic. And everywhere it is under construction, strewn with cranes and building sites and orange vested workers (one toiling, three having a knees-up).

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So will this place renew itself to become the clean green city spruiked on every second signboard…or is it just a tipping point, a canary in a mine, the first place to fall as humanity slides towards global destruction?

If Mumbai can pull itself up by its bootstraps, there’s hope for us all.

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Waiting For Utopia

There are some brilliant, thought-provoking stories here, and Misha’s is one. Misha says that people don’t handle perfection well…maybe that’s true, but maybe we’re just used to being fed fear and disaster till we don’t know how to hope any more. What do you think? Read the book…I seriously recommend it, and that’s NOT just because I’m in it.

mishaburnett

Actually I didn’t have to wait long at all.

Back in late September I was approached by an author I worked with onFauxpocalypse.She had an idea for a collection with the theme of Utopia.

It sounded like a fun idea–there are so many collections about Dystopia and I figured it would make a nice change.

It turned out to be tougher than I expected. Partially because if everything is going good, where’s the conflict to hang a story on?

Mostly, though, I think human beings are just wired to expect the worst. We look for problems, we imagine problems, and when we get bored I think we invent new problems, just to have an excuse to use our big brains and clever hands. But maybe that’s just me being cynical.

Every idea I started with seemed to want to become either a travelogue of my perfect vacation…

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A Lesson Learned

Lack of energy? Lack of focus? Can’t write a thing? Try Utopia, the new pill from Pfizer, guaranteed to turn you into Tolstoy overnight!!!

Just kidding…here are Kingmidget’s excellent thoughts on our shared project, Utopia…Pending. A multi-author collection of short stories looking on the bright side of life – out in December. Kingmidget’s wonderful contribution definitely included!

KingMidget's Ramblings

Regular readers will know that I have written quite a bit over the last few years about my struggle with writing fiction. What started around fifteen years ago and turned into an explosion of writing over an 8-10 year period has turned into a whimper. There has been barely a spark for the last few years as I have struggled with generating new ideas or making any progress on my various works in progress.

Some months I’m able to write about what I could write in a day or two back then. Some months I write even less. There are many causes of this deterioration in my writing ability.

Lack of energy — most work days I find myself drained at the end of the day and writing takes energy. Mental energy and emotional energy and creative energy. When I get home I want nothing more than to be able…

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What would you like written on your tombstone?

Who’s worse overseas, Americans (think guy in peak cap outside Eiffel Tower asking plaintively ‘How come no one in this here place speaks English?’) or Aussies (think guy in dirty thongs in front of the Taj Mahal asking ‘Hey mate, where can yer get a beer around here’)?

What’s more dangerous, an American backyard (think grandma waving her automatic rifle at a stray grizzly bear and shooting the neighbour dead instead) or an Aussie backyard (sort of like a Russian Sword Dance, only with snakes to leap over instead of swords, and tarantulas dropping onto your head while you do it).

What do you want on your tombstone? Here lies Jane Smith, born ages ago, died recently, enough said? Or, here lies Jane Smith, who once spent $25 on a bag of overpriced charity popcorn and didn’t regret it one bit?

Can you locate happiness with a GPS? Nah, the ocean gets in the way.

Why these questions? Well, they’re part of an ‘interview’ I did with Tom Gose, the eclectic and inspirational author of Your GPS to Happiness, Chicken Apes and Body Shapes, and the amusing travel memoir Peanut Butter and Passports. I use the word ‘interview’ advisedly. We tried to Skype but apparently I sounded like Donald Duck, so Tom very kindly recorded his own video instead. And let me say, truthfully, I just loved it. Tom is wise, funny, interesting and insightful, and should really have his own podcast (and probably, he does).

And what do I want on my tombstone? Here lies Rose (not her real name) who lived a full life (not really), gave constantly of herself to others (well, occasionally) and died peacefully in a rocking chair out in the sun (yes, really. Hope so, anyway). Bit long? What’s on yours, then?

And here’s my (very odd, bit long) video with Tom Gose (at last – it’s taken me weeks to find video editing that’s easy enough for even ME to use. THANK YOU Wondershare Filmore).  And, of course, THANK YOU Tom https://tomgose.com/ Ps, If you’re wondering why there’s a picture of a goanna in this post, it’s because that’s the Aussie monster that makes even Tom Gose’s iron-hard Special Forces friend hide under the couch…

 

Free at last… now what?

Once upon a time there was a showgirl who wanted to be an opera singer. So she married a millionaire, got him to buy her an opera house, and.. bingo.

Her dream had come true, and mine’s about to as well.

If somebody offered you a steady income to work at whatever you wanted… accountant, sea captain, couch comfort tester… what work would you do?

I’ve always thought that I’d write. Well, now, thanks to thrifty parents, about a hundred years in the most boring career in the universe, and a house sale… I think I’m finally going to get that job.

Like the showgirl, I won’t have earned my stripes through years of plugging away until some perspicacious (or just fed up) editor decides to give me a go. I won’t have struggled through obscurity until finally writing pays. I’m taking the easy way.

Unlike the real deals, I’ll have to prove I can do this, not just to everyone who knows me, but to myself. I’ll have to wear the label of a dilettante for as long as it takes. The title’writer’ has to be earned, I guess.

Still, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time and now I can. So cover your ears, people, I’m about to sing at the top of my lousy voice!