Mumbai Monday: This Didn’t Go the Way it Was Supposed To…

Occasionally I get it into my head that I need to update this poor, dilapidated blog child of mine, but then I get distracted by something remarkable; Shashi on the television or the most disturbing cookie advertisement of all time:

And I must say this before my brain melts, I am absolutely tired of seeing Hrithik Roshan’s face everywhere I turn. Every other commercial, billboard, light post, rickshaw, trashcan, store front and food is emblazoned with his face. It was enough for me to NOT go see Kites, as I thought that I had seen enough of Mr. Roshan’s face, thank-you-very-much.

Digression aside, I am in full form to inform (ha) you of my various travels and trials whilst living in the Indian Subcontinent. Today, for example, we have been waiting for 5 hours to meet a man about an autorickshaw. My fellow intern is doing her short film on an auto-wallah and we must rent the vehicle for her. Currently she lies asleep in the bed beside me while I steal a few minutes on her laptop. I was supposed to cast my actress for my film (of rather dismal plot), and the both of us were to nail down locations. As we have been waiting for the auto, nothing has happened. Well, I did watch about 3 hours of Monk re-runs, but only because I couldn’t force feed myself  Dance India Dance for one more moment.

Also, I did get along with the cook today who has a habit of wanting to over-feed me all the while commenting on various methods I might use to drop weight. The most obvious to the American mind, anorexia, is unpardonable around here and I must be stuffed full with daal (which I abhor) because she feels I lost far to much weight in the two and a half weeks I was suffering from dysentery (of which I was quite proud of). I cannot please her!

Granted, I suppose she’s just happy that I can stomach Indian food again, and I just generalize and tell her (though she speaks no English and looks at me in a bewildered way) that all Americans are fat and I’m just tall and I quite like myself, as my body is characteristic of my vocal fach, even though only Opera singers really understand and see those biological traits.

I think if I had grown up in an age where I had to deal with servants I would have been quite a terror to them. Mostly I just itch for the chance to cook for myself again, and I dream about broccoli and Sexy Rexy Chicken and salads and apples and peaches and carrots and beef until I cry.

This is getting absurdly sentimental.

So many things I cannot talk about though, for neither Vivek Oberoi’s new film, or Ra.One have come out and I have a gag order around my throat for all the little details that I saw. Though I will say, the rubber suit is absurd…

ZIP! My lips are locked.

Also, someone (perhaps a smart auntie) needs to slap me senseless, for I imagine myself in love with every man I’m introduced to, despite their small little height. DAMN the growth hormones in food! I’ve turned into an abominable flirt, (though I always was one according to L), but here it is remarkably fun. After studying Indian women interacting with males I noticed they just giggled and looked bashful. OH HO! Their (the men’s) inability to come back after a saucy little return on their jokes is hysterically funny and they often fuddle up as if they’ve never had a ladki talk back to them in a fun way. It provides hours of entertainment and creates such sad little illusions in my head.

That, and it’s wedding season.

I’ve decided it is high time I got myself hitched, so I might as well do it here; though with only a week left to complete this daunting task I rather feel that I shall return to the states a disappointed woo’er.

One week! O goodness, sometimes I feel like I haven’t seen or done anything in the 6 weeks that I’ve been here, but I have and I feel right and ripe for coming home… though I’m already planning my return.

For fun, here is a picture of me at a shaadi in one of the slums.

The cook scolded and scolded me to wear my hair “open” 
and I refused, since I was afflicted by the heat.
The cook was right. 

Also, and this may be out of taste, but it rather looks like my boobs 
are going to attack that poor short girl’s (my coworker) head. Fantastic.