"You do just this one thing..." or "Aacha...Cultural Dysphoria, na ja?"
or maybe, even, "So many places, and Nowhere all at once..."
Friday night, and it's not yet payday, and though I haven't any earthy excuse, I took my self out for a date. A me date. A few hours of bliss where my chief concerns had nothing to do with providing exemplary Customer Service....[that's a whole other soap-box]
And so, on this night where I neither had to be at work, nor anywhere else Productive, what should I do but scam a free movie at the Science Center [Actually I've seen it already--a dud about Greek History, that no one {and I mean NO ONE} appreciates but me, because instead of falling asleep in shear boredom from the fly-over sequences, I'm breaking out in hives thinking about how quickly I could pack my rucksack and be on the next flight to Athens] and then head to the next closest place to home: the Indian Grocery.
? You may ask? Yes! I say, though all those nice Asian folks had the same perplexed look you probably have on your face as you read this.
Less than a month in this new town and I've developed a little circuit. First it was to the Indian Beauty Parlour I found in September when I got lost looking for a bookstore. They were closed at the time, but I came back because they offered threading--hair removal with a spool of string that literally plucks EVERYTHING. In fact this parlour mostly waxes, and then does a few finishing swoops to live up to the advertisement and though I haven't actually ever left with symmetrical brows, STILL, in my mind, it's far superior to the goo at the waspy shops. And the best part is, the largest of the Indian shops is just two storefronts down...
Now that I've been here for a couple of weeks, I am chagrined to admit that this is very much another white-folk town. There's a large international university here, and I do live in what appears to be a hippy suburb, but still--not many shades as you walk down the street {an activity I was once told that was "un-American."} Squeeze/juice my collective work team and you wouldn't get a spare ounce of melanin. If there is a diversity of hiring, it is visible only if you disregard work classifications, and pretend so very deliriously that we're all one big happy, egalitarian family. And this is a capital metropolis. Even still, the fact that somehow this place can sustain at least three...(Yes! 3!) groceries makes me so giddy, I could plotz! And if I am to be honest, it probably had a greater influence on me coming here than even the job did...the yoga was also a big part, but again, lest I be struck by liar's lightening, I do it more because it reminds me of my time abroad, and who I felt I was there, than the certainty of transcendental enlightenment or a shrinking waistline...
Confessional tangents aside, I headed to India Groceries first--yes, because it was close, but also because I like it best. They have what seems like everything--practically any kind of dal & spice, uniLever brand shampoo, frozen/powdered "just like Amma used to make" entree or tacky plastic idol you could want (plus two dollar Hindi Movie DVD's) all jumbled together in an intoxicating Desi manner that the other two just don't match...The guys who work there don't say much to me, though I imagine I'm talked about as I walk around, and around, and around the isles giving off the unique, escalating stench of a shopper who's browsed too long...and will not buy. At least not in the quantity commensurate for the activity. It's kind of like going to Mecca* and being too overwhelmed to do what you came there intending to do...[*I mean this only metaphorically; I don't actually know what one does in Mecca besides pray in the presence of the holiest of the holy, but...you know? You go all the way there, and all the planning/listmaking/intentions just fall away...and you leave forgetting to buy the t-shirt, collect the badge, or do what ever it is you came there to DO.] But back to the store: I like the smell of the place. I like not understanding a single syllable of what's being said around me or what's pumping over the radio. I appreciate the irony of seeing "American Style (aka Cream and Onion)" Lay's potato chips being sold here, that are neither made in America, nor taste much at all like the Sour Cream & Onion ones they attempt to imitate. I think myself daft at seriously contemplating the Bru and Nescafe desiccations and awful packet biscuits I used to mock relentlessly. And, I think, more than anything, I like having a legitimate reason to feel so out of place...
But, tonight. Tonight not only appeared to be EVERYONE's night to load up on foodstuffs, but also, "Let's-restock-all-the-shelves-just-before-closing hour" as well. The frantic bhindi sorters, frozen paratha buyers, husband and wife speed-shopping teams and display destruction/reconstruction cyclones had no use for my gastronomic lolly-gagging, and so I left. And proceeded to go to another shop. And then the other. Looking for what, exactly, I still don't know.
The second grocery had very little by comparison. It was actually the first time I'd been inside. The vegetable selection wasn't much, though they did have lots of bridal jewelry and clothing. Above all, there were a lot of families milling about. Moms and dads, and little kids all together--and through their eyes I began to remember what I am not. My roguish independence is not nearly as ennobling as I choose to see it, but in fact, a sad testament to the corruption of Western morals. Nothing was said of course, and I freely admit to my tendency to be excessively self-concerned, but for the for a moment I saw my aloneness not as the Refuge I trump it up to be, but rather as Loneliness...which may be an equally appropriate definition...depending on the moment, my mood, planetary alignment, hormone levels, etc., etc. And at the precise moment I began to yen to be part of a clan, I remembered, that, oh, yeah, I am actually part of one...and well, that's not working out so spectacularly, is it?
At the last shop I finally bought something. Some cashews, coconut slivers, and milk-cake, a typically Indian confection of sugar, milk, and nut meat that's been boiled, and boiled, and boiled and boiled. I used to detest the stuff, and once, to the horror of one fellow Madrasi ashramite who graduated from uni 40 min from my home in Ohio, denounced Indian sweets as sweet without any flavor (I tried to back-peddle, blaming my preference on the genetic inner-connectedness of Jews and cheesecake, but to no avail...)...and tonight, well, I bought a whole friggin' tray of it. Maybe it grew on me. Maybe my emotional eating proclivity just jumped continents.
To round out the evening, I treated myself to dinner at a South Indian Vegetarian restaurant. I've eaten there before, and the food's quite good--India good, in fact. (Supposedly they were cited for health code violations right as I started dining there, but hey, if that's the magic masala needed to make killer idlys (haha), then bring it.) When I arrived there were two other occupied tables--one by a vegetarian married couple downing waters and turning all spectrums of red; and another by a young Indian guy, explaining everything his older, white companion sputtered over. I for my part, in all of the obnoxiousness I detest, and yet go right ahead and flaunt, did all necessary things to point out to my Tamilian hostess and waitress, that I was, in fact, different...that unlike these other tourists, I "knew" the real deal...No complementary Mango Lassi for me, no sir--I ordered the Salt one. Made sure I found the "hand wash" station before I began. Ate my idly, dosa, and paratha with my very best right-hand-only skills, and then lest I mortify everyone and my shirt with an ill-executed thumb-scoop, finished the rest in fine spoon-fork form. Even made sure everyone saw that I drank my water with the finest Hindustani manners, that is to say, with the bottle neck a sufficient distance from my lips so to insure the two would never meet (I walked around wet chested too many times to NOT brag that I can still perform this feat!), again, in a sad attempt to prove that, like Shannon Erschowitz in Salaam e Ishq, "I am a good Indian Girl." (If you've got time, watch the part # 13 as well, and watch Salman shake it!) But, alas, I wasn't fooling anyone. The proprietor chatted up everyone, but me, the scary single woman not fitting quite anywhere. And my two lingering cups of chai while shamelessly drinking in the interactions of the proprietor's family and the atmosphere, well that cemented the "strange" brand...Ironically, as I was leaving work today, two co-workers were talking about how one can never really live down certain social classifications--being a loner, being "shady"...and I realized, in lightning-fast instant-karma style, that my preceding public stink is much more complex and pervasive than the "cheap-skate" "mad-woman" cologne I already knew I wore...And then I began to wonder myself, precisely what is it do I think I'm playing at?
I eat my lunch from stainless steel tiffin; it's compact, eliminates the need for a bag, washes easily, and I just happen to get complements on it's cuteness wherever I go. I've begun taking "baths" again with a bucket and a yogurt tub--it's amazing how much water it saves, and you get just as clean, if not cleaner in places where the faucet don't shower, if you know what I mean. And conservation couldn't be considered that poncey, right? I cook mostly Indian food--it's tasty(not that I prepare it well, but..), it's cheap, fast, and I tell myself I consume far less of it than I do American counterparts. I have adopted these eccentricities, appropriated different cultural priorities because I find them to be more natural, more sound...not in a desperate attempt for "hey-look-at-me" attention. Right?!
Last weekend I went to my parents and promptly planted my ass in front of the satellite dish. On Sunday, rather than driving down as I should have, I unnecessarily engrossed myself in a crocheting project and a History Channel episode arguing that the JFK assassination cover-up conspiracy was, in fact, a conspiracy itself. Normally my head would spin and tongue disengage over such a thing, but this-this struck an alarmingly co-incidental chord. The program began in biographical detail to trace the years leading up to Lee Harvey Oswald's final morning in the Texas Book Depository. It talked about how he never felt at peace, never felt part of anything here--his family, his work, the military--and it was this disengagement that fueled his defection to the U.S.S.R., and the drastic antics he employed in order to stay. The show also argued that it was Oswald's sudden lack of feeling "special" upon returning to the States that propelled him so quickly into the anti-Castro movement, and consequently the assassination plots of several high-profile politicians. When Oswald had been abroad, he had a certain charismatic aire about him: he spoke Russian, was a un-abashedly un-American, and joyfully slugged away in the Communist system while simultaneously (and a bit disgustedly) holding one of the world's dearest commodities--an American passport. But in America? In America, Oswald was homeless, jobless, uneducated, and without ways and means of supporting a wife and child. A failure, by everyday living standards, really. What good were all these philosophical antics, Cyrillic language proficiencies, and sharp-shooting skills if he couldn't buy bread and milk?
And that's when it occurred to me. That is me.
Sure, I like turmeric and garlic and fried street food just fine. I'm happy to walk. I adore a long train ride and get giddy at the prospect of the space beyond airline gates. And though I love India because I fell in love there--with people, certainly, but more specifically with the constant confrontation of juxtapositions no one can escape. India is thick. It's dense. It is, I believe, a condensation of all life (and death) is: buoyant and dismal, holy and corrupt, vibrant and decaying, all boiled down into one elegant, murky, chunky, fragrant stew. It's a dish I continue to lap-up, to lick clean...not because it always tasted good, but because, inside that bowl, all possibilities exist in equal, emulsified measure. And from my gullet to God's ears.
In India, I was an anomaly, sure. I had no family, no husband to protect/vouch for/validate me. I was a spectacle, to be sure, for any number of justifiably ridiculous reasons. But for just as many illegitimate ones I was also special--as a novelty, cash potential, etc. By fitting in precisely nowhere, I had the potential ability to go anywhere. And that was intoxicating and liberating. Anything seemed possible. And for the very first time in my life I felt like I could do something, and that, my friends, was infectious.
But now I wonder if that eleven months was just a feverish delusion. Because here I am. 28. Single. Overweight. Barely gainfully employed. Without a house, car, retirement plan, or legal dependent to my name. It's not that I particularly want these things, but I feel like I'm being constantly chastised by my country/culture at large for not having them. The fact that I volunteered for a year, that I dallied in ashrams, that I play around with art and theatre, and put on shows for kids does not make me interesting or unique or intriguing. It makes me a social drain. In India, when asked for how long I was visiting, I had the power to soften sneering expressions, raise eyebrows, and start sympathetic conversations by stating that I was not a tourist, but in fact, living in the country. Now, when I try in vain to explain my eighteen month lapse in employment, people just look at me blankly as if I've told them I've spent a year on the toilet...and all I can think of is, "You're supposed to be impressed, Goddammit! I spent a year. in I-N-D-I-A!" as if that should give me the same green-card being white in Asia did...no such luck.
When I travelled, I developed a strong aversion to other Westerns, particularly the uppities, and those rangy long-term campers holed up in cheap hostels who lived abroad while living off their native dole. So many of these folks seemed sad and desperate, blinded to the truth the whole world could see--Blatantly: They were running away. I knew on some level I was doing this, too, but I always imagined I was much more, I don't know, integrated? I avoided these people as much as possible, vowing never to defect to their side...but, looky, looky. Here I am, one of these mad cows...so lost, in fact, she's managed to go astray in her own herd. You'd think I'd at least have the common sense to be a turn-funny in a tropical climate, wouldn't you?
And so, what to do? I'm not a Barbie girl (perhaps, maybe an under-made-up Jem doll?) in a Barbie world. Life's fantastic. It's certainly plastic. So, with that inch, I shall mold a mile, swigging curry, sitting in lotus (that's a lie, but it sounds good, no?), and doing my best to find a place of existence all my own. You'll be tempted, as all good Indian shop keepers, to give me instructions; to do, "just this one thing..." But please, don't get too worried. I will, with all certainty, take too long plodding down the aisles. I will likely not buy much or what you think I ought. And you maybe right. I could end up being very, very misguided in my wandering. And I know you don't care to have me pollute your atmosphere any more than necessary, but really, in the context of the rickshaw, lorry, and bus diesel fumes, with the mingling of road-side fry wallahas and sacred cow/goat droppings, splatterings, and methane releasing, and the compression of sweat, humidity, gas, and rot, does my stench really make your nose itch?
Friday night, and it's not yet payday, and though I haven't any earthy excuse, I took my self out for a date. A me date. A few hours of bliss where my chief concerns had nothing to do with providing exemplary Customer Service....[that's a whole other soap-box]
And so, on this night where I neither had to be at work, nor anywhere else Productive, what should I do but scam a free movie at the Science Center [Actually I've seen it already--a dud about Greek History, that no one {and I mean NO ONE} appreciates but me, because instead of falling asleep in shear boredom from the fly-over sequences, I'm breaking out in hives thinking about how quickly I could pack my rucksack and be on the next flight to Athens] and then head to the next closest place to home: the Indian Grocery.
? You may ask? Yes! I say, though all those nice Asian folks had the same perplexed look you probably have on your face as you read this.
Less than a month in this new town and I've developed a little circuit. First it was to the Indian Beauty Parlour I found in September when I got lost looking for a bookstore. They were closed at the time, but I came back because they offered threading--hair removal with a spool of string that literally plucks EVERYTHING. In fact this parlour mostly waxes, and then does a few finishing swoops to live up to the advertisement and though I haven't actually ever left with symmetrical brows, STILL, in my mind, it's far superior to the goo at the waspy shops. And the best part is, the largest of the Indian shops is just two storefronts down...
Now that I've been here for a couple of weeks, I am chagrined to admit that this is very much another white-folk town. There's a large international university here, and I do live in what appears to be a hippy suburb, but still--not many shades as you walk down the street {an activity I was once told that was "un-American."} Squeeze/juice my collective work team and you wouldn't get a spare ounce of melanin. If there is a diversity of hiring, it is visible only if you disregard work classifications, and pretend so very deliriously that we're all one big happy, egalitarian family. And this is a capital metropolis. Even still, the fact that somehow this place can sustain at least three...(Yes! 3!) groceries makes me so giddy, I could plotz! And if I am to be honest, it probably had a greater influence on me coming here than even the job did...the yoga was also a big part, but again, lest I be struck by liar's lightening, I do it more because it reminds me of my time abroad, and who I felt I was there, than the certainty of transcendental enlightenment or a shrinking waistline...
Confessional tangents aside, I headed to India Groceries first--yes, because it was close, but also because I like it best. They have what seems like everything--practically any kind of dal & spice, uniLever brand shampoo, frozen/powdered "just like Amma used to make" entree or tacky plastic idol you could want (plus two dollar Hindi Movie DVD's) all jumbled together in an intoxicating Desi manner that the other two just don't match...The guys who work there don't say much to me, though I imagine I'm talked about as I walk around, and around, and around the isles giving off the unique, escalating stench of a shopper who's browsed too long...and will not buy. At least not in the quantity commensurate for the activity. It's kind of like going to Mecca* and being too overwhelmed to do what you came there intending to do...[*I mean this only metaphorically; I don't actually know what one does in Mecca besides pray in the presence of the holiest of the holy, but...you know? You go all the way there, and all the planning/listmaking/intentions just fall away...and you leave forgetting to buy the t-shirt, collect the badge, or do what ever it is you came there to DO.] But back to the store: I like the smell of the place. I like not understanding a single syllable of what's being said around me or what's pumping over the radio. I appreciate the irony of seeing "American Style (aka Cream and Onion)" Lay's potato chips being sold here, that are neither made in America, nor taste much at all like the Sour Cream & Onion ones they attempt to imitate. I think myself daft at seriously contemplating the Bru and Nescafe desiccations and awful packet biscuits I used to mock relentlessly. And, I think, more than anything, I like having a legitimate reason to feel so out of place...
But, tonight. Tonight not only appeared to be EVERYONE's night to load up on foodstuffs, but also, "Let's-restock-all-the-shelves-just-before-closing hour" as well. The frantic bhindi sorters, frozen paratha buyers, husband and wife speed-shopping teams and display destruction/reconstruction cyclones had no use for my gastronomic lolly-gagging, and so I left. And proceeded to go to another shop. And then the other. Looking for what, exactly, I still don't know.
The second grocery had very little by comparison. It was actually the first time I'd been inside. The vegetable selection wasn't much, though they did have lots of bridal jewelry and clothing. Above all, there were a lot of families milling about. Moms and dads, and little kids all together--and through their eyes I began to remember what I am not. My roguish independence is not nearly as ennobling as I choose to see it, but in fact, a sad testament to the corruption of Western morals. Nothing was said of course, and I freely admit to my tendency to be excessively self-concerned, but for the for a moment I saw my aloneness not as the Refuge I trump it up to be, but rather as Loneliness...which may be an equally appropriate definition...depending on the moment, my mood, planetary alignment, hormone levels, etc., etc. And at the precise moment I began to yen to be part of a clan, I remembered, that, oh, yeah, I am actually part of one...and well, that's not working out so spectacularly, is it?
At the last shop I finally bought something. Some cashews, coconut slivers, and milk-cake, a typically Indian confection of sugar, milk, and nut meat that's been boiled, and boiled, and boiled and boiled. I used to detest the stuff, and once, to the horror of one fellow Madrasi ashramite who graduated from uni 40 min from my home in Ohio, denounced Indian sweets as sweet without any flavor (I tried to back-peddle, blaming my preference on the genetic inner-connectedness of Jews and cheesecake, but to no avail...)...and tonight, well, I bought a whole friggin' tray of it. Maybe it grew on me. Maybe my emotional eating proclivity just jumped continents.
To round out the evening, I treated myself to dinner at a South Indian Vegetarian restaurant. I've eaten there before, and the food's quite good--India good, in fact. (Supposedly they were cited for health code violations right as I started dining there, but hey, if that's the magic masala needed to make killer idlys (haha), then bring it.) When I arrived there were two other occupied tables--one by a vegetarian married couple downing waters and turning all spectrums of red; and another by a young Indian guy, explaining everything his older, white companion sputtered over. I for my part, in all of the obnoxiousness I detest, and yet go right ahead and flaunt, did all necessary things to point out to my Tamilian hostess and waitress, that I was, in fact, different...that unlike these other tourists, I "knew" the real deal...No complementary Mango Lassi for me, no sir--I ordered the Salt one. Made sure I found the "hand wash" station before I began. Ate my idly, dosa, and paratha with my very best right-hand-only skills, and then lest I mortify everyone and my shirt with an ill-executed thumb-scoop, finished the rest in fine spoon-fork form. Even made sure everyone saw that I drank my water with the finest Hindustani manners, that is to say, with the bottle neck a sufficient distance from my lips so to insure the two would never meet (I walked around wet chested too many times to NOT brag that I can still perform this feat!), again, in a sad attempt to prove that, like Shannon Erschowitz in Salaam e Ishq, "I am a good Indian Girl." (If you've got time, watch the part # 13 as well, and watch Salman shake it!) But, alas, I wasn't fooling anyone. The proprietor chatted up everyone, but me, the scary single woman not fitting quite anywhere. And my two lingering cups of chai while shamelessly drinking in the interactions of the proprietor's family and the atmosphere, well that cemented the "strange" brand...Ironically, as I was leaving work today, two co-workers were talking about how one can never really live down certain social classifications--being a loner, being "shady"...and I realized, in lightning-fast instant-karma style, that my preceding public stink is much more complex and pervasive than the "cheap-skate" "mad-woman" cologne I already knew I wore...And then I began to wonder myself, precisely what is it do I think I'm playing at?
I eat my lunch from stainless steel tiffin; it's compact, eliminates the need for a bag, washes easily, and I just happen to get complements on it's cuteness wherever I go. I've begun taking "baths" again with a bucket and a yogurt tub--it's amazing how much water it saves, and you get just as clean, if not cleaner in places where the faucet don't shower, if you know what I mean. And conservation couldn't be considered that poncey, right? I cook mostly Indian food--it's tasty(not that I prepare it well, but..), it's cheap, fast, and I tell myself I consume far less of it than I do American counterparts. I have adopted these eccentricities, appropriated different cultural priorities because I find them to be more natural, more sound...not in a desperate attempt for "hey-look-at-me" attention. Right?!
Last weekend I went to my parents and promptly planted my ass in front of the satellite dish. On Sunday, rather than driving down as I should have, I unnecessarily engrossed myself in a crocheting project and a History Channel episode arguing that the JFK assassination cover-up conspiracy was, in fact, a conspiracy itself. Normally my head would spin and tongue disengage over such a thing, but this-this struck an alarmingly co-incidental chord. The program began in biographical detail to trace the years leading up to Lee Harvey Oswald's final morning in the Texas Book Depository. It talked about how he never felt at peace, never felt part of anything here--his family, his work, the military--and it was this disengagement that fueled his defection to the U.S.S.R., and the drastic antics he employed in order to stay. The show also argued that it was Oswald's sudden lack of feeling "special" upon returning to the States that propelled him so quickly into the anti-Castro movement, and consequently the assassination plots of several high-profile politicians. When Oswald had been abroad, he had a certain charismatic aire about him: he spoke Russian, was a un-abashedly un-American, and joyfully slugged away in the Communist system while simultaneously (and a bit disgustedly) holding one of the world's dearest commodities--an American passport. But in America? In America, Oswald was homeless, jobless, uneducated, and without ways and means of supporting a wife and child. A failure, by everyday living standards, really. What good were all these philosophical antics, Cyrillic language proficiencies, and sharp-shooting skills if he couldn't buy bread and milk?
And that's when it occurred to me. That is me.
Sure, I like turmeric and garlic and fried street food just fine. I'm happy to walk. I adore a long train ride and get giddy at the prospect of the space beyond airline gates. And though I love India because I fell in love there--with people, certainly, but more specifically with the constant confrontation of juxtapositions no one can escape. India is thick. It's dense. It is, I believe, a condensation of all life (and death) is: buoyant and dismal, holy and corrupt, vibrant and decaying, all boiled down into one elegant, murky, chunky, fragrant stew. It's a dish I continue to lap-up, to lick clean...not because it always tasted good, but because, inside that bowl, all possibilities exist in equal, emulsified measure. And from my gullet to God's ears.
In India, I was an anomaly, sure. I had no family, no husband to protect/vouch for/validate me. I was a spectacle, to be sure, for any number of justifiably ridiculous reasons. But for just as many illegitimate ones I was also special--as a novelty, cash potential, etc. By fitting in precisely nowhere, I had the potential ability to go anywhere. And that was intoxicating and liberating. Anything seemed possible. And for the very first time in my life I felt like I could do something, and that, my friends, was infectious.
But now I wonder if that eleven months was just a feverish delusion. Because here I am. 28. Single. Overweight. Barely gainfully employed. Without a house, car, retirement plan, or legal dependent to my name. It's not that I particularly want these things, but I feel like I'm being constantly chastised by my country/culture at large for not having them. The fact that I volunteered for a year, that I dallied in ashrams, that I play around with art and theatre, and put on shows for kids does not make me interesting or unique or intriguing. It makes me a social drain. In India, when asked for how long I was visiting, I had the power to soften sneering expressions, raise eyebrows, and start sympathetic conversations by stating that I was not a tourist, but in fact, living in the country. Now, when I try in vain to explain my eighteen month lapse in employment, people just look at me blankly as if I've told them I've spent a year on the toilet...and all I can think of is, "You're supposed to be impressed, Goddammit! I spent a year. in I-N-D-I-A!" as if that should give me the same green-card being white in Asia did...no such luck.
When I travelled, I developed a strong aversion to other Westerns, particularly the uppities, and those rangy long-term campers holed up in cheap hostels who lived abroad while living off their native dole. So many of these folks seemed sad and desperate, blinded to the truth the whole world could see--Blatantly: They were running away. I knew on some level I was doing this, too, but I always imagined I was much more, I don't know, integrated? I avoided these people as much as possible, vowing never to defect to their side...but, looky, looky. Here I am, one of these mad cows...so lost, in fact, she's managed to go astray in her own herd. You'd think I'd at least have the common sense to be a turn-funny in a tropical climate, wouldn't you?
And so, what to do? I'm not a Barbie girl (perhaps, maybe an under-made-up Jem doll?) in a Barbie world. Life's fantastic. It's certainly plastic. So, with that inch, I shall mold a mile, swigging curry, sitting in lotus (that's a lie, but it sounds good, no?), and doing my best to find a place of existence all my own. You'll be tempted, as all good Indian shop keepers, to give me instructions; to do, "just this one thing..." But please, don't get too worried. I will, with all certainty, take too long plodding down the aisles. I will likely not buy much or what you think I ought. And you maybe right. I could end up being very, very misguided in my wandering. And I know you don't care to have me pollute your atmosphere any more than necessary, but really, in the context of the rickshaw, lorry, and bus diesel fumes, with the mingling of road-side fry wallahas and sacred cow/goat droppings, splatterings, and methane releasing, and the compression of sweat, humidity, gas, and rot, does my stench really make your nose itch?
posted by Sirenea at 6:25 PM
1 comments
