Niagara falls and my vagina.

As is apparent by now, I hit a writers block in India. I’m trying to get back into writing since I can’t possibly deny my lovers (and other strangers) the perils of my wisdom on all things sacred; my sex drive, the status of my hymen reproduction, the perpetual stubble on my legs, and my career woes. Things can get pretty dull around here if you’re not getting any action. But lucky for all you bastards, I am getting some and you get to hear all about it. (Dear boyfriend, Stress not. I promise to not bear our secret locations/positions lest the world bring a camera and make this MBA a lot more interesting).

As usual, academically I feel underutilized here. Anything that doesn’t deal with vintage fashion, feminism and jazz invariably puts me in boredom. India is growing on me and so are its people. That is not to say that I don’t miss my beloved TeeO. The ability to bear my vulgarity publicly has suffered plenty in this country. But fret not my first nation whores, I have managed to find a few people who share my desire to skip showers, and support my political correctness.

NGO’s are considered to be a liability by some of our faculty and that obviously depresses my vagina. Earlier in the semester when I was struggling to understand the meaning of liquid assets, my colleagues would recite the Indian stock market for fun- it did wonders for my self esteem…

It’s comforting to know that I’m well liked here – if not for the Kahoonas, then obviously for the enthusiasm I share to finish homework and attend class.

Remind me to document my 12 hours in the top-berth-of-the-Rajdhani, and the Lonavla trip that left my nipples bruised. And before you think that I’ve found God in India, I must let you in on a sad lil’ secret: my boyfriend hasn’t gone down on me because he is gay finds it disgusting and he’s saving himself for marriage. Dear God, why me?

Ok. Nap time.

Corny Central

Clad in shabby salwar kameez, I was sitting cross legged, minding my own business in a restaurant. The only thing I was stylin’ were my sunglasses. Telepathically sensing my desperation to get fingered till I get numb, in walks this dude towards my table. He looks at me. I look at him. He drops something on the ground and says, “Now that we’ve broken the ice, I’m Gaurav Mathur. I’m in the merchant navy, so it’s actually Captain Gaurav Mathur.”

‘hahaha…ummm, do you pull this one often?’

‘Never!…I saw you and just felt like I needed to do this. I do whatever I want in life.’

Yes, I care

So our lovely Captain Chutiya Gaurav Mathur seats himself on my table. ‘Do you mind LM?’ No, why would I mind? It’s not like you interrupted me daydreaming about how I’m going to beg my boyfriend to fuck me doggy style next week. [Dear readers, I have a boyfriend. A monogamous, smart ass, mood-swing-central type of a boyfriend. But more on that later.]

…main bhi mood mein thi. Maine socha ki ladke ka kaatne mein kitna mazza aayega.

‘No no, absolutely not. Please have a seat. So tell me, where are you based out of?…….Yes, I’m from Canada. ahuh, ya, I do speak fluent Hindi. Dehati hindi is my forte. Would you like something to eat?’

As soon as my food arrived, I pretended to be in a rush. ‘I’m so sorry love, but I have to rush….Bhaiya, ye pack kardeeejiye. Aur cheque bhi……’

‘Here’s my card. LM, can I get your number?’

‘Umm…ya totally honey..but you see this number only works within a confined distance and doesn’t work for local people, just students from my university. It’s this plan that I have got and it works like a walky talky. It sucks. I’ll call you when I get a new sim card, Ok? Byeee! ‘

Amidst all this walky talky jargon that I was feeding him, the cheque came- I casually pretended to be stunned at his offer for paying. ‘No, pleaseee, Noooo. You didn’t even eat anything. It was all non-vegetarian and you couldn’t even eat it…400 bucks! Oh, OK sure, but next one’s on me.’

‘I’ll be waiting for your call LM.’

‘I’ll call for sure. And we should totally get together for dinner sometime next week.’

Bitches, I’m back. For realz.

Lovers reunite.

It’s about time I get back into my usual flair of discussing pubic hair and the untimely sagging of my breasts.

French Kisses of the weak-in-the-knees kind, LM

In memory of Toronto’s patio season and the flamboyance that is Toronto’s gay village, I give you, Lizzie the Lezzie.

Zadie Smith, Salut!

I finally finished reading Zadie Smith’s On Beauty. My family was growing irritable having it lie around collecting dust. And with the elections done and Maya behenji unleashing her anger onto us Noida waasi, long electricity outages made me succumb to finishing it in two days. Having strongly internalized Black feminism, I’m an affirmative-action advocate and I insist on incorporating ethnic literature in the English Cannon. I’m incompetent at book reviews, so if you’ve read it, holla. Subscribing to Alice Walker’s idea that ‘Feminists’ only cater to the struggle of upper-class white women, I used to identify as a Womanist during my early years at York. Even in the Women Studies Dept. of liberal universities like York, feminism is still streamlined to fight the white woman’s struggle. Yet I’ve ceased identifying as a Womanist. Linguistic prowess through reclamation is important to me; hence I continue to identify as a Feminist, and my feminism is an extension of social and political thought from an anti-oppressive framework that caters to everybody. 

‘…..as if Rembrandt were saying, for you are of the earth, as my nude is, and you will come to this point too, and be blessed if you feel as little shame, as much joy, as she!’ This is what a woman is; unadorned, after children and work and age, and experience- these are the marks of living.’                             

Obviously Smith’s indulgence in the matters of black beauty, black struggle, and black power made me super horny. So my weekend kinda went like this, reading- mango juice- break time jerking off!- reading  (the ‘jerking off!’ part multiplied by an embarrassing number). It makes me sad that I didn’t hook up with a black guy/girl in Toronto. I went to a ‘low-socioeconomic-gangsta nation’ type of high school, and schools like those don’t really give you opportunities to meet brothas who aren’t too street. Of the many cultures that I’d exoticized, why had I left Bob Marley out of it?

India’s Baba era

“Beta, Kabir was a philosopher. We follow his teachings through Baba so-and-so. Kabir had two disciples, one was Muslim and the other Hindu. When Kabir died the two disciples fought over how to dispose Kabir’s body; wether they’d bury it or cremate it. One said that Kabir lived his life as a Muslim, the other said that Kabir lived his life as a Hindu. Suddenly Kabir’s body shot up in the sky and a voice came, ‘Are murakh, you never understood me or my teachings. I am of no religion at all. I believe in love and peace.’…….So you see beta, Kabir was a saint and that is why we worship him. But agar dekha jaye to, he lived his life the Hindu way, so he was a Hindu.”

“Aunty, do you have to pay a membership fee to this Baba?”

“No beta. Our Guruji doesn’t do this for money. He wants to help us; he doesn’t charge any donation or membership fee. He is so dedicated to making this world a better place. He promotes ayurveda and makes several drinks that improve one’s immune system. They are very good. All of his followers buy them.”

“And how much does he charge for a bottle?”

“600 Rupees.”

P.S:

Lovers!

This is officially my new blog. Please update your blogrolls.

Kisses.

Delhi gives me frizz.

I miss yelling ‘Kanjarkhana‘ to everything, Piglet and I did that a lot. I miss indulging in self deprecating humour with Chunky. I haven’t made an inappropriate gesture while eating a Banana in three weeks! If the above mentioned rituals remain absent from my daily routine, the fabulosity that is LM will slowly wither away.  Thank you India.

In Jammu, I miss Toronto the most. Cowdung aside, I’m disgusted by the pro-Hindu sentiment in this city. I hated seeing Khandas and Allah inscriptions plastered on cars in Toronto and I equally hate BJP ke jandhe lehrate hue on houses here.  Religion for the most part is a fanaticism of the right. I have yet to have an intelligent conversation about politics since I’ve arrived in India. Everybody in my mother’s family has stopped eating meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Am I the only one who finds this facade hilarious? My aunts try to educate me on the various gehnas of a woman,  virtue and sehen sheelta. On Sunday, my younger cousin explained to me that rape occurs because women provoke it by dressing ‘inappropriately.’ Love aside, illiteracy and inexposure are at max. here. Women in my mother’s family have compromised themselves under the guise of tradition. Noida’s lecherous gazes and Indian mainstream fashion haven’t dissappointed me as much as my maternal side’s intellectual ineptitude. My paternal side  lives in Delhi and while marriage is still their ultimate goal, religosity doesn’t dictate their meat loving hearts. 

“Isse kehte hai sanskaar, Canada mein itne saal rehke bhi, hamari sanksriti ka dhyan rakha hai. Beta, mann khush hogaya hai tujhe dekh kar. Acha bacche, which culture do you prefer, Canadian or our Indian family values?” It is futile to explain to such an audience that cultures aren’t homogenous, that it is socio-economic statuses that dictate cultural values instead. Everybody is in awe with me and my Indianess.  My retention of Hindi and Kashmiri does not make me Indian and my interest in bedding men does not make me Canadian.

I don’t want to go back to Toronto. But, I miss Chunky calling me at night to tell me stories of her grandfather writing letters to the President complaining about the Indian traffic violations. I miss Piglet focusing on her darkened knee caps and small breasts. I want to start fresh in Pune. I don’t want to try to fit in, it’s so unlike me. I can’t wait to stop dumbing down my accent.

The vegetables taste real.

I start my MBA in June. Canada-India-Noida-Pune. It’s your usual rags to riches story. I’ll be hours away from the city of communal riots and let’s hope I find some tolerant friends to take along for some much needed bikini prancing in Goa. In Maharashtra, I’m going to go for frequent full body waxes sans the pubes, and I’m also going to abandon my phatta-puraana pajama wearing scene. You never know when Ekta Kapoor will spot me and want to star me in her new venture, ‘Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani.’

To avoid depression and frustration, I refuse to compare India to Canada. When the Bank employees showcase their ineptitude and people don’t understand the concept of queues, I let it go. Even the mosquitoes get an exemption. I spend`my time socializing with a friend (who btw is mad rollin’ in dough, Gujjar and all) and attending Baba Ram Dev type satsangs at her palatial farm houses. Entertainment and exposure aside, I usually just go for the free food.

India, serenade me!

Aside from the lecherous gazes that greet every woman in India, I’m at ease. Armed with a maa-behen ki vernacular, I be pimpin’ it with my knee high shorts in Delhi.  I have to buy a sports bra- the 20 minute rickshaw ride took a toll on my breast ligaments. Thank you for the roadways Maya behenji. I come mentally prepared for almost everything. 

Driving past these palatial and vulgar displays of crore-esque houses in Noida, I find myself thinking “Some gorgeous, Indian-English speaking guy has to live here.”