At some point, it was bound to happen, I guess….
My awful, awful experience in India. So, here goes. Being a woman here just sucks.
Everyone warned me on taking trains, but in the same breath, would say I had to experience the railways to truly get the idea of what travel is like for the people of this country. Flights are a luxury here, as they’re quite expensive. So, after my train to Agra was cancelled and I took a car in the interest of saving time, I opted to book an overnight train from Hyderabad to Delhi. About 27 hours. I booked a first class sleeper compartment, to be shared with three others and boarded at 6 AM in a very hectic, very crowded and chaotic Hyderabad station. The cabin left much to be desired, plastic-covered blue and white striped beds that folded down, mud-caked windows, and insane-asylum white formica walls, browned by years of use. But, it was FINE. The conductor informed me that nobody would be joining me until 10:30 PM that night, in Bhopal.
At about 1 PM in the afternoon, I was awoken by the sound of rapping at my locked cabin door. “You have another passenger, Madam,” and into the car walked a seemingly distinguished looking doctor making his way to Delhi for a conference. He was very nice, immediately talking to me, chatting, telling me about his family (late 40s, married, 5-year old son) etc.... Then, decides to "relax." That entailed getting comfortable in his bed, a mere 2 feet of space separating him and I, no curtains, no divisions, just empty space. At this point, he’s wrapped in his sheet, and starts asking me more pointed questions that started to take on a sexual theme. About promiscuity in the States, about unsafe sex, about how arranged marriages lead to lots of cheating b/c it “just gets old, especially, like him, if you’re not attracted to your chosen wife in the first place.” I am nodding respectfully (why, not sure…), I guess feeling that I have to spend another 10 hours with this person before others join us, might as well try to not be rude, even though I am uncomfortable with the way the conversation is going. Then, he asks me what kinds of movies I like:
“Um….I don’t know, all kinds. Dramas, comedies, I don’t know,” I say, “and you?”
“I like romancees….and porn.”
GULP…
“Excuse me?”
“Pornographics, I like those a lot. You know," he pauses, "all pornographics feature western women, just like you.”
GULP, GULP….my heart is starting to race. I don’t like this. AT ALL.
“I DO NOT like pornographics, as you say,” I say definitively and go back to reading my book.
At this point, I’m intently trying to focus on reading. But the words are a blur and my instinct is telling me something isn't right. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the sheet moving suggestively, unnaturally (well, actually, quite naturally for the nature of what was going on underneath…). His eyes are shut and he is touching himself. Quite obviously, and quite enthusiastically. I freeze. He sees me see him, and starts to gyrate his hips under the sheet, looking at me trying NOT to watch him. Staring at me, hard. I am locked in my head. WHAT IS GOING ON? WHAT DO I DO? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? THIS IS NOT HAPPENING. PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS NOT HAPPENING.
It continues, he’s tossing and turning and jerking off in the bed two feet away from me. And, as I’m about to get up and leave, he takes his hand out from the under the cover and goes:
“I really think that what you are doing is fantastic and I admire you. Shake my hand,” and offers his sweaty palm to me.
I bolt. I unlatch the door, shaking, and run into the passageway of the train, where three young porters see my visibly agitated state. They are asking me what is wrong in whatever Indian dialect they speak. I am trying to ask for a conductor, who I KNOW speaks English. They keep asking: "What is wrong," their body language says…. So, I make a jerking off signal with my hands to my crotch, and start to cry. Immediately, one porter, who probably isn’t 20 years old turns to stone, goes into my cabin and starts to remove all of my luggage, transferring it to the next cabin over (there are three first class cabins). He is so incensed by what I’ve tried to express, and spits on the doctor in his hasty transfer of my belongings. Settled in the next cabin, he shows me the panic buttons, the “help” light, and tells me in halting English, “no worry anymore, I right there,” pointing to the wall – indicating he resides on the other side of it. “You need me, ANYTHING, you call. I here," and hits the wall we will share. "You safe now.”
I lock the door, close the curtain and cry hysterically for about an hour. I have never felt so violated, dirty, unable to defend myself, as the nature of my crime in India is merely being born a white woman. I’m in hate with India, as it's SUCH a beautiful and interesting country but the people need to learn respect of other cultures and, of women. I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m furious, I’m hurting.
The porter sends in a variety of officials to hear my story, taking them aside and explaining to them in his native tongue his rendition of the incident. They all apologize profusely. The problem is that at 10:30 PM, in Bhopal, a member of Parliament and his family have reserved the compartment they put me in after the this all happened. So, they explain, I might have to go back to the other one, when others join the room. I'm miserable the thought of such a thing. But, the porter won’t hear of it – he’s taken on my defense with a passion. So, as the Parliament member boards, he goes over to him and explains the situation (a porter, speaking directly to a member of Parliament!!! Underheard of!!!) and Mr. Parliament was equally appalled. So, he had his eldest son sleep in that cabin and his daughter and wife with me (and him).
I woke in Delhi, after sleeping under Parliament’s watch, to a new day. A day to start fresh, try to forget the disgust I felt on the train ride that I JUST HAD to take. Well, I certainly got my “experience.” One I’ll never forget, that’s for sure. Michele and Jeff met me in Delhi that evening, easing me out of the anger, keeping me laughing all night. Seeing them couldn't have been timed better. And now, onto my last India city, tomorrow. Varanasi, the spiritual soul of India.
More from there, hopefully with less dramatic incident.
xoxo
Showing posts with label Delhi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Delhi. Show all posts
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Friday, February 24, 2006
Bananas about Bananas
I’m in INDIA.
That, to me, blows my mind. I don’t think at any point in my life did I ever think I’d be visiting INDIA. And yet, here I am. I know so little about Indian culture, that I’m awed by every turn of my head, every moment of time that I experience in this country. I feel like I’m learning just by having stepped off the plane. And, there’s so much to learn, as India full of contrast. You have uber-rich and filthy poor living next to each other, Hindus and Muslims praying next to each other, East and West culture vying for representation, North and South, old and new. India may be a lot of things, but it will never be boring, that’s for sure. There’s drastic differences everywhere – dress (saris being replaced by jeans and t-shirts), food (North Indian vs. South Indian cuisine – on the plane they asked what I wanted for breakfast “a North Indian breakfast or a South Indian one.” I shrugged and asked dumbly, “what’s the difference?”), religion (Hindus and Muslims), castes (Sikh, Punjabi, Brahim, to name a few), and the chasm between all of these competing differences is deep.
I arrived into Delhi at around 6 AM. My friend Matt is an Associated Press correspondent (Chief Correspondent, sorry…) here, so he’s graciously offered his place. I arrive to his neighborhood which is called Sunder Nagar. It is one a few enclaves of the wealthy in New Delhi and it is beautiful. New Delhi surprises me. As the car Matt sent to pick me up (so nice to see signs with your name at the airport in India, trust me…) at the airport whisks me through Delhi at sunrise, I’m shocked to see how clean and expansively green New Delhi seems. The streets are wide, properly paved and spotless, surrounded by much grass, beautiful gated bungalows (that is the word use to describe an estate here, go figure…) and quiet. Matt’s apartment is another surprise. It’s a house really, that he occupies the second floor of (but the first floor is non-functional), and it’s enormous. 12-15 foot ceilings, all with fans creating breezes and hums, 2 bedrooms, 2 studies, a living room/dining room that is easily 30 x 40 feet, kitchen with a breakfast nook area beyond, a verandah overlooking a meadow out front, marble floors, French doors opening out from most rooms. It’s fantastic. A place like this would cost $5 million in NYC. MORE, who am I kidding? Then, of course, India being a service country, he has Jaya, his housekeeper ($120 a month!!!! That’s two cleaning lady sessions for my 500 sq foot apt in NYC) who cooks, shops, launders, cleans, and generally, loiters all day long, re-sweeping and re-straightening. There’s a variety of other service people, the one who presses his shirts, takes the garbage, drives him. It’s a cultural thing. Me, I’m like, cleaning the floor WITH Jaya, and for every “Ma’am, I washed your sleeping clothes. Ma’am, can I get you anything at the market? Ma’am, is there anything you like to eat?” I cringe. No, no, no, no…I’m fine. Even if I’m starving, I’m just FINE. I’m just not used to having a servant, I guess. I’m like stealing bananas for sustenance rather than ask Jaya to COOK for me. Oh god, I cannot!!! (I’m coming thru Delhi four times, though, so…..maybe on my last visit, I’ll have her do me up a dosa or something, just to have the EXPERIENCE of being servant-fabulous in India…Maybe.)
We spent the day exploring New Delhi, continually astounding with it’s very beautiful British built government buildings on Raj Path. As Matt remarked, it looked like when the British built New Delhi, they thought they were going to be around for a while. Too bad they got booted. It’s that impressive. Raj Path runs to India Gate on the other end. Around India Gate is a park space where tons of Indian families were out relaxing and enjoying the day. Then, onto Lodi Gardens, another outdoor space, the Central Park of Delhi, if you will. It just seemed so normal, so comfortable.
That perception changed quickly the next day as I headed into Old Delhi in a rickshaw. Being a Monday, the traffic was insane, the pollution from the traffic, making it worse in my open-air taxi. I was breathing in my hands (looking as if I was continually sneezing -or vomiting - the whole ride) to keep the air from the exhaust from getting into my lungs (like this really helped). We arrived at the Red Fort, which is off Chandi Chowk, the main thoroughfare in Old Delhi. What a difference!!! Old Delhi vs New Delhi. Night and day. THIS is your National Geographic India. This is your CNN Presents. This is what I was prepared to see.
There were people EVERYWHERE, millions of them (probably an accurate # given Delhi’s population). First thing I noticed, all the different ways of getting around competing for road space – pedestrians, rickshaws, cyclos, moto-cyclos, buses, horse/buggies, bicycles, taxis, cars. Insanity. And there’s no such thing as safe driving here. There are NO lanes, no rules. The government actually has put up road signs all over that say “Lane driving is Sane driving” b/c the driving is so out of control. Kinda funny. I was probably stepped on 20 times, and fell over/into potholes or off curbs (a VERY normal occurrence for me here in Asia (you should see the bandage on my knee TODAY (there have been many). I just made peace with the fact that I’m an awful klutz). Then, I notice all the people. Beggars, just like you’ve seen in photos, holding out silver pans, coated in grime, filthy children with lice ridden hair - you can SEE the bugs moving all over their scalp, dirty fingernails, years worth of life on their clothes, old men laying on the pavement, blind men with canes navigating the chaos, limbless flaunting their lack of, business men on cell phones oblivious to it all flying past, women in saris – colorful beautiful saris traveling in numbers, throngs of hungry, homeless crowded and kneeling 10 -15 people deep on the ground outside food establishments waiting for leftovers from the plates of diners, vendors hawking junk, fortune tellers offering to read your palm, little boys with scales to guess your weight, it’s INSANITY. Then, you notice all the animals roaming the city freely: cows (very very sacred here, they don’t serve beef anywhere, it’s a black market item, Matt informs), pigs, goats, camels, monkeys, sheep, parrots (sooo pretty and green, flying all around), dogs and, gulp, elephants being ridden thru the streets. It’s unbelievable. I spent the better part of the day walking through the bazaars and markets around Chandi Chowk, mezmerized.
After Chandi Chowk, I head to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. An old gorgeous architectural building with the typical architectural “balloons” (that’s that I call the hot air balloon looking domes of the mosques) floating above the city. Being a Muslim country, I’m stared at a lot, my clothing, especially tank tops (shoulders uncovered, fitted), the way I carry myself. I’ve learned QUICKLY to ignore it. It’s very interesting b/c the men would NEVER disrespect a Muslim woman the way they disrespect Western women. It’s also infuriating, I want to smack every man I walk past, but I refrain, obv... I’ll be hung and stoned in no time if I sass myself around India, creating a ruckus. But at the Jama Masjid, it was dreadful, not to mention, um…sacreligious. I was swaddled from head to toe before entry because of my “offensive” clothing. I looked like the baby Jesus, walking and female, and yeah, 31. Then, on entry, I was hissed at and followed by disgusting Muslim men, with leering, lusty looks dripping from their features. And these men are bold, they look you in the eyes, they speak to you, uttering dirty, perverted things. I try very, very hard to just ignore and focus forward. Sometimes it’s really hard. I’m not good at biting my tongues, as we all know. Two teenage boys (around 15, maybe) followed me around the the duration of time I was at the mosque going “I love your breasts, I want to squeeze your breasts. I love you American. Can I touch you? Let me touch you.” I MEAN……. They would be put to death if I were a Muslim woman. But all rules (shocker) go out the window with foreigners. I didn’t stay at the Jama Masjid too long, as you might imagine…
Then, I went to lunch. Ok….I’ve tried everything at this point. Dosa, Dal, Paneer, Kebabs, Aloo, Nam, Pokhra, Masala, Biryani, Tandoori. EW, EW, EW... I just can’t get into it. I love spice, I love the ingredients, but the way they’re put together here just DOESN’T work for me. It’s like spice mush with lots of ghee (the fat they use) floating on top. When I got to town, I said to Matt “I’m ONLY eating Indian food for three weeks. Big talker, me. Day three, he’s like – I don’t feel well, I think I’m going to get some soup from Chinese. My eyes lit up! YES YES YES, sounds great. I don’t even Chinese at home! So…yeah. Food sucks. And I have 2 more weeks of it . . . Instead, I eat lots of fruits. My P’s – pineapple, papaya and pomegranate are staples. And, ready kids….bananas. I know, I know, I’ve been a banana basher my whole life, shooting down sharing banana desserts all the time. Well…I love them now. The fruit, not the flavoring, mind you. I peeled a banana and ate it the other day, publicly. It felt amazing. I felt so cool. Peeling, eating a banana. I’ve never done that before. Like, carried one in my backpack and had it for snack. I had to come to India to realize this. The irony….
On that note – I’m going to go grab a banana and explore more of India. There’s just so much to see. More soon on Agra, Mumbai and the rest…
xoxoxo
That, to me, blows my mind. I don’t think at any point in my life did I ever think I’d be visiting INDIA. And yet, here I am. I know so little about Indian culture, that I’m awed by every turn of my head, every moment of time that I experience in this country. I feel like I’m learning just by having stepped off the plane. And, there’s so much to learn, as India full of contrast. You have uber-rich and filthy poor living next to each other, Hindus and Muslims praying next to each other, East and West culture vying for representation, North and South, old and new. India may be a lot of things, but it will never be boring, that’s for sure. There’s drastic differences everywhere – dress (saris being replaced by jeans and t-shirts), food (North Indian vs. South Indian cuisine – on the plane they asked what I wanted for breakfast “a North Indian breakfast or a South Indian one.” I shrugged and asked dumbly, “what’s the difference?”), religion (Hindus and Muslims), castes (Sikh, Punjabi, Brahim, to name a few), and the chasm between all of these competing differences is deep.
I arrived into Delhi at around 6 AM. My friend Matt is an Associated Press correspondent (Chief Correspondent, sorry…) here, so he’s graciously offered his place. I arrive to his neighborhood which is called Sunder Nagar. It is one a few enclaves of the wealthy in New Delhi and it is beautiful. New Delhi surprises me. As the car Matt sent to pick me up (so nice to see signs with your name at the airport in India, trust me…) at the airport whisks me through Delhi at sunrise, I’m shocked to see how clean and expansively green New Delhi seems. The streets are wide, properly paved and spotless, surrounded by much grass, beautiful gated bungalows (that is the word use to describe an estate here, go figure…) and quiet. Matt’s apartment is another surprise. It’s a house really, that he occupies the second floor of (but the first floor is non-functional), and it’s enormous. 12-15 foot ceilings, all with fans creating breezes and hums, 2 bedrooms, 2 studies, a living room/dining room that is easily 30 x 40 feet, kitchen with a breakfast nook area beyond, a verandah overlooking a meadow out front, marble floors, French doors opening out from most rooms. It’s fantastic. A place like this would cost $5 million in NYC. MORE, who am I kidding? Then, of course, India being a service country, he has Jaya, his housekeeper ($120 a month!!!! That’s two cleaning lady sessions for my 500 sq foot apt in NYC) who cooks, shops, launders, cleans, and generally, loiters all day long, re-sweeping and re-straightening. There’s a variety of other service people, the one who presses his shirts, takes the garbage, drives him. It’s a cultural thing. Me, I’m like, cleaning the floor WITH Jaya, and for every “Ma’am, I washed your sleeping clothes. Ma’am, can I get you anything at the market? Ma’am, is there anything you like to eat?” I cringe. No, no, no, no…I’m fine. Even if I’m starving, I’m just FINE. I’m just not used to having a servant, I guess. I’m like stealing bananas for sustenance rather than ask Jaya to COOK for me. Oh god, I cannot!!! (I’m coming thru Delhi four times, though, so…..maybe on my last visit, I’ll have her do me up a dosa or something, just to have the EXPERIENCE of being servant-fabulous in India…Maybe.)
We spent the day exploring New Delhi, continually astounding with it’s very beautiful British built government buildings on Raj Path. As Matt remarked, it looked like when the British built New Delhi, they thought they were going to be around for a while. Too bad they got booted. It’s that impressive. Raj Path runs to India Gate on the other end. Around India Gate is a park space where tons of Indian families were out relaxing and enjoying the day. Then, onto Lodi Gardens, another outdoor space, the Central Park of Delhi, if you will. It just seemed so normal, so comfortable.
That perception changed quickly the next day as I headed into Old Delhi in a rickshaw. Being a Monday, the traffic was insane, the pollution from the traffic, making it worse in my open-air taxi. I was breathing in my hands (looking as if I was continually sneezing -or vomiting - the whole ride) to keep the air from the exhaust from getting into my lungs (like this really helped). We arrived at the Red Fort, which is off Chandi Chowk, the main thoroughfare in Old Delhi. What a difference!!! Old Delhi vs New Delhi. Night and day. THIS is your National Geographic India. This is your CNN Presents. This is what I was prepared to see.
There were people EVERYWHERE, millions of them (probably an accurate # given Delhi’s population). First thing I noticed, all the different ways of getting around competing for road space – pedestrians, rickshaws, cyclos, moto-cyclos, buses, horse/buggies, bicycles, taxis, cars. Insanity. And there’s no such thing as safe driving here. There are NO lanes, no rules. The government actually has put up road signs all over that say “Lane driving is Sane driving” b/c the driving is so out of control. Kinda funny. I was probably stepped on 20 times, and fell over/into potholes or off curbs (a VERY normal occurrence for me here in Asia (you should see the bandage on my knee TODAY (there have been many). I just made peace with the fact that I’m an awful klutz). Then, I notice all the people. Beggars, just like you’ve seen in photos, holding out silver pans, coated in grime, filthy children with lice ridden hair - you can SEE the bugs moving all over their scalp, dirty fingernails, years worth of life on their clothes, old men laying on the pavement, blind men with canes navigating the chaos, limbless flaunting their lack of, business men on cell phones oblivious to it all flying past, women in saris – colorful beautiful saris traveling in numbers, throngs of hungry, homeless crowded and kneeling 10 -15 people deep on the ground outside food establishments waiting for leftovers from the plates of diners, vendors hawking junk, fortune tellers offering to read your palm, little boys with scales to guess your weight, it’s INSANITY. Then, you notice all the animals roaming the city freely: cows (very very sacred here, they don’t serve beef anywhere, it’s a black market item, Matt informs), pigs, goats, camels, monkeys, sheep, parrots (sooo pretty and green, flying all around), dogs and, gulp, elephants being ridden thru the streets. It’s unbelievable. I spent the better part of the day walking through the bazaars and markets around Chandi Chowk, mezmerized.
After Chandi Chowk, I head to the Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. An old gorgeous architectural building with the typical architectural “balloons” (that’s that I call the hot air balloon looking domes of the mosques) floating above the city. Being a Muslim country, I’m stared at a lot, my clothing, especially tank tops (shoulders uncovered, fitted), the way I carry myself. I’ve learned QUICKLY to ignore it. It’s very interesting b/c the men would NEVER disrespect a Muslim woman the way they disrespect Western women. It’s also infuriating, I want to smack every man I walk past, but I refrain, obv... I’ll be hung and stoned in no time if I sass myself around India, creating a ruckus. But at the Jama Masjid, it was dreadful, not to mention, um…sacreligious. I was swaddled from head to toe before entry because of my “offensive” clothing. I looked like the baby Jesus, walking and female, and yeah, 31. Then, on entry, I was hissed at and followed by disgusting Muslim men, with leering, lusty looks dripping from their features. And these men are bold, they look you in the eyes, they speak to you, uttering dirty, perverted things. I try very, very hard to just ignore and focus forward. Sometimes it’s really hard. I’m not good at biting my tongues, as we all know. Two teenage boys (around 15, maybe) followed me around the the duration of time I was at the mosque going “I love your breasts, I want to squeeze your breasts. I love you American. Can I touch you? Let me touch you.” I MEAN……. They would be put to death if I were a Muslim woman. But all rules (shocker) go out the window with foreigners. I didn’t stay at the Jama Masjid too long, as you might imagine…
Then, I went to lunch. Ok….I’ve tried everything at this point. Dosa, Dal, Paneer, Kebabs, Aloo, Nam, Pokhra, Masala, Biryani, Tandoori. EW, EW, EW... I just can’t get into it. I love spice, I love the ingredients, but the way they’re put together here just DOESN’T work for me. It’s like spice mush with lots of ghee (the fat they use) floating on top. When I got to town, I said to Matt “I’m ONLY eating Indian food for three weeks. Big talker, me. Day three, he’s like – I don’t feel well, I think I’m going to get some soup from Chinese. My eyes lit up! YES YES YES, sounds great. I don’t even Chinese at home! So…yeah. Food sucks. And I have 2 more weeks of it . . . Instead, I eat lots of fruits. My P’s – pineapple, papaya and pomegranate are staples. And, ready kids….bananas. I know, I know, I’ve been a banana basher my whole life, shooting down sharing banana desserts all the time. Well…I love them now. The fruit, not the flavoring, mind you. I peeled a banana and ate it the other day, publicly. It felt amazing. I felt so cool. Peeling, eating a banana. I’ve never done that before. Like, carried one in my backpack and had it for snack. I had to come to India to realize this. The irony….
On that note – I’m going to go grab a banana and explore more of India. There’s just so much to see. More soon on Agra, Mumbai and the rest…
xoxoxo
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