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Mooshy: New and improved

Mooshy, this little dog, is like magic - balm for my boredom; giving me a direction in which to pour this need to take care of something, to fix some of what I see around me in this wasted country as broken and aching. Nursing him out of the damage the first two months of his life had done has been amazing and rewarding. He is a permanent fixture in our life now - has been since the first night we scooped him up in all his dirty-baby glory out of the street gutter and watched him sleep for ten hours straight in a corner of our bedroom on the pillow we donated to his comfort.
He was so small and so wasted away that every little peep and slightest movement brought us running with love and milk and treats and attention.
Now he is a darling little nightmare and we're backtracking; working to train some politeness into his very spoiled demeanor.
It's incredibly satisfying to see him in his happiest moments, bounding around the room in the morning so excited to see us, wanting only our affection and demanding nothing more (or less - if he doesn't get the attention he wants he finds a way to get it even if it means doing things he knows perfectly well are illegal in my own personal Islamic Republic and will get him in big trouble.)

We've come to the conclusion that he chose us, but it doesn't really matter one way or another, he's our baby now.

The Simple Life

Almost-current American television seasons have miraculously appeared on one of our previously very-chaste cable channels; transformed now into a veritable pot-pie of Stateside media, thick with the flaunting of plastic bodies and sexual innuendo I'd taken for standard-fare while living in the U.S.
It's always been true, but never more obvious to me than now: I grew up inundated by media that told me that I, as a woman, am supposed to be sexy - at any cost. That beauty is worth something - perhaps even more so than brains or compassion. My society tells me (long distance even!) in every way it can that my boobs have got to be so fabulously unnatural that they literally don't move. Women and girls are dying of breast cancer while some are choosing to pump their own natural healthy breasts full of liquid plastic and dying anyway. But sometimes I catch myself wanting them; craving their perfection; sick with the realization that I've bought into it, if even for a moment.

I wrestle internally with an admittedly disturbing, aching desire for a lifestyle left off. Attempting to reconcile what I've been socialized to crave with a much more relaxed (and realistic) version of my self, learned only after having lived in the third world for so long that keeping up with the Jones's, and Mrs. Jones in particular, is a mere memory. But it lingers, eerily, almost on a cellular level. A feeling of envy, need, greed, want, all iced over with a big fat am-I-good-enough? A concept of female beauty burned into my mind, providing image after image to compare myself to. Frustrating - to know perfectly well how very very shallow and ultimately meaningless it all is, to feel some sense of triumph at having shrugged it away even if just by virtue of geography, and yet to once again be faced with it in every imported primetime soap opera and high school drama. Paris Hilton flaunts her paid-in-full beauty across our Sansui's screen (or is it more a glittery shininess than an actual beauty?), and I both adore her selfishly exhorbitant style and disdain her habit of purchasing reality. Is it jealousy on my part or just self preservation? Either way, it's a warped paradox of a perspective, made even more grotesque by the fact that I am surrounded by people struggling to earn enough money just to buy rice, much less brand new breasts and hair extensions. Either way, I sincerely (if inexplicably) like Paris Hilton. But she does nothing for the effort of centering one's self in reality.

I cringe when I see a woman's face on the screen, obviously pulled too tight or just too many times. But I still look in the mirror and wonder if I'll do it when the time comes. I worried it would be sooner than later so I quit smoking and stopped eating meat. (yuck) But even that they can just suck right out with a surgery. Get rid of the buildup. Sculpt the body and soothe the mind.

I find it torturous that virtually every single television show that comes in here from the States makes me question myself on the basest of levels. Wondering if my husband will still tell me that I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever seen when finally faced by the hordes of Barbie-wannabes that appear to be walking the streets of my country. An army of available sexuality and fantasy-fulfilled; televised 24 hours a day like some twisted public service announcement.
I have stupid, terrible insecurities born of these shows so I change the channel or turn off the television altogether; I have to wonder what it would do for the self esteem of America's little girls and women if they could just manage to do the same. But for them it's literally every channel besides CNN and the Weather Station.

I want to look different, so I cut my own hair. Chopping and shaping very straight too-long bangs that hang over my brows and into my mascara-ed eyes in thick blonde chunks.
For now, it's enough, but I'm still in India and the pressure to pick myself apart, to change what is comes blessedly only when I pass by Channel 37.

Morning, noon, and night

I'm outside at dusk. The hot of the day has settled into something soft, almost fluid - like the sea. Rare in this part of India, or at least in Bangalore.
The power is out, again. But with enough light under the still-pastel blue sky punctuated by occasional pink clouds slowly carrying in the stars, I sit and write.
Writing about nothing-in-particular is one of the greatest therapies available to the human experience, I think.

I can hear bells on girls' ankles jingling atop bare feet on the pavement below my balcony perch as they walk by, dusty from a day of building something, working just as hard as their male counterparts. Earning the same two dollar wage for ten hours of hauling the dry ingredients of cement atop their heads and into a building they will never be able to afford to live in.

Dogs barking, fighting over scraps of garbage, trotting beside the humans they long for, sniffing food-stuffed carry bags slung down at the hip. They will receive nothing save for maybe the empty bag and scrap-soiled foil and plastic packaging tossed out after the meal has been enjoyed by its purchaser.

Iron skillets, huge aluminum pots, and metal plates that remind me of military meals I've never seen in person but imagine are served in these same rudimentary dishes, bang around in the neighbor woman's outdoor tap. The only one she has, actually, as there is no kitchen in her family's office space converted to house. It seems to me that there are always dishes being washed in that tap. As if she literally has time for nothing other than cleaning up the vestiges of some forever-ongoing meal. It's either dishes, or clothes: slapping against the cement under cold running water, laundry soap formed into a hard bar rubbed against the cloth in a swoosh-swoosh of human labor. They own a car, I can't understand why on earth they don't buy a washing machine. 24 hours a day it seems she is washing something with all the gusto and noise you would expect in a task that requires an elbow grease Westerners can only ever know in the figurative sense.

Peddlers cruise by on their bikes or on foot, interrupting her chores and my writing long enough to make an impression. She buys vegetables - I listen to their 'lagala' and feel ashamed that I still don't really understand much of anything in the way of Hindi or Kannada.
The sounds of street sellers, while I don't know the actual pronunciations or translations of their callings, are at least easily reconcilable with whatever it is they are peddling.
I know when the guy selling coconuts is on his way down my street, of course. The word he cries out is a happy gentle 'Po-ahp!,' and it brings me always to the balcony to wait for the two coconuts he expects we will want.

The 'mooooosaaaaaaaambay!' is a guy selling tangerine oranges that don't peel properly - their skin is thin and stuck tightly to the fruit. Nothing like the tangerines I remember from the States, and not on my shopping list.

'Paaayyypoooooray!' is the man on a bicycle with a basket on the back full of newspapers. He's not selling today's headlines but buying those of yesterday. He pays Rs. 5 per kg and sells them for 7 to businesses who wrap them up into fabulous little packagings for grocery items. I love these flat, handleless, handmade bags and save the ones that sport magazine articles about Bollywood stars and government officials. It's such a wonderful expression of recycling, their newspaper bags.

'Tomaaaatohh, lagalaaaaaaaaa' I can't understand the entire cry given by the vegetable men, I hear tomato and know who they are and what they've got, but I cannot differentiate one word from the next after the first leaves their lips.

There are men carrying buckets full of tools atop their heads, offering in their loudest and most convincing voices to handyman whatever needs fixing. Not too far behind them comes the ironing-guy who walks his wide, flat, blue cart into the neighborhood always to be bombarded with piles of freshly washed clothes in need of pressing. He will stuff a massive iron (made literally of the same) full of dark coals, light them on fire, wait for them to heat the wide flat bottom and get to work.
Hamid-the-bachelor had utilized these same services toward the betterment of one of his favorite shirts only to find it char-pitted in places by accidental but clearly inevitable falling ashes.

'Papaaaaaaiiii' brings fresh papaya laid out in a single file patchwork of yellow, green, orange, and ruby-red atop the same blue cart they all opt for.

'Mahsoohl!' is the garbage lorry, manned by three guys in flannel shirts, cigarettes perpetually dangling from lips, closely flanked by an army of ever-hopeful dogs. I find it ironic that they will once in a while knock on the doors of this street asking to be paid while there is more than one pile of garbage easily noticed by any passer-by and regularly picked through by beggar women and their children on silent, very-early-mornings when the street is empty of eyes to spite them.

'Leaaaaylah!' is the walking penny-shop with plastic bangles, colorful deity stickers, and other childhood goodies, along with whisk brooms, dustbins, small buckets, and coarse kitchen towels that look dirty even when they're new; everything an Indian wife needs to clean her house.
'Chaiyah!' is the too-sweet but wonderfully delicious on a cold day milk masala tea Indians adore. Poured from a large metal cask strapped atop the back of a bicycle, the creamy brown drink arrives piping hot into clear plastic cups so small they resemble the dosage indicator that accompanies cough syrup bottles. Rs. 5 for one - I used to drink so many I'd come away swooning from all that sugar.

What sounds like 'Quesedilla!' is a man and his young son selling handkerchiefs, underwear, and t-shirts. The kerchiefs, garishly colored with floral patterns or flag motifs, are set atop the cart on a wire display. In this way the latest, hottest selling patterns are offered up.

The list of goods and services available is as endless as the stream of their respective sellers; stalking the streets in search of a living, straining to be heard among the cacophony of competing voices, every day: morning, noon, and night.

And now, it is too dark for me to write, the current still cut off at the end of the street somewhere so that the only light I can make out for the entirety of our neighborhood is the red burning coals inside the ironing man's contraption. I wonder if he will continue to iron in the dark.

Our favorite places to eat in Bangalore...

are the Chinese delivery place on New B.E.L. road, formerly known as 'TAO' but now moved across and down the road with the name 'Tung Nam,' and the Indian-run 'Relish' on the same street.
Both deliver which is a major plus for our lazy, non-cooking selves. Tung Nam has the best fried spring rolls I've ever eaten in my entire life not to mention an assortment of heavenly vegetable dishes - try their 'babycorn and spinach in kanshao sauce' or the 'veg wonton soup' - delectable!
There is also 'Infinitea' on Cunningham Road: a custom tea and chocolate/lunch and dinner kind of place with well prepared western food that keeps us sane during wild cravings for old standards like fish and chips, pasta salads, quiche, and lasagna.
'F-bar' (yes, it's part of the Fashion Bar scheme to take over the planet with huge monitors displaying rail-thin girls prancing around on Milan's catwalks wearing haute couture to the sounds of the latest remix a la heavy bass) has great sushi dishes, and a decent martini on the right night.
'Taika' - also a discotheque/restaurant, offers sprawling white couches to perch prettily upon while enjoying high-priced western/asian fusion entrees, deserts, and salads, plus everything you could ever hope to imbibe from the swank bar housed further inside the establishment.
On a side note: the latter two are some of the very few destinations in this city that actually warrant my penchant for stilettos.

But as far as I can tell it's not so much a matter of which place exactly is fabulous to dine at as it is a set of general rules for all of India:

-Never, ever under any circumstances order a salad that lists mayonnaise as an ingredient. It will come to table as a whopping scoop of the fat white goop with a few bits of whatever-the-salad-is-meant-to-be tossed in for good measure.
If you do opt for such a salad, be prepared to pick the always-inexplicable maraschino cherries off the top.

-If you don't want food so chili it burns your mouth and leaves you wincing with every bite repeat the phrase "No chili please, I am allergic to it, it will make me sick...maybe I will die..." until the guy taking your order actually writes something on the ticket about your request.
There is a chance the kitchen will do what it wants anyway, so order 'mast' (also known as curd or plain yogurt) to help kill the pain after your meal is finished.

-The famous Indian meal of Biriyani rice is spicy by definition, and while you can get an entire Biriyani meal, veg or otherwise, on the street for less than Rs 10 (like 25 cents U.S.) do not be fooled by its mild appearance - it has likely been coated in an oily death-fire sauce that lingers on the palate for ages.

-DO NOT DRINK THE WATER. Under any circumstances. I don't care if you're dying of dehydration. If your server brings you a glass of water it is invariably from the TAP. The tap is taking the water from somewhere beneath the street. See that man outside peeing against the wall into the gutter? He's one of thousands who ignore the many spraypainted 'No urination here' signs. Ask for mineral water, cold or room temp.

-DO NOT DRINK THE MILK. Unless it is in a tetrapak. See that cow outside....near the dogs...no, that one over there...she just ate that entire gutter full of garbage and oil and probably the pee from the guy (Do you feel sorry for the cow? You should.) That cow lives at the local dairy, which is literally right around the corner in the old rundown building surrounded by wild dogs and the upturned autorickshaw with all of its toxic leakage, and will go back later in the day to be milked.

-There is no such thing as Mexican food in this part of the world.
Borrowing from an earlier post:
"Mexican food in India means a "burrito" - vegetarian of course (but that's fine with me all over again), with most of the usual stuff or at least some reasonable facsimile, and a special added bonus, Indian style: a pickled maraschino cherry right on top. I was too curious not to try it - having never seen such things mixed with salsa. It was, as I suppose anyone would expect, sort of icky."

-The yummiest item to order from any place, be it a highway-side dhaba with the lounge beds made of thick rope set out in the carpark for people to sit on, or any of the Sagars (veg places that offer traditional Thali meals [say it "tally"] from the North and South) is:
Babycorn Manchurian, Gobi Manchurian, or any of the other manchurians with a piece of fresh Naan or a Roti. If you don't mind a bit of grease, try a Paratha (say it "parata" or "parota") - a piece of fried dough I can only describe as a wheel of batter spiralled onto a griddle and cooked like a pancake. They are delicious but are so heavy you will weigh a full KG more for two weeks afterwards if you eat one. Here's a little tip: Paratha can also be used in place of laxatives.
Manchurian is a Chinese recipe actually, something the Indians have adapted and put on just about every menu in the country, and it is delicious. Order it dry or with gravy.

The aforementioned Sagars are found all over Bangalore, and India in general, and will be marqueed under various versions such as: Shanti Sagar, Ganesha Sagar, Raja Sagar....whatever. They all seem to share the same essential and extensive veg menu and most offer a wonderful assortment of absolutely delicious Indian sweets. Just point through the glass display case and choose which ones to try, they're all lovely, and at about seven rupees each are a happily cheap mouthful of sweet.

-DO enjoy the coconuts, and fresh fruits and vegetables (especially the coal-fire cooked corn on the cob slathered with salt, lemon, and masala) sold by various street vendors. Let the seller chop open the top of the coconut with a machete so you can drink the cool-sweet water, then wait while he cuts the entire thing in half to present you with the fresh insides.
One note: I would advise against purchasing the oranges and small bananas - at least in large quantity - as they taste just plain weird. I have started calling them 'meat oranges' et al because of the icky-strange carcass-y aftertaste they offer. Not pleasant. Oranges are best purchased at a supermarket like Nilgiri's or City Market - someplace that sits tight and is therefore a bit more responsible about their stock than someone who hightails their wares from street to street on a wheeled cart and has no qualms about pawning the meatiest meat-oranges off on you, the unsuspecting tourist.

-DO try the street food. Particularly from the places that fill up with dusty construction laborers and their families during the afternoon lunch break rush or afterwork and latenight hours. You can get everything from samosas to veg puffs, juices, and various other chaats (snacks) prepared fresh right in front of you. In these cases it's not a bad idea to be ready to eat with your fingers (the traditional Indian way of taking a meal from plate to stomach) or carry your own utensils, as any dishes you will be offered have been used again and again only to be dipped in a bucket or bin or plain tap water for rinsing.

-DO NOT DO WHAT I DID AND EAT EVERYTHING THAT LOOKS INTERESTING.
I ate fried bugs and random other nameless bits of food from streetvendors in Thailand, and while it's a great story and I didn't have any ill affects it made me believe my insides were invincible so I decided once I got to India I was going to eat whatever, whenever - an 'of the people' kind of mentality. Bad move. I was sick in a way that meant hair loss for a number of months because of it.
Remember, you are not of the people. You have not built up since birth the necessary inner fortitude it takes to digest everything and anything that turns out of these taps, kitchens, and farms. Your stomach has been pampered by the luxury of westernized health standards.

Best general advice: when in doubt, don't eat it.
You will have to contend with the fact that India is a generally dirty place and unless you find a way to eat only at the overpriced five-star hotels - thereby avoiding the fact that you are in India altogether - you'll have to eat the food. Some of the restaurants look like they used to be a garage for oil changes but this is just the way it is.
Get used to it, be careful what you put in your mouth, and enjoy!

Some of my favorite foods have been discovered with a random pointing of the finger at an interesting word on the menu. After all, travel is an adventure, and should be treated as such in every presented opportunity and at every possible turn - even of the stomach.
Live and learn and eat, and then live and learn and eat some more.
What else is there?

Hyderabad, India