I Heart India

Shall I tell you about Christmas in Bengalooru?
Or the railway workers in Hyderabad?
Or the night fairs on Chennai's beaches?
Or the fishing village on Madh Island?
Or the winding alleyways of Mumbai?

Or instead, can I tell you about the intense relief I feel when I leave Bangladesh for India?

The flight from Dhaka to Kolkata takes about half an hour and I've done it twice so far, both times on my own. Perhaps that's part of my love of India. The alone bit. Don't get me wrong. I am addicted to my Dhaka family's brand of protective luxury. I wouldn't have it any other way. But it's also completely alien to my life the last 15 years. Plus they don't stare as much in India, and you can wear pretty much what you want (within reason), and go wherever you wish.

Last fall, when I first suggested living on my own in Dhaka to my parents, they flipped out. But what about cooking and cleaning? asked my mother, forgetting for a moment that not only does she cook and clean every day in America, so do I. We both know how it's done. Still, I gave in to their worry (which was mostly about security - much more of a concern in Bangladesh than India) and my laziness, and moved into my lush digs at the Islams'.

Of course, it's not as if I roughed it in India. My business gig (thank you, Wharton) kept me in fine fettle during my three week jaunt through Bharatland. Although if you can believe it, there are some downfalls to living in lux hotels: they are sort of the same, the world over. One morning, ok, afternoon (so I'm a late riser), I walked out into the sun at the Savera Hotel in Madras which boasts one of the best pools in the city. As I watched brown child bodies vault into the shining blue water, I suddenly had no idea where I was. Was I at the Temescal pool in Oakland, California, where the black kids come to learn to swim? Or the Raval pool in Barcelona where Spaniards sun themselves a toxic chocolate colour? Or the Gulshan Club pool in Dhaka which is kept so hot and damp you can barely breathe?

You might think this happens more often to me because I've travelled a bit in the last year or two (I now need new pages in my passport even though it was brand new 16 months ago). But the thing is, I don't get disoriented easily. I usually know exactly where I am, even if I have no clue where I'm going. It's how I like it. Solid ground. Tenuous air.

I spent 2 days in Hyderabad and 2 weeks in Chennai (both for work) though I have a similar number of photos in each photoset. This is because in Chennai, I was mostly holed up in said lux hotel, writing up case studies, and surfing the web (I love Indian broadband). But I did manage to go out for a few beach and bookstore trips which were great, and also dine with Ram's parents, Kamala Aunty (I *love* her, and not just because I love most of my loves' mothers, hee hee) and Anil Uncle.

I'll relate a couple of funny encounters in Chennai. The first was on the lovely Marina Beach. It was night and I was crouched down on the sand, taking photos with my camera and tiny 3 inch tripod. A couple passing by had the following conversation:

Man: What is she doing?
Woman: I think she's going to the bathroom.
Man: No, I don't think so.
Woman: She is. Look, she has her hands in front of her.
Man (returning after approaching for a closer look at me): No, she has a lunchbox.

They move on satisfied, while Abeer falls over laughing.

The second involved going shopping for a sari for my mother. My mother's initial email request for a South Indian sari was summarily rejected. I explained to her that not only did I not like shopping (this has been the case from before I was poor), but sari shopping is a massive stress for me. I just don't understand sari fashion. And there is a divide between how it looks in the shop and how it looks on the person that I just can't seem to cross. My father promptly wrote me back basically telling me to suck it up and get my mother a sari because, Abeer, you know how much your mother loves her saris.

So like the dutiful daughter I am, I enlisted the services of R and his driver and went to Nalli, a massive sari emporium tightly ensconced in a neon lit Times-Square-like area. 5 minutes later and 2 (count 'em) saris later, we emerged to find our driver gone off on some unknown errand. He appeared 20 minutes later but R said we had to excuse him because I was probably the first woman to enter and exit Nalli in such an expedient manner.

My last day in Chennai was spent browsing around the kickass bookstore, Landmark. I picked up a book of poems by famed Kannada poet, A. K. Ramanujan (who reminds me of the brilliant Bangladeshi poet, Kaiser Haq, in his utterly sharp and modern accessibility). And while browsing the Indian authors aisle, I wrote down some of the best mango breasty titles (my term for the Asian penchant for exotified food/spice/colour imagery). You have permission to smack me if I ever use some version of the following in my work: Kardamom Kisses, Bougainvillea House, Mango-Coloured Fish, the Tiger Claw, Hullabaloo in the Guava Orchard, Mistress of Spices, Madras on Rainy Days.

Of course, Asians aren't the only mango breast titlers. Purple Hibiscus, the talented Ms. Adichie's first book, set in my birthplace in Nigeria, is an example of Africanised mango breasting. Ok, I'll stop pokyjabbing now. It's not as if I have a book to make fun of anyway. And if PR mandates a wet sari clad woman on my dust jacket, I'll at least make sure it's my own figure. After all, I'm now a pro at sari shopping.

Just before midnight on December 24, the fireworks start in Bangalore. In every direction you look, the sky starts filling with smoke and colour and fire. This city is possibly one of the prettiest in India. Granted I haven't been to Delhi, but from among the rest of the biggies, Bombay, Chennai, Kolkata, and Hyderabad: Bangalore is it. I love it. I'm told the army and the church are responsible for the ancient tree lined avenues and green spaces. Not that I'm a fan of either institution, but yay for flora! And for Blore's religious diversity. With a 20% Muslim population and a 20% Christian population, it has to be totally different from any other Indian city, no?

I lounged around with lovely brown prince, Tarun, now selling his soul to corporate America via a Stanford MBA, and back in Blore for a winter visit. Luckily, his clever charming mother, Nalini Aunty, is balancing the "man vs not-the-man" scales by getting her PhD in adult education (I am in awe of these parents getting their PhDs after retirement - Ram's dad is another one).

My host in Blore was my former Chaitime counterpart, the sexy activist, lawyer, writer, Achal. I saw him almost exactly two years ago in Blore, though he had spent much of the time between then and now working in Johannesburg, South Africa. He took me to a wedding feast that also featured a strange cool traditional dance (see photo above).

I capped my India trip by celebrating New Years in Bombay. Having done the fancy $100+ a head Mumbai party two years ago, my old Philly gang and I were looking for something a little bit different. We were all there for the wedding of our Chaitime friend and Bombayite, Dev on January 1 (I'm wondering how hungover his and Monica's anniversaries will be).

In pursuit of a novel beginning to 2007, Arif, Ram, Vijay, and I set off for Madh Island, about an hour outside Bombay. It was not quite what I had imagined and it was perfect. We wandered long beaches and a fishing village for hours and took hundreds of photos among the 4 of us (it turns out we're all mad about photography). Then in the night, we snuck into our hotel's dinner/dance NYE gala and had a ball. To our credit, we tried to buy tickets, but were refused. So we hid in the back of the hotel garden before the party started (and before they started checking tickets) and then when things were getting going, we strolled out and found a free table. Easy peasy.

While Vijay and I flew to Bombay especially for Dev's wedding, Arif was actually completely coincidentally there. He's taking time off from his activist work in the States and travelling around India and Bangladesh for a few months. Ram, however, lives in Bombay and has spent the last few years in various areas of filmmaking. He's currently working in cinematography and thinks about everything in terms of light, how to capture it, tweak it, filter it, create it. He made his first short film last fall and it's gorgeously shot. I also saw some of his stills and the slide film ones were especially fabulous. I learned that slide film captures light and thus colour in a different way - richer, more intense, more contrasty, which makes me want to try it out. Ram says if I come to Bombay again, he'll shoot me a film of my own. I say he's on, and not just because he's still his hot stoic self.

I am looking forward to coming back to India this summer. Starting July, I'll be spending 3 months in Kolkata continuing work on my book of short stories, poems, and photographs. I don't know anyone there and I'll be living on my own. It's going to be grand.