flagpole

I’m watching dusk fall on Hyderabad. I’m watching it from a rooftop in Banjara hills. I can see the massive valley of urbanization through the settling haze of dusk and smog, and the city’s dusty moonscape is broken only by the man-made lake in the centre, the Hussain Sagar. It’s balmy and breezy. “All-llah ak-baaar”. There’s a beauty in the call to prayer at dusk. There’s a beauty in those words alone- Call to Prayer. Feels like a gentle reminder; an Invitation to Peace. Or something. For some reason it makes me think of Flagpole at summer camp. Whatever you may be doing, at dusk you report to Flagpole. To see all your friends. To salute the day. To take a moment to think. I miss the flagpole in my life. I can understand people taking comfort in structured days- it makes sense.
They’re starting in now- three different Invitations warbling and waving like flags of song, like beckoning fingers. Intermittently they form an accidental harmony with one another. An unintentional choir. What could be more beautiful than an unintentional choir?
The first tiny bat appears in the dying light. Every other winged creature seems to be heading for home, but bats take the night-shift. At the Charminar today we hired a guide- I see no reason not to spend $2.50 on learning at least one thing you didn’t already know. I wouldn’t have known that one side of the four-pillared structure has no stairs so that the King’s chariot could pull up alongside it 400 years ago. I wouldn’t have known that one of the carved symbols inside the minaret was a cat; a cat because cats eat rats, rats cause plague and the Charminar was built as a monument to those who lost the battle with the rat disease.
We also visited the Mecca Masjid today, second-biggest mosque in the country. They had a bomb blast here three months ago, killed seven. Broke a stone altar in half. In the market outside, the bustling, busy, Ramzan-shopping-preparing crazy market, it’s beautiful to see a Hindu woman in a colourful saree haggling for bangles beside a burqa-shrouded Muslim woman. Katya tried on a burqa in the market, but just bought the mask. We still got lots of stares. I think the boys thought I was running off with one of their own.
The pray-ers are marching up the hill to mosque now. Just like we marched up the dust trail from campfire. I wonder if they feel as warm as I always did after campfire. Longsleeves over summer skin almost feel superfluous. Perfectly superfluous.
Can’t see anymore…

Barbershop

it costs 30 rupees for a straight razor shave. Who’s doin the shavin and who’s just hanging out, the barber shop is full of guys, curious about the foreigners who stepped off the back street. And when my barber snaps in the new razor, it looks a little worse for wear, is that rust? And he gives it a rinse with some tepid water. Lathers me up, fans stirring slowly overhead, the kid beside me is getting a bowl-cut butcher job and is crying quietly because of it, but now the hairs are being sliced from my ghost-white visage, and I can tell the razor isn’t razor-sharp because there’s a tiny pull, a tiny scrape, but it’s coming off smooth just the same. More men arrive in the doorway, or whisper quietly in the darker corners, smiling and the word Canadian seeps through now and then. (when they asked, ?American?, we said no, Canadian. They said, same thing? We said, are India and Pakistan the same thing?) he’s given my face the twice-over now, and it’s baby butt smooth, so he rubs perfumed oil into my baby’s butt and vigorously shake-massages my face so my whole body is vibrating and I’m trying not to laugh at how strange it feels, but it feels good. He asks if I want an oil head massage- What the hell. I feel like a dog with fleas as he empties what looks like fast-food ketchup package of molasses-thick golden oil at the crown of my scalp, and goes to work rubbing and squeezing it in below the hairs. It’s not the drift away to ocean soothing sounds type of head massage- there’s no worry of falling asleep as he’s either pushing and rubbing his fingers so hard against my scalp that my whole head is moving, or he’s bonking it- there’s no other word for it- with the bottom of his fists, quickly and efficiently. My head definitely feels lighter when he’s done. They ask if I want a full-body massage, but I’m good. The foreigners leave the barber shop..

ENTRY

I haven’t written anything here for a while. Sorry about that. I am in Pune. Near Mumbai. Last week we were in Bangalore, further south. We took it easy down there, being exhausted after 2 weeks in Delhi of sightseeing and birthday partying (for both of us). We stayed in a company house and got to have our first cockroach experience when we discovered a hundred of them, all shapes and sizes, squatting in the microwave. Butter popcorn proved to be too much for them (or maybe it was the sweltering microwaves) and they made a mass exit, some trapped in the digital clock (it’s cockroach o’clock). But it was a welcome change to be under a roof with more than one room to call home that we didn’t have to take an elevator to get to. We’d been looking forward to being domestic again (we’ve forgotten what cooking and cleaning is), but we were denied such simple pleasures as the house provided its own duo of maids to cook every meal and wash every dish. But after having seen the menagerie in the microwave we weren’t too keen to hang out in the kitchen after all.
I was fortunate enough to get another radio interview in Bangalore, with an English pop/rock station called RadioIndigo. I was interviewed over the course of an hour by RJ Ayesha, live on the air, and she played Marianne and Stop the Time from the record, and I played Howling and the Moon live. The response from the rush-hour traffic listeners was fantastic- many text messages of support and requests for CDs. We gave a few away. I wish I’d had another week there- I would’ve tried to do a show. But maybe I’ll go back. In fact I just talked to Ayesha today, and she said there’s been a request for Marianne every day this week. So that’s heartening.
So onto Pune. The weeks are flying by now. We’ll soon be back in bustling Bombay. Here in Pune I walk around a lot. Today I played a tracking game. I sat in a roadside café and waited for someone to walk by that grabbed my attention- a fire-person. A wizened old man with a full head of silver hair, and a child-like perplexity about his features caught my eye, so I let him get half a block, then began tracking him. Following him. We crossed the bridge and were soon wandering through tight streets choked with afterwork traffic, people rushing home, rushing to school, or not rushing at all. I soon lost my quarry and had to find another one. I did this a few times. It’s a great way to get into the thick of a city. It’s a great way to get hopelessly lost as well, so I made continuous mental notes of how to get back to the bridge (Go back to Hindu temple with green truck, turn right, back to Yellow Cloth Pyramid, turn Left, etc). I enjoyed peering into people’s lives as they went about them. I sat by the road and had the best chai I’ve ever tasted for 3 rupees in a tiny shot glass. I wandered back over the bridge.
Sometimes I get a little sick of being a tourist so I make up these games. Tracking people and so on. Sometimes I feel isolated in these hotels, or just that I need a haircut. Sometimes I go off the rails, but most times I’m pretty close. Wobbly but okay. Sometimes I feel like an emotional flatliner, I’m riding a riverraft down the flat line, coasting to nowhere in particular, feeling nothing in particular. It’s disconcerting. So there’s colours all around me, why should I jump ship? My legs are waggling. Some say it’s unlucky, but I can’t help it sometimes. Sometimes.
To start a rickshaw you pull up on a long lever that lies flat beside your left foot. It grunts and sputters like a lawnmower before it gurgles to life. Women in sarees ride behind their husbands side-saddle on the scooters. Little boys in school ties play plastic cricket under the awnings of abandoned shops, 6 feet from the smoke and long horns of early evening traffic, and the little girls in green school frocks stand in large circle playing a clapping game, waiting for their mothers to fetch them. Some men sit at the steel chai-seller’s table and wait for a friend to pass by. Most sit for the minute it takes to finish the small glass, and abruptly leave. Some of the stray mutts that roam every city have surrogate caretakers, and follow them in small packs, waiting for a small treat. At the base of the bridge, the man with the lime-juice cart sweeps the stones in front of his stand with a short broom, thin twigs tied with twine.
It's better for business.