As this is my first mental vomit, I'll try to be as normal as possible.
I live in India. There is a small village of idiots which I call home. Its called New Delhi. Its full of people who, as a rule, are a bit too big for their boots. But they are funny. Because of what they do, and especially what they wear. But I shall not go into all that now. Perhaps after writing a few inches...perhaps sometime later...perhaps never...
New Delhi attracts a fair amount of tourists. In fact, India itself attracts hordes of them (you might be one of them...eventually). But when the foreigners (hereafter to be called fro...fros in plural) step into the country, its as if they want a big elephant to greet them in the airport. Or perhaps the terminal coach is not a bus, but perhaps a camel ride to the terminal, which by the way is a big tent, with the security people bowing a hundred times, and asking for a thousand pardons before frisking them, and in the duty free shops, they can get everything from snake skin to frog's liver to bull's eyes, and all the girls around would be showing off their navels (and basically show that they have small breasts) more than anything, and would be wearing those 'ethnic colourful dots' on their heads, and outside, they would find that everyone around is basically a skeleton, wearing turbans, as if they haven't had a morsel for days, and whenever one would come up tp them, it would be basically to beg. In fact, one fro actually asked me if I had tigers in the neighbourhood, whether I kill snakes with bare hands in my backyard, and the best was...are you served your ethnic rice (whatever that is) with the freshly cut foreskin of a young baby in your festivals, as your custom used to be? That left me gawking at him. I could never even imagine that. I had to be patient with him, and slowly explain a LOT of things, especially the fact that Indians, or for that matter, anyone from the subcontinent, are not a species from outer space, and that we are normal after all!
I met a german once. He was tall...very tall...like those Knights Templars of the old. He was very enthusiastic, about everything. He had a queer way of speaking, like a wave. One word would touch the abyss of his vocal chords, and then, the next word would be as high and sweet. wierd contrast, so wierd, that whenever he spoke, everybody turned their heads, in unison mind you, and listened to whatever he said. Seriously or not, I can't say. Once, after a few drinks, when I asked him, why he came to India, the answer was swift, innocent, and sincere. 'Oh, I like photography, you see. I came to photograph poor, hungry and dirty people, and India was the safest country where you can take picture of such type'. If he had not paid for the drinks, perhaps I would have given him a piece of my mind. But I resorted to the age old practice of Indian patience. True, later on, he gave up his menacingly foolish idea of taking pictures of dirty and hungry people, and took some excellent pictures of the Indian scenery. Good change...
I just read an article about the Indian movies (Bollywood we call it), in the Natgeo. Nice, funny, and riddled in ignorance. But some of it, true. But for some vague reason, Indians like fantasy, of all kinds, whether that be sex, songs, movies, etc etc etc. We like to show our love by swirling around great big trees, and singing our hearts out, with a professional orchestra in the backgrounds (imagined of course), and not forgetting the colourful clothes, trying all kinds of colour combinations, and styles, and flanked by men and women, wearing the same attire, and dancing with the two lovers, in perfect unison, as if they are all mirror reflections of the boy and the girl (imagine bruce lee in enter the dragon, where he fights in the hall of mirrors). Sometimes, the whole gang of forty or so, two groups (boys on one side, girls on the other) would jus run towards each other (in the background, the rising strains of a hundred violins, to effectuate the coming of the climax), and then, would meet, and embrace, and would exercise together (for the dance steps are nothing less). But the wierdest part of us Indians, has to be idol-worshipping. No, I am not talking about religion, and the 33 million god/goddesses involved in it, but am talking about the celluloid sorts. We love to worship our superstars. If they've won our hearts, we will do whatever possible for us to do, to make all of their releases, a blooming hit, even if the movie is next to crap, which usually it is. If you want to know how our indulgence and blindness reaches unimaginable limits, please imagine the scene I talked about earlier, about the two lovers. Now imagine, tha the girl is a sweet angel, with an amazing body and perked up nipples (all our heroines have perked up nipples for love and dance sequences. A big butt and bust is necessary for South-Indian movie heroines), and trying to scream or shriek out her love for the one she loves...a young man who, very clearly, dyed his hair black, and has a lot of foundation cream all over his face to hide his creases and wrinkles, and most probably has to take a puff from his inhaler after raising even an arm, and not to forget, he cannot sit under a fan. One has to be careful of the wig after all! Yes, we have a serious dearth of young men to play parts of young men, so we have old men playing out the part of young virile men, who tend to show their horniness through choreography. Of course, I am talking about the movies of the 80's and 90's era. Thankfully, a lot has changed since than. A lot for the better. But some elements of that fantasy world still remains. But those movies of the 80's and the 90's still rope in a house full!!
Anyway, its 3.30 in the morning, and I have an exam coming up, so I'll jus stop writing all the crap that is in my mind right now, and perhaps hit the books and the bed (not particularly in that order). Trust me, there's more where that came from. Ciao for now. Signing off.
