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Published: September 10th 2006
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Air Sahara
emotionally yours There is a mobile phone network here that is called "STD." i have seen signs for it everywhere and i took me a while to figure out what it was they were advertising. I had to chuckle when i came apon a billboard in English that showed a happy couple, mouths agape mid-laugh, clutching their mobile phones. The words read: "STD.....Keeping you connected." Now if that's not funny then you suck and have no sense of humor.
I took a flight last night from Delhi to Bangalore on an airline called Air Sahara. Most American airlines i know have tag lines like "come fly the friendly skies" or "a whole different animal" or whatever some yuppies in an office somewhere came up with to give their big piece of steel a touch of
humanity. Thank the Indians and the Air Sahara crew for coming up with this gem: "Air Sahara--Emotionally Yours." ........what? (insert Napolean Dynamite inflection)
Last night i was the only white person on the plane. Since i am a minority here, such an occurrence is expected. I however, was uneasy about it. In a somewhat continuous series of mid-air, heart racing, sweaty palmed prayers i think God
Waiting at the airport
i liked the way the sun was coming in differently from different windows and i have contractually agreed that my exit from the planet shall not be via aircraft failure. However, in the event that i offend or somehow break my end of the agreeent, i hope that my beloved creator has the mercy to not make me the only whitey on the plane.
I'll go ahead and insert the mandatory caveat that i am not a racist, nor do i have anything against different cultures (unless you happen to be a chinese man). It's just that when the plane is crashing, and i'm screaming "Holy Shit this really blows!" i want my fellow passengers to UNDERSTAND my last utterances, even though they're probably thinking the equivalent. The other thing is that when its over and there's just bodies and twisted metal, and everyone else is ascending via cow to their next life....i don't want to be the only white idiot in the netherworld looking stupid and asking in broken Hindi, "which way to heaven?"
Let me bring you for a moment, into the olfactory potpurri that is India. A casual stroll down a wire strewn back alley brings whiffs to the nasal passages that it doesn't take a wine conesseur
talking trash
this is what you see about every 10 feet or so to recognize. A pleasant first note is the smell of chai as it boils in large vats in the morning. Nothing follows the sweet smell of cinnamon quite so well as a maggot infested pile of poo. It's kinda earthy and i find myself wondering if Yankee has ever considered it as a seasonal candle. We follow this earthy waft with the scent of dough boiling in hot grease---somewhat reminiscent of the kitchen floor mats after a busy night at the restaurant. Of course one cannot ignore the lovely smell of the open aired corner urinal. I believe i have gone into detail in previous emails about my affinity towards that particular aroma, so i'll spare you here. Then there are the spice stalls, ripened and rotting fruit, the cows, and the rainbow piles of garbage festering in the noonday sun. Perhaps India's most unique smell is the sweat of its inhabitants. It is a body odor that could only be a byproduct of skin that is constantly absorbing and sweating out all of the above. At lunch today i ordered some Dal (an Indian lentil dish) and i couldn't help but TASTE in the food a distinctive yet subtle
Reflection
sun sets outside a delhi airport window blending of the aforementioned smells. The mysterious combustions of flavor that once drew me to the cuisine, suddenly and without my permission revealed themselves, and i lost my appetite. I hope that when i am back stateside, i can forget these secret ingredients and treat myself to the occasional indian meal. For now i am stuck not only smelling, seeing, hearing, touching, and tasting india, but now i must digest it all as well.
Of course no Lyndsey email would be complete without mentioning poop. My bathroom in Delhi, though dirty, still managed to have a western style toilet. It was on this western style toilet that i sat, happily conducting my daily duty. When i was done i had a look, approved highly of my tootsie roll, and gave her a good flush. I returned to the bed to read and later when the urge to pee brought me once more into the bathroom, i noticed that my turd was still there. "Curious," i thought. I tried to flush again---nothing. Looking around i noticed that hanging on the shower was a bucket for water with a plastic cup for scooping. Having encountered this system of waste management before
i filled the bucket and dumped water in the toilet, hoping that my ship of faeces would sink. Nothin'. After extinguishing all possible avenues for disposal i determined that God just wanted me, in his own peculiar way, to have a companion.
i'm sure there will be more where that came from.
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