So I finally did it. I moved to India. Lungfuls of smoke and tuberculosis in the air, hawkers at all times of morning sleep; angry, angry motorists, pedestrians, stray dogs and dengue-ferrying mosquitoes - all blended with that ubiquitous mix of uncomfortable familiarity and fear one feels when on holiday with a huge camera slung around the neck and an attractive money-belt concealed under garments and undergarments besides.
India - that Superpower wannabe with the plastic spirituality of backpackers and unctuous tour guides, ugly riches and stark reminders everywhere that you shouldn't waste your food or look up while walking is now home. Supposedly it's my India. My mess. My problem.
So it's my first winter here in a long time. What does that mean? It means that there's a 76% chance that despite having lived out of the country for close to fifteen years that upon being here for only a month, I have bonafide invitations to three weddings. That's with cards through the mailbox; not just the verbal ones that become puffs of smoke when they're said.
It is wedding season. What this means is that at any time between 11am and 6am (the time most humans try to sleep in a day) there will be a big farting, marching band of embarrassingly overdressed red-cottoned monkeys trumpeting, honking, thumping and did I mention mouthfarting their way through classic hits like 'Om Jai Jagdish...', 'Desi Girl' and 'Om Shanti Om'.
When I went to sleep last night, it was this morning and my ears rang because the procession mouthfarted long, loudly and proudly under my window. Needless to say the kids woke up all through the night to remind me and the wife what a delight children are when they're half asleep, screaming and afraid that 'Khai Ke Paan Banaras Wala' might start for the fifth time at warp speed.
Ah India. You bring out the best and the worst in me. When the worst comes however, it will probably involve jail time and some explanation of why a band of marching mouth farters found themselves in a hail of Diwali bombs, soiled and flaming pampers and around the grill of a very angry Toyota Innova. It might happen. After all - this is India - where dreams get a soundtrack or a dance sequence faster than you can say, 'Abhe teri.....'. And yes we're a super paad too! I mean super Pawar. I mean Super Machama Dance Dhamaka...ok enough now...this is India man. You either deal with it or get out of the way. For now I'm steadfast. Swaraj is my birthright and I'll be damned if some marching band screws me out of it.
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