MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!
I have yet to hear A SINGLE carol piped from a loudspeaker, I have not seen a flake of snow; the closest to anything Christmas related that I have seen was a group of Lokhandwala (an upperclass suburb) children doing the chicken dance in the mall. I was walking to the grocery store with Kala, my teacher, and surprised her by breaking into the chicken dance on our way up the escalator. We left the grocery store with no fewer than three kinds of milk. It's funny--not witnessing a single crippled attempt to show love by spending money, and not having one seasonal display of green and red consumerism assault my vision (and I have to say, I kind of miss getting cheesed off about them) has got me feeling like 2005 is not going to end. "How can it be the end of the year? It's eighty freaking degrees!" I do however, have one funny xmas story: My parents got each other the same gift, which, sure, happens all the time. But this gift is not your ordinary gift--it is a six cubic foot helium-filled mylar remote control blimp. Apparently it's huge, and Dad filled Mom's up before giving it to her; he was planning to bring it to grandmother's house surreptitiously in the car. The blimp turned out to be so large, however, that after filling it up at a local party store, he had no choice but to give it to her early. So yesterday he presents her with this blimp, the size of which amazes her, before she takes him upstairs to his wrapped box. He says "No, I don't want to open MINE early..." and she replies "note the exact size and shape of the box." And then they laughed until they cried. They even ordered them from two different catalogs, and as it turns out, the unopened one was more expensive. So, in my opinion, the moral of the story is to have a family so bizarre that even thousands of miles away on Christmas, one can still picture one's parents' mutual surprise at an occurence that probably happens as often as winning the lottery. Ahhh.
It's been a long time since I've updated the site, I know, and it's truthfully because my life is not as exciting anymore. I have a daily routine, that I'll describe in a subsequent paragraph, and a few friends with whom I hang out, but my life has definitely acquired something of the mundane. This is nice. I've got both focus and a timeline, and I think that's a recipe for a pleasant season. Kala begins her tour on Feb. 22 (during the first part of this tour she'll be accompanied by none other than Zakir Hussain!), and that's when I'll leave Mumbai. Until then, I'll work my hiney to the bone and learn as much as I can. I'm already garnering a reputation in my building as an oddity, because as a tourist (and an *American* to say the least) don't I have a responsibility to drink vodka and hang out with everybody? Americans are supposed to be more fun, I guess.
Each morning I wake up on a piece of particle board covered with a sheet (after discovering that my chronic back pain had been due to crappy matresses) and make a cup of Nescafe with my handy-dandy heating element that plugs straight into the wall (say what you like, 220v AC has some advantages.). Then I languidly take a tamboura box out of my metal cupboard, plug it in, and listen to its drone while I unpack my violin. I practice for an hour or so, stretching when necessary, and if my lesson is in the morning I hop on my bike and cross town. Usually, though, it's at 6pm, so after my first practice rotation I rummage in my neighbors' (Anshuman's and Keziah's) rooms to see which one of them has the paper. They're both usually half-asleep, recovering from their circadian torture at their respective call centers, although occasionally one of them will have a humorous anecdote about an 'escalated' call received the previous shift. I find the paper and tear the crossword out of the International section, which often has some surprising news about the weird things going on in the States, and take it back to my room to solve and use for hints to complete yesterday's, if I couldn't finish it. Then I practice and go out for lunch, maybe take a walk, and read a bit of a book. Then I practice again and leave Shere Punjab for my lesson in Lokhandwala, which is an 8km bike ride, every inch of which is frought with screaming, honking traffic. It is generally conceded that two wheels is the way to get around, and I travel faster than the speed of traffic when it's congested, and sometimes even when its moving. I pass an accident every now and then. I get to Lokhandwala early, and sit around with the building guards for ten minutes or so before going up. My lessons last between one and two hours, not counting warming up, going to the grocery store, or eating dinner and talking. It's dark when I go back to Shere Punjab, and I do one last practice rotation before going to eat. I have a favorite restaurant up the hill called Garnish, a vegetarian place, that for 50 rupees serves a thali that is undoubtably the best and most varied that I've had in India. This is 10-25 rupees more than the average thali, but it comes with two roti (flatbread) and small dishes of paneer in a sweet spicy sauce, vegetables, potatoes and chickpeas in a spicy gravy, a plate of rice, a bowl of dal, a papar cracker, and a tiny bowl of curd. All for $1.50 counting an extra roti. Mmmm. I go back to my place stuffed, and make tea and read or hang out until getting ready for bed. Then I lie in bed awake, waiting for the mosquitos to show themselves so I can kill them and laugh maniacally. Not bad, huh?
However, for the past two days there's been no water in the building and everybody's a little on edge. I'll save describing the relationships between tenants so that I have something to write about in the future; suffice it to say it's colorful.
Thanks for reading my dang blog, guys. Merry Christmas from India.
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