Build Me Up Buttercup (India, you can be a real jerk sometimes)

Have you ever been slapped by a motorist whizzing by you at at least 60km/hr?

I hadn’t either until three hours ago, and I still have the welt to prove it. India is a cheeky little fucker. I waltzed, no wait, I strutted into Jaipur three days ago, brimming with travelers confidence and emotional baggage from having to leave my most amazing cohort after an intense three week residency. I felt so bonded with these amazing folk, but a small part of me was glad to be on my own again with more space and time to think. My liver was thrilled too after the 1o days in Goa that we had (insert fist shaking at whiskey and Goa-specialty feni, a cashew liquor that goes down much too easily).

The famous Raj Mandir Cinema

I started out all piss and vinegar, unable to contain my glee at exploring another city and state so freely. I found a great guesthouse in the dead of night after my original choice was booked. I made my way through the city palace, the bazaars of the Pink City and climbed the monkey-laden hill to the temple in Galta. I attended the cinema by myself and not only was I NOT groped, but I felt like less of a spectacle as there were two other white girls there, and since they were a larger surface area of white skin, all eyes went their way and I was free to roam and appreciate the opulent theatre in a way I couldn’t anywhere else.

My cycle-rickshaw got lost one night, cycling in circles for an hour before I magically was saved by a tall and authoritative Egyptian/American hybrid I dubbed “St.Michael”.  I felt invincible but I should have known that would end, and soon. To quote the Adiga novel I am currently zipping through: “What a fucking joke!”

Men and asking for directions = a universal fail

 Today was strange because I literally had to force myself to leave my room. My guesthouse (Ratan Niwas) is nothing fancy, but it’s clean and safe. It also lacks windows and thus any semblance of natural light. So I wake up later and get pissed off at myself for wasting yet another sunrise in India. But a strange thing happened today.

The epitome of white guilt

Today is my last day in Jaipur and I had a list of things I wanted to do and see, but suddenly updating Twitter seemed more important. As was rearranging my backpack. Watching some terrible show about Indian women trying to look Western took precedence. I also decided to fung shui my room, moving the chairs, bureau and even the huge-ass wardrobe just a titch to the left to balance things out. It was 1pm before I ever left the room, and I only did it then because the power went out and sitting in the dark was not appealing. I spent an hour on the roof, eating aloo paratha and drinking tea, before I ever ventured beyond the hotel gate. And when I did, what did I do? I went to a fancy hotel and paid to use their pool! Ugh, I’m disgusted with myself even writing that. So I spent my last afternoon, lounging by a frigid pool, in the shade, surrounded by chubby, euro retirees.

Yup, I hate myself.

After the pool, I had just enough vim left to check out the Nargarth Fort so I set out to find an honest looking tuk-tuk guy to take me as far as he could before I had to hike up the steep hill. But before I found him, there was a motorcycle coming at me at an alarming speed. Three guys on the bike locked eyes with me but I refused to back down. They had the entire street (for once, In India, there was zero traffic thanks to the fact that today was a Muslim holiday) and I was off to the side of the road. They could stay on their side I thought to myself smugly and boldly continued to walk straight forward. Suddenly they zig-zagged towards me, I didn’t flinch, but the guy in the rear slapped my arm, hard, as they whizzed past laughing. 

He was NOT smiling by the end of our exchange

Now, if he had been going slowly, this would have been more of a playful smack. That’s my theory anyways. But because of their velocity, I stumbled backward and spun a little bit, my right arm smarting and turning a violent red as I turned to yell at their retreating, and still laughing, form. I mustered all the mystic powers I had and cursed them with bad karma forever. I stopped short of spitting at them though because an Untouchable was looking at me then, with such pity in her eyes. For a woman who is disgraced by her own society to look at me like that, well, it stopped my pity party right there. But I was still pretty pissed off and took my bad mood out on the next three tuk-tuk drivers who refused twenty rupees offer to get me back to the hotel.

What is the point of my rant? Nothing really. But it’s been four weeks since my last blog and I felt guilty about not communicating. There have been so many amazing moments in between, but it was the thoughtless gesture by this young hooligan (yeah, I know I sound 80) that made me want to spew words into my blog again. Hopefully my next post will be more positive.

Am about to board a night train to Jaisalmer, to ride through the desert on some poor, smelly camel and camp out under a clear and starry sky, a la ‘Arabian Nights’. That should be worth a rave review for sure but for now, I’m just annoyed. 

India… why do you build me up?

Rooftop sunset over the Pink City