Here are some photos from my wanderings around the nation's capital. They include the opening night of the Monsoon Festival 2, Baha'i Lotus Temple, Connaught Place (where I'm lodging), Jama Masjid (truly majestic) and Chandi Chowk market.
Strange as it may seem, in the four months to date that I have been in India, I have not seen a single movie (in the cinema) of my ultimate hero, Shah Rukh Khan. It seems that not only do we share a birthday (he's five years to the day older than me) but we also decided to take a bit of a break from the world at the same time.
SRK, King Khan, Master of Bollywood is back. Whether he laughs, cries, shows anger or aggression, is in love or plots vengeance, it shows from his body language that he is drawing on a past personal experience. In the ocean of schlock and overacting that characterizes Bollywood, Shah Rukh stands out, and perhaps alone, in being believable. He admits that, as opposed to when he began his career, nowadays it all comes easily to him. That's just proof positive of what a gift this man possesses.
Progressive social themes are a favorite of his. In Chakde India, he takes on several hot-button issues, and handles them all with panache.
The movie opens with SRK as Kabir Khan, captain of India's field hockey team, taking the final overtime penalty shot in the World Cup finals against Pakistan. This is the first film that I can remember that SRK plays the Muslim that he is. I can recall him as the good Hindu boy, making a progressive point in many films, and this flash of authenticity is most welcome. Kabir misses the shot, and India loses the match and the tournament. In a show of chivalry, Pakistan's team captain shakes his hand and offers an embrace, both of which are captured on film by the media, angered by the loss and always hungry for scandals and scapegoats. Was Kabir Khan a traitor to India? At the end of the sequence, he is drummed out of his home.
India's Muslims, some 20 or so percent of the population, have fought long and hard against suspicions that they are a fifth column for Pakistan. I have seen no small number of films where Muslim actors and directors, who are overrepresented in terms of their percentage in the general population in Hindi cinema, make the point again and again that they are Indian through and through. There seems to be a need to reaffirm their allegiance, which only says to me that it is still questioned, at least in subtext, throughout some of Hindu society.
Seven years after the World Cup debacle, appropriately set in Delhi, the nation's capital (and incidentally released just days before India's 60th Independence Day), Kabir Khan is called upon to coach a very unlikely girl's national field hockey team. Once again, SRK takes on reactionary figures to move, if only a few inches, towards modernity. In fact, the team is composed of girls from every region of this vast country, and the dynamic lends itself rather well to some good humor. There are even two girls from Northeastern states, who endure catcalls from Subcontinental men on several occasions, in one of which the girls of the team trash a McDonald's restaurant in a brawl defending them. I drew particular pleasure from the trashing of McDonald's: a symbol of imperialism at its very worst, and even though oddly satisfying on occasion when there is a particular yen for some truly disgusting junk food, it is a veritable culinary catastrophe in its Indian version.
No wonder Northeastern girls endure this type of humiliation. The natives of the seven northeastern states are ethnically much closer to Burmese and Thais than to Indians. There are a myriad of cultural differences, but one of them is that they don't negate women's sexuality and have much healthier attitudes in general as compared to Indians' messed up hypocritical "morality".
Perhaps a few more words should finally be said here about India's rule over the Northeastern states. Make no mistake about it: not one person can point a finger accusing me of not being a true friend of India. But friends can and also should level criticism where it is needed most. India is unwelcome by no small number of Northeasterners. These states should probably have become independent countries at the time of Independence, and India has hung on with a policy, at times, of brute force. Some states are under virtual military occupation, enduring terrible human rights abuses, about which the world remains almost completely ignorant. I'm not saying that I have a readymade solution on file; no doubt the issue is very complex. However the status quo is unacceptable, and more of India's friends should say so out loud.
Kabir Khan is a demanding coach. He is often harsh and difficult to please (though I would certainly try my best if given the chance). When initially denied permission to take his team to the Women's Field Hockey World Cup tournament in Australia, he responds with a challenge. If the girls can win a game against the boys’ team, they should be allowed to go and represent India. The game is played, and the girls lose 3-2. But they play a great game and are given the go-ahead to fly to Melbourne.
The second half of the movie is the series of games they play in the tournament. Predictably, they are thrashed in the first one 7-0 by host Australia. Likewise, they win in a penalty shootout in the final game against the same team, coming home as heroes, and vindicating Kabir Khan, who returns to his former Delhi home in the final scene.
When all is said and done, Shah Rukh Khan gives another stellar performance in a movie full of poignant issues and symbolism. My only disappointment is that there were no actual song and dance sequences, since I'm such a sucker for them. Nevertheless, that does not subtract from the film overall, and it should be seen now and noted for posterity for the social messages it so effectively relays.
To be perfectly honest, I was dreading coming to Delhi. After my experiences in the big metros Bombay, Bangalore and Chennai, I really wasn't up for another huge, crowded, smelly, disorganized and filthy fourth-world megopolis. I was coming for an art festival. I would hold my nose. And that would be it.
Well, imagine my surprise to stumble onto what must be India's most pleasant and intriguing metropolis.
I started out in the Tibetan Colony of Manju ka Tilla several kilometers northeast of the city center. It was like a little piece of Dharamsala in the middle of Delhi. Clean, organized, suffused with dhamma, it had a positive feeling all around, and I appreciated the quiet as an introduction back into India. All the hotels were full, as they were having a "Free Tibet" day demonstration (I found a room in the end, but it wasn't easy). It is safe to assume that this is a regular occurrence in those parts, and it was nice to be able to take part in such a good cause.
On that note, I should like to mention at this point that the Dalai Lama has put the occupation of Tibet on the world agenda against a far more formidable enemy, a superpower no less, all through nonviolence. Have you ever heard of a Tibetan insurgent blowing himself up in a Beijing cafe to protest the occupation? Of course not. That would be absurd. And that is my point exactly. Perhaps China is further from making concessions on the Tibet issue than Israel is on the Palestinian one. But don't think for a moment that the question will go away. And it's hard not to have true sympathy for a people that has borne so much hardship with such stoicism and yet maintained, in every way, the moral high ground. If the Palestinians had used such tactics, I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that they certainly would have had their state long ago.
Getting out and about in Delhi was a bit of a challenge from that lovely enclave, so after a few days, I made the decision to move to the city center, in the form of Connaught Place, or CP, as it is known by the locals. It is somewhat confusing to navigate. There is an outer circle, a middle circle (noticeably dingier, where incidentally I found my room) and an inner circle with more high-end establishments, a park and its own metro station. Yes, Delhi has a metro, and a sparkling clean, modern and efficient one at that.
I spent an evening in Saket, in posh south Delhi. There is an outdoor pedestrian mall, and it is a most pleasant place to spend time on a warm summer night. I later discovered that Delhi has many of such places, and it was at this point that the city began to really endear itself to me. What's more, the residential quarter of Saket very much reminded me of affluent north Tel Aviv, and I must say I felt quite at home there.
Nehru University is also in south Delhi. There are an astonishing number of foreign students there, from every country imaginable. As a matter of fact, Delhi is a delightfully cosmopolitan place, and this is another one of its great charms. As an example, I met a student from Tajikistan who spent, as I did, a year in Indonesia, and speaks fluent Bahasa (as I have discovered I no longer do).
A propos Indonesia, I managed to get myself invited to their embassy for lunch one day. Skye Frontier reckons that Indonesia could be the next travel destination towards the end of the year. It would be a pity not to revive my Bahasa since I now have the opportunity.
The opening night of the Monsoon Festival 2 was held at the British Council, so all in all, I've been power networking, seemingly without any exertion, with a very hip crowd. And there's more to come.
Some years ago, a sick fuck of a director named John Waters made a number of shockingly disgusting films, nearly all of which I enjoyed immensely. This demented pervert propelled such acting gems from sub-culture into the popular mind like Ricki Lake (yes, people) and the unforegettable Divine. Yup: there’s a special place in Skye Frontier’s black heart for his trash.
Divine’s great claim to notoriety was for eating a piece of dog shit in Waters’ 1972 film Pink Flamingos. Apart from that, he/she/it had a Top 20 (in the UK) hit, in the form of a cover version of You Think You’re a Man, in addition to other songs suitable only for drag shows. I had the priviledge of seeing Divine lip-sync her own hits at Komrad’s in Toronto in 1987. I was 16 (OK, so now you know). One can only speculate whether this seminal event turned me into the messed up puppy that I subsequently became. Incidentally, Divine dropped dead of a massive heart attack in 1988.
In the 90s, Waters gained commercial success with slicker movies such as Cry Baby and Serial Mom, attracting no less names than Johnny Depp and Kathleen Turner, respectively. A Dirty Shame in 2004 was slick but thematically much closer to his earlier work, and starred many of his original cast members plus Tracy Ullman. However, perhaps his most memorable flick was the 1988 Hairspray, a musical, starring Divine, Ricki Lake and Debbie Harry. So imagine my mortified surprise when I found out that a commercial remake of this classic was about to be released.
To be perfectly honest, I’ll have to see the original once again, because I must have been pretty stoned when I saw it the first time around (always a good way to watch John Waters). The details remain sketchy, and while I’m sure that the plot was essentially the same, I’m also certain it contained far more outrage. I do recall that the soundtrack was quite catchy, though. In any case, I saw the remake on opening day in Bangkok’s MBK Mall’s Cinema City (occupying the 7th and 8th floors of this Great Temple of Consumerism).
Michelle Pfeiffer, a slimmed down Queen Latifa, Christopher Walken, newcomer Nikki Blonsky, cute Zac Efron and total stud muffin Elijah Kelley all gave memorable performances in this camp and witty musical. Who says American audiences reject the Bollywood format? First Moulin Rouge, now this! But the icing on the cake was John Travolta made up to look like a sow with a thyroid problem. I don’t know how they did it, but 30 years after Grease and Saturday Night Fever, he still has all the moves, even looking like he weighs 250 kilos. The 60s integration theme was a bit lame, as I like my politics a rather edgier, even in a musical. To be fair, it was probably quite a bit more poignant in Waters’ original version. But the costumes, hairdos, choreography and soundtrack were all stupendous, so it can be forgiven.
Mom: go out RIGHT NOW and buy me the soundtrack on CD! You can continue reading Skye Frontier’s archives later. Come on, up you get; they’ll still be online when you get back from the Promenade.
As for the rest of you, don’t walk, don’t run, sprout wings and FLY out to your nearest cinema hall to see Hairspray. You will smile throughout every minute, and it will stick with you for hours afterward. A great show!
Here's a bit of Bhag Aviv...
And the center in Thailand where I did the Vipassana course.
Going back in time, At South's End, we have the STC event in Bangalore where I lectured and the beachfront in Pondicherry.
Enjoy.
Greetings from Bangkok, Thailand.
What??
Yes. I suppose it requires some explanation, so here goes.
I was actually planning to come after some 180 days in India, to renew my status. But my friend François, whom Josh knew from Dharamsala, and who visited us in Tel Aviv, did need to go on a visa run. At first I was reluctant, but in the end, he proved rather persuasive.
In any case, being spiritually inclined from all the good vibes in Bhag Aviv, but not sure if I was ready for the discipline of the 10-day Vipassana course there, it seemed a propitious moment to do the same course in Thailand, where the format seemed somewhat more appealing. In addition, I knew that I could get a computer for much cheaper than in India. As I wanted to continue my journey, on and on, it seemed wise to get some gear to make a bit of cash so I could offset expenses. So off we went.
A few days were spent at a disappointing beach (Pattaya). Then to the course. François ditched me after the first day, but no matter. The course was a revelation in self awareness.
There were about 60 participants, two thirds of whom were women. Almost all were Thais. There were about eight foreign women, and I was the only foreign man. The surroundings were idyllic. The food, totally vegetarian and truly fantastic, and among the healthiest I have ever eaten. We slept in dorms, and my room actually backed onto the bathrooms. So I could hear all that high-fiber goodness working on the meditators. From squeaks to gurgles to all-out roars, it was sonorously amplified via the porcelain acoustics. Down the drain it went, and to be sure, it was a fitting metaphor for the experience of ridding myself of all that shit inside.
Vipassana is essentially a meditation exercise to quiet the mind by observation of breathing and bodily sensations. The principle, which is non-sectarian, has you observe, without reacting, all sensations on your skin, bringing you to the very experiential realization that all things are transitory. That may sound a bit abstract, but when you live this insight, past hurts dissolve. Calm sets in. Anger dissipates. And together, this leads to quite a shift in perspective.
All this is done in an atmosphere of silence, since everyone’s experience is very personal, and it would spoil it to be yakking about it to the other meditators. That doesn’t mean to say there are no distractions. After ten days of total solitude, I had a coterie of imaginary friends. And there was a monk among the meditators who caught my attention, firing my imagination. He had Shiva tattoos all over his body, which I just couldn’t help noticing: The Monk Who Was a Hunk. On the tenth day, we were allowed to speak, and he turned out to be an interesting guy. I asked him if he had been a DJ or biker before becoming a monk, as I had imagined. Just a graphic designer; nothing like a bit of speech to shatter an image.
Now truly feeling enlightened in a most novel way, I headed back to Bangkok, to rampage. That done, and proving to be rather anticlimactic in my newly acquired loftiness, I bought a laptop computer. It took a whole day, in the truly amazing Pantip Plaza: five floors of hi-tech gadgetry to behold and bargain for. In the end, I got a great deal on an HP Pavilion Entertainment PC, which has provided non-stop fun ever since the purchase. Of course I negotiated a bunch of extras in the deal, the most important of which was a knapsack to carry the computer and ancillary equipment.
Thus an era comes to an end, for the Hi Tech Knapsack replaces the Bag of Culture. Tomorrow night, I fly to Delhi, to continue my journey, whose nature may have changed quite a bit now.
