When it rains…
“So live and learn. The snow is melting never to return. Cross your ‘t’s and dot your ‘i’s and write ‘the end’ and maybe someday it will snow again.” Ass Ponies, Last Night it Snowed
This blog does not have a happy ending. But this blog is not the whole story.
I’m better, thanks. I booked a ticket south to Pushkar and low and behold, run into Amme there. We are both a little worse for the wear–she has a cold and I’m coming out of my first authentic Indian bedbug experience. Weee. Pushkar is lazy but nice. Amme’s been trying to get to a place called Mt. Abu for a month now, and so I decide to tag along on this, her 3rd attempt. It’s a lovely hill station very popular amongst honeymooners and things are cheap. There’s a Jain temple there intricately chiseled out of marble. The detail was amazing, but unfortunately you’re not allowed to take pictures. And the experience was somehow less glorious as we became the main attraction for all the temple goers. I would make a terrible celebrity. India has given me a new appreciation for these poor people. Everywhere I turn, some one wants to take a picture of me, or just stare, or even the occasional autograph request. I was asleep on the train one morning, and woke up just in time to catch the guy in the berth across from me snap my picture. Aggravating. Amme and I were in a restaurant in Mt. Abu, the only customers, and the staff was standing in the corner, talking. We wouldn’t have noticed they snapped a picture, but they didn’t turn the camera sound off on their cell phone. The wait staff. We told them not to do it again, but really, what can you do?
We both head to Bombay after Mt. Abu, but on separate trains. I take the bus down the mountain by myself. As I am exiting the bus, I pause near the front and address the two men standing in the drivers area, asking them which way to the train station. One immediately starts in speaking rapid Hindi, and it does not sound like directions to me. The other says nothing, just stares. Doesn’t make any indication of having heard me, just stares and reaches over and gives my boob a squeeze. I am wearing two backpacks, one on the front and one on the back. He is standing some 3 feet away. No way this was an accident. Infuriated, I take off my shoe and hit him a number of times, saying something ridiculous like, “Not OK!” But he just continues staring, as if nothing has registered at all. This makes me angrier and I tell him I’m going to get the police.
Lucky for me, the police station is across the street. I run over and speak with an officer, pantomiming the situation, grab and all. To think back on it, I probably looked crazed pointing in the direction of the bus stand, groping myself, making a driving motion, pointing again and stamping my foot. But it got the point across. He follows me back to the bus stand, but that particular bus has just left, I spot it headed down the street.
“Well, that was it. It was the driver of that bus.” I say, a note of resignation in my voice.
“OK.” he says, and to my great surprise flags down a guy on a motorbike, jumps on, and goes after it.
I go back to the station. They put me in the chief’s office and give me cold drinks and we talk for a while. Very nice guy. After a bit he asks what I want to be done if they catch him. I guess I hadn’t really thought about that. They don’t exactly have a system to put his name into, and what are they going to do? Fine him? I want him to know it’s not ok to do that. There are way to many men in India with a skewed idea of the rights of western women to let him get away with that, but at the same time, it wasn’t an attack or theft or murder. Anyway, eventually they haul about 10 men into the room I’m in. They ask me about the first guy they bring in, apparently he was the driver. It wasn’t him. I felt awful for having identified the wrong man and confused as to who was now driving the bus. They let him go and march in the others. The guy who did it is among them, and I point him out to the chief. He gets up from behind his desk, walks over to him, and delivers a powerful backhand to the guy’s right jowl, saying something in Hindi. Then they take him out of the office into the entry way and 5 officers (two of them women) proceed to beat the living crap out of him with broad leather belts and their bare hands. I am so uncertain as to how to feel about this. I imagine my face was sort of horrific, because a couple of the cops saw me and thought it was hilarious. They dragged him back in the office by the hair and made him say “sorry” and touch my feet. Then they took him out again. I would have felt less uncertain about how to feel if they hadn’t have beat a couple of the other guys they brought in too. Not as hard, but they still hit them, despite my request that they leave everyone alone except the one guy actually responsible. The chief tells me they are all friends and were drinking and shouldn’t have been, that’s why. That’s how I got my own personal 2 man detail in India to the ATM. I bet I looked pretty important.
When I got to Bombay, I found I didn’t have any underwear. I wasn’t thinking and used my bag of dirty clothes wrapped in scarves for a pillow on the train and didn’t grab it when I jumped off. So that was unfortunate. Otherwise Bombay round II was good. There was a lot I wanted to do I didn’t have time for the first time. We hung out with other people from the hostel and went to a Bollywood movie. Amme and I went to the market and I bought a cage and a leash and flea powder and the rest in anticipation for Keap. I booked a ticket to Goa the next night and emailed the shelter to let them know I was coming. That day a guy walked up to me on the street and asked if I wanted to be in a Bollywood movie. This is pretty standard in Bombay, so I said yes. Next day they loaded a bunch of westerners on a bus and drove us out to the studios. We waited for hours before anything happened. I’d talked to a couple of people who’d done it before. Amme had shot a commercial and she said there was a lot of waiting and bad 80s wardrobe. Another girl told me they wanted to put her in a short dress and have her lean against a pole for part of a movie. She asked if she was playing a prostitute, and they told her, “No, you’re just a girl on a Saturday night without a date.” Hmm. Finally we find out we’re in a ballroom scene. There is apparently a princess from England and she is throwing a party and we are her friends. They ask if anyone knows how to dance. I raise my hand, assuming everyone knows the basics of ballroom dancing, but the cheese stands alone. No one else raises their hand, and suddenly I am lead female dancer. They give all the men suits and the women black dresses in varying degrees of tacky. Mine is tight, but long and flowy on one side…on the other side is so short they have to provide me with bloomers. Nice. The dance instruction at the beginning of the shoot is absolutely tedious and the filming is worse. 7 hours in heels, mostly just standing around doing take after take of the princess walking down the stairs. My one moment of glory is when the princess reaches the bottom and looks around at the room. They pull me out front so mine is the first face she sees. Sadly, I didn’t get to stick around long enough to follow through with the dance because I had a train to catch. You should be able to see me in the movie though, in the next 3-4 months it should be out in India. Called Karzzz.
I take the train to Goa. I’m excited. When I get to the shelter, it is lunchtime and not many employees are around. One guy points to the puppy area and tells me to look over there. Keap isn’t in it. I spend another 10 minutes looking around, but don’t see her and eventually go back to the desk where the guy pulls out some paperwork and informs me they put her down the day before because of an eye infection. I am so stunned and sad and angry that I don’t say anything to him, just turn around and leave. Since then, I’ve mainly laid in bed and slept. I’m still feeling a lot of these emotions, plus a feeling of guilt for having delivered her there. I sent an email saying I was coming. They couldn’t wait one more day? I don’t know what it’s worth, but the place is called International Animal Rescue, and they’re a bunch of bastards.
I’ve still got all this stuff I bought for her laying around and I’m trying to decide what to do with it. Thankfully I have a train out of here tomorrow morning. The bad news is, I am headed back to Varanasi, and that is a 40+ hour ride. It’ll be good to get away from Goa, but I sure hope I can find a way to keep myself busy.
Tags: Travel
Blair
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