As I sit at my desk, being bitten by a recent infestation of mites we uncovered after a maha-clean-up of the office (I kid you not. There are three on my arm as I type),  I think about the people I know who I am thankful for having in my life. My mother, for always telling me to be realistic and sane, my father, for teaching me how to write, my boss, who is like a Godfather to me, or more appropriately, a Guardian Angel. My coworkers for greeting the amazing trials and tribulations of our mission with a sense of humor.

Another lifetime, perhaps, but this is the way I like to feel when my feet are ankle-deep in Ganges mud.

The friends I have made, kept, lost, rediscovered, and marveled at. I am so very grateful to the people who have encouraged me and helped me become a better person. Gee – this is beginning to sound sycophantic, eh? Forgive me, I’ll dispense with the Gaudiya Purple, and the theatrics I am so well known for, however much exaggeration or drama might add for entertainment levels – and that is pretty much the only reason I write on this thing – basically this is something of a  ‘so long, and thanks for all the fish’ (at least until next time) post.

And although some readers might be under the impression that my blog is dedicated to destroying any romantic conceptions one may like to have about India, my two cents worth on the topic is that I love jumping on the boat to Navadwip, catching a flat-bed rickshaw to the train station, jumping onto the train and sitting on (not quite hygenic) floor of the the vendor’s compartment, catching a trillion taxis or walking four kilometers across the city so I have enough money for chocolate, and then doing the reverse to get back home again. I love my Chai, I love my Dokla, Jalebis and Sandesh. I love my disturbingly simple grasp of Bengali and the five words of Hindi I know are hopefully the basis on which fluency will soon grow.

And although I’m more of a pants-person, occasionally getting to shimmy around in a few feet of silk makes me feel mature and feminine enough to class myself as a Woman – although what comes out of my mouth when it gets caught in my bike chain is quuuuite another matter. The sound of the morning and evening Shenai coming from the Samadhi reminds me of when I was four years old and it was the curfew alarm – and how I fervently prayed there would be a power-out so we could run around for a little longer, and the come home with so many mosquito bites we looked like we had chicken-pox (and I swear to God, I have photos to prove it).

Ultimately, Mayapur will always be a place I consider home, like Australia, and perhaps the whole of India – I feel I have the right to criticise it’s shortcomings, but by GOD, if you start, I turn into the most nationalistically inclined person you’ve met.

Oh no, I'm wearing jeans in this one...

Jai, and all glories to Sleeper Class.

…You usually get it.

I haven’t written for about a month. I usually post quite frequently when there’s something, say, like three assignments overdue and I want to “exercise my creativity” and further my bullshitting abilities. And of course it’s been a monotonously humid month with internal abuse of neighbours who don’t turn the building’s water supply on (I always discover this halfway through a shampoo rinse) and who won’t turn it off (usually at 1 AM).

And the Bengali Black-outs, which aren’t so bad for fifteen minutes but are pretty terrible when you factor in having to defrost the freezer because it becomes an ice-cave every second day and the fact that your baby-darling-honey laptop is slowly but surely dying inside (battery health currently at 78% and falling).

But all in all, this little dharmvasi is used to such trials. I can handle it. It’s exotic India, damn you, and that means I speak a bit of Bengali, get sufficient discounts, and wear fancy drapes (on my good days) and burn incense (that costs an arm and a leg in the west) like my bathroom plumbing is backing up. Which it does. A lot.

But now I face one of the most irritating  weeks of my life, a punishment usually reserved for feral wildlife. I’m covered in freeking insect bites and I don’t have a bloody clue how to prevent more. The current plan is to fumigate my office with “Hit” – India’s Mortein – although if I leave woozy I wont be surprised or at the least worried. If this experience passes through the weekend and onto monday I may have to consider putting myself out of my misery.

Basically when I whined about nothing interesting happened I was asking for a slap in the face. And I got it.

Mandakini over at Electric Candle Lite composed this rewrite about me the other night. I guess it makes a lot more sense if you actually know me, but I think her tenuous grasp of the name of my hometown (Murwillumbah) is probably my favourite.

I’m sitting in the railway station. [the krishnanagar one]
Got a ticket for my destination. [murlilllimunwhejwbha, aus]
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand. [skank]
And ev’ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band. [one-woman]
Homeward bound, [to murrlimwambha or however you call i]
I wish I was, [as cool as manda?]
Homeward bound, [yeah that place]
Home where my thought’s escaping, [into your mac computer]
Home where my music’s playing, [on your itunes]
Home where my love lies waiting [kalki your bed]
Silently for me. [silently??? noooo]
Ev’ry day’s an endless stream [of poop]
Of cigarettes and magazines. [minus the cigarettes]
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories [intermission!]
And ev’ry stranger’s face I see reminds me that I long to be, [not fat]
Homeward bound, [uh i cant spell that place]
I wish I was, [as smart as manda]
Homeward bound, [again...........]
Home where my thought’s escaping, [into vrindas ear]
Home where my music’s playing, [not supertramp]
Home where my love lies waiting [mom and tea]
Silently for me. [maybe silent? i dunno]

Tonight I’ll sing my songs again, [on a skype call]
I’ll play the game and pretend. [oooh, roll-playing]
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity [i told you]
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me. [bala says you're lonely]
Homeward bound, [mur&^&%&%&^%]
I wish I was, [a coffee pot]
Homeward bound, [uh.]
Home where my thought’s escaping, [sometimes with a swear word or two]
Home where my music’s playing, [neil neil NEIL!]
Home where my love lies waiting [some kuli kids at the mela in the grass?]
Silently for me. [not silent, possibly stoned]
Silently for me. [sometimes i wish you were silent]

Right, so, I’ve almost spent half my life in this country, and apart from the adapted immune system advantage, I’m sure I’ve learnt some things I can share with others…

So, you land in Delhi or Mumbai or Kolkata and step of the plane to a not-so-much-balmy-as-a-more-a-really-warm-clammy-christ-it’s-humid-wait-screw-that-it’s-hot-as-hell environment. You’re jetlagged, exhausted, and there’s a cloud of mosquitoes and taxi-drives pressed up against the glass separating you from the real India.

This is where most people blow Rs.4000 or more (about US$90, depending on your shoddy economical situation) by getting into the closest taxi and asking for a hotel (or, if you planned ahead giving directions). Most of the time the taxi drivers rip you off so badly you end up regretting that moment of jet-lagged impatience when you decided NOT to cue in the pre-paid taxi line because only Yuppie shmucks who didn’t know the real India did that.

Just stay in the line. And do not make eye contact with anyone outside those frosted airport windows. They would rape and mug you given half a chance.

Nah, I kid, there’s folks from all walks of life, but they all have to make a living and if you’re a foreigner you obviously have a lot of cash and no idea about the value of anything. Don’t lie to yourself.

a) The water in my apartment stops working for the seventh time this year and I have to go to a friends house to have a shower or pump water out of the archaic device in my ‘garden’.

b) The power goes out every half hour for seven hours leaving me insanely paranoid about whether or not my computer battery is going to explode and thus unable to concentrate on my overdue assignments.

c) The kitchen tap decides to ricochet off the wall at 10:30 PM and flood my entire kitchen. And having to scout the entire exterior wall of my building and the nooks and crannies of my house when the water mains is in the corner of the kitchen is further depressing.

d) I’m going to be open about this: I have had diarrhea for over a week now. Guilt-free food? Check! Functioning toilet flush? Check! Lactose love? Check? Overall feeling of well-being? Not so much…

e) On the topic of bathrooms, and plumbing, I have a leaky shower head that is driving me up the wall. All night and all day. Drip. Drip. Drip. Splat. Do I want to get a plumber to come in? No, and you want to know why? Because this only started happening after he fixed another one of my rusted taps that had fallen off the wall. Oh, AND the hot water system isn’t working.

f) I get called an indulged westerner.

Winge complete.

On Saturday, I realised I had three major assignments due. So I did what any intelligent person does and put my Facebook account on hold.

And lo, like a mighty floodgate released, so came forth the many enquiries from family, friends, etcetera.

‘Are you okay?’

‘What happened?’

‘Is something wrong?’

Ok, seriously? Yeah, I had quit and hastily rejoined Myspace several times in a state of ‘not-knowing-who-I-really was guilt induced by the fact I knew Myspace was a shameless self-promoting, HTML-tweaked, hedonistic, sense-gratifying, ‘new-comment-alert’ and ‘please-look-at-my-new-photos’ filled senseless hole of  -

Yes. Ok, Yep, I know.

That’s what Facebook is. And we work that system. If I comment your photo, I know I’ll probably get one in return, and guaranteed one of the several other people who previously commented will have some snappy entendre to add.

Bring on the Red Box Of Joy.

Any other time I’ve tried to ‘leave’ Facebook – or at least not log on every two minutes at work, or every hour when I’m at home and have to ride my bike past a construction bike and open several gates and doors to reach the wonderful world of Broadband – I’ve been lured back at least 30 minutes after I logged off, because I KNOW I’ll have notifications. I’m hooked, line and sinker. You Got me Mark Zuckerberg. But could you make the whole thing a little more rewarding?

No?

Ok, how about a Friend Request? Or, perhaps, a Message?

Because God knows, I can’t remember the last time I checked my e-mail expecting a message from someone other than my father (who refuses to sign up on the grounds that he’d have to be friends with people he hates – note: he has access to the site through the four other people living in the house, so win-win on the snooping around situation) or work.  Facebook has become a monster that devours all other forms of communication and leaves us overwhelmed with several hundred options about expressing ourselves.

My Newsfeed is the daily equivalent of a high-school reunion. With a rather ridiculous number of friends (no, I don’t accept people I don’t know.  I live in a religious/holiday destination for that Hare Krishna Cult. We get around) it becomes ridiculously time-consuming catching up on EVERY wall post, photo comment/upload, and, ohgodpleaseyes, the feed-rupturing relationship status change.

(Which in this glorious decade of the hook-up, complicates things even further. But I digress.)

What I was trying to say, but got bloody distracted in the process of it, was that I kind of miss the days of the heartfelt e-mail, the two-hour (or three, or four, or five, or maybe it would be more practical getting a Skype account at this point?) phone-call. The ‘popping in for a chat and tea’. And granted, while I’m in India, that limits my circle to about three people, but it was a simpler time in my life, and though I look forward, and understand that the future has many great things to offer (iPad, for instance – Parents: please take note of this desire and make appropriate savings account for first-borns birthday gift), I’m beginning to see myself as one of those old people who whine about change and communications and how in my day, the most exciting thing was when we figured out how to put emoticons in our MSN name.

Because back then I didn’t need an energy drink to deal with the internet. And now I do.

Ps. If you use ‘z’ instead of ‘s’, I hate you.

I am lying in my bed in Rishikesh. Rose and I have just finished discussing the foibles of human nature (having a bitch sesh). We were drifting off into sleep when my phone beeps obnoxiously and there a disoriented click of a button.

“I need you, my beautiful, crazy, half psychopath, sexy, kind, loving, sweet smelling, badass, bike loving, sexpot…you are moreintoxicating than any drug ive tried. I love you regardless, in every way. Ps – I totally get off thinking of you, gogi, I wanna pounce on you like a hungry tiger on his beautiful prey. People are gonna have to rip me off you, my love. I want you so bad, it hurts.”

Right. Ok. Being the mature and classy young ladies we are, we have a giggle, think what on earth? and then we text back.

“I want to know what the tiger does next? “

(Note winking smiley face.) It got to a whole new level of absurd, but at this point we decide to put the phone on silent, as it was 2 AM and we were stuffed. I woke to two new messages:

“Gentle but strong, with a menacing look in his eye, the tiger plays with his prey..first he waits for the right moment..and then without warning pins you down, both hands trapped under his paws, goes for the juggular..pauese for a sec..smells your hair, moves down, stops at your stomach. Your breath is rapid and kisses around your navel have you struggling, squirming, trying to escape you fate..god i love you gogi.”

Hysterical. Absurd, and yet, unfortunately, our mystery poet realised too late:

“Wow! Holy shit your not Gogi. Im so embarrassed. Oopsie. Im extremely sorry for sending those msgs..why didnt you tell me youre not gogi? and if youre a guy…dude not cool. I apologise once again. You won’t hear from me again. Unless you want to! Thanks for being a good sport! Goodnight.“

And that was ( what I thought was) the last of it. We had a good laugh during breakfast at the German Bakery and forgot about it.

Until about two weeks later, as I slipped into a hot and bothered snooze at 2 AM, my phone went off.

“Bloody hell, this had better be for a good reason.”

“lemons.peaches.avacadoes.apricots.mangoes.bananas.oranges.watermelons.pineapples.

blueberries.litchies.grapes.figs.apples.chickoos.custardapples.tangerines.dates.strawberries.

guavas.passionfruit.papayas.muskmelons. Fruity text, aint it?”

I don’t know what to make of this guy. I traced the number to Karnataka. But that’s all I know. What to do? Write a blog about it, I guess.

1. Live in a country where the average temperature at the end of spring is 38′C.

2. Live in a country where 65% of the population thinks it’s ok to oogle you if you wear a bikini, thus rendering said New Years/Vacation chub-induced resolution obsolete, thus rendering motivational imaginary scenes of actually wearing said bikini on beach impossibly depressing.

3. Have slightly crippling back problem.

4. Have over-enthusiastic, motivated, skinnier and younger work-out partner.

5. Get up at 5 AM after 4 hours of sleep.

Combine the five and you get a day of self-loathing whilst sitting at your computer, facebooking colleagues and reading articles on cracked.com (which by the way is a totally awesome website that is not paying me to say this).

So, at work, as usual, I log on a surf various websites bookmarked for their pop-culture content that makes me look oh-so-on-top of current affairs (read: I don’t read the whole NYT online, I just browse the humor section).

Most of the time it’s poop and/or sex jokes, an update on some celebrity’s martial status, or a reference to how facebook is yet again TAKING OVER OUR LIVES. Sometimes, however, you stumble upon the beginning of something big, ie, some smart-ass in advertising not thinking twice and letting a video that harps on about how bloody hard the modern man has it with the cliched and relatively minor tasks his wife/partnet inflicts upon him.

Don’t get me wrong. I happened to watch Cinderella when I was young, so I still believe that at the end of the day pursuing a career that is artistically, intellectually and ethically exciting should be put aside so I can raise a few more homeo sapiens on this already crushingly over-populated planet to somehow validate my existence in a non-aggressive and socially acceptable manner.

…moving on:

So after you watch the first video, think about it, and then watch the gem of a clip spoofing the emasculated soliloquy of the modern man.

Problem is, I’m again going to be studying. It’s put me in a bit of a shitty mood at the moment as juggling that, working away from the office AND being on vacation is going to require a lot of energy. I need to start drinking more coffee.

Gaurapurnima in Mayapur is the same as ever – and even if i come off sounding like the cynical 65-year-olds who criticise the young ‘uns, the morning program is the same as ever with a constant stream of conversations on that somehow ever-present theme of lurve. Never mind we’re in front of God. I bet the Muslims don’t gossip in the Mosque. Then again, what better a bond to have with someone than a religious preference? That and the fact that they all have to get up an hour earlier than usual to groom and primp for, ah, God.

Funny how cynicism inspires me to write more that a buoyant and exhilarating hormone rush. Maybe, like all aspiring writers, I need to perform or somehow become associated with an esoteric deviancy to continue to thrive on the written word. Or perhaps stop caring about my largely ISKCON-based audience and throw in what I normally censor.

Dear God, I sound like my mother.

Did I mention I’m living in India again? Dear God, how did that happen. He actually knows. He’s thrown me down the stairs twice already, and twice it’s been the deciding factor in my return to this god-forsaken yet religiously-saturated country.

Oh goody, the powers on. Now I can post.