my 5 weeks in India

This blog is quite late, I came back from India on July 23^rd and wrote it my first week back but I did not have the heart to post it (because I missed India so much) but I think it’s time that I do.

It happened. IT happened. I had coffee with Karan! (Okay, yes and no..). I. Kiran. @apple_kaur, just came back from INDIA. *The* country that I have been fantasizing, day dreaming, imagining, pining and lusting to visit for the past couple of years. I don’t even know where I should begin this blog. I’m getting extremely excited and overwhelmed just thinking about it, so I’ll begin this blog the only way I, a shameless attention seeker knows how; with the biggest shout out to Karan. Two Karans to be exact. Karan Johar. The apple of my eye, the cup of cha on my saucer; my fellow Punjabi. I tweeted you. I had strangers tweet you, I had some of my favorite followers tweet you, I even tried to get #KaranHaveKoffeeWithKiran trend in India but all my efforts went unnoticed by you. I was in Mumbai and the closest I got to you was passing by your flat, and guess what? You weren’t even home! I know this not because I attempted to stalk you (which was initially my plan) but because you tweeted that you were out shooting a movie. I’m disappointed and inconsolably heartbroken that my efforts to score a coffee date with one the cutest, wittiest and most charming men in Mumbai was unsuccessful but I am not giving up. I love you Karan Johar, tweet me, follow me, have coffee with me! We can turn the story of our meet into a movie! Shout out number 2 goes to a very handsome SpiceJet flight attendant named Karan working on my flight from Delhi to Mumbai, my face lit up when I read his nametag. He was tall, dark, handsome, had great hair and guess what? Yes! Karan said the 5 magical words I’ve been waiting to hear for months, “would you like some coffee?” Okay, the magical words I had been waiting to hear were actually “would you like to have coffee with me?” but whatever, he poured my coffee! A gazillion feet up in the air, a girl named Kiran was having coffee with a boy named Karan, granted he wasn’t sitting beside me nor was he drinking with me, and there was absolutely no possibility that our coffee could lead to a game of scrabble, but he offered me a butter biscuit and right there, 5 bazillion feet up in the air and in the clouds melted my heart.

What did I do in India in my 5 weeks? To sum it up in one sentence, I fell in love. Not with a particular person or place, but fell in love with just about everything. That doesn’t mean my 5 weeks in India were peachy keen, of course I am summing it up as wonderful in retrospect. In those 5 weeks I had times where I felt highly uncomfortable, nervous, sick and hot. I cannot say that I experienced everything I had hoped to. I didn’t get to eat everything that I wanted (because after 5 bites of eating whatever it was that I was excitingly eating, my stomach would hurt and 2 minutes later I’d have to run to a washroom (which by the way when they were non-existent they were terribly gross) ), I didn’t get to milk a cow (because there was never a good time to approach one) and I never got to see Punjabis dancing in the fields of Punjab (because apparently I was there in the wrong season). And what I regret most is not watching DDLJ in the DDLJ theater in Mumbai. But I did do some pretty exciting things in my 5 weeks in India.

India is full of men; this is simultaneously a very annoying fact (because they outnumber women just about everywhere) but also very good for the eyes (most of the time, when they’re not scratching their balls openly in public which did make me uncomfortable at first, but then I found it amusing). These men are tall, dark, fit and they all seem to have great hair and they can generally be found in Mumbai and Chandigarh, some parts of Delhi and practically every SpiceJet flight. This hair I speak adoringly of is full, thick, shiny, healthy and heavy and I cannot tell you how many times I have felt the uncontrollable urge (which was controlled only because I didn’t want to get arrested for indecency but mostly because I’m a wimp) to mess it up. Mess it right up like nobody’s business. I remember sitting in a Cafe Coffee Day in Mumbai (which has the best iced tea EVER) one night waiting to meet a friend and this guy came up to talk to me out of the blue. His name was Avi and he had this hair. This long, shaggy, Shah Rukh Khan in DDLJ, rukh jah and play with my hair!-hair. But I couldn’t ask if I could mess up his hair because that would be awkward.  Okay, slightly less awkward because my life is a series of awkward moments and allowing this awkward moment to occur would have made for a good awkward moment tweet but, the reason I couldn’t bring myself to ask him was because I’m quite pussy like that, so I asked Raj instead. In the back of an auto heading home to be exact. I think I probably caught him off guard but very politely asked (along the lines of) “do you mind if I mess up your hair?” He obviously said yes with a smile that read I cannot believe you Kiran but I messed it up with a smile that read success! I turned to him and messed it up first with one and then with the other. I didn’t just do it once; nope, I did it twice. Again outside my hotel and let me tell you that it wasn’t anything short of amazing. His hair was perfection, and it felt great in between my fingers and if I had a small colourful clip on me, I so would have taken this hair messing to second base and asked if I could clip his hair. For those 7 minutes with Raj, I felt like Simran. Girls, if you ever go to India and feel the urge to mess up an Indian guys’ hair, do it; and use both hands if his name is Raj.

I had only 4 shalwar kameezes before I left for India and I came back with 13 and that is thanks to bargaining. India is the Mecca of bargaining. You can bargain just about anywhere even if the sign clearly says “no bargaining.” Actually, I am convinced that they put up those “absolutely no bargaining” signs to remind you that you’re in India and to encourage you to bargain.  Bargaining in India is unlike bargaining at a local Indian store in Toronto.  In Toronto, you’re not offered a seat, water or a cup of tea in but in India they offer you all that before you can say Namaste. In India, my rule of thumb was slashing the price is half and getting the “array, tum kya karey ho?” reaction from the salesman. When the salesman (I say man because rarely will you ever find a woman selling you women’s clothes or jewelry because what do women know about women’s clothing?) says this, he is game. Just know in advance how much you’re willing to pay until he says “how will I feed my children by selling this to you at the price you are asking?!” and if he doesn’t budge then, turn your back and walk towards the door. 68.992652% of the time someone will stop you as you inch close to the door and say “ok ok jee rukho…teekh hai! lo aapka suit.” 5 weeks later you will find yourself shopping for a new piece of luggage one night before your flight because you’ve bought too much. It happened to me.

The Golden Temple is beautiful. The word beautiful doesn’t even do justice to describing this structure. It is simply breathtaking, so much so that you’ll pinch yourself each day when you are there. It is beautiful in the morning and even more beautiful in the night when the gold reflects in the clear blue water and the kirtan fills the evening air. The beauty of the Golden Temple is enhanced by the surrounding marble buildings that invite everyone regardless of their race, religion or caste they belong to in. I still cannot believe I spent 2 nights there. It is so serene that it will make an Atheist, Pantheist, Agnostic or even a crazy stay quiet and in sheer awe for a long while. When you’re at the Golden Temple, make sure you don’t pass up the opportunity to have langar, it is absolutely delicious.

I can’t list everything I did in India because that would take forever but here are some of the things that slapped the Canadian in me when I naively thought I could easily out-Punjabi all the Punjabis in India.

In my first week in Delhi, I thought that I constantly had lipstick on my teeth because anytime I would talk to somebody they would totally ignore my question until I had to repeat it because they would stare at me for the first 20 seconds of me talking as if I was speaking to them in French and they didn’t understand it the first time. People love to stare, I don’t understand why. I soon learned that staring *is* India’s national pass time and remembered that when in Rome do as the Romans. I am now confident in my ability to make Indian people feel uncomfortable.

Fast food is anything but fast. I will never forget ordering a sub at Subway in Chandigarh. I asked for a foot long veggie and it took almost 15 minutes to make it. The sandwich maker was making it with just as much precision and attention to detail as Michael Angelo probably took to paint the Sistine Chapel. This guy was lining up the tomatoes and cucumbers exactly 1mm apart, spreading the lettuce as if there was an international shortage and after adding a topping he would life his head up and ask me what else I wanted when I clearly told him in Punjabi and English that I wanted everything *but* onions. At one point I wanted to jump over the counter and teach him how do his job. I always thought of myself as pretty patient but I couldn’t wait 15 minutes for a sub which means I’m closer to being an American than Canadian right?

When you make eye contact with someone and you smile while passing them on the street, you don’t really make anything of it right? No, you think “that was a warm person” and walk on. Well, one day I was in an auto in Chandigarh and turned around and saw two guys driving a white Benz behind me. They saw me look at their car and so I smiled and turned back around. They sped up to the auto and drove beside it, opening their window and trying to get my sister’s attention so that she can call me. I later learned that you can’t smile to guys in Chandigarh without giving them the wrong impression. Smiling at a Punjabi guy is the equivalent to poking a stranger on Facebook or favoriting his tweet on twitter, he’ll think you want to have his babies. Okay, at least that’s what I think when people favorite *my* tweets.

What’s great about India is that there are so many people but that also means that you are constantly bumping into them. Every other word out of my mouth was “sorry” until I realized that no one was acknowledging my apologies for accidentally touching them. I also realized that no one would acknowledge me wishing them a goodnight which was offensive. I remember wishing an auto driver a goodnight one night in Delhi and he didn’t say anything back, not even a “thank you”. I walked home sad and cried myself to sleep that night. I’m totally just kidding okay!?

I miss India

my first relationship

Almost two years ago at the age of 24, I ended a two year relationship. I got into this relationship at the tender age of 22. Like many people that age, I was young, stupid and naive. I was in my last year of university and had never been in a relationship. I never thought I’d be in one, mainly because I never thought of myself as a “relationship type” of person, nor did I ever have the desire to be exclusively tied down. I was perfectly fine and quite content being all by myself, detached and isolated from the world. But I was convinced by a smooth baritone voice of reason that this was best for me. “It’s something that everyone needs… it’s something that is inevitable and should be embraced at this day in age” he said convincingly. So I figured I’d treat this as a coming of age type experience, a milestone, a stepping stone for better things to come. I mean what’s the harm in trying it out? If I didn’t like it I could always get out right?  It’s just a commitment. Commitments don’t last! So there and then, I was about to settle and commit myself for two years, to this one connection that would give me a sense of purpose, belonging, peace and worth and maybe even increase my cool factor and social life. Sceptical, anxious, nervous, excited and still kind of reluctant to make it official, I stood before him. He stood facing me at 6 feet, he was tall, dark and handsome. He studied my face and waited for my approval. I reached into my pocket (my palms sweaty and my knees so weak that I felt like they would give in at any moment) took out my pen and signed at the dotted line right next to the giant X.  “There you go!” he exclaimed smiling with perfect straight teeth as he handed me a box. “Kiran, here is your brand new gray SAMSUNG M300 flip phone! It all began at the Solo Booth at Woodbine Center, my longest relationship to date; with my mobile phone contract.

My relationship with my mobile phone contract ended when I was 24 and my sisters all jumped on the blackberry bandwagon so that we could be connected while attending different universities. They wanted to be MORE connected than we ALREADY were (we LIVE together). So, at the age of 24 I committed to another mobile contract, this time for a new blackberry with a social package. I can’t say that I am not longer a commitment-phobe because I still am. I just try to forget that I am locked in for 3 years :/

I don’t have Facebook so I only used BBM and MSN  (yes I have MSN. I was part of the MSN generation) on my phone for “social networking” UNTIL one day I noticed that I have something called Twitter on my phone.  I had heard of twitter, but had no idea what twitter was, so I thought why not sign up for it? I picked a clever name (apple_kaur) and began tweeting while marking my first batch of undergraduate papers in political philosophy. I learned that you only get 140 characters to express yourself so you have keep it short, sweet and concise. You “follow people” and people “follow you.” I didn’t know who to follow people (because I never used the website version), so I began adding famous people. One night I tweeted “follow me!” and my phone rang. Up came a message from a Punjabi girl in British Columbia. She replied: “Hi Apple! I’ll follow you!” and boom surprised that somebody would respond that way to me, I followed her back. Then, I noticed that I had another follower! (who at that time I did not know was a cute brown guy). I followed him back and laughed because in his description of himself he wrote that he “may or not pass the Turing test” (that description still makes me laugh because I imagine someone sitting there trying to pass the Turing test). One day, I got an email that informed me that *I* apple_kaur was being followed by *my* twitter crush! A person who is disappointed with everything except for water was following *ME* eeeeee! that made my twitter life. Now, all I need is Karan Johar to follow me and I can tweet happily ever after.

The first thing I do when I wake up is check my phone to see who tweeted what while I was sleeping. I never imagined twitter to be this cool. I have interacted with some of the cleverist, nicest, funniest, wittiest and hottest minds on my blackberry. Most of the people I follow do not even live in Ontario and if they do live in Canada they are nowhere close to me. A lot of people I follow are from India, Pakistan and the USA. I have developed a list of twitter crushes both female and male and have got to know some of these tweeting strangers on a strangely intimate level. At times, I must admit Twitter has gotten to real for me. It has also made me quite bitter. Now when I meet real people (in my offline life) I seem to be uninterested with what they have to say because I’d rather read their thoughts behind a screen contained in 140 characters (including spaces) and decide based on that if I am interested in becoming friends with them. If anyone shows the slightest interest in me, I find myself thinking “but I want to be friends with *that one* on Twitter.” Seeing as how I have locked myself into another 3 year contract with my blackberry and have fallen in love with twitter, if I got Facebook my relationship status would totally be “in a relationship” right?

oh and by the way Karan Johar, you have exactly 73 days to DM me to arrange a time and place (in Mumbai) to have coffee with me. DM me! follow me! #IAmNotCreepyorCrazy #ILoveYou #WeCanPlayScrabble

IT’S HAPPENING

It’s happening. It’s really happening.  I cannot believe this! No, Karan Johar has not yet contacted me to have coffee with him on his couch (but I’m not worried because it’s *only* a matter of time). What I cannot believe is that in EXACTLY 3 months and 3 days, my fine Punjabi ass (no tinge of modesty or exaggeration here) will be on a plane headed to the country that I have been pining and longing to visit for so much of my adult life. 3 months and 3 days until the only language that I will be speaking is Punjabi and the only water I will be able to drink is bottled. EVERY BODY! I am going to INDIA.  Somebody pinch me, this is actually HAPPENING.

After more than 7 years of dreaming and day dreaming and months of tireless planning and debating, I have finally booked my ticket (and have successfully convinced my stubborn sisters in the process), to travel half way around the world with me in *the* hottest season of the year to reconnect with our roots. In exactly 3 months and 3 days I will be begin to explore the magnificent treasure that is INDIA in a span of 4 weeks and 10 days. Delhi, Jaipur, Mumbai, Chandighar, Amritsar, Ambala, Una, Shimla and Agra!

Every time I listen to Malkit Singh sing “jind mahi jai chaaleo, jind mahi jai chaaleo pardes kadhi nah bhulee ohhh, kadhi nah bhulee apna des veh aapnee bolee ohhh” I feel like he’s singing to me. Although I was born and raised in Etobicoke, Canada and have only been to India twice, I have never forgotten my des and bolee. I’m reminded of Punjab every single day, from the alachee that I add to my morning tea to the Gurbani that my grandmother listens to every evening. Although I have lived in Canada all my life, I sometimes feel foreign in this country that I love and call home. I am eager to visit that place, that place in the world where my family is from, where I can feel that I belong. Perhaps it sounds as if I am romanticizing my feelings and abstracting them from countless stories, bhangra songs and music videos that capture an overly colourful and happy image of Punjab; but I don’t think I am. The feeling is unexplainable and indescribable and I’m okay with leaving it at that. What I can say is that I feel the flow of the five rivers in my veins and it is a rush like no other.

When I’m in India, I am going to say Namaste to EVERYBODY.

not ashamed

Last night, I was packing my backpack. I had to make sure I had everything on me for school the next day; a clipboard with lined paper, a pen, a lipstick, Vaseline, hand cream, nail clippers, a spoon, my asthma inhaler, tampons, my allergy medication, my wallet, my keys, a nail filer, Advil, my glasses, a hair tie, tissues, crayons, my usb, a book to read on the subway, my charger, perfume, a spare pair of socks, a granola bar and a hair clip. I made sure I wasn’t missing anything (I basically wiped my desk clean into my backpack), I had to be fully prepared for my 1 hour journey to Toronto and my 3 hour class and my two hours of being tipsy and then my 1 hour commute back to Etoibicoke. Once I was finished, I checked the weather to find out how cold it would be tomorrow so that I can pick the appropriate clothes to wear (but really, I turned on the t.v just check if Gurdeep Alhuwalia was hosting the news, he is the epitome of perfection…go google him…his smile will melt your heart), yes I lay out my clothes the day before school. Just in case you are wondering what I decided to wear, I wore a black long sleeved top, blue jeans, a black scarf and my blue and black snow boots (I’ve had for 7 years, I’m very proud of that). Yes, *I am* so trendy. As I was making sure my wallet had some cash in it (which is shockingly didn’t) and at least two bus tokens (which it did) I had a thought; I wish someone could just drive me to school and pick me up at the end of the day.

This was the exact opposite to what I used to want as a kid. All I wanted as a kid was to be able to walk to school all by myself, I was 8 year old after all! My parents never allowed it, my mother and grandmother were overprotective (my mother has since loosened up a bit, my grandmother however still calls me on my mobile exactly an hour after I leave the house…”tu ponchgayee?” [have you reached?]….and exactly 3 hours after class “tu kadho awnaa? [when are you coming home?]….kee kahna? [what do you want to eat?]….kal kamthay jaana? [do you have work tomorrow?])”. The elementary school I used to go to was a 15 minute walk away from our house, (I am thankful I did not have a mobile phone back then because my grandma would call me during recess to see if I was wearing my scarf and mittens and if I had eaten my snack). Literally a 15 minute walk. You walk out the house, around the bend, take a left on the only street ahead, walk straight and turn left at the first stop sign and the school is just up the street around the corner. But my parents never allowed me to walk to school alone until middle school. Anyway. Yes, I wished someone would be a dear and would drop me off to school; or even Kipling station so that I could avoid standing outside waiting for the bus. I’m by no means a princess, I just hate anticipating being outside in the cold weather but when I actually leave the house all bundled up I don’t complain as much.

I then remembered how my father would drop me and my sister off to school on the rare cold morning on his way to work. My father like many immigrant Punjabi/Indian fathers drove a taxi. I never thought twice about what he did for a living. For most of my childhood, our household car was a taxi cab; this was as normal for me. We’d use it to go to the Gurdwara, go grocery shopping and basically where ever we needed to go. I used to wish we had a “normal car” (by “normal” I mean a car without a sign on the top of the roof) but we didn’t. He had been a taxi driver for over ten years. My father drove a taxi and my mother worked in a factory that packaged dry foods. I grew up never really seeing my mother. She would get me and my sister ready for school in the morning and would start work when school ended (at 3) and she would come back from work near midnight when we were fast asleep. I only ever spoke to her when she’d call at her lunch and would spend time with my mother on the weekends.

So yes, my father dropped me off to school one day. As I was approaching the school yard, my classmate (lets call him T) turns to me pointing in the direction of the car I came out of and said “is that your daaad?” I replied, “yes”. He then asked, “your father is a cabbyyyyy?” I replied, yes he drives a taxi! T then asked “his job is to be a cabbbbb driver?” Now at this point, I thought T was rather stupid or maybe genuinely confused. Of course that was his job, his job is to drive a taxi. My father would pick people up from one location and drop them off to another by listening to his dispatch radio thingy-ma-jiggy (my father never let me play with it, he never let me pick up the hand held piece even to pretend speak into it without holding down the button) because that is what taxi drivers do. T began to laugh and then told my other classmates in the school yard “her dad is a cabby ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!.” Now at this point, I was really really confused. Why was T making fun of me? What was his father’s job? What kind of jobs do regular people have? It was that moment that I realized – being a taxi driver is not a good job. My father does not have a good job. That day I was ashamed of my fathers job.

Two years later (1997) my father came home after working a night shift. I don’t remember everything that happened (either he called home in the middle of the night or he came home early that night) but I remember waking up the next day only to see that my father was sleeping with a blueish purplish eye. I was scared. I came to learn that a customer that he was picking up that night had punched him. The customer refused to pay, punched my father and took everything that was on him. The guy that punched my dad in the eye was wearing rings because the cuts around his eyes were deep. Now not only am I ashamed that my father drives is a cabby but I have realized that in “good jobs” you don’t get beat up.

(Notice how I went from describing my father as a taxi driver to calling him a cabby once T made fun of me. I always thought taxi driver was the correct job title, but now I began calling him as a cabby (what sounds like a belittling term) once I’ve realized that being a taxi driver is a bad job)

Now that I look back at that incident, I feel ashamed at my young self for feeling ashamed (I do realize that it wasn’t my young self’s fault for feeling that way, I was learning a lesson in social class). My parents came to Canada for an opportunity at a better life. They didn’t speak English very well, they weren’t university educated and they didn’t have much money. They took whatever job they could find because it was simple, they had to some how make ends meet. I’m sure they didn’t particularly enjoy their job but they did it with a smile on their face (they never even took advantage of their sick days) because they have something that I lack, they have a perspective. The taxi was not an automobile. That taxi was my father’s opportunity to give his kids a good life, a life that he did not have. Now that I think about it, if it wasn’t for that dark blue taxi that my father drove (that once embarrassed me) and that factory that my mother worked in for 22 years (until it shut down and moved south of the boarder) I would have never have had the opportunity to find and pursue any of my passions and discover my love of learning. I am so proud of my parents. I don’t know what else to say, I am a loss for words now.

I don’t know how I will live up to my last thought provoking post but I am going to try the best I can. I feel a lot of pressure about blogging, for one reason and one reason only. That is because Karan Johar might be reading this right now and this blog can be my ticket to Karan Johar’s couch. My koffee with Karan, and his koffee with Kiran may possibly lead me to a dinner date with Ranbir Kapoor and we all know where a fancy dinner with a hot Indian guy leads to. A game of scrabble. Triple word score! Now unfortunately I do not deal with pressure very well; it also doesn’t help that I have a weak bladder either therefore I am going alleviate my nervousness by imagining that you are reading this entry while you are drunk. I’m going to imagine that you are reading my blog (because reading my blog is the *only* thing you desire to do after having 3 rum and cokes and french fries, [yes that’s is exactly what I order every Friday after class]) drunk and wearing *only* your underwear. Everything sounds better drunk. And everyone feels good wearing just their underwear. If you haven’t tried, I strongly suggest you strip down to your underwear right now…..right this instant. Stop reading….I’ll wait….go on…..finished stripping yet? Okay…now go walk around in your underwear in the privacy of your own home right now. It is ridiculously freeing and empowering. Whatever you do though, do not walk passed your fish tank because then you’ll then be aware of your nudity and will probably go red as a tomato with embarrassment, like you just saw the salad dressing or something. I speak from personal experience; gold fish have much more power over your perception of yourself than you may think. Now – I’d like to picture you naked but I need to concentrate on blogging. But just in case you are wondering; yes, I am picturing *you* naked right now. Hello my naked intoxicated reader, I am ready to tickle and arouse your mind.

So this January will be 13 years since I became a vegetarian, now I can proudly say that I have been a vegetarian half of my life. As a matter of fact, I remember the exact day I became a vegetarian. It was January 27^th 2000 (my birthday). I had just turned 13, or as my parents like to say “13 finish and 14 starting”. I was finally a teenager and felt that I needed to do something “life changing” as I was entering (what I thought was) the coolest stage of my entire life. I thought that I was, for a lack of a better phrase “the shit”. I had read about teenagers, seen them in the mall, watched them on tv and now I was going to be one! The reason I thought that teenagers were so cool was due to the show Beverly Hills 90210, I was convinced that I would look like Brenda Walsh, be able to wear the same clothes as Brenda and have a boyfriend named Dylan just like Brenda. Surprise surprise, my life was no where close to Brenda’s; my teenage life was more like an episode of Full House. But even Full House had more drama than my life, Michelle’s problems sounded so mature up in comparison to mine. Choosing to become a vegetarian was probably the coolest thing that I ever did in my teens. Probably only next to getting my drivers license and dying my hair a really cool shade of purple, oh and getting my nose pierced.

I remember the day of my decision, it was in grade eight; it was third period after lunch. I remember going down to the music room and picking out my favorite cello from the cello rack, it was the one that looked the most new. It was dark brown and had a high gloss finish. I thought to myself, that this was it; I am now officially a vegetarian and there is no going back. One thing I like about myself is how head strong I am, when I commit to or believe in something I stick with it and defend it to death even if 100 people should disagree with me. But maybe that’s also because im stubborn and have a tendency to be unnecessarily difficult, but anyway. My decision to become a vegetarian was purely selfish, I wanted to be cool and different. But gradually over the years as I became less self centered and more conscious of myself and others around me I realized (through the help of PETA) that animals suffer more than human beings every single day when they are innocently raised to only to be painful and inhumanly killed in slaughter houses. It was then that I realized that my decision to become vegetarian was virtuous.

Being vegetarian has not only made me aware of the suffering of animals and my responsibility to reduce it, but it has made me more connected to my food. Let me explain. Given our very busy schedules which is a direct result of our capitalistic culture, we are so out of touch with our minds and bodies and we do not feel a connection to the food that we eat. The only knowledge we have of our food is empirical. When we go to the grocery store and pick up a bunch of bananas, what do we really know about the banana in front of us? Well we know it’s a banana, it’s yellow, it’s rubbery, it costs $2 and it’s not ripe enough to eat yet. Not to go all philosophical on you but where exactly did this banana come from? Where was it grown? We forget that this is not only a banana, a fruit that has nutritional value. It is someone’s lively hood, someone’s pride and this bunch of bananas have been held by many people before they ended up in our hands So much hard work and dedication to bananas went into this banana right before my eyes. First someone planted the banana tree, then someone watered the banana tree, then someone picked the bananas, then the picked bananas were sorted by someone, then someone put the bananas on the truck to be driven to the ship where the bananas will be shipped out, then someone loaded the bananas on the ship, then someone loaded the bananas off the ship, a driver was hired to ship the bananas to the grocery store, then someone unloaded the truck and then the stock person put the bananas in the produce section and then it ended up in our hands. See how many different set of hands the bananas touched before ours?

We tend to forget the bananas journey from where it was grown to our fruit bowl. We forget that this banana sustains the economies of two countries and links the people of two countries together. We may never know the person who watered the bananas, but her/his job helped the banana grow. I’m not saying that we should sit there and meditate on every piece of fruit at the grocery store, but we should strive to heighten our level of awareness about the things we eat because they impact us.

Now back to animals. Just like we forget about the banana’s journey, we never think twice about meat. We look at beef and think hamburger. We don’t think of a living, breathing cow. When we look at chicken we think nuggets. We don’t think of the chicken who was once the mother of small chicks. We never think about what meat really is. Meat is murder. Okay, sorry; that was my passion for animals speaking. Meat is actually the flesh of animals that is used by human beings as food; an animal that was once alive. An animal that was once born into this world, just like us. An animal that had a mother, that was nurtured by it’s mother. An animal that had a beating heart, a circulatory system, the ability to feel pleasure and pain. An animal that was someone’s mother, father or child. An animal that had a life cut short of it’s purpose. If we had to hunt, kill, skin and clean the meat ourselves; I’m sure many of us would never eat meat because of the very process of how the meat ended up in our grocery stores, instead we would feel sympathy and empathy for the animal that is going through the process to become meat.

I am not making a case for vegetarianism but being a vegetarian has taught me many things. It has made me more sympathetic to animals and human beings. It has made me more conscious of pain and oppression. It has made me socially and environmentally aware. A better thinker. A conscious consumer. A better human being. It has widened my perspective on life. Being a vegetarian has made me feel more connected to people that I do not know. Most importantly, being vegetarian has taught me the value of life. Becoming a vegetarian was the best decision I have ever made as a teenager.

p.s. vegetarians make better lovers.

“The question is not can, Can they they reason? nor, Can they talk?, but, Can they suffer?” – Jeremy Bentham

my first post

This is my first post. I’m blankly looking at the screen. I’m unquestionably nervous; slightly confused and completely and utterly overwhelmed at the unlimited number of possibilities that I have before me. I can choose to blog about whatever is on my mind right now, whatever thought that’s running through my head (if I can catch it in time to blog it that is). I can articulate my thoughts with what feels like an indefinite long list of words (it only feels that way because I don’t know *all* the words). I can arrange these words in an infinite number of possible ways; into short, long, medium length or even run on sentences! I can use periods, question marks, semi-colons, apostrophes…..I can even use the square brackets! I can turn those sentences into paragraphs and then into more paragraphs and then into a very long post that one day a very famous writer may come across; who will then get in touch with me just to encourage me to turn my blog into a book. My book could then possibly turn into a national best seller (not quite an international best seller because that would be getting a little ahead of myself) and then my book could get nominated for the Giller Prize! (that is if enough white people read it, and it might even win). Then, Karan Johar and or Jason Reitman might read it on a long airplane journey and be inspired to turn my best-selling book into a movie (which at first I would be hesitant to agree to obviously, because most books that are turned into movies suck; but it’s Karan Johar! Who says no to Karan Johar?). I could have Bollywood AND Hollywood fighting over the right to have my book turned into a movie. Oh I am justifiably overwhelmed here. Good thing I keep my asthma inhaler handy. Overwhelmed in a good way that is. The last time I felt this way was two days agoto be exact; when I couldn’t choose which chocolate I wanted from the Pot of Gold chocolate box at work. I chose the dark chocolate truffle, it was nice. I always play it safe, but I don’t intend to here. I have way too much on the line here to hold anything I want to say back. Karan Johar could be reading this. My blog may just be my ticket to have Koffee with Karan *heart sign*

So I’ll begin. My first post will be about a dream of mine which I hope comes true this year. I’ve been dreaming, fantasizing, pining every single morning, day, evening and night about it. I think about it while walking to school, brushing my teeth and while making my tea. I day dream about it at work and while trying to make roti for my grandmother (which might explain why my rotis never quite phul). Hot, exotic, romantic, erotic, incredible, colourful, adventurous, extravagant, rich and so much more. India! Home to the luckiest 1.2 billion people in the world.

It has been exactly 15 years since I have been to India, I was 10 years old when I last visited (I’ve only ever been there twice, before that I was 2 years old and I celebrated my second birthday in Chandigarh). Coincidentally, I celebrated my 10^thbirthday on the plane ride to India. Although I was young, I remember everything about it. I remember feeling overwhelmed walking out of the airport in Delhi to the most interesting harmony of city sounds; composed of car, bus, van and auto rickshaw horns (then you’d hear the occasional bicycle bell which sounds like the equivalent to the triangle in the symphony orchestra). They were high-pitched and very wimpy sounding, maybe that’s why they never have an affect? The first thing I remember asking my mother, “eena rola kyon pehraya?” (why is it so loud?). I was surprised to see 4 brown men all running towards my father calling him “Bhaiya” offering to take our luggage to a white van (certainly they couldn’t all be my Chachajis? I thought to myself). I’ll never forget the first time I sat on a rickshaw, I felt nauseous; I was convinced I was going to fall for sure, I could feel it. I felt terribly bad for the tall and skinny rickshaw driver who would shift his body weight to pedal the rickshaw. Bargaining! Not a completely foreign concept to me but it still surprised me because my mother was bargaining with the rickshaw driver (of all people) for a 50 rupee ride from point A to B. Math was never (and to this day is not) my forte but I knew the trip was about 2 dollars and that was a bargain, seeing as you cannot get very far with 2 dollars in Toronto.

I’ll never forget the first time I vomited in India, it was in the evening in Delhi after I had white cholay for lunch. It was terrible. It’s definitely not like vomiting in Canada because in Toronto my grandmother would give me ginger ale and soup and I have the option of running to Dr Yadav’s office. I’m sure there were plenty of Dr Yadavs in Delhi but getting sick in India is just not the same as getting sick at home and hing golee is definitely an acquired taste. I remember Chandighar, my cousins (my age) asked me if I had ever had a “gol guppa”, I said no. So they took me to a gol guppa stand at 9pm (even though my mother told me not to eat them as she feared that the water would make me sick). The gol guppa stand was cool but I was more amazed that four 10 year old kids were allowed to leave the house at night to get a snack without adult supervision. Hell, I wasn’t allowed to play in the backyard without my grandmother watching over me and my sisters. In Agra I visited the Taj Mahal, I had never seen anything so white, this was whiter than a blanket of snow on the ground in December. Very pretty indeed, the next day Yanni played there. I will also never forget the first time I had noodles in kulfi, a combination that will always elude me but it was an interesting experience non the less. I will never forget the first time I drank milk from a clay pot glass in the streets of Agra at night, it was the best milk I have ever had (and there was no chocolate in it). That same week I played Holi for the first time, it was the most coolest experience ever. It totally beat trick-or-treating. The most magical part of my three months in India was my visit to the Golden Temple in Amritsar. I had seen pictures of it, heard that it was made out of gold, knew the history of the building but I never thought I’d see it. It was beautiful. I have still not seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful as the Golden Temple.

I feel quite disappointed in myself for waiting 15 years to plan a trip to India. I mean, if you think about it, India is only a plane ride away. That’s practically a hop, skip and jump away. Whenever relatives call and ask “India neheen auna?” (don’t you want to come to India?), I have had the same stupid excuse for the last 8 years “it’s difficult to find time with school and work”. Now that I am a major (thesis-esque) research paper and one class away from finishing my Masters degree, this is the most free I will be for a while. I have been warned that I will pass out and realize how Canadian I am within the first few hours of landing in India in July but I am ready and so excited for what I think will be the most amazing 2 months of my life.