Sweet Like Jalebi

So it's late on Saturday night and we just got back from sampling a taste of Mumbai nightlife. We went to a place called Shooters (Ashley and Beatrice: it was NOTHING like Shooters in Memphis) in Bandra West, which is a ritzy 'burb of Mumbai with big department stores and tons of great jewelry stalls. Shooters is apparently a hip little spot among the locals and when we walked in, we (Deepti, Sapna, Vik, Deepti's brother, Deepak, and me) immediately headed toward the dance floor where we were stopped by a waiter who wanted to take our drink orders. No line at the bar=amazing (also, when anyone places a cigarette between their lips, a waiter miraculously appears to light it for you. Being a non-smoker, this service will remain unused by me, but still.) While all of this borders on obsequious and slightly uncomfortable when I'm perfectly sober and thinking too much about patterns of economic globalization and India's enormous disparity between rich and poor, after a Kingfisher and a really weird raspberry vodka tonic (inexplicably containing olives), it seemed perfectly normal.

Anyway, we ended up at Shooters at the suggestion of a very cute Indian guy who caused Sapna to fall into repeated fits of giggles on the auto-rickshaw ride to the club. When we got there (next to a McDonald's with mutton Maharaja Macs, Chicken Tikka Sandwiches and Masala Potato Wedges on the menu), we paid a per-couple cover ($3 each) to enter a smoke-filled dance floor full of Indians. Sapna and I have discussed how weird it is to be surrounded by Indians, but this was simply surreal. Not only were they Indian, they were mad trashy Indians, who were sucking face and gyrating on each other. I felt like Margaret Mead. Like any good researchers (snort!), our team attempted to fit in with the locals, who were laughing and dancing to very old, somewhat suspect in taste, dance songs like "La Bamba" and a weird dance version of "That Thing You Do," as well as my personal favorite, a Hindi dance song called, "Sweet Like Jalebi." (Jalebi is this sticky, orange-y, syrupy, fried dough-esque dessert that I love.)

The dance floor in India is a crowded, sweaty place despite the full-blast A/C in every corner and like everywhere, I suppose, accidental brushes with another body are common. Most of the men who passed were of the lecherous, Indian type with big muscles and Euro-fit tight button down shirts, so when I looked up after the forty-millionth hand on my arm to see a blond-haired white guy above me, my surprise caused a minor stroke of Tourette's. He smiled as he passed and demonstrating a stunning lack of tact, I blurted out, "You're the wrong color!" which caused him to laugh loudly and say back in a vaguely British accent, "And you have the wrong accent!" Anyway, after the "I am American, working here for a month," name exchange nonsense and dancing (his name is John, he's from Scotland, he's a director's assistant on a movie being shot here, has some blazing moves on the dance floor), I realized that settling into a world where everyone looks like me is oddly both comfortable and discomforting for me. I read Barack Obama's autobiography after school ended this semester (it's a definite must-read if you're looking for something good) and he wrote that going to Africa for many young Blacks is an amazing experience of homecoming because in Africa, you look like everyone else. Simply existing in a world where everyone is a shade of brown instead of white, he claims, creates a feeling of calm self-love.

Maybe it's because I haven't really experienced too many ill-effects of racism like Black Americans but I've realized that I really like not looking like everyone else. I like that when I walk around in the States, there are lots of different types of faces and skin colors and hair types. At work (which is amazing and I will definitely write about next), my two closest-in-age workmates are Katie, a soon-to-be medical student from Canada, and Floortje (Flora), an international development student from Holland. The three of us go out to lunch every day and are an odd sight: the two of them with their blue eyes and dirty blond (Katie) and blond-blond (Flora) hair and tourist-y linen clothing, and me in my loose cotton Indian clothes with dupatta (long scarf) swinging behind, all of us laughing and chattering in English. The waiters always defer to me when we eat out and it has made me feel like I am a faux tour guide when they have actually both been here longer than me (a month already) and are more likely to tell me where to go (Skippy Peanut Butter is $4 at an import food shop in Bandra West). When Flora and I went to the corner store to get Pepsi last Friday afternoon, the store owner looked at her, laughed, and asked me in Hindi whether Flora spoke Hindi. I rolled my eyes and replied in Hindi, "Does it look like she speaks Hindi?" which made him laugh harder as he gave me my change. Flora, drinking her Pepsi, was oblivious to it all.

It actually caused me a great deal of guilt at first that the order of people that I felt comfortable with upon arriving in India was my roommates first, then Katie and Flora, then Indians. It's a weird thing to be more connected with Western people of your heritage, then Westerners in general, and then people of your heritage. It has opened doors for me here in India in terms of the community health education programming work that I am doing since I am able to walk the line between both cultures and understand them both (more later), but hasn't really provided any answers as to what is more important to me in the long term. If anything, the picture is more complicated than it was a week ago.

Your thoughts and ideas are welcome...