Sixteen Candles, Pune style
First of all, I'd like to say that I've made a friend who won't leave my side. There is a piegon roosing in our air vent who I have named Sam. I have decided that his enthusiastic squawking and attempts to break into our room are simply an indication that he really, really likes his new name.
Yesterday... Saturday, lazy, calm, quiet, friendly, food-filled, sleepy... Right? Over here, it was more of a mixed bag. I found out about a British play a few miles from our hotel, so I gathered together half a dozen students from our program to set off for Mazda Hall. Since autorickshaws are essentially our only way to get places that are beyond walking distance, we had to split up into two groups. Each rickshaw driver will only take three people at a time, which seems reasonable. Honestly, I'd feel safest if we could pack twice that many in. Seatbelts, along with walking on the sidewalk, are for losers, apparently. Any extra padding from packing ourselves in like sardines would be juuuuust fine with me. Don't forget, Mom... Nobody goes fast enough for an accident to be really bad. Seriously. :)
Anyway, we set off for Mazda Hall, holding vaguely specific written directions and precariously small amounts of rupees in our pockets. The driver took us as far as he knew, and then we were on our own. The next half an hour was truly like something out of a movie. The moment the driver screeched away, the clouds cleared their throats and spat a classic late-July monsoon down on us. We ran (looking both way, of course) across the street, heading in what we hoped was the right direction. All of a sudden the busy, well-lit, very wet street was replaced by... well, let's just say it was neither busy nor well-lit. My roommate and I looked at each other and quickly did an about-face. In front of us, across the other street, we saw a deparment store of the likes that you'd see in the middle of 5th avenue. It was marble and gold with Gucci signs in the window and security guards canvasing the front, and most importantly, it was dry. As we walked through the doors, soaking wet and muddy, the entire place ground to a halt like the sophomore-dance scene from any 80's rat pack movie. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but you have to trust me. If there were music playing, it would've been cut off faster than I am when I start to make a bad pun. No less than forty heads turned to stare. People paused in mid-transaction to turn and look. The only person to move was the custodian, who started wiping up our rainwater as it left the hem of my bedraggled skirt. There was nothing explicitly agressive about the situation, but enough was ENOUGH. If I knew how to say, "Didn't your mother ever TELL you that it's rather RUDE to STARE at two GIRLS who you don't KNOW?!" in Marathi, I definitely would've.
Back on the street, rickshaw drivers eagerly descended on the two pale girls near tears. "Bhandarkar Road," I gasped, knowing full well that it was a forty- or fifty-rupee ride. "Two hundred rupee," said the first. "Bullshit," I said to myself. "No," I said out loud. The next came. "Three hundred rupee." "NO!" Finally one man came up and said, "I take you. You pay extra since trip is so long." The thing was, he smiled. It was an honest, sympathetic, I-know-you're-stupid-Americans-but-you-look-simply-pathetic-and-I-have-daughters-your-age sort of smile. For that, I didn't care if I had to pay five hundred rupees. So, Baba introduced himself and proceeded to chat with us for the next half an hour about his family, America, Pune, museums, and my hair. By the time we got back, we were laughing and almost dry. Baba (meaning "father," which I have firmly decided to intepret as a gesture of kindness rather than creepiness) made us promise to come back to his corner and see him again.
So. Let's work it out. One trip - rupees x ten awkward turtles + monsoon / British play + chatty driver = tougher skin.desire to dye my hair. Who says I have to take math in college? We survived, and somehow the rain that's still pouringn down my window doesn't seem so theatening. Thanks, Baba.
Love,
Sarah!
iPod: "The Breakdown," Mae
Yesterday... Saturday, lazy, calm, quiet, friendly, food-filled, sleepy... Right? Over here, it was more of a mixed bag. I found out about a British play a few miles from our hotel, so I gathered together half a dozen students from our program to set off for Mazda Hall. Since autorickshaws are essentially our only way to get places that are beyond walking distance, we had to split up into two groups. Each rickshaw driver will only take three people at a time, which seems reasonable. Honestly, I'd feel safest if we could pack twice that many in. Seatbelts, along with walking on the sidewalk, are for losers, apparently. Any extra padding from packing ourselves in like sardines would be juuuuust fine with me. Don't forget, Mom... Nobody goes fast enough for an accident to be really bad. Seriously. :)
Anyway, we set off for Mazda Hall, holding vaguely specific written directions and precariously small amounts of rupees in our pockets. The driver took us as far as he knew, and then we were on our own. The next half an hour was truly like something out of a movie. The moment the driver screeched away, the clouds cleared their throats and spat a classic late-July monsoon down on us. We ran (looking both way, of course) across the street, heading in what we hoped was the right direction. All of a sudden the busy, well-lit, very wet street was replaced by... well, let's just say it was neither busy nor well-lit. My roommate and I looked at each other and quickly did an about-face. In front of us, across the other street, we saw a deparment store of the likes that you'd see in the middle of 5th avenue. It was marble and gold with Gucci signs in the window and security guards canvasing the front, and most importantly, it was dry. As we walked through the doors, soaking wet and muddy, the entire place ground to a halt like the sophomore-dance scene from any 80's rat pack movie. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but you have to trust me. If there were music playing, it would've been cut off faster than I am when I start to make a bad pun. No less than forty heads turned to stare. People paused in mid-transaction to turn and look. The only person to move was the custodian, who started wiping up our rainwater as it left the hem of my bedraggled skirt. There was nothing explicitly agressive about the situation, but enough was ENOUGH. If I knew how to say, "Didn't your mother ever TELL you that it's rather RUDE to STARE at two GIRLS who you don't KNOW?!" in Marathi, I definitely would've.
Back on the street, rickshaw drivers eagerly descended on the two pale girls near tears. "Bhandarkar Road," I gasped, knowing full well that it was a forty- or fifty-rupee ride. "Two hundred rupee," said the first. "Bullshit," I said to myself. "No," I said out loud. The next came. "Three hundred rupee." "NO!" Finally one man came up and said, "I take you. You pay extra since trip is so long." The thing was, he smiled. It was an honest, sympathetic, I-know-you're-stupid-Americans-but-you-look-simply-pathetic-and-I-have-daughters-your-age sort of smile. For that, I didn't care if I had to pay five hundred rupees. So, Baba introduced himself and proceeded to chat with us for the next half an hour about his family, America, Pune, museums, and my hair. By the time we got back, we were laughing and almost dry. Baba (meaning "father," which I have firmly decided to intepret as a gesture of kindness rather than creepiness) made us promise to come back to his corner and see him again.
So. Let's work it out. One trip - rupees x ten awkward turtles + monsoon / British play + chatty driver = tougher skin.desire to dye my hair. Who says I have to take math in college? We survived, and somehow the rain that's still pouringn down my window doesn't seem so theatening. Thanks, Baba.
Love,
Sarah!
iPod: "The Breakdown," Mae
posted by Sarah! at 9:28 PM
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