Singapore Same Same, Not on your Life

What is this weird Disney landscape where you can't chew gum, or you can - but you'll be fined if you're caught trafficking it? I'm sorry, wha? Are we still talking about gum? The thing with names like Hubba Bubba and Chicklets is illegal?

How 'bout this package I'm carrying for a guy I just met back to Canada as a personal favour because he seemed so nice and trustworthy - is that legal?

AND DAMN I LOST THE SWISS ARMY KNIFE AT CHECK IN IN KOLKATTA because I was that tired I left it in my carry-on! FIONA I'LL REPLACE IT! AAARgh! I was doing so well. That knife won me the Miss Congeniality award back at the ashram. (Holly won Party girl)

There's nothing like eating and watching an insignificant movie at 1 in the morning is there?

My ears were killing me during landing. Damn, damn, damn. This has happened once before and it was because I was getting sick, and even though my friend John who worked for Air Canada told me how to handle this, I felt like a dweeb so I didn't ask the stewardess for: Two paper cups, put a wet paper towel in each cup, cover your ears during take off and landing. See my problem? I'm not afraid of looking stupid, heavens, no. I'm afraid of sounding stupid.

This free internet's about to time out.

Sayonara Subcontinent

Here's the thing about the time stamp on these posts I've been making - they appear to be set to Vancouver time. Currently it's really Wednesday, April 30th, 4:07 p.m. in the afternoon of Eufemia's last day on the subcontinent.

Soon I will travel across the International Date Line into the future! I love that Date line! I lost a day coming here, so it's only fitting that I will repeat May 1st. My first May 1st will be a hazy skyhigh movie-fest, and the second remains to be seen. I will get to see and be seen by some dearly missed loved ones, Jai! (Praise be!)

Last night I took the Radjani Express from Delhi to Kolkatta, an amazing 17 hours because we were practically flying at 140 km/hour. Normally, that train ride would be 20+ hours so it pays to take the Express. Everyone kept speaking to me in Hindi, and here's what I could understand: "You" and "You?" and "You!"

Kolkatta train station was much less intimidating the second time around. I decided instead of hanging around Kolkatta with my backpack, big and little and yoga mat in tow, I would simply come to the airport where I could pass the 12 hours till my flight by just hanging out reading my book. When I came into the airport a curt armed guard asked to see my ticket so I showed it to him and he said "Singapore Airlines? This is night flight - you early."

"Yes, very early," I replied. There you go, Papa! I win! My father will never read this online because he hasn't even gotten as tech-advanced as owning an answering machine, so I'll just have to tell him by phone that I now hold the Fantetti record for showing up early. No doubt he'll trump it with some story about getting to the dock early to catch the ship he sailed from Naples to Canada on in 1965 but still, for a day here (make that 2 days, technically) I'll get to think of myself as the champ.

I'm quite sure I really overpaid for my taxi ride but I did talk them down, and when the guy said to me "Not possible, 200 rupees not possible madam." I said "Of course it is. Subh kuch milega - everything is possible, sir." And he laughed and repeated "Subh kuch milega."

Then, here's the best part, Holly are you ready? (Oh, Holly, how wish you were here for this!) This guy's horn seemed to be broken, so when we nearly got crushed by an overloaded bus, (less than a foot to spare and my driver slams on the brakes) he yelled "Way-hey-hey!" And when he nearly ran over an older woman, he yelled out "Whoa-ho!" And the whole ride to the airport, which was alot of dodging, ducking, and several near misses - he just kept yelling over and over, and that's when I realised his horn was broken because everyone else was just honking, business as usual. Once again, I thought I could be in Italy, it's so bizarrely similar.

It felt so similar I wanted to start yelling too: "Way-hey! Does your father own this road?!" (According to one of the writer's I met Sunday night, an ex-pat American living with his family in India, that's one of the main things people yell out here when someone is driving poorly "Does your father own this road?" Also, I noted he was right, as a pedestrian you just put your hand up in a sort of "stop, in the name of love, before you break my neck-" gesture and the traffic slows down IN Kolkatta and you cross the street. It works in Delhi and Mumbai too.)

Please note: I didn't even flinch when he drove on the other side of the yellow line, pulled up against a bus and started yelling "Way! Way!" at the car in front of him, another yellow-line crosser, in the full attempt to speed up the crossing of the intersection quickly and get back on the right side of the road (meaning, the left side, the correct side I should say) before the oncoming 6 lanes of traffic on a four lane mini-highway made us another everyday casualty of big-city life.

Okay, so uhm. I guess I better go because I'm running low on rupees and this airport internet is highly overpriced...It's only another 6 and 1/2 hours till my flight. I wish I had something profound to say. I can't even explain all the emotions I'm feeling in my journal. This morning I wrote: Well here I am on the train and soon I'll be on a plane. That's Nobel Prize for literature material write there. Right there.

I'm thinking of all the different ways I know to say goodbye, (and how much I dislike that word) and all the different times and ways one has to say good-bye in their lifetimes, some are so painfull and just filled with an overwhelming sense of loss, and some are short-term, simple, soon, see you later alligator type of thing. Instead of goodbye then, I'll just leave it with phir milenge which maybe you remember means:

We'll meet again.

In a while, my crocodiles.

This is Goodbye, Delhi

This is it.

I love this city, the whole 7% of it I've seen. I've probably seen 2% of India, so take my opinion with lots of salt. Just drink lots of water too and you'll be fine.

This is the tour I did today, http://www.salaambaalaktrust.com/ because I can't begin to put in to words what it was like. Nor can I describe what happens when you see a kid who was caught in a child labour situation re-united with his mother. (Meaning his family knew he was working, he was working to help them out, he got caught, and his mother was sent for and now the family has to promise that he won't be allowed to work, that he can go to school like other 10 year olds) If you saw the movie Salaam Bombay, the Trust was set up by the director Mira Nair to help streetkids, and is now managed by her mother.

This is it.

I should head back to the Hotel, pick up my abnormally heavy backpack and walk or rickshaw over to the New Delhi train station where my tour started this morning.

The direct Delhi-Kolkatta-Singapore-Korea-Terminal City express is calling. I should be home by Friday morning, 2 a.m. Delhi time.

I think it's gonna be a long night.

Would Somebody Shut Her Up?

Why do I bother? I appear to be addicted to the internet and this blog.

But I had to tell you my most exciting news! There is an article in the Times of India about the treatment of the mentally ill here! Like they said in during the Klondike Pyrite Rush: That's gold baby! This is now my most prized souvenir, I am so excited!

I was just going to take the article but then there was a man, the Restaurant Manager, sitting only 2 feet away from me. When I asked if I could come back the next day and pick up the article in the morning, Mr Restaurant Manager was so nice and said "Just take it now, because I leave here at 8 p.m. and tomorrow it might not be here," (Yes, I have ripped recipes and articles out of magazines in waiting rooms but I've got enough on my karmic head, don'tcha think?)

Sidebar: One day in Rishikesh as Vanessa and I were walking along, a passenger fellow on the back of his friend's motorbike calls out to us "helloooo, how are yoooou?" and I said "bahut atcha." Mr passenger asks, "You speak Hindi?" and I said "Packah," (definitely). Vanessa commented "I love how you did that without saying a word in English."

I was reminded of that moment tonight while I sat waiting for my food, reading the paper and the Manager asked me "Anything good in the news?" and I answered "kabinay" (never). "Kabinay!" He repeated after me, and then he added "You have a good accent."

I felt like I was walking on water.

Kabinay, if I haven't mentioned it before but I think I must have as I'm having a deja-lu feeling, is my absolute favourite word in Hindi, bearing in mind that I have the vocabulary level of a domesticated monkey. Actaully, by my calculations the monkey knows about 108 more words. It's my favourite because of the day I was using it and recognised it breaks down into the words kab which means when, abi which is now and nay which is no. So the word is full on, full power if you will: when-now-no.

How sweet it is, how sweet!

The Time Has Come...to Talk of Many Things

The blog stops here, I think.

You know me to be sentintimental. I'm a sucker for Bell telephone commercials, so it should come as no surprise I feel like crying. (It's just so inauspicious here, I'm sucking it up.) Over my blog! Well, it's been more than that.

If I can find places to post from, like during that 12 hour stop-over between arriving in Kolkatta by train at 10 a.m. and leaving Kolkata at midnight by plane, that 3 hour stop-over in Singapore and that 1 hour stop in Korea (Excuse me Captain but why are we bothering? Everyone just wants to go home now! Oh, refuel? Well, by all means! Can I just sit here and keep watching this movie because the airport lounge is nothing new, seen one seen 'em all) - I'll catch you up.

Otherwise, I'm going to try to stay hydrated and out of the heat - but I signed up for a tour tomorrow, and no doubt there will be things to say about that. The first thing I think I want to say is, how is it that after 5 months, many offers of boats on the Ganges, guided tours of forts and Camel safaris, I sign up for a tour the day I am leaving?

Welcome to the wonderful world of Eufemia.

These things happen.

By now we all realise my Bollywood dreams are dashed. No ability to speak Hindi plus two left feet and an inability to sing in high octave range spells doom for an actress. Sigh. Oh, the sad attempts at ha-ha's when one has a heavy heart.

One of the writers asked me last night: Has my country been good to you?

Yes, yes it has!

Now what would be good is if I learned how to be good to me.

That said, might I just add here that even though there were days of such breath-taking loneliness (I wouldn't have thought it possible - to feel so lonely in a country of one billion) - I knew I was never alone. Because you were all here with me. I don't think I would have made it this far without you.

How can I ever repay you all for keeping me in such good company? In such good spirits?

I'll buy some laddus.

I'll make some chai.

We can talk about it and you can tell me how.

And tell me everything I've missed, dearly missed, over tea.

Suffering is Optional

I moved.

I was going to die, when I got back to my room and saw that cockroaches may sleep a little but a few scurry in the daytime too. A few too many, really. Apparently their lives fall under the dictum "No rest for the wicked."

I said to the guy downstairs at reception, who was very understanding, especially because I was just going to his sister-hotel, the fancier Hotel Pearl Palace, "How do you say cockroach in Hindi?"

Deskclerk: "Cockroach"

Helpful staff: "Hira, you say hira."

Though when I said hira at the other hotel, as in "Possible room with NO HIRA?" and Mr Prakesh looked at me as if I was stoned, so I said "No cockroaches? Please! It wasn't the heat so much but them. They make me scream."

Mr. Prakesh was very nice NOT to say I told you so you foolish, foolish girl, when yesterday you here coming and asking for room, I told you the heat would be too much for you.

Because yesterday I was all bravado: "Hey, no, my family's Italian, I can take the heat, I can handle it, maahn."

He answered "You can tolerate it? Go see the no AC room hotel down the road."

Much like Aesop's Fable, the one about the Ants and the Grasshopper, the moral of this post is: it's a good idea to admit you're wrong when you've been incredibly stupid, but lie about it if it makes you feel better and blame it on the bugs - because there are no fables about cockroaches.

If You Looked in the Dictionary Under the Word Stubborn

You would find my highschool yearbook photo there.

Yessiree.

I'm sorry to report, here's the new score:
Eufemia 9
Cockroaches 1
Yes, it's a new game in Delhi and oh how the mighty are humbled. At midnight, when you've killed your 6th cockroach, you begin to wonder what you had against mosquitoes in the first place. Especially if they didn't carry Malaria, what's the big problem? The buzzing? Okay, that's supremely annoying but they can't help it. That's how they were made, it's in their nature.

On the plus side (is there one? Of course there is, there always is. Uhm, just let me think for a minute) I got better, faster and faster. Nailed them faster and harder, so that what happened with the first 3 cockroaches, where I killed them and then realised I clearly hadn't succeeded because the played dead for a few minutes and then got up and walked, or actually sauntered away, well that stopped happening. (Let me help you do the math: so this means I really smacked 12 cockroaches, but only nailed 9) I hit, they fell, and the when others came to attend the funerals of their friends, I showed no mercy, especially the closer they got to my backpack. I had a bad, heat-stroke type moment where I thought "You gotta show them who's boss." You know as well as I do, since they've stopped preparing to survive the certain Nuclear Holocaust of the 1980's, what with building their bunkers and scurrying away tins of spam, cockroaches don't work for a living so, they don't have to, so showing them who's boss was a waste of my time. They thought it was hilarious. I could hear them chuckling.

Eufemia to cockroach #5, because she's not getting on a first name basis with anything that has to die by her hand: I don't think this is funny, why don't you guys just BUGGER OFF! Fish fish fish!

Actually, there were several bad moments: I had to sleep with the light on because I could not imagine turning it off and letting them all run wild - as it was the light didn't really intimidate them much. Not as much as my shoe, which I believe they are currently meeting about in the bathroom and strategising how to handle the flipflop menace now known as "the purple bomber" in the insect world.

Then I couldn't turn off the fans, I couldn't imagine how to sleep with them on, but I could not turn them off or I would have melted. These fans were sold to this hotel by the American military back in 1945, when the soldiers returned and there was this boom and the old, indestructible stuff was shipped off to other countries - this was before disposable was a big part of our culture. In fact, I'm postive one of the fans is made with the old propellers from the Memphis Belle.

Somehow I woke up at 8:15, so I must have slept somehow though I have no recollection of it - and when I looked in the mirror this morning, it looked like I had a whole 15 minutes of well-rested sleep.

Maybe you don't want to hear this, particularly after a long, hard winter but - you know it's hot when you pick up your water bottle and, at room temperature it's like touching a cup of very warm tea. When you touch your bedsheet and it's hot like those eye-cover pillows people microwave and then cover their face with. When you wait 5 minutes for cold water to come out of the cold water tap.

In a way I guess this is very funny: I long for a cold shower. I never thought I'd see the day, definitely not when I started off freezing and trying to wash my hair and self with a bucket of cold water in December, because there was no option for hot.

Are you wondering about that "Cockroach 1"? At 2 a.m I thought I had a fruitfly on me, but it was a baby cockroach. And knowing what a cockroach egg looks like, well, it has it's pluses and minuses doesn't it? Shaking the egg out of the bedsheet but not having the presence of mind to flush it down the toilet, I realise that's another 36 friends and family joining the party in Room 104 any minute now. And when I went to the loo, seven of the smaller cockroaches had drowned in the toilet bowl over night. Perhaps they felt it was a choice between my flipflop frenzy or just taking the matter into their own feelers.

The thing about changing rooms is, first I'd have to go to a different hotel, mine doesn't have any AC. And after enduring the man yelling at me yesterday and trying to make me pay for a room I wasn't keeping, I have no desire for another scene. What is it with hot climates and hot tempers anyways, and did I tell you my theory that I should be able to prove with a history book, that thousands of years ago people migrated from the Indus Valley to Italy and this is why I'm feeling related to everyone on the subcontinent. I noticed it again yesterday, feeling like I was in Italy, while moving around in traffic, when all the street signs and lines on the road are treated like suggestions, not the law, but some suggestions say, on staying alive.

Also I can't really stand air-conditioning, I find I get sicker going from cold to hot than just bearing the heat. Another instance where I can thank my parents for the parts of my childhood that toughened me up. Built my character. This is like a Toronto summer, to the power of 10.

Four more sleeps and I'm home. Two sleeps inferno, one sleep on the train (AC!) one on the plane. There's that 12 hour stopover in Kolkatta airport, which looks as much like an airport as my laundry room but I guess I'll cross that Howrah Bridge* when I get to it.

Howrah Bridge: The bridge is a famous symbol of Kolkatta and West Bengal. Apart from bearing the stormy weather of the Bay of Bengal region, it successfully bears the weight of a daily traffic of approximately 150,000 vehicles and 4,000,000 pedestrians. It is one of the longest bridges of its type in the world.

If You Can't Stand the Heat, Get Outta the Ganj

Well, so. Gosh. I mean, really.

After all my talking to myself that I would spare no expense and blah blah blah, I cheaped out and asked for a non-AC room. NON-AIR-CONDITIONED ROOM because the cost difference was half. As in $10 for Hotter than Hades, and $20 for You will not expire of Heat Stroke before Dawn. Because some part of my brain went "You want 700 rupees for a night when 700 rupees was an entire week's Hotel stay in Pushkar two months ago?"

The full power picture, did I mention how often "full power" gets used here? FULL POWER! and it means something between "I'm excessively virile with the life force" and "Yes, we have electricity" or I dunno, I haven't quite figured it all out yet.

AS I WAS SAYING BEFORE THE HEAT GOT TO ME: it's 37 degrees Celsius here today. Now. AT 9 p.m. AT NIGHT. That's fishing Full Power, if you want my opinion, which you clearly do or you wouldn't be reading. TOMORROW? TOMORROW? OH I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED - Sunday afternoon is predicted to climb to 41 degrees Celsius. Perhaps I'll have to go eat crow and ask for the AC room. I understand it tastes like chicken.

And in some funny twist of bizarro world, when I finally settled on the Bless Inn at Pahar Ganj, just down the road from the Imperial theatre, I turned on the TV, ordered Chai (I told you, Main pagal hun. I am crazy - though word for word the translation would be: I crazy is) and toast and watched Mansfield Park. They're having an Austen fest on the History Channel here and Monday night it's Northhanger Abbey! It's hard to watch Austen - all these characters with fireplaces in their rooms - when your ceiling fan is going so fast it feels like it might fly off the ceiling. And it's circulating air that makes you feel as though you're sitting in an oven. Make that a microwave, on high.

Tomorrow night I'm meeting some writers. I am so excited! I must tell you, I nearly did my usual Eufemia thing and let my sometime overwhelming shyness overtake me so that I would just come home and tell you all - "Well, it was fun, you should all go, don't be too friendly with shop clerks and Arjun's your uncle. You'll have a blast." The thing I missed the most in traveling sometimes was the sense of community with other writers, particularly wanting to know where they hung out, what they did here. Writers! Creative Comrades! Children of the Revolution!

Gene Fowler is quoted to have said "Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." You tell 'em Mister Fowler!

Darn, I think I may have to leave the internet's cool atmosphere and head once more into the heat dear friends, once more.

And here I was going to tell you I would be blogging less in Delhi but it may be a matter of life-support.

Delhi the City, not Deli the Place I can Eat

Well I'm here, and I went on a bit of a spare no expense bender with taking a taxi to Hardwar from Rishikesh, and feeling mighty 'member of the mafia' in the backseat of that taxi when every other vehicle on the road had at least 9 people piled in it. But for $12 I got driven for 45 minutes straight to the train station. Where I got a porter for $3 (why haggle now? Besides you know I suck at it)

Here's something that weirds me out: I have had two Indians now refer to porters as coolies. I'm sorry, I thought that word was abolished when the British left and took their scones with them.

Okay, so now I'm in a ridiculously overcharged room, the reception guy, who bears a rather unfortunate resemblance to a marsupial, asked for a deposit upfront which I refused to give and it's getting late in the day but I've decided to hunt for another hotel.

Why the fish not?

So here I go, racing the Delhi sun and heat. Wish me luck.

!!!!!!!

As I was signing out a mousy thing ran past my foot! I am calm, I am calm. Wow, I forgot to tell you all that I was AAAAAAAAAArh okay - uhm, he's back- with 3 of his FRIENDS!. WHY God WHY do I wear flipflops here? Okay so I forgot to tell you that I was feeling pretty tough, since a lots happened that would normally make me jump outta my skin but I haven't heard myself scream for months, except for that incident last week where a monkey jumped towards me and Sarah on her building's balcony. When I say towards, I mean, right at us. We jumped out of our seats as he lunged to one side of us. And yes, he was baring his teeth. It took awhile for my heartbeat to return to normal - part of the biggest shock was hearing my voice scream like that, after not hearing it in many other instances where I could have easily hollered. (No, not the Drawstring-Cobra affair but thanks, I really needed humbing because like I have such a big eg-O! puh-leeze.) Anyways I just treated everyone in this internet to what it sounds like when I freak out and scream "WHAT THE FISH!" with my mouth shut. (Like this: MMMWHAAIZAT!)

Damn, it took me 20 minutes to find this place, now I have to scout out another place!

Not FYI but TOI

Back to the Times of India, since you may be missing these entries when I'm back. Okay, I know that's highly unlikely, I know, it's my own little strange obsession, this newspaper. Between this and the Bollywood movies, I hardly know where to go for help when I get home and start experiencing withdrawl. The food won't be such an issue as I'm still rice and banana lassying it- if you can believe it. I went salad-mad yesterday, fruit, Nicoise, Israeli, and my body said "No salad for you!"

May I just say here, it's a weird and at times morbid obsession - it ain't pretty. I found one article on a support group for women suffering from depression, and that's been worth the search. But in terms of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly, sometimes I feel like it's all just ugly, and this is why I dislike newspapers in general. Particularly fear-mongering, conservative newpapers. I know, picky, picky. And I go on some tangents, I know, you're shocked. These are some other items I found, just excerpts:

From an article about an accident where a young man on a motorbike was killed
"From the oral and documentary evidence on record, it can be reasonably deduced on the probabilities of the case that the accident occurred because of the negligence on the part of the driver of the bus, who admits that he used to drive the bus involved in the accident."

From an obit for a 25 year old man: Always smiling innocent and lovely child was snatched away by the cruel hands of Destiny on 16.4.2005 vacuum cremated is filled with our Tears.

This falls under the category, some one needed to research this? Because why?
Experts: Violence at home affects health
New Delhi: Being beaten up at home could be making Indian women and children frail and undernourished. In an interesting research, a team of social scientists from Harvard School of Public Health has for the fist time found a strong association between domestion violence and chronic malnutrition among Indian women and children.

The most disturbing thing for me is there's no place where it says "If you know someone who is being abused, this is where they can go for help" or even "Call this helpline number." I feel very touchy on this subject- as in stay away from it, don't touch it. I feel as though I'm walking on molten lava. Do I call up Harvard and say "What do you geniuses do for an encore? Tell me, is there a correlation between drought and famine?"

Now this is something else we're talking about: violence, extreme violence, accepted as a part of every day life. When you see this news in the West, here's the part that's same same no different: Violence against women as if it's an understandable given. As if a crime of murdering or raping your girlfriend/wife/woman you couldn't possess is a result of an 'understandable' act of passion rather than a loathsome crime by a cave-dwelling neandrathal who should be blinded and kept on the rack for 15 years, at least. Do not even think of talking to me about compassion until in the common language we recognise this is unacceptable violence (and let's be clear, I was raised in a home where somehow, even with a progressive father, the belief was women were asking for trouble, so I'm just as much talking about undoing my brainwashing) Just like I will not tolerate the Catholic Church telling me I'm a sinner when they have a history of protecting pedophile priests. [NOTE: I know the Pope will be really upset with me for saying this, especially when he's the number one visitor to my blogsite - but you know what Benedict? The truth hurts. Get with this millennia, wouldja?]


Enough.

My Last TOI post:
Gere's Kiss: Insane Courage
Actor Richard Gere, who until recently faced obsecnity charges for publicly kissing Shilpa Shetty, has called his troubles "a badge of courage". Gere made headlines when he kissed Shilpa, winner of the British reality TV show Celebrity Big Brother, several times on the cheek at an anti-AIDS ahow in Delhi last year. "It's a badge of somewhat insane courage," he told reporters during a visit to San Francisco recently, saying others had also been charged with similar offences in the past. "It is a very complex society," Gere said about India. It may be recalled that last month, the Supreme Court suspended the legal proceedings and granted Gere permission to again travel to and from India. Gere was visting San Francisco to attend a pro-Tibet rally.

And we're done. Full stop.

When Will I Learn?

Since I'm running out of time I'm posting the items I meant to edit and fancy up a bit more, so pardon my stream of bloggishness. I begin with an an excerpt of a conversation from my first days in Rishikesh:

Mia: Ap kaise hai? (How are you)

Sunil: You speak Hindi?

Mia: Nay..torah, torah (very little)

Sunil: Where from? Which Country?

Mia: Canada

Sunil: Are you married?

Mia: No

Sunil: Do you have a boyfriend?

Mia: Why?

Sunil: Why?

Mia: Why do you ask such a personal question?

Sunil: Can I have a kiss?

Mia: WHAT did you say? KYA, TUM PAGAL HO? (WHAT ARE YOU CRAZY?)

This could explain why I haven't really taken to Rishikesh, or technically Laxman Jhulla, at all.

Eight nights ago I had to crawl under the garage gate of my Hotel, Shiva Cottage, because Mahinder, who was already in his jimjammies of an undershirt and boxer style tight-fitting underwear, wasn't going to exert himself and raise the gate. I had 3 and 1/2 feet to manoeuvre.
He had the nerve to chastise me and point to the clock, and the sign saying the gate closes at 11 p.m. The hotel clock said 11:30p.m. Mine said 10:50 p.m.

Here's where you keep your eyes on the coconut with the rupee note under it because now comes the shuffling trick. This is another favourite of mine, how the hotel staff sets the time anywhere from 15 minutes to half an hour ahead so they can close the gate not at the time it says on the wall, but whenever they pretty much feel like calling it a day.

Four nights ago, I ran over to tell him "Don't lock me out" since I was watching Om Shanti Om (I love this movie, love it, love it, luuuuv it and can't wait to share it with yaz.) and at 2 hours and 46 minutes, and we didn't start until 9 p.m, well, I didn't want to be locked out, and as I pointed out to Mahinder "sleeping curled up next to that cow in the ditch."

So here's what happens, Mahinder, who by the way called me a liar in Hindi the day before yesterday (for no reason I can ascertain) to my face and got the shock of his day when I said "What? Me Liar, YOU LIAR!" in Hindi and then I added "you jerk" in English because I have avoided learning the really bad terms in Hindi for just such reasons. As you can see, my temperament has not exactly relaxed by 2 months of yoga and now being next to the spiritual flow of the Ganga.

As I was saying, Mahinder walks me back to the restaurant, which was totally unnecessary but clearly the young man has a chivalrous-let's-hope-everyone-thinks-I'm-sexing-this-lady-devil-may-care-attitude-about-it all. He sees I'm watching the movie with some friends. He says "okay you midnight after come, okay?" and then when I return I see he's left the gate 2 feet open, so I have to push my backpack through and then crawl under, head first. The next day I say "thank you so much for leaving the gate open for me."

What a peach.

There are days here when I wish I was talking martial arts classes, in a kind of "Yoga? fuggedaboutit-" way. Many days, in fact. It's on my mind especially now that I need to arrange getting to Delhi and being there for a few days on my own. Om Shanti indeed.

My new favourite saying, taken from Om Shanti Om of course: What the fish? This is said in English. Several times. You know what they mean, and so do I.

What the fish?!

By the Banks of the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept

Eufemia, to the ceiling: Papa, I'm awake, wide awake again. It's the middle of the night, actually morning, and Rishikesh is closed, I mean I feel like all of India is closed. It's unbelievably quiet, for India.

Papa from inside my neural pathways: E perche piangi, chittalone, tesoro perche stai piangiare? (Why do you cry, little one? Dearest why are you crying?)

Eufemia: It's 3 a.m. and all I want to do is pick up the phone and call you when it's like this, so quiet. And when I'm like this, so restless. And because I can't call, all I can think about is the day I won't be able to call you at all.

Papa: That's life chittalone. Ma nin pensare questi cose mo. Ti da dormire. (But don't think of these things now. You need to sleep)

Eufemia: I'm trying.

Papa: I see. Tonight you drink two milk espresso after 8 o'clock, I don't think like this you try very good.

Eufemia: I had a craving. For the familiar, for your company.

Papa: And now again you no can sleep.

Eufemia: No. And I was, I am feeling a little scared. Delhi! By myself!

Papa: It's better you no tell me these things.

Eufemia: Don't worry, I won't.*

Blogger's note: Real Papa thinks I've been travelling with the same friend for these past 5 months, though he asks questions all the time, the same questions I would ask if I suspected my daughter was fudging the truth to keep me sane and happy. The same questions I would ask if I heard the same exhaustion, loneliness and fear in her voice he sometimes hears in mine. I do my best but some things slip through. Neural Pathways Papa, being a holographic, holo-deck kinda Dad, can do no other than represent the real McCoy.

Eufemia: Yesterday, I washed my face in the Ganga.

Papa: Is this why you no can sleep? No, I think it's the espressos.

Eufemia: Yes, you're right. It's the coffee.

Papa: I can hear all these thinking inside your head with me. You thinking too much. What quiet India? You hear? You here is make lots of noise for you.

Eufemia: Yes, I know.

And for the third time since midnight I get up and turn on the lights. The clock says it's now 3:15 in the morning. Six more hours before my favourite cafe opens. Six more hours before I can order a banana lassi. I do what I always do when I get stuck like this without a book because I have clearly taken leave of my senses: write it down, write it down, write it all down.

By the River Ganga I Sat Down and Wept
For all the things I did and did not do
for what I accomplished and what I did not
for the beggars I helped and those I ignored
for the friends I made and the ones I didn't
for the books I read and the ones I skipped
for the sun, the moon and the stars
for the sleepless nights and nights of supreme slumber
for the dreams I remembered and the ones that disappered
for the food I ate and the meals I missed
to say nothing of the ideas I barely digested
for the past that wasn't and the future that isn't
for struggling so hard to be here now
again and again
for the feelings of familiarity and the sense of contempt it breeds
for the feelings of alienation and the sense of longing it brings
for belonging nowhere and everywhere
at the same time
for being born in the First World
to parents from the Third World
and never fully realising before
these blessings were second to none

Papa: Okay, Dante, now go sleep.

Close But No Banana Lassi

Just kidding. Here's a recipe for you, complete with some Indian words:

Banana Lassi
1 cup Curd (Dahi, plain non-fat Yogurt)
1 peeled and sliced ripe Banana (Kela)
2 tblsp Sugar (Cheeni) or to taste
1/4th tsp Cardamom Powder (Elaichi Powder) optional
Few Ice-cubes

How to make the Banana lassi:
Combine all ingredients and blend until smooth in a blender. Add the ice cubes last, adjust to your preference of liquidity. Pour in glasses with straws and serve chilled.

Greetings and Salutations

Tena yistilign. This is how you would greet someone in Ethiopia. It means May God give you health.

The reply is Egziebher yimesgen, thanks be to God. Apparently there are several options in Ethiopia, even one that sounds phonetically like Shalom, and it means God give you peace.

And so I have decided that Hello and Goodbye truly, there is no doubt in my mind, absolutely suck.

There was that woman in Texas years ago who tried to petition her town (and later the world) to start saying Heaven-O because Hell-O was such a negative greeting - what with bringing to mind Lucifer and the hounds of hell. I thought she was a crackerjack whackjob then but who's to really say? Certainly not me. I've just found proof, again and again, that hello and goodbye are not enough and they annoy me. Perhaps I should check the etymology and then I'll calm down and be happy-hunky-dory again.

The reason I'm going on about this? I've been thinking about all my conversations with God, where I sometimes just launch right in "God? I was just-" "God, please help me understand -" or "God!" In the last one I sound so demanding, like "hey listen up! I'm talkING to Yooooou!" But you see the pattern, I never even bother to say "hi". Like, by now, if I was God I would be thinking that carbon-based brat is so rude, she deserves to get kicked in the shin. Clearly, this would be the all-punishing God response. The only real God response has always been "My child, talk to me. Tell me anything."

Beautiful as they are, I can't use the Ethiopian greeting either: "May God grant you health, God."

Did you think I was going to skip over the detail about my conversations with God? Nuh-uh. Some might call it praying and some might calling it madly petitioning for help to stop the unstoppable, the inevitable. WHATEVER. I've asked for lots of help, in the form of a good night's sleep, a reprieve or the total cessation of renal function failure, for a lightning bolt to strike the room next door and carve out "Shut the hell up!" in Sanskrit right above their door. There's also been requests for some kind of sign, some kind of guarantee. That the hardest conversation for sure:

Me: I'd just like to be sure I'm doing the right thing

Reply: What's the wrong thing?

Me: I don't know, that's why I'm asking you.

Reply: You need to realise, there is no wrong thing

Me: Reeeeah-lee? How about murder then, is that not a wrong thing?

Reply: We could do without your sarcasm.

Me: Sorry, so the right thing -

Reply: It's 3 a.m. You should really get some sleep.

Me: If you would just answer my question, I could probably fall asleep koi baht nahin. (No worries)

Reply: Blame and pointing fingers will never solve any problems.

Me: Can I tell you something God? You make me mental. Or let me rephrase that: you made me mental. Ha ha.

And then there's silence - because we get to a point where God will no longer dignify my comments with a response.

Then I just have to sit there in the dark, thinking positive thoughts like: "That rustling sound is not the cockroach that fell out of my facecloth when I went to wash my face" or "Tomorrow, I'll get more writing done," or "If that weasel Mahinder comes up to my room one more time I'm pushing him off the balcony"

Who knew that spiritual practice could be so all-encompassing?

My Bollywood Job Offer

Just kidding.

Back when I was trying to figure out a way to stay here forever because I love it so, which was also during my fantasy time as a Nobel-Peace-Prize-Winning-Fire-Juggler, I couldn't think of anything I could do.

The problem, as I see everywhere here, and the reason why sometimes you'll have a lot of fellas standing around watching an egg fry, is because there simply are not enough jobs for the population of one billion.

Today, I realised what job I should be offered - only it would necessitate moving to Mumbai and I'm not ready for that, but still, I should wait until the offer is made and see, I guess. I shudder to think the word is for agent in Hindi. Anyways, I'm not thinking actress, no, no, no, though a few of you probably knew that I harboured a secret dream of becoming a big Bollywood star and that why the Hindi lessons being a bust crushed me - but I should become a Bollywood movie copywriter. Seriously, they need me. (Arrogance is apparently a very helpful quality in copywriters, you need a big ego to survive in that ewww-dogs-eat-dog-doodoo world) Now that I'm on a bolly dvd collecting roll, and check this out:

AAJA NACHLE
Dia (Madhuri Dixit) She was the life of Shamli. And then she made one mistake - she fell in love. The town never forgave her and she never forgave the town. She made a new life, far away from her past. But now the man, who taught her how to dance and how to live, is no more. And he has left behind a job for her. She has to go back to the town...and teach it how to dance again. Radha (Dalai) Her mother may be born in Shamli, but Radha is so born in New York. She knows less Hindi than an Indian parrot and has more ideas on managing her mom's life than a shrink. The only problem is that Shamli is not in New York. And everybody except for Radha knows this. Doctor (Raghubir Yadav) Nobody knows what his real name is, but Ajanta's old caretaker wears a cap on his head and many hearts on his sleeve, all bleeding for the cause of theatre. He is Dia's

OH MY GOD! Do you love it? Do you really or are you just saying that? I have painstakingly written this out, word for word, and checked it twice to make sure it's exactly the way it's on the box. So, no period at the end of the last sentence He is Dia's, and it really says Radha is so born in New York. Caroline, I cannot wait to watch this with you. (Am I being pushy?) Okay, okay, one more, one more!

JAB WE MET
Industrialist Aditya (Shahid Kapur) Feels Defeated As The Girl He Loves Is Getting Married. He Drifts Out Of The Gathering, And Finds HImself On a Train, Speeding Away Into The Night. A Young Girl Geeta (Kareena Kampour), Who Is Leaving Mumbai To Elope With Her Boyfriend, Meets Aditya. She Irritates Him To The Point Of Leaving The Train. They Are Stranded On a Desolate Station, Without Luggage or Money. They Reach Ambala, Her House, Through Highs And Lows, Only To Be Mistaken As Lovers By The Family. Geet Then Plans To Run Away To Manali To Meet The Man Of Her Dreams. By Manali, He Has Begun To See Her In A Different Way. To Realize Later That Her Boyfriend Had Not Accepted Her. And She Was Missin. Her Family Traces Him To Get Her Back. It Is Up To Her To Tell Her Family The Truth. Only That She Realizes That The Misconception Was The Truth.. And

That one was way harder to type, cleeeear-ly. I KNOW - Ouch, it hurts to read and to type. Cath, we'll continue our chick-flick-in-times-of-distress-or-whenever-I-damn-well-feel-like-it tradition with this one, 'kay?

This is the last one and it's just an excerpt because it's so poorly done I can barely read it:

JODHAA AKBAR
Let's get one thing straight: You haven't watched anything so opulent, so magnificent like this in a long, long time on the Hindi screen. It's not just body beautiful, but there's soul as well.

This one everyone wants to see because it was banned in Rajasthan. It came out 3 months ago, so I think the DVD will be of a guy sitting in a crowded Mumbai theatre filming the movie, but at the cost equivalent of $4 for three movies - (My inner thoughts: I'm sorry, what did you say? Four dollars for 3 movies? My gosh, I should be giving this guy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives just to make this fair, but he doesn't eat steak.) - how could I pass this shop-opportunity up?

I'm trying to organise a Bollywood watching night like we had the other night, I wish you could all be here. I miss you and will be seeing y'all soon, which trust me, I'm so looking forward to, but I hope you'll forgive my staring-out-the-window-missing-India-sadness. Vaness, I know you'll be here in spirit and part of Bollywood Comes to Vancouver Night, possibly also known Blast Your Chakras Open With Om Shanti Om Night...

Yes, you're welcome to come over and watch these movies anytime it doesn't interfere with my roommate Caroline's schedule/my schedule AND you have 4 hours to spare, which should also answer part two of the question: No, you can't borrow them. I know, you would think living out of a backpack would make me less materialistic, but after purchasing the Eddie Izzard Dressed To Kill Comedy DVD 4 times now, and not being sure where the heck copy number 4 is, I think I can say I've learned my possessive lesson.

You can still ask, but like Christopher Durang pointed out in Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All For You, where he noted that people think God doesn't answer every prayer, that is simply not true. God does answer every prayer, it's just that sometimes the answer is No.

MaKe mE MenTal

A snippet of conversation from Ganga View Cafe, one that would make me mental anywhere:

Guy: Sanskrit is about the sound of the Universe, it's about the vibration, it's all about tapping into that sound.
Girl: That is so cool. That is SO cool.

Vanessa! How could you leave me and take your delightful Canadian sarcasm with you?

Okay, and just so youse all get the full picture, let me just say I'm sure I heard someone mentally retching while I was asking Alec about the Mercury aspect in my Astrological chart, and the effects of having Pluto, Jupiter and Uranus (uhm, you know how I get about this type of thing if I can't conjugate a verb without laughing) in my Sixth House, the house of health, as it were. Yes, I can dish it out but I can't stand the heat in kitchen. Kitchen? Frig! Parlour, whatever!

And here's my other favourite snippet from this morning, with the two Italians sitting next to me. They freaked out when they saw how Ganga View makes the milk espresso Italian style, with an Italian stovetop coffee-maker.
"Ma guarde un po!" Meaning Would you get a load of this!
"Next time we come we'll bring our own coffee. We can buy this element thing!"
"Of course! We just rent a bigger room, and set it up- "
"And pop, pah, pow, we make -"
" -our own spaghetti!"
" - exactly!"

I kept laughing through their conversation so they started looking over, and I thought I best just keep to myself because eavesdropping is rude, especially when you're caught. I had a moment where I thought I could say "How are you feeling about Berlusconi winning?" but that's not a conversation starter.

The absolute best was listening to them complain about how long it took to get a coffee: "These guys don't like to do anything fast!" You get my 'Ha ha moment'? An Italian is complaining he thinks an Indian doesn't like to do anything fast. Uhm, I know it's been a lifetime since I was in Italy and I was only a child, but as far as I could see, the only thing Italians liked to do fast was talk and drive.

I've become addicted to ending on a happy note, as much as possible for someone with a family history of depression and suicide. Tangent alert! Can you believe I once had a writing teacher tell me that choosing the happy ending for my play because 'I liked it' meant I was an irresponsible writer, since that's not real life? I'm sure you can.

My reply: "Well, I don't think so. I prefer it." And why not, if I'm in charge of that particular Universe, and I AM! I know, I know, what yoga-quasi-spiritual-pursuit is this? I haven't seen my preferences, my likes and dislikes diminish at all - I've just seen them on the big Bollywood screen. Oh, there's a heck of a lotta of dancing around. Maybe I just need to brush up on the moves and the whole sequence won't look, won't feel so - So what? Wrong? There it is again, inner struggled splattered all over the blog when I had to think about it all.

In the words of smarter people, I take my leave of you.

Take it away Ms. Hay:

"Often what we think of as the things "wrong" with us are only our expressions of our own individuality. We are meant to be different. When we can accept this, then there is no competition and no comparison - to try to be like another is to shrivel our soul. We have come to this planet to express who we are."

Abi Hindi Katam

Now Hindi Finish.

Here's the thing, I could have put this toddler-type sentence together last week, before I spent the rupees to be taught bad Hindi-Urdu-Nepalese-MishMash. Vanessa and I met early this morning to try and figure out from her notes what the formulas were for all the tenses we whipped through - Present Indefinite all the way to Future Indefinite.

It nearly gave her a brain annuerysm as she tried to figure it out and teach me. I spaced out during the last class yesterday morning and was like, if this guy gives me another exercise to do I will freak out. I missed one class from being sick with a stomach that reached all the way back to Pushkar, and when i would flip through my notes, Mister would say "Huh, you don't know 'she'. You forgot He? Huh."

He had this very odd habit of saying "huh" - it was partially nasal and partially aspirated and 100% annoying. I think it meant "okay" or "yes something", but not really - I could think it was funny at first, but after you've decided you want to murder someone, nothing they do is charming or funny anymore. Weird, huh?

Before Vanessa arrived, Ilu at Little Buddha tried practising Hindi with me this morning - asking me the real brain teaser - where are you from? I did not understand. Hello! He says - "I see you in class there every day - what you learn?" What could I say? All in all I'm just another brick in the wall? Oh there's some proverbs translated into Hindi like: a poor carpenter blames his tools, but much like the translation of Rome wasn't built in a day, where Vanessa and I could find no evidence of the word Rome or day, some things don't translate. Or in the case of what I understood from this man: kuch nahee. Nothing.

There were two other girls learning in the time slot after us, and they were ESL, or possibly E4thL, and the teacher was bahut ESL, and they thought he was great, until one of them showed her Indian friend her notes and her friend told her, "this isn't Hindi, this is some Hindi, some Urdu, and possibly some Nepalese."

Vanessa reported this to me and decided that after we made our notes cohesive, we would do examples for each tense and quiz ourselves. After 2 hours of notes and talking about the meaning of life according to us (no disrespect your Holiness!) and everything in-between, I'm about to go to the bathroom when Vanessa checks her new Colloquial Hindi book and says "We're screwed." She explains how the tense we were working on is not translated correctly. And the waiters look at our text and can't understand what it means, and they have been telling us different words than the ones we have written down, day after excruciating day.

Vanessa: Oh my god! The difference between what this sentence is saying it is and what it really is is the difference between "I'm going to eat" and "I blew up a house last year."

Okay, so here's the scene now, I'm sitting at the internet, sad and a little lonely, having just said good-bye to Vanessa, on her way back to Bangalore. I can hardly believe we met less than a week ago, and we will meet again when she comes to Vancouver, so her goodbye was bahut bidiyay (perfect) "I'll see you soon."

I'm also laughing to myself, alot, going through my notes from our Hindi class. I should clarify, I'm mostly alone, the way one can be so alone in an internet place with 4 guys, all Indian sitting around and playing on all the other computers (Yes, they work here.) All of you who have travelled to bharat will understand, or as Vanessa said one day, "You know - how one guy will fry an egg and four guys will watch him do it." And I keep laughing, and for the 14th time, I kid you not, they have played James Blunt's You're Beautiful.

And I'm a little sad, but I am laughing a lot. An hour ago, I stood on a swinging steel bridge over the Ganges in the moonlight, while the wind whipped up so much that there were waves on the river. I know, me very lucky, some might say bahut lucky.

On the other side of Laxman Jhulla, the steel and concrete bridge that swings in the wind, Vanessa handed me a cd with all the hits from all the Shah Rukh Khan movies (one of India's Tom Cruises, they appear to have 2) including: Om Shanti Om! Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, plus the fabulous Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, which you'll all remember as The Braveheart blah blah blah.

I mean, maybe we should have clued in when we would ask:

"How do you say 'bus'?"
"Bus."
"How do you say 'school'?"
"School."
"How do you say 'kitchen'?"
"Kitchen."

The last one we made a fuss about and got "Rasor Gar" - but like, for all we know, this could be the way they say kitchen in a remote village in Pakistan, where it could also mean "hole with chappati cooking fire in it". Or maybe it's the way they said it in Persia in the 14th century. At least I know I'll be useless in 3 countries with my Hindurdulese. I'm signing up for Esperanto when I get back.

Well, truly we knew he was a terrible teacher, so it seems like just one of those things, we were just destined to meet this way, in a Hindi class under a tarp at Freedom Cafe, me and the Italian-mother-Gujarati-father bahut sundar gal, aur hosey-something, the word for smart, she'll know the one I'm talking about (bilkul mira dost?)

So, off I go, to wake up with no class or Hindi practice to look forward to tomorrow. Good news is the stomach's better, I only look 3 months pregnant now as opposed to six. Yoga, what yoga? You try lying on a pumpkin and moving into upward dog.

And, it's only phir milenge, which we found out is "meet" - as in "we'll meet again", though it's translated for Westerners as "see you later."

I'll leave you all on this note because I have laughed bahut over this and the "I blew up a house last year" exchange.

Vanessa: At least he didn't perv out on us.
Eufemia: Uhm, he put his arms around us in the photo*. And he tried to hug you.
(*This is simply not done here, at all. One has to try and act "casual" and "groovy" - which is not easy for an uptight fella from a no-contact-till-you're-married-culture to do. They don't shake hands with women. They don't hug. In some places, they are not allowed to speak during the "Will this be the one?" marriage interview conducted by family members on behalf of the couple. And plus, his hands were too low for the teacher - student sitch, as Vanessa would say. Would say, did we cover that tense?) I digress! Back to:
Vanessa: At least he didn't perv out on us.
Eufemia: Uhm, he put...And he tried to hug you
Vanessa: I know. Fuck.

The True Meaning of Life by His Holiness

We are visitors on this planet
we are here for ninety
or one hundred years
at the very most.
During that period
we must try to do something
good, something useful
with our lives.
If you contribute to other
people's happiness, you will find the true goal,
the true meaning of life.

- His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

Bonus additional quote, but first an anecdote: At the internet this afternoon I started copying down a quote that was attributed to Mother Theresa. The fellow running the shop said "What are you doing? You think Mother Theresa said that?"

Eufemia: She didn't?

Fellow: No. I think if they not spell her name right on the poster, this could all be wrong.

Eufemia: Her name is spelled wrong?

Her name was spelled Mother Theresa, and a quick internet check shows me that's not wrong, though according to the fellow, it should be "Theressa, double 's', because she was Italian."

Well, not unless Albania is a province in Italy now, but then, my geography is sketchy.

I didn't disagree, or argue, because, well, see previous notes to self on disgreeing with/correcting men. It's not so much that one shouldn't disagree, really, but perhaps I should learn how to do it without sounding so exasperated and like "Stop talking to me - please, talk to the hand until you know what you're talking about, because the hand doesn't have a mind of it's own, so it won't just reach across this desk and slap you in your smug face for being so annoying."

I feel really childish and want to say "He started it!" Because you should hear the tone he used - it was like "Hey MORON, you think Mother Theresa actually said that?"

Hmmm....Golly.

Shanti, shanti.

I may need these quotes tattooed across my forehead. So, Ladies & Gents, from that famous now deceased Italian resident of Kolkatta, I give you:

Three things in human life are important:
The first is to be kind
The second is to be kind
And the third is to be kind.

You said it, Mother.

Say it Ain't So

More excerpts - I swear one can't help but eavesdrop here, you simply can't help it.

Tourist Question: Where can I wash my hands?

Restaurant Employee Answer: On the toilet.

This one kills me because I knew he meant in the toilet, because the sink outside the bathroom at Freedom nahee working, but the sink inside the loo runs all the time, sometimes non-stop. Still, I was most amused this morning, listening and thinking "She doesn't understand - he means 'in the toilet'.... Wait, that doesn't sound right either.."

Today's Hindi class, the second last one, is really where Vanessa kicked our teacher's arse, which she's been doing for days, coming up with formula's to help make sense of the language, otherwise we would be completely lost. (She's a math tutor and we've discovered we both love formula's, Lemonanas and Bollywood movies.)

Lemonana, by the way (called a Nimboonana in Hindi!*) please make it a.s.a.p - it's crushed ice, lemon juice and fresh blended mint aur torah chini, kripya. And little sugar. (That's pretty much my one week of Hindi in action and put to good use. I can order a drink with some sugar added, please.) *I stand corrected, please see Ayelet's note!

Here's your Hindi Sentence Structure Full Power Formula:

Subject + Indirect Object + Postposition + Direct Object + Action + Doing + Auxilary Verb

Simple, nay?

This would be why I am drinking coffee translates into Main coffee pee rahi hun.

The verb to drink is peena, and this would be why I love this sentence.

For anyone wondering how I graduated from middle school, I'm wondering the same thing. And the crisis I had when I turned 30, where I thought "My God, I am the same foolish person I was at 19! How could this be, How could God let this happen?!" Well, imagine the trauma that would have ensued had I realised my true level of maturity.

I haven't even told you about the night in Pushkar when Mahesh was trying to explain masculine and feminine to me and Sarah and how I could not stop laughing at this exchange:

Mahesh: Water is male, like Shiva. Fire is female, like Durga....

Sarah: What about everyday things like fruit?

Mahesh: ...Banana is male.

Sarah: Go figure.

more discourse and then...

Mahesh: Fountain is male -

Sarah: Really? But the water, oh of course, like the banana.

Five minutes later, Sarah looks over at me and says to Mahesh, who's looking at me like I'm on drugs because I can't stop laughing "She's still laughing about the banana." And I swear, that made it even harder to stop, then knowing he would think I was rude or "a bad girl" for laughing about the ridiculously obvious genderisation of a banana. I know, genderisation is not a word - but as I just noted, I still don't know how I passed Grade 8.

The Hindi classes would be a total bust without Vanessa, who is one smart cookie asking all the right questions but unfortunately this also really points out our teacher's ineptitude. For example - he wants us to translate sentences like "I had slept when he come."

Teacher: You have already slept, then He, the direct object, he cames to you.

Eufemia: The thing is, no one would ever say that in English.

The best part was Vanessa getting translations for "like" - as in 'Make me a coffee like hers' and the really important questions, "How do you say crushed ice?" at the end of class. I was still feeling bahut under the weather so I said "Oh my god, I'm going kill you." Because I woulda thought she coulda got that translation in Goa, when she was there...When she was there... When she is going....She will be going....Present Indefinite tense...Future tense...

Vanessa leaves in 2 days. Sigh. Big big sigh.

Yesterday, my favouriteVanessa quote was: I just don't have time to stop and make small talk with anyone.

And wouldn't you know, she was going to help me put my pictures on this blog and no joke, no site in Rishikesh will let us do it. (Not just us, Pedro can't upload his business information with the images he needs to post)

Here's 2 things I wanted to tell you: The movie's correct title The Braveheart will take the Bride had subtitles in English, Tamil, Telugu, Kannada, Malayam, Gujarati and Bengali. Like, I've heard of one of those, Bengali, beforehand. Kannada, (pronounced like Canada, my home and native land!) is spoken in Bangalore.

And perhaps this dialogue exchange, taken direct from the English subtitle translation, will point out what I find heart-breaking about India, or moreover, some of the situations I've heard of in India (Though let's remember my tendency to melancholy. Though let's also remember this country is making me wonder bahut about my father and mother's childhoods in postwar Southern Italy):

Daughter, upon realising she has to get married soon to someone she has never met: I had forgotten I have no right to dream.

Mother: Of course you can dream. Just don't expect it to come true.

The thing is, would this have been the longest running movie in India's history if love didn't triumph in the end? After several nail-biting plot twists (I kid, I kid) fab dance sequences and a crazy martial arts duel almost to the death plus lots of pontificating about Hindustani honour, love wins over arranged marriage. The movie was made in 1995, and according to our restaurant employee source, it ran until 2002, non-stop in one cinema in Mumbai.... I'm thinking of how long movies like Titanic ran back home, or in Japan with a large teeny-boppy Leonardo following.

Seven years? That means there had to have been an audience for it. Interesting.

Amoebas are People too

My other potential title for this blog was: Alive & Kicking, Just Barely.

I managed to sleep in a position mostly sitting up, though truth be told there was very little sleeping. At one point I thought I should have moved into the bathroom just to save getting up and down, and the feeling of nausea, and the waves of thinking I wasn't going to make it and really should have put my affairs in order before I left home (I'm not so sure you can use internet writing as a legal document. Would you all be forced to gather around the solicitor's office while he read my Last Will by Blog?)

This settled the question as to whether I could go to PhoolChatti Ashram today. I emailed them yesterday and the were very nice, saying "Hope you get over your tummy bug soon." I nearly started crying at the words tummy bug.

The thing about getting sick is how much it makes you want your Mom come along, say words like tummy bug, and help prop you up on the couch in front of the TV. Then you are healed.

My morning looked not too dissimilar, so don't feel bad, I know I can whinge. After lying down around 6 a.m, I woke up at 7. By 8 a.m I had walked with Sarah over to Pedro's roof where they yoga'd, and I went in search of a doctor or pharmacy.

I'm fascinated by the Pharmacy culture here. No one goes to the doctor. For example: Vanessa got valium over the counter just by asking for it. There was a moment of "You need a prescription," from the Pharmacologist and then "Okay, here". Forty rupees later 40 valium are hers. That's $1.05 in Canuck bucks. Prescriptions, by the way, in case you forgot my adventures with Rich, are written on a ripped piece of paper or cardboard, no letterhead or official stationary. What are you, fussy?

Pedro had some medication that sounded incredibly hardcore, after first being offered penicillin by the doctor he went to in Gujarat. He called his doctor back in Europe who advised that the other medication he'd been given definitely what he suspected: Intense. It was a medication you can't get outside of a hospital anywhere else in the world, and it's used to treat tuberculosis. His doctor in Portugal said, "So no problem, take it only if you get really sick and then not for more than 15 days in a row." Because Pedro had been really sick on his trip here last year and he still has some scars see and...

Right around this point, I'm watching Pedro and Vanessa eat they're amazing breakfasts of Fruit salad, muesli, curd, milk espressos, orange juice. You know what comes in a fruit salad here at the ol' Freedom Cafe? Everything: papaya, pomegranate, banana, grapes, mango. I kept looking at their food and feeling like I can't believe this - breakfast of Champions for $3 and I can't eat any of it. I've got to find a place called Moonlight Cafe that will make me Kichari, or just have plain rice. Perhaps a banana. Whoo hoo. A banana? Say it ain't so, doc.

But he did. I found this wonderful Ayurvedic Doctor, after I went back to bed, thrilled about being able to lie down and woke up late for Hindi, walked slowly down to Freedom to apologise to our teacher and Vanessa (who is kicking my arse in Hindi and I'd like to tell you it's because she's part Indian but no, her Papaji's from Gujarat and speaks Gujarati so she the gift) and walked back to this doctor's office. The young women who just came out of his medical room was almost in the same boat as me but had also just found out she was pregnant. (So I guess it was more like I was like in the rowboat peddling away from her Rainbow Warrior.)

Eufemia: Wow - really?

Traveler: Yes, so I don't have any medicine from back home. I am completely unprepared.

I wanted to say "I'll say," but I let it go and just sat there. Because I'm telling you, last night I thought an Alien would burst out of my stomach, or a fully grown adult like in the original series-turned-movie The Kingdom.

The doctor held my wrist and said "Stomach upset. Even before this not digesting properly. And insomnia. Nausea." After giving me multiple pills and instructions and re-hydration salts, ($9 later) he sends me on my way advising maybe it's best if I stay outta the sun and heat.

I've heard about winter back home, in Vancouver and Toronto, so I know, no one's crying me a Ganga back home but truly, staying out of the sun in India? This is nahee milega. Not possible.

I meant to tell you all about the other night when Vanessa & I got to watch a movie at the Himalya Cafe, a movie I bought in Pushkar called Paheli (Translation: Riddle, India's official entry into the Oscars in 2006) It was quite the feat, considering it stopped alot and skipped parts, and the guy at the cafe wanted us to watch the other movie I had Dilwale Dulhania le Jayenge, which translates into The Braveheart Captures the Bride. It soon became obvious why, after we picked Paheli, (the movie that was 2 hours and 10 minutes over the 3 hour plus movie.)

"This is called a chick flick in our country," I told him. And he sweetly let us watch it till the end and then said "Can take TV back now? Elections going on in Nepal now."

Well by all means! There we were watching a chick flick when the first democratic election in 250 years is happening in Nepal. I felt a tad superficial.

So tonight we're heading back to watch the other DVD, and inviting a small crowd. The Braveheart Captures the Bride is the longest running movie in Bollywood's history - running non-stop for 7 years (or 5, depending on who's telling the story) in a Mumbai Cinema. I'm fascinated by that and it's also the story of Indians living abroad, in England. The love story, of course.

I'm going to prop myself up and tell everyone to keep asking me about my tummy bug. That and a few banana's, I should be better in no time.

New Song Title: You say Amoeba, I say Aaargh

Oh my god, who knew?

Who knew that anything could feel so awful?

I appear to have swallowed a pumpkin.

God bless Vanessa and her cardamon flavoured syrup, I may be able to walk tomorrow. I have no memory of ever feeling so grosteque in my entire life. A cautionary tale this is - though apparently it's very common to walk around India like there's a gourd trapped in your intestines.

And I was stressed about the mosquito bites.

As we left the cafe where I felt very touch and go-go-go to the toilet, I raised my head skyward and said, "Kill me now," and then I quickly added "I'm just kidding."

Because I was. Just kidding.

Now, I'm not so sure.

Hindi 101

I was looking up the word "later" in the phrasebook Jessie gave me so that I could say "Maybe later," a concept that could be difficult to grasp in India, as I've noticed time and tense seems to get a little confusing for me. Not to mention the folks I try to converse with.

For example, I was speaking with Rakesh and he said "Yes, now can-" so I got up to get my camera for him and he said "Where are you going? No, not now-"

Eufemia: When you say now, you mean -

Rakesh: Not now. No, not now.

Eufemia: Okay, because now means-

Rakesh: Yes, I know, now means now but not now, okay? Later.

Later...

Rakesh: Okay, yes, give me now, I take it.

Eufemia: Like, really now, or fake now?

Rakesh: Now, now!

Eufemia: Okay! Now, now! You say it like I'm confusing you but trust me, it's the other way around.

There I go again. I was looking up the word later, taking my sweet time and dawdling through the vocabulary when I came across movie = film, (that's a toughie, I'm gotta write that down somewhere) and menstruation = mahavari. Why I wanted you all to know that I don't know. Perhaps everyone needs to know one word in every language (Italian, Spanish, Farsi, keep going) and I think why not one of these two? Take your pick and head for the Berlitz Language Books in Chapters and you'll be on your way. For more than half of the world's population, this is very important information. You can all thank me later. I still haven't found that word.

Perhaps I'll ask my Nepalese Hindi teacher tomorrow. Yes, once again, I found a Hindi teacher who is not Indian. How did that happen? This time it was really simple, he had a sign up at the Freedom Cafe advertising that he's teaching Hindi . And what do you know, I'm studying with a fellow Canadian (Go team You-know-who!!) In fact, our teacher's study sheets, the ones filled with common expressions for us to practice has the phrase "Where are you from?" answered by "I am from Canada." Yesterday I asked "You teach lots of Canadians?" and he said "Yes."

With a glowing heart I see thee rise, the True North strong and free!
God keep the land glorious and free!

You'll pardon my adjustments, I hope.

So, yes, today, Day 2 of Hindi lessons I made a sentence: I run. Main daudhti hun. You think it looks so easy but I had to match my gender, for crikey's sake! I tell myself you have to walk before you can run, especially in India.

My internal monologue: Why am I learning the verb "to run"? Nobody runs here. Swamiji's daughter-in-law just had a physical exam for a job application, where she had to run for the first time in her life and she's 38. Nobody runs in India.

Still, this class will hopefully be easier than learning from a book. Especially since the phrasebook has a section called Dowry Problem. Example sentence: Pascam mem ham sunte haim ki bharat mem dahej ke lie nav vadhu ko jala diya jata hai. Translation: In the West we hear that in India, for dowry, brides are burnt to death. Uhm, say what? I'm thinking of that golden rule of conversation where one doesn't discuss sex, religion or politics over dinner. How would it really go over if I was introduced to someone and said that? Not. Also, this seems a bit ambitious as a sentence for me. What could I say to the bantering reply? I eat. I sleep. I am from Canada.

Not to mention the part, when flipping through the phrasebook, and I found the verb to kill = marna, but I misread the word as mama.

Whoa, huh?

Prem my peeps, Prem

More restaurant wisdom and quirks I didn't want to forget to tell you:

From Prem Namaste Cafe in Rishikesh: We cook with love, Serve from the Heat

Ganga View Restaurant: Home cooked food with Love. Includes dishes like Spagetiy and the best milk espresso in town.

From Pushkar's Honey & Spice, from the Thoughts for Food section of the Menu:

Nurture your mind with great thoughts for you will never go higher than you think.
Always remember that the worship of God involves keeping a bouquet of beautiful thoughts constantly blooming and acting accordingly.

And also this: Fiber acts as a broom inside the body by moving the food at such a rate that the potential for problems is minimised. At Honey & Spice we sincerely try to pack our dishes with fibre and nutrients because we realise the importance of a healthy body; it is a temple where the "life force" resides for now.

Honey and Spice made coffee with cinammon and cardamon, as well as coffee with aniseed. In Rishikesh, I'm having a few too many milk espressos (this is what we call 'la broom broom' in Italy). I spent so much time copying quotes from the menu at Honey & Spice (Nourishment for the temple called.....Body) the owner became suspicious.

More bits and soundbites:

Swamiji on the cow munching his lawn every morning: "This our grasscutter. Very cheap."

Swamiji on witnessing Pedro's bike, which had a transistor radio in the shape of a soccer ball attached to the handlebars with a lot of string: "Yes, look. This is technology."

Swamiji on smoking: "If that smoke, nervous system totally bogus."

*

A conversation in Pushkar:

Me: What am I eating?

Sarah: I don't know.

Me: That's like the last thing you want to hear in India, hey? Where did you get it?

Sarah: I don't remember.

Me: Do I eat the seed?

Sarah: No! Throw that away.

*

FIY: Bat pooh moves stagnation. Did you know that? I didn't know that. Thank you, Jessieji! Apparently you take some of this dried Flying Squirrel feces (Chinese medicine name Wu Ling Zi), boil it and drink the liquid. I can't see from my notes what kind of pollen you mix it with, but I know it's shaken, not stirred.

*

A hot bath! A hot bath! My kingdom for a hot bath: These days my kingdom is a dwindling ING Savings Account but still, you should see my bank balance in rupees. It's impressive. The ATM in Pushkar got shut down when a friend of ours took out many rupees. About the equivalent of $600 - yes, this is a lot for anywhere in India but this woman is running a Fair Trade business in Rajasthan. It closed down so she offered the woman behind her in line some rupees to tide her over until someone came to fill up the machine again, which could be anytime really. Did I tell you, there's a big hoopla about counterfeit rupees in India? I now have 3 different ways of confirming whether it's the real deal or not - my favourite is checking to see if Holographic Ghandi is wearing his glasses. If he's not, you've been targeted my friend.

Phir milenge, peeps. Time to go study some Hindi - next lesson, we start grammar. Main khushi hun. I happy am.

The Oral Rehydration Therapy Caution

In case you were wondering what the blogging hold up was, I have been unwell, for awhile now.

In my last Sunday conversation with Papaji, he could tell I sounded spent, so I told him I had caught a cold. Because if I said "I don't know what's going on, hard to say really," then the Papaji blood pressure problem would careen outta control. Not to mention his blood sugar levels. That diabetes is a nuisance, y'know?

Note to Jessieji: I swear I was trying to drink those rehydration salts. Then I read the instructions. Did you see the caution?

CAUTION: Use with Caution in impaired renal function or intestinal obstruction.

That's one way of putting it. A very nice way. For example:

"Namaste, que passa?"

"Namaste, okay! Minor renal function failure. How are you?"

I like it.

99 Teacups of Chai on the Wall

Here's all I want to tell you about the 16 hour busride from Pushkar to Hardwar:

I felt I was in a very delicate condition, and I survived. It's like this, if you have stomach problems, don't eat before a bus ride in India. I didn't, all day. Problemo solved-oh.

Sarah was sick as well, and we shared a double berth and had a blast. She had a cold, I had an intestinal issue. The bus bounced around alot. The ride was quoted as 14 hours, and so coming in at 16 was making good time.

The windows closed, Hallelujah! This would turn out to be incredibly important when the woman traveling in the berth ahead of us got sick, repeatedly leaning out her window.

Sarah awake at 6 a.m, noticing streaks on our window: I think someone just peed out their window.

Eufemia's reply: Eww.

Sarah more awake: Oh, no, they're sick. They're vomitting! Ohhh, 'why like this?'

Why like this? said with an accent is a new favourite phrase for me and Sarahji.

Eufemia: Ewwwwwwwwwwwww.

***denotes passage of time***

Eufemia waking up again at 9 a.m: Is it raining outside?

Sarah rightly looked at me as if I was an idjit. Raining? Not unless it was raining vomit, which sadly, for our lil' window view of India's countryside, it was.

Apparently, Indians don't travel well. Can you imagine how we felt? This poor woman, thank god she was wearing a bright yellow sari, it was like an Amber alert every time her head popped out her window. And I laughed myself silly watching Sarah try to time spitting her bahut phlegm out the window, trying to ensure she wasn't in the line of fire.

Good times, good times.

Pushkar Postmaster

On my last day in Pushkar, I ran to the post office to send home everything I couldn't carry on my back - a ridiculous amount of new journals, some clothes, everything I could declare as an unsolicited gift.

There was an enormous sewing machine in the side office where I sat in filling out my paperwork. Initially I thought, "Wow, even the post office doubles as a tailoring shop. Everyone multi-tasks here!" Then, of course, I saw them wrap my package in fabric, and sew parts of it by machine and stitch the rest by hand.

The young American woman sitting nearby said "I hope you have an hour to spare." Well, I didn't, because I had left it till my last day so I just took a breath and started filling out the paperwork - which was pretty clear and straightforward. Official documents in India sometimes contain space for things like "Father's name" and "Marriage status" - and it seems to take up unnecessary room to me, space that could be used for "Date of Birth" and "Shoe size".

In the room next to the room I was in filling out my paperwork, lay a man, sleeping. Sprawled out on the 'official' Post Office bed, having a nap. I thought perhaps he was sick like me, but no, he was sleeping. I'm not sure if he was a supervisor but I don't think you get to nap in the middle of the day if you're just a cog in the postal wheel, y'know?

At some point, I started to cry. The fellow helping me, sewing up my package and calculating the various costs (Air, Sea and Sal Mail, the last being a combination of Sea and Air Mail) on his cell phone calculator asked me "Why you like this?"

I said "I'm leaving Pushkar. I'm leaving my teacher." We had already made enough chit chat that he knew I had been there for 2 months, studying yoga.

The Postmaster walks by and this fellow says to him "Blah blah yoga blah Swamiji blah bye," and points to teary-eyed me. The postmaster pulls up a chair and orders another chai for me. I had arrived just before 2 p.m. so I had already been given one cup of chai. Everyone in the post office gets one at that time, workers and folks doing their business. Everyone everywhere in India, I think.

"So? You will come back," says the postmaster.

"I don't know," I tell him "My father...." And you all know the rest. Perhaps you've noticed this horrifying quality I have of deflecting responsibility? Hmmmm. Perhaps what I mean is this quality of not owning my choices and my decisions. I'm aware, step one. I accept, step two. Adjust, well I'll get back to you on how I do, s'okay? My poor da, like he didn't have enough on his shoulders without me weeping around the subcontinent and saying "My dad, my father..." Like I said before, this country bharat really makes me think alot about my family. Like all day and all night.

"Yes," Postmaster says, "Mother and father always thinking this way. Later, okay."

They ask where I'm from. I always feel like shouting "Canada!" with glee, to be honest. Sure, Harper's in charge for now, and I'm not forgetting there were those awful infested blankets from the Hudson's Bay Company, attempted genocide and much bloodshed but still, I always want to sing it out loud: "Canada, Canada!" Canada means settlement in the language of the Huron. We are all products of our conditioning, hey? And mine includes years of listening to my father saying "Canada best country, no country like Canada." And he's a smart guy.

So the postmaster shows me a postcard from Vancouver. Then a letter from Italy. Then more letters from around the world. People thanking him for making them dinner - at the Post Office? "Yes. You should have come early," he reprimanded me. "This is not just a Post Office." To be sure, the letter from the Italians insists the best meal they had in India was at this particular Postal Office.

The address is simply his name and Pushkar Post Office. That's it. "There is only one Pushkar in India," he explains when I ask. It's an address that is even less complicated than Santa Claus, North Pole, CANADA, H0H 0H0. (I'd just like to say here, to set the record straight, that's right, he lives in Canada, not Finland, CANADA)

I go into the back room and sit for a chai, and pick out a skirt. Yeah, you heard me. Of course I remember this happened to Sarah weeks earlier: a 'short trip' to the post office is, 2 hours later, a bit of chai, a bit of chat, and the Postmaster telling you to choose a skirt from his pile of women's clothes on the floor of the backroom from the business he no longer runs because he's too busy with being the Postmaster.

There we chat, and they offer to ship me home, Sea and Air mail, except the first friendly fellow says to me "How many KG?" I tell him I have no idea, that I measure by pounds in Canada and I can't figure anything out in grams or Kilograms. "But I have a feeling it would be bahut KG," I tell him, alot of KG's.

"Yes," he agrees, looking me over. "Maybe sixty KG - at least."

"Really?" I ask, "because I've been doing Yoga a lot. Bahut Yoga!"

The question no one wants to ask hangs in the air: Well if she hasn't been eating at the Post Office, where has she been eating?

Damn those chocolate croissants.
Double damn Hello to the Queen.
Every item of clothing I've purchased here has ties or elastic waste bands.
So, when you see me, and you will - please be kind.

A Fish Out of the Desert

It's raining in Rishikesh. I think I can put away my sunglasses, it's pouring here. Sarah and I arrived yesterday, had some stress to find a room as the town is packed with everyone escaping the heat. The rain just makes me miss all the comforts of home. I think it's good that it's so different from Rajasthan or else I'd just be wondering why I wasn't in Pushkar, practicing yoga before sunrise.

I'm undecided about the phoolchatti ashram, the course starts next week. It was nice to sleep in today, feeling as I do. I'm not sure if I've picked up an unwanted souvenir in my intestinal tract.

I really took to that desert clime in a way that I'm still pondering if this ache in my ribcage is from this lifetime alone. I know, I think people are flaky when they talk that way but what else can I say? It felt like my home in a way I can't even begin to describe.

This is Goodbye

Mirabai: Swamiji, I keep thinking how can I express my thanks to you, but I have no words.

Swamiji: No, no. No words can say this - (He places his hand over his heart.)

I have my hand over my heart in an effort to stop it from feeling so heavy. It's not working.

Mirabai: There aren't enough words in English. I don't know enough words in Hindi. Maybe if I knew Sanskrit?

I was crying, but I thought I could try making a joke.

Swamiji: No words, how can say? No words for this.

I don't know how you thank someone who has taught you Yoga from his heart and fed you dinner every night like you were one of his own. I've heard that Shakespeare had a vocabulary of 30,000 words and the average person today has a vocabulary of 10,000 words. This is just as useless to me now as it is during a game of Trivial Pursuit, since I always land on Sports and Leisure.

One might just say thank you, but even the Postmaster said, "No, no, don't say thank you. This word we not like. Too formal for us."

Okay. Then I need to say "I love you. You have helped me be a better person by shining a light on my path."

I didn't say it. I said "Thank you!" and "Bye!"

But I think he already knows it.

Postcards for the Edge of Pushkar

I Confess: I have been in Pushkar two and a half months and have not posted the cards I wrote out on January 21st. I might do that today, I hope, since I'm leaving Pushkar today, for Rishikesh. Hmmm....A busride when you've been in my physical state for the last 3 days, oh, the fun travel stories I'll have to share.

I Confess: I ran out onto the ghats in the middle of the sand storm that blew up two days ago. It's called Ahndi, fast wind, and within minutes the sky goes brown, like the colour of the ground beneath your feet. The mountain ridge behind Pushkar disappeared, I couldn't see either temple, and parts of the town skyline started to disappear. I ran out and stood there, totally enthralled. The gentleman seated near where I stood, the one-legged gentleman who sits on the ghats all day and always walks past Swamiji's calling out his "Ram Ram!" greeting, told me the name of the storm, that first the sky fills with sand, and then hail.

I was so excited, but truly, it was nothing (and not dangerous, not to worrying be, not dangerous unless you were on a bus or motorbike, travelling the pass between Pushkar and Ajmer or Pushkar and anywhere, you have to go up that mountain pass which I've been on by bus and motorbike and lemme tell you, even without the helmet I preferred the motorbike. The bus makes some closecall turns.) IT WAS NOTHING compared to last night's storm- I used both my flashlights to walk along the ghats (for me and Sarah to get home from Swamiji's, where we had our goodby dinner) and the sand made the sky grey. It looked like a mist had descended over Pushkar, just before the night would go pitch black. The power went out, everywhere, and sheet lightning flashed across the sandfilled sky. The kind of storm where I kept expecting Viktor Frankenstein to show up and yell "He lives!"

I Confess: I haven't finished my souvenir shopping.

I Confess: I thought I had more time.

I Confess: I am desparately homesick and equally saddened by leaving Pushkar.

I confess: I love making puja's.

I would tell you that what I feel is similar to confusion, but I know it's not. It's heartache. Confusion seems easier to stomach, though right now my stomach is very unhappy with me. Swamiji says "Don't argue with your mind" all the time, but I'm telling you, when your intestinal tract starts shouting at you, the dustup makes your mind-problem look like child's play. I only wish my mind could take a backseat.

And finally, I confess I love this particular prayer:

I confess to almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do. I ask blessed Mary ever Virgin, all the angels and saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God.
Om.

It's what I have failed to do that gets me, everytime.