See no weevil

Upon our departure for India, I had one image in my mind: long, uninterrupted days of baking bread and playing with Zazie.

Baking works out sometimes. The truth is, things are going to turn out only so well because we have a toaster oven. Still, I keep trying. This morning, however, while sifting ingredients to make buttermilk biscuits, I found many weevils in the flour, microscopic wheat colored worms. At first I thought it was some leftover unprocessed flour or rice grains. Then they started to move. This must be the reason so many cereals and flours in India have warnings that read: transfer product to airtight container to avoid infestation. This was last of the five kilos of flour, not the first: two loaves of bread, yeast rolls, two batches of pizza dough, flour tortillas, three batches of fruit muffins, cream scones, maybe more. Cowboys used to chase their weevils with a shot of vodka. After this morning, I kind of feel like I need a drink.

In the same time that it took to bake up five kilos of flour, something likewise appeared in the belly of my child. She turned into liquid will, pure aggravated humanity. There is no issue too small to make her ignite into flames; no detail too insignificant to push the full force of her being into the pits of hell. Her eyes hollow out and she speaks in tongues. The lights flicker. This morning I thought, could it be the weevils? Were tiny grain grubs sifting through her blood, turning her into the devil-baby at Hull House?

Jane Addams suggested that the devil-baby myth appeared to tame “recalcitrant husbands and fathers.” As if inventing mythical domestic punishments was the only salve to “subdue the fiercenesses of the world” that surrounded powerless mothers and wives against prurient mates. But, Vik always brings his pay envelope home unopened and appears to be tempted only by golden age comic books and diet pepsi.

Because his mother dreamed of strawberries when she was pregnant, the hero of Henry Fielding’s 1742 novel Joseph Andrews, is born with a strawberry shaped birthmark. In the 17th and 18th centuries, maternal imagination, not paternal indiscretions, was believed to be so strong that, when pregnant, a woman’s mind, longings, dreams and imaginations “marked” the child in the womb.

Lately, I have been wondering what my maternity might have bore as I dreamt while pregnant. Maybe I dreamed of a world where shoelaces are always different lengths or where soap melts faster than it can be turned into plastic whale food or where my glass of water is always too big or too small. Perhaps it was a chimera of toys that are always missing the last crucial piece, the phantoms of blocks that just will not stack, or maybe, just maybe, a bogeyman that always picks exactly the wrong shirt. Did my dreams--my maternal hallucinations--mark my child? Is this my punishment for eating nothing but french fries and lemonade for nine months straight? Did I watch too much experimental film? What is going on? Why didn’t anyone warn me? When will it end?

Melaing

It took us four and a half hours to drive 88 miles today (or 142 kilometers if that is easier for you.) We went to Hisar, Haryana to visit three of Vik's paternal aunts, or buajis. The only Hisarian attraction we could identify was the National Research Centre on Equines. We spent the visit eating a massive lunch, talking about how it took four and a half hours to get there and having a nap. Then we drove home.

On the way we were stuck in the middle of a village mela. Mela is Sanskrit for "fair" or "gathering." Our driver translated it as "buffalo contest." I hope you don't have claustrophobia, because thousands of buffalo with glossy, black coats and colorful harnesses met our gaze in every possible direction, cramming the already narrow market lane. Historically, agricultural fairs were spectacles of masculine labor and production. In that spirit, the buffalo herds were led by thousands more buffalo herders, also clamoring for space on the tiny street.

Apparently, last year, our driver's uncle's prizewinning buffalo won the family one lakh of rupees (a bit more than $2000) and 32 kg of milk (about 8 and half gallons). I don't exactly know why it would be a prize to win buffalo milk at a buffalo mela, but I was very impressed with the amount.

On the way Vik photographed eicher red, ford blue, ox blue, and mahindra red tractors. Like tin toys, these slow moving tank-like three wheelers slowly circumnavigate Haryana villages day and night, slowing traffic and leaving a trail of tori flowers and betel leaf packets.

Later, like something out of Borges, there was a long line leading into an impossibly small building, entitled Clearinghouse for Accidental Jobs.

Always the warning sign juggernaut, Zazie was delighted to see the first real stoplight we have seen in all of India.She did not even seemed phased that the red light and two green arrows pointing in opposite directions were all blinking at the same time. At an Indian traffic light, everyone wins.

At our own Auntie Mela, no one could figure out why it took us so long. We were puzzled too, but because we couldn't figure out how we made such good time, considering.

The Funky

Yesterday, we went into Sonipat City to finally get an ATM card from our new Indian bank. After being told that it was not possible (because it was the wrong branch, because it was Saturday, because we just couldn't) and about thirteen phone calls passed between straight-faced administrators, we walked out with an envelope that contained not only our bank card, but also the pin! I think many people would be willing to endure a short 45 minute haggle in exchange for instant debit card and pin access.

Wait.

You mean the card won't be activated until when?

(For a full description of what this looks like, see the blog description of the same experience a few days prior by one of Vik's colleagues. )

Well, I didn't actually expect the process to be either easy or to turn out right, so no disappointment here.

However, taking these characteristically low expectations to another venue had more promising results a bit later in the day.

When we entered Jaweb Habib's Salon we had no idea that we were visiting India's leading hair and beauty franchise. I mean, it looked a little like Supercuts, but only because it was kind of cramped and it managed to be simultaneously under- and over-staffed. Since the day when I went to the fancy salon at the Taj Hotel in Mumbai and had a lady gnaw at my ponytail until it fell lifeless to the ground and then announce she was done, I tend to expect the worst at these places.

Vik's (V) encounter with the guy cutting his hair (GCHH) went something like this:

V: Hi, I need to get my hair cut, but...english, english, english, english, language, english, more english, yada, language, language, words, words, words, yada.

GCHH: Hindi, hindi, hindi, hindi, language, language, more hindi. Trim?

V: Yes.

GCHH proceeded to cut the upper back of V's hair and then continued by just brushing the front into an incredible 80's boufant. Luckily he left the bit in the lower back to give him a slight mullet. Oddly, V doesn't look the least bit worried. As he brings out some deadly pomade, GCHH thinks he must be doing well--even great, but in reality V took his glasses off and is completely blind to the mess.

I chime in and say, Maybe a little shorter in the back?

GCHH: Short? You want the short?

Me: Yes. Then, to Vik: I guess? Right?

V: I have no idea.

GCHH keeps brushing and brushing and trims the mullet off. The pomade comes out again and Vik looks a little like an extra puffy Remington Steele.

GCHH: Bas! (Hindi for Enough!)

V puts on his glasses and starts messing with the top of his hair, trying to get it to lay flat, or go forward or or less backward, or anything less horrible, undoing all GCHH's laborious (and glorious) brushing technique.

GCHH looks scornful and then, slowly opens his eyes. He clearly has had an epiphany. He says, You want the funky?

V looks worried.

I jump in and say, Yes! He wants the funky!

Then for 200 rupees Vik gets the best haircut he has had in five years.

It is called The Funky.

Thus, we are now empowered with a pin number and the tripartite division of men's haircuts, The Trim, The Short, and The Funky.

Oh wait, actually, the pin number looks vaguely like a digital clock that has no power and self-destructs after five attempts.