Bijli ki Rani (Queen of Lightning)

So walking through the market some boys say something to me in Hindi. I ask Somvir, our driver, what they said.

He looked uncomfortable and then slowly and carefully said, They said you were "more pretty."

Eve-teasing in India is idiosyncratic and flirtatious street sexual harassment. Here is an entire site devoted to cataloging Indian terms for women (They have a whole section devoted to singing flirts, "If you have been sung to and felt threatened/ 'harassed' or even amused--email us at....) Most Western women who come to India (and I assume most Indian women as well at some level) have to deal with it incessantly.

In India, flirting is complicated. To unpack Indian courtship--street side or drawing room style--requires a lot of background. The unrelenting images of aspirational repressed sexuality in Bollywood films coupled with the nearly complete physical separation of men and women and further coupled with maternal idolatry and paternal parochialism is all further complicated by rigidly internalized gender roles and expectations. Seriously, complicated.

So, when these Indian boys say something to me in the market square that amounts to the idea that I am more pretty, I wonder what is going on here. In On Flirtation, Adam Phillips write, "Flirting allows us the fascination of what is unconvincing. By making a game of uncertainty, of the need to be convinced, it always plays with, or rather flirts with, the idea of surprise." Now, I suspect these boys would be extremely surprised if their flirting amounted to anything. In fact, I believe they would be positively freaked out it they garnered any response beyond reproach.

However, the surprise goes both ways. A bit later, after consulting the Hindi-English dictionary three times, Somvir clarified to say that they said that I was a "lightening bolt of pretty." Okay, putting aside how annoying and occasionally stressful this stuff is, I have to say, what a great comment. If flirting is trying to control uncertainty, then the metaphor of lightning reveals how haphazard and imprecise the game is. (Also they don't realize all the ways that flirting with me really is like flirting with disaster; the space between electrifying and electrocuting is small, but important.) Woods tells us that, like Tantalus, the flirt is a little bit of a sado-masochist: the tantalized and the tortured. Opening up the space of possibility means that impossibility gets a seat at the table too. You have to acknowledge their tenacity: in the face of so much rejection, these guys still try and try and try.

***

So after all this Zazie asks what is going on.

L: Did you hear that? Mommy is more pretty.

Z: More pretty than me?

L: No way, you are as pretty as a princess.

Okay, I am kind of baiting her here, though only a little I think.

She immediately starts crying. Big tears.

L: Whats wrong?

Z: I just don't like princesses Mommy, really.

L: Well, what do you think is the prettiest thing in the whole entire world?

She pauses for a really long time, thinking....slowly she says: A nice, washed car.

L: Zazie you are prettier than a nice washed car.

It may be that the best compliments stem from those very idiosyncratic terms that we come up with for ourselves, somewhere between compliments and harassment, between lightning bolts and Lightning McQueen.

Invitations

Maybe I am just trying to stir up trouble, but our driver clearly does not want to invite us over to his house.

See, Usha has been to her driver's house at least three times, not including two visits to the Babaji with his mom and one playdate with his sister's kids. On this last visit, while at his house, my driver's mom came over and invited her to her house.

Part of the reason might be because I asked if he knew where we could get cow milk in Sonipat for Zazie. His response was coy to say the least: "Actually ma'am, my mother and brother bought one cow yesterday and..." And then, he stopped short. He didn't want to give the milk up. I could tell. But I pressed. I mean, at least for the kid. So now, on most days he brings us one liter of cow's milk. Except sometimes he doesn't. "We drank it all ma'am. So good."

Taunting me with the relative tastiness and preciousness of your cow's milk is one thing. But this is India, where we are party to unrelenting and occasionally hostile hospitality. I may take some of your cow's milk, but I still should get a freaking invitation.

A note:

Somvir,

What gives? I saw you buy five kilos of giant red carrots to make halwa, so I know your family knows how to party. Just invite us over. I won't let Zazie eat your two year old niece and I will even wear a bindi for your mom.

Signed,

Lacey Madam.

The truth is I am cozying up to his family because I feel like they are our best shot at getting an invitation to a village wedding. Every other night we hear the dhol (drums) playing and imagine the dancing and the yummy food. One time, the bharat (the groom's procession to the bride's house; basically three hours of nonstop dancing in the streets) went right by our house. Forlorn, we just mimed a few dance moves from behind the curtains while trying not to make eye contact with anyone on the street.

I sort of thought that ingratiating ourselves into the villager's lives would be easier.

At my driver's suggestion, I took up classic Indian "morning walks" around Sushant City, our colony. This means you greet the dawn on the pavement, usually in sandals with socks and matching track suit. For three weeks, I have been getting up before the sun and heading out (though sadly, not in the requisite uniform).

I have written before about how magical the Indian dawn is. The area is bustling with activity. I jog passed multi-passenger motorcycles, Southpoint or Bright Scholars or Apollo International lemon yellow school buses, and Haryanan ladies carrying gigantic bowls of buffalo dung (chula) on their head (they use it for fires and for fertilizer). The pre-dawn cricket games are wrapping up and children are dragging buckets of water home.

I think I am making some headway.Two five year olds running in flip flops passed me twice this morning. Then the milkman circled around me on his bicycle saying, two rounds madam? Or one round? Finished when? How much milk? Then I saw Ashleigh and Jonathan's driver on his way to their house and the nighttime guard heading home. And one of the chula ladies smiled at me.Things are feeling cozy and increasingly friendly.

Though last week when I returned from my walk, the supervisor guard--a creepy guy that waves to me every single time I look up from the kitchen window--came up to me to say that I should be careful because some of the "villagers have dirty minds." His suggestion was that I take his phone number, or better yet, let him accompany me on my walks. At that moment the only thing that seemed worrisome was him. I mentioned this to Vik, who first said "who watches the watchmen, who guards the guards...' and further creeped me out. But then he told Usha, Usha told her driver, her driver told my driver and together they offered to "bash him." Usha said plainly, "no bashing." Instead they just told him not be so "pally" with me.

He stopped waving.

Now he salutes.