Slumdog Millionaire
The trick (for me) in ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ was to spot the join in the fusion of author Vikas Swarup’s idea of India and director Danny Boyle’s idea of India. You’d think, wouldn’t you?, that the gap between the two would have been pretty wide. After all, how could Danny Boyle (a guy from Manchester) know India in the way that Swarup does?
Fact is, though, it’s amazing how Indian the film feels. It’s not just that the boys speak in Hindi (with sub-titles) in the movie, or that there is a funny, imaginary Bollywood-style dance sequence at the end (the first real reference to Bollywood), but that Danny Boyle seems to have picked up, somehow, an empathy for the country he is depicting.
Maybe I’m over-stating it, but think how Slumdog echoes the attitudes in films in the present Indian film industry. Plots in films like say, Chak De, or Black, are sophisticated without being deep, and also build through setbacks to the ultimate feel-good catharsis. So does Slumdog.
Also, Boyle doesn’t make the big mistake that most Westerners do, about Mumbai, and Dharavi especially, of seeing poverty as meaning degradation. Most Mumbaikers I know (outside those in Government service, who just seem depressed most of the time!) are too busy trying to come up with the next Great Idea To Make Money to be wallowing in despair.
And Boyle also gets beauty right; there is so much beauty in children, in women, and even in men. This is not being patronising – this is a fact of Mumbai. Yep, the place has decay in its bones, but life is vigorous.
The train sequences are genius too. Somehow Danny Boyle seems to have instinctively realised that trains are a centre-point of existence in Mumbai… he just gets it! They are a public arena, where everything human takes place; they are sort-of like mobile public squares into which we all wander, and sit, and chat, an d eat, and sleep.
So, is it a film I recommend? Yes, I do, wholeheartedly.
Okay, it’s not very profound, there are no life-changing moral insights, and there are some scenes which are lack truthfulness even for fiction (I just don’t believe any Americans are as stupid as the ones in the Taj Mahal sequences, which makes the scenes an easy pop at America – it’s just for very cheap laughs I think) – but… for the fact that it will make the real India accessible to western audiences, I applaud it.
**
So, off-line, were there are any other aspects which just caught my eye?
Yes (bet you guessed there would be, huh?).
* Muslim Mumbai. What a lot of Western audiences won’t get is that Jamal and Salim, the two brothers, are Muslim in what is a predominantly Hindu city. Muslims make up a sizeable minority In Mumbai, and do well on many business and career levels, but, the bottom–line is that they are very often the poorest and most discriminated against in the city. In fact, one of the first scenes in the movie shows the tiny brothers’ parents being slaughtered in anti-Muslim riots – I would guess (I haven’t read Swarup’s book) that this is the pogrom of 1992, in which nearly a thousand Muslims died.
But this theme – a Muslim in Mumbai – fades away as the film progresses (though Salim’s last words are those a Muslim should say - ‘God is great’). I guess Boyle/Swarup does that deliberately… but I did wonder why it became under-played.
* The Taj Mahal. The two tiny brothers wander India on trains before ending up at the end of the tourist trail in Agra.
I just want to say as the two beggar boys cry out in wonder on seeing the TM for the first time there in front of them – is this Heaven?!! – that I identified with them completely at that moment. The Taj is a staggering, staggering place; and I feel sorry for Indians who get so used to it.
As a foreigner I have never become used to it. It is … Heaven.
* The actors. Well Dev Patel is fine, but I kinda forgot how good Anil Kapoor is. I have gotten used to seeing him in rather B-grade stuff, but as the quiz-show host he is great, and even outshines the always exemplary Irfan Khan.
Indians can never quite believe me when I tell them that the Indian film industry is almost totally ignored by Westerners – you’re more likely to see a Mexican or Japanese film at your local cinema/film-theatre in the US or France than an Indian one.
Now, I know a lot of this is to do with the length. A Western audience is not going to sit through three hours; they just won’t. But it’s a source of great frustration to me. How can I explain the fact that a fine and moving film like, say, Maqbool/Macbeth, is just not going to get exposure, even in an arthouse theatre, in the UK?
Trouble is, the English non-Asian audience still thinks Bollywood is wet saris in Switzerland, and won't take it seriously.
Slumdog is the nearest they are going to get to an 'Indian' movie – which is both heartening and depressing at the same time.
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Labels: danny boyle, mumbai, slumdog millionaire, vikas swarup
Dog Killing
There are many stray dogs in Mumbai, most of which have a proprietorial air despite their starved and down-at-hell looks. They compete for the same food and resources (I suppose) as the poor street children.
Looking as though they have completely the right to be there, they will lie down in the middle of a busy pavement (or street sometimes) sunning themselves, or even settle in the corner of a stairwell in a public building having just wandered in.
The weird thing is that everybody will just walk round them, almost pretending that they are not there. Not a “shoo” or a kick to disturb them.
In fact, there is a tan dog that just seems to think it is a good idea to lie in the highway near Flora Fountain. And the taxi drivers – who care for nobody else - just drive round him...!
This is nothing similar to the British love of domestic pets. No one pets these animals, or feeds them, attends to them, or wants to care for them.
In my (admittedly limited) experience of households in Mumbai, it is mostly the upper classes that share the insane idea that it is good to keep a dog in the house; or indeed keep a dog at all.
So how to account for this apparent consideration given to those dogs who… well, frankly… are in the way…and not a little frightening?
I was about to put this down to the Mumbaiker’s great sense of insouciance until I learned one day that the black dog that lies around outside our building had bitten one of the drivers late one night. We all fussed around, bought some medicine, and bandaged the wound.
To my amazement however, the next morning I saw the black dog lounging in the lane as usual – completely undisturbed.
Rabies is still prevalent in India, and I couldn’t help but think of all the children who play in the lane. Presumably the dog would get them too – so we should DO something. You have to care, I thought.
The staff was amused by the thought that I could “contact the authorities”. What authorities?, they asked.
In frustration more than seriousness, I suggested: “Shall we organise a humane shooting of the dog if the authorities will not pick it up?” I asked this question of the security guards as I thought they might be a little more thoughtful – after all, after the children, they were next at risk.
They looked horrified. “Shoot it? No one can shoot it”.
“We would in England” I replied. The guards looked at me. I could see they were thinking what an unpleasant and dreadful place England must be.
And so, the dog is still there.
I take a very wide circle around it when I walk down that way.
**
What I had forgotten was the visceral, cultural, Hindu repulsion for wanton killing. The dog survives, because killing something is simply repulsive.
To commit such an act would be more damaging to someone than being bitten by the dog.
This aspect of India took its most manifest form was I was in the ‘slum’ one day, and a large bristly cockroach made an appearance in one of the homes. They’re quite quick, so I determined to stamp on it before it disappeared – but this was plainly not to be allowed. The lady of the house shook her head, and chased it out with a brush instead.
Afterwards I said to her – don’t you even lay traps for the rats that so often come in? No, she did not. Surely, you must slap the mosquitoes that settle on your skin? No, never, one drives them away with smoke. Surely, you spray fly-killer at least? No.
I was stunned. The disease brought into the slum by mosquitoes in particular causes havoc.
Later she confessed to me that she had once, years ago, killed a snake in a fit of fear, but that her culpability for its death haunted her even now.
Labels: dogs, hinduism, killing
Mumbai's sexiest
I know this is entirely predictable, but sometimes that traditional heterosexual male in me just WON’T be suppressed…. so it came to me that there just seems to be no contest over who the sexiest looking women in Mumbai are.
Yep, it’s those airline lasses.
You turn up to the airport to take an internal flight, and the sight of the Kingfisher girls just slaps you in the face (metaphorically of course). Mostly because they are wearing a uniform/outfit that is such a dramatic slash of total red, top to very bottom, that they seem to be tearing slits across one’s eyeballs. See the photo on the right.
Now, I admit their pant-suits do at first have an unfortunate resemblance to the garb of a cheesy Las Vegas magician or circus performer with their glue-like fits, but if you’re willing to keep looking (and some of us are), you can overcome that hurdle.
These representatives of Mr Vijay Mallya (the multi-millionaire whose face is ever in the finance pages) may only represent a low-cost internal airline - but they glide around supremely confident, knowing that they are The Business. Their uniforms look freshly laundered and well-fitted, the short tight sleeves leave their arms bare from just above the elbow, and the matador-style thin jacket somehow doesn’t look as stupid as it usually does on most people; I suppose because they are nearly all incredibly slender. Yes indeed, here’s a shock: they may well be chosen for their looks…
They even walk like models around the concourse, as though they own it, with a leisurely luxurious lasciviousness, their two-inch heels (on otherwise strangely ‘sensible’ shoes) clacking on the terminal’s shiny floor. With the way that a confident woman does, they look right through their admirers. It’s crushing.
(The shoes incidentally are an odd match against all this bright red, being the colour of an orange-red sun. I do not howvere blame the girls themselves for this faux-pas. Of course not).
Poor DeccanThe Deccan Airline girls unfortunately come second to that Kingfisher vision. Whilst they too wear a red outfit, actually almost the same red to be frank (it’s even a little confusing), they have a more traditional look – sensible knee-length skirts and blazer. Somehow, although as good-looking, they contrast porlly with the more modern-looking Kingfisher army which manages to render them just dumpy-looking. It’s sad.
But I do have a soft spot for the Jet Airways ladies.
Their designer has been presented with a difficult colour code - a mournful blue as its defining hue, with a splash of mud-yellow only. But – it must be the fit surely? – the ladies do carry it off.
The cut and shape seem to be long, loose and tight all at the same time (how is that done?), and the crisp white shirt, with the long white collars, makes a statement peeping from underneath.
Again, they walk with extreme insouciance and grace, aware that they are the object of gazing all around … and a glimpse of white shirt as a trim on the short sleeves of their tunics plays it off beautifully.
Not as dramatic as Kingfisher, and duller in plumage, but they have subtlety for sure.
It certainly makes the long wait at the airport gates a little more enjoyable. You can watch the little dramas at the exits with a little more interest.
I like the airlinesBy the way, don’t listen to the bad-mouths about the Indian internal airlines.
Of course they have problems. India is a huge country, and dealing with sizzling hot temperatures, lashing monsoon storms, and the mountain wastes up by the Himalayas would test any airline.
But I seem to get by using them; and was only let down badly once. If you want to fly cheaply, you have to take the downside of it (ie - read the small print!)
Of course, getting your money back after a cancellation can be a nightmare, but then… oh let’s not go on about that.
Back to the ladies.
What puzzles me is that in such a conservative country, it’s thought that their uniforms are acceptable.
Let’s face it – every other woman in officialdom is wearing saris or variations on salwar kameezes (does the national carrier’s stewardesses still wear saris? I can’t remember), so why are these attendants not? Instead they, the Kingfisher girls, are wearing very sexy tight pants. It’s a puzzle and in some parts of India would be regarded as, well, offensive.
Perhaps it’s seen as Western, Western being a term which is synonymous with ‘modern’. All airlines want to be modern, don’t they? Perhaps that’s it.
Incidentally, am I the only blogger to have written a hymn to these ladies?
I hope not. They deserve more fame than that.
**
By the way, what’s happened to the boys at Mumbai airport who used to seize your suitcases out of your hand, carry them to your car, and demand one-pound-sterling for their services (yes I know it’s a 1000% mark-up!)?
They seem no longer to be there. Have they been chased off?
It seems amazing if they have been. They were a nuisance, but somehow part of the whole welcome-to-Mumbai chaotic experience. Gone huh?
Modernity indeed. Who needs it?
Bombay Sweat
It’s said that the Eskimos of the Arctic regions live and work so much with snow that they have over fifty-two words with which to describe it.
If this is true, then visitors to Mumbai, especially now in the summer months, must have a similar amount of words to describe the various types of sweat that this city grants to us.
Coming from England, where even on the hottest days, you might want to carry a jacket with you, and sweating is something you do only in a sauna, I have been amazed by how many ways a man can perspire.
ExamplesThere is the little tickly drop that starts at your neck, and slowly passes down the back of your spine, before dripping tantalizingly off the very end of your backbone. When it disappears, a new one starts again…
The frizzy ends of hair on the back of one’s head are usually the starting point for this little journey, so you can attempt to beat it by toweling the back of your head. And then you realise your neck is sweating too.
There is the middle-of-the-day sweat when the sun thumps down on your head while you are out walking. As it does so, your hair seems to thicken, and then it seems suddenly as if a thousand small moist creatures are conspiring to oil each strand, separate them out, and make them stand on end.
Funnily enough, this is not an unpleasant feeling, as you feel like a cake bubbling in an oven. It’s a sort of prickling sensation. I am sure that to feel like a cake cannot be a bad thing.
Then there is the embarrassing line or series of small dots that appears on your tee-shirt front (even though you have only walked a few yards from your taxi). This often occurs when you are about to bump into a smart friend (who travels everywhere by a/c of course).
It is pretty tiresome for men because the line forms just below one’s breasts, and seems to insinuate (to someone who might not know) the beginning of a sex-change process. I guess though it must be worse for women.
You can try to fold your arms and hide it – but everyone seems to know it’s there.
A variation on this is to get into a taxi for a long ride, and then realise that the seat covers have that familiar smooth consistency of arctic-flock material, and are double packed with nylon foam (why such unsuitable material?... I really don't know). This would be fine in Norway; but in Mumbai, it is a trap. Lean back on this seat for long, and the back of your shirt will have to wrung out and hung out to dry after twenty minutes; but, even if you sit forward, away from the back-rest, (but sit in that one position for too long), well, take it from me, the backside of your trousers will be soggy. Ugghh.
Nights can be bad. We all can guess how sticky it can be at 3am in Bombay in May, but imagine being English too – the sensation of being glued to one’s sheets by one’s own sweat is a new experience.
But the worst is the slow burn. In a non-AC restaurant, or a room without a fan, one’s forehead takes on a second, clammy layer, one’s face begins to turn scarlet, one’s eyelids even get heavy with damp…. until, finally, when the sides of one’s ears have become tiny rivulets of moisture, one has to run outside and seek the breezes of the Arabian Sea.
Prevention and CureThere are many more variations.
But it is axiomatic that if I walk this city now – day or night – sooner or later the little pricks of liquid heat will come.
I bet you’re wondering about underarm sweat patches.
It’s an interesting question, because, for some reason – perhaps it’s the quality of the anti-perspirant sold here (is it super-strong to match local requirements?) – I don’t know anyone affected too much by them, which is odd isn’t it? Maybe it is also the type of humidity in Mumbai? Perhaps. I should research it.
Some of my Northern friends are clever enough now to make sure they prepare themselves for the Possibility of Sweat. They do this by reducing effort almost to nothing.
If they are going somewhere, they get ready slowly and easily, and never rush. They travel by a/c car; they do not walk even 200 yards. They arrive early at the smart hotel, just in case they need to cool off in the (usually freezing) bar. They never walk up the stairs.
But I must admit that, generally, this is not a solution for me. I refuse to allow the heat to curtail my desire to wander. This city is wonderful to meander around, and so much would be lost if strolling were denied to its visitors.
So I wear thin tee-shirts, I wear cotton shorts, I wear chappals, and I wear a Vietnamese jungle hat. I ignore the stares when I cool off at smart coffee shops. I look like someone from Lost (except for the muscles): it’s not pretty. But it makes me free.
Anyway, isn’t there something ridiculous about being in a tropical city and yet retreating constantly into the kind of temperature-controlled rooms that take igloos as standard for imitation?
Excessive AC is normal in posh environments here- but it’s just plain unnatural, surely?
So, as I’m in Mumbai, I have determined not to run away from Sweat – but to learn to embrace it. (Er, metaphorically).
Yes – and crazy as it sounds, it works. In England, the way to defeat the Cold of Winter is to see it as a companion, a stern and distant one, yes, but a companion. If you fear Cold, it will get into your bones and eat you.
Same with Sweat. If you can interpret the invasive discomfort as a welcome gesture from the city (no, I am not crazy!), actually, you can get along fine.
And – one advantage.This morning I played tennis with Deepak. After half an hour, my T-shirt was drenched and I could barely see through the cascade of sweat-drops descending from my brow.
(He, on the other hand, was still tucked up in his tracksuit, and almost looking as though he could do with an extra warm-up. Amazing.)
But I felt great. I wasn’t just pretending to have a sweaty workout, this WAS a sweaty work out. The more the sweat flooded my brow, the more I felt virtuous. I must be doing something right, I thought.
And I didn’t have to go on no treadmill to do it with some personal trainer yelling at me.
However, the downside to extreme running about in the Bombay summer is the shower afterwards. The combination of exercise and highly humid heat has driven up one’s body temperature by a few degrees, at least temporarily… and no matter if you have a cold shower, you’ll still be sweating ten minutes later. In fact the very stupidity of putting on (warming) clothes immediately after your shower will make you torridly sweaty and hot all over again, thus negating the shower completely.
You have no choice but to sit in the dressing room, and wait for the body’s own cooling controls gradually to sort out the issue.
The trouble is that Deepak just thinks it’s all pretty funny. He’s already in the bar with a cold beer (which he doesn’t need).
And, because he is always unflappable, and never overheated, I guess my situation does look pretty funny to him at that.
**
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Labels: a-c, air-conditioning, bombay, heat, humidity, india, mumbai, perspiration, stickiness, sweat
Bombay Railway
I’ve been living here over a year now, but sometimes it takes another person’s view to make you see properly what’s been in front of your own eyes all this time.
By a weirdly long route, a DVD recording of Gerry Troyna’s recent BBC TV documentary about the railways in Bombay, called, er, “Bombay Railway” fell into my hands, and I just had to watch it – mostly cos I get a kick of watching something related to a city I know and then saying – “yes, I’ve been there!”
(I don’t know why I like doing this. This habit sounds a bit childish as I write it down… But if you live in Mumbai as I do, it happens a lot when you watch Bollywood. I spent most of the movie “Lage Raho Munnabhai” just identifying the backgrounds. Very irritating for the person watching it with me as it turned out later).
Information, Education, Entertainment Anyway, the documentary, which is in two halves, Part One being called “Pressure” and Part Two being called "Dreams", is really a revelation, even for a resident like me. I should have known it would be because the film’s maker, Gerry Troyna, has been coming to the city on and off for twenty years, so he knows much about what the city is.
Actually, It’s a kind of old fashioned documentary in that it simply follows the lives of a dozen or so ordinary people whose livelihood is somehow entwined with the railways – from the train driver near retirement to a hawker who works the women’s carriages.
It’s also “old-fashioned” in that there is no hidden agenda or thesis to push, there is no interrogating of the participants, and, on the positive side, there is also a desire to capture just how happy ordinary people can be as well as how crushed they can get.
And all the time, there is a gentle drip-feed of facts and figures about the enormous industry that is the railways of Bombay (Did you know: that six million passengers daily use the city’s system, over just 300km of track? Stunning).
The documentary ends up giving you that famous combination of Information, Education and Entertainment. Which is just what I appreciate.
Railway essentialFor Mumbaikers, the railway system is just plain essential. The shape of the city is like a long water-drop, and this makes the roads hugely congested. To drive from one end of the city to the other (which is about 30 kilometers) will easily take two hours. On a train it takes twenty minutes.
And in a city where fifty per cent of the inhabitants are so poor they live in slum conditions, it has the added advantage of being incredibly cheap.
The system is also just part of the landscape. Unlike London, where the railways are often hidden behind embankments or high concrete fences, these rail lines often run quite visibly alongside the main highways in the city. You can often be walking along, looking at the pavement (if there is one!) and look up, and there’s a train running parallel to you. Because the carriages are basically glorified cattle-transporters, without doors as such, many of the passengers will also be leaning out into the slipstream enjoying the cooling breeze. It looks a crazy thing to do, and, actually, there are lots of accidents.
(Somehow people don’t seem to get too worked up about the rate of accidents, strangely. Over three thousand people are knocked over and killed or fall off trains every year in Bombay, a statistic that would close down the national network in Britain, but there seems to be a belief here that it’s usually the victims’ own fault anyway. And that could be true. Because railway land is so open, and because Mumbaikers love a bit of risk, you’ll see people wandering all over the lines at all times of day, with some families even bedding down in small shelters by the lines. It’s a Health & Safety Inspector’s nightmare!)
In fact, the driver, whose story we follow in the film, admits, almost in passing and without self-pity, that he has driven his train into nearly seventy people during his career (many accidents are at night, in poor light). It is also his gruesome and statutory job to ensure that the body is removed form the line before the train can continue. But he shrugs his shoulders, albeit a little quietly, at the fact.
This rather blasé attitude can work to the city’ s advantage though, because it means it would take something huge to close down the network. Even the terrible floods of 26/7/2005, in which 500 people died, only saw the schedules suspended for … twenty-four hours!
If you do get a chance, this film has got to be worth seeing - whether you’re interested in railways, urban infrastructure, or simply how Mumbai keeps going.
The end of the documentary is brilliantly conceived as a Bollywood–style fantasy song and dance sequence on a fictional Bombay station, as dreamed up by the railway officer who is another of the figures in the film. Somehow the whole concept just gets the spirit of the Mumbai ‘thing’, whatever that is, and gets it just right.
Finally, the other great thing about this film is that it’s about the range of unnoticed people, whose efforts keep the railways so vital. There’s such a temptation in Bombay to concentrate on the pretty people, or the billionaires, or the politicians, but Gerry Troyna has just quietly selected the right people in his profile.
There’s the magistrate who holds his court for railway offenders on a station platform; there’s the guy who just wants to create a successful business selling food on the trains; there’s the street-kid who sleeps by the tracks – and more.
It’s his genius I think to have spotted these people, to have helped them relax enough to be filmed acting so naturally, and then woven them into being integral features of the bigger story – that of the railway system itself.
I know your chances of getting to see it are slim now (though it might turn up on Discovery – who knows), but honestly I should try to get to see it.
If anyone hears of where and when it’s playing in Mumbai, just let me know, or stick what you know in Comments.
**
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Links:
BBC's webpage about 'Bombay Railway', and
The film's Bollywood sequence "Chali Chali" -on YouTubeLabels: BBC, Bombay Railway, Gerry Troyna, mumbai, railways
Eating with Fingers
If there’s one thing I have not got used to while living here it’s eating with my fingers. None of my Indian friends makes a big deal of my choice, and I think they even prefer I stick to cutlery, as then I don’t look so awkward or inept, which is just embarrassing for everyone.
(I should say that in Mumbai, among the professional and middle classes, nobody seems to care much anyway. If you go to someone’s house to eat dinner, half the folks will eat with their fingers, half will not, and nobody cares either way. Mumbai is a city that grants some freedom of action to its citizens.
If anything, in Mumbai, the overt prejudice can be against those who eat
with their fingers. At four and five star restaurants or a very sophisticated dinner party, it would have to be a very confident person who would follow his or her inclination and eat with fingers).
Some ex-pat friends that I have, particularly those with NGOs, tell me however how liberating it is, how it brings us closer to the food that we eat, how sensual it is, and indeed how environmentally conscious it is – no nasty washing up liquid to have to use to wash cutlery (and if you use banana leaves instead of plates you get double green points!).
I do wonder however how they square up their washing of pots and pans – do they scour them with sand as some roadside food stalls do? Perhaps. I must ask them.
Anyway, I’ve tried it, but I don’t like it.
The biggest issue for me is probably the most trivial for others – and that is the thought of all that food getting squeezed up under my fingernails. Sad? Hmm, I guess you may be right, but we all have our issues.
The second thing is that, in most ordinary Mumbai restaurants, the water for washing one’s hands in is usually cold. Now, actually, the germ removal from a thorough scrubbing in cold water and soap is said to be around 90% - which is not bad. …What worries me is the other ten per cent of germs.
And after the meal, I can’t hack the greasy residue left on one’s fingers. Again, cold water and soap can eliminate most of that – but not all of it, and all I want to do is to find a hot water source and clean my hand thoroughly.
Are my feelings part of the slightly crazy Western obsession with hygiene? Or a perfectly permissible personal choice? I’m still considering.
It is one of those peculiar cultural impasses.
Indian friends say that it just seems prissy and affected to use cutlery – it just makes them uncomfortable.
I like to point out to them that cutlery washed in boiling hot water and detergent has a much higher rate of cleanliness than fingers ever can attain (apparently, it’s not just down to the temperature that things are washed in, but it's also due to the fact that steel cutlery is totally smooth, unlike human skin which has minute crevices) – but even those “facts” don’t convince them to change their minds at all.
Indeed, I suppose the upside of living here, vis a vis eating habits, is that it reinforces the need to wash one’s hands each and every time before eating, whether you’re having a quick bite or a meal. Since I started doing that, I’ve rarely been sick.
Of course at this point, someone wisely points out that Westerners in fact do often eat with their fingers – when they eat biscuits or pastries or sandwiches or potato chips.
Does it make sense if I say that such items, which are by nature non-sticky (well, mostly) do not fall into the same gluey category as say, a biryani? (The one exception to this rule that I can think of is those Americans who eat cheesy pizza slices with their fingers. I don’t understand that at all).
But, as the same person, again wisely, points out – you still have to deal with issue of unclean fingers touching the food you eat…
Er…yes. He’s quite right. Caught up in the web of my own logic there!
I think I should halt my ramblings at this point, while I consider the fact that there is nothing like seeing another culture to make you realise how weird and inconsistent your own is…
**
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Labels: eating habits, eating with fingers, india
