Namaste, and shukriya for shopping!

For the many of you who expressed your concern as to whether September 11 proved to be a fatal day for me I can now assure you I am alive and well. I can only plead tiredness on behalf of myself and Sofia Lorenzo - who have felt the strain of rowing 7 hours a day, 6 days a week, replete with over-enthusiastic smiling and a culturally questionable Italian accent - for my lack of blogging. But after a series of spiritual awakenings I have resolved to turn over a new leaf, and create a consistency of artistic output in the hope that my readers shall reciprocate in the form of reading it as such and even occasionally responding. I shall start with once a week and see how we all cope. Before I proceed you are probably wondering if my 3rd "strike" of disaster ever befell me. The answer is yes. My camera containing all my photos from my time in Macau - save the first month's worth - was stolen. And no, I had not yet backed them up. So all tales to follow will require imaginative images from yourself. Get creative! Now, read on.

First things first, India. Ahh India - Land of such diverse peoples, colours, sights, and smells as to leave you feeling constantly confused, concussed, and exhilarated. We (the travelling party from The Venetian) arrived in Calcutta late at night, and from the moment we stepped out of the airport every memory I had of India came rushing back to me. The pungent smell that filled the air, combined with the heat and unsupervised street children flocking towards us for money and food at 2am was a shock to the senses for the first 15 seconds. I am convinced that it is in these first 15 seconds you decide whether you are going to love or hate this country. Having lived in Delhi for 4 1/2 months in 2008 my culture shock was shortlived. We boarded the bus and made our way to the Oberoi Hotel which is a stunning old building located right next to "New Market" (the hub of shopping and, as I was to find out, fleecing). Exhausted as I was after our day of travel I couldn't help but indulge in a little ritual I have developed whenever I step into a 5-star hotel room I will be staying in. This basically involves dropping my luggage in the doorway, taking a few awe-struck steps forward as I take in the cleanliness of it all, performing a choreography that looks something like this, before taking a swan-dive onto my perfectly made bed. I was lucky enough to have a balcony which I used (ie. sat on) as often as possible.

The following morning I found myself with the only free day of the week. This was my one chance to purchase presents and requested items for friends and restock on Indian goods lost in the Waks Fire of 2010. I had a mental list which consisted mainly of saris, jewellery, bindis, bangles, and anything else even slightly Indian. I was a woman on a mission. I was ready for whatever lay outside those hotel walls. I indulged in a buffet breakfast to line my stomach and my nerves. I recited my haggling mantra "Don't pay more than half what they ask" and rehearsed the necessary Hindi phrases for when in a marketplace:

"Kitna ka hai?" - How much is it?

and

"Nahi Chahiye" - I don't want it. (Particularly useful when you find yourself being hounded by at least 5 people all trying to sell you the same thing, which may be anything from a foldup laundry basket to a piece of string).

I set out, my pockets lined with cash, confident in my abilities to slot right back in as a street savvy "yes I'm white but don't think you can fool me" expat. It took about 10 minutes for me to realise what a boob I was for thinking such thoughts. There were people everywhere. A constant barrage of bodies moving in all directions at the same frenetic pace - yelling, spitting, hustling, calling out to me, trying to sell me their wares. My brain felt like it was going to explode. In my idealised memories of India I had forgotten this side of it. This was why I've always said India will either make you or break you. I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes to find that inner "zen" India had bestowed upon me 2 years earlier. I felt a stirring of something and a voice sounding suspiciously like Stephen Fry's told me to breathe and that I was a lily floating on a peaceful pond (or something like that).

Miriam was back on track - (thanks Stephen!). After a few purchases I started to get cocky, convinced my powers of haggling were surely not of this world. It was time to look at saris. One man led me into a shop. I looked at some nice scarfs ("Yes madam, all silk!") of which I purchased several for what was probably quadruple their worth, before sighting a sari that I knew I had to have. After managing to shave 700 rupees of the price it was a cool 3000. Seeing the price tag I was convinced this was a great deal, so without hesitation I added it to my pile. I left the sari shop feeling very satisfied with myself. Until I saw the exact same sari for 800 rupees around the corner. Now this may not sound like much reader. But in my heart of hearts I am still a cultural Jew, and it is just not in my blood to abide this kind of a swindling. But there was nothing to be done. My hoaxman made it very clear no refund or exchange was to be had so I left angry and waving my finger as such as I exclaimed, "Fine, but that's NO way to do business!"

Needless to say the scarfs were not silk....

Ashamed of letting my mother - (the master bargainer) - down, I returned to the hotel and consoled myself by sitting on my lovely balcony for several hours playing my new best friend, Caillie the Ukulele, who I had purchased two weeks earlier in Hong Kong.

The night before we were due to leave Calcutta I returned to New Market for a few last minute purchases and was befriended by a beautiful street kid called Poojah. Poojah was the kind of girl that just emanates charisma and confidence. Despite being 10 years old I could just as easily have imagined her in a business suit heading the meeting of a multinational corporation as there with her ragged clothes, bare feet, and basket of trinkets which she rested comfortably on her hips or head.

Ever since the first street kid I befriended in Delhi, Sahill, I have had immense empathy for these children who are forced to grow up so fast, yet bear their load with such optimism and resilience as would melt Voldemort himself's heart. Knowing that encouraging begging isn't ideal I always offer to buy them food or items they might need, like clothes, school bags etc.

Poojah didn't seem interested in selling me anything and walked along with me at ease, happy for the chance to practice her English. Eventually I enquired as to whether she was hungry. She replied in the negative but intimated that her clothes were very old and were all she had. I then said I would be happy to buy her some new ones. She agreed and firmly took hold of my hand. Basket on hip she led me head-on through oncoming traffic while I closed my eyes and hoped beyond hope I was not about to meet my end at the mercy of a 10-yr old girl who didn't understand what traffic lights are for. Once I felt we were on safe ground I opened my eyes and continued to be led blindly onwards. Eventually we reached our destination. Here I was thinking Poojah with her single pair of pants and t-shirt was after some practical wear for her days and nights of hard work travelling between home, school, and selling in the marketplace. Clearly I misinterpreted. We were standing at a line of stalls which all seemed to stock children's eveningwear. "For festival" was all Poojah said, and started to point at different outfits to be brought down for her appraisal. After having at least half of the stall's contents brought before her she frowned, said "no good", and dragged me along to the next store. This process was repeated several times before she decided there was nothing adequate to be had here. One tricky customer. Next stop was a very large Western style store with Indian and Western clothes. She made a beeline for the Western clothes section and pulled out several pairs of bedazzled jeans and tops. Eventually she decided on a tight, hot-pink, top with diamontes, and some tight-fitting flare jeans. Despite wanting to question the practicality of this outfit I held my tongue as it was her decision. After paying I realised my funds were heavily depleted from my Calcutta spree. I had just resolved to make my way back to the hotel when Poojah said "Ok. Now shoes". "Oh Poojah I actually don't have much money left and have to get back for a meeting..." "It's ok. Won't take long" "Well ok then but I really must be quick, and I don't have much money left..."

We went to a different arcade where she went through the same routine with the shoes. After trying on half of the store Poojah still wasn't satisfied. I was getting restless now with the meeting time drawing near to discuss our schedule for the following day. "Poojah I really need to go". "Ok aunty one more shop". It was crunch time. Apparently the fact that she was not wearing shoes did not hinder Poojah's intrinsic sense of style. She tried on a very swanky pair of black velvet heels and said "Ok aunty these good for me". After enquiring how much I had to embarrassingly say "Poojah I don't have that much, and now I need to go".

She looked disappointed but there was nothing to be done. She walked back with me towards the hotel, looking despondent, and I found myself apologising to her, in spite of my best intentions. I left her feeling slightly depressed that I ended the night saying sorry to a girl I had tried to help, but I realised you can't hold it against someone for wanting more when they can get it. Especially when life is such a struggle. But you can only give what you have and feeling guilty for not being able to give more is not productive.

The rest of the week passed without much event. We visited Hyderabad and Chennai. Our shows went well, and my role as an Indian audience member who turns into a gondolier was a big hit. The food at every destination was mouth-wateringly good and I met far too often with my archnemesis - The Buffet.

The End.