I Dreamt of India

It all started at Durty Nelly's, when when over curry chicken topped fries, I told my friend Virat of the vivid dream I had of India. I arrived by plane at the top of a mountain with an expansive view of two cities built in the shape of mandalas. Their configuration stimulated the flow of prana in the air, and from where I stood, I began to resonate with it. I started to fall in love with the friends I had come with, and the feeling didn't fade, it only grew stronger as the dream progressed. Virat clapped his hands. 'That is exactly what India is like! That is its spirit. You should come with me next month when I go to my friend's wedding in Goa!' Inspired by my own self, I called him on impulse a week later say I was coming along with him. I got off work for three and a half weeks.
So, at 5am yesterday morning (Bangalore time), we flew in over a sea of ghostly blue hued and orange lights with no discernible roads, into the airport where the first thing I noticed was . . . there was no toilet paper in the bathrooms. Virat had warned me about this, and told me to bring my own roll. There was only a faucet, with a bucket sitting underneath, containing a mug. People will only shake with their right hand, he told me, as the left is used for 'washing.' I wasn't ready for this . . . luckily I had kleenex.
Virat's parents met us outside, and drove us back to their flat in Langford Grove,a few minutes away. One of the first things they asked me was: 'Do you know what your name means, Kaela?' I do know, as my best friend in high school was Pakistani. 'Yes, in Hindi it means banana.' : ) Servants were ready to carry my bags and did so despite my protests, and served us tea and coffee in the marble tiled dining room, full of relics of old India: old brass beechnut crackers in the shape of deities, stone, clay, and porcelein figures of Ganesh on the altar. I was to stay there until noon, when I would check into The Bangalore Club. Until then, I settled into one of their rooms in Grandma's flat upstairs (Virat's family owns the complex), where the sounds of the beeping rickshaws and bikes emerged from the madness that was beginning to stir outside. The beeping here is of a different quality than what I am used to, which in SF is actually more of a honking. The beeps here from the small cars are for the most part non-aggressive signals from one driver to another that they are coming through. They are as frequent as chirps in bird dense forest. Literally.
The first adventure I had here (after a hot and hearty homecooked meal of Dhanshak) was riding on the bike of Patrice's motorbike (Patrice is the groom at the wedding in Goa -- Virat is his best man). We headed to the beauty parlor where he, Virat and I were to get facials, pedicures, manicures, and massages (the works) to prepare for the wedding. I must say that speeding through the open stretches that we sometimes found was far more exhilarating than when I rode on the back of a BMW motorcycle years ago, zooming through Twin Peaks on a clear day. It was too easy. The danger here on the road is thrilling, and of course I love the wind blowing through my lucious locks. Call me crazy.
I was under the impression that Bangalore was going to be ugly, but at least in this part of the city, it certainly is not. The air may be polluted, it is relatively developed and commercialized, but it is fantastically green. Against the chaos of congested roads where it's every driver for himself, a variety of often gnarly, colorful, and enormous trees stand serene, lining the sidewalks, standing robust and abundant in the parks, stretching their branches above and beyond fences to provide shade and solace. The biodiversity here is awe-inspiring: coconut palms, banyon trees, Bogavillias, Flame of the Forest trees . . .
When we got to the parlor, I settled for a foot soak in milk, honey, and rose petals, a pedicure, a foot massage and a facial. The women there giggled at me when my foot jerked erratically in response to the ticklish sanding of my soles, and again during the facial when I couldn't refrain from scratching my nose covered in wet clay, and again when I flinched in reaction to the water shooting from the spray bottle against my face to get the mud residue off. 'This your first time getting a facial?' I was asked more than once. Yeah, I think YOU know that I am not the girliest girl.