For the weaker stomachs...

The lights on the Mysore Palace come on at 7 pm everyday during the festival. It's an amazing sacrifice the city is making given the erratic power flow on normal days. Usually, around 1 or 2 or maybe 3 in the afternoon, the power shuts off as the stations shed. What are they shedding? Maybe their clothes because it's hot in mid-day, or maybe their hair because there are 1 billion people living here who demand electricity if they can afford it, or maybe a herpes virus. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that the phone booths are called STDs.

Truthfully, I haven't seen a single coldsore in India. Though, I will admit here that I don't kiss Pattabhi Jois because I see all the western yoga students delivering their smackeroos, and I know that somewhere in this bunch, there is a virus. I mean, it's just percentages, right? Okay, again, busting out with the truth, I will say that I don't kiss Pattabhi Jois because I don't really want to kiss Pattabhi Jois. He's a lovely old man and he has taught some great teachers to spread the joy of Astanga, but that doesn't get me all jazzed to smooch him. To each her own, right?

At the Palace, we were approached by hawkers peddling flutes. Everywhere I go, the flute guys seem to pick me out. I am so not a flute player; my mom got me a clarinet when I was a kid. I am so not a clarinet player either, but maybe I am more clarinet than flute. Anyway, the flute players find me and immediately commence the theme to the Titanic. La la laaahhaa la la laaaaaaa. The starting price is always the same. "300 rupees, madam," they say. The put the flute in my face. It is some sort of wood thing with a nozzle that comes out the side. You blow into that, so it's more like blowing bubbles through a straw than pursing your lips like you would on an orchestra flute. "250 rupees, madam. Excuse me, madam. Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me, madam. 250 rupees. A flute, madam." And then the Titanic song starts up again. He will pause to take a breath, and then, "3 for 100 rupees, madam. Three flutes, madam. 100 rupees. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, madam." I'm sure you can imagine by now that I am fleeing through cow patties and honking rickshaws and families of beautiful women in silk sari as I say no no no, no flutes, over and over and over.

I have seen that some people can say, "PSSSST," and the hawkers will scatter. I have also seen that some people can say no and walk on; the hawkers don't pursue them. But the flute salesmen latch on to me. They have followed me for three city blocks. I will duck into stores, only to come out to the Titanic. That's cinematic, right? Yeah, it's annoying too.


So, my new course of action. I make fists with my hands, scrunch up my face, shake my head fast and say, "Eeyeeaahahaaanaaoooo." The gaggle of children who are also, inevitably, following along laugh, but usually the flute playing ceases. My friend, Miss Karen, says it looks crazy. But she's British. I told her that she should appreciate my unrefined ways because if she didn't, she would have to hang out with me and a whole troop of flute players.


I really want to see a Bollywood film, and I am going to do my best to find one tomorrow. You see that picture? He's a famous star. Here is another display of shots of him on a diagram put together by either a) an adoring fan; b) the theater management; or c) his 8-year old neice:
He certainly takes my breath away. You may not be able to tell from this horrible photo, but our hot Indian star is sporting a silver tooth and a wild Antonio Banderas coif. The largest sign at the cinema displays him proudly draped with flowers and streamers and a quaint display on posterboard of some other fashion shots he has taken in the past, colored in with marking pens in some cases. He stands more than 40 feet tall. There is another hot Indian star whose photo I am seeking. I promise to display it as soon as I snap it. This guy wears a bandana, a pencil thin moustache extending a bit past his lips, a black shirt, gold chains and a luscious ducktail 'do to make a game show host mad with envy.

Ah, but India. This morning, I awoke with an incredibly knotted stomach. In my Ayurveda classes, we learn that cleansing is a good thing, and both vomiting and diarrhea are often induced during a process known as Panchakarma. The yoga students, predictably, are mad for the treatment, spending days at the doctor sitting on the pot instead of enjoying flute salesmen, cow poop, silk and rickshaws. Well, we all look for enlightenment in different places. For me, it ain't in my shit. Oh, sorry.

And last but not least for the evening, how cute is this sign? It's a truck that looks like a cow! Hooray India!

I don't have any pictures of Jumbos because my camera sucks. Miss Karen might let me borrow some of hers. One of the Jumbos has really beautiful freckles all along his nose. I'll see if I can scam that picture from her for your enjoyment.