I found this as I was looking through my hard drive. Some great instructions for use of the room in a classy little dive motel somewhere in Tamil Nadu, India:

Excuse the blur – it’s transcribed below.

1. When you are sleeping, switch off the lights. But wait until you’re asleep first…
2. Don’t deposit waste in the bathroom. Then where?
3. Keep bed and pillow from burning. Spontaneous combustion is a problem in these parts.
4. The use of iron box prohibited in the room, also high watt machines. What? What? Get out.
5. Do not alter the place of cot and table. It knows where it belongs.
6. Lock the door when you go out. Or someone might sneak in and malpractice your shit.
7. Do not use bed sheet as cloth. Pretend it’s a rhinoceros.
8. Switch off the lights when you go out. So we can malpractice in the dark.
9. You will be responsible for all the malpractices. All of them!
10. Do not place bed on the floor. Perhaps the ceiling? No, don’t alter its place!

Technorati Tags: India

I must admit my last blog about India sounded as if I’d soured a wonderful chapter in my life, and I would like to take time to remember My Mumbai in detail. The whole of India, as I love her, and as she loved me.

Parked in the shade on our way around the south

Louda, my bike, rode me around the South and up to Mumbai. I came with Laura – who was the bike’s namesake, when mispronounced with an Indian percussive Laura’s ‘r’ that sounds like a ‘d’ turned it into the Hindi word for cock. Laura had asked me to name the bike after her – a fair trade because it was bought on money from her in exchange for a laptop which she did not yet posess. So Louda she was.

I bought her in Kodaikanal, way up in the gorgeous mountains on the Tamil side of Kerala. For those to whom that means nothing, the Southern are often darker, slower to anger, and have a far more percussive popping b’s or t’s to p’s. It’s a very amusing language to listen to. The Southerners are also often more casually academic, and quite agricultural. The Keralan backwaters are gorgeous.

My housemate Hari is a Malayalee (one of the Southern folk). He’s incredibly kind, one of the kindest and most peaceful people I’ve ever known. He has an engaging way of telling stories, and always has exciting tales about disciplining policemen and staring down stand-over men.

He’s also generous – before we lived together, he called to ask how I was going. I complained that I had no work (I was an actor, he is a cinematographer). Within ten minutes, a friend of his called to offer me a role dancing in a music video. I apologised and told him that I can’t dance. He hung up. Hari must have called him again, because a further ten minutes later the director called back and told me that I had the role anyway. It ended up being quite a funny video.

People worship Hari like a god – literally. Much like when politicians or religious figures greet and farewell folk, I have stood with him after a shoot, while a queue of people waited their turn to touch his feet.

Getting around Mumbai is always an experience – traveling any mode across the city will almost always include a ‘Oh my. Bloody… Shit! LOOK!’ moment. I will not dwell on the early morning train track-side pooing hour, though those are memorable, but also deluges of incredible kindness. How so many people with limited ability and maximum effort would try to ‘fix’ my bike – even without knowing what was actually wrong with it.

Louda – after pimping, on a ride around Mumbai.

Indian people, my Mumbaikars, are all about relationships.

Indian people will welcome you into their homes, many visitor to India has been treated to tea and dinner by an entire family of strangers. They are eager to welcome new family members, too. Simply because you’re visibly foreign, they will ask you increasingly personal questions while still shaking your hand, once I had a conversation that started with a request for directions and continued until the chap had learned my full name, place of birth, number of family members, marital status and enquired about my sexual habits, still holding my hand long after the shaking had finished, for a full ten minutes. It’s not nosy, it’s caring, curious and keen to build friendships. By the end – I was his ‘bhai’ – his brother. Younger kids call me ‘ankal’ – or uncle.

On Raksha Bandan day, one will find the pretty waterfronts of Mumbai spotted with groups of larrikin young men, they’re sneakily skipping their classes at university or aren’t turning up to work. They are, for today, uncharacteristically avoiding female contact, where the reclaimed land meets the sea, where large, purposefully placed jagged boulders hold back the muddy waves.

They hide because on Raksha Bandan, girls can claim boys as ‘brothers’ which is a more formal, or at least religiously meaningful way of becoming family. She claims him, to be protected and cared for by him, and to be protected from him, because once she’s tied that red thread around his wrist, she is out of bounds. She’s his sister.

Hari and my brother Thos, coloured on Holi festival - he's now a Bollywood star too!

The horny boys will stand and laugh, argue and chase one another around and slap each other on the back with cupped palm for maximum pop and minimum pain.

They will have tender moments, too – boys will walk hand in hand down the sunny Bandra boardwalk, or even rest their head on a mate’s shoulder when tired. It’s not all gay, but I’m sure that beneath the restrictive ridiculousness of the rules and religions, Indians are very sexually permissive.

Mumbaikars will welcome you to them, to become like them, because connection matters most. Yes, there is a downside – that strong familial preference means that those perceived as ‘other’ are easily cheated, targeted and vilified. The group conscience seems to dictate it.

I don’t complain, as a Caucasian, Australian male I was treated very well. But as you slide down, away from the wealthy families, down the caste ladder, religious divides, and the regionalist grudges, you will pass people who live unenviable lives.

Westerners talk about how ‘time is money’, ‘life is short’ and ‘it’s a dog eat dog world.’ They use these clichés to excuse themselves for being rude and self-absorbed. “I’m stressed” they cry, as they pride themselves on being independent, efficient and successful.

Not efficient, no. He'd rather smile and chat than deal with the 8ft high stacks of paper behind him.

Indians pride themselves on being caring, thoughtful and respected. They’d walk for hours out of their way to show you how to arrive somewhere you already knew how to get to, even if it meant turning up late to work. If mother is sick, they might not turn up at all.

Sure, there is a growing desire among the middle class to be more western, to consume more fancy phones and fast foods and speak English and strive harder; working longer hours, turning up on time and leaving late – meeting targets and achieving goals. But they must battle against a system full of people who’d prefer to have a chat or take a nap if it meant having a more relaxing day. Contentment is a reasonable goal for an Indian.

Sure, that is lazy, but it’s good. It’s important.

We are overpopulating the world, and India’s leading the way, but the Indian mentality of family supports a vast number of people on very little. It is efficient at using fewer resources to sustain an more people.

We must learn that.

And you cannot save time – time is not money. Whatever you’re doing right now is all that is happening, you couldn’t have spent this time differently. The frantic ferocity of that thinking causes unnecessary stress. Relax.

Instead we must learn to value our time.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, India, People

Working two jobs is rather exhausting and is draining my creative talent. Here is a repost of a blog I made many moons ago:

I just lived through the most annoying day out of all the days I’ve spent here on the subcontinent. I woke to plan on going to collect my bike from the pimp-your-ride Indian style fellows. They’d made my back fender completely opposite to my requirement, even so I’d quite liked what I had seen when I went there yesterday. I’d asked them to do some changes, which was lucky because I ran out of Australian dollars on that day, so couldn’t pay him anyway.

So yesterday, the day after I’d run out of money, I went all the way up to Andheri to collect some money owed me by my agent. Two hours on the sweaty packed train, in to Warren’s office to find out that The Flag has now been postponed to November. To go with it, I find that the southern film, Pazhassi Raja, has also been delayed. Both were meant to by fighting for me by now, and neither seem interested in making a film at all. I collect my money and go back down the train line to get my bike.

I am already in a bad mood, underslept and grumpy seems to make me a walking comedy act for Indian people, who are fascinated and incredibly amused by me when I least want them to be. I think there is something funny about seeing a huge, cowboy-hat-wearing white guy storming around in a fury. Getting pointed at and laughed at is something that only further enrages me.

I get to the mechanic to find that he’s not changed it at all like I’d asked. I wanted the back mud guard to cover the back wheel, so that it guards the mud, as mud guards, by definition, ought. Otherwise you end up with a big skid-mark up your back. Instead of moving the guard back, he’s daubed it with welding solder and told me he’s moved it back – I decide not to argue, and instead ask why he’s changed my electrical amp-meter. He tells me he changed it because the last one wasn’t working.

I tell him it was working because it wasn’t connected, but he ensures me that it wasn’t, and that’s why he replaced it. The new one doesn’t work either, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. I then notice that my clutch lever has been broken, and he tells me he’ll sort it out. An hour later, he hasn’t sorted it out, so I do so myself, getting one out of his shop and fitting it on myself. Then he asks for the money for the lever. I explain that he broke it so he should pay for it, and he agrees to pay, for the labour. I did the labour.

Then I notice that my petrol filter’s missing, and this I do get replaced for free, only to watch the new little glass jar half-fill with petrol before the tank runs dry. I am bemused, because I left it with 10 litres in the tank, and that would usually take the bike a good 330Kms, so I assume the fuel has been syphoned out. I ask him to refill it, and he gives me two coke-bottles worth of petrol. I press the point, and after two hours of haggling, I get 4 more litres out of him.

Notice the thin white tube from under the petrol tank? That’s where my petrol filter should have been. Notice fender doesn’t come out over the wheel, and the right (clutch) lever is broken.

During the haggling for my own petrol, I get a call for an audition. I have to go right away, back to Andheri. The same annoying smelly sweaty train line back, only this time in peak hour. I get my petrol (well, half of it) and park my bike near the train station and head up.

The train’s pulling in when I get to the station so I dash on. Finally up at Andheri later, I get off and get ticket checked. My earlier two trips I’d bought tickets, but in my dash this time I didn’t buy one. I am fined. I am almost ablaze with fury getting into the rickshaw to go to the audition. You know the kind of fury that begs people to piss you off enough to warrant being beating them with their own dismembered limbs? I had it, that fury that makes you painfully shoulder past people in crowds.

Usually little men ping off me like skittles, but today I’m myself bouncing off round-bellied men in my haste. I am always surprised when I bump into a fat man and find that his tummy is actually quite tense, like a large drum skin around his engorged internal organs, it’s robust elasticity sends me reeling, and further fuels my fury.

I get the rickshaw and tell him where to go, trying to restrain myself. I have a particular dislike for taxi drivers and rickshaw drivers in India. I am not being racist, because in Australia, I quite like Indian taxi drivers. Just to clarify, I know I am racist, but just then I wasn’t being racist, I was being career-ist. I really restrain myself from reaching up to pull out the rickshaw-wallah’s hair, or smashing their face against their handlebars when they claim to not know where something is so they can drive you in circles, or pick you up at the station, drive you a few blocks from the rickshaw rank and demand three times the price.

Pulling out of the station street I notice the rickshaw in front of me has a common Hindi saying printed on it’s canvas cover. It says “100 me 99 beiman hai, phir bhi Bharat mahan hai”, which means “Out of 100 people, 99 are cheats. Even so, India is great.” I grin to myself in agreement, and work on my philosophy.

My philosophy is that there isn’t any great spiritual thing in India that brings people here to find themselves, they come here to find cheap drugs and wierd stuff to look at and be spiritual around. My idea for personal development is that India is, at heart, intensely annoying. Things are done the wrong way, the long way, or not at all. It’s corrupt, hot, smelly and slow. It’s always late, but constantly impatient. The trick to becoming a better person is to let these things affect you, but rise above them and retain a sense of calm.

Any hippie can go live in an ashram and be calm and spiritual, there’s nothing to it, you’re in a calm and spiritual place. Try doing it on a rush-hour train compartment when the guys squashed to your front keeps ‘accidentally’ stroking your balls.

So my idea is that India’s lesson for me is to teach me the patience and self control to live through the worst days of everything going wrong, and not let it affect me. To wash off the angry thoughts without the aid of drugs or sanctuary, through conscious mental control. Let each thing happen, and let yourself be angry. Know that being angry achieves nothing, seek for resolution, not retribution. So many people get caught up in tail-chasing demands for fairness. Don’t.

It’s important to remain open to positive things that might be happening right now, particularly funny things. Humour is the base upon which a good mind can be constructed. That’s the idea anyway. Looking at this quote I tried to let the irony sneak in, that this rickshaw driver in front was a cheat, and knew it, and excused it by printing it on his rickshaw. That the passenger in that rickshaw couldn’t read it from where they sat inside the rick, and I only could because I was in a different rick. Hilarious. Laugh damn you.

It didn’t really work, so I just sat back and indulged in my cranky pants.

I arrive at the place, get out and tip the rickshaw driver (another paranoia I have, that Karma doesn’t work when you want good stuff to happen to you – because then it’s not selfless. I can’t tip or give to beggars on my way to auditions because the reasoning is too selfish, so I wait till I’m pissed off or not auditioning to pay out. So I’m in a shit mood and I tip). I walk five paces and get my phone out to call the production house and see where they are. My phone’s not there. It’s fallen out of my pocket into the rickshaw. I pissbolt after the rickshaw, but he’s gone.

I find a public phone, and call it. It’s ringing, but no-one picks up. After five attempts, the payphone steals a rupee off me. I use another rupee to call my agent and tell him to find out where the audition is. I have another rupee stolen trying my phone again. I have another rupee stolen trying to call Warren again. I am out of rupees.

I try to get change, but the guy in the shop is out, so he opens the cashbox of the phone and gives me some of my own rupees back. I have two more stolen trying my phone before it picks up, beeps, shuffles and hangs up. The next attempt tells me the phone is ‘unavailable’ which means it’s been stolen by the rickshaw driver who I just tipped and didn’t smash face-first into his handlebars.

I have lost all the numbers of production houses, directors, girls, friends and family, photos, the lot. I just hope I can get the number back, or I’m really screwed, production houses only know me through my number, and I doubt they’d break their backs to find me on another one.

I get through to Warren, my agent, and find the audition, but am told to shave for it. I hate shaving and have been determined to grow my beard for weeks, but people keep making me shave. I don’t even own my own facial hair. I shave. I go to the audition. A gorgeous Aussie-Indian girl is there and giggles at me being shirtless on a beach with my hideous birthmark and pudgy tummy.

I go home. At least my bike wasn’t stolen. What a day. I’m sexually frustrated and lonely and cranky. Pete and Chris, my friends from the hotel left for Calcutta a few days ago, and my sugar-momma leaves me this weekend. WAAA! I’m all alone.

No, my philosophy didn’t work. I am still seething today, my butt-cheeks are fatigued from clenching in my sleep. I guess I have more to learn from India.

Technorati Tags: India, motorbike

The Mumbai was becoming invasive. It sneaks into every fold of skin, into armpits, it trickles down down back fat into bum cracks under ball sacks it festers, soaking flesh as gaping pores ooze a smelly slick of sweat that sticks the city stench to the skin. Mumbaikars desperately seek out sanctuaries of air-conditioned bliss only to find that as the sweat evaporates, it leaves smudgy black grime and salt crystals that crush, itch and irritate even into the fitful, frustrating, sleepless nights.

I had to get out. The city seemed to want me gone, as if it had risen its temperature to fight me off like an infection, and the bureaucracy had developed a sudden resistance to foreign bodies like mine. Like an immune system, with single-mindedness they are purging foreigners from their midst, but to argue with a government peon is much like having a debate with a white blood cell.

This cheery chap is tasked with making sure his own job is always necessary. This is a real photo of the FRRO.

I went back into the Foreigner’s Regional Registration Office to get my permission to leave the country. I’d been there the day earlier to be excused for overstaying my visa by two days. I had showed them my ticket and passport, and they sent me away, telling me I needed to come back with my proof of address, a letter explaining why I was leaving late, and a letter to verify that I should have been allowed into India in the first place.I’d returned with those documents and was told that they wanted a further four, but time was running out: I had a flight to catch at 5:50, and it was now 3pm – and I still had to get my bike from the police who’d impounded it (again), ride it home, grab my bags and get to the airport.

My brother and housemate faxed the stuff to me, but I had to take a moment outside the ‘Fax, Xerox and Phone’ shop and had one of those thoroughly unsatisfying inward screams, I almost shat my pants and burst a vein from the force of it.

The fax machine had jammed and two of my documents were still inside its memory, waiting to be unsatisfactorily printed. This man runs a shop that does three things – and one of them is send and receive faxes, yet rather than spending the excessive amount he charges for faxes on keeping his fax machine working, he spends it on the creature comforts.

Most of the floor space in his shop is taken by his bed, on which he was sleeping when we arrived; he had bought an air conditioning unit and sat it on a box out in front of his shop, It was pumping expensive cold air in the general direction of his shop, but most of it flows out into the rest of the world. Perhaps he’s trying to combat global warming.

I fixed his machine for him by slapping it and extract the last two pages of the fax, which are barely visible because it’s also out of ink. He insists it isn’t a problem because he can just run it through his photocopier a few times to progressively darken it. Voila. He’s saved money on ink cartridges and fax repairs and recouped costs by charging me for multiple runs at the photocopier, the profits of which he presumably spends on enormous AC bills.

I got back to the FRRO and the woman looked at my stuff and said ‘You’re running too late, you won’t get your flight’ to which I rather coolly pointed out that if she hurried the fuck up I might just get there for check-in, that I was flying domestic to Delhi then to Los Angeles from there. Domestic check-ins only take 30 minutes, so chop bloody chop. She seemed puzzled by something, paused and rechecked my ticket for the fourth time…

“This ticket is domestic to Delhi,” she said.

“I know. That’s why I said that. Otherwise I would have said something else.”

“You must go to the FRRO in Delhi, we don’t have authority to grant an exit here.”

I tried pointing out to them that I’d shown them the same ticket yesterday, and had they mentioned this stupid rule then, I would have been able to do something about it. I’d shown them again when I arrived that morning, and still could have done something about it then, but now, at 4:50pm it was too late to re-book a ticket and get my exit permission because these useful and intelligent peons are pretty punctual when it come to a 5pm closing time, at which point they cease not doing their job (which is to check paperwork) and go home to suck otherwise useful oxygen out of the atmosphere and raising large litters of similarly useful children.

While this particular oxygen thief was filling out the forms the next day (because was forced to reroute my flight), I said: “It’s very difficult to get visas now, all my friends are being rejected.”

She said “Yes, the consul has changed all the procedures”

“You mean, made them harder” I suggested helpfully.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I asked… She didn’t reply. “Is it to keep foreigners out?”

“Yes.”

Marvelous. Great – well India, you win. If you want to keep me out then I don’t want to be there. Your people are wonderfully open, welcoming, intelligent, friendly, helpful and accommodating, but your bureaucracy is the exact opposite.

So you win, I’m out.

Technorati Tags: bureaucracy, frustration, immigration, India, passport, visa

My problem with life in India is that it’s simultaneously too hard and too easy. The easy bits are getting main roles in films, getting into A-list parties, and staying out of jail for drunken, unlicensed, uninsured, helmet-less motorbike riding only costs about 6 Aussie dollars. But the stress and frustration associated with something simple like buying coffee or getting dressed can cause me to vibrate and clench until I pop a valve.

I just went looking for Sony Pix to do an audition. I plugged “Sony Pix Mumbai” into Google maps and got a hit:

So I rode to the designated dot with the help of my occasionally awesome but frequently annoying GPS guided phone, to find the dot was on a big pile of crappy nothingness.

I checked the map again and again, and came to the reluctant conclusion that someone had actually bothered to go to Google Maps to place a marker, but had not bothered putting it in the right place.

I rack my brains every time this happens, trying to deduce the mentality that leads someone to make such an effort with a result that is worse than had they just done nothing (I fixed it).

On my way home, I stopped for coffee at Baristas. I pulled my bike up to the curb, kicked out the side-stand, switched it off, got off, pulled my helmet off and when I started walking away the security guard, who’d been sitting there watching me the whole time said: “You can’t park here”

Surely my intent to park the was apparent from the moment I pulled up, or perhaps more obvious when I kicked out the stand and leaned the bike over, but definitely when I turned off the engine, and I absolutely don’t plan on re-parking it anywhere after I’ve stood up and got off – but no. He waited until I’ve removed my helmet and started to walk off before he said something. Exactly the same thing happened only yesterday – it happens so often. I try to laugh it off but often fail and sound like a manic pirate: “Haha-har-harrr-arrgh!”

Pull this handle.

I think one explanation for the general theme of this directionless drive to do could be the notion of ‘dharma’ – which is your life’s purpose, doing what you’re meant to do. Dharma doesn’t care how efficiently you do something, it relates more to being in a continual state of doing whatever it is you were born to do, as well as you were destined to, until you die. Getting stuff done early doesn’t mean there’s any less stuff to do. If you did do it, then you’ll reincarnate into an even cooler caste with yet another dharma. There’s no escaping it, life after life, and aspiring to escape your destiny within this life is almost disrespectful.

Sure, people break free from the restraints of caste and rise to dizzying heights like the Ambanis, but it is much more common to go down the caste system than up. Climbing takes hard will, courage and lots of luck. Falling is as easy as having cow blood thrown on you, marrying wrong, getting raped or even divorced. In short, acting out of turn is more likely to send you down the ladder than up. In India, innovation is infrequently encouraged.

Pull the other one!

So I went in to buy my coffee and noticed that the glass door has a “Pull” sticker on the outside of the door, and another “Pull” sticker inside – but it’s a swinging door and can go either way, and anyway, neither side has a handle, so in effect neither can be pulled, nor need they be.

Maybe he could have put a push sticker on both sides, it’d easier to do with a coffee in your hand, but why did he bother at all?

Because that was his job. The fact that this swinging door doesn’t need stickers doesn’t change the fact that his purpose in life includes adding stickers to doors.

I was shooting a TV commercial recently, and the costume guys always love to help me get dressed. I assure them that putting on clothes is something I can and do do frequently without them,  but they are determined to help; even if that help consists of them holding my fingers and causing me to fumble as I thread my belt through the loops in my pants, all the while saying:

“It’s fine. No really, I’ve got this. Please, let go. You aren’t helping. You’re actually making it harder”.

But the costume wallah has a purpose. Part of what makes dharma a righteous path is the fact that sometimes it’s a challenge. Many obstacles will pop up to deter you from your purpose, but if you’re born into a job (as castes often are – and named so – Mr. Sodabottleopenerwalla) then you’d bloody well better do it, regardless of how pointlessly irritating it might be.

It must be noted that the excessive amounts of wasted effort do seem to keep everyone rather busy, doing and undone-ing things that took a lot of doing and didn’t need getting done in the first place. It’s a wonderful system that seems to support an unimaginable number of people.

Many Kakapo birds only gets laid once, AND THAT'S WHEN THEY'RE AN EGG! - Zing.

It’s ecological. If one billion people suddenly became efficient, if they only did things that needed doing, and did them right the first time, then I recon an overwhelming number of lovely Indian people would quickly find themselves unemployed and starving to death.

The Socialist Party of India recognized this, and rather brilliantly suggested that India ban English in schools, computers in offices and all farm machinery, which would send it back into the dark ages.

Inefficiency and absurdity might be an evolutionary result of overpopulation, much like how New Zealand’s Kakapo bird, which has evolved in an environment devoid of predators, has dealt with overpopulation by becoming fat, flightless, and amazingly inefficient at mating. Those factors are now sending it close to extinction, a fate unlikely to face Indians anytime soon.

*I must note that my observations are the subject of personal opinion, and in this are predominantly about traditional Indian culture – and are not at all about Indians in any kind of intrinsic, genetic sense. I am also not making a negative value judgment about it. Yes, it annoys me, but that doesn’t make it bad, it just means that I don’t get it. I hope you’re only mildly offended.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, hinduism, India, People, politics, rationality, religion

He hates athiests and loves hair dye

Archbishop Anthony Fisher today decided to let the world know that he’s rather stupid. He used his inaugural Easter message to blame atheism for the ills of the 20th century, namely Nazism, Stalinism and Pol-Pottery.

What a dull cookie – particularly owing to the fact that he belongs to a church that is currently headed by someone who belonged to he Hitler youth and may have protected child molesters.

The reference to Nazism is regrettable, but it gets worse. He’s been so absorbed in his faith for so long he doesn’t realise: People don’t believe in Christianity because logic seems to indicate that a creator set up an intricate set of rules and laws that govern the natural universe and then occasionally breaks them for us if we ask him; they believe because that makes them feel good.

I was at the police station this afternoon complaining about bureaucracy to Khan, my friend and mechanic. Khan had found my motorbike at the police station, it’d been stolen a few months earlier – and we were trying to get it back. I was having difficulty proving that it was my bike, and the police were having difficulty explaining why they had it in the first place.

When I was done whining, Khan had a go: His hands had developed arthritis which was making it very difficult for him to twist spanners and all that jazz, so I suggested he eat more fish. He said he couldn’t cook it nor afford it because his wife’s recent cesarean section had put her out of action (so no cooking and no job), which meant he had to cook for her with his bung wrists. I asked why his wife’s mum didn’t cook (she lives with them) and he told me she’d recently fallen and was now paralyzed from the neck down, probably for the rest of her life. He had to look after her too.

Khan hadn’t slept properly in two months, because his two month old C-section son was very ill and crying and needed constant monitoring. I suggested he take a few days off from his workshop to look after his family, but he explained that he’d lose customers, and without the income from his workshop, there wouldn’t be enough money for the various medical expenses he had to pay for his wrists, his wife’s antibiotics and dressing, his son’s medicine, and his mother-in-law’s everything. Plus, they’d all go hungry – those four, and his nephew (who he looks after since his brother died), his older son and his daughter. He now looks after all eight of them (I’ve forgotten one, probably another niece) single-handedly; they live in a room that measures about four by four metres in a shitty part of Mumbai. I’ve visited him there – it’s dank, smelly and cramped.

‘Uppar wale ka hath mein hai’ he said to put me at ease when I’d run out of helpful suggestions and had resorted to apologising like it was all my fault. It means ‘It’s all in God’s hands’ or more specifically ‘the upstairs guy’.

That’s why he has faith – because it gives him strength to keep going in the face of incredible odds. Were he an atheist, he’d be inclined to believe that he’s in a rather unwinnable situation – with his ability to earn diminishing, and a brand new expensive son to add to his already huge burden, he’s kinda fucked. Belief in intercessory power (a god that intervenes) is all that gives him hope.

I’m an atheist of luxury – I don’t need god to solve my problems, because my problems involve trying to figure out who I’ll need to bribe at the impound so I can get back my fancy, shiny, noisy, penis on wheels. I’m an asshole.

So I wonder – even if it is a fantasy, perhaps his fantasy is helping him more than I am.

Perhaps you could offer Khan a seat?

But then I have a lurking suspicion that faith put him in his helpless situation, that if we chose to live as equals without irrational beliefs there would not be such incredible inequality; that if he could wear condoms he wouldn’t have had yet another child; that the poor, the uneducated and the downtrodden like him are used as fodder for the power-hungry elite like Fisher; and that if the Catholic Church really gave two shits about anyone at all they’d stop being such money-hungry child-molesting festering puss-filled weeping wounds on the backside of humanity.

Christians who wear the bracelets and chant the mantra “What would Jesus do?” Listen up: He’d come here and kick ass. What did he do? He was a wonderful man who tried his hardest to destroy a harmful religion because he saw it sucking the life out of humanity. He was worldly, educated, and brought a lot of Hinduism into Christianity.

He only got angry when he went to temples because they were money hungry, he hated the exclusivity of Judaism so he opened it up for the Gentiles, he hated the idea of eternal suffering so he offered the hope of salvation, and he thought bacon tasted nice. He stood against everything that Judaism stands for, if you ask me.

If he came back he’d be Luke Skywalker, and he’d light-saber this evil Senator Palpatine, Hitler Youth prick who’s spreading aids in Africa, and he’d love Khan even though Khan’s a Muslim, because Khan is nice and cares about people and he looks after my bike.

A video of me and my penis on wheels:

Technorati Tags: atheism, christianity, hinduism, India, religion

"A burning bus? Perhaps over there."

There exists in Mumbai a nearsighted and rather unpleasant bunch of radicals who revile my very existence within their beautiful city. They want foreign actors out of Bollywood (that’s me).

They are the Shiv Sena – Lord Shiva’s Army  and the MNS – political groups by name, violently quarrelsome by nature.

It behooves a writer to remain apprised of the legal ramifications of writing anything at all in India, because sedition laws are arbitrarily enforced and rather ambiguously defined as anything that “excites or attempts to excite hatred contempt or dissaffection“( - Wikipedia)

If anyone reading this gets excited or feels a smidge of contempt, then I’m going to jail for life – so please don’t. Sedition, in my opinion, is the most dangerous law in India – for exposure of real wrongs often leads detention or expulsion, as was the case with my friend who wrote of the Dalit murders in Gujarat and was summarily deported.

Let’s be mindful of that and carry on…

Bal Thackeray started the Shiv Sena and ran for a while a respectable right-wing, religious political party concerned with supporting the local Marathi people in whose state Mumbai stands. He was about ensuring jobs, health systems, pensions and education exclusively to Marathis, his ‘Sons of the Soil’.

They have a hard-line Hindu and regional agenda, and dislike all things non-Marathi – including shop signs spelled in English.

The Shiv Sena love whacking day

Bal’s son Uddhav Thackeray took over the Shiv Sena which used to riot against migrant workers from other states, bash North Indian rickshaw drivers and the like, pelt stones at police headquarters, voice support for accused Hindu terrorists, they’ve smashed shops and torn down billboards and generally caused a ruckus in order to get in the media, at which point they invariably react against the channel for the negative coverage. It’s a wonderful self-perpetuating cycle.

The Shiv Sena started going mainstream to gain support from a larger nationwide Hindu party, the BJP – which meant they had to stop bashing migrants (but not necessarily Muslisms). As a result, Bal’s nephew Raj Thackeray started a splinter organisation seeking more radical reforms – they are called the ‘Marathi Manoos’ – the MNS.

So now there are two crews both seeking votes from the same people, they attract attention to themselves by engaging in more and more brazen public displays of brute power – often leading to in-fighting between the two groups.

The BJP: Perhaps education should be higher on their agenda

Then the BJP lost a national election, probably because they were corrupt and their policies were near-sighted and focused more on oppressing Muslims than running the country…

So the BJP and the Shiv Sena rioted against Australians for being such prejudiced and bigoted violent morons. They were helped along by the Indian media, which much prefers to be spoon-fed its sensationalist propaganda rather than doing real reporting (probably for fear of sedition laws).

Funny thing that only a few months before, the same group were beating North Indians for migrating to Mumbai, and now they’re upset because North Indians are being beaten in Australia. The group that revile outsiders and assault newcomers are also angry when degenerate, disorganised, drunk youths in Australia do exactly the same thing. Are they scared their jobs have been outsourced?

Now they’re back to being racist: The Manoos want all us foreign actors out of Bollywood – get this: Because we’re stealing Indian jobs. I have not yet met an Indian that can do my job, because my job is to be not Indian. I’m not a particularly exceptional actor, I’m not wildly attractive, I’m not even that skilled, I don’t dance or sing. I’m a single-threat: I’m just white. Who’s job do I steal?

Make up your minds, which do you despise: Racism or foreigners?

Their current claim is against Hazel Crowney because they claim she’s dancing in a provocative way that Indian girls wouldn’t, and tugging at the threads of Indian moral fibre. It’s clear that they know this already, but you might not: Indian movies don’t show sexy white girls flouncing about because Indian girls won’t do it, they show foreigners because that’s what Indians like to watch. The women watch it and think: “Ugh, sluts” and the men pitch pants tents – behaviour neither gender like to associate with good Indian girls.

Indian girls will do a multitude of things to get their beautiful, sensual bodies onto the big screen – and dancing provocatively definitely comes under that broad and intentionally ambiguous banner. Rakhi Sawant started the protest, but clearly her interests aren’t value-based:

Hazel Crowney: They're calling for her head

Rakhi Sawant: Principled instigator

Tell me again – which Indian values were they protecting?

The Shiv Sena recently charged onto the set of a shoot for the film ‘Crooked’, and demanded to see employment visas from the 136 foreigners on the shoot. I know every Bollywood Gora that has a visa – and there ain’t 136 of us. Bollywood runs on making its scenes exotic and foreign with cheap tourist labour extras. It can’t run without them.

These riots will serve to send more films overseas to shoot to avoid them, taking money right out of the pockets of all Mumbaikars who drive and light and serve chai and food to those who paint sets and clothe Bollywood. Their campaign would be short-sighted and flawed, if it were legitimately aimed at improving the lives of Marathis – but it isn’t, it’s aimed at getting publicity – and it’s working.

I love this country – but sometimes it gives me the shits (pun intended).

Perhaps it is me.

Perhaps my desire to become a part of the Indian fabric is mislaid. I had always seen India’s best values were the welcoming and inclusive nature of the people, how peaceful they are. I’d always felt that the laid-back, near-enough’s good enough, slow life seemed more ecological than ours – far more interested in things like a good laugh, an engaging (and intrusive) conversation or even silent company. They’ll stare, they’ll care, they’ll help even if they can’t.

This country holds the greatest potential of all on this earth. With some tweaks to turn the knowledge based education system to teach skills, a good corruption enema and a bit of cultural progression (in terms of womens rights and that stuff) – it will be the next superpower. Indians almost always speak more languages than you do, speak English better than you do, they wrap their agile brains around new languages, new concepts and new ideas with envy-inspiring speed, they have open hearts and kind minds, and there are a billion of them.

That was what I thought India was about, generosity, hospitality and intelligence – but apparently these guys are the last word on what’s Indian and according to them it’s all about the violence, stupidity and racism.

Perhaps it’s time for me to move on.

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, foreign, hindu, India, maharashtra navnirman sena, mns, politics, racism, religion, shiv sena, thackeray, white actors

I went and saw:

Ahh, Dharma productions – good on you! You made a film about a billion times better than ‘From Paris with Love’ – SHAME ON YOU TRAVOLTA! Naughty mega-star!

After Dostana (which I appeared in, briefly) I was wondering whether Karan Johar was ‘tackling the issue’ of homosexuality and its perception in India, or if he was just cashing in on it for cheap laughs. That fear subsided when I went to see My Name is Khan and was pleased to see a balanced and important representation of Islam and autism.

It’s pretty brave to tackle two issues at once, because it requires delicacy to describe which of the character’s behaviours belong to which issue. It is so easy to turn either into a caricature, as is often done with Tourette’s syndrome. Karan Johar and Shah Rukh Khan have done a masterful job into depicting an accurate and insightful representation of both, and I commend them for that.

SRK plays Rizwan Khan (Khan – ‘KH’ – from the epiglottis), who is the autistic son of a Muslim single mother. He grows up in India experiencing the difficulty of being an outcast, but eventually rises above the challenges of his condition and moves to America to become a traveling beauty product salesman. That’s where he meets Mandira (played by Kajol). Obviously, they fall in love but their love is torn asunder by radical American anti-Islamic sentiment (you’ll hear my voice saying ‘Get out of my country’ at one point – I did some background dubbing). Anyway, let’s get to my point.

Karan Johar, Shah Rukh, Kajol and Tarun Mansukhani (who directed Dostana and plays a store owner at the end of his tether) are all incredibly brave for even attempting to represent Islam. In India, radical power hungry clerics, politicians like Bal/Uddhav/Raj Thackery are almost always going to kick up a stink about any issue.

Be it the dangerous and divisive Shiv Sena getting angry that Islam is being shown as peace-loving; be it Islamic groups complaining about being depicted as warlike or disabled; or be it politicians using India’s terrible sedition laws to stifle freedom of expression claiming that the film shows India in a poor light; someone is sure to complain.

The Shiv Sena did threaten to riot and called for a boycott against the opening of the film, partly because they are Hindu extremists opposed to a film about Islam, and partly because the lead actor SRK said he though Pakistani players should be allowed to play cricket in India. If you ask me, they did it to stay in the headlines.

Shiv Sena Rioting against the release of MNiK

Religion in India is a serious issue, for many people it’s more important to them than family (we see hints of this in the film when Muslim Khan marries Hindu Mandira), for some it’s more important than their own life. It’s a scary thought – but it speaks to the emotional and dedicated nature of Indian people. I just hope for a day soon when Indian people will direct their love and dedication towards more positive means, because I see religion as a divisive force. It brings fear, feelings of powerlessness, hurt, pain and violence to everyone – theists and atheists alike.

Religions almost entirely full of wonderful, caring people who want to express their love through acts of kindness like Rizwan, who goes to the aid of poor black Christians stranded by a hurricane in Georgia. They are grateful and humble and want to dedicate their existence to something else – they are selfless.

But, there are always a few people who use the power of belief to support their own ends, and they always do it with violence and division. This character is played in MNiK by a extremist Muslim doctor who preaches violence, but they are ones in every religion. Religion offers power over the masses, and stunted by their inability to reason against doctrine, that control entices dangerous false prophets.

Atheists are almost impossible to herd in the same manner, because we are like cats: Fickle with our affection for authority, but (hopefully) tenacious in our hunger for truth and universal ethics. In Scandinavia, it’s easy to be Atheist, almost everyone else is. India is another matter.

I was massively impressed by Tarun Mansukhani when I recently saw him tweet: “I am an atheist. I don’t believe in god. I believe that I am answerable to my family and to my friends… Right here. Right now.” – because he is an Indian, living in India (the most religious country in the world) working in an industry that invites attention from all areas. He really is at the forefront of a change that will make India even greater, with acceptance of all, regardless of sexuality, devoid of division.

Dharma has released a tastefully made film that is worthy of International audiences. With the exception of its length (I still think Indian films are too long) and a tiny quirk of editing that occurs around a twist near the end of the film (no spoilers here), the whole film was a joy to watch. The computer effects were subtle, the performances memorable, and the point unmistakeable.

We are all people. Hum hai insaan. Bharat mahan hai.

India is great – Indian people are warm, generous and they are fantastic hosts. I wish my Australian countrymen would start to show them the same hospitality, perhaps we could learn to treat our guests like gods, as Mamooty said to me in Pazhassi Raja: “Atithi Devo Bhavah“

Technorati Tags: Bollywood, India

I was feeling disconnected from the world because my fancy new phone was out of credit. I went to a Nokia dealer in a spanky new shiny mall and asked him if he sold Vodafone credit.

“Do you want to do it the easy way or the hard way?” He asked.

Bewildered, I gave the predictable response: “The easy way.”

“Not possible” he replied.

“Okay, the hard way then.” I acquiesced, feeling sure we were already doing it the hard way.

“Where is your phone from” he asked.

“Mumbai” I said.

“Not possible.”

Here is his loveable helpful self

This is not an unusual occurrence in India, and it usually frustrates me enough to write a rant blog. Luckily for Nokia dude, I’m trying on something new. Rather than rants, I’m committing myself to writing blogs that are positive and life-affirming rather than critical and cynical.

India is obsessed with relationships and interaction, and that takes precedence over efficiency and accuracy. As a westerner I am befuddled by the rather pervasive Indian habit of offering multiple options to somebody for whom those options aren’t available. It seems inefficient and absurd.

Indians love to have a variety of choices available to them, and expensive restaurants will cater to this by having menus that number over 200 options of food. It is unlike the west where the fancier you go, the less options there are.

This obsession with choices permeates every area of life, and in large part explains the prevalence of corruption. If told there is only one way to get building permission, the Indian mind will always look for another option, following its other great love: Building relationships.

To Nokia dude, talking me into circles is not wasting time; it’s having an interaction that he values. I get the impression that the quality or tone of the interaction doesn’t really matter, either. One only need see how Indian men become when screamed at by western women to be certain that they’re aroused the intensity, and barely concerned by the content.

Similarly, if you’re sitting by yourself reading or typing or just musing, Indian people will take pity on you and come over for a chat about your country of origin, marital status and sexual proclivities. It’s their way of showing you that they care. It comes from a wonderful and caring place.

There is an avenue for further frustration: Nokia man can give me credit. I know he can, but I’m upstairs blogging about it instead of downstairs buying it. There is a further element to Indian culture: Inaction is always preferred over action.

Westerners usually come from ‘one shot’ religions, which offer only one lifetime in which to get your stuff done. These religions favour action in order to have been as good as possible before being dead and incapable of doing anything ever again.

Eastern religions have a ‘keep going till you get it right,’ Groundhog Day kind of mentality. To live a good life is to live a blameless life, which often amounts to doing less bad stuff. Doing nothing is preferable to doing something wrong, which is why there is a heavy preference for inaction (particularly if you have an eternity to get it right). Meditation is the art of spending as long as possible doing and thinking absolutely nothing at all.

As a result, downstairs Nokia dude is unsure about whether selling me credit is the right thing to do, so he is not going to do it than to risk it. As a result, he’s one sale poorer and I’m disconnected from the world. So be it.

The positive to all of these cultural quirks is that Indians are very ecological, in the environmental and the ethical sense. They are not prolific consumers, they are selfless and inclusive, humble and kind.

It still drives me nuts, but I just wrote a blog about how lovely it is, in keeping with my commitment to focus on positives. Hell knows how I’m going to upload it without an internet connection (via my awesome HTC HD2 phone which can become a WiFi hotspot, when it has credit).

Technorati Tags: India