Feelings

Woke up this morning asking myself if I’m through with India. After the fierce money-grubbing hassles and all-out shock-and-awe attack on my health in Delhi, from which I still haven’t recovered, I’m beginning to think I’ve had enough.

I’ve spent long stretches of time in India over a span of more than thirty years; have watched the unspeakable misery and filth of poverty continue to fester while a growing portion of the population thrives and prospers; prices keep rising and service goes down; the greed factor, mixed with pollution, has come to outweigh the fascination.

I got 490 viruses from inserting my memory stick into a computer near my hotel in Delhi, (infection capital of the world) and then sticking it back into my laptop. Why doesn’t someone invent a condom for memory sticks?

I got screwed by the smooth talking travel agent in Delhi who sent me on a great trip, gave me a good car and driver, but most of the promised “luxury” hotels turned out to be seedy flea bags for which I foolishly overpaid in advance.

This morning I realized if I desire beautiful Indian things I can go to Little India in Artesia, half an hour’s drive from West Hollywood, and shop at my leisure. There I can find everything I want and of better quality, with fixed prices, probably not more expensive than in India, and with no vicious sales-demons clawing and tearing me apart.

I’d like to make a suggestion for fashion savvy male WeHoans: try wearing a sarong (called lunghi in south India, dhoti in the north) for a change; they look great with tee shirts or regular shirts, and in my opinion are very sexy.

Walked over to the temple this morning to watch the pooja ceremonies, prayers, chanting, drum beating, bell ringing, burning of offerings, idol worshipping, smearing of foreheads with pastes of different colors...

Damn, I love India—and I hate it too.

My ayurvedic navarakizhi treatment continues. Five ladies rub me down with warm medicated oil, and then with cotton bags filled with rice meal dipped in hot rice milk; then wash me and dry me.
Now they’ve started a treatment on my eyes called Tharpanam, which is so bizarre you probably won’t believe it. They build a wall of sticky paste made of black graham wheat flour and water around my eyes, like goggles, stick in glass cylinders, and pour warm medicated ghee (clarified butter) into them. The treatment lasts 30 minutes during which time I have to continuously open and shut my eyes inside the melted butter. After that’s over I have to snort smoke from burning rags to calm my running nose. I swear it’s true.

During the seven days of this treatment I’m not allowed to go out into the sunlight, but only leave my room after the sun sets, like a vampire. I get to watch a little TV—grade C movies on HBO, reruns of Friends, The Restaurant, Anthony Bourdain, countless commercials for shampoo, diamond jewelry, and mobile phones, knock-offs of our reality shows: dancing with stars, singing competitions, comedy acts, and tear-jerking Bollywood movies with fabulous costumes, music and dancing.

A team of Brits have arrived to shoot yet another documentary about this place. Rooms will be even harder to get. I’m leaving the clinic on Monday, not cured of my cough but raring to go. I’ll fly first to Hyderabad to visit an old friend, then to Goa for clean air, beach, seafood, and hopefully a little fun.

I’ve saved the best news for last: my friend Huli’s son, Josiah Citrin, has just been awarded two stars by the Michelin Guide for his restaurant, Melisse, in Santa Monica. That’s as good as it gets in the USA, and I’ll bet a crème brulée he’ll get the third star, the highest honor the French can give for gastronomical excellence. Bravo, Josiah!