You absolutely must watch a short video of Anwar and myself, stuck in our cab without driver or air conditioning, being assailed by a couple of hawkers. Normally, I would simply not make eye contact and politely say no in Hindi or English depending on the weather in my head. But these two relentless fuckers (sorry, but they were annoying) would not take no for an answer. They stood outside our windows, calling out like emergency beacons, Swiss watches in their regularity, Chatty Cathys in their range of vocabulary, spinning tops with the miracle of perpetual motion built-in. And, when all else failed, these gentlemen took to scraping their wares against the windows, just in case, you understand -- just in case.
Loverboy
Our maid at the Sheraton was a man. Tall, slim, with hair oiled and shiny, swept back from his forehead. Oh yes, and he was friendly. With only a few words of English, he used his melodious, mellifluous voice to his advantage. Normally, this would be a signal that the maid was giving good service and, in return, hoping for a good tip. Nothing wrong with that. No. Nothing
The man-maid, however, took a certain liking, a shine, a fondness for, developed a crush, it would seem for my roommate. Yes, Anwar found hisself an admirer at the Sheraton in Delhi. Lucky Bastard! To get on with the story: Anwar happened to be in the hallway, by himself, on his way to the lobby of the hotel. The man-maid somehow got to chatting with Anwar and Anwar, being a schmoozer by nature, got to talking with the man-maid. Pretty soon, or so the story goes, man-maid and Anwar were shaking hands. A handshake which the man-maid refused to end. And so, Anwar, being a sharp sort, figured that there was more than just a good cleaning of our room on offer.
Now, before you go flying off and call me a homophobe, please keep in mind that like most people -- like you -- I too, am filled with prejudice. When confronted by a nameless face or an anonymous grouping, I use, as a shorthand, certain stereotypes, prejudices, to make sense of the world around me.
Okay, let's return to the tale at hand. Anwar finally extricates himself from the man-maid's handshake, comes down to the lobby a little breathless to announce that (expletive deleted for Anara's sake) likes him. I, naturally, am happy for Anwar and, must admit, a little jealous. My theory: Any attention is good attention. So, we laugh and get on with our day. Visit the Taj Mahal....which, as you may already know, is a monument of love built my a man who started his life as a maid at a five star hotel and grew up to be the Emperor of all of India. Also, Coincidentally, the lady for whom the Taj was built was named Mumtaz (which by another coincidence was also the name of the man-maid of present day India and now crushing like a school girl over Anwar).
We returned to the hotel at the late hour of 9 p.m. to find three pieces of cake -- one for me, nice; one for Anwar, nice; and one for someone else. Also, some Indian cookies sat on Anwar's side of the room, lovingly topped with a glass cover to keep anything from tainting the food. Anwar refused to touch the cake out of fear that the cake might be laced with strange and wonderful ingredients.
Love springs eternal in the busiest city I have yet to see. Sometimes it is reciprocated and sometimes it goes unrequited. Still, 'the heart wants what the heart wants.' Or something like that. Unfortunately, the man-maid was barking up the wrong tree. We decided to take a picture with our man-maid but did not find him before checking out early this morning. It would have been a perfect end to this little episode. Unfortunately, I cannot write life, I can only report on it.
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