Later, on CNN, I learn that Lehman Bros, one of Wall Street’s oldest and grandest investment banks, has gone bankrupt. Analysts describe the ensuing dip in the Dow Jones Index as “a buying opportunity”.
Wednesday, September 17
After a reference to yesterday’s conversations appears in my column, my Beijing correspondent Ms. Luo writes to tell me that “being dropped by some jerk” may not be illegal in South Korea any more, but it IS counted as an official illness in some Asian organizations. At Hime and Co, a Japanese cosmetics company, women aged 20 to 29 get two days off if they have been traumatized by the unhappy ending of a love affair. Women aged 30 or more get three days. A similar scheme is running at a firm in Shanghai.
That afternoon, I get into another discussion on Asian relationships. It starts with a phone call from someone trying to dream up a new reality show for TV. “Asian-style weddings,” says Bishan Tendulkar, an Indian-American. “That’s the next big thing in the west.”
I am shocked. “You mean week-long ceremonies in which a man and a woman dressed in gold and red stuff cake into each other’s mouths?”
“No, the whole thing about not living together before marriage, marrying a stranger and all that,” he says.
Huh? How could conservative Asian traits catch on in the wild, permissive west, where dating starts in kindergarten and even nuns sing and dance on mountaintops?
The line is terrible and the connection breaks. He doesn’t call back.
Thursday, September 18
TV executive Tendulkar, who flits between New Delhi and New York, but is currently in London, calls me again at lunchtime to finish the conversation he started yesterday. His accent is bizarre, with some words Indian, some words American. “Hey, bhai, MOST cool indeed to be talking with you, dude.”
One of the new reality shows in the US is Hitch or Ditch, he says. A glamorous TV presenter descends upon a couple who are “living in sin” (that’s the scientific term) and challenges them to split up or get married. It’s exactly like a visit from a member of the Sharia religious police, except for the miniskirt, blond hair, lipstick, and TV crew.
The couple is then driven to their own wedding. The cameras zoom in on their faces as a minister asks them whether they want to get married. “Some do, some don’t, but everybody involved cries copiously, which qualifies this as high quality television,” he says. He is on his way to India for a business meeting with some investors and wants to meet me.
Friday, September 19
A reference to Hitch or Ditch on my website prompts a letter from a reader in California: “Fox TV has a show in the making which is even more Asian,” she says. “It’s called I Married a Stranger.” I read about this with amazement. The TV producers marry off two people who don’t know each other and then follow them with cameras on honeymoon as they learn about each other. Their questions would be rather basic, I imagine.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Did we just do what I think we did?”
“What sex are you?”
“Will you murder the producer or shall I?”
Saturday, September 20
Bishan Tendulkar calls to say he has arrived in India and will be at my hotel soon. Arriving after lunch, Mr. Tendulkar turns out to be a bulky, pony-tailed TV executive in a shiny suit with lots of jewelry. He takes me out to get some “short eats”. Despite the name and moustache, he’s more American than Indian. He thinks I am an expert on Asian marriages and wants additional odd angles about eastern wedding traditions so that he can offer US TV networks similar ideas.
“Asians sometimes marry dead people,” I tell him. “And I don’t mean the Anna Nicole Smith thing about marrying a nearly dead person. I mean an actual dead person.”
By happy coincidence, I recently received an email from Malaysia which neatly illustrates this principle. Reader Mel Steeven of Kuala Lumpur told me about a wedding in Segamat in which both bride and groom were dead. A family decided to marry off their ghost, a deceased family member, to another spirit. They managed to find a girl with the right personal qualities, i.e., she was also dead. The wedding was apparently lovely, and the honeymoon was cheap, since no plane tickets had to be purchased.
Tendulkar jots it down but tells me that he can’t think of a way to immediately sell this idea to the US TV industry. As a parting note, I warn him that the I Married a Stranger show might not sell well in Asia, where people are regularly forced to marry strangers. It’s not exactly unusual.
Priti, who is quietly sitting in on the conversation, interrupts. “For conservative Asians, they need to change the angle to be truly eyebrow-raising. How about this: ‘I Married Someone I Knew’.”
Monday, September 22
Q: Did you hear about the disgruntled passenger who decided to trick the Indian railway company?
A: He bought a ticket but refused to travel. Boom-boom.
Audiences in India are adding to my list of Asian jokes.
“In ancient India, vidushaks were financed by taxpayers, to keep the king cheerful,” I hear from Priti’s friend David Mathews, who appears to be 100 per cent Indian, despite his western-sounding name. Hmm. Taxpayer-financed humor! Definitely an idea worth reviving. I wonder if I can raise that with someone in the government of Hong Kong, or even mainland China?
Your narrator is intrigued to note that Hindu humor, which can be found all over Asia from India to Bali, differs from other forms of Asian cultural humor. While Muslims go for humorous wisdom, Hindus have an eclectic laugh-about-anything style. Some jokes mention Hindu gods, especially Krishna, but the majority are about everyday life, featuring common objects such as tiffin-cases (lunch boxes) and train timetables.
This one is from David:
Did you hear about the man who bought a flask to work with his tiffin-case? His workmates ask: “What’s that?”
He says: “It’s a thermos flask. It keeps hot drinks hot and cold drinks cold.”
Amazed, the men ask: “What’s inside?”
He replies: “Two cups of hot milk tea and a Pepsi-Cola.”
And this one is Priti’s favorite joke, told to her by her father:
A man is trying to sleep but a mosquito keeps dive-bombing his ear with its annoying high-pitched whine: “Zeeee…. zeeee.”
He jumps up and catches it.
But now what? If he kills it, he won’t attain moksha (Hindu Nirvana).
While puzzling over this, he realizes that the mosquito has gone to sleep on his hand.
Smiling, he stays up all night swooping over it, saying: “Zeeee… Zeeee.”
Tuesday, September 23
Waking early, I check mrjam.org to find two more Indian jokes sent in by readers:
From anonymous:
Did you hear about the disappointed lover who lay on the railway tracks to die with a rice and curry lunchbox next to him?
He tells the passers-by: “In this country, you can starve to death waiting for a train.”
And this one is from Mythry:
A western expatriate teacher at an international school offers a cash reward to the child who can name the greatest man who ever lived.
“Buddha?” says a Buddhist.
“The Prophet?” says a Muslim.
“Jesus?” says a Hindu.
The teacher hands the money to the Hindu, who replies: “Thanks, Miss. Actually, the right answer is Krishna, but business is business.”
I have a four-day break in India before we leave for China. Fanny sends me an email telling me that she may have filled it. “Don’t make any commitments. I’ve booked you to give a talk in New Delhi. Another conference organizer who is totally desperate. Will send details soon.” So I call my friend Deepika, a reporter in Delhi, and ask whether there are stories to investigate in that city which would make good columns.
She thinks for a while and then shouts over the crackly line: “Sure. I have a great one for you. You know what bits of waste ground in New Delhi usually smell like?�
�
“Overtones of garbage and urine, with top notes of urine and garbage and some woody undernotes of garbage and urine. “
“A reasonable description,” she says. “Well, get this. A stinky bit of wasteland in New Delhi has acquired an amazing scent. It’s not far from where I live. It’s really gorgeous, like there’s a huge invisible sweet-smelling thing there. People think a god has moved in. If you are coming this way, come and meet him.”
Wednesday, September 24
Fanny calls with details of the new gig. A US institution wants me to do 25 minutes of humor for the closing dinner of a conference on advanced enterprise architecture systems.
“I don’t know anything about architecture,” I complain.
“Just make something up,” Fanny says.
I head for the airport, ready for the short shuttle hop to New Delhi, and cleverly survive the in-flight meal by not eating it.
Awaiting me on a computer screen at Indira Gandhi International Airport is an Indian joke from a Hindu nationalist who has managed to set aside his politics for a moment:
A prudish man is travelling in the back of a cramped auto-rickshaw with his wife. He realizes the driver can see them in his rearview mirror.
He stops the driver and says to him. “I don’t like the way you have a clear view of my wife in your mirror. You sit in the back with her. I’ll sit up front and drive.”
I step outdoors. The sun is so hot I can feel my eyeballs melting. I decide to keep then shut until I am behind the darkened windows of the hotel car.
In the limo is a newspaper, so I scan the local news. “Violence has broken out in Calcutta after a train left a station on time,” the paper reports. “Passengers were so used to late departures that they were incensed when a journey began on schedule,” it says. “They beat up the station manager.”
Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. It reminds me of a report I did on a village in Nepal with a bus service which was supposed to leave at 2.30 p.m., but really set off at variable times during the mid-afternoon. Respectful villagers wait until the bus starts to move, and then set their watches and clocks to 2.30 p.m. As a result, all watches in the village are re-set every day. This isn’t a problem, since all the villagers have the same time. Deep Thought: In Asia, time has always been a relative concept. In spiritual terms, Einstein was definitely Asian.
Deepika, a tall, thin, pretty woman who has been thirty-something for about 15 years, is waiting for me at the hotel. We go exploring. New Delhi is an assault on all the senses: there are cars honking, people shouting, and bus engines roaring. The smells in the air include coriander, petrol, onions, carbon, rotting fruit and something meaty and foul, which I think is me. But over the top of all these smells, the fragrance in the Magic Abandoned Lot is crystal clear. There is a definite smell of something expensive, floral, perfume-y and evocative. Interestingly, it’s not like French perfume. There is something temple-ish about it: in fact, it’s the exact after-shave an Indian god would wear. “It’s sort of Chanel-ish but also holy,” Deepika says. “Like the Queen of England meets Shiva.”
It really is rather mystical. I speak to a few local residents who explain that it is a holy place, and some major miracle is just about to happen. This is surprisingly believable, even to a Postmodern Scientific Asian like me.
Thursday, September 25
Let me not forget. I am here for work reasons. I pop into the Enterprises Architecture Conference and discover that it is nothing to do with architecture. It is about computers. Who’d have thought? It’s very dull so I sneak out halfway through the second talk. Humor on the subject of technology is easy enough. I should be able to wing it.
Things are developing interestingly at the muddy site in New Delhi. Individuals are taking dirt from the site, believing that it can cure them of ailments. It is one of those patches of land that are unloved and apparently un-owned, so no-one seems to mind. I stick a bit of the mud on my head to see if it can cure male pattern baldness. It’s icky and cold, despite the heat outside.
Friday, September 26
The miracle mud has left a strange stain on my head which doesn’t wash out. No hair growing yet. Still, reports are mounting in the local newspapers that the miracle mud seems to work for other people. Several people claim to have been cured of something or other. Mostly minor stuff: chronic illnesses cured, backaches disappearing, that sort of thing. No limbs growing back yet.
After lunch, I visit the local newspaper community to see Deepika in her home environment. The newsroom is filled with fury over a report from Japan. Japanese scientists have applied for a patent on curry. Application number 06090838 to the Japanese Patent Office lists Hirayama Makoto and Ohashi Sachiyo, as “inventors” of curry. Under World Trade Organization rules, the men would be able to claim fees on all curries entering Japan, even from India.
Deepika is infuriated by this, as are her colleagues. “We are not taking this lying down,” she says. “We are thinking of taking out a patent on sushi. You can charge a lot more for a menu of hamichi and uni than a vegetable pakora.”
Saturday, September 27
It is the day of my humorous enterprise architecture speech. I have cobbled together a suitable routine on computers. As I practice it in my hotel bedroom, Deepika calls with an update on the Fragrant God. “So many visitors are taking rocks and sand that the site is becoming a hole,” she says. Various theories are emerging about what the mysterious perfume could mean. The invisible god theory is still going strong. Others say that there is an ancient temple hidden under the earth, and activity by its gods is causing heavenly aromas to arise. A third theory says that a famous religious leader must be buried on the spot, and the fragrance is emanating from his saintly body. It didn’t smell to me like the aroma of decomposing flesh.
* * *
Muddy patch on my head is smoother than the rest, killing all attempts of my scalp even to grow fuzz.
* * *
The phone rings in my hotel room. It’s an administrator from the Advanced Enterprises Architecture Conference. He tells me my gig is cancelled. Why? I have been vetoed by a board member. It turns out that I insulted the main sponsors’ family in a newspaper column a couples of years ago, when I implied that his conviction for 23 separate offences may cast a slur on his probity. I’m feeling good. Last minute cancellations usually mean that I don’t do the job, but still get paid. (Fanny always gets fees in advance of events and NEVER returns them.)
Sunday, September 28
On my last day in New Delhi, Deepika tells me surprising news about the miraculous lot. A perfume company last night admitted to reporters that they had naughtily dumped a load of unwanted scent, rose and sandalwood flavors, on the site, and this had caused the dirt to smell fragrant.
“I guess that kills the tale,” I say.
“Not at all,” she replies. “The denizens of New Delhi have decided that the company’s story is far too far-fetched to be believed.” One of the people using the perfumed mud to do miracles told her that he much preferred the explanation that it was all due to invisible gods, hidden temples and magical saints. “He told me it was, quote, all so much more believable,” she said.
It’s impossible for a writer not to love India.
Chapter Ten
CHINA, COMMUNISM AND COMRADE DAVE
In which the vidushak encounters the hilarious utterances inspectorate
Wednesday, October 1
In a tea shop in Mumbai, I sit and enjoy the fluttering of the ceiling fan. It gives me butterfly kisses on my head. It feels good, but it makes me miss Mrs. Jam and the Small Portions. (Thinks: Working people on business trips should stroke each other more. Second thoughts: Give this further consideration before putting into practice. Priti was definitely dangerously strokeable. Agnetha dangerous in a different way.)
Retreating to philosophy, I ponder on the role of the creative industries in this fast-globalizing world. So much exciting cultural and intellectual material, from B
eethoven to Maroon 5 moves from west to east, while what moves from east to west? Dull shipments of raw materials and manufactured appliances.
It’s interesting to think about the cultural stuff arriving on our shores from the west. Here in Asia, creative freedom is not allowed in many places, and writers and commentators are often not even allowed to discuss the problem in public. These are top-down societies. I’ll never forget the time I gave a speech in Hong Kong on the existence of secret blacklists of writers, and one newspaper reporter wrote down everything I said. Then he politely asked permission to attribute my quotes to someone else, explaining that my name was on his paper’s own secret blacklist. The report appeared the following day with my quotes in someone else’s mouth. I phoned up the editor to point out the irony of this. He admitted that it had happened and was funny, but dismissed the complaint, not seeing any real problem with it.
Yet “dangerous” information about the amazing freedoms we associate with the west creeps into the east continuously through different routes: often it is packaged as entertainment, as humor or comedy or TV drama or movies or novels. These are commodities that have the prime purpose of making us smile, so our censors and strongmen leaders let them float over the barriers. They sometimes make pirate copies to distribute to their families and friends.
Yet right there, in The Simpsons, or Seinfeld, or Toy Story, are neat, appealing illustrations of how free-speaking, bottom-up societies work. Must find a way to put this theory into a one-line epigram.
The Curious Diary of Mr Jam Page 23