Indian Newspapers, Cow Shed and American Boy in Bangkok

[Bengaluru, 12/14/22]

In my 20’s and 30’s, I routinely read at least two newspapers a day, the Philadelphia Inquirer and Daily News, plus, often, the New York Times and New York Post. I read those because they were available where I lived.

With the internet, most of us no longer get our news on paper, so many newspapers have died, with even the largest ones trimming their staff. Who cares, you say, since all they purvey is fake news?

What we’re missing, though, is the provincial touch, the oddities that define each place, for no two towns think or talk alike. North Philly is already radically different than South Philly, with each its own universe practically.

Before the internet, a great pleasure for me when traveling was discovering the local newspaper, whether in rural Maine or some town in Tennessee, etc.

At my two-star hotel in Bengaluru, five newspapers are set out daily on a small table. Four are in English, and one in Devanagari. As expected, they contain countless surprises.

In a brief Bangalore Mirror article by Subhash K Jha, “What made Smita Patil cry,” we discover that “she was especially awkward with filmy dancing.” After one disastrous session, “she rushed home, locked herself in her room and wept copiously.” An affair is described as “the two intense actors shared a warm bonding. Such was their rapport that Smita would drop in unannounced at the Bachcans’ residence whenever she was shooting nearby, for a chat and a meal.”

The “personal” in the same paper aren’t blunt or tragic appeals for some warm bonding, please, pretty please, but announcements of name changes. If I were to place such an ad, it would go like this:

I, LINH DINH R/O Room 210, Hotel Empire, 78 Central St, Tasker Town, Bengaluru 560001 have changed my name to SRI BLOGGING WALLAH BUM for all future purposes.

The Bengaluru edition of The Hindu has two quarter-page death anniversary notices, in full colors. Twenty-four years after his death, a university chancellor is honored with “Your unfading footsteps are the Eternal source of inspiration to us.” A university trustee who died 15 years ago is remembered as “A Symbol of Simplicity and Sacrifice.”

On the streets of Bengaluru, there are many death notices, with “Sad Demise” as their heading. Some are poster sized and in vinyl, so will last a while.

I’ve seen publicly displayed obituaries in Serbia, North Macedonia, Albania, Ukraine, Italy and South Africa, etc. Many countries do this. Nigerians announce it as a “PAINFUL EXIT.” It must be unusual, though, to buy an expensive ad to commemorate a death decades ago.

Each morning in Philly, I would read about one, two or three more local murders. On rare days without homicides, there’s at least a shooting, armed robbery or rape, or someone being sucker punched just for the hell of it.

Although blacks commit a gross proportion of these crimes, the kosher explanation is that it’s caused by poverty, discrimination or residual trauma from slavery. Poor people murder or even rape out of hunger and/or anger.

Only Fascists dare to suggest races or ethnic groups must differ, no matter how slightly, in any category. In Namibia, though, I met an Angolan who went on at length about how his people, Nigerians and Zimbabweans had the biggest dicks on earth. He must have been a Fascist.

Though much poorer than the US, India has many fewer murders. I feel much safer wandering around Bengaluru than I did in Philadelphia or Camden, though I’m in an entirely alien environment, where it’s a lot easier to be spooked.

In Cape Town, there were entire sections of town I had to avoid. Still, I almost got mugged by three youths, and within sight of City Hall, too, with its Mandela statue waving.

Recently, a white South African friend emailed me, “I was mugged in Gardens on Wednesday. Luckily I only lost a bit of blood.” With many beautiful homes and some of the city’s best restaurants, Gardens is actually a nicer neighborhood there.

A location scout for movies and commercials, my friend knows Cape Town very well, but that didn’t help. Neither did the long Tanzanian knife he kept in his car. Violence prowls then pounces.

[Cape Town, 9/21/21]

On 12/14/22, the Bangalore Mirror reports just two crimes. One is of thieves stealing an ATM machine which had less than $4,000. Here’s the second:

No chicken rolls for this bunch: Gang sets eatery ablaze

A group of miscreants not only got in a fight with the staff of an eatery for telling them there was no chicken roll left, but also set fire to their room in the Hanumantha Nagar Police Station limits.

According to the police, nobody was injured in the fire. Two accused have been arrested so far, of which the main accused has been identified as Devraj.

“Last night, Devraj and his friends arrived at Kumar Hotel in Hanumantha Nagar to eat chicken rolls. When the staff informed them that serving hours were over and they were about to close, Devaraj and team got into a fight with them,” said the police.

Following that, Devraj and his friends went to the petrol station and bought eight litres of petrol in bottles.

“They poured the petrol on the hotel staff’s room and set it on fire,” added the police.

Petrol was poured on the doors and windows of the room. All the staffers managed to escape unharmed.

Reading is good, but you must plow your way through a place to begin to know it. You must be submerged in its noises and stinks. Whitman, “Have we not darken’d and dazed ourselves with books long enough?”

After days of rain, I was able to roam for five hours today. I passed a “GENTS BEAUTY PARLOUR,” where a wiry young man with a neck tattoo was being beautified. I talked to three ten-graders who were playing cricket in Coles Park. I admired Wesley Church from 1888. In burgundy and white, it’s charmingly proportioned and belongs inside a children’s book or on top of a cake.

The highlight was a cow shed I stumbled upon in Pulikeshi Nagar. Down a side street, it looked filthy, frankly, with one bony cow standing outside on mud mixed with cow dung over concrete.

Nosing in, I saw a woman under a blue and white scarf, in a beige sweater, selling milk from blue aluminum drums. Next to her was a white bearded, bespectacled and rather rotund man. I asked him a dumb question, “Why are these cows in here, and so many cows are outside?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged.

They’re in there because they’re relatively healthy, obviously, so could give more milk.

“Which country?” he asked.

Fluent English is mostly out of reach of the less educated Indians, I’ve realized. There are even mistakes on signs and billboards. One low end eatery offers “CHEST PEACE” instead of chicken breast.

“Vietnam,” I answered.

“East or West?”

“Uh, I don’t understand.” I leaned closer.

“East or West?”

It turned out he meant north or south, so I said there’s only one Vietnam, "There's no more war!"

"No more fighting America?"

Generously, he gave me an aluminum glass of milk, so that’s my late breakfast. Drinking too fast, I spilled some on my $3 shirt, bought right here in Bengaluru.

[Bengaluru, 12/14/22]

Snooping around, I saw two cows in each stall, standing or lying on dirty concrete. Their joints must ache, and their moods sour. In one stall, there’s a small framed print of Hanuman. Being in India has enriched my understanding of “holy cow.”

We’re living through a grotesque era, though few realize to what extent. Again, though, I find myself in a society functioning more or less normally, though normal for Bengaluru differs from that of Des Moines, say, or even Bangkok, just a short flight away.

In the Thai capital last month, I paid just $15 a night for a slightly skanky room in Phra Nakhon, a well-preserved neighborhood with lots of character. I was fine. Soon, I’ll be back there.

In my Bangkok hotel’s tiny lobby, I saw an American father and son. About 13, the kid was sulking, if not freaking out. He refused to move or speak when his dad told him, repeatedly, to go back to their room. Finally, he did, most sullenly.

If raised in a suburb, he hardly knew sidewalks, much less packed ones, with people not just walking but eating, drinking or whooping it up, even late into the night. Often, he felt as if he was trespassing through a series of private parties. Used to being boxed in steel just to get around, he was now thrusted, all too naked, into streams of strange bodies. If most were oddly dressed in his eyes, they couldn’t care less what he thought. Dimly, he realized meanings are generally pinned to a tiny plot. An inch from its border, they evaporate.

If Bangkok’s normality didn’t suit him, there’s no chance he can handle Bengaluru’s, but perhaps he can grow into being more adaptable. If forced, he certainly will. Faced with war, economic collapse or an insufferable government, millions of people have, whether they flee or stay put.

That’s a test you, too, will have to pass, one way or another. Else, you’ll go mad, even madder than you’re now, or you’ll end it all, without even a Sad Demise notice placed anywhere, not that anyone cares.

Since Russia’s war with the US, NATO and Ukraine started, I’ve noticed the Indian media have mostly opposed Western bullshit, of which they have more than a passing knowledge. They never predicted Russia’s inevitable defeat or demise, but Ukraine’s. As with the assaults on Iraq, Libya and Syria, Jewish miscreants are behind this latest genocide, for they thrive on holocausts.

Meanwhile, life’s not overly turbulent for most people. With Argentina and France in the World Cup’s final, normality still reigns, it seems, especially if you don’t take your eyes off the television.

With Christmas near, songs of peace, comfort and merriment pervade, even here in India. Again in Third Wave, I just heard Perry Como:

Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze
For the holidays, you can't beat home sweet home

Corny as hell, sure, but it beats hearing explosions and sirens, if you’re not dead, that is.

War doesn’t care for holidays. The NVA and Viet Cong staged a massive attack during Tết, the Vietnamese New Year, then Uncle Sam bombed North Vietnam during Christmas.

With cascading bad news, there won’t be much chest peace moving forward, so be thankful for any reprieve. Finishing my assam spice tea, I save the honey packet for later.

Outside, the beautiful and not so pretty share the sidewalk. Since I’m actually welcomed to join them, I’ll do just that.

To hasten my exit, “Feliz Navidad” has just come on. Please Lord, take this José from me!

Hasta la próxima!

[Bengaluru, 12/14/22]

[Bengaluru, 12/14/22]

[Bengaluru, 12/14/22]