Being Britney Spears
“Indians can be very racist,” Chitra told me one time.
“I know,” I said. “And I love it.”
It was a joke, and we both laughed. Chitra and I have the sort of friendship that allows for politically incorrect humor. Racism, of course, is not only reprehensible but also uncool. It’s for nitwits, a trademark of the lumpen, as unattractive as plumber’s butt.
But I sort of meant it.
Being white in India is like wearing a VIP badge at a Springsteen concert; it gets you everywhere. You want to peek backstage? Right this way. Care to meet Bruce?
It’s gratifying to walk into a 5-star hotel or boutique in a dingy T, flip-flops slapping on marble floors, and be treated like royalty. Try that in New York or Paris and you’d be sneered at like Pretty Woman on her first shopping excursion.
When Alex was visiting from London, I took him to a swanky Chennai bar with a sign at the door: “No T-shirts. No shorts. No sandals.” Alex was wearing all three. We should have been turned away, and if it weren’t for our SPF 45-sporting skin, we probably would have been. Instead, we were whisked to a plush backroom where our code-busting getups wouldn’t be noticed.
Being white means almost nothing is verboten. You can hop barriers at sports stadiums. You can park your scooter in a “cars only” spot and swim in a “guests only” pool. You can pass through gates closed to the public.
A couple of weeks ago, I had another visitor. Jon is a WM who lives in LA, stands 6-foot-5 and travels on business so often that he wrangled four free nights at Mumbai’s luxurious JW Marriott. I’ll confess: I didn’t see much of Mumbai. The beachside hotel boasts three swimming pools, eight restaurants and bathrooms with – holy smoke! – tubs. I hadn’t seen a bathtub since Thailand. So you can understand why I found it difficult to venture past the hotel’s torch-flanked gates.
One of our few outings was to Mumbai’s most famous landmark, the Gateway of India. Indian families picnic in the shadow of the triumphal arch while bare-chested boys take turns leaping into the Arabian Sea. On the land side of the Gateway is a fenced garden. When Jon and I visited, it was closed to everyone but a few guards and landscapers. The guards waved us in.
They escorted us through the garden, snapped photos with our cameras and, after some negotiation about their tip, opened the gate and let us out. At which point we were swarmed by some 30 children who’d been eyeing us from outside the fence. The bolder ones reached out and touched Jon, giving him his first taste of a celebrityhood I’ve grown accustomed to.
A couple of years ago, I was taking a walk in my Santa Monica, Calif., neighborhood when I saw a pack of paparazzi outside a pet store. I stopped and asked an onlooker what the fuss was about. Britney Spears was shopping for a new best friend, I learned. I joined the paparazzi and passers-by waiting for her to emerge, and when she finally did, clutching a ball of fur, I jockeyed for a better look. “I can’t believe she’s treated like a zoo animal,” I thought as I treated her like a zoo animal.
Then she and her mom got in their car and ran over a photographer’s foot. But that’s a story for another time.
The point is: I know how she feels. Throughout this country, I attract stares and sometimes a train of children. Indians on holiday ask to take my picture. At the Taj Mahal, I became the main attraction for a gaggle of teen-age boys. When I visited a waterfall in Coorg with Chitra and Alex, a mother beseeched Alex and me to pose for photos with her son. She yanked off the boy's jacket and smoothed his hair before pushing him into the frame. Chitra was waved aside.
“I was this close to stripping naked to get some attention,” Chitty whined later.
Sometimes I tire of the attention my skin attracts. Sometimes, like Britney, I yearn for anonymity. But the perks outweigh the inconveniences. Britney gets goody bags filled with the latest gadgets, jasmine-scented eye pillows and assorted bling. I get free coffee at banks and office buildings where I have no business. I’ve been plucked from an all-Indian crowd at a Hindu temple and treated to tea, sweets and an audience with a priest.
The other day I got a free scoop of ice cream. I ordered chocolate and strawberry; the bill said just chocolate.
“You forgot to charge me for a scoop,” I said to the lads at the cash register.
“Two for one,” they insisted, smiling and goggling at me like I’d stepped out of US Weekly. “Where from?”
Free strawberry: sweet benefit of being vanilla.
“I know,” I said. “And I love it.”
It was a joke, and we both laughed. Chitra and I have the sort of friendship that allows for politically incorrect humor. Racism, of course, is not only reprehensible but also uncool. It’s for nitwits, a trademark of the lumpen, as unattractive as plumber’s butt.
But I sort of meant it.
Being white in India is like wearing a VIP badge at a Springsteen concert; it gets you everywhere. You want to peek backstage? Right this way. Care to meet Bruce?
It’s gratifying to walk into a 5-star hotel or boutique in a dingy T, flip-flops slapping on marble floors, and be treated like royalty. Try that in New York or Paris and you’d be sneered at like Pretty Woman on her first shopping excursion.
When Alex was visiting from London, I took him to a swanky Chennai bar with a sign at the door: “No T-shirts. No shorts. No sandals.” Alex was wearing all three. We should have been turned away, and if it weren’t for our SPF 45-sporting skin, we probably would have been. Instead, we were whisked to a plush backroom where our code-busting getups wouldn’t be noticed.
Being white means almost nothing is verboten. You can hop barriers at sports stadiums. You can park your scooter in a “cars only” spot and swim in a “guests only” pool. You can pass through gates closed to the public.
A couple of weeks ago, I had another visitor. Jon is a WM who lives in LA, stands 6-foot-5 and travels on business so often that he wrangled four free nights at Mumbai’s luxurious JW Marriott. I’ll confess: I didn’t see much of Mumbai. The beachside hotel boasts three swimming pools, eight restaurants and bathrooms with – holy smoke! – tubs. I hadn’t seen a bathtub since Thailand. So you can understand why I found it difficult to venture past the hotel’s torch-flanked gates.
One of our few outings was to Mumbai’s most famous landmark, the Gateway of India. Indian families picnic in the shadow of the triumphal arch while bare-chested boys take turns leaping into the Arabian Sea. On the land side of the Gateway is a fenced garden. When Jon and I visited, it was closed to everyone but a few guards and landscapers. The guards waved us in.
They escorted us through the garden, snapped photos with our cameras and, after some negotiation about their tip, opened the gate and let us out. At which point we were swarmed by some 30 children who’d been eyeing us from outside the fence. The bolder ones reached out and touched Jon, giving him his first taste of a celebrityhood I’ve grown accustomed to.
A couple of years ago, I was taking a walk in my Santa Monica, Calif., neighborhood when I saw a pack of paparazzi outside a pet store. I stopped and asked an onlooker what the fuss was about. Britney Spears was shopping for a new best friend, I learned. I joined the paparazzi and passers-by waiting for her to emerge, and when she finally did, clutching a ball of fur, I jockeyed for a better look. “I can’t believe she’s treated like a zoo animal,” I thought as I treated her like a zoo animal.
Then she and her mom got in their car and ran over a photographer’s foot. But that’s a story for another time.
The point is: I know how she feels. Throughout this country, I attract stares and sometimes a train of children. Indians on holiday ask to take my picture. At the Taj Mahal, I became the main attraction for a gaggle of teen-age boys. When I visited a waterfall in Coorg with Chitra and Alex, a mother beseeched Alex and me to pose for photos with her son. She yanked off the boy's jacket and smoothed his hair before pushing him into the frame. Chitra was waved aside.
“I was this close to stripping naked to get some attention,” Chitty whined later.
Sometimes I tire of the attention my skin attracts. Sometimes, like Britney, I yearn for anonymity. But the perks outweigh the inconveniences. Britney gets goody bags filled with the latest gadgets, jasmine-scented eye pillows and assorted bling. I get free coffee at banks and office buildings where I have no business. I’ve been plucked from an all-Indian crowd at a Hindu temple and treated to tea, sweets and an audience with a priest.
The other day I got a free scoop of ice cream. I ordered chocolate and strawberry; the bill said just chocolate.
“You forgot to charge me for a scoop,” I said to the lads at the cash register.
“Two for one,” they insisted, smiling and goggling at me like I’d stepped out of US Weekly. “Where from?”
Free strawberry: sweet benefit of being vanilla.
posted by Badass at 11:50 PM
4 Comments:
Meet Springsteen's fans here...www.foryoubruce.com
Ha! I'm glad to hear that your pale complexion is coming in handy. It sounds like your trip is amazing...I'm sure it beats the cubicle. Make sure to enjoy your fame while it lasts! I was once famous in El Salvador, but no one cared once I got back to New York...
I made it, I made it! On your blog, I mean. And I got more mentions than Britney...
Guess I'll tell the immigration folks to let you be, for just a little while longer.
One would think that I had posted the Bruce Springsteen message. I didnt.
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