Playing Hooky

I'm sitting in a mall food court, clutching a plastic bag from a big box store, waiting for my fast food order to be ready. I've just finished watching a movie in a megaplex with stadium seating, cupholders in the armrests, capuccino at the snack bar, the whole package.

What country am I in, again?

Aunt Flo's in town, and my tampon supply is dwindling. Anywhere else this wouldn't necessitate a trip to the mall, but bear with me here. You see, northern India is a man's world. There are very few women even out on the streets here in Lucknow, let alone staffing the counters at corner shops and pharmacies. India in general is not really a self-serve culture - every shop is based on the idea that you walk into the store and ask for what you want, compare several options, and basically develop a relationship with a sales clerk. Who, as I've just said, is invariably male, and the sort of male you find in extremely, ummmm, male dominated sorts of cultures. Crotch grabbing. Leering. Men's men in the worst way. Not the sort of person I want to have an intimate discussion with about my flow, wings or no wings, the merits of the phonebook vs. a slim pantyliner option (thank god tampons are generally unavailable in India...).

Making the whole thing worse, as the only white person in a two mile radius, I'm treated as a minor celebrity anywhere I go. Not only am I going to have to talk girltalk with some tobacco-spitting patriarch, he's going to want to know everything about me, ask me if I know his cousin in Ohio, trade email addresses, and invite me to his daughter's wedding. And forty people on the street are going to crowd around to watch the white girl buy pads. And they're all going to want personal interviews, too, possibly regarding intimate details of my girly bits, because NOTHING is off limits in Indian conversation.

I was feeling a little stressed about this.

And then I noticed the huge billboard for Big Bazaar, which is sort of the Indian answer to Target. Conveniently located a mere two blocks from my hotel. They were sure to have a toiletry section, and I was confident that there would be shelves of options I could access myself, an impersonal checkout lane, and all the things I hate about shopping in America. So I walked over and confronted India's third-largest shopping mall, Sahara Ganj. Named after a desert. How apt.

Big Bazaar was everything I'd hoped for. I grabbed some pads, more mosquito repellent, and headed for the checkout, where I managed to pay and get out with minimal fuss. No intimate chats with strange men who seem to think my face is located between my breasts, and only about 30 entire families gaped in my general direction.

On the way out I realized the mall's movie theater was showing the epic costume drama about the Mughal emperor Akbar that I'd wanted to see. It was starting in 20 minutes, which gave me just enough time to get through security, buy a ticket and a coke, and find my seat.

That's right, I said "get through security." Movies are THE mainstream form of media here in India, which makes them great political targets. And just like America, Indian filmmakers tend to be slightly liberal. This all adds up to mean that anytime some conservative political party gets a bee in its bonnet about the latest blockbuster (too positive towards Muslims! too sexy! X movie star supposedly made Y comment about Z ethnic group!) they send goons to bust up the cinema. Flashy western-style megaplexes are expensive to keep repairing all the time, and the middle class families that patronize them frown upon unsightly displays of terrorism. Thus it's harder to get into a fancy movie theater in India than it is to get into some American airports.

Anyway, after 4 hours of Braveheart meets Sholay meets Pride And Prejudice meets West Side Story (I know!!!), I had worked up an appetite. So I went up to the top floor food court and ordered an Idli and Sambar combo meal at a South Indian stall run by North Indian Sikhs, complete with a huge picture of Guru Nanak on the wall between the soda fountain and the fry-o-lator.

Ah, India!