Weight Room Racism

I suppose it’s high time I was on the receiving end of some bigotry, but I can’t say I welcome the change of pace. Most places in Delhi, white skin assures you get hassled, but mostly by people trying to (over)serve you. One can scarcely complain about that. At a few places, mostly official-type places like the archives or near government buildings, public guardians (moustachioed police and decrepit archivists) regard white people with a certain amount of suspicion, but still maintain polite formality. Although one could go on for hours about how historical perceptions shape such encounters, language is the most immediate issue. Most Delhites know some English, and many even know enough to communicate with limited success. The problem is that none of them speak English as well as they think they do. As Russell Peters would say, they speak English very fast… as if they know it. They quickly become annoyed when I ask them to repeat phrases which to them seem perfectly logical and grammatical. My responses compound the issue because most Indians are still more accustomed to hearing British English and mine sounds relatively informal and, to them, incomprehensible (and no, I don’t think a Winston Churchill impersonation would help).

Also, a lot of places people love Americans, like Poland, where the only country they love more than Poland is the U.S. India does not seem to be such a place. People are often interested, but there is always some caution, more so than in China. Whether this is because we are Pakistan’s chief military financier or simply because I have no caste, I cannot say. Things go better for me with Muslims because they generally assume I am Muslim too. The beard helps and I throw in enough asalaam alaykums, insha’allahs, and a few other Arabic phrases to cover.

Nevertheless, one quickly notices that much more Caucasian-staring occurs here than one might expect given that white people have been strutting around India for 250 years. In China they have fewer white folks, but more reservations about staring. In India, there seem to be many fewer qualms about fixating looks. I hear tell this is especially an issue for female expats, though white people always tend to think non-white people are looking at them funny. As a rule, the fairer (especially blonder) one is, the more attention one receives. Dressing the part helps, but marginally. I wear pants to the archives and usually on weekend excursions as well, though it’s beastly hot. Unfortunately, “Dark Funeral” shirts don’t mask me nearly so well.

In the neighborhood where I reside, however, I’ve become slightly more casual. I’ll wear shorts around at night and the upper-class folks who live around here have dealt with enough white people not to be too impressed either positively or negatively. That said, once a day, all bets are off and things become extremely uncomfortable for me.

(When the very late monsoon rains come, this will all be underwater and a few hundred people are going to have to find some new shelter.)

After I get back from the archives, I have to walk the half-kilometer gauntlet to the gym. This is wearing on me. Granted, t-shirts with cut-off sleeves and nylon shorts stand out, but these people see me go by every day, and 7 weeks later, they still can’t get enough. Everyday conversations stop, groups of old men all turn towards me and follow me with their heads until I turn a corner. Women walking kabab-sized dogs zoom to the other side of the street. Children whisper. It is bizarre. The walk probably takes 4 minutes, it feels like an hour.

The worst part is yet to come; the gym holds no relief. In fact, I think here I will go so far as to use the word racism, because my experience seems analogous to experiences I’ve heard of from black Americans in predominantly white environments (Note: in 7 weeks, I’ve seen one other white guy who has come to the gym a few times). The first time I went in, the trainers wouldn’t let me touch anything without their assistance. Fine, new place, first time, I understand. 7 weeks later I find it weird that they keep trying to punch in my treadmill settings, which you don’t know, but ok. The equipment in this gym is decently bootleg, so it breaks frequently. When I am using a piece of equipment that gives out, I am subject to a broken-English Inquisition about just what I was doing or which button I pressed. Things break for other people and the trainers chuckle and shrug. Hmm…

The middle-aged women, who shamelessly flirt with the trainers half their age, flee the area when they see me coming and if they want to use a machine, they grab one of the guys who works there and stand behind him while he asks me how much longer I’ll be. That’s another thing, I’m always receiving pressure to hurry up and let other people use whatever I’m using, even when I’ve just started. When I have been waiting patiently for someone to get off their fucking cell phone and finish bench-pressing, no one seems to notice (note: as bad as Americans are with their cellphones, Indians are worse, way worse. People will seriously sit in the leg press machine and talk for 5 minutes while I wait). Whenever I start a set, a bunch of the younger dudes begin the staring again and I’m fairly certain it’s not because they want my number. They’re gawking at me, and yet they’re the ones wearing khaki pants and sandals in a weight room… ok… whatever.

Still, one could dismiss these events. Even taken together, they hardly constitute proof of racism. Now we come to the part that really earns my ire. Unaccustomed as I am to this climate, I sweat more than most Indians. I admit it freely. That said, I’m not the sweatiest person in the gym by a long shot. The 100 kilo, 50 year-old women sweats buckets just standing around. There are others as well. I have never seen one person at this gym wipe down a machine when he or she is done. Yes, that is not hyperbole, I have seen this zero times. The gym doesn’t have towels, as one might have predicted considering it’s in India. Nobody brings them either. Fine, I think to myself, it’s the Indian way.

(Raj Ghat, where they cremated Gandhi)

A couple weeks ago, the trainers started coming over to me from time to time, handing me a disgusting rag, and asking me to clean something I was just using. Though the rag was gross, I would normally have had no problem, but then nobody there ever leaves things clean for me. I have never seen them ask anyone else to wipe up anything. Today, however, was the last straw. One of the trainers interrupts me and asks me to step outside with him. This is odd, but ok, stranger in strange land. He informs me that I need to start bringing my own towel to clean everything I use. Let me reiterate that I’ve seen this requirement placed on none of the other perspiring folks (all Indian) who make use of the facility. What am I to make of this? Is my Slavic perspiration some how different from the South Asian variety? Will a drop of my ritually impure sweat damage someone’s caste status? These are all good questions which I don’t feel like asking people who speak poor English and are hosting me in their country.

(This was some kind of sacred pit of rocks next to where they cremated Gandhi. This kid was amazing. He climbed right into the middle and started tossing rocks out. No one stopped him for five minutes.)

Has the experience scarred me? Did I need this lesson to teach me about the pain of racism? Am I victim? No times three. Of course not, for me it’s just a pain in the ass, and even a bit amusing, though it really is a pain. That’s because I’ll be going home soon. What really sucks is when this garbage happens to one in one’s own country.

Apologies for the delay on this entry. I found myself without a whole lot to say last week. Expect two more entries, maybe three if I’m really quick, before I come home on August 8^th and shut this thing down.

Now playing: "Withstand the Fall of Time" - IMMORTAL. I have a nasty habit of leaving the country when all the kvlt Norsk bands play. Unable to make Immortal's first U.S. shows in 5 years, I've had to appreciate them on the internet. That's about one step away from getting a "Second Life" account I fear.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=erS48SL7o50&mode=related&search=