INDIAN LOVE

I’ve always had a thing for Indians and Arabs.

When I see someone Indian-looking—someone who looks “bombay”—I always get attracted; sometimes physically (sometimes sexually), sometimes not really. There’s just this appreciation—this connection that is always instant, and a little inexplicable. Perhaps I’ve had a couple of past lives in Calcutta or Bombay.

I remember that even before Sushmita Sen won Miss Universe, I was already digging India’s candidates instead of the usual Venezuelans, Colombians and other Latinas.

And back in the early days of cable TV, I found myself tuned in to the Indian channels, even if I didn’t really understood a thing they were saying—or singing, that is.


I am so in love with Bollywood. At first, it was just entertaining in a hysterical kind of way. If you didn’t grow up watching it, high-pitched singers belting out vocal gymnastics-filled pieces while busting out all these epileptic moves will make you giggle, which admittedly happened with me. Before long though, I noticed I was drawn to watching more and more numbers—without the giggles.

I still watch a lot of Indian cable TV nowadays. Forget HBO or MTV.

A couple of days ago, I caught this talent show for young singers called “Li’l Champs.” The contestants blew my socks off, and their pieces—no “I Will Always Love You” or that no-no-no-no-way song here—were beautiful: catchy Indian songs that had me humming along after a few lines.


Something—someone—else blew me away: one of the judges, who is so dashing and handsome and charming I think he is my favorite Indian of all time (apart from Sushmita, Aishwara Rai, Asha Bosle, and that guy from that labu-labu YouTube vid). I was so enchanted I tried to Google him, but I couldn’t find his name. It took me two days before I finally found his name, which resulted to Wiki reads, YouTube clips and Google Images viewing.

I love him so much that when I have a boy, I am seriously naming him after Mr. Bollywood star, instead of Toshio.

We’ll see.