Got me.

I came across this on *Pardon My Hindi tonight and couldn’t resist the opportunity to share it.

We’re off to Yosemite tomorrow for a night amongst waterfalls, breathtaking beauty, and bears. Look for more on that soon. And fear not: I am still processing and channeling India. I’ve got lots to fill you in on!

Bonfires of Color

Some aspect of the Indian gene pool must contain a tendency towards pyromania. It’s the simplest explanation I can think of for the fact that every national holiday or festival I attended during my (now suspended) time in India involved burning or blowing up something or the other. Behold.

Diwali: fireworks and bonfires.
New Year’s Eve: ditto.
Lohri: check.
Holi (This one had me fooled — I just expected color. What did we get? You got it.): more bonfires.

I was in Udaipur for this last one, and had been advised to remain indoors because it was “very dangerous.” Apparently there’s something about throwing colored powder on people, many of whom are strangers, that often triggers another inexplicable trait specific to groups of Indian men: public misconduct on occasions of public festivity. In a typically Indian fashion, I couldn’t get many other details out of my friends and relatives as to what made going out on Holi dangerous. All I could gather from snippets and sweeping generalizations was that people get drunk or otherwise enter some altered state of mind and become prone to misconduct and deviant behavior. This was enough to convince me to take the day off from visiting sights and wandering through the streets. Given some of the stories I heard from others who either hadn’t been so advised, I had made the right decision.

Nevertheless, we did venture out on the night of Holi. (The festival is celebrated over two days, the second of which is apparently the one designated not for the faint of heart.) Wandering through the streets of the old city, we came upon an — you guessed it — enormous bonfire and party of sorts in the square at the bottom of the steps of the Jagdish Temple . I recorded bits of it for your viewing pleasure. Look out for a cameo by KA.

Breaking the Silence

I haven’t shared a word in over a month (except for the post that doesn’t count because I just uploaded it a little while ago even though was actually half written three weeks ago). But ending my silence has been surprisingly difficult because the past month has been the most active of the five months I’ve spent in India. The issue hasn’t been finding the time to write posts; it’s been the challenge of absorbing and distilling everything.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to catch up with my own thoughts, which include the sights and sounds of a journey from WISCOMP’s symposium in a Delhi hotel to the gates of the India-Pakistan border, with a few puddle-jumping stops around the country in between.

Please forgive me for slacking, and please check back soon!

Finding Happiness on My Autorickshaw Commute

I rushed out the door on my way to work, obscenely late, as usual. (Stop it. I can hear your snickering through the internet void.) As I emerged from the gate, an autorickshaw driver who had already taken me to work a few times waved at me wildly, encouraging me to walk past the other three such drivers who were trying to get my attention and beeline straight for his rickety wheels. I complied. He was fast, less rude than most, and seemed to take the quickest route through the least congested parts of south Delhi. I hopped in, and he looked at his watch and remarked that I was later than usual. I grunted. As if I hadn’t noticed. We sped off, weaving and honking our way through other weavers and honkers. As we approached one turn, I braced myself, gripping the railing of the rickshaw with one hand and my stuff with the other. I had learned on previous days that this road was traumatically bumpy, with potholes and craters the entire length of two city blocks. It didn’t help that most rickshaw drivers didn’t feel the need to slow down to accommodate the conditions. But today there was an excessive amount of traffic on the approach. When I realized that the clog was due to steamrollers and other construction equipment working its way down the offending block, my heart sang. I know it sounds a bit extreme, but literally — the sense that I had been in this town and traveling a certain route long enough to figure out which parts of it drove me nuts and then to see it through a positive change (in Delhi no less) raised my spirits for long enough to temporarily forget that the traffic jam meant I was going to arrive at work sometime after lunch. The recognition that roads do get better, one block at a time, in at least some parts of the city, was a bonus. And to top it all off, for the first time in four months and a result of this strange and fleeting connection I had created with Delhi public services on my way to work, I felt like I actually lived here.