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!

Top 10: Things KA Misses

He said these were in no particular order, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the first item would top the list under any and all circumstances.

Chicken wings
Water pressure
Reliable customer service
Clean air
Interesting conversation (I’m trying really, really hard not to take this personally. If I fail, he’ll wake up with a black eye.)
Proper value system (My attempt to argue that this was judgmental was met with a shrug.)
Drinking from the tap
Orderly driving
Quality stuff
Unexaggerated statements

Top 10: Things I Miss

In no particular order:

An international wine selection
Central heating
Gender equality
Tacos
Safe public transportation
Humility
Letting down my guard
Pubs
Specificity
My girlfriends

Cultural Regression, Political Warfare, and an Assault on St. Valentine

Since February 3rd, when Raj Thakeray, leader of the right wing party Maharashtra Navnirman Sena (MNS), started making inflammatory statements faulting migrants from North India for not learning the local language or adopting local customs, youth in Mumbai have gone on a rampage. Perceiving migrant workers as stealing their jobs, depressing wages, and corrupting their culture, these party activists threatened migrant workers and attacked taxi drivers, street vendors, and other properties and businesses. As a result of the national outcry, Mumbai police eventually arrested Thackeray and his co-discriminationist Abu Asim Azmi, but not before one bystander — most embarrassingly to the politicians, a Maharashtrian — died in the rioting. Behind the scenes of the violence, as usual, lies a political power grab between Thackeray and his cousin over who is the true heir of Bal Thackeray’s political legacy.

Detailing the clash of politics, culture and religion, the International Herald Tribune points out the increasing incidence of communal tension, social censorship, and narrow-minded sectarianism around India. Citing examples such as the self-imposed exile of renowned Indian painter M. F. Husain (who offended many by painting nude depictions of Hindu goddesses), death threats to Salman Rushdie, the banning of the Da Vinci code, and effective religious zoning (whereby entire neighborhoods have been declared vegetarian, rendering them essentially off-limits to Muslims), the IHT highlights a disturbing regressive trend in social and religious thought in India. Case in point: Delhi protesters yesterday blocked roads, chanting “Down with Valentine.”

Oddly, the underlying out-with-the-migrant-workers theme based on the accusation that some “other,” whether domestic or from abroad, is to blame for the lack of jobs, as well as the perceived corruption of culture is eerily familiar. Does Samuel Huntington consult on the side for the Hindu right-wingers? Maybe his books aren’t bringing in enough cash.

(IHT link courtesy of GM — thanks!)

Storytelling for Change

The cycle and vast scope of poverty in India are daunting challenges and uncomfortable subjects. Visitors, including myself, struggle to find an appropriate box in our minds in which to categorize the realities we witness on the ground. We read that nearly 80 percent of Indians, or 836 million people, live on less than 50 cents a day (equivalent to about 2 dollars a day in terms of cost of living) — and this from an Indian government report. We cringe, and move to the next headline. We look out the window of our passing car at the street children selling magazines and trinkets and returning to the road divider every few minutes to check on their baby siblings, we see the elderly suffering from leprosy moving from car to car, person to person, rattling a can, and as we make eye contact, we quickly shift our gaze. We feel guilt, sadness, sympathy, frustration, disgust, anger, and more, and we feel helpless. We often maintain stoic faces when faced with someone begging, or we attempt to make a small difference in their day by emptying our pockets of change. Few of us feel empowered to do much more. Last week, I encountered and joined a group that is doing much, much more.

Katha is a local NGO that works to alleviate poverty through an unusual medium: storytelling. Working broadly in the areas of language, culture and translation, Katha-ites are “publishers, teachers, and agents of change” who use stories to increase the accessibility of education to the under-privileged. Katha’s publishing house is based in South Delhi, and is well-known amongst enthusiastic readers for its collection of children’s books, most of which are available in both English and in Hindi (and all of which are beautifully illustrated), as well as for its novels. The concept of engaging new readers and students, regardless of their age, through folkloric stories and cultural familiarity is, in my opinion, brilliant.

Katha’s educational arm has currently enrolled over 6000 children in more than 50 schools and learning centers across India, the majority of which are in and around Delhi. Demonstrating an understanding of that complicated cycle of poverty I referred to earlier, the organization has made some small adjustments to their scope to accommodate a target community. For example, Katha centers have preschools and daycare centers for little ones so that older boys and girls can go to school instead of caring for their baby siblings; some of their schools have adult training and vocational courses with schedules that are more convenient to daily wage earners; and Katha has recently launched an adult English Academy, recognizing that a basic mastery of English will improve economic opportunities for the local residents.

Last week I visited Kathashala, one of Katha’s learning centers in the Govindpuri slum in East Delhi. The sense of excitement to learn and teach, to impart knowledge and effect change permeates every corner of the small brick complex. From the guard at the gate to the carpentry instructor, the class full of 8 year olds who jump up from the floor to recite “Good morning Ma’am!” the minute we walk in the door to the Director who shares her passion for the Katha way of teaching with every listening ear, I could feel the energy and enthusiasm.

If you can’t already tell, I’m looking forward to contributing whatever I can to Katha’s mission in the next few months. In other words, you’ll be hearing more about my adventures with Katha in the days to come!

Happy Lohri and Pongal!

This past Sunday was Lohri, largely celebrated in Punjab and other parts of North India. Also, as I recently learned (thanks CB!), yesterday was Pongal, celebrated in Tamil Nadu and other parts of South India. Essentially similar events, Lohri and Pongal are like North American Thanksgiving with (in the case of the former) a little bit of Groundhog Day thrown in. I’ll spare you the history and cultural lesson (please check out the links to Wikipedia if you’re curious), but the holidays are an annual celebration of the upcoming harvest and a party to end the rest period before the gathering of crops. (No, K and I won’t be gathering crops this season, but maybe next year.) The Groundhog Day bit comes from the belief that Lohri marks the end of winter.

As K was frantically packing and preparing to head back to Canada on the night of Lohri (and since we didn’t have any clue as to how Lohri is celebrated), we didn’t anticipate partaking in the festivities. But our downstairs neighbors were getting ready for the customary bonfire and invited us to join them. Never known to shy away from a party, K and I readily obliged. Once our hosts lit the bonfire in the driveway, we all toasted to Lohri, walked around the fire, sang a few songs (or mumbled and smiled, in our case), and each threw a handful of popcorn, peanuts, and revri (a crunchy, sesame seed-encrusted sweet) into the fire. Presumably since the idea of burning things while celebrating outdoors was reminiscent of Diwali, our neighbors pulled out some firecrackers leftover from November. We proceeded to entertain ourselves with this additional form of a fire hazard for another 15 minutes or so before downing our drinks and excusing ourselves for dinner. Aside from visits by two groups of hijras, the second of which left happily with a wad of cash, the celebration was pretty mellow, and hey, who doesn’t love to play with fire every once in a while?

Back in Time Through an Alternative Universe

A few weeks ago we traveled to the 17th century via the miserable, dirty, tourist trap city of Aaaarrrrgggghhhh-ra (Agra). The architectural, historical, and cultural gems buried (literally) within the city never fail to humble and amaze me; we visited Sikandra, Fatehpur Sikri, and, of course, the Taj, but we were too crunched for time to stop at the Agra Fort. Sadly, the grimy city, the sleazy-greedy-pushy guides (picture $ signs — not even rupee signs — in place of their pupils), fungus on the hotel room walls, and the crowded congestion left a sour taste in our mouth. As we scooted out of town after visiting Fatehpur Sikri, Papa had obviously had enough. Upon our return to the car, where we found that contrary to what we were told at the outset, the guide’s total fee did not include payment for our transportation up the hill. Papa turned to the “guide” and stated, “Why did you lie to me.” (And yes, it was a statement, not a question.) The conversation went downhill from there; it was clearly time to go. The fact that I’ve come to the conclusion of our visit before even describing our explorations in Agra should be further indicative of our sentiments towards the place. Please allow me a moment to dig deep into my soul for some of the inspirational scenes of our trip to share with you.

Our first stop was Sikandra, the tomb of Akbar, who was the third emperor of the Mughal dynasty in India from 1542 to 1605. Notably, Akbar selected the site and designed the tomb himself. Though this fact was not remarkable at the time — Mughals always designed their own final resting spots — the thought begs the question: what would your tomb look like if you were to design it? Where would it be? How would it look and feel? Akbar’s tomb is incredibly peaceful, despite it’s location right outside the teeming metropolis of Agra. Like all Mughal architecture, it is symmetrical and geometric. The grassy grounds present a stark contrast to the red sandstone structure, and the arches, domes, and intricate panel work leave the visitor with the knowledge that they are in the presence of something, or someone, grand.

We continued on to lunch. We knew when we pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant of our driver’s choice that we were in the wrong place. Like ours, every other car there was marked by the blue TOURIST emblem on its side. We were one of two brown parties in the entire place. Upon our entry, the boy dressed in a Rajasthani outfit happily started dancing to the song his older counterpart started playing on the ektara: Macarena. As we giggled and passed by him, he flopped down on his cushion with a glum look on is face, until another Tourist walked in to restart the process. I’ll spare you the other details about our meal, which was unremarkable.

Our next stop was the Taj Mahal. The Taj, as you probably already know, was commissioned by the fifth Mughal emperor and Akbar’s grandson, Shah Jahan, in memory of his favorite wife (there were ten of them altogether), Mumtaz Mahal. Mumtaz died while giving birth to their 14th (yes, moms, imagine that) child. Historians of Shah Jahan’s court apparently paid an immense amount of attention to the circumstances surrounding Mumtaz’s death, as well as to Shah Jahan’s grief at the news. Apparently his beard turned grey and eventually fully white in the aftermath, and his eyesight diminished due to constant weeping. Gradually, Shah Jahan’s daughter brought him out of mourning, and the court devoted itself to the design and construction of the Taj Mahal. Construction began in 1632, and overall, the complex took 22 years to complete. Needless to say, it’s absolutely brilliant. Doing justice to a description of the Taj is beyond my skill as a writer or a photographer (not that I would even insult the profession by calling myself a photographer). How about if I just encourage you, my friends and family, to come visit the Taj via our temporary abode in New Delhi? Oh, and Wikipedia has a fascinating clickable map of the Taj Mahal, as well as detailed information about the origins and architecture of the site.

Fatehpur Sikri, which as I mentioned above was our last stop in the Agra area before heading back to Delhi, is just as fascinating a snapshot of Mughal history and architecture, though nowhere near as awe-inspiring or as majestic as the Taj. As the story goes, Akbar, who had no children at the time, was blessed and told by the Sufi Saint Salim Chisti that he would soon father a son to inherit his empire. When the prophesy was fulfilled, Akbar decided to move his headquarters close to Salim Chisti. The resulting fort complex is comprised of many buildings including a Hall of Public Audience; a Hall of Private Audience; Jodhabai’s palace (who was one of Akbar’s wives); a water tank (now a cesspool, but more about that later); a wind palace; a Gate of Magnificence (aptly named, this was the most memorable sight of our visit); a mosque; and Salim Chisti’s tomb (which was built much later).

Unfortunately, the second most memorable aspect of our visit to Fatehpur Sikri was of the hawk-like “guides,” “souvenir-sellers,” and pushy children who followed us around the entire time. First of all, our guide, who raised my father’s ire by the end of the tour, kept dragging us around to obscure corners of the fort where random people tried to insist that we buy sheets and other paraphernalia to give as offerings at Salim Chisti’s tomb. Apparently, in return, all our wishes would be granted. Then there were the little kids who ran circles around us waving postcards and keychains in our faces. However, I didn’t mind them as much as the other kids who offered to jump into the green, algae, mold, and trash-filled water tank at the back of the fort if we would give them 100 rupees. What scares me is that I know some spiteful tourist will take them up on that offer. I hate to ponder what kinds of nasty diseases they might emerge with. We bolted out of there as quickly as we could descend the never-ending staircase at the entrance.

Aaaarrrrgggghhhhra was exactly this: frustrating, awe-inspiring, romantic, intimidating, filthy, and beautiful, all within a matter of 24 hours.

Musings

I’ve been collecting a stockpile of uniquely Indian oddities in the “Huh?” compartment of my brain to share with you. Rather than let another day pass (since many days have already escaped me), I’ll just present them here as succinctly as I can:

1. Scene from stuck in traffic (there will likely be more of these): A fence divides traffic traveling in two directions along a stretch of road near Lajpat Nagar. A group of young boys, say around 12 years old, clad in shorts and not much more, are painting the fence green. But something seems off in the painting process. A closer look reveals that the boys don’t have paintbrushes. Each boy leans over, dips his entire hand in the bucket of paint, and attempts to slosh it all over the bars of the fence. I guess somewhere between the local government project, the contractor, the painters, and the boys who somehow came into the picture, the brushes were “misplaced.” In this country, “child labor” is a term used by the international media and NGOs, and pretty much no one else.

2. Warding Off the Evil Eye:

These ornament looking things hang all over the place — on the back of a car, rickshaw, or truck, in some corner of an office or home, or in this case, on the railing at the entrance to a hair salon. Apparently the string of green chilies and lemons wards off the evil eye, protecting a place, thing, its contents, or its patrons from the evil eye. That’s all I know.

3. A random thought from KA: “Some people love the Indian lifestyle because if you have money, you don’t have to ever lift a finger.” The servant will serve you tea, breakfast, and whatever else you may fancy in the morning, either that same servant or some other servant will have washed, ironed, and folded your clothes, ensured that the geyser is on so that you have a constant stream of piping how water for your shower, and confirmed that your chosen selection of daily papers is in your hand every morning. The driver will come in and carry your briefcase to the car, battle the mayhem of city streets to get you to work in one piece, and park and take care of the car in your absence. When you walk into the office, more people carry your stuff, serve you edibles and drinkables, present you with pertinent information, solve any technical problems your phone, computer, or even home television may have, make arrangements for your lunch… and so it goes. For people like KA and I, each step of this process is laden with varying degrees of discomfort. How could I possibly pass my dirty clothes along to someone twice my age and not think twice about what it takes for him to return them to me, clean? Why am I not clearing my own dishes? Or running to the fridge to grab some hot sauce during dinner? If I don’t carry my own bags, my arm muscles will degenerate and fall off!!! OK… time to move on.

4. Water Isn’t a Drink. When you walk into someone’s house, you’re immediately offered something to drink.

RD: Um, no thanks. I’m fine.

Host: You must have something!

RD: OK, just a glass of water would be great.

Host: Well you’ll obviously get water! What else? Tea, coffee, soda, juice, beer?
RD: Really, nothing. I just had some tea a little while ago.

Host: [Calls out to someone in the kitchen to bring water]

The next part is even more awkward. A servant brings a glass of water on a tray. I pick it up, thank them, and take a sip. He or she doesn’t move. I look up and start a conversation with my host. The person is still standing there. Until I’ve finished my fill of water and put the glass back on the tray, the servant usually won’t leave. Water is apparently not a drink. It’s a refresher, to be presented to anyone the moment they walk in the door, but it doesn’t count as “having something” when you come over.

The Inevitable Delhi Belly

I had to catch it at some point, the inevitable Delhi Belly. You’ve probably at least heard of it, if not experienced it yourself. I’ll spare you the details, since they’re not pretty, but my weak stomach knocked me out for the entire day, just as long as I needed to break the several-day-long hiatus I had taken from the blog. The unfortunate part is that my Delhi Belly came along with a Classic Hangover — the terrible puckered parched pounding kind — and the realization that I had drunk dialed my parents, of all people, upon returning from the wedding Sangeet that put me in both conditions of poor health. Now, on to more interesting subjects than the state of my stomach:

K and I weren’t the only ones with a wedding to attend here last night. The city is nuts with wedding fever. Apparently, there were over 10,000 weddings in Delhi yesterday.

Wednesday was seen as one of the best days to tie the knot. “The Gods wake up from their four months’ sleep. The whole day is auspicious,” Daya Shankar Prasad, a Hindu priest, told the Times of India, referring to the first wedding season day.

It took us one hour to travel about 4 kms, even though our taxi driver rode the shoulder the whole way alongside the white horses being directed from one barat to the next in all their finery. I assume we can look forward to the same kind of traffic every night for the next few weeks while the gods are awake from their slumber and the auspicious wedding period continues.

“People here are so HORNY!!!”*

Photo courtesy of Flickr

Yes, you read that right, but like the rest of this country, let’s practice creative use of the English language. What’s spoken here is actually Hinglish, a language that bears a mild resemblance to any other form of the language, but that’s a different topic for another day. I’m lucky enough to be one of the few women new to Delhi who hasn’t yet had a run-in with anyone’s overactive/underutilized libido, so I didn’t mean that kind of horny. This title references the sights and sounds of the streets of Delhi, which, to my surprise, are reminiscent more of a beautifully (or tragically) choreographed circus act than a (dis)organized component of transportation infrastructure. Allow me to explain.

The population of the city is around 13 million, with an “extended” population (kind of like an Indian extended family, maybe?) of about 22 million. About 60 percent of the city travels by bus, which means that the other 40 percent resorts to private cars, motorcycle, scooters, auto-rickshaws, bicycles, bicycle rickshaws (a.k.a. the Indian hybrid), or their two feet. So despite the fact that there are some very impressive and shiny lines painted in the middle of the road, the term “lane” is not in a part of the Hinglish vocabulary. As a result, cars, buses, rickshaws, cows, bicycles (need I go through the list again?) take advantage of every little nook and cranny of road space, which extends from the fences (and the people taking a break from their long journey home to urinate on them) on one end, right up to the front door step of the homes or markets or shops or little booths or Cold War-era concrete office buildings or whatever else might be on the other end.

Here’s where the neatly choreographed circus act comes in: imagine that you’re approaching an intersection, and the light changes to yellow. People alongside you are honking like crazy, encouraging or demanding that the person in front of them, to their left or right, or dammit anywhere else in their way, forge through. You don’t make the light. You stop, about 6 inches from the person in front of you, with anywhere from 6 inches to a couple of feet between you and the person on either side. You wait. In a few moments, an autorickshaw chugs up alongside you, maximizing those two feet. On your other side, a scooter put-puts up, taking full advantage of those 6 inches on your other side. Slowly but steadily, motorcycles, scooters, and bicycles wade their way to the front of the pile of people waiting at this light. The autorickshaws squeeze in behind them. You’re surrounded, with about two inches of your own space to spare. The light is still red. Cars shut off their engines. A small child with a painted moustache sidles up to your window, knocks, does three backflips, and knocks again. The gentleman (more creative use of language) to your right, on his motorcycle, turns to his side, coughs up some nasty stuff, and launches it as far as his oral muscles can manage. Another knock on your window. This individual is selling Spiderman masks and boxes of tissue paper. The light changes to green, and the scene changes to something akin to a Nascar race. Everyone starts up their motor, revs their engine, honks their horn for no reason at all (or maybe there is a reason… anyone have any insight?) and takes off. Beautifully orchestrated scene, no?

While we tried to interpret some of the road etiquette (or lack thereof) on our ride home last night, K’s cousin Little C gave us a few tips:

1. “Law” is another flexibly used term.

2. The horn is your voice to the road world, best used to say “I’m here.”

3. It’s ok to stop anywhere — on an overpass or underpass, in a right turn region (remember, there are no lanes), just because you feel like it.

4. If someone yells at you, perhaps because you cut them off, stole their parking spot, or otherwise raised their ire, the second best response is to look at them and mouth, with a twist of your wrist, “Kya hai?” (“What?”) The best response is just to feign ignorance.

5. If you give anyone else the right of way, you’ll never even manage to leave your driveway. Just go.

* This quote is attributed to Dr. CP, whose exclamation during a visit to India as a child elicited many giggles from her relatives, but is so incredibly appropriate.