Hyderabad-Day 3

Walking is fascinating, but not all of Hyderabad can be seen quickly this way. So we got a car (with AC) and driver (you would definitely not want to drive here—the traffic is intense) –8 hours for $25—and drove to the outskirts—the amazingly expansive Golconda Fort and Qutb Shahi Tombs in the morning. The afternoon was an especially adventurous find—as Norbert knew about the possibility of finding the 18th-century British Residency that is now Ossmania Women’s College. The picture in his guidebook got us past the guards and our driver was even excited to explore something off the beaten track. We wandered around until we found a building that look freakishly like one you might find in Washington DC—big white columns, an imposing (read British) presence. The best find though was a model of this residency—the size of a large doll house—which we discovered in the back corner of a field. It was built by the 18c British Resident (sort of like the city Ambassador) for his Indian wife, who was in purdah (segregation of the sexes practiced by both Hindus and Muslims in India) and thus she could never leave the residency to see its magnificence from the outside.

Hyderabad-Days 1 & 2

February 27, Wednesday
Flew to Hyderabad, where after checking into a hotel we headed to Rumoji: Film City. We’re meeting Tim Keirn tomorrow, and we didn’t think he’ll be too disappointed to miss this cheesy attraction…2,000 square acres of land, of which a portion is dedicated to sets and another portion is a sort of film theme park…apparently a very popular middle class family event. Really, it’s quite an amazing feat—several live shows with dancers, acrobatic clowns and hullahoop girls, and another cowboy show where a Jackie Chan character saves the helpless cowgirls from the harassing cowboys. There was a haunted house, some small rides for kids and great French fries…it was like an Indian Pleasantville.



February 28, Thursday
Tim, Norbert and I walked for hours today through the city. It doesn’t seem that many white people do this, as we got a lot of stares. Children would peak around corners and grown men would stop and stare. I am beginning to wonder if tourists are more likely to hire a car (which includes a driver) and get to know the city from the comfort of a car. The sidewalks here, when they exist, are full of vendors. Though in Hyderabad they do not harass you much, like we’ve experienced in Kolkata and Rajistan. Walking is really the best way to feel Indian cities and get to know its personality a bit, but it’s not easy. It’s hot here—90 today?—and you have to cover up. Most women dress very conservatively-saris or fully covered.

There are no street signs, so navigating is a challenge and crossing the road is maddening. We in fact were convinced at one point that we would be eternally stuck on a one foot median, as we could just not get across because of all the traffic. Still, I love seeing what vendors have to sell and interacting with people a bit. We saw the gorgeous Chowmohallah Palace and the raised Char Minar with amazing views of downtown, the Mecca Masjid (possibly the largest mosque in India) and the Salarjung Museum, where a oddly large number of parents pushed their children toward me to shake my hand and in one case gathered round me for a picture—kids with white lady. This a picture of one family. After I posed with their little ones, I asked if I could take a picture of them. I've noticed that it's not customary for people to smile in photos.

Indian Clothing 101

We’ve found a little more upscale market close to us that is where Indians shop and eat out—Green Park. It’s the middle ground between scrubbed up western places and tiny local markets with very limited selections—excellent fruit and veg, several grocery places, eye glass stores, chemist, and lots of other shops one needs on a daily basis, and a good south Indian restaurant. And we didn’t seem too out of place either—not the usual staring that we’ve gotten in other markets. It seemed slightly cleaner…but best of all you can get jalebi on the street—a popular sugary fried dessert.

We went with another fellow, our across the hall neighbor and Tamil historian, Doud (an American prof, teaching in London (SOAS), and born in India). Over paneer dosas he schooled us the various Indian clothing—lungi, korta, salwaar kameez, dhoti, sari, pijama—it’s quite a science and if you’re Indian you can tell which part of India a person is from by the items that a person wears, as well as how they wear them. For example, there are different ways to tie saris, and I think lungis too, depending on region/city. As it heats up it sounds like I will have to get light cotton salwaar kameez, since almost every item of my hot weather clothing is too tight or too short. I didn’t realize I was such a floozy! He even discouraged Norbert from wearing shorts. Yicks we are really worried about the heat to come.

This is a picture of a typical, if such a think exists, street scene in Delhi.

1st Indian Haircut

I finally figured out where to get my haircut—or at least one option—a five star hotel not far away, that only charged $30. I was reminded of the belief that cold water is better for hair washing when I was given the option- cold or warm water? I still can’t quite get my mind around the fact that cold might be preferable—it’s still coolish during the day here. Three guys attended me throughout the whole thing. The hair cutter, the hair washer/towel guy and the apprentice. Overall it was the most serious experience I have ever had getting my hair cut. The main hair cutter had a leather belt with all the necessary implements—pulling out clips and various kinds of scissors with the seriousness of a surgeon. Yet he was awkward too, fumbling a bit with my slippery, fine hair. I did wonder how often he has to deal with unwieldy wavy like mine. Chit chat was out of the question. But the hair drying required the most effort—sectioning my hair, clipping it to get it out of the way, taking the small sections roll brushing them dry and then blowing on each section. I really don’t know what the point of the blowing was, but he did it with the care of an artist. Then each section got a roller to hold it straight a little longer…this guy knew my hair would not be tamed easily. This process took 4 hands and a lot of coordination. In the end main cutter guy would not let apprentice guy give me the mirror until he had fixed every hair in place.

Conflict & Color

After surviving four pretty nasty days of Delhi Belly, I am finally feeling better—almost and could get off campus. We met up with Christine (our next door neighbor, a British film scholar) and her colleague Ira and took an auto rickshaw over to the Priya cinema near campus to see the movie. Jodhaa Akbar is a high profile Bollywood movie that is getting criticism from Rajput conservatives for a portrayal of her as a sexy young thing, as well as for the “historical accuracy” that she, a Hindu, was in fact married to the Muslim Indian hero Akbar, who is loved for his 17th-century religious tolerance. It was fabulous way to pass 4 hours—really! Ira helped us keep the plot straight since it was in Hindi, but the gorgeous cinematography, colors, light, beautiful people, and well placed song and dance were a delight. And it was a good movie to not have dialogue distracting you from the extravagance. I could have done without the early fight scenes that involved elephants squashing the heads of the enemy, however.

Here's a picture of some dragon fruit that is new to us. It certainly is emblematic of colorful India.

Norbert's Settling In Post

> We’ve more or less settled into our life in Delhi, so I
> thought I’d send you another update. If you can’t remember
> (and we have a hard enough time remembering ourselves
> where we are and what we’re doing), we are at JNIAS (the
> Jawaharlal Nehru Institute of Advanced Study) at JNU
> (Jawaharlal Nehru University) in Delhi (India) for the
> semester (until the end of May). JNU is supposedly one of
> India’s best universities (more on that later), and JNIAS
> is supposedly the most elite interdisciplinary institution
> at the university. So why am I here? Who knows! Somehow, I
> ended up with a research fellowship here, which means I’m
> not teaching this semester, but focusing on my research.
> I’m interacting a little with the university here (I’m
> teaching one class meeting in the English department next
> week and give a lecture to the department in a while), but
> mostly I’m on my own.
>
> In any case, JNIAS is not just an institution, but the
> actual building in which we live and work. There are about
> ten little apartments, one of which we inhabit. It’s a
> little studio: 20x12 feet of happiness with a separate
> kitchen and bathroom. The main room is actually quite
> nice, since it has two large windows overlooking the
> wilderness of the Aravali Ridge that is part of JNU
> campus. Susan is very excited about the view! On the flip
> side, the windows do not close very tightly, which means
> that we’re getting a lot of dust. The first two weeks we
> were here, it was actually quite cold (nights around
> 40F/5C), so the dust wasn’t too bad (and we had a tiny
> little room heater working overtime), but now it’s
> starting to get warm again. We should be cleaning every
> other day—apparently that’s what Delhi families do—but
> then again those Delhi families have servants. We have the
> gentleman we’ve dubbed ‘broom guy,’ who knocks on our door
> every morning at nine and wants to sweep our apartment
> with his broom made of twigs. However, we’ve decided that
> his method of cleaning is really more of a redistribution
> of dust than removing dirt, so we politely smile and
> decline. He doesn’t seem particularly offended, but
> probably he thinks our apartment must be incredibly filthy
> by now.
>
> The bathroom is fine, with a water heater that gives about
> 10-15 minutes of hot water. The shower itself only has
> cold water, the official reason being that they’re worried
> about people scalding themselves with the hot water.
> There’s a spigot for hot and cold water at about waist
> height, which means either using a little plastic bucket
> to elevate it over your head or being acrobatic. The
> shower curtain does not go to the ground, and the shower
> is more or less level with the rest of the bathroom, so at
> the end of the shower most of the room is under water. But
> not to fear—there’s a plastic straight-edged scraper (kind
> of like a mop) to clean the floor. Actually, it means the
> bathroom gets mopped every day, which isn’t bad!
>
> The kitchen isn’t bad, though we had to add some cooking
> implements. We usually cook on our two-burner gas stove,
> which works out fine. There’s also only cold water in the
> sink, but it turns out that works fine for dishes (OK,
> mostly). There’s a kettle (i.e., a pot with integrated
> heating element) to heat water quickly. Unlike kettles in
> the UK, however, it does not switch off on its own when
> the water is boiling, so there’s an unofficial competition
> in the building about who can destroy the most kettles by
> forgetting that they’re on (and burning them). Gail from
> Australia is currently in the lead at two, Christine from
> UK in second place with one, while Doud from
> Calcutta/Baltimore/London threw in the towel and bought a
> good one after he burnt one. We’re in pathetic last place
> with none burned yet, but it’s only a matter of time…
> After a strenuous commute of about 30 seconds, sometimes
> in my house slippers, I make it to the ‘office’ or
> fellows’ lounge, where there are two computers with
> internet access. (We actually also have internet access
> from the room, but Susan usually uses that.) However, the
> power goes out about once a day for an hour, so you have
> to be careful not to lose work. (Side note: Is it just me,
> or do we always hear in the US how India is some kind of
> Mecca of technology? The grant CSULB is trying to get to
> work with Indian universities, at several million dollars,
> is based on internet access for all. Yet here we are at
> one of India’s top universities, and even the professors
> have a hard time getting on the internet regularly. I can
> only imagine what it’s like for students…) JNIAS also
> supplies some daily newspapers and weekly magazines, so at
> least there’s something to read when the power goes out.
>
> Other people you might meet (in addition to broom guy)
> include Mr. Nander, the attendant who changes our sheets,
> runs errands, etc.; Mr. Chaco Mattai (totally making up
> the spelling here), whose job I haven’t figured out yet—he
> sits in his office with his door open, but apart from
> answering the phone occasionally, I’ve never seen him
> work; Mr. P.K. Jain, the administrative director, who
> takes care of paperwork; and Prof. Aditya Mukherjee, the
> academic director, who is a professor in the History
> Department and married to the formidable Prof. Mridula
> Mukherjee, who is among other things the director of the
> Nehru Memorial Library, an august institution in Delhi.
> Everyone is incredibly nice and quite efficient—within the
> limits of what seems possible at an Indian university. Oh,
> there are also some security guards (24 hours a day!),
> though I’m not sure what they’re guarding. I guess this is
> another example of how labor is cheaper than technology in
> India—witness the construction site in Calcutta I
> described in the last letter.
> Getting away from JNIAS is a bit of a hike. We do our
> shopping at one of three markets: the market on campus
> (25-minute walk), where you can get almost everything
> except products by multinationals (that’s the influence of
> the Maoist JNU student government); the B10 market
> (20-minute walk) off campus, which has an excellent pastry
> shop and some good fruit and veggie stands as well as a
> coffee shop (Café Coffee Day) on the way home; or Vasant
> Lok (5-minute drive), which might as well be a Western
> mall. Not that we’re complaining—when we’re homesick, we
> can go to the Pizza Hut there. The MacDonald’s there,
> though, doesn’t sell ‘real’ burgers (no beef pretty much
> anywhere in India), but things like the McAloo Tikki
> (potato pancake in a bun) and the McMaharaja (some kind of
> veggie burger).
>
> Honestly, we’ve only just figured out most things on
> campus, so we’re still exploring things off. (That means
> we’re still a bit lonely and dying for news from back
> home.) One of the fun things, though, is just getting off
> campus. Our preferred mode of transportation is the
> scooter rickshaw (tuktuk in Thailand), a little yellow and
> green vehicle that has the motor of a scooter (I think)
> but a covered seat in the back that can seat two to three
> people (if they’re good friends). These rickshaws drive
> around campus randomly (or wait systematically at the
> campus entrance, but that’s a 25-minute walk) and usually
> stop and ask if you want to go anywhere. Then, the
> negotiation starts. First, you have to make sure they know
> where you want to go, 1. because the drivers don’t all
> speak English and 2. because Indian facial expressions and
> movements are so different that a confirmation is not
> always recognizable to us. Then, they give you a price,
> which is usually about 50-100% too high. (This isn’t just
> my impression—people with lots more experience in India
> have confirmed this. For one thing, they’re obviously
> starting the negotiation high; for another, we’re paying
> what’s known as the ‘white tax.’) In response, you can
> laugh and walk away, offer a lower price, or just gawk in
> amazement. It’s a back and forth that is sometimes fun and
> sometimes just plain annoying when they’re clearly trying
> to rip you off. If you’ve gone to the market for 20-30
> rupees three times and suddenly someone asks 50 rupees,
> you know they’re messing with you. But I’m taking it as a
> challenge to develop negotiation strategies that end with
> a fair price!
>

Daily Life

After working most of the day, I set off in the late afternoon to do a few errands on campus.

I also visited the post office for the first time—one of the closest things to our buildings, yet I hadn’t seen it there before—the sign is in Hindi. Outside the door and on the steps sat bags of mail…I stepped over them at 4:00 today and was the only person needing help. Lucky me. After asking to be acknowledged…I am learning that’s how it works here…my big envelopes got weighed and the price was written on each. Then I asked about buying some extra stamps to put on letters to the US. And for some reason the guy then just walked away. A few people walked around me, past me, and the other guy behind the counter, who I could now see—as the first had asked me to step around--, had put his bare foot up on his desk and was scrubbing it with something. A strange scene as I stood there waiting, trying to seem nonchalant. I also noticed that there was an electric ring plugged into the wall just to the right of my feet and an old pot sat on top with a tarry substance inside. I wasn’t sure what it was until the guy came back. I asked again about individual stamps. It’s so hard to know if people understand my weird English… After some rough exchange of individual words and gestures I learned that he expected me to decide how heavy my letters were going to be. I guessed and then asked for 20 rupee stamps. After a good deal of shuffling about and flipping of pages in a stamp book and counting and recounting of stamps he produced five 20 rupee stamps and insisted that I put them immediately in my wallet so that they didn’t get mixed up with the ones that were counted out to go on my packages. He gestured that I put them on. I licked the back of the first set and they stuck but the second didn’t. I showed him and he slammed some paste down and back through the window—indicating that I should go back to the other side of the window to stick these one. I struggled to get paste out of the nearly empty bottle, got the stamps affixed and handed them back. (The tarry substance must close bigger packages). Now, let’s see how long it takes from them to arrive.

I finally got my ID today…no hassle, it was there in a stack of 20 or so. After five separate inquiries over the course of 3 weeks it somehow finally appeared—signed by the Chief Security officer, officially stamped and laminated. I had to sign next to the other photo I’d given them. So my face is in the JNU ID book for all eternity. I’m not sure now what I’ll need it for—but still it’s fun to have.

And then I headed over to the office of someone we met through Norbert’s friend Jorg’s wife. Rohan is a friendly, energetic, environmental historian who’s spent a number of years in the US (including a longish stint at Berkeley), and I was lured over to his office with the promise of a cup of coffee—as good at Peets! He’s got it figured out—the coffee making in Delhi, I mean. He’s found a very good coffee distributor, Devan’s, and he gave me their card. There he also buys filters. He has one of those handy plastic cones that you set on top of a mug and then set a filter in it. Then he heats the water in the electric kettle that is standard in every office and home all over Britain and India. And he even offered me a dark chocolate to go along with it, “since it was my first visit.” What a treat. The only coffee I have had so far has been the occasional visit to Café Coffee Day (we’ve made it about once a week to the Vasant Arcade) and the Nescafe that I bought to try to relieve my coffee urge—which so did not work. So this was such a treat!

I sat in his office and was entertained by people coming and going. His good friend Sangeeta came in and sat down to chat. She’s just gotten a position there and is getting set up. It was interesting to hear about her frustration dealing with Indian ways—so much time “wasted” she said just chasing down people to get the apartment she’s been given (subsidized and paid for with her housing allowance) on campus “liveable.” We tried to describe what we each would consider “liveable,” as Rohan assumed that in the US if you moved into an apartment it would be “cleaned up.” I tried to explain how university housing wouldn’t necessarily be that nice—perhaps needing a paint job and new floor covering. But they seemed to think that what I’d consider “liveable” and what they would were quite different…that American’s have much higher expectations. Probably true…but hard to articulate without seeing the “unliveable” place she’s dealing with. She talked about it needing tile…but it’s hard for me to picture what that actually means. And she said that bathroom needed work, but I couldn’t quite tell what that meant either. What would she think of the bathroom we have here? The toilet leaks and there’s not really a proper shower, but it's adequate...see pic below.



She’s also trying to get her office painted because she just can’t stand the institutional yellow—and the lighting is so bad she just can’t work there. I have complained about the same things in many US university offices. While I was there she and Rohan went over to meet a painter who gave her an estimate that they both thought was robbery. They have a plan to “negotiate” with him…something Rohan thinks Indians are particularly good at…since they are constantly negotiating with service people. Americans are nervous about dealing with such things, especially when we know that the people who serve are making a miniscule wage. Here the poor are right in front of you all the time, so you learn to “negotiate” as he says. It’s true, in the US the poor are pretty invisible—shunted off in bad neighborhoods and bad schools. We often forget that they exist. Here ignoring or denying poverty is completely impossible.

Qutb Minar & Merauli

After six days of work, we took a day off to set our minds on other things…and to continue the slow process of getting to know the city. We spent the day in Mehrauli, at the southern edge of the city. The first half was full of wandering around Quitab Minar—an expansive plot of land that has somehow been protected enough that the ruins of mosques, madrassas, and sultan rooms from the 12th and 13th century have survived. On many of the surfaces you can still see loads of Arabic script carved into the (sandstone?). Two items stand out here: the massive tower with at least 3 fancifully decorated balconies that extends far into the heavens. You can’t go up into it anymore, and I am not sure that I would want to—as it would be an eternal claustrophobic struggle. I wish I knew how to explain just how freakin tall it is!

The second is an unassuming bronze post—maybe 6 feet high. It turns out to be much older than the other structures here. But what is astonishing about it is that it has never rusted. With the help of teams of scientists it was determined that something about the chemical makeup of this particular kind of bronze has kept it rust free. Mostly what is so pleasurable about the place is the sense of history. You can imagine the sultan and his harem gliding on the grass in the walled garden or a few of them sitting in one of the small rooms eating grapes or something. A time when India was a powerful, confident and graceful land.

We sat in the far corner at the base of what looked like a little pavilion, but was actually a lame attempt by the British in 1828 to add another section to the tower. It had been removed and set in this far corner. From there N read more about Quitab Minar to me out of our guidebook as I watched a huge group of school girls having lunch on the lawn and then forming a circle where a few would dance at the center quite a distance from us. They all were in classic school uniform. The younger ones wore white skirts and blouses with navy sweaters and grey knee socks with a couple stripes at the top and most wore black mary janes. Under their skirts they wore either white pyjamas? or grey thick stockings. The older girls wore white salwar kameez, navy sweaters and white scarves that hung down their backs. I grinned that some had pinned these at their backs so that they didn’t bother them when they ran…that’s what I’d do. Women here wear scarves so comfortably, but they always seem to slip off me and just cause trouble. I guess these girls were still adjusting ;-). As we sat there we were suddenly accosted by a group of at least 25 of these girls. They surrounded us, asking where we were from and our names…and giggling quite a lot. We looked up at their lively brown eyes and tried to engage them in a bit of conversation, but they were nervous and giggly and the bold one oddly demanded that we dance—to the applause of all the rest. We laughed and said that Americans are terrible dancers. In the end a girl with glasses who seemed to have the only camera in the group shyly gestured to take our picture. So we ended up posing in the midst of them, while a girl with a “monitor” badge reprimanded them—throwing in only one English word, “responsibility.” It seemed that she did not think it responsible of them to be running off and talking to tourists. Here's a picture of her being cross off to the side too.





And then later on the other side of the whole thing, a group of boys wanted their picture taken with Norbert. It's weird to feel like such a celebrity.



From there we went exploring in the town. First on the very busy main road full of tiny shops, people, bikes, and the occasional bold car. Why a person would think it’s actually better to move in a car down this packed street, is beyond me. I watched one get slightly cock eyed and nearly turn over half a stand of beautifully balancing soaps. We had trouble finding a place to sit down to rest and eat, as we are trying to avoid street food since our stomachs are still pretty iffy. Eventually we found Verma’s and ate some too salty standard dishes, south Indian fare for me—a masala dosa served with thin dal and the standard coconut chutney and palak paneer and naan for N. As we finished up the nicely dressed family at the table next to us started up a conversation. This is the first time that someone has taken a more social interest in us—usually we just get lots of long stares and maybe a child or two giggling or trying to practice their few words of English or the mob of shy and giggly girls. They were living in another community near Merauli and had come here on a bicycle today “on business.”

We spent the afternoon exploring side streets—every one of which had an open, but highly efficient and quickly running sewer. Some of the base structures looked fairly new—fresh concrete, squarely set with steps and landings above so that the little shops could be accessed over the running water. The smell was not atrocious because it was running quickly, but it was odd to see people regularly throwing garbage right in. You can’t help wondering where all of this went. In the niches on quiet backstreets we ran across several people who’d set up their (and likely other’s) ironing. We finally understood why all our clothes have scorch marks, as these are not electric irons. Although they have the form of the iron we are used to, they are a bit larger and you can see that hot wood (or coals) have been placed inside to heat the metal. These contraptions must be quite heavy.

We also found the Sikh temple and were given a tour by a peaceful turbaned guy who seemed to be somehow official there. He showed us the baoli, an ancient water tank that now is sadly used as a dump, and the cemetery where the last mughal is buried—both right within the confines of this functioning temple. We carried our shoes and watched the praying people in one section and the groups of eating people—in little huddles on the ground—in another. As always kids and some adults stared at us, and we wondered how often white people actually visit—though our friendly guide wasn’t that surprised.

From there we found the now defunct palace, which is attached. Upon entering through a small hinged cut-out section of a huge wooden door, we found that this place is now used for a select group of card playing and smoking young men. N’s guidebook mentioned several features to see, but we were not finding them easily, and one of the guys came over to us and in Hindi offered to show us around. I've included his picture here. Although I am sure he knew we didn’t understand a word of Hindi (as we kept asking questions in English and looking blankly at him when he spoke Hindi) he continued to explain things to us. But his knowledge of how to get around the place was very helpful, and he showed us some amazing views over the city. Near the end, and quite removed from his buddies, he looked at N and said, “money?” Clearly he wanted to be paid for his services. N gave him 50 rupees and thanked him, and he quickly pocketed the money. His friends razzed him when we walked out…joking, “pen?” “pencil?” like the little, more well mannered, beggar kids might do. We all laughed. I wonder what employment young men can expect when they finish school.

Fascinating day that ended with a good purchase—another mattress so that N too has a more comfortable sleep. For $30 we have gotten two cotton stuffed 3-inch bed sized cushion-like things called mattresses that are certainly a treat compared to the board of a bed we were sleeping on. I’d gotten mine last weekend, and then N was convinced it was worth it ;-). We stuffed it in between us on the auto rickshaw and now are as happy as clams.

At Home

I keep thinking as I work here that I hear someone bouncing a basketball. My ears are accustomed to that sound—and thus is what I associate it with. But then I realize, over and over, in fact that it’s the sound of one of the guards chopping firewood. It’s warming up here—T shirt weather today for the first time—but the nights are still cold and there is always someone out there—tending the fire. I wonder when that sound will lodge in my subconscious as firewood chopping. Or when they won’t need a fire at night to keep warm.

Here's a picture of my desk and one side of our apartment.

Our Kitchen & Cooking

For cooking we have two burners--one that you can sort of adjust and one that you really can't so much, as the knob is broken. And the refrigerator is in pretty good shape. So we can make simple meals, which is what we mostly do. Last night we tried our first recipe our new How to Cook cookbook (from the Book Fair)--all Indian food and descriptions of all the spices and pictures of all the vegetables with both the Hindi and the English names. It was a cauliflower dish with lots of spices (fresh ginger and corriander and dry spices, turmeric, garam masala, chilli, corriander, and cumin) and several chopped tomatoes, Fenugreek and cumin seeds were also part of the recipe, but we didn't have these—so the ground stuff seemed to work ok. It was pretty good.

Here's our kitchen.

Perfect Balance

We walked behind two sari’d and blanketed women on the way back from the B-10 market this eve. One had a seriously heavy—10 kilos-- burlap rectangle bag with handles balancing on her head. It looked like it held a whole bunch of potatoes. She walked stick straight in her flip flops and seemed to hardly notice the weight. Their drapes and lithe forms a wonderful silhouette. Her companion turned around and noticed us, but the woman with the corner of her burlap bag sitting comfortably on her head just walked comfortably along, unconcerned…

This picture was taken at another time, as sort of an accident. I have been trying not to snap my camera in people's faces. Crazy tourists!

Book Fair- Day 2

We had so much fun that we went back to the Book Fair again today for a few hours and sat in the food court for lunch. Again I was approached by three little beggar kids—the youngest was not even 5. They surrounded me—keeping about two feet of distance-- and only knew the word, “maam,” which they said over a million times. The youngest got so tired that he turned it into a song. In the meantime, I watched two girls in yellow and orange saris look up at me as they were walking by and grin. I thought they were noting the scene—white woman surrounded. (N was off getting food) And then just a minute later the yellow sari’d girl was sitting right—I mean like so right next to me that even N wouldn’t get that close in public. She just sat down and said nothing. I smiled and she smiled back shyly. Then I noticed that a friend of hers had a camera phone and was taking our picture. I laughed and then they switched places. But orange sari’d girl was even more shy and got up right away and yellow sat back down just as close. So, I said hello and tried to chat. She knew a little bit of English, and I learned that she and her girl friends, who now I noticed were huddled and giggling about 10 feet away, were training to be police women in Harayana, the province just south of Delhi. They were here on a day excursion. Rosie, this beautiful bright eyed 21 year old clearly has some spirit. In the first 2 minutes she’d asked me to come to Harayana to see her!

Rita took another picture so that she could get Norbert in, and I noticed that those little kids were now trying to get themselves into the picture too. When Rita checked the camera, they ran behind her, laughing, and tried to see themselves. She tried several times and the kids kept running back and forth. A couple more girls got up the courage to come up to us—and one had purchased two books, O. Henry and Gorky, and she hesitantly showed them to Rosie. Rita, the one who took the photograph, got a little more comfortable and sat next to Rosie. The group of girls went away and we sat there a little longer and struggled with English and then we just sat like that for a few more minutes. Then she’d ask another question or I’d think of something simple to say. I learned that she has a “cruel” instructor—who she pointed out to me laughing. Then Rosie looked at us and said, “Love marriage?” I confirmed that we were and that in the US that’s how it works. And what about her? She said she wanted a love marriage, but shook her head making it seem that wasn’t likely. “Here we have arranged marriages…that’s the way,” she said now looking down. We sat there while I finished my popcorn, which I offered to her and Rita, and they declined. Then we said we had to leave. “Where are you going?” “To look at more books,” I offered. And as quickly as she’d pressed herself into me, she and Rita were waving goodbye.

Book Fair-Day 1

We walked around the huge Book Fair today—2,500 stalls—and in five hours we only saw a portion of it. It was packed. Lots of families trolling for good books. It was a wonderful sight. Stalls from many of our favorite booksellers—Oxford, Cambridge, Routledge..but then also Indian publishers that we are learning about. Lots of books in Hindi. And many stalls dedicated to individual gurus and their publications. Many of the books by western publishers are sold at a much lower price…so that Indians can actually afford them. An Indian press called Jaico reprints books published in the UK (and maybe the US too) –almost like high end photocopies with less professionally produced covers—here and sells them at a really affordable price. They describe their mission—to make books more readily available to all Indians and they demonstrate an agreement with the western publisher.

What to do? As we took an auto rickshaw—motorbikes with covered back seats, but open on both sides-- to the Book Fair this little girl (maybe 6 years old) came up to us. She look liked she rolled around in a dustbin for several days, was wearing rags and her hair stood up more than it laid down. Very sad. She stood at the rickshaw as we waited at a light—asking for money in Hindi. This happens pretty regularly, and we have been encouraged to donate in more productive ways, as it is known that these kids are often being pimped by some unsavoury adult..and don’t get the money anyway. And we have heard many stories of people taking pity on one kid and offering them a little money or food and then the rest of the gang senses the donation and decends. Needless to say it’s a very uncomfortable situation…as she could certainly use a whole lot of help. These kids tend to be pretty persistent and will stand around asking for several minutes. But this little girl not only put her hand into the rickshaw, but she took her other hand and gently took hold of my ankle. Man, what’s a person supposed to do? She stood there like this looking at me for what seemed like an eternity.

Yoga 2

It's cold here today and through our drafty windows I can smell the little wood fire the security guard and workers are huddled around about 25 feet away. Yoga this morning--my third time this week. The teacher reminds me of a very brown and very, very flexible!! Winnie the Pooh. He's got a wonderful grin and wears a white korta and those big pants (pijama? lungi?) and a soft embroidered brown long vest--all quite typical for Indian men here--but the white and the soft brown look great on him. He does the class in Hindi with the occasional English words--which is sometimes hilarious. Today he reminded us to be neutral, by saying "neuter." I mostly just follow along by watching others. It's a very relaxing class with lots of breathing exercising, stretching of all the muscles, 5 sun salutations and savasana interspersed after each harder exercise. I especially like it after the 13 min run I do to get there. Then I run back home. So it's a nice way to start the morning. There are mostly Indians in the class, but I have gotten to know a French girl, a student here at JNU, who's been to India many times and speaks good Hindi. She studies a minority religion in the Punjab founded by the lower caste.

Yoga

A thick fog this morning and I could hardly see the rock that’s painted white just 20 feet from our window. The NY Times weather page describes the weather in Delhi today as “smokey.” Strange, as there are no reports of fire anywhere. Turns out over 45 domestic and 7 international flights were cancelled today. It’s just incredibly thick fog—probably smog is the better word.

Still no JNU ID, though I applied for it nearly 10 days ago. I thought I would need it for yoga, but it seems I am enrolled. All I needed in the end was a photo, a full page form, and 250 rupees (that’s the very low price of just under $7! After this month it will be about $5 every month from now on). I can go every day if I want—so far I’ve been going at 7:30 am, but there is a 6:30am and a 4:30pm class too….M-F! The yoga is not that different from the US, but it’s more laid back. No one seems too concerned about getting the postures just right. People do what they can and stop when they can’t. They seem to understand a little better that this is more about the mind body experience. There have also been many Indians who have dropped in who don’t have any prior experience.

Tea & Orienting

I might finally be able to call myself a tea drinker, as the cold demands something hot for breakfast and making coffee here has proven a challenge. I haven’t even found real coffee—just Nescafe. Then there’s the problem of how to actually make it. The French presses are pretty expensive, and so I’ve been resisting. This place just might convert me.

Gail, another fellow who lives down the hall, stopped by and chatted tonight. She showed me on the Delhi map we’ve put up on our wall which neighbourhoods are thought to be nicer than others and gives me a quick history lesson of various developments and their relative status. Up until recently you saved all your life to buy a place, just so you could give it to your children. It was impossible to buy property in the center of the city. Thus developments in the 80s like Vasant Vihar, where we are, were built to accommodate the growing population.

A Routine

I watched the sun rise as I waited for yoga to start—over the track and through the mist, and then I saw it set, out the window, back over my right shoulder, as I sat in my reading chair by the window in our apartment.

I wonder about the people I’ve seen with water bottles early in the morning. They seemed to have just filled them up, and then they go traipsing back into the brush—where they live?

Only three sounds permeate my days in the our studio apartment in this solid cement building where we live and work: the hum of the space heater, a wide range of whistling, cawing, crying, chirping birds and the tick of the clock.

Here's a picture of our security guard. See how quiet it is!

Our Building & Preliminary Shopping

Here's a picture of the front of our building, and another over to the right, where you can see the windows our apartment.




Jorg, Norbert’s childhood friend in Berlin who is married to a Delliwallah and was here for just a quick vist, showed us another market. We’ve been having trouble finding basic household items for inexpensive prices. Kahn market is too expensive for silly things, like a colander, a can opener and two bowls big enough to eat cereal in. We can’t find these things at the B-10 market, Vasant Arcade or the KC on campus. So we found them at a market near the Bengali market—also home to the amazing Bengali Sweet Shop, which serves excellent coconut chutney and huge puffy puris with dal. On the street I happened upon a wallet salesman and found something that fits these huge—and numerous—rupee bills that one must carry around. Neither the one I use in the US, nor my UK one for all those heavy pound coins works.