Bharat Pyar

The Final Post

2009-11-24T07:57:00.001-08:00

India Time – 23:24 hrs. Been awake since 4:30 am. Went to bed at 1:30 am, and before that hadn’t been to bed at all in two days. 13 ½ hours since my departure from India. I’m beyond tired, beyond emotions, and have much to catch you up on…

Tuesday was my Hindi final, my last academic obligation in India. Hadn’t studied for the class the whole semester, so frantically picked up my textbook four hours before the exam, crammed relentlessly, and managed to hold a decent conversation with my teacher about the cultural differences between India and America and the difficulties of living in Delhi (obviously horrendously over-simplified). Held massive celebration / farewell party that night, which entailed the lethal equation of: 2 chocolate cakes with beedi candles + massive amounts of White Mischief, McDowell’s, and Magic Moments (the 3 cheapest brands of Indian booze) = 1 chocolate cake smeared living room, the guest appearance of our local hippie-nudist Tammy’s bare breasts, my drunkenness-induced victory spree at the beer pong table, one very pissed off landlord, a very sleepless night, and subsequent morning discovery of cake remnants behind my ear. Successful Tuesday night.

On Wednesday, my last day in India, my worrying expectancy of the worst case travel scenario was on high alert and so, as personal history could have predicted (like that time I forgot my Green Card…), less than twelve hours prior to my departure the great Jessica vs. Travel Agent showdown of 2009 took place.

It went a little something like this: Travel Agent had been pestering Jessica for some time now in regards to friends’ outstanding balance for the previous weekend’s Varanasi train tickets. Angelic, forward thinking Jessica had already paid her portion and therefore began to ignore harassing phone calls when reached annoyingly incessant level – perhaps not the wisest of decisions. You see, Travel Agent, crafty as he is, found through espionage-esque sneakery (i.e went to phone company, presented Jessica’s phone number, and thus retrieved ALL personal information, including passport number) that Jessica was leaving the country the next day. This quickly escalated into Travel Agent calling from outside Jessica’s house, screaming into the phone, and threatening that if R6,000 did not find its way into his hands that very minute that the police would become involved and she would not be permitted to board her flight in 12 hours. Important sidenote: Jessica does not have 6,000 rupees. Swift and shameful cursing coupled with frantic episode in manner of headless chicken ensued upon hanging up the phone.

It was horrible. Had to run downstairs and try to coax the angry Indian man parked across my street not to turn me in, to go to the people who owed him the money instead etc. etc. What a night! But at last after some panicked phone calls to said friends, I managed to get Travel Agent to pick up the money from their houses that night and not have me detained in India. Relief washed over my scattered nerves at last, and then the two of us sort of hovered there in an awkward post-fight moment before he asked, “So, tomorrow you leave India… when come back?” My exhaustion and anxiety finally got the best of me at that moment, and I just managed to blubber out a quick, “I don’t know,” in response before the tears poured out, making our strained moment even more awkward and scaring Travel Agent away completely.

Sneaky India, creeping up on my defenseless heart unexpectedly once more. I didn’t think I would cry so soon, not at least until I said goodbye to my friends, let alone find myself weeping through the street back to my home, flanked by people not even bothering to cover up in Hindi as they pointed and shouted in plain English, “Look, she is crying!” Perhaps it’s all because I’ve found something in this country that I know I won’t encounter anywhere else. Maybe because over the last nearly six months I’ve poured a lot of myself into the place, and been given such a mixture in return. The friends I’ve made here I will have back in California, but the culture of India, the other half of this dysfunctional relationship I’ve nurtured for half a year, I will not.

I got to see the sun rise over Delhi on my taxi ride to the airport. I inhaled the nauseating smells of the sewage run-off river in Mukherji Nagar for the last time. And I smiled as I sat in the backseat, sans seat belt, watching the driver weave dangerously close between trucks and centre dividers, and curse at the pedestrians he almost flattened. Then he asked me the same question that so surprised me on my last night in India once more. Well, as I sit here en route to Cyrus, surrounded by Germans for the 13^th consecutive hour, a country of people who appear to have a penchant for dying their hair weird colours, sausages, and cities that sound like Muppet characters (i.e. München), I have your answer Vijay:

Yes, one day I will be back, and No, you won’t be driving me to Rajasthan.

I just want to say thank you to any of you who read this blog and followed my journey through India. It will be one I'll never forget, thanks in part to this site and the support I had from those who took the time to read my words. And of course, I have to thank India, Bharat, Hindustan, for being the inspiration behind all of these entries; Mein aapko hamesha pyar karungi.

Thank you again, bahut pyar,

- Jessica

One Tuesday, November 10th

2009-11-24T05:13:00.000-08:00

I've prepared excuses for my desertion these last few weeks but they'll probably only be annoying. How on earth a person could run out of things to write about while living in India is something I wouldn't forgive anybody, because I never imagined it possible. With that, let me just say that I have accomplished nothing, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING during this dry spell in my little world of blogging. There, now you're caught up, so I'll start afresh with the little adventures of today that finally moved words into these discombobulated sentences flying through my head...

My sedentary life of late began with the necessity to sit in front of my computer and write papers for my classes, and ended with the distractions brought on by my obsession with an HBO show about vampires of the Louisiana backwoods that I watch online. Somewhere in between my mother almost successfully persuaded me to join her in a virtual farming game on Facebook, because she needed help with her dairy farm or some aubergines or the like, and I knew it was time for this all to end. So today on my oh-so-free Tuesday, nine days before I skip back to the planet from whence I came, aka America, I took on the mission of exploring the sites of Delhi I still had left to discover.

I woke up at 8am, not an easy feat for someone who is gradually turning as nocturnal as those aforementioned cable TV vamps. One hour on the metro, one short rickshaw ride later and I was at Purana Qila, or Old Fort. It was built 500 years ago at the site of Delhi's oldest city and the setting for the Mahabharata epic, Indraprastha. It took me a few minutes and more than a bit of sweet talking in Hindi but thanks to my student visa I snagged the Indian price entry ticket (93 rupees saved - I take pride in these little victories).

I walked through the huge "Bara Darwaza" entry gate into the mass of enclosed lawns behind it. At first glance it seemed more like a park than a fort, except surrounded on all sides by 18ft high, crumbling walls. The whole plot is also situated on a natural high point in the city, which affords great views of the rest of Delhi - considering that you are in fact facing East and looking out onto Humayun's Tomb and not the industrial power plant that lies to the West.

There was a mosque there, called the 'Qila-i-Kuhna Masjid.' It was the first Indo-Islamic structure to be constructed predominately from red sandstone and inlaid with white marble - a technique seen at the Taj Mahal. Oops, there goes Art History class in my head again. I just turned in my paper. Anyway, the other structure I came across was the 'Sher Mahal,' some sort of octagonal chamber built by Shah whats-his-face when he captured the empire from the Mughal Emperor Humayun. Hum regained the throne in 1555 and used Shah's fancy chamber as a library. He died a year later after taking a "mortal fall" down the steps there. Kind of an embarrassingly clumsy way for an emperor to go if you ask me. Shouldn't he have been impaled in battle or fallen victim to his son's betrayal by getting poisoned or fed to the crocodiles they kept in the moat? In another one of my important ponderings on ancient Indian architecture, I've decided that the name Purana Qila is very close to 'Piranha Killaaa,' which shall henceforth be my fantasy emcee name. Anyway, moving on...

Purana Qila is maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India, as signs everywhere point out. But the only people I saw doing any of the maintenance and excavation work were a bunch of lower caste road workers. The parents dig up dirt and cart it around in baskets on their heads as their half-naked children lie on blankets in the dust nearby. The kids' English vocabulary already consists of the three words they'll need to get through life: "Hellooooo," "Byeeeee," and "Money! Money! Money!" As insensitive as I may come across here, the thought of beggars bothers me a lot less than now than it used to. There's no point in playing the blame game for what drives people to beg. Even chastising the caste system plays into that vicious circle, and letting yourself feel guilty because of their situation does too. I only feel real annoyance and shame at the shallow pocketed attitudes of some of the people I know when lately our ability to let go and accept the harsh end of a bargain seems to be dwindling since we've been here for so long. So I gave the little kids some change, after they posed like Charlie's Angels for my camera, of course.

I hobbled out of Purana Qila because my beautiful new embroidered Punjabi jutti had given me some very ugly blisters. Hmmm perfect excuse, I mean opportunity, to go do some shopping at Sarojni Nagar, the cheapest of the cheap among Delhi's shopping districts. On the way, as my auto flew down a freeway flyover, we passed within inches of three elephants who had their front feet balanced on the barricade, pulling stray branches from trees that hung over the road. It reminded me of living in South Africa and passing by bands of monkeys stealing bananas from fruit trucks on the side of the highway. Sometimes animals and people can live together, if not in harmony then at least in some habitable chaos for all. So I bought some new shoes at Sarojni and reveled in my power as a bargaining customer - in some situations it is actually ok to stick to your frugal guns, especially if you can get a counterfeit Camaieau top for R100 out of it...

I took a detour on the way home from turning in my Art History paper at the National Museum and went to a swanky area for expats and foreigners called Khan Market. It was so clean and lovely, and there was an actual cafe and bookstore there, I got so excited I just milled amidst the books for a bit, eating bruschetta and feeling metropolitan as I sipped my cappuccino. A framed quote was hung above my table: "From food are born all creatures which live upon food and after death return to food. Food is the chief of all things. It is therefore said to be the medicine of all diseases of the body" - Upanishads, 500 BC. Amen.

Down on the street I found more havens for my food addiction - supermarkets. I haven't been in a supermarket since June, I swear I almost wet my pants with delight. You'll have to forgive my vulgarity, but they had prosciutto. As I stood at the checkout line with my freshly baked ciabatta roll and a tub of buffalo mozzarella, I began to wonder what sort of alternate universe, black hole, or some other physics-defying phenomenon existed there at Khan Market in the middle of my dirty city. That was the moment I actually discovered that a whole different world opens up to you in India when you have the means to live in a South Delhi sky rise, and all of the ant-sized commotion down on the street or outside of your air-conditioned car is just the background noise to a Bollywood-music-number-themed life. Honestly, how much more multi-faceted and contradictory can this place get?

My day ended with a pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea amongst friends at an American bar called Blues. We sang nostalgically to tunes that hit their height of popularity around the time of my 8th grade dance, our voices becoming louder and more discordant with every refilled glass. It's funny to think of the worlds you can pass between just a few stops down the metro line; some ancient ruins, a bustling bazaar, a European cafe and an American jazz bar. It's also a good comfort to know that at the end of the day you've got friends who'll sit and drink with you and remind you of that other world you all left when you jumped on a plane five months back.

Another day in Delhi, another pair of shoes I can't wear. Oh well, even if my feet can't stand up to the city, at least I know I can.

Ode to Indian Food

2009-10-22T06:34:00.000-07:00

People told us we'd never make it this far, but just look at us now, five months on and every bite still as succulent as the first. Sure, we've had our fair share of problems (you've done things to me that my intestines are likely never to forgive you for) but what's a relationship without its ups and downs, the odd spot of trouble? There was a time when I (and my thighs) wanted to be rid of you forever, but I'm past that now. All the hours I spent in a stifling gym run by pervy personal trainers with short tempers, and still I just couldn't run from my feelings for you. No amount of squats, curls, or crunches could erase you from either memory or arse, so I'm chalking history up to my steatopygia (self-diagnosed). That's why to this day I still stick up for you, even when the hippy roommates walk through the door with their eco-friendly carrier bags full of whole grain muesli and high protein soya chunks, bleh.

O Samosa and your crunchy fried crust, O Kofta dipped in cream, and my lovely paratha with those floury swirls dripping with ghee! Even you Pista Burfi, who I took some time to warm up to, your zincy aluminium shell still makes my teeth tingle... And street food! Don't think I've forgotten you - how could I, after all those "accidental" brushes of unwashed hands? You were the most unassuming of all, drawing me into those undiscovered, quiet places like the dimly lit back alley of a cheap cinema for a quick nibble of your mutton momos or the chicken keema roll. Mmmmm...

But alas, one day, quite soon, we shall say our goodbyes, and I shall have to pick you off my diet as I pick the remnants of Khaju caramel cookies from the crevices of my molars. But I hope you know that I'll carry a reminder of you with me for a very long time - a 5 to 10 pound reminder, that is.

Tis the Season... for Fireworks

2009-10-18T13:14:00.000-07:00

Diwali officially began on Thursday, but children started shooting rockets into the air long before that, and they haven't stopped since. Their missile launches have only gained strength by both ferocity and frequency, so that by the end of last week even in the daytime I'd pass by groups of youngsters, huddled round a pringle-tin size box, striking a match and sprinting away in the mere seconds given to them by the cracker's impatient fuse. They look like a firework themselves, running away like that, spiraling in all directions like the arms of a Catherine Wheel. Then an ear-splitting bang pulses down the street, backed by the chorus of car alarms and barking dogs, received by the cheers and applause of seven year-old boys and the admonitions of annoyed neighbours. That's what has become of my otherwise pleasant Punjabi neighbourhood over the past few weeks, culminating in the festival to top all festivals, the beginning of a new year - Diwali.

Diwali, or Dipavali as it is also called, is celebrated as a national holiday but interpreted differently based on different religions. For Hindus, the majority of the population, it is marked to celebrate the return of Rama to his kingdom after fourteen years of exile in his pursuit to defeat the demon Ravana. The people of Ayodhya welcomed him home by lighting rows (avali) of oil lamps (dipa), hence the name dipavali and the tradition of this festival of lights. It was a special holiday for me too this year, as I was invited by my friend Komal to spend Saturday night with her family in South Delhi - my first Indian family experience since my arrival here.

But before that night, there were several other little celebrations first. The five day festival started with a day called Dhanteras, an auspicious day to celebrate wealth. Traditionally, everybody goes out to buy something new for the home, be it as lavish as a widescreen TV or as small as a spoon. When I got off the Metro in the evening, returning from Hindi class, My street was packed with all kinds of people buying and selling and generally making things even more chaotic than usual, but the holiday spirit seeped into me too and I found myself buying a teacup on the way home.

Friday was Chhoti Diwali, which means 'small Diwali,' the day before the big celebrations. At a loss for how to celebrate it, my friends Komal, Regina, and I travelled to a market in South Delhi called Sarojni Nagar - probably the cheapest place to buy clothes in Delhi and packed with amazing stuff. Needless to say, my shopping endorphins went into sensory overload. Most of the clothes there had been made for export - most of them had the tags cut off but on occasion I came across a recognizable Gap top or an Urban Outfitters dress. Sometimes the police would wander by and scared shop owners would rush around to move their displays out of the little streets, making me wonder whether some of the goods were stolen. But hey, is it so wrong to be giving money directly to the sources our clothes in America really come from, or would it be better to pay twenty times as much to the department store they end up in? Well, I suppose it's that kind of thinking that ends with one dishing out 1500Rs, but I have a lot to show for it!

The next day on Badi Diwali, or 'big Diwali,' Komal and I set off for her family's house deep in South Delhi. I felt excited and nervous to be a part of their celebrations, not knowing whether the reputed quiet holiday at home would be too private an affair for me to join in on. Then I met her relatives and they were lovely to me. The house was Komal's maternal uncle's, but being a shared family home it housed over three floors her aunt and uncle, their two sons plus the wife of the elder one (the younger brother is soon to be married and will then welcome his new bride into the household, too), AND both sets of grandparents, as well as household staff. It seems such a foreign concept to me to have all extended family under one roof, as I've grown up with mine always living a long plane ride away, but I loved the closeness of everyone. Accordingly, I'm sure the idea even of an extended family is a foreign concept to them. Everybody from the aunt and uncle down could speak English very well, but the conversations were mostly in Hindi, so I had a fun time keeping myself engaged and listening out for familiar words in an attempt not to blend in with the furniture. I'm happy to say I think I got the jist of it.

In the evening we all gathered in a room that housed the family's shrine to perform puja, a ritual blessing offered to various deities depending on the occasion. Going into it I was worried, as I really had no clue what to do as the only non-Hindu there. But once again, the whole family welcomed me into their festivities and helped me along. I was surprised at how merry the atmosphere was in the room - as Komal's uncle lit the incense and prepared statuettes and coins for their blessing, the cousins joked around, pinching each other and giggling. Komal and I had nothing to cover our heads so took a bit of tinsel edged cloth from the cupboard and wrapped it around our heads and faces like demure Muslim girls, batting our eyelashes and making everyone laugh at our expense. When the prayers and singing began, Komal's aunt was nice enough to turn around at the end of each verse and offer me a translation. On the main night of Diwali you offer blessings to the gods Lakshmi and Ganesha - one the goddess of wealth, the other the god of prosperity. Her uncle bathed little figures of them in milk, along with coins from several different countries, then placed piles of sandalwood before them and dotted their foreheads with vermillion powder. We, too, got a crimson dotting. At the end of the ceremony each of us carried a plate decorated with candles in the shape of a Hindu swastika, moving it in circles before the gods. Hopefully I did the whole thing right - it'd be nice if the gods of prosperity and wealth looked favourably on me this year...

At dinner we ate some delicious homemade Indian food - sabzi, chana, roti and rice, some amazing mint chutney and aloo paneer. I took my fill but soon learned that guests in an Indian home really aren't allowed to refuse anything offered to them, no matter how many times one protests, so I ended up right stuffed. The kesar pista (saffron pistachio) ice cream and khaju burfi really finished me off - I thought they'd all have to roll me through the door to watch the fireworks outside.

The scene in the street took me back to memories of New Year's Eve in the Philippines, minus the scary after hours news footage of people in the hospital with their hands blown off... On the ground level children lit spinning 'chakris,' which whistled as they spiraled around on the road spitting sparks. On the rooftops other families had lit rows of oil lamps just like we had, and brave people set off big rockets in rapid succession. It felt like we'd stepped into a war zone, just with prettier, twinkly explosions. One of the cousins commented on how much better it was this year (in terms of less fireworks being set off) because people were more concerned about air pollution these days. I had a little laugh to myself about that one - if you saw the kind of stuff you blow out of your nose at the end of a long day spent in the smoggy heart of the city, you'd know why. We watched for a long time until my ears were practically ringing, but were eventually forced inside by the falling cinders of one neighbour's low flying rockets - one of the pieces even fell on my cheek. What a night!

In the morning light the street was a tired and soot covered reminder of the majestic night before, full of empty rocket cans overturned in the street and run over by cars. Another delicious but huge breakfast was forced upon me by my fantastic hosts, but soon it was almost time to go. Komal went into another room to pack her things and I waited awkwardly in the foyer with the grandparents who spoke no English. But then her Nani unexpectedly grabbed my hand and guided me over to the sofa, asking me to sit beside her. She apologized for not speaking much English, but I told her that she could speak Hindi and I would try to understand. It was amazing how much we could actually converse. Nani pulled out a big photo album and flipped through the pages, introducing me to every one of her many relations, and I meaneveryone. In translation it would be like "this is my husband's brother's daughter's sister-in-law. She's married to the Minister of Defense and comes from Madras." I nodded and smiled and she kept hugging and holding me as if I was one of these extended family members now too, it was really lovely. She even told me that I should stay in India for longer so that we could teach each other our respective languages. Probably my favourite moment of the whole weekend.

We left to many protestations on the family's part and promises on our behalf to come back again soon. I also left with presents in my hand, a box of mango cookies and a coin with Lakshmi and Ganesha on it. I can only hope that this very happy Diwali of mine is a sign of some good fortune and prosperity to come. Who knows? Maybe those mischievous kids in my neighbourhood will give up their rockets and go back to the serene kite-flying I love them for. Wishful thinking.

Fleeting Moments, Images, and Little Things I Will Miss about India

2009-10-14T06:50:00.000-07:00

I'm compiling a list before I depart...

The walk from Rastrapati Bhavan to India Gate

Power outages

Women riding sidesaddle on motorbikes

Entire families squeezed onto one motorbike (current record: 5)

Getting to class and finding it's cancelled, and you're the only one who didn't know

CHAI

Looking across the metro bench under the For Ladies Only sign and seeing a whole row of Indian men sitting down instead

Random encounters with Hijra (eunnuchs and transsexuals, the "third gender")

Long lines of schoolgirls on field trips emphatically waving and shouting "Hello Miss!"

Hot Butter Laccha Paratha

Rickshaw drivers

Rickshaw drivers' strikes

Strikes in general that pop up for no reason but are always incredibly inconvenient

Pan splatter on the pavement

Indian porn titles ("Adult Frantic Sexual Intercourse")

Surprising people talking about me in Hindi that I understand Hindi

Cursing said people in Hindi

Living in a country that has festivals six months out of the year

Hopping on a train at the last minute and seeing somewhere amazing

Feeling part of a group, sharing this crazy experience

Broken shoes

Conveniently located cobblers who sit on the side of the road waiting to fix your broken shoes

Steamed veggie momos

Pausing lecture for a chai break

Bucket showers

Playing with the stray dogs on my street, especially my little Blondie, even though they gave me fleas once and I get funny looks from Indians for doing it (some even try to "save me" from the dogs and chase them off)

Sarees

LIMCA. Charley will sympathize with me on this one It's a lemon-lime soda, like Sprite only a billion times better

Wednesday nights at Urban Pind, and their free mojitos

Children playing with dangerous fireworks in our park

The 5R shared auto ride that's supposed to take five minutes but doubles in time because the driver usually has to stop to replace a wheel or fix the brakes

Vegetable sellers, broom sellers, balloon sellers, all of them calling their wares from the street

Cows. Everywhere.

Cow shit. Everywhere.

Only half-caring that your unplucked, unshaved areas make you look like some Cousin It-Grizzly Man hybrid

Maggi Masala Instant Noodles

The personal trainer at my gym (which is really just a stuffy 10' by 12' room with death trap machines in it) who threatens us with a long wooden rod and shouts commands in a drill sergeant voice

Shopping shopping shopping

Eating eating eating

Sweet lemons and sour oranges

India's crazy sense of time (yesterday and tomorrow are the same word in Hindi, same as the day before yesterday and the day after tomorrow)

Feeling part of a group, sharing this crazy experience

Finding writing inspiration everyday

Smiles from strangers (because one smile makes up for a hundred hostile glares)

Living in a foreign nation alone and not losing my mind (completely that is)

Learning I can be independent

Surviving

Waking up and knowing that a whole different world is just a few steps outside my door...

And of course, being surprised by the fact that the things I'm going to miss the most are sometimes the ones that make my life so difficult now.

The Post About Nothing

2009-10-09T23:03:00.000-07:00

I dislike the term 'soul-searching.' It connotes an uncertainty of purpose in one's life, the kind of thing I usually feel so sure about. When I decided to come to India over a year and a half ago, I fought against the opinions of other people that I would hate it there, that it was a smelly, dangerous, uncomfortable place and I would regret it. Maybe I fought a little too hard. Back then I was so certain of what the experience of living abroad in Delhi would mean to me, and the opposition I faced may have made me even more stubborn in my desire to prove that I could stand whatever came my way.

Now, I am almost one month away from completing my program. I haven't left my apartment all week except to go to a few classes and grab some groceries. I'm in hiding from Delhi.

Why? It's complicated. Yesterday I had a long skype conversation with Mum and finally broke down about it. I'm drained - financially, emotionally, physically. I can't stand how taxing it is to leave my house. I can't stand being on my guard 100% of the time. Plus I no longer have the cash to pick up and escape the city for a weekend, so now I have to face these feelings every hour of the day. But more than anything, I can't stand the guilt I feel, and knowing that your experience anywhere you choose to live is what you make it. I mean, some of my friends don't seem to have these kinds of troubles. One in particular just seems to meet fantastic people wherever he goes, people who genuinely just want to sit with him and talk to him. That doesn't happen to me, and I can't really think of why, but I know that other students on my program like him probably won't understand my motives for leaving the country as early as possible, which in turn makes me feel like I have to stay as long as they do and prove myself. Of course Mum consoled me perfectly, telling me I've done enough traveling, seen enough things, and that I don't have to prove myself to anyone. Plus, our family situation has changed a lot with them living away from me in California - I can just tell my friends here that I have to leave in order to get adequate time with my family (time that I really really want).

And at the same time, I feel like I have to defend India. To me it's like that annoying sibling you may complain to your friends about. You might say how much they get on your nerves or inconvenience you or hurt you, but as soon as someone else starts turning around and saying the same things about your family, you know they've crossed the line, and you can't stand it. I have the option to leave here as early as mid-November. I'm ready to go now, I think, but do I want to take that opportunity so soon? When will I come back? And will I ever be back in the same capacity as I am here now? No. Sometimes I feel like running off and vowing never to return, and some days I really love it here. I know I'm not making any sense here. I told you it was complicated.

Yet I don't think I'm alone in all this indecisiveness and conflict. One thing I've learned about this place is that it's rife with paradox - the entire country rests on a fine balance that puts us, its inhabitants, in the grey area between love and hate. I turn to Indian mythology to explain a lot of concepts for me, and this Thursday in Art History class one of those dichotomies came to light for me in a big way. We were touring the Bronze gallery, and came to a familiar statue of Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction. 'Nataraja' is probably the most popular subject in the Indian Bronzes collection, repeated over and over by various artists. In it Shiva performs the dance of creation. Interesting isn't it, that the god with the power to destroy everything is depicted as the one who gave the universe life? With one hand he offers the viewer assurance, with another peace. The locks of his hair are fanned out delicately on either side of his head, forming the canal for the river goddess Ganga to be poured onto from the heavens and give us all life. But in his last hand there sits a fireball, powerful enough to destroy the whole universe. This is the figure Hindus must place their trust in - the man with the power to give everything and to take it all away. I look at the circle of flames behind the creator-destroyer's head, symbolically chosen because it has neither beginning nor end. India in a nutshell; everyday we're going around in circles as people suffer and celebrate. No wonder I'm confused.

And as I face making the decision of when and how I want my time in India to end, I think to myself, perhaps I really do have some of that soul-searching to do.

Mamallapuram and the Long Journey Home

2009-09-28T21:06:00.000-07:00

As I write this entry, Charley and I are sitting in the sleeper class of a train bound for Delhi. We are twelve hours in - only one third of the way through. A man is crawling on the floor next to me, sweeping up our crumbs. He seems mute, and he is begging everyone in the compartment for change. I try to ignore him and keep on writing. None of the Indian boys around us are giving him anything, so I look to their example. But he's still here. I hope I have change in my wallet. I give him a meager 2 Rs I find there.

This train car feels like purgatory. Even though I went to a travel agent more than ten days ago and paid him for the express train with an A/C cabin, we landed on the slow train in a 3rd class sleeper. I never imagined before how elite my usual train class was - it's nothing special, you know. But here at every other stop beggars and peddlers are allowed to jump on and ride the train into the next station, which I've never seen before. Also, a man groped me last night. I was sleeping, lying on my back, and woke up to the feeling of a foreign hand squeezing my right breast. I was in shock and blind and surrounded by sleeping people, so I never saw the man's face or chased him down the aisle to reprimand him as he ran away. I hate that. I was once pick-pocketed on another train coming back from Calcutta, but luckily I caught the guy in the act. It's just so frustrating looking back on both those times and knowing that all the guts I had to react with was to shout "Hey!" and then some bastard got away with it. So, we're hot, getting bitten to death by mosquitoes because we have to keep the windows open, and surrounded by deformed beggars and perverts. I'd say purgatory is a pretty good description.

Anyway, when I last wrote I left off with us on that bus ride to Mamallapuram. We arrived in town and got a cheap hotel that backed onto the beach. It even made us promises of 24 hrs electricity and hot water. With a positive outlook, we decided to do nothing that afternoon but swim in the ocean and read our books on the beach. It's really nice and clean in Mamallapuram. On one side it's filled up with little fishing boats but when you walk up a little further there are some nice swimming spots where the water stays shallow until quite far out. Charley pointed out at the sea and said, "Wait, is that the equator I see?" The beach is also lined with cafe restaurants with names like Sea Breeze and Sunshine, but the real gem is the Bob Marley Cafe, which pumps out reggae tunes as you eat fresh seafood and look out at the ocean. Evidently Mamallapuram, even though it doesn't have the fresh salty air or crystal waters of say, the Andaman Islands or the Maldives, is desperate to be known as the next hip beach destination in India.

We were just coming back from an evening walk around the town, deciding where to go for dinner, when the hotel manager caught us at the door, turned to Charley and asked, "Hey, do you wanna be in a movie?" Apparently they were filming a Tamil movie nearby and needed some white men to play background as old English police officers. There was a taxi waiting outside to take us if we wanted to go, AND the production team would pay. Once again, Charley and I, faced with another prospect of minor Indian video stardom, smiled at each other and made a little head bobble of our own as if to say, "Why not?"

It was one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. We got there and it was already dark because it would be a night shoot (little did we know an all night shoot). Charley immediately changed into costume complete with gun holster, rank ribbons, and a moustache that made him look like Freddy Mercury. The rest of the extras were already decked out in similar dress and hairstyles. We met them - 6 in all and strangely all Eastern Europeans, Poles, and Russians, save for one Argentinian. We got to chatting and found out that they had all been picked up from ashrams and were affiliated with the production team - wherever they travelled to in India they'd get a call on their mobiles asking them if they'd like to make a little money as an extra in the latest colonial drama. One guy, Alex, had been living that way in India for five years. He was interesting - the kind of interesting that five years in India makes of you. He actually told Charley he only leaves the country to take vacations in Serbia where he can finally "clear his head." Hmmm... None of them knew each other going into the shoot. Apparently ashrams just seem to attract a lot of Russians seeking enlightenment through a baba/guru type person. But you could tell that they all got along like old friends now, constantly breaking into Russian (with many interjections of the word "vodka") and probably bonding over their shared difficulty of getting by knowing zero Hindi and not the best English.

We had to wait for the extras' part to be filmed basically all night, and tried to entertain ourselves. I kept trying to get Charley to sing some 'Killer Queen' or 'Bohemian Rhapsody' to me, which made him laugh and also made his moustache fall off, which pissed off the make-up guy. We took lots of silly pictures with the Russians. By 2am we'd been there for about seven hours and things started to get a little weird. The Euros had taken to displaying their somehow common skills in the martial arts and mock-fighting each other, making us wonder if we weren't involved in some kind of KGB-esque conspiracy. One of the guys, Pablo (they all had fabulous names - one was called Valentino) was a very spiritual person who sat meditating half the night. He talked with us in great depth about numerology and each of our respective numbers. I have to admit, he got me down to a tee, not that I hold any store in that kind of stuff. He's from Siberia and hates living in India but has somehow pushed through it for two years. He says Nepal is the real place to be. I wondered why he didn't just go there then.

This entire time the crew had been shooting the same scene for the movie. It was taking forever because the Tamil director needed to get every shot precisely right. The film, "Madhrasputtnam," was about an English girl whose father works for the East India Trading Company and how she falls into forbidden love with an Indian boy. It ends tragically of course, and we were on the second to last night of shooting when the girl's lover is killed and she has to pull his body from the lake up onto her boat. So there was this girl, lying in the boat playing half-dead while the director shouted through a microphone as he sat far off in a van, telling her where exactly to put her head, "A little left, now right, up a bit..." It went on for hours like that while we poor extras and even lowlier extra's affiliates (I was the only one) didn't even have chairs and were being massacred by bugs.

At long last it was 5am and the boys had to be shot before day break. Why they didn't just shoot their one simple part at the beginning of the night I'll never know. So with Charley gone I went off and sat next to the English actress' mother. She was a lovely lady from Liverpool and we talked for a while. Her motherly presence, I have to admit, was a comfort - she kept calling me "love." She said her daughter, Amy, got into the whole project because she won Miss Teen World. After that the Indians caught on because they just love that sort of thing, and they asked her to be in their movie without even a lick of acting experience. I just felt quite sorry for them because all they'd seen of India was Chennai (disgusting) and the lake where the shooting took place, which was no beauty either. I told her about some of the best and worst bits of India, my own little highlight reel, and I think it half blew her mind - she looked really sorry for me, even though that wasn't my intended reaction. The script writer came and sat next to us too - a really grumpy bugger who was English but has lived in India for the past thirty years. He'd never bothered in all that time to learn either Hindi or Tamil, seeming to prefer to just sit around on movie sets complaining about how ugly the language sounded or how much better he could do each crew member's job himself, grumbling, "Stupid, bloody Indians." Actually, he complained about just about everything, including the state of the police officer's dress and the extras' behaviour, right to my face. Well of course they didn't look as perfect as they did at the beginning of the night - you had us all hanging around in the dirt entertaining ourselves with strange calisthenics trying to stay awake! Surely, I hoped, all that bad temper wasn't just from living in India for so long?

The sunrise came and we had to wrap shooting. In the end I think Charley had a good time - he got to live out a boyish fantasy and parade around pretend shooting a rifle. The crew seemed a little intolerant of the extras and annoyed at the end, but I don't know how they could've expected anything better when you're bored, tired, and uncomfortable. We rode back with the Russians and finally saw them in their own clothes - all homespun hippy fabrics. Then we noticed the huge neo-Nazi tattoo on the side of Alex's arm and were really confused. What a strange night. We had to remind the guy who dropped us back off to pay Charley. He made 800 Rs (about $16) - at least it covered more than the cost of our room for two nights!

We slept in for more than half of the next day. We had been planning on renting another moped ad driving around to the sites of Mamallapuram but ended up being way too tired, grumpy and hot. The power went out so many times that in the end Charley ran out to the reception desk in his boxers and asked the manager, "Where's that 24 hr electricity you promised us now, eh? Oh, and by the way, my girlfriend and I are checking out tomorrow but we're not leaving at noon, we're gonna stay here until 4 O'CLOCK. Got it?" In fact all we managed to do for the day was make the discovery that every restaurant in Mamallapuram serves Nutella crepes for dessert. We walked down the beach at sunset and treated ourselves to great seafood for dinner - calamari, prawns, and an entire fish in garlic butter sauce, yum!

We also made arrangements to treat ourselves to massages the next morning. One more interesting Mamallapuram experience of note! At 7am Charley and I found ourselves lying on massage beds being forcefully undressed by our respective masseur and masseuse. I heard Charley say through the curtain, "Wait, you want me to get naked?" and the masseur responding, "It's okay sir, I give you a string to wear," then Charley again asking, "a STRING? Jess?" At the same time I found it strange that even though I was only getting a facial the lady had to unbutton my bra and lie me down topless on my back. I wouldn't even have been half as uncomfortable if we had been in an actual massage parlour, but we were in somebody's house and even with an eye mask on I just knew there were people passing in and out. At least it was a woman, I consoled myself, but then Charley was finished before I was and went back to our room. When my face mask was removed by who I presumed was the same woman who had been treating me the whole time, imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw Charley's masseur! Ah well. It turns out this guy really got quite the eyeful that morning - Charley's 'string' get-up was really just that, a piece of dental floss around the waist and a strip of toilet paper tucked in the middle! Poor thing.

In our last few hours at Mamallapuram we finally saw the things you're supposed to see when you visit. There was the Tiger Cave, a 1,300 year-old auditorium carved out of stone and decorated with tiger heads. It lay buried unknown in the sand for centuries until the 2004 tsunami hit and washed part of the land out to sea. The same goes for many of Mamallapuram's archaeological sites, and just nearby to the Cave we saw a similar excavation site in progress. We also saw the Panch Rathas, five temples from the same time period as the Tiger Cave that were all carved out of one massive piece of granite. And of course there was also Krishna's Butterball - a precariously balanced round bit of stone on a very steep slope. The British tried to move it once for some reason but even with a team of elephants they couldn't get it to budge. We took the usual silly pictures in front of it that make you look like you're holding it up all by yourself. Then we made our last scooter ride of the trip back to our hotel, each commenting on how badly our mothers would freak out/ have a heart attack if they could have seen us just then, flying down an Indian highway, on an Indian bike, without helmets (sorry Mum!). As for me, I'm quite proud to say I have mastered the act of sitting side-saddle on the back of a motorbike that I previously thought only demure Indian women in sarees possessed.

And then, after a long uncomfortable bus ride to Chennai, we got onto the train for one more long, uncomfortable journey. Charley is in the next compartment over playing cards with a South Indian family, a girl in a sari on either side teaching him how to play. I feel happy, ultimately, when I think of my first trip to South India, despite its ups and downs, because I think of all of the friendly people we met along the way. There were the many bys who came up to us at the beach, just to make conversation, or the French-Moroccan lady we ran into both in Pondicherry and Mamallapuram. I won't forget the weird guy who served us at the New Cafe with the only Indian afro I've ever seen in my life, or the masseur who probably gets off humiliating white tourists with a bit of string and some toilet paper. This is what I think of now, all those happy faces and hopefully the many more to come, as I sit on a train that reminds me of purgatory passing through the middle of India.

Pondicherry

2009-09-28T05:48:00.000-07:00

Our plane arrived in Chennai at nine o'clock, about an hour and a half late. We didn't know where to stay so we booked a pre-paid airport taxi to take us to the state bus depot, thinking that we might find a cheap hostel nearby and catch the earliest bus to Mamallapuram we could find in the morning. Then, driving through Chennai we saw what complete shit the city was. It was ugly, dirty, boring, and hot - everything the Lonely Planet's mediocre reviews prepared us for. We reached the bus terminal and thought we should at least have a look and see what time the bus would leave the next day for Mamallapuram. It was a total mess. No sign boards, people sleeping everywhere, people shouting, eating, begging, and using the bathroom everywhere. We found the docks for the buses going to Mamallapuram and Pondicherry right next to each other. No buses were lined up for Mamallapuram, but two were there for Pondy, gearing up to go. Neither of us much fancied staying a minute longer in Chennai, so Charley and I looked at each other with expressions of, "Why not?"

"I just have to pee really quickly," Charley said and darted off to a corner. Meanwhile I walked a few steps to buy us some mango juice for the ride as we hadn't had any dinner. Then I heard yells for "Pondy! Pondy!" and the whistle blowing and BOTH buses pulling away. I yelled out "CHARLEY" who was already zipping up and we ran and jumped to the bus. We made a split second decision to get on a four hour bus ride that wouldn't get into Pondicherry until 2am, not having any idea where we'd stay when we got there or if any of the guest houses would even be open to let us in.

It was nuts. Technically I was asleep for most of the time but we were clutching our bags hoping not to get pick-pocketed. We were the only white people on the bus and everyone was staring at us. I had to awkwardly change my shirt in my seat. There were five Hindu statuettes at the front with blinking lights that flashed between red and green. Charley tells me there was a dirty old man sitting in the seat over who was begging from him the whole time (for either drugs, food or money, he still doesn't know) and constantly staring. At one point he lit up a joint and the bus conductor stopped the driver, marched over, and forced the man to dump all his narcotics out the window before we moved on. Poor Charley stayed awake the whole time protecting me. What an experience for him on his first trip into a third world country! I've never even travelled like that within India before.

So anyway, we arrived at Pondicherry really early in the morning. Luckily we found a rickshaw driver who was obviously commissioned by this old French owner of a guest house to bring in travellers from the station, and he woke up the owner to let us in. Twenty four hours later I sat, writing in my diary, collecting my thoughts on the small former French colony. To my horror, I had already eaten two chocolate croissants, two mini quiche lorraines, half a chicken puff, one chicken and olive baguette, and was at the time working my way through a bottle of white wine with Charley. I didn't realize I was sick of Indian food until we found this amazing authentic French patisserie called Naker's Street. The town was so French! I heard the language being spoken everywhere. Our guest house owner was an old, pot bellied French man who walked around in a pair of swimming trunks and an unbuttoned shirt day and night. His wife was an Indian lady. All of the Indians in town seemed more likely to speak French than English as a second language, and definitely no Hindi so communication was quite different. We got around the city on a scooter that we rented out for 130 Rs a day. We only needed to put down a 500 R deposit on it too, it would have been so easy to run away with it! The streets weren't too crazy but I sat back and let Charley handle it.

It was so good to see the ocean again. We drove our little moto up to a small swimming beach in the afternoon out by Auroville, which is a sort of international colony where hippies from all over can join, meditate, and live in peace together. The water was amazingly warm but I must've been the only girl there and felt a bit self conscious - once again we were the only white people too, and we were really close-by to a small village and all its village fishermen who were looking on. A few young guys came up to us and within a few minutes declared us their 'best friends.' They made Charley jump in the waves with them and kept flexing their "gym bodies" for us. When they left, one of them pulled Charley in for a rib crunching hug. The look on his face was priceless. Then we retreated to our room and just lazed around drinking wine, looking out at the Bay of Bengal and enjoying the nice sea breeze.

We spent the rest of our stay in the town doing much the same thing. We rode around on that moped everywhere (or at least Charley did - all evidence concludes that I am too spastic for Indian roads) and we ate every meal, complete with chocolate croissant, at Baker's Street. We did find a famous temple dedicated to Ganesha while out one day. It has forty depictions of Ganesha's different attributes on its inside walls, and because Ganesha is the elephant-headed god, the temple also keeps a big Asian elephant outside to bless worshippers. The South Indian temple architecture is really reflective of its cultural surroundings - bright and colourful. Every face of its many sculptures was painted meticulously in blues, greens, pinks and oranges, and in the alley outside flower sellers sold lotuses in full bloom. On our last night in Pondy there was lightning in the far North. We got no thunder or rain where we were, so we just sat on the beach with a crowd of other people and watched the sky light up in silent flashes. An older lady came along and braided a strand of jasmine into my hair, the way that Tamil women wear it. Her smiles and affection made me feel like she was blessing me.

That next morning we jumped on a bus heading to Mamallapuram, or at least we hoped we did. It was really hard not being able to rely on my Hindi in the South as the regional language of Tamil is so totally different and the people that you really need to be able to speak English (like bus conductors) don't. We pointed to several buses and asked "Mamallapuram?" and got mixed head bobble responses, so we just had to follow our hunches for head bobble meanings. Thank god we made it there safely, uneventfully, and onto the next phase of our journey, and also with a few leftover pastries bought on take away in our luggage. I mean, just because we were leaving that sleepy French enclave behind didn't mean I was giving up my chocolate croissants.

Udaipur

2009-09-28T02:35:00.000-07:00

For Charley's visit to India, the two of us decided to take one long ten day break visiting a few sites, as opposed to my usual weekend sojourns. The first stop along our route was in Udaipur, a city of lakes in Rajasthan nicknamed the 'Venice of the East.' It was as romantic as and charming as its reputation suggests, and so much more...

We arrived at 9am by overnight train from Delhi and were out of our comfy (expensive) hotel room by 10 to explore the City Palace Museum. The Rajput dynasty of the city built the second largest palace in the country, and I have to say it's more beautiful than any historical palace or fort I've seen in India so far. Built over 400 years ago on the banks of Lake Pichola, from its top floors the astounding views consist of the lakes and mountains on one side and all of Udaipur on the other. The palace had so much artwork from all points in the Mewar royal family's history, including paintings of important battles, murals of the Maharana's tiger hunts, and delicate mosaics that catch the light coming in through arched windows. It took us forever to walk through the palace, and in each courtyard and preserved bedroom there was something so captivating and regal it really all took our breath away. One of my favourites was the colourful room of a 16 year-old princess who in the late 1600s committed suicide after discovering that her two rival suitors from Jaipur and Jodhpur were about to declare war over her hand. Her walls were covered in thousands of painted mirror tiles and from the center of the ceiling a cushioned red swing hung down.

We were just buying tickets outside the museum for a scenic boat ride of Lake Pichola when a small Indian guy approached us and said he was with a crew that was filming a commercial and they needed some white women to shoot playing tug of war against a group of Indian ladies. The man had hardly got his words out before Charley said, "She'll do it!" and pushed me forward. So there I was, inside the City Palace, filming a promo video for the 2010 Commonwealth Games. There was a bunch of us white girls - all Europeans, French and Spanish mostly, all a bit older and all catting to each other (they wouldn't make conversation with the likes of us teenage folk and were too busy parodying American accents to do so anyway). Everybody's boyfriends were gathered on the side snapping embarrassing photos, mine included. One lone model ("Francesca") stood amongst us holding the rope. For some reason wardrobe had dressed her in a beige sort of skirt suit while we were all looking trashy in our Indian touristy clothes. Everybody was fussing over her saying "Farncesca? Where's Francesca?" The director was exactly what you'd expect a sleazy director to be like, calling everyone dudes and trying to quote the Big Lebowski and winking all over the place, but he was fun. Somehow I ended up in front of Francesca so that when the shot was tightened I had to stay on to keep the same surroundings. We were still pretending to play tug of war in the shot but I guess waify Franny wasn't putting enough vigour into it. The director said "Do it like her!" and pointed somewhere in my direction, and from behind me I heard a tiny voice say, "But you guys haven't fed me in like 3 days..." She was nice, though. She's lived here for five years between Goa and Mumbai. I told her I lived in Delhi as a student and she looked at me with a truly sympathetic expression. Guess I'm not the only one who feels sorry for me.

In the end Charley and I got on our boat ride. We saw the Jag Niwas and Jag Mandir islands on the lake and joked a lot about me being a movie star. Next time he's taking a 15% commission. When we got back to the hotel Octopussy was playing in the lobby. It's another one of Udaipur's claims to fame, having been filmed partially inside the City Palace and on the streets of the city. I never knew how ridiculous Bond used to be with Roger Moore as its star - he actually pops a wheelie while driving an auto rickshaw, then drives up a ramp and jumps over a camel. We got the feeling that it wouldn't be the last time we'd see the film in the city, what with the many cafes and restaurants advertising nightly showings of it at 7pm. The locals must be so sick of it!

On Saturday we met a man called Mohammed who was very old and could hardly speak any English but who asked us to sit with him for a while as he shared his unique postcard collection from tourists around the world who had met him once in Udaipur, just like us. We promised to send him his first card from San Francisco to round out the collection. We also toured the Bagore-ki-Haveli, an 18th C noble home right on the banks of Lake Pichola. It's a museum now and has a fascinating collection of turbans including the world's largest one, which sits in a six ft squared glass case. Somewhere around midday as we walked around we met a strange old man that everybody told us had the best singing voice in India. I told him to sing for us, but all we got was a croaky version of Jingle Bells that consisted of "Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle jingle jingle..." over and over, followed by some weird amateur beatboxing. Then he told us he had a cameo in Octopussy as a rickshaw driver and made me give him my only pen. Honestly, didn't he know I was a local celebreity now too? In the afternoon Charley and I both took lessons in the Gangour Ghat area of town. Mine was a painting lesson (Udaipur is renowned for its miniature painting on silk and camel bone) with a man who had the longest and most bizarre ear hair I've ever seen. Charley's was a tabla lesson with an artistically-tempered musician called Krishna. After a swim in our rooftop pool (hehe) we returned to the Bagore-ki-Haveli to watch a show of traditional Rajasthani dances. The evening entertainment concluded with one of the oldest performers dancing with an amazing ten terra cotta pots on her head. After the show, the streets were lit up and filled with people, elephants, and camels parading and dancing to celebrate the first night of Navaratri - a nine day festival that pays homage to the goddess Durga. We joined in and learned how to dance with sticks like all the little children. Feeling like we were floating with elation, we watched Octopussy in our lobby late into the night and laughed again at how ridiculous Bond was pre-Daniel Craig.

Sunday was our last full day in Udaipur. We explored, ate, swam, worshipped at the 400 yr old Jagdish Mandir, learnt more about the techniques of miniature painting at an old art school haveli, and at the end of the day watched the sun set from the top of a mountain reached only by gondola ride. I miss Udaipur and its scenery, its relaxed vibes and people. The city was so clean and eco-friendly, with publications everywhere describing its efforts to become a self sustainable environment. It's also a rare comfort to stay in a touristy spot and not feel like people are out to cheat you 24/7. Instead, they welcomed us with open arms - stopped us in the street just to chat, danced with us, laughed with us (or at us, we wouldn't have cared). A little boy took my camera on Sunday night during the festival celebrations and took about a hundred pictures. He and his gang were so pleased with themselves whenever the pictures they took popped back up on the display screen. It makes me happy to look back and see it all from his point of view - he'd come within 6 inches of your face to take a portrait!

But thinking back on it, it can't just have been the location and the people who put me in such a good mood. Travelling is also about the people you share the experience of a unique place like Udaipur with. With Charley I know I can laugh, smile, complain, and just be back to the normal self that he reminds me of, and it makes me happy just to see in him the relief of finding a place in India that's pretty much the opposite of Delhi. If only everyday could be like those charming three days in Udaipur... but then again, I tell myself, I need something more exciting than that. And so we departed from our Eastern Venice and hop onto a plane bound for Chennai, the armpit of Tamil Nadu, where the real adventure of our vacation begins.

The Golden Triangle Part II

2009-09-17T03:41:00.000-07:00

On the route from Jaipur to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, we stopped at another fort (times must have been bad for all these Mughal emperors to need so much fortification, I think). The name of the ancient mini-city was Fatehpur Sikri, "Victory City," so called because it was built in celebration of Akbaar's defeat of the Gujarat empire. Looking back on it, even though the day was blisteringly hot and my insides were tormenting me with gastroenteritis, Fatehpur Sikri had just the sense of humour and charm to lift my mediocre spirits that up to then were in danger of suffocation by cynicism.

The emperor, grandfather of Shah Jahan (who commissioned the Taj) seemed to me like a man with his priorities in order. Every little courtyard of the palace at Fatehpur was designed for his own satisfaction - first we walked into a beautiful open garden, encircled by a sandstone colonnade. Here, crowds would gather to witness a spectacle at the centre of the courtyard; one small sandstone disc is embedded alone amongst an expanse of lawn, and it is on this disc that one of the king's two special elephants would perform executions. It was kept angry and wild only by massive amounts of alcohol, and when required to would raise one foot above the poor victim's head, then press it down until its sole reached that sandstone disc. Pretty grizzly, but an inventive execution I must say. The emperor's other special elephant was trained to dance. Dancing and executions - what other entertainment could a king need? As it turns out, he was also fond of using his servants as human-sized game pieces in a large-scale version of Parcheesi, but our guide insisted that it was all in good fun and any indentured slaves won by competitors would have to be returned at the end of the game. There was also a shady courtyard in the palace where the king, along with his three main wives, a couple of hundred more wives, and his many many consorts, liked to play Blind Man's Bluff to pass the time, and an elevated, breezy area to lie around in when the weather got too hot.

And to top it all off, the Emperor was so laid back as to be an equal opportunity husband, marrying not only his primary Muslim wife, but a Hindu and a Portuguese Catholic from Goa as well. Each had her own section of the palace that architecturally resembled her religious and geographic background, too, giving Fatehpur Sikri an ancient theme-park ambience - in one corner we have mini-Islamabad, to the South the ornately carved Little Hindustan, and on your left a bit of colonial splendour in Vasco-de-Gama-ville!

Fatehpur also had its own mosque nearby to the palace. I should not really blame the guide for what happened next, he did warn us there would be a lot of people in the masjid, but he didn't really help things either. Walking the 500m up to the entrance we were swarmed by the usual peddlers, beggars, and goats. But it didn't stop there - inside the large grounds of the mosque scores of men still came at us, pushing each of us to buy their lapis lazuli jewellery boxes and marble chess boards. I refused, partly from annoyance, but partly also on the moral grounds that they could be permitted to do such a thing inside a mosque. Unfortunately our own tour guide only added to the pressure, probably because he'd been promised some sort of commission. A group of beggar kids hung on our heels. Next thing I knew, a tiny old man was chasing them away with a giant staff, banging it threateningly on the floor. He looked about 80, but could still run and shout his heart out. When he walked back up to the group of us laughing to ourselves at what we'd just witnessed, he held out his hand and said, "Sir, Madam, I your bodyguard, give as you like..." with a gap-toothed grin. Some things never change. I wish for your sake that I could write more about the architecture of the mosque, or something historically significant, but this is the only lasting impression that Fatehpur Sikri left on me myself.

After lunch we all hopped back onto the bus and got ready for the focal point of our weekend trip. We were on our way to see the Taj Mahal! Along the route, our tour guide filled us in on the background story of the monument. Maybe you know it already, it's very romantic. Emperor Shah Jahan's favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, dies giving birth to their fourteenth child together. Shah Jahan is devastated, and decides to construct a resting place for her more beautiful than any other building in the empire. He hires thousands of artisans, architects, stone-cutters, he blasts away entire mountainsides for their pure white marble and has it all carried back to Agra on the backs of hundreds of elephants. It takes years, but in the end the tomb overlooking the Yamuna is finished, called Mumtaz Mahal, known today as the Taj Mahal, wonder of the world.

As we walked through the main entrance gate to the Taj, which is gorgeous in itself and exquisitely inlaid with gold Arabic calligraphy and marble panels, I saw over a mass of heads a small doorway leading towards a bright white building in the distance. The foyer of the gateway was pitch black set against its window view of the Taj, and each step through it slowly built up in me an agitation to get a glimpse of it at last, pushing my way through the many people thinking exactly the same thing, cramming ourselves through the little archway until...

I made it through, and on the other side, how can I even describe it? It's massive, much larger than I expected, and such a pure pure white it's almost like a mirror to the afternoon sun. I saw the tomb straight ahead of me, but even before that there was so much other beauty - four large, lush gardens, streams and fountains bisecting the lawns and leading up to the famous Princess Diana bench, in the very far distance the Yamuna river rushing by, and just before it two buildings symmetrically aligned with the mahal, one a mosque facing mecca and the other a guest house. It was all so gorgeous and serene, despite the many spectators. Everybody was just trying to soak the image in, I think, taking mental photographs as well as literal ones. Me, I went snap happy, and for once I felt that by looking through the lens I was enriching my experience of the place. I caught pictures not only of the beautiful white tomb, but entire scenes of families both new fashioned and old. Geriatrics in their sarees and kurta pajama, hobbling about and looking so happy to have seen such a sight in their already very full lifetimes. Newlyweds walking around together, all shy and not yet accustomed to holding hands. Little kids just being kids, probably not realizing the immensity of the backdrop behind them as they smiled for their parents in choreographed family photos. I stayed for hours just walking off on my own, once through the tomb itself, but mostly just around the gardens and up on the white marble plinth. When the sun began to set it cast a beautiful yellow glow upon the dome of the tomb. We stayed just until the sky turned indigo blue and the Taj Mahal, completely unlit, shone white in the growing darkness, and then it was time to go.

I know I haven't done it much justice, and neither will any picture. I went into the Taj Mahal expecting to be disappointed, considering its huge reputation. Being one of the seven wonders of the world it has a lot to live up to, but take my word for it, it definitely does not let you down. I think I saw a little bit of paradise that day, and I saw the effect it had on all of us who poured back out through the narrow entry gate, floating happily along and smiling at the men running alongside us peddling their mini Taj mahals, their mini elephants, their lapis lazuli jewellery boxes. And I was feeling fine again.

The Golden Triangle Part I

2009-09-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

I've postponed writing an entry about my travels to Jaipur and Agra from a couple of weeks ago for about as long as I can. It's got to the point where my mother actually harasses me via Facebook to get off my lazy arse and back to work ("Come on, Jessie!"). The problem is, I just can't face the thought of describing all of the monuments I saw, especially the Taj Mahal, to anyone who has never seen them before. You might be wanting a detailed account of what they all looked like close-up, or how I felt being there, so let me tell you now, you'll probably be disappointed. I'll never be able to even touch on what it's really like. You see, we all have the picture of some of these amazing buildings in our heads or in the pages of geography books. We can wikipedia the Amber Fort and probably learn more information about it that an Indian tour guide can supply (such has been my case, at least). But when it comes to the actual experience of going to such historic sites, there's so much more to it than I feel I can describe. And to be totally honest, I worry that perhaps I didn't experience it myself at all. Was I present enough? Was I taking too many pictures and not just enjoying the moment? Was I worrying too much thinking about whether I was enjoying the moment or not? I've also become so accustomed to budget travelling around the country - my standard of comfort having dropped considerably to the point where I'm just pleased to sleep on a mattress without too many bed bugs - that spending three nights in five star hotels and getting around by an AC bus with the word TOURIST covering most of its front window makes me think that I didn't really see Agra and Jaipur at all. I'm sort of figuring that out, so maybe you can decide for yourself and tell me - am I in the real India anymore?

"Oh my god," my friend Komal spins around from looking out our hotel room window, "we have a POOL."

"Where are we?" I joke, bouncing on a thick, springy mattress. Just then the lights and the AC cut out. Reassurance that we were still in the country, thank god.

Jaipur was the name of the place. It was all part of our EAP organized "Golden Triangle" trip, in which we would travel between the old Mughal empire cities of Delhi, Jaipur, and Agra attempting, it would seem, to break the world record for the number of forts visited in one weekend.

Because we are all late, disorganized and disappointing individuals, we delayed our arrival so much on Friday that we had to postpone seeing Jaipur's City Palace until the next day and Viji Uncle, our saintly director, unleashed us into the Old City for some shopping. The Old City of Jaipur is the area that has existed since the rule of emperor Sawai Jai Singh II about four hundred years ago and was the only planned city in India at the time. It is also referred to as the Pink City, so called because about a hundred and fifty years back the Maharaja decreed that every building and facade should be painted pink, the colour of friendship, in honour of the Prince of Wales' visit.

As we left our bus and walked down the promenade of Johari Bazaar, beside the City Palace, I knew I was going to enjoy Jaipur. The street was a unique but lovely hue - I would call it terra-cotta salmon if I was employed as one of those lucky people who thinks up names of paint colours for a living. The shops themselves all seemed very old, and I could imagine each shopkeeper's ancestors selling precisely the same wares on this street hundreds of years ago, where I encountered infamous Rajasthani handicrafts - shoes, sarees, cholis, angarkhas, little marionettes and huge tapestries. I was in shop-aholics' heaven, hardly even bothered by the pesky shopkeepers who pulled me this way and that, saying, "Excuse me madam, your friend, she is calling for you, you come my shop..."

I saw my first snake charmers. I touched one of the fanned out cobras. I bargained with a sadhu for a turquoise ring, then faced the curses of him and his posse for changing my mind and walking off without buying it. I held a little street girl's hand as I walked and played tickle monster with her friends, and then I left it all, climbed back onto the bus with its magical powers of transporting us worlds away, to a five star hotel room, and a hot bath, and a pile of very large, very soft pillows, and BBC on the telly.

By the next morning that upset stomach I'd been pushing through had become a full on gastrointestinal disaster. Maybe the sadhu's curses really did work. But I refused to let crippling stomach pains stand in my way. That day we'd be doing the one thing I'd been dreaming of ever since I applied to study in India. We'd be riding elephants. Amber Fort, or rather the heavily fortified and beautiful Amber Palace, was where we'd be. The elephants were just lovely, with brightly painted trunks and long-lashed, sweet eyes. They carried us two-a-piece up the steep path to the palace courtyard, high up enough for us to see Jaipur in all its antique pink splendour below. We were tossed from side to side in the basket type seat on the elephant's back. It had us laughing all the way. I took rude pictures of elephant excrement to satisfy my toilet humour. We giggled at the surprising amount of soft hairs all over the top of their heads. I saw a picture of some tourists looking quite the same in the paper the next morning, posted above a story that followed the recent protests in Jaipur calling for better treatment of the overworked Amber Fort elephants. I had no idea. How much I missed, I thought, how much I got wrong when I looked into that elephant's sweet eyes.

But the palace itself was not something I would take back. It was beautiful. In one hall the walls were inlaid with mosaic mirror tiles, and I overheard someone nearby remark that it had been perfectly designed so that one candle was all it took to light up the whole, huge room. I got lost in a series of dark staircases that interconnected each little apartment of the palace, all of them without doors or signs telling me not to cross a certain point, so that I had the complete liberty to roam freely and imagine what it would have been like to live in the court when Amber was alive and bustling, maybe looking out of one of the latticed windows and seeing the gardens or listening for the distant sounds of elephants in happier times.

On the way down to the bus, just as on the ride up with the elephants we all had to fight off the hordes of peddlers trying to make us buy anything and everything; puppets, miniature marble elephants, turbans, chess boards, memory cards, batteries. A man took my photo and insisted that I buy the copy he had already printed out. So I took his picture and offered him a special price myself, "50 rupees only, 10% discount just for you!" Cue laugh track from friends. Isn't desperation just hilarious? An old woman put a marigold garland round my neck. "Inam," gift, she says. I gave her ten rupees and got back on my magic bus.

In the afternoon we toured the City Palace. Just outside it, on the street opposite Johari Bazaar and the Bada Chaupar (Big Square), was the Hawa Mahal, or Palace of Winds. Looking at it face on it seems like nothing more than a very tall building front almost entirely made up of windows. Except that they were designed Mughal style - one can see out but not in. One of the emperors of Jaipur had it built so that his wives and consorts could still feel like a part of the city life even though, like all other women at that time, they were not allowed outside. Could window shopping be any more literal than that? As the courtiers sat anonymously, gazing across at the rows and rows of brightly-coloured bangle and juttai stores they could not enter. It's worse than torture!

The current royal family of Jaipur, though they retain no power, still lives in the City Palace. Most of it, though, has been converted into museum galleries. We walked past two enormous, gilded doors. Two flags flying means the maharaja is home. But I remember finding it amazing how bleak the outer courtyard to the palace was. Beggar families had set up shacks. The little children I had played with the day before were hanging about, as well as some new faces too, all walking towards the people stepping off the TOURIST bus with hands outstretched. Everybody looks old, no matter what age. Cows and monkeys, starved looking horses and dogs all claimed the courtyard too. The flags may have been up but the presence of royalty so near to so much poverty seemed pretty ludicrous to me at the time.

I toured the textile gallery. Saw pictures of the emperor from some time around the twenties in full polo regalia, hair oiled back and holding up a trophy. Saw the clothes of one of his more lascivious ancestors, the enormous angarkha of Ram Singh who had three wives, three hundred and one consorts, and weighed about five hundred pounds. Toured the armoury. Saw a 12ft rifle. Saw a "knife gun." Saw so many guns that the curator must have run out of ideas what to do with them all and had taken to rearranging them in the letters of the alphabet around the gallery walls. On my way out about a hundred more little pistols wished me farewell from where they hung above the doorway spelling, "GOODBYE."

The rains caught us outside the armoury. A nearby troupe began to bang on their tablas and harmonium, so we danced in the puddles, much to their amusement. I walked off to another courtyard and stood in front of the palace's famous Peacock Gates - one peacock for every season. I faced the Monsoon Gate, Varsha in Hindi, which was a rich green and gold and was the only passageway without a door. The monsoon in real life was still chucking it down around me, making Jaipur rich and green too.

I know at some points in this entry my writing has rung out with bitterness, but as I wrote in the beginning, I'm still figuring some of this stuff out. So many people in my group have mentioned their desire to see the real India, and I always thought at those times, "but we are. We're here, this is it." I am not an idealistic hippy who came to the East for tranquil meditation sessions. I do not mind putting up in a large, polluted metropolis instead of a secluded mountain village or a remote ashraam. But I just cannot help but feel embittered now even when I do see people in real need asking me for alms. This weekend was just the worst for that - so many making me feel so guilty for passing up on kitsch souvenirs I neither need nor want. So you see, a little cynicism is necessary just to protect me from my own judgmental self, from my own guiltiness. "You can give more," I think sometimes, when I see little children carrying babies. But it would never end, enough will never be enough.

I'm reaching the point where I almost feel I've given India all I can give.

Into the Sunderban

2009-09-01T12:33:00.001-07:00

It's five-thirty in the morning and we've been snugly packed into the back of a jeep that's making its way out of the city, which is still asleep, and into the Sunderban. Our tour guide Mowgli is in the front passenger seat. He is an excitable twenty-two year-old with skinny legs but the hint of a pot belly and long, highlighted hair. He likes pop music. He points to Calcutta on the left as we pass it by, notes the sun coming up over the mountains. But actually they are not real mountains, he says, they're just mounds of rubbish that people have burrowed into for shelter. Then he shrugs his shoulders and turns up the synchro-pop music on the radio.

For three hours, the equivalent of about fifty renditions of Mowgli's favourite song, "Lollipop Lageli," we pass by one small village after another. Little children run after the car and curious elders pop their heads out of huts to have a look at the white people passing by. From the window I have a streaming, serene view of endless palm trees and water buffalo lazing in balmy ponds. The world is greener and more beautiful the deeper we go.

And I guess inside the car the atmosphere is pretty green, too, as Mowgli rolls his first of several hash beedis at 7am on the underside of a CD. He smiles a goofy grin and shouts over the music, "I just love to smoke. I only smoke since six months, but I love it. You know, some people when they smoke it make them psychotic, but me, I only eat like psychotic after smoke." Then he giggles a little boyish chuckle and bobs his head to the techno beat. After a bit we stop the car so that he can go "pee pee." I can't help but feel that we've been stuck with the tour company owner's half-retarded younger brother, which is pretty much the case here.

The further we get the more it seems like we're driving into the Bay of Bengal itself. The road increasingly gives way to marshlands on either side until we are speeding down a highway only as wide as the jeep itself. Little houses perch precariously on stilts in the water. I swear I see them sway a little in the breeze as we whiz by. At last we reach as far as we can go by car, so we hop into a tiny motorboat overloaded with villagers and head off to the next island.

What a lovely change it is from the city when we get there. No electricity, no cars, no pesky peddlers. We hop onto the back of these bicycle carts called machine guns, which are much more pleasant than their name suggests, and watch miles and miles of more marshy farmlands roll by. Children are swimming in their murky pools, watching us with astonished smiles and yelling "Tata!" as we pass. The people obviously don't have much but they are carefree and friendly. There must be something in all this water.

At last we pull up in front of a random old house that has been converted into a hotel. It has a path up to its front gate and another out its back. When we get to the other side I see the view that had been blocked by the rows of village huts on my way over, and it is exquisite. A narrow lane of dried mud takes us through an alley of twisted mangroves, with swamp on either side, out to the jetty of an old little tugboat and a deep, wide river. The opposite bank is nothing but gorgeous, untouched forest that seems to stretch on forever. Brimming with happiness and excitement, I jump aboard the deck of our peeling voyager and we chug our way over to the Tiger Reserve.

That's where we pick up our real guide, a small and sweet old man who has lived on the island we just left all of his life. Free of his charges, Mowgli wastes no time in lighting up and then having a snooze on the deck. Meanwhile, we learn a little about the Sunderban wildlife and the Reserve's conservation efforts. The entire delta is made up of 102 islands. 48 of these are entirely uninhabited by people and protected as government property. Within this, the main species you'll find are Spotted Deer, several varieties of turtle, Monitor Lizards, Salt Water Crocodiles, and the Bengal Tiger. The area has the largest tiger population in the country and the Reserve has worked hard over the past few years to get its numbers back on the rise after a bit of a sharp decline. A fence has been put up along the stretch of islands that separates the side inhabited by people from the side that is not, as even though the water between the two is wide and teeming with crocs, tigers are still likely to swim across, attack villagers, and be killed.

Our little Bengali guide takes us up to the watch tower where we are struck by the awesome view before us - nature left absolutely to its own devices. Unfortunately, not much really happens in nature, and even in a setting so beautiful waiting for the tide to go down is like watching paint dry. Very soon our poor little jungle guide has five sleepy Californian kids passed out on the floor of his watch tower. Once he wakes us up whispering, "Please look!" and I see a long snake, a cobra, skimming along the surface of the water. He must've seen it a million times before but the sight makes him so happy, so I watch for a bit and say, "Cool," then fall right back into my heat-induced sleep.

With the water level a little lower, we can take the boat a bit deeper into the forest and hopefully spot some animals as they come out to drink. For a while though all there is to see is a few Spotted Deer, for whom Mowgli wakes up and bestows a bit of his genius wit by pointing and calling out, "Tiger food!" They soon scatter, ad Mowgli decides it's time for lunch. After another smoke, of course.

I really don't know why we ever switched to cutlery in the West. Eating Indian food with your hands is so much more satisfying, especially when you're dangling your legs off the side of a boat churning down the waterways of a mangrove forest. What is not pleasant is when thirty minutes after your meal you hear a splashing sound on the deck behind you and turn about to see the driver, still clutching the wheel, bent over and releasing the contents you yourself are still digesting onto the ground by your feet. Mowgli starts to giggle, "I ask him if he smoke the marijuana, he says yes. I ask him if he wanna smoke, he says yes. And now... Oh! (fades into Bengali and laughs hysterically)." At least yellow dal looks the same coming out as it does going in...

The end of our day out in the jungle is approaching. The only logical thing left to do at the end of a day like this is to get covered in mud. So we pull up to an empty bank and prepare for our "spa treatment." I would liken slipping off the prow into the Sunderban mud to falling into a giant vat of silly putty. I am instantly plunged up to my thighs in the slimy stuff, and whenever any one of us tries to lift a leg it has the hilarious effect not unlike, excuse language, the sound of a wet and juicy fart, which sends us all into uncontrollable fits of giggles and has us falling over ourselves in the mud. I feel little things moving between my toes. "Watch out for crabs," Mowgli calls out. I scream, then embarrass myself further by attempting to run through the mud to some sort of non-existent safe zone. And now I am committed - hopelessly stuck in the middle of the mangroves and covered in shit. "Now imagine if a tiger was standing right there," Mowgli grins at me stupidly, "What would you do?"

We all squelch about for a little longer, climb the trees (badly) next to a few huge Fiddler crabs, then head back to the open bank. Up to this point I've surprisingly kept my upper half pretty mud free and I'm taking pictures with my camera, but it is now that the battle begins.

From my left periphery I catch a glimpse of a perfectly aimed meteoroid of mud mid-orbit, spiraling towards me. It is too late to avoid it, and soon I am hit with a death blow to the chest. Mid-gasp, another whopper comes sailing through the sky, then another and another. With every one of Mowgli's attacks I sink deeper into the putty beneath me. He must really have it in for me. "Go on!" I tell my comrades, "Save yourselves!" But just then I feel a spark of courage rising up within me, I muster the strength to free my poor legs from their buttock-high encasement, I yell in my best Braveheart impression, "I have the will to LIVE!" Then I am blind-sided to the side of the head by a final cannonball of mud. I sink back silently into the squelchiness, dejected. Then I fling a meager little shot, a piddly thing, that lands in Mowgli's hair. He spins around and says quite seriously, "Hey, not my face OK?"

I accept my defeat and we all wash off in the river. The boat is anchored a bit of a distance off shore now, and we're going to have to swim to it. "Just watch out for crocodiles," Mowgli warns.

Fantastic.

"But Mowgli, what is the likelihood that there are crocs nearby us right now?" I ask, a tiny bit worried.

"What does this mean?"

"Er, are there crocodiles near us right now?"

"Oh yes."

"Er, are you sure?" Getting very nervous now.

"Definitely." Then just for good measure he tosses in, "These are the most dangerous crocodiles in the world. Salt Water Crocodiles."

"Oh. Great." He's such a comfort, that Mowgli.

But of course we all make it back to the boat, limbs and all, and we live to see the extraordinary beauty of a Sunderban sunset. I haven't mentioned the meaning of the name. In Hindi it is "beautiful forest," and it's true. In fact, it's so beautiful that not even spending the day with the half-retarded younger brother of a tour company owner could ruin it, even if he does blast "Lollipop Lageli" a good fifty more times on the ride back home.

Calcutta

2009-08-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

It all began with one little toe.

There is a traditional story that I read just before I arrived in the city. Legend has it that the Hindu god Shiva, in a fury of grief at the death of his beloved wife Sati, slung her body on his shoulders and began to walk out across the land, dancing the terrible 'tandava nritya' (the dance of death) so that he destroyed everything in his path. To stop the carnage, Vishnu, on behalf of the other frightened deities, flung his magic chakra at Sati's body, slashing it into dismembered pieces that scattered across the earth. The spot where Sati's little toe fell was named Kalighat, the place of Kali (who was an incarnation of Sati). Kalighat became Kolkata, and Kolkata, in the time of the British Raj, became Calcutta.

As I write this on my long train journey back to Delhi and think back on the numerous wonders I've seen in the city over the last few days, I find it hard to imagine that enough magic could be contained in just one pinky toe to inspire a place so vivid and complex as Calcutta. From the modern spectacles like Howrah Bridge and the thoroughly metropolitan Park St, to the remnants of the colonial empire at BBD Bagh, not excluding the natural settings of the Hooghly River and the nearby Sunderban jungle, or the inescapable sadness of its many slums - Calcutta is a unique city rife with dichotomies that would turn most other places on their heads. And yet, everything seems to come together, like each facet is a crucial cog in the machinery that makes this capital tick. It's difficult to quite put it all into words, but maybe that's why it has always needed its own special story, otherwise it would be impossible to explain it all.

We arrived on a Thursday a mere five hours later than scheduled. All I can say about that is thank God the Indian Railway System seems to have an inexhaustible supply of fresh chai, otherwise we'd never get through the frustrations of a 23 hour train ride. That, and the view from the exit of Sealdah Station, seemed to promise me that Calcutta would not let me down. Everywhere there were these iconic bright yellow taxis and decaying buildings that had been reclaimed by unruly old trees. In fact, it all just looked a little old, but still colourful, as though when the British left they waved goodbye to a youthful girl all dressed up for a party, and now, sixty years later, she's still there, deeply wrinkled but with all the make-up still on.

Found a cheap place to stay (Hotel Shams - not an encouraging name for an Indian hostel but not bad), went to a biryani restaurant, got lost around New Market - we didn't do much the first night because the next morning was an early start. When it rolled around I woke up to a great view outside - a graffiti mural of Ganesh the elephant god on an opposite building, and just down the street a chai wala pouring out some of his magic potion into take-out terracotta mugs (only 5R - at least I have a cheap addiction). Our plan of action was to head across the river to the Botanical Gardens, then pop over to BBD Bagh, see the Kali Temple at Kalighat and lastly the Victoria Memorial lit up at night on our way home.

The ferry ride across the Hooghly was ridiculously cheap, about 3 rupees, and gave us a great view of the Calcutta skyline. The Howrah Bridge also towered above us, massive and skeletal. I would describe the river itself as something close to the Thames about a century back, only maybe a bit smellier. And with people bathing in it along its many ghats. It had an oily sheen on its surface and the whole thing made me pray that our tiny old ferry boat still had enough life in it to make it to the opposite shore. Fast forward to the Botanical Gardends itself; not sure what you can really write about a Botanical Gardens to make it seem that interesting. The world's oldest Banyan tree is there. It's 200 years old and its roots span sixty metres across so that it looks like an orchard but in fact is just one giant tree. Maybe a better writer would make a good metaphor about unity or humanity from this, but I'd rather skip ahead to my favourite setting in Calcutta, back on the opposite shore - BBD Bagh.

It's named after the three initials of the men who attempted to assassinate the former British governor of West Bengal in Victorian times, which is ironic because its entirely made up of colonial architecture and former government buildings from the Raj era. My favourite was the old headquarters of the East India Trading Company. It was huge, and to look at it straight on we had to stand across a little lake. Funny how the pictures in my guide book never seem to include the many locals who consider any body of water a public bathing area, but I think it only enriches the scene. It's just really interesting to see such an old part of the city, I mean, not just old, but from a different era, juxtaposed with modern India. Part of me thinks that these European monuments don't belong there, but then I see how everybody has adapted to their presence - how fruit sellers chop up coconuts on the steps to the old Post Office, or how angry taxi drivers gamble behind the Royal Insurance Building - eventually it all fits together, but only because it exists in Calcutta.

Ate the best lacha parantha of my life in the taxi ride to Kali Temple in the mid-afternoon. Street food, I love you too too much. The temple is located right behind Mother Teresa's Home for the Dying and Destitute. For some reason my DK guide book made this out to be a nice spot to visit, but I thoroughly regret walking inside. Yes, her grave is in the lobby, but it's also about five feet away from a large open room stacked with completely occupied beds of dying people being attended to by hurried nuns. I felt like a complete imposition, not to mention really embarrassed that I had entered as a tourist, not a volunteer, and had turned a hospice into an attraction. Bad idea Dorling Kindersley. But the Kali Temple was interesting - different from most Hindu temples in the village-like atmosphere in its courtyard where 60 goats are sacrificed each morning and fed to the poor, and also in the amazing shrine to Kali with her protruding solid gold tongue and fearsome, bulging eyes. And yet, as usual, similar to just about every other Hindu temple in the way we are always pestered, as tourists, to donate obscene amounts of money when we give puja and can never avoid a scene by refusing to do so. It's bittersweet. Eventually I had to promise the priest that once Kali had delivered me a good marriage, many babies, and great fortune, I would return to the temple with all of these things in tow and repay her. Fingers crossed!

Saw Victoria Memorial on the way home just after the sun had set, all lit up, looking very beautiful and once again much too English (there's even a topiary gardens on the grounds). Then a man with two monkeys on leashes walked up to me and asked me if I wished to see them dance - how could I really ever forget where I was? And what were the old colonists thinking, trying to make the city so continental? All I can say is that they totally underestimated the formidability of Indian culture. Present it with any morsel of foreign ways and you'll soon find it eaten alive; Hinduism absorbed Buddhism, and Calcutta most definitely survived its strange makeover into a pseudo-British capital by emerging only more interesting on the other side.

But what did I really know about the city anyway? Then that night we suddenly had the thought that maybe it could be best understood by seeing what it might've been like had history played out differently. We would go to the jungle. I know, how Kipling-esque of us, and just after I've spouted off about the colonialist attitude of changing what might've been better if left untouched. But our guide's name was Mowgli, it was too fated to resist. And besides, I thought that perhaps, at the end of the day, we would only be paying a tribute to the one thing that set Calcutta apart from its Sunderban roots all those many centuries ago:

one little pinky toe.

Still to come... Into the Sunderbans

An All Too Familiar Feeling:

2009-08-15T23:48:00.000-07:00

My brain is 75% Mojito, 25% Long Island Iced Tea. Forming coherent sentences is no longer a promise due to head's present state of liquidization. Apologies.

Radical events transpired last night. I could excuse them by hiding behind my journalistic desires to cover all aspects of Delhi life, but that would be a lie. Wearing tight white jeans and hitting the bars is not technically on my Cultural Anthropologist agenda...

Went to a nightclub in South Delhi called Urban Pindh, meaning urban village, which is a fitting description for what Delhi is itself; a throbbing, bustling, metropolitan hub with backwards ways and even more backwards people. Case in point: strange Indian men you meet at clubs. On more than one occasion I found myself locked into a sort of dance-off from which I could not escape (which is funny because, as my sister will happily tell you, I'm crap at dancing). I mean, at least they're not gropey or all about grinding to sexist rap lyrics, it's just interesting that the national love of singing and dancing has been taken to the competitive level by ordinary clubbers. And whenever the fiery determinism in their eyes to top John Travolta's moves in Saturday Night Fever would die down for a second, I'd hear a shout above the din of bangra/Bollywood/house music in strained English, like, "YOUR COUNTRY NAME?" or, "OH, I SEE YOU MUST GO GYM."

I suppose it wouldn't all have been such an odd night, except for this sneaking suspicion I have that we're now all tied to the Delhi Mafia. At some point in the night, somebody made friends with the bouncers, three gorilla-like men with bandy legs, gigantic torsos and unbuttoned hairy chests. Very Euro-trash chic. Anyway, they introduced us to who I think might be the kingpin of Delhi's entire underworld club scene - a Don-like figure who requests we all call him "Big Brother." Conversations took place and acquaintances were made, and now we're all invited to go to Kashmir with him next weekend, free of charge. Mmmm, no thanks. And then there was the incident of a man on the street who had to be dealt with, for a reason I probably don't want to know, and how the bouncers returned with what looked like blood on their much-too-tight shirts, and then it was time to go...

Which brings me to this morning, or rather afternoon, state of paralysis, probably frightening you all half to death and wishing for my usual hangover cure (sausage egg mcmuffin and a raspberry mocha frappucino please!). But there's nothing like shocking cultural experiences to teach you something about living in a foreign city. And I've learned my lesson - I think I'll stick to my own little urban village for a while. Besides, if The Godfather taught me anything, I feel like keeping a low profile from now on would be a good idea...

A View of My Neighbourhood

2009-08-10T04:33:00.000-07:00

My room is painted a pale peach, pepto bismol sort of colour. When I lie down on my bed and look up at my exhausted ceiling fan, I see a giant pink star above my face. I have a door that leads out onto a balcony by our front gate, from where I can see a small park and the rows of similar three-story houses that overlook it. In the very early mornings a few dedicated people practice yoga there, and in the late afternoons I've seen schoolkids flying kites and playing cricket. Once in a while a sacred cow strolls down our alleyway, lodging her wide self in the sliver of shade between two parked cars.
A short walk out onto the main street and things get a little more hectic. We have everything from tiny street stands that sell steamed momos to a Levi's outlet, a fitness center ("Y2K Millenium Gym for He & She"), and a row of young men who set up their stools nightly and can draw some of the best henna designs in the city. It smells amazing to walk past them and get a whiff of that spicy, lemony paste. I like to buy ice from a nearby stand and plunge my hand into the cool bag, picking out a cube and crunching it loudly to the bewilderment of the old Parsee man I buy it from. But he still smiles and blesses me and calls me बेटी, which means daughter. Opposite the rather out-of-place French bakery, Birdy's, is a Bollywood cinema. It's pretty run down and for some reason always abruptly cuts the film off before it's quited ended, but it's also been packed every night for the past two weeks with cheeky, whistling audiences thanks to the recent hit, Love AajKal. In this one the two stars, Deepika and Saif Ali Khan, actually lock lips - I think the eruption of cheers from a few teenage boys who sat to my right when I went to see it might have damaged the hearing in my right ear for good.
Whenever I'm feeling hungry, which is too often for my own good, I pop out to Chawla's Fast Food for some freshly baked butter naan. And I mean straight-from-the-tandoor-into-my-greedy-hands fresh, all for the cost of about 25c. And on my way home, after I snake between the traffic of oncoming rickshaws, bikes, buses, and on one occasion an elephant, I always encounter one of our friendly neighbours. She's an older Punjabi lady, and perhaps a bit senile, I can't tell, because even though I stop and chat with her almost everyday, she's always surprised that I can speak Hindi and she always informs me that a group of American students live on the third floor next door, to which I smile and sweetly reply each time, "Oh yes, I live there too, you know..."
And occasionally, throughout the day, it strikes me, "I live here." Here, in an apartment without AC or internet or even a fridge, where I fall asleep on a hard mattress to the howling of stray dogs in the courtyard, and where I wake up to the morning calls of a door-to-door vegetable seller, here I am making my home. And I'm falling in love with it.

Delhi Life and Punjabi Travels

2009-08-10T01:45:00.000-07:00

27 July

As of this moment my trip is actually on the precipice of beginning. The Hyderabad students left today, so now the vacation is really over. Just before they left we had our first encounter with Delhi's monsoon rains. It was incredible. Within minutes the street was turned into a lake as the sky just chucked it down on us. It felt like the weather knew how we were all feeling and turned our misery into a downpour. I for one will miss those friends I made in our first month very much, but beside that I also have this impending feeling that the trip will get a lot more difficult, though perhaps a little more authentic, from here on out. I'll really have to learn how to live and do many other things alone in a big, foreign city.

We went to go and see the new Harry Potter movie at a cinema nearby to our hostel. It was great! A lovely three hour retreat - I almost forgot all about the cockroaches that all seem to flock to the pavement right outside the cinema. Also saw an ad for the LPU (Lovely Professional University - no joke) before the movie started. It offers an "A++ education." Perhaps I should go there instead of Delhi University, which can't seem to figure out when Anthropology classes should meet, even though term technically began last week.

29 July

All moved into our apartment. That is, the five of us who are supposed to live here plus seven others whose flats are still under construction. It's a little crowded and very hot (no AC) but a bit like a sleepover so it's a good time. I'm a little daunted by the prospect of having to furnish our apartment, buying things like kitchenware and appliances and cushions, plus organizing internet etc. I have no idea where to begin to look for these things in Delhi and nobody offers any advice or help. My landlord must have a sense of humour for thinking that a 1/2" thick padded blanket passes for a mattress, so I have to buy one of those too. I have a squatting toilet in my bathroom and my mirror and sink are outside in the hallway. Nowhere to unpack my clothes into and twelve people's things are everywhere so it's really hard to unpack. Did I mention that it's really hot in our apartment? Don't feel like doing anything, so excuse the little spoiled tirade. I'm off to bed.

1 August

Apartment is starting to shape up a bit. Got a mattress yesterday! Lovely to sleep on but still so damn hot, I woke up in a bath of sweat this morning. Horrible.

Went to the Anthro department at school yesterday because they said the timetable would be up the day before. Turns out it wasn't, so they said at the office come back Monday, a week after classes were supposed to start. Fantastic. Guess this is what happens when you attend university in a third world country.

7 August

On the train to Amritsar. Got to the New Delhi train station early in the morning for the train to leave at 7:20. The train station floor was pretty crammed with sleeping people, some waiting for trains, clutching their luggage, but mostly beggars and street people. Right outside the entrance from the Metro I'm quite sure I saw a dead man because I've never seen flies swarm on anybody like that before. They were in his ears, and half-opened eyes, and mouth while he just lay there motionless and gaunt. A few beggars came up to me as I waited to board the coach. One man was particularly shocking because he was burnt all over his body, his skin fusing in strange ways around his neck and his hands. I had to turn away from him as he loomed above me, disfigured hand outstretched. I felt so awful. About half of the beggars I see here are burn victims. Many others are blind. In Rishikesh I saw a woman whose nose had been cut off. It sort of hits home that most of these disfigurements were done to them so that they could make more money as beggars. Although I've also heard of women being doused in Kerosene by their husbands over dowry disputes. My housemate Ronny also told me about a man who kidnapped his niece and tried to rape her. When she resisted he poured acid over her face, blinding and scarring her for life. He was put up for trial but pardoned. Today that man is a wealthy, influential judge.

But I try not to think of these things very often. It's just a reality that comes with India, so I have to move on to a lighter note. I spent the entire day in Pahar Ganj yesterday, my favourite shopping district. Have come to the realization that India, especially Delhi, is like one giant flea market and that I may very well return home with a shopping addiction. How I'll get everything back to the states, though, I've no idea. I'm in a love affair with harem pants - thin, baggy crotched, bunched at the ankles and popular with backpacking hippies across the country. I also had my palm read there. It was ridiculous but a good laugh! I'm confused though, he told me I think too much, but that I should use my head first more often, then my heart. Also, I'm apparently an angry person when it comes to troubles with love and I should learn to control that more. Hmmm...

Was thinking of planning a trip to Dharamsala and McLeod Ganj next weekend but just found out that next Saturday is Independence Day, and that Friday is Krishna's birthday. Funny that each Hindu god has a birthday - I wonder if it's like having twelve Christmases? Anyway, the Saturday should be great so I don't want to miss out. There's going to be a parade all the way from India Gate to the Red Fort and I've heard there are elephants involved (yay!). Then the weekend after that we're taking a class trip to Agra and Jaipur to see the Taj Mahal, which of course I'm really excited for.

Good thing is that I finally have classes sorted and have organized to take them on Mondays and Wednesdays only, so I should be able to travel a lot with all my four day weekends. It's a rough life.

Flat is much emptier and much more organized with everyone gone, but still really hot! Trying to get a fridge and internet but these sort of amenities - sorry, luxuries - take forever in this country. The carpenter finally came by last night and fixed a pole in my wardrobe. I was so happy I could've kissed him! I guess I'm an easy girl to please these days. Now, if I could just get them to keep mysterious little black hairs out of my train food...

9 August
I'm back from Amritsar, surviving on two very early mornings but otherwise really content with the weekend. Booked a cheap hotel room for the three of us travelling together when we got in, then pottered around downtown Amritsar for a bit. Ended up seeing #1 of the only 3 exciting things to see in Amritsar - the Jallianwalah Bagh. It was the site of a devastating massacre in 1919, when the British General Dyer ordered the firing of thousands of rounds onto a defenseless crowd of 20,000 Indians who had gathered in peaceful protest against the Rowlatt Acts. 1,500 were injured and over 300 were killed, some of whom were women and children. Nobody was ever given a warning, and found themselves trapped in the little square, surrounded by high walls and tiny alleyways. It was really sad to discover all of this at the very location where so many were brutally killed ninety years ago. It's been turned into wuite a nice park now in memory of those who died, but it's also pretty similar to every other monument in India - beggars sleeping on benches in the shade and people pretending that they're not taking pictures of you on their camera phone, even though it's pretty obvious...

It was a good experience to be in a new state in India, where a small change in location means a new language, new food, new cultural customs. Apparently Punjabis are considered to be the hillbillies of India - always down to drink, smoke, party, and fight. They are the butt of many blonde-style jokes, and there's a saying here that Punjabis are best at starting parties and ending them. Their fierce attitude seeps into traditional Sikh dress, which has the effect of looking really militant complete with turban, beard, dagger, and hilted sword. It's sort of like encountering a friendly Taliban. Gun shops were also pretty prevalent wherever we went, and I've never met Indian women fearless enough to brave the crazy traffic on a motorbike by themselves, salwar kamiz flapping in the breeze behind them. Forget Texas, here the phrase is "don't mess with Punjab."

Amritsar attraction #2: The Golden Temple, the holiest site for Sikhs. We woke up at four in the morning and got there by 4:30 to see the holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib, be moved from its nighttime resting place into the Hari Mandir, which is the Golden epicentre of the entire city-like compound. It seemed to be a particularly dark night when we got there. I made my way over to one side of the Amit Sarovar, which is the lake-like blessing pool that surrounds the Hari Mandir like an island. The water looked as ink black as the sky. I have an eerie image in my memory of a Sikh boy disappearing into the dark water and rising up from it again, bathed in the yellow light emitted from the temple and eyes shining. All was peaceful and silent except for the echoing blend of tabla, harmonium, and song.

And all this time, I realized later that afternoon, the border line between India and Pakistan was a mere 9km away from Amritsar. We went to Wagah at sunset, the final checkpost and site of the infamous border ceremony. One hour later I find myself trapped in the midst of something more along the lines of a halftime show than I imagined, coaxed into cheering for Hindustan and cursing Pakistan in Hindi, and simultaneously trying to ward off the suffocating advances of an old drunk man to my right with very bad breath. When the singing and dancing are over, the official ceremonies at last begin and I peer through a crowd of about 700 other people to catch a glimpse of the giant guards, complete with fanned out turbans and shiny black boots, goosestepping in perfect synchronicity with the Pakistani side. The opposing guards get so close, they could be kissing, but instead they throw out their arms in a bird-like intimidation move that seems to jeer, "I'm bigger than you!" And the whole time in the background one guard from each side is screaming something that sounds like "GOAL!" as if we're at a football match, keeping the note for as long as he can in an attempt to drown out the other side. I love how passionate each side of congregants was for their country, and how openly ridiculous the entire ceremony was.

And at the same time it was funny, because just twenty feet away from where we were sitting was a line, an arbitrary line that sixty years ago separated these two sets of people without their consent, that made it so that over here we speak Hindi and you will speak Urdu, and you will worship Allah and here our women will not have to cover their heads, and we will not identify with each other anymore because somewhere some foreign hand that had nothing to do with it took a pen and paper and drew a line that became that physical line right there.

Borders are funny things.

Mum has complained to me that my blog, extracted almost directly from my diary, isn't personal enough. So let me explain, in personal terms, for her sake: I have a line to divide my two parts. They are in constant rivalry - a shouting match where one must outlast the other in order to be heard. So, it is only quietly that I miss you (among other things), while the other side of me, the guard of my own emotions, yells selfishly into a megaphone of the things she has seen and the places she has been to. What am I to do? If I open up the gates to the other side there's no telling when the shouting match will end.

आगे समय तक - बहुत प्यार।

July Continued...

2009-08-05T01:30:00.000-07:00

Had a beautiful few days in Yamnunotri, visiting a famous shrine there. The drive on Friday was long but took us into the beautiful Uttranchal state. It was so green and lovely, it was like somebody had turned the saturation up on my eyeballs. We passed through totally untouched nature and windy mountain roads for miles before we reached the small mountain town, although we made several stops along the way (Indian taxi drivers are very adamant about getting their chai breaks). When we did reach the valley, surrounded by snow-capped Himalayas, greener all around than anywhere I've ever visited, I really lost my breath in awe. It was nice to get far away to a place where people still live quite simply, surviving on steeply sloped terrace farms or small roadside cafes that cater to the pilgrims who travel through there.
On the Saturday we hiked the 7km uphill path to the shrine, which was built around a natural mountain hot spring. Along the way we passed gorgeous waterfalls, spilling the melted mountain snow into the turbulent Ganga Yamuna. When we at last reached the temple, I went into the women's section of the hot springs, which was unfortunately really sealed off, a bit dungeon-esque, and reeking of urine. But still, for the experience, the other girls and I undressed and stepped into the piping hot, murky pool. We tried to stay still and endure the bubbling water, but were constantly buffeted by older Indian women who were bathing themselves. Then, we noticed a few men stealing furtive glances through the one small doorway into the women-only space. One actually tried to take our picture! So much for thinking they'd behave at a holy sanctuary...
On the walk back some of us took a donkey path from the main road and walked to a secluded spot upriver where we could swim. The water was icy, even though it was so close to the temple where steam gushed from between stone slabs with the heat of the springs. In that place, far away from all of the people and worshippers, things seemed purer and holier than any spiritual site I've visited thus far. My fellow California travellers would probably disagree with me, because I know that when they go these temples and mosques they feel some sort of connection with the place, but when I'm there I don't really know what I'm supposed to be feeling. I suppose I've never been a very spiritual person, but I also can't help but feel that sometimes all of the people that flock to these places ruin the serenity I expect each spot to have. Then again, it seems like Hinduism is not about that at all, not about calmness or individuality, but about being part of a big, collective entity. Maybe that's why so many of their deities have multiple heads?

22 July 2009
I was supposed to spend this last weekend in a place called Haridwar. It's one of the places on the Ganges where the river turns from a mountain stream into a full-fledged, rapid river, and is a very holy site for Hindus. Serendipitously, though, the three of us who decided to leave on Saturday morning ended up on the bus to Rishikesh, about an hour away from Haridwar but also on the Ganges. Found out afterwards that I was pretty fortunate in the end, because Haridwar is really crazy at this time of year because of a pilgrimage that's taking place.
This six week long pilgrimage involves men from all over the country making their way to Northern cities along the Ganges so that they can bathe in it and collect its holy water to bring home. What it turns out to be, however, is sort of an Hindustani spring break - mobs of young men take over the streets, chanting and running and driving women away. I don't know how something so holy can turn people into frightening mobs, but even Rishikesh, cal next to Haridwar, frightened me.
Rishikesh is where the Beatles went to for spiritual enlightenment in the 70s. Their old ashram is still there, abandoned and overgrown. The friend I was travelling made us go with him inside, guided by a crazy baba, while all around us were signs that said "No Entry." I guess a couple of hundred rupees will get you anywhere, but I didn't think it was very special to be there just because many years ago the Beatles had stayed there for a few weeks. And I felt even more disillusioned when the baba tried to suck more money from us, and get us to buy hash from him, once again displaying the hypocrisy that runs so closely with the holy here in India. Rishikesh's remaining claim to fame is as a yoga sanctuary and a place to learn ayurvedic massage and healing. Basically it's really full of European hippies. Whenever I pass by them on the street I feel like I have to apologize to them for ruining the authenticity of their Indian experience - none of us white people acknowledge each other.
Anyway, the three of us dished out a little extra money and got a really nice hotel room. I know I'm a hypocrite but the air conditioning was a gift from God! When we went back out into the streets they were packed. All of the pilgrims dress in orange and run in the road shouting out battlecries and maatras. Passing by these men in small alleyways in a really packed crowd guarantees you a bit of a groping. Tons of them pushed really close in torun a hand up my thigh, but by the time I'd look up to defend myself with a harsh glare, they'd already disappeared in the opposite direction. And I was really covered up too in a long sleeved kurta. I don't know how I could better hide myself. I just know they wouldn't try that with an Indian girl.
In Rishikesh we also saw the Laxman Jhula temple. It looks really cool from the outside because it's thirteen stories high and right on the edge of the river. Once again, though, we were charged a special fee with the man at the gate to enter. I didn't see anyone else having to pay. More disappointment met me inside as I discovered that the temple is only half holy site, and half shopping centre. Between just about every shrine to one of the gods there was somebody selling clothes or jewellery. It was pretty silly. That night we had a nice dinner in a traditional restaurant that overlooked the strong rapids on the banks below. I hadn't been really enchanted by the short time I'd spent in Rishikesh, but I think it did teach me some of the realities of Hinduism and the pilgrimage season. And of course, not to go to Haridwar in the middle of July.

भारत में एक महीने के बाद

2009-08-02T23:28:00.000-07:00

So, I’m finally starting that blog I promised so many of you I would write. Firstly, sorry for the delay – a reliable Internet connection is not very available in India, but now I’ve finally settled down into an apartment near to our study centre and will hopefully be a little more online from now on. Secondly, I have no idea where to begin. I’ve been in India for over a month, so the initial culture shock is over and I don’t know anymore how to relay to any of you just how normal and frequent it is for me to walk out onto the street beside a sacred cow, or almost get killed at the hands of a crazy rickshaw driver, or be blatantly stared at because I stick out like a sore thumb. It feels like I’ve been here a lifetime already, but everyday I encounter something new, exciting, frightening, and interesting, so I hope that this way I can share my experiences with you all.
Luckily, I’ve kept a journal from the first day I arrived and onwards, so that I’m able to dip into those seemingly long gone days and provide an update on my travels so far. So here you are, straight from the pages of my diary:

20 June 2009
We’ve had two and a half days in Delhi so far and I’ve been trying so hard to comprehend my surroundings that they seem unprocurable. The city is always bustling and the streets are never empty as even at sunrise you can catch all of the rickshaw wallahs sleeping on the ground or in their carts. People sleep and live alongside dogs and cows and goats in the pockets of slums, squeezed between tall buildings. It’s all very surreal, but a little exposure to the city goes a long way, I’ve found.
Went to the Sikh temple called Gurudwara today. It was built in the 1600s and shines over our part of the city, Connaught Place, from three giant gilded domes. It also has one huge, rather murky blessing pool where people go to bathe in the holy waters. Some sad looking Koi fish were swimming in it, barely visible beneath the dirty surface. Sikhism is very focused around nature, but I think that in this case the Sikhs might have to just concede to the city, which has very little natural elements about it…
Reading the newspaper this morning I see two sad events in a little column to the side – one British student, 19 years-old, was raped by two taxi drivers after she arrived to teach English to village children. The other is the story of a pregnant woman who was killed by two policemen. It says they pushed her from a train because she wouldn’t pay the 100 rupee bribe.

22 June 2009
My first bad day in the city. Had a really awful morning! I was set on going to the National Archives, to see if there was any information on my four-times great grandfather, who may or may not have been in India as a child. I heard from the owner of our hostel’s restaurant that getting inside was simple, as long as you had your passport with you, but apparently that only applies to Indians. So, as I wasn’t allowed inside without a letter from my embassy and my university, I just decided to walk to India Gate, a nearby monument that looks a bit like the Arc de Triomph (it was a gift from France in honour of India’s independence, they have a habit of doing that). Everything that ensued was just a mess.
First I had a rickshaw driver come up to me, trying to get me to agree to a sight seeing trip with him as my driver, saying, “3 hours, 550 rupee only, just for you madam because it is my birthday.” He pressured me and pressured me but I refused until finally he just asked me for some sweets for his two little children, which I didn’t have, then made a disgusted face at me and drove away. It really made me feel like shit.
Then I got more trouble when I began walking to the gate and found that I was the only white person, let alone white woman, in a really deserted place full of staring men. A couple of street kids ran up to me trying to take a picture of me with my camera, but I shooed them off. Next thing I know a crowd of three older guys were right next to me, putting their arms round my shoulders and grabbing for my camera to give it to those kids, saying, “Picture! Picture!” I felt really cornered and scared, so I ran quickly as I could, snatched my camera back and walked in the opposite direction, fighting back tears. It felt like nobody was going to cut me a break, then a little girl came to my side, probably 7 or 8 years-old, and asked me if I wanted some henna on my hand. I told her no but was distracted, feeling really upset and furious, so she grabbed my hand and started drawing on it anyway.
As she pulled me to the side and sat me down, talking to me in very good English, I was amazed at how wizened she was for such a young girl. She warned me about those men. “They just want to touch you here, and here,” she pointed on her body. “It’s very dangerous around here, you know?” On her forearm I could see a tattoo of something in Hindi, but couldn’t read what it said. She was there with her brother and they both looked like they lived on the streets. I gave them 100 rupees – too much for henna but I thought at least they are two people who really need it. If they get to keep it, that is.
Caught a ride back to the hostel and was ridiculously ripped off again. What a sucker I am just for having white skin and blonde hair.

28 June 2009
We’ve had two full days in Mussoorie now. It’s gorgeous, and the mountain air is such a nice break from the smog and pollution of the city.
It was a ten hour bus ride from Delhi to this little hill station, plus a taxi ride up some very narrow mountain paths that was nauseating for some. The drivers here are pretty crazy, even when they’re make hairpin turns at really high altitude! At least the views took my mind off the journey, as we could see all the way down into the valley, which kept getting smaller and smaller the higher we went…
I now live in a little cottage in the town of Landour, just above Mussoorie. I have a sweet little room all to myself, but despite all of this we’re basically one step above camping. I get to shower about once every three days until the rains arrive and replenish our supply. Flushing the toilet is also very limited, but I’ll spare you any more details.
I’ve made the trek down into town twice to do some exploring. The roads get so steep that coming back is like doing thirty minutes on the Stairmaster from Hell. There’s a lot of nature and wildlife on the way up, though. We have two kinds of monkeys, Langurs (big, white and scary) and Bandars (small, brown and scary). We’ve noticed that the locals carry around rocks when they walk anywhere, just in case a quick retaliation and a little intimidation becomes necessary. Unfortunately amongst all the green surroundings the locals’ idea of trash collection is to dump all of their rubbish directly over the mountainside. Their thinking must be that once out of sight it’s out of mind, but the growing mounds of rubbish at the base of Landour is proof that it’s just not so, and it’s pretty sad to see baby Bandars crawling through a river of crisp packets and nappies when I’m on my way to the Internet café.
Hindi classes will be starting next week. Can’t wait. I’ve been trying to practice what I already know but surprisingly most people don’t seem to want to talk to me in Hindi. They either just answer back in English or wait until I start speaking in English. I have no idea if it’s because my Hindi is just terrible, or whether I’m insulting them because so many people speak English quite well, but I’m kind of disappointed about it. Hopefully that’ll change s that I’m learning this language for an actual reason!

3 July 2009
Bought a beautiful Banarasi sari from an old shop that’s been around since the 1930s. It’s gorgeous – bright blue, pink, and purple embroidered with flowers and gold. Mum would be proud, I thought while buying it. Too bad she doesn’t like my new nose ring (“It’s just not feminine Jessie”)…
There’s a lot of remnants of the British colonial days at the bottom of Mussoorie. The city was basically brought about because of the cantonment stationed there, and because the soldiers living there fell in love with the mountains and the wildlife so much that many decided to stay. I can see why. My Hindi school has been running since the end of the 1800s, when it was decided that the soldiers better learn some of the native language if they were going to communicate with the locals. Now a lot of missionaries come here to learn Hindi, which is funny because half the vocab in our book is religious and the other half is sort of instructions on how to talk to farmers.
Just around the corner from school we have an old colonial cemetery, where many of the soldiers and brigadiers who stayed for good have their final resting places. I love old graveyards. Just past our cottage, as well, there’s a little market called Sister’s Bazaar, though it’s really only got one shop called Prakash’s where you can find amazing home made cheddar and really expensive booze. We’ve just been sticking to some cheap Indian whisky called McDowell’s and two kinds of atrocious vodka, ‘Magic Moments’ and ‘White Mischief.’ Their names have turned out to be an accurate prediction of the outcome of a night spent drinking them. But anyway, the bazaar is beside a long row of little bungalows that formed a small hospital back in the day where nuns would tend to the soldiers, hence the name. Then at the bottom of the hill, past the main Mall Rd, there’s a spot called Gun Hill. Here you can see all the way down to Dehradun and further, on a clear day. Nearby there’s a colonial manor called Everest House, home to the man who mapped out Mt Everest, and the old cantonment itself. All in all, Mussoorie has become an interesting mix of those old days and modern times. As I walk back up the hill I see a tiny general store existing happily between a Baskin Robbins and a Coffee Day. At least it’s surviving…

8 July 2009
Woke up this morning to a really foggy day. We could see the mist crawling up the side of the mountain, almost like it was reaching out to grab at rocks and Deodar trees and pulling itself towards us. It finally caught up with me when I was on my way to school. At that point the fog became so thick that I couldn’t see where I was going anymore. Then, just when the air couldn’t condense any more, the clouds popped like water balloons on top of us. It rained for about fifteen minutes and everyone got drenched, but we loved it. And after this brief tempest, it seemed that every last droplet of fog had been wrung dry, so that the air was completely clear and fresh. Suddenly the Himalayas seemed so close. For someone with bad eyes, it felt like I was suddenly seeing clearly. On one of the opposite mountains I noticed a little village and a Buddhist monastery there that I had never noticed before. I gazed across the valley for a few minutes then kept walking to school, humming to a tune inside my head, “I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles…”

13 July 2009
Some of us were in Haridwar and Rishikesh this last weekend, but I decided to stay behind with a smaller group of friends to relax in Mussoorie. On Saturday we went to a nearby temple dedicated to the Hindu goddess Surakangda. As the protector of the warrior caste, in pictures she’s always depicted riding a tiger, carrying weapons in each of her six hands that she uses to fight off demons. The temple sits at an altitude of 10,000 ft, but the closest we could get to it by taxi was the 8,000 ft mark. From there it was a grueling, steep 2km hike to the summit. I was disgusting by the time we reached the top! It seems that a good portion of worshippers pay for a horse ride up and save themselves the trouble we took reaching the top, but the view at our destination was reward enough for me. I don’t know how else to describe the sight of the Himalayas any more, just a beautiful range of snowy mountains that never fail to take a bit of my breath away. I went into the temple to perform puja, and when I came out of the tiny, incense-filled room, the mists had once again quickly enveloped the temple, blocking everything beyond its grounds from view. I sat on one of the boundary walls, dangling my legs off the side of the mountain and watching my feet disappear from view. I was literally sitting in a cloud.
It must have been a good place to meditate, because my mind was rushing through the thoughts of my experiences here in India. I can’t believe it’s been such a short time when I already feel like I’ve changed so much. And I’m coming to the realization that I have so many exciting opportunities open to me in my life, as long as I can be open to them myself. Things will be so different when I come home to California, and that brought out so many emotions – fear, excitement, guilt. Sometimes I just wish I knew where I’m headed towards in life. When I get home Jade won’t be there, and Mum and Dad and Hamish will be who knows where, which means I’ll be totally on my own. Sort of like sitting on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a cloud…
I should stop now. I think the Santa Cruz yoga fanatic–vegan-hippies are rubbing off on me.

More to come about the last two weeks soon…
बहुत प्यार