Hi all! I am back in the USA, being swept right up in the fast life once again, but I can't let this blog go without speaking about Naggar and the Rohtang.
The next day, we drove up a little south of Manali up to a hill-town called Naggar, which was the old seat of the rulers of the Kullu Valley. The gov't of HP converted the stone and woodcarved castle complete with temple into a hotel...and this is where we stayed. We paid $60 for the first night, which was an astronomical cost to Navjot, but, .....it was a castle, and that price bought us a GREAT view off our balcony, in addition to the high ceilings, stone-walled bathrooms, fireplace, and dinner included.
Luckily, the next night, they put us in another room for half the price....it helped ease the tensions a little..
After taking pics of the castle, we walked up to the Roerich Museum---for Nikolai Roerich, a Russian artist who came to live in Naggar after befriending the ubiquitous, the awesome, R. Tagore. He painted many landscape portraits that reminded me so much of the Canadian Impressionist Art found in the McMichael Gallery near Toronto. Sadly, we missed the museum of the ACTUAL paintings and saw a smaller museum of his PRINTS.....that was a maddening miscommunication, coz they were closed the next day....GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
From the art museum, we wanted to walk a little more among the hills....and there was a rocky footpath leading to the place we wanted to go.....just inches away!!!!...but it was blocked by a very flimsy, unsafe, pokey 5-foot fence. Navjot made it over, but it did not look pretty at all, and since the actual path was about a 6 ft drop on a slant, I was worried about injury. I got myself all riled up in a very American, yet anti-Indian, way, as I tried to figure out a way to go over this fence. Finally, I found a workable way to hold onto a nearby pine tree as a stood on top of the fence....then I lowered myself as gracefully as possible, but tumbled sloppily on the slanted ground, but there were no injuries! YAY! GP! Then we lowered Cailin down.
On this walk we walked through apple orchards, and saw typical Himachali houses: above-ground basements used for storing hay and wood, and then the living area sat above that. The roofs were made of thick, dark blue-gray slate. Across the valley, we saw the sun set behind the tall hills, casting a blue haze over the hills, blurring all edges just a little. The path ended back on the road to the castle, and shortly after we were back on the road, we saw a real volleyball game taking place on a dirt court beneath us, on an area that used to be some kind of bus or train stand?? The players had skills too, playing 6 on 6....I had fun watching them for a few minutes.
We ate dinner at a hippie-restaurant where they played lounge music...that was kinda cool.
The next day we drove up to 13,000 ft to the Rohtang Pass. The "original" plan was to continue beyond the Rohtang and journey to Leh, a Buddhist city in eastern Kashmir.
Navjot's Guruji summed up his take on this plan: "Insanity."
At the time, I had to reassure him that we weren't doing that (though I just said we were, hahahahahahaha). Anyhow, I knew that if the opportunity was there, we would do it.
Sadly, the pass opened late, May 17th--and we needed it opened on the 14th to make it work for our entourage. THEN, the military closed one of the cities, Keylong, that we absolutely HAD to pass through to make it to Leh, so we just took a day trip to the Pass. Hm.
My guidebook stressed how important it was to leave early, because it gets really busy up there. So, off we went at 6:30am.
I think my meter is out of money. DARN..so gotta finish later. BOO!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Drive to Manali and Hike Above Manali
Drive to Manali and Hike Above Manali
I am so wound up with the activities associated with returning home: making final visits to places I frequented, making final purchases, saying goodbyes and snapping photos. Snapping photos (always just the ladies) challenges me to snap the photos while the ladies are smiling. What typically happens is that the ladies will be smiling or giggling as they prepare for the shot, but as I push the button, they close their smile and put on a more solemn expression. Sometimes I can cajole them: "Keep the smile!" but if that doesn't seem to have an effect, and we seem to have time and the ladies haven't begun to feel awkward about posing for the photos, I will take a third, and we'll laugh some more, then I hold the camera up---then snap early---while they are still smiling. At home, people are pretty attuned to the timing of a camera, and will protest, or at least acknowledge that I have snapped early, but the people here have not objected at all. In fact, I think they prefer it to my typical habit of giving a couple of seconds to "make the look."
With this extra energy, which got me up at 5:45 this morning, after about 2 weeks of sleeping in from 7:30 to as late as 9am on a few days, I describe our drive to Manali, in Himachal.
We left around noon. At 11am we looked at the first taxi our hotel secured for us, and it was a tiny car, smaller than a Chevy Aveo. The image of four people crammed in on a long drive on a hot day pinballing around the mountains did not appeal to any of the ladies. Navjot, born Indian, would have taken an old rust-bucket, noisy, smelly, stopping-only-on-schedule, bus (with drivers that live to nauseate, accelerating through curves, slamming on brakes), and considered this tiny vehicle a luxury. The ladies won out (Girl Power!) and we switched the small digs to an SUV.
Heather, Navjot and I took the motion sickness medicine, Avromine. Cailin had the enviable ability to jostle about on road trips, and feel great without medicinal aid. This reminds me of a Mr. Bean skit we saw in Dalhousie: Mr. Bean gets on a roller coaster, and keeps a straight face as the ride coasts over the first hill......everyone else is screaming, yet he feels no sensations---he shushes the howling girls behind him....he even nods off before the ride is over. He probably never experienced motion-sickness either.
Since I am prone to it, I curbed all extra movements in the car, including picture-taking. After lunch at the Hilltop Restaurant, we soon turned north, and drove along mountainsides, with the Beas river flowing south over large rocks and boulders. We were in the Kullu valley, and I captivated by the scenery. Before Kullu, Heather and I talked and chatted and caught up on all kinds of info (since we were roommates back in '97) that we never get to in the States because we do not make time for it within the busyness of USA life. I hope that Navjot and Cailin were forgiving of our girl-chat session, which ended up being exclusive of them....not intentionally at all....we just realized we had a rare opportunity to fill in some gaps that have opened up over time.
Driving along the Kullu Valley, the landscape held my full attention. The mountains still looked like high hills, no snow, but with the river flowing between them, the beauty seemed even more welcoming and exotic because the forested mountains now had a life-sustaining resource: a river with clear water, looking unlike many rivers we see nowadays. I wouldn't take photos, but I thought to myself: "Never forget this.."
Towards dusk, our driver swung the wheel left, and drove right into a mountain--a tunnel! I was so surprised that the government took the time and resources to make a tunnel! It wasn't very well lit, and sheperds also used the tunnel, so we maneuvered around a few goats, and a cow, too. I felt neurotically anxious in the tunnel, it may have been two miles, and it the last thing, after living in India for nearly four months, that I expected to experience. But, India manages to show me just about everything I do not expect, so by the time we left the tunnel, I had reframed the event as inevitable.
We arrived to Manali around 8pm. We found another hotel at Johnsons: they were the only hotel that had any rooms available, but still through the same schtick as before: " we only have one room, maybe two, but only for one night." We ended up staying there for two nights, and we had two rooms, and we could have stayed longer, but the problem with Manali is that it was a massively crowded and noisy city which really put us off.
We hiked to the Hadimba Temple, basically a large, wooden, structure with slanted roofs similar to houses in Michigan. We were caught up with the locals who were attending a festival, so it was fun to be surrounded by people in festive, colorful clothing. The locals walked in loosely separated groups: male and female, with the males stopping every now and then to sing and accompany themselves on small drums, the dhols. Near the temple, we saw a few yaks, and their keepers wanted to charge us money to photograph them; I took a mental picture instead. Some boys asked Heather if they could photograph her, she said ,'No; in a friendly way. They persisted, as they always so and I stepped in and talked to them the way Navjot and I talked to the group of about 10 young men in Khajjiar who also wanted to photo me: "You see, we do not know you, we are just meeting you now. We are not comfortable giving pictures to people that we do not know well." Navjot had added: "How would you like it if we asked to photo your sisters or mothers.....we don't know them? In India, Navjot is quick to invoke the protective, honorable perceptions that men are supposed to have for the women in their families. Wasted energy: not one time did anyone say, "Gee---I never looked at it that way....I am sorry to trouble you." They have stayed right on point: "Oh please, please madam....." In Khajjiar, I asked them about 20 questions about themselves, which they all answered politely and kindly, so at the end of my 'interrogation', we allowed them to photograph Navjot and I.
The boys in Manali were a little more aggressive. Since it was more crowded, their persistence pressured us to find some trail or road away from the crowd. My book said there were trails above the temple, and we found one and exited the throng of temple-goers. A white dog accompanied us. He or she,ended up being our companion for the day. She was a street dog, very thin, and she seemed to have a bladder problem....she peed a lot in little bits here and there. We felt bad for her and encouraged her to drink water whenever she found it, and we fretted as to how we'd provide food, since we also had none for ourselves. We hiked on a rocky trail far above the town, and got great views of snowy mountains, waterfalls, and forests. Eventually we could see and hear the Beas river rushing past, far beneath us. We tried to hike to the river via an apple orchard ( apple trees were introduced to this region from outsiders...they didn't occur naturally, neither did basic veggies such as potatoes, carrots,...people ate ferns called lingeree (hard g) and other roots...) but there was a drop off which we couldn't see due to the trees, and it may have been impassable....but, we still meandered down, and ended up at a beautiful resort, where we ate a light lunch and sat in a large lawn and tried to feed the dog a roti, which it refused.
The dog gave me valuable practice in speaking Punjabi, because it followed my one-word orders enough that I really felt like it understood me. I called it "Dog" (but we also called it Santa's Little Helper), because I needed practice saying kuta correctly. I told it to "Come here (Aja)," "Stop, (Basji)" "Come here" (Ithay Aja) and "There (Othay)" and when it obeyed, which was fairly often, I said, "Very Good (bohut-atcha)" and "Well Done (Shaabash)". I found this unexpected interaction very amusing and fun. The dog let us go when we reached a park-like area near the river back in town.
We had an interesting evening. Heather and I got a massage, where we experienced a little 'reflexology,' The memorable part for me was when the area between my thumb and forefinger was pressed, and this felt painful!! It turned out that this area (according to the masseuse) reflected the state of the shoulders and neck, which usually pain me, because I naturally store tension there, and because I play a lot of volleyball.
Later, I watched a full Hindi movie, Kuch-Kuch Hota Hai (Something is Happening), a comedy-love-story. Although I have spent lots of time with Indians in the past 8 years, this was the first time I watched all the song-and-dance sequences that are found in Bollywood films. Cailin inspired me to watch this movie in its complete form, it is one of her favorites, and I learned why. The movie is over-the-top cheesy, and the dance numbers augment that aspect, leaving us giggling and laughing, while Navjot snoozed. The best part, for me, is when the guy, Shahrukh Khan, is sitting in a classroom, an over-confident college student, wearing a bright blue and orange speedo shirt, unzipped halfway, sporting a gold chain with a pendant of the word 'cool.' This movie out-cheesed every USA movie made in the 1980s, but somehow we still managed to get caught up in the love story, too. Go Bollywood!
The next morning we went to a more peaceful place: Naggar Castle.
I am so wound up with the activities associated with returning home: making final visits to places I frequented, making final purchases, saying goodbyes and snapping photos. Snapping photos (always just the ladies) challenges me to snap the photos while the ladies are smiling. What typically happens is that the ladies will be smiling or giggling as they prepare for the shot, but as I push the button, they close their smile and put on a more solemn expression. Sometimes I can cajole them: "Keep the smile!" but if that doesn't seem to have an effect, and we seem to have time and the ladies haven't begun to feel awkward about posing for the photos, I will take a third, and we'll laugh some more, then I hold the camera up---then snap early---while they are still smiling. At home, people are pretty attuned to the timing of a camera, and will protest, or at least acknowledge that I have snapped early, but the people here have not objected at all. In fact, I think they prefer it to my typical habit of giving a couple of seconds to "make the look."
With this extra energy, which got me up at 5:45 this morning, after about 2 weeks of sleeping in from 7:30 to as late as 9am on a few days, I describe our drive to Manali, in Himachal.
We left around noon. At 11am we looked at the first taxi our hotel secured for us, and it was a tiny car, smaller than a Chevy Aveo. The image of four people crammed in on a long drive on a hot day pinballing around the mountains did not appeal to any of the ladies. Navjot, born Indian, would have taken an old rust-bucket, noisy, smelly, stopping-only-on-schedule, bus (with drivers that live to nauseate, accelerating through curves, slamming on brakes), and considered this tiny vehicle a luxury. The ladies won out (Girl Power!) and we switched the small digs to an SUV.
Heather, Navjot and I took the motion sickness medicine, Avromine. Cailin had the enviable ability to jostle about on road trips, and feel great without medicinal aid. This reminds me of a Mr. Bean skit we saw in Dalhousie: Mr. Bean gets on a roller coaster, and keeps a straight face as the ride coasts over the first hill......everyone else is screaming, yet he feels no sensations---he shushes the howling girls behind him....he even nods off before the ride is over. He probably never experienced motion-sickness either.
Since I am prone to it, I curbed all extra movements in the car, including picture-taking. After lunch at the Hilltop Restaurant, we soon turned north, and drove along mountainsides, with the Beas river flowing south over large rocks and boulders. We were in the Kullu valley, and I captivated by the scenery. Before Kullu, Heather and I talked and chatted and caught up on all kinds of info (since we were roommates back in '97) that we never get to in the States because we do not make time for it within the busyness of USA life. I hope that Navjot and Cailin were forgiving of our girl-chat session, which ended up being exclusive of them....not intentionally at all....we just realized we had a rare opportunity to fill in some gaps that have opened up over time.
Driving along the Kullu Valley, the landscape held my full attention. The mountains still looked like high hills, no snow, but with the river flowing between them, the beauty seemed even more welcoming and exotic because the forested mountains now had a life-sustaining resource: a river with clear water, looking unlike many rivers we see nowadays. I wouldn't take photos, but I thought to myself: "Never forget this.."
Towards dusk, our driver swung the wheel left, and drove right into a mountain--a tunnel! I was so surprised that the government took the time and resources to make a tunnel! It wasn't very well lit, and sheperds also used the tunnel, so we maneuvered around a few goats, and a cow, too. I felt neurotically anxious in the tunnel, it may have been two miles, and it the last thing, after living in India for nearly four months, that I expected to experience. But, India manages to show me just about everything I do not expect, so by the time we left the tunnel, I had reframed the event as inevitable.
We arrived to Manali around 8pm. We found another hotel at Johnsons: they were the only hotel that had any rooms available, but still through the same schtick as before: " we only have one room, maybe two, but only for one night." We ended up staying there for two nights, and we had two rooms, and we could have stayed longer, but the problem with Manali is that it was a massively crowded and noisy city which really put us off.
We hiked to the Hadimba Temple, basically a large, wooden, structure with slanted roofs similar to houses in Michigan. We were caught up with the locals who were attending a festival, so it was fun to be surrounded by people in festive, colorful clothing. The locals walked in loosely separated groups: male and female, with the males stopping every now and then to sing and accompany themselves on small drums, the dhols. Near the temple, we saw a few yaks, and their keepers wanted to charge us money to photograph them; I took a mental picture instead. Some boys asked Heather if they could photograph her, she said ,'No; in a friendly way. They persisted, as they always so and I stepped in and talked to them the way Navjot and I talked to the group of about 10 young men in Khajjiar who also wanted to photo me: "You see, we do not know you, we are just meeting you now. We are not comfortable giving pictures to people that we do not know well." Navjot had added: "How would you like it if we asked to photo your sisters or mothers.....we don't know them? In India, Navjot is quick to invoke the protective, honorable perceptions that men are supposed to have for the women in their families. Wasted energy: not one time did anyone say, "Gee---I never looked at it that way....I am sorry to trouble you." They have stayed right on point: "Oh please, please madam....." In Khajjiar, I asked them about 20 questions about themselves, which they all answered politely and kindly, so at the end of my 'interrogation', we allowed them to photograph Navjot and I.
The boys in Manali were a little more aggressive. Since it was more crowded, their persistence pressured us to find some trail or road away from the crowd. My book said there were trails above the temple, and we found one and exited the throng of temple-goers. A white dog accompanied us. He or she,ended up being our companion for the day. She was a street dog, very thin, and she seemed to have a bladder problem....she peed a lot in little bits here and there. We felt bad for her and encouraged her to drink water whenever she found it, and we fretted as to how we'd provide food, since we also had none for ourselves. We hiked on a rocky trail far above the town, and got great views of snowy mountains, waterfalls, and forests. Eventually we could see and hear the Beas river rushing past, far beneath us. We tried to hike to the river via an apple orchard ( apple trees were introduced to this region from outsiders...they didn't occur naturally, neither did basic veggies such as potatoes, carrots,...people ate ferns called lingeree (hard g) and other roots...) but there was a drop off which we couldn't see due to the trees, and it may have been impassable....but, we still meandered down, and ended up at a beautiful resort, where we ate a light lunch and sat in a large lawn and tried to feed the dog a roti, which it refused.
The dog gave me valuable practice in speaking Punjabi, because it followed my one-word orders enough that I really felt like it understood me. I called it "Dog" (but we also called it Santa's Little Helper), because I needed practice saying kuta correctly. I told it to "Come here (Aja)," "Stop, (Basji)" "Come here" (Ithay Aja) and "There (Othay)" and when it obeyed, which was fairly often, I said, "Very Good (bohut-atcha)" and "Well Done (Shaabash)". I found this unexpected interaction very amusing and fun. The dog let us go when we reached a park-like area near the river back in town.
We had an interesting evening. Heather and I got a massage, where we experienced a little 'reflexology,' The memorable part for me was when the area between my thumb and forefinger was pressed, and this felt painful!! It turned out that this area (according to the masseuse) reflected the state of the shoulders and neck, which usually pain me, because I naturally store tension there, and because I play a lot of volleyball.
Later, I watched a full Hindi movie, Kuch-Kuch Hota Hai (Something is Happening), a comedy-love-story. Although I have spent lots of time with Indians in the past 8 years, this was the first time I watched all the song-and-dance sequences that are found in Bollywood films. Cailin inspired me to watch this movie in its complete form, it is one of her favorites, and I learned why. The movie is over-the-top cheesy, and the dance numbers augment that aspect, leaving us giggling and laughing, while Navjot snoozed. The best part, for me, is when the guy, Shahrukh Khan, is sitting in a classroom, an over-confident college student, wearing a bright blue and orange speedo shirt, unzipped halfway, sporting a gold chain with a pendant of the word 'cool.' This movie out-cheesed every USA movie made in the 1980s, but somehow we still managed to get caught up in the love story, too. Go Bollywood!
The next morning we went to a more peaceful place: Naggar Castle.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
New Delhi, Part 2
New Delhi, Part 2:
The next morning, excited children and cooking aunties woke up the Three Musketeers on the large, nearly king-sized bed in the *guest room*: Didi, Maxima, and I. Massiji made me a cup of tea, and kindly provided lots of tasty cake-rusk. This pampering put me in an excellent mood for a boisterous environment so early in the morning....after we got home so late.
The previous evening Vinay, Didi, Maxima, Maxima's TV anchor friend, Minku, and I did a little shopping near Connaught Place in New Delhi, then, round 9pm, set out to find a place to eat dinner and have a beer (or 5). Kidding (or 3).
The first place didn't serve alcohol. Neither did the second. It was 10 PM by this time, and I was starving. To prevent myself from making a very bad impression on Vinay's family by becoming grouchy due to hunger, I bought a Miranda (kinda like Squirt) at a soda stand. A few sips of Miranda gave me new life....so I shared some of my renewing calories with the rest of the group. I remember our friend Mike List talking about how Indians share drinks.....they just pour the drink in their mouth without touching the edge to their lips. That's what this group did. We were all hungry, and everyone, except me, was determined to find a place that met our needs. (Beer!) (Good food!) (Clean!)
The third place looked like a swanky place, and it did serve alcohol! In USA I would be put off by such a place because I'd consider it too expensive, but here, when approx 45 rupees = 1 dollar, and one of the cheaper activities one can do in India is eat out, I figured we were okay. I carried in my Miranda, and wondered if the staff would make a fuss. As were seated around a large, circular table, a server started giving me grief about the Miranda. At the same instant, Vinay saw a cockroach on the floor.
I said, " I think the cockroach on the floor is a bigger problem than my Miranda."
It didn't matter. Vinay was totally grossed out. We left. The next place we trudged to looked like a sophisticated lounge/sports bar. Comfy, yet sleek sofas, leather bar stools, dim lighting, big flat- screen TV's.....it definitely had a classy look, BUT....they didn't serve alcohol. We all laughed, and I got the impression that we were thinking, in our own way, " this is a typical frustration we would have here in India."
Maxima's friend pointed us in the direction of another restaurant. We walked past the well-lit portion of Connaught Place to a darker road. Most of the businesses were closed here. An awful stench of every kind of human and animal, probably dog, waste stung our noses. When exploring cities with Indians, every time we stumble upon a dirty, smelly area, the Indian typically makes a comment about how this is the genuine look and odor of India, as if cleanliness was imposed from the west, a threat to India's most definitive cultural characteristic.
This time was no different, "Ah, Jamie, here is real India," Minku said.
Realistically, the 'real India' comments are probably more of a way for Indians to ease their own awkwardness when they have inadvertently led me into me an area which reflects the harsher realities of a poor country.....well, that's too simple, really: I think India is a country with a gigantic gap between the wealthy and the poor, which equals, overall, a poor country.
After a few minutes of nervous walking, we found a lighted sign that said, "Bonsai." We went in, and found an outdoor restaurant on a floor of marble-white gravel. We were seated on a raised platform, which had a low table lined with spacious couches on 3 sides. The establishment attempted to make this area semi-private by stringing thick white rope vertically from the bottom to the top of a wooden frame above the couches. We stayed put, ordered beer, and when we ordered food, I, still very suspicious of New Delhi food, ordered noodles and fries. Everyone else ordered delicious looking fish dishes. When they arrived, I enviously watched the rest of the group enjoy their choices. I comforted myself with the memory of Vinay's Mom's cooking.
The rope was expensive. The bill for six people came to over $200 USD. We didn't even drink that much. Oh well! We finally got to eat, relax, and enjoy each others' company.
Today, I washed a bit of laundry and hung it outside on one of their lines. Then, I took Vasundhra, Minima's 3 year old daughter, to the flat complex's strip of a playground. Vinay accompanied us and he said he remembered playing in it when he was a kid! Wow! I pushed Vasundhra on the merry-go-round, caught her when she slid down the wide metal slide, and helped her pull herself higher on the jungle-gym (and helped her ease herself back). Amidst the activity during this sunny morning, Vinay and I chatted about our childhoods, and Vinay pointed out to large brown clump attached underneath the window of flat several floors up, and a few buildings away.
"That is a bee hive," Vinay said.
"Wow, what an example of man living with nature, instead of man being the master of nature," I said, eager to make connections to my readings in intercultural communications.
Vinay pointed to a few more hives on the same building. They were the size of a cluster of twenty coconuts. I wondered if the bees kept to themselves, or if they swarmed the windows and balconies of the tenants.
Vinay was called back by Didi, and I stayed with Vasundhra. She practiced her English, and I practiced my Hindi/Punjabi. She proved to be a quicker study than I, able to understand and use the English words I used after one explanation. However, the practice still had value for me, even if I didn't learn new words. An older boy of about seven showed up, and I helped them use the see-saw. I tried showing them how to bend the knees and spring back up so their end doesn't hit the ground. Both of them practiced the knee-moving part, but I never felt they were ready to deal with the weight transfer, so I see-sawed them, and they practiced, until my arms got tired. Then we were ready to leave, and we walked towards the simple entrance, two metal poles a few feet apart. Vasundhra stepped through the opening, then doubled back and walked back into the playground. I made a soft sound implying a question, and she smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes, as if saying, "The joke's on you, I was trying to surprise you." In the next second, she softened her look as if to say, "just kidding," and she walked out with me again in a very docile manner. I laughed at her display of sophisticated humor, and was surprised that it came from a three-year old!
Other interesting events of the day were:
Minku and I wanted lunch before we returned to Connaught Place for shopping. As we sat down, Minku said, "Jamie, I am going to eat with my hands, okay?"
I said, almost too jovially, "Of course, please do!" I felt embarrassed, even slightly ashamed, that Minku felt the need to prepare me to see a style of eating that was natural for him, whereas I would never think to tell Minku, if he were visiting us in USA, "Minku, I am going to eat with a fork and spoon, okay?" The shameful part was that he had intuited my probable response correctly. If he just dove right into his lunch, I would have been a little taken aback, though I would have tried to carefully hide it. So, I appreciated his announcement, though I shouldn't need to hear it.
Next: I bought a table-spread. I "thought" I brought the lady down to a decent price of 400 rupees for it ($9) and even went further and offered 400 rupees for 2 spreads. Later, as Sona, Vinay's 15 year old sister, confidently announced that those spreads were 150 rupees for one, 200 max, it dawned on me that I should have offered 400 for both, then walked away. (I got better at walking away later..) So, yes, I paid double the price an Indian woman would have paid for the decorative spread. Stickin it to the whitey!
We ate at a McDonalds nearby. I just had a mocha, but it tasted like the ones at home! This place sold fish sandwiches and paneer (cheese) and veg wraps, and french fries. I paid about 65 cents for the mocha.
Finally, the moment of true hilarity: our visit to Fab India, a new store with good, overpriced, cotton clothes. It was crowded with Indians and French foreigners. Didi found a few kurtis to try on, but the line to try on clothes was long, so we waited with her and chatted. A foreigner nearby wanted to try on the clothes, but did not want to wait in the line. So, she just took off her pants IN THE OPEN, revealing thong underwear, and tried on several garments. No staff stopped her. This would have attracted attention even in USA, but I was surprised that she would try this in India. I was giggling quite obviously at her audacity, but I also watched the reactions of Vinay and Minku, both Indian. They were shocked, mortified and embarrassed, and they ended up expressing it by laughing and giggling right along with me. Didi finally got into the dressing room, and after we critiqued her choices, we turned away, and next to us stood that girl, still obliviously trying on clothes. Our group of three erupted in belly-laughter. If she wanted to be so audacious, then we might as well enjoy ourselves. I preferred that than standing with Minku and Vinay in an embarrassed silence.
We went to the Delhi metro station to ride back to Rohini, in northeast Delhi. We had to go through a luggage check, and the fragile items I bought appeared to look like explosives to the police. They were wrapped in bubble wrapped and secured with masking tape. I had to unwrap the items, and go through the purse and pat-down search all over again. We waited on the platform with Minku, even though he was going home. We were all sad to part ways. However, Minku still left. At home, the friend would have just changed his or her plan and joined us. On the platform, clustered in groups, were policemen wearing beige uniforms, armed with machine guns. I told Vinay that seeing their weapons made me nervous. They also didn't seem to be watching the area. Instead, they chatted amongst themselves. I guess they planned to respond to a problem, not prevent a problem from occurring. Didi and Vinay didn't seem concerned. The ride was crowded, but smooth and air conditioned. Didi expressed relief that while the compartment was crowded, men were behaving appropriately and keeping their hands to themselves. She saw this as a sign that India was changing in a good way, and people were becoming more educated, and the relations between the sexes were perhaps a little more interactive, which, in turn, created less curiosity and less inclination towards inappropriate acts from the guys. I fully shared her reliefs, and ruefully remembered that the men on Bus 64 in Rome were slightly less proper and respectful than the men here. Here, men--and a few women-- only stared at me, the lone whitey on the subway.
I had a great time roaming Delhi with Vinay, Didi, and Minku. Thanks for the great memories!!
The next morning, excited children and cooking aunties woke up the Three Musketeers on the large, nearly king-sized bed in the *guest room*: Didi, Maxima, and I. Massiji made me a cup of tea, and kindly provided lots of tasty cake-rusk. This pampering put me in an excellent mood for a boisterous environment so early in the morning....after we got home so late.
The previous evening Vinay, Didi, Maxima, Maxima's TV anchor friend, Minku, and I did a little shopping near Connaught Place in New Delhi, then, round 9pm, set out to find a place to eat dinner and have a beer (or 5). Kidding (or 3).
The first place didn't serve alcohol. Neither did the second. It was 10 PM by this time, and I was starving. To prevent myself from making a very bad impression on Vinay's family by becoming grouchy due to hunger, I bought a Miranda (kinda like Squirt) at a soda stand. A few sips of Miranda gave me new life....so I shared some of my renewing calories with the rest of the group. I remember our friend Mike List talking about how Indians share drinks.....they just pour the drink in their mouth without touching the edge to their lips. That's what this group did. We were all hungry, and everyone, except me, was determined to find a place that met our needs. (Beer!) (Good food!) (Clean!)
The third place looked like a swanky place, and it did serve alcohol! In USA I would be put off by such a place because I'd consider it too expensive, but here, when approx 45 rupees = 1 dollar, and one of the cheaper activities one can do in India is eat out, I figured we were okay. I carried in my Miranda, and wondered if the staff would make a fuss. As were seated around a large, circular table, a server started giving me grief about the Miranda. At the same instant, Vinay saw a cockroach on the floor.
I said, " I think the cockroach on the floor is a bigger problem than my Miranda."
It didn't matter. Vinay was totally grossed out. We left. The next place we trudged to looked like a sophisticated lounge/sports bar. Comfy, yet sleek sofas, leather bar stools, dim lighting, big flat- screen TV's.....it definitely had a classy look, BUT....they didn't serve alcohol. We all laughed, and I got the impression that we were thinking, in our own way, " this is a typical frustration we would have here in India."
Maxima's friend pointed us in the direction of another restaurant. We walked past the well-lit portion of Connaught Place to a darker road. Most of the businesses were closed here. An awful stench of every kind of human and animal, probably dog, waste stung our noses. When exploring cities with Indians, every time we stumble upon a dirty, smelly area, the Indian typically makes a comment about how this is the genuine look and odor of India, as if cleanliness was imposed from the west, a threat to India's most definitive cultural characteristic.
This time was no different, "Ah, Jamie, here is real India," Minku said.
Realistically, the 'real India' comments are probably more of a way for Indians to ease their own awkwardness when they have inadvertently led me into me an area which reflects the harsher realities of a poor country.....well, that's too simple, really: I think India is a country with a gigantic gap between the wealthy and the poor, which equals, overall, a poor country.
After a few minutes of nervous walking, we found a lighted sign that said, "Bonsai." We went in, and found an outdoor restaurant on a floor of marble-white gravel. We were seated on a raised platform, which had a low table lined with spacious couches on 3 sides. The establishment attempted to make this area semi-private by stringing thick white rope vertically from the bottom to the top of a wooden frame above the couches. We stayed put, ordered beer, and when we ordered food, I, still very suspicious of New Delhi food, ordered noodles and fries. Everyone else ordered delicious looking fish dishes. When they arrived, I enviously watched the rest of the group enjoy their choices. I comforted myself with the memory of Vinay's Mom's cooking.
The rope was expensive. The bill for six people came to over $200 USD. We didn't even drink that much. Oh well! We finally got to eat, relax, and enjoy each others' company.
Today, I washed a bit of laundry and hung it outside on one of their lines. Then, I took Vasundhra, Minima's 3 year old daughter, to the flat complex's strip of a playground. Vinay accompanied us and he said he remembered playing in it when he was a kid! Wow! I pushed Vasundhra on the merry-go-round, caught her when she slid down the wide metal slide, and helped her pull herself higher on the jungle-gym (and helped her ease herself back). Amidst the activity during this sunny morning, Vinay and I chatted about our childhoods, and Vinay pointed out to large brown clump attached underneath the window of flat several floors up, and a few buildings away.
"That is a bee hive," Vinay said.
"Wow, what an example of man living with nature, instead of man being the master of nature," I said, eager to make connections to my readings in intercultural communications.
Vinay pointed to a few more hives on the same building. They were the size of a cluster of twenty coconuts. I wondered if the bees kept to themselves, or if they swarmed the windows and balconies of the tenants.
Vinay was called back by Didi, and I stayed with Vasundhra. She practiced her English, and I practiced my Hindi/Punjabi. She proved to be a quicker study than I, able to understand and use the English words I used after one explanation. However, the practice still had value for me, even if I didn't learn new words. An older boy of about seven showed up, and I helped them use the see-saw. I tried showing them how to bend the knees and spring back up so their end doesn't hit the ground. Both of them practiced the knee-moving part, but I never felt they were ready to deal with the weight transfer, so I see-sawed them, and they practiced, until my arms got tired. Then we were ready to leave, and we walked towards the simple entrance, two metal poles a few feet apart. Vasundhra stepped through the opening, then doubled back and walked back into the playground. I made a soft sound implying a question, and she smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes, as if saying, "The joke's on you, I was trying to surprise you." In the next second, she softened her look as if to say, "just kidding," and she walked out with me again in a very docile manner. I laughed at her display of sophisticated humor, and was surprised that it came from a three-year old!
Other interesting events of the day were:
Minku and I wanted lunch before we returned to Connaught Place for shopping. As we sat down, Minku said, "Jamie, I am going to eat with my hands, okay?"
I said, almost too jovially, "Of course, please do!" I felt embarrassed, even slightly ashamed, that Minku felt the need to prepare me to see a style of eating that was natural for him, whereas I would never think to tell Minku, if he were visiting us in USA, "Minku, I am going to eat with a fork and spoon, okay?" The shameful part was that he had intuited my probable response correctly. If he just dove right into his lunch, I would have been a little taken aback, though I would have tried to carefully hide it. So, I appreciated his announcement, though I shouldn't need to hear it.
Next: I bought a table-spread. I "thought" I brought the lady down to a decent price of 400 rupees for it ($9) and even went further and offered 400 rupees for 2 spreads. Later, as Sona, Vinay's 15 year old sister, confidently announced that those spreads were 150 rupees for one, 200 max, it dawned on me that I should have offered 400 for both, then walked away. (I got better at walking away later..) So, yes, I paid double the price an Indian woman would have paid for the decorative spread. Stickin it to the whitey!
We ate at a McDonalds nearby. I just had a mocha, but it tasted like the ones at home! This place sold fish sandwiches and paneer (cheese) and veg wraps, and french fries. I paid about 65 cents for the mocha.
Finally, the moment of true hilarity: our visit to Fab India, a new store with good, overpriced, cotton clothes. It was crowded with Indians and French foreigners. Didi found a few kurtis to try on, but the line to try on clothes was long, so we waited with her and chatted. A foreigner nearby wanted to try on the clothes, but did not want to wait in the line. So, she just took off her pants IN THE OPEN, revealing thong underwear, and tried on several garments. No staff stopped her. This would have attracted attention even in USA, but I was surprised that she would try this in India. I was giggling quite obviously at her audacity, but I also watched the reactions of Vinay and Minku, both Indian. They were shocked, mortified and embarrassed, and they ended up expressing it by laughing and giggling right along with me. Didi finally got into the dressing room, and after we critiqued her choices, we turned away, and next to us stood that girl, still obliviously trying on clothes. Our group of three erupted in belly-laughter. If she wanted to be so audacious, then we might as well enjoy ourselves. I preferred that than standing with Minku and Vinay in an embarrassed silence.
We went to the Delhi metro station to ride back to Rohini, in northeast Delhi. We had to go through a luggage check, and the fragile items I bought appeared to look like explosives to the police. They were wrapped in bubble wrapped and secured with masking tape. I had to unwrap the items, and go through the purse and pat-down search all over again. We waited on the platform with Minku, even though he was going home. We were all sad to part ways. However, Minku still left. At home, the friend would have just changed his or her plan and joined us. On the platform, clustered in groups, were policemen wearing beige uniforms, armed with machine guns. I told Vinay that seeing their weapons made me nervous. They also didn't seem to be watching the area. Instead, they chatted amongst themselves. I guess they planned to respond to a problem, not prevent a problem from occurring. Didi and Vinay didn't seem concerned. The ride was crowded, but smooth and air conditioned. Didi expressed relief that while the compartment was crowded, men were behaving appropriately and keeping their hands to themselves. She saw this as a sign that India was changing in a good way, and people were becoming more educated, and the relations between the sexes were perhaps a little more interactive, which, in turn, created less curiosity and less inclination towards inappropriate acts from the guys. I fully shared her reliefs, and ruefully remembered that the men on Bus 64 in Rome were slightly less proper and respectful than the men here. Here, men--and a few women-- only stared at me, the lone whitey on the subway.
I had a great time roaming Delhi with Vinay, Didi, and Minku. Thanks for the great memories!!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Interconnectedness, Part One
Interconnectedness: Strange musical events..
I find that travel reveals more instances of 'interconnectedness' of people than I would normally observe because at home I have a deeper knowledge of the people I surround myself with, personalities, routines, etc, so any synchronous connection I have with them, I usually attribute that to our deeper awareness of one another's lives, which naturally happens over continued interaction over years. First, I want to write about parallel phenomena I experience with music. Later, I'll get on to the people side of it.
This is a commentary on how I have seemingly discovered a new song, or a style of music, and, after my discovery, I seem to hear it around me in whatever environment I happen to be in. About 5 years ago, my husband Navjot introduced me to Bob Marley and Reggae. I loved it, and infused it into my music collection. Soon after, I heard reggae in many places...restaurants, stores, TV movies, most recently in a cafe in Washington DC. Was reggae always this prevalent, and I remained unaware of it until I had a personal experience with the music?
After I became a lifelong fan of Philip Glass, an American composer who created his own style based on a musical concept called minimalism, I began hearing his music in movies....he wrote the scores to the movies, "The Others" and "The Illusionist." Glass remains easily recognizable, and I liked his scores for the movies...his style fit the themes of the movies very well. Glass has been writing music for decades, and I only learned of him through a history class at MSU, and through an old CD of Alan, (our former roommate)....then Glass hits it big. It may sound like I am egotisically suggesting that my awareness of certain music brings it more into my world, even on a large scale. I am not suggesting that. I am only intrigued by the timings.
My most recent experience with this phenomena occurred when I came to India. While I was staying in Chandigarh, I bought a 2 CD collection of music by the British rock group The Police. In college I had liked the songs Synchronicity I and II, and Wrapped Around Your Finger, and this collection had those songs, AND, Do Do Do, Da Da Da and Every Little Thing She Does....other faves I got from my Mom when my uncle would make tapes of favorite songs for her. So, I listened to these songs till around April when I finally turned my attention to a few of the other songs in the collection: Driven To Tears, and Canary in a Coalmine. There are worthy elements in these songs, but they are more obscure, and I don't think I had ever heard them until I played them on my laptop in April. In early May, Navjot and I went to Himachal Pradesh. One afternoon, on a rooftop restaurant in Dharmasala, while we were waiting for our food, the speakers start plugging out Driven to Tears by the Police! In India! I had never heard that song before in my LIFE until one month earlier! The Police have a distinctive enough of a sound that if I had heard it before, I would have known it was The Police, and when I heard it on my laptop in April, I would have known if I had heard it before....so, again, I wonder....are these songs just played regularly, and I remain completely oblivious to them until I listen to them carefully? Or is there some interconnectedness between my awareness of certain music and its appearance in unexpected public places? It is probably just coincidence....not synchronicity. :)
I find that travel reveals more instances of 'interconnectedness' of people than I would normally observe because at home I have a deeper knowledge of the people I surround myself with, personalities, routines, etc, so any synchronous connection I have with them, I usually attribute that to our deeper awareness of one another's lives, which naturally happens over continued interaction over years. First, I want to write about parallel phenomena I experience with music. Later, I'll get on to the people side of it.
This is a commentary on how I have seemingly discovered a new song, or a style of music, and, after my discovery, I seem to hear it around me in whatever environment I happen to be in. About 5 years ago, my husband Navjot introduced me to Bob Marley and Reggae. I loved it, and infused it into my music collection. Soon after, I heard reggae in many places...restaurants, stores, TV movies, most recently in a cafe in Washington DC. Was reggae always this prevalent, and I remained unaware of it until I had a personal experience with the music?
After I became a lifelong fan of Philip Glass, an American composer who created his own style based on a musical concept called minimalism, I began hearing his music in movies....he wrote the scores to the movies, "The Others" and "The Illusionist." Glass remains easily recognizable, and I liked his scores for the movies...his style fit the themes of the movies very well. Glass has been writing music for decades, and I only learned of him through a history class at MSU, and through an old CD of Alan, (our former roommate)....then Glass hits it big. It may sound like I am egotisically suggesting that my awareness of certain music brings it more into my world, even on a large scale. I am not suggesting that. I am only intrigued by the timings.
My most recent experience with this phenomena occurred when I came to India. While I was staying in Chandigarh, I bought a 2 CD collection of music by the British rock group The Police. In college I had liked the songs Synchronicity I and II, and Wrapped Around Your Finger, and this collection had those songs, AND, Do Do Do, Da Da Da and Every Little Thing She Does....other faves I got from my Mom when my uncle would make tapes of favorite songs for her. So, I listened to these songs till around April when I finally turned my attention to a few of the other songs in the collection: Driven To Tears, and Canary in a Coalmine. There are worthy elements in these songs, but they are more obscure, and I don't think I had ever heard them until I played them on my laptop in April. In early May, Navjot and I went to Himachal Pradesh. One afternoon, on a rooftop restaurant in Dharmasala, while we were waiting for our food, the speakers start plugging out Driven to Tears by the Police! In India! I had never heard that song before in my LIFE until one month earlier! The Police have a distinctive enough of a sound that if I had heard it before, I would have known it was The Police, and when I heard it on my laptop in April, I would have known if I had heard it before....so, again, I wonder....are these songs just played regularly, and I remain completely oblivious to them until I listen to them carefully? Or is there some interconnectedness between my awareness of certain music and its appearance in unexpected public places? It is probably just coincidence....not synchronicity. :)
Curfew, Day 2
Today Jalandhar was given two opportunities to 'behave.' Curfew was relaxed from 8-10 am this morning and then again from 4-6pm. Navjot went to buy vegetables at around 8:30. He managed to get some vegetables, but he had to be very patient because the stand was busy with hollering people anxious to get food. I called him twice: once to see if he could get fabric softener (if the provisional shop was open) ("That is so American"--Navjot said). I could barely hear Navjot; instead I heard yells and shouts by a huge crowd--it sounded like he was at the New Year's Eve Party at Times Square. Then I "thought" Raju wanted to tell Navjot that we got milk from downstairs, but no, during the second call, he asked Navjot to buy milk, which, if I had understood better, I could have told him that I already asked him, and he said the store didn't have any.
Fortunately, our landlords knew we had no milk, so when their milk was delivered this morning, they bought an extra kg for us, around 10am. So, our house is fully stocked with our usual comforts and conveniences, except for the luxurious item of fabric softener.
At 4:30 (during the second curfew release) Navjot and I walked to Guruji's flat to visit, and see what 'curfew state' was like. Few cars were out; the people who were out were adults trying to buy fruits and vegetables. Near Guruji's house, small groups of boys were taking advantage of the light traffic with street games of cricket. We stepped around a few collections of broken glass. One high rise shopping building had an enormous pane knocked out, which made a spread of glass pieces the size of a large puddle. We also saw a group of new puppies along the street...they were cute, but Navjot was surprised that their parent hid when we walked by.
We saw another dog at the entrance to Guruji's flat. After a short visit, where we listened to their weekly family musical/religious event, we struggled to find a rickshaw to take us home, since we were nearing the 6pm curfew time. The second guy we approached took us, after giving us flak about the time. He took us the wrong way down a usually busy street, then ignored the lights (again, still in oncoming traffic lane) at the intersection at Guru Nanak Mission---not a 4-way light, like in USA, but a 6-way light. I gripped Navjot's arm like a vice-clamp as we coasted through our red light, and when we safely reached the other side, we were moving with the traffic. You may think the rickshaw driver was in a hurry, but no, after his initial statements about the time, the curfew didn't trouble his mind a bit. The rickshaw driver did this because the traffic was light enough that he felt it was reasonably safe. People did avoid us, and though I got anxious at the intersections, I didn't get angry or frightened. I did see carrion feeding on a dead dog near that intersection. I rarely see roadkill here, and that sight nauseated me. Since the rickshaw drivers are losing a lot of money due to this curfew, we paid our guy double the amount we agreed on (15 rupees (33 cents) to 30 rupees...67 cents (how do we sleep at night??)) The driver showed his appreciation by quickly and gracefully putting his hands together in a prayer clasp and touching his forefingers to his lips. I had to lay down for a while when I got home; the sight of the dead dog, and the heat left me feeling icky.
Navjot thinks that we will be under curfew for a few more days; he emphasizes patience. I would like the curfew to be lifted tomorrow. At least he is preparing me for a longer wait. I am starting to turn the wheels for some kind of alternative way of reaching New Delhi for my flight out next week...
More to come..
Fortunately, our landlords knew we had no milk, so when their milk was delivered this morning, they bought an extra kg for us, around 10am. So, our house is fully stocked with our usual comforts and conveniences, except for the luxurious item of fabric softener.
At 4:30 (during the second curfew release) Navjot and I walked to Guruji's flat to visit, and see what 'curfew state' was like. Few cars were out; the people who were out were adults trying to buy fruits and vegetables. Near Guruji's house, small groups of boys were taking advantage of the light traffic with street games of cricket. We stepped around a few collections of broken glass. One high rise shopping building had an enormous pane knocked out, which made a spread of glass pieces the size of a large puddle. We also saw a group of new puppies along the street...they were cute, but Navjot was surprised that their parent hid when we walked by.
We saw another dog at the entrance to Guruji's flat. After a short visit, where we listened to their weekly family musical/religious event, we struggled to find a rickshaw to take us home, since we were nearing the 6pm curfew time. The second guy we approached took us, after giving us flak about the time. He took us the wrong way down a usually busy street, then ignored the lights (again, still in oncoming traffic lane) at the intersection at Guru Nanak Mission---not a 4-way light, like in USA, but a 6-way light. I gripped Navjot's arm like a vice-clamp as we coasted through our red light, and when we safely reached the other side, we were moving with the traffic. You may think the rickshaw driver was in a hurry, but no, after his initial statements about the time, the curfew didn't trouble his mind a bit. The rickshaw driver did this because the traffic was light enough that he felt it was reasonably safe. People did avoid us, and though I got anxious at the intersections, I didn't get angry or frightened. I did see carrion feeding on a dead dog near that intersection. I rarely see roadkill here, and that sight nauseated me. Since the rickshaw drivers are losing a lot of money due to this curfew, we paid our guy double the amount we agreed on (15 rupees (33 cents) to 30 rupees...67 cents (how do we sleep at night??)) The driver showed his appreciation by quickly and gracefully putting his hands together in a prayer clasp and touching his forefingers to his lips. I had to lay down for a while when I got home; the sight of the dead dog, and the heat left me feeling icky.
Navjot thinks that we will be under curfew for a few more days; he emphasizes patience. I would like the curfew to be lifted tomorrow. At least he is preparing me for a longer wait. I am starting to turn the wheels for some kind of alternative way of reaching New Delhi for my flight out next week...
More to come..
Monday, May 25, 2009
A BBC written link
I found info here useful
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8066783.stm
I realize I made a spelling error in the last blog: anymore instead of any more. I despise spelling errors, but that doesn't seem to stop me from making them. GRR.
More Mountain Trip blogs coming up, still haven't forgotton Delhi, Part 2. I've been spending a lot of time organizing, editing, and posting the 700 plus photos taken during the trip. My goal is to complete the blog before I leave for home.
More to come
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/south_asia/8066783.stm
I realize I made a spelling error in the last blog: anymore instead of any more. I despise spelling errors, but that doesn't seem to stop me from making them. GRR.
More Mountain Trip blogs coming up, still haven't forgotton Delhi, Part 2. I've been spending a lot of time organizing, editing, and posting the 700 plus photos taken during the trip. My goal is to complete the blog before I leave for home.
More to come
Curfew Imposed in Jalandhar
Navjot woke me up this morning and told me that the city was under curfew. Last night, rioters in the city set fires and blocked roads into the city. This is a response to the violence that occurred at a Sikh Temple in Vienna, Austria (of all places?!?!) which left one Sikh "holy person" (minister, or, 'sant') dead and another injured. Both holy people were revered by many people in this region-the Jalandhar District, Hoshiapur, and Phagwara area.
Now, last night Navjot and I were completely unaware that fires and riots were raging in this city. They took place in another part of town--so they have happened in small areas, not city-wide.
However, protesters did manage to close the main highway from Jalandhar to New Delhi, the NH 1. The road going northwest to Pathankot (where we began our mountain adventure a couple of weeks ago) has also been closed. Three rail cars were set on fire.
The news here provides tiny amounts of information presented in a sensationalist manner, similar to, and even more extreme than, Fox News back at home. BBC News is providing more video clips than written reports, which are not loading easily onto our computers with our slow connection. 'rrrrrr'
However, the military has come in (they paraded with flags in our neighborhood around 6pm.)
The rules of curfew are: stay at home. Going out and about could get you arrested.
So, when almost all of our milk curdled (it was bought yesterday!) we couldn't get anymore. (Milk based products are not keeping well in this heat--we haven't bought one container of good yogurt since our return from the mts, either). I couldn't go to the gym today, or collect my repairs from the tailor. Navjot couldn't go to his lesson. Shops were closed too. All the sounds of zooming motorcycles and honking vehicles ceased. I observed the city twice from the rooftop today: once I took photos, and both times I only heard chirping birds!! After the 6pm military flag-parade (which I didn't see, I was told minutes after fact by my landlords) more vehicles were heard on the board, but the shops remained closed.
Raju, our cook and cleaner, worked here this morning, but will not work this evening.
We'll see if the curfew is lifted tomorrow. This afternoon, while we ate lunch, we found Police Academy 3 dubbed in Hindi on TV. This 80's cheese movie, whose characters I remember with a scary precision (I wished my mind worked this well for historical facts and more useful information) acted as a fleeting, but bizarre backdrop to this solemn, quiet situation around us.
Now, last night Navjot and I were completely unaware that fires and riots were raging in this city. They took place in another part of town--so they have happened in small areas, not city-wide.
However, protesters did manage to close the main highway from Jalandhar to New Delhi, the NH 1. The road going northwest to Pathankot (where we began our mountain adventure a couple of weeks ago) has also been closed. Three rail cars were set on fire.
The news here provides tiny amounts of information presented in a sensationalist manner, similar to, and even more extreme than, Fox News back at home. BBC News is providing more video clips than written reports, which are not loading easily onto our computers with our slow connection. 'rrrrrr'
However, the military has come in (they paraded with flags in our neighborhood around 6pm.)
The rules of curfew are: stay at home. Going out and about could get you arrested.
So, when almost all of our milk curdled (it was bought yesterday!) we couldn't get anymore. (Milk based products are not keeping well in this heat--we haven't bought one container of good yogurt since our return from the mts, either). I couldn't go to the gym today, or collect my repairs from the tailor. Navjot couldn't go to his lesson. Shops were closed too. All the sounds of zooming motorcycles and honking vehicles ceased. I observed the city twice from the rooftop today: once I took photos, and both times I only heard chirping birds!! After the 6pm military flag-parade (which I didn't see, I was told minutes after fact by my landlords) more vehicles were heard on the board, but the shops remained closed.
Raju, our cook and cleaner, worked here this morning, but will not work this evening.
We'll see if the curfew is lifted tomorrow. This afternoon, while we ate lunch, we found Police Academy 3 dubbed in Hindi on TV. This 80's cheese movie, whose characters I remember with a scary precision (I wished my mind worked this well for historical facts and more useful information) acted as a fleeting, but bizarre backdrop to this solemn, quiet situation around us.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Dharamasala
At the end of our stay in Dharamasala, we finally figured out how to access our money! YAY for that!
The drive from Dalhousie to Dharamasala went very well, despite the challenges of mountain driving. Part of this is because we took avormine to prevent motion-sickness, and because a good portion of the drive was in a valley, so our driver speeded along straight-aways more than whirling around hairpin turns. So far, I have felt really, really fortunate with my taxi driver experiences. They really have the power to make their passengers' lives heaven or hell, and ours have been kind, knowledgeable, and safe.
We chose to stay in a government run hotel, The Hotel Bhagsu, which sat in a very nice location in McLeodganj, the seat of the Tibetan government. One thing I am learning about the hotels here is that they have a way of screening their guests. If I try to arrange a stay or reserve rooms beforehand, I have been told that they cannot make reservations before-hand, and that they only have one room available, and only for one day, so when we arrive we can look at the room and see if it will be appropriate. This has happened with every hotel, except for our current residence, Naggar Castle, in Himachal Pradesh. So, we arrive at the hotel, we chat, they get a sense of our plans, who we are, and etc, and then, each time, it turns out that our room is available if we want to stay longer! Nice! Luckily, each time, we passed their 'riff-raff' or 'low-caste' test---I am not sure why they screen ppl like this, but they do, and I haven't asked them why yet, since when I am dealing with them, I still need their 'goodwill.'
Mcleodganj is a hippie-shoppers paradise. Those of you who have seen my crazy silk hat that I bought in the Village in NYC will be pleased to know it has been replaced by another wacky hat that I found here. I bought anklets, shawls, postcards (the first place I have found postcards!!) and a Tibetan painting and a colorful wall-hanging that looks like a tie, which stands for victory. I may bring this uplifting decoration to my v-ball tourneys for that extra edge, haha.
My childhood pal for life, Heather, and another midwestern champ, Cailin, joined Navjot and I, and we had great times laughing it up at meals, and also having great discussions about art, travel, culture,food, beer, bathrooms, etc...those are the travelers' topics in a nutshell. Heather and I also caught up on all kinds of stuff we never get to in USA cause we are always so busy in our own lives....that has been so much fun for me.
Our first morning in Mcleodganj I went for a walk, and I believe this walk took me to the temple that leads to the Dalai Lama...I had planned to actually enter and explore more once I had the rest of the group with me.....but we never got around to it. Another reality of travel. We did visit the Buddhist School of Dialects where the monks sat in pairs--one standing and one on the floor, and debated in Tibetan. Every time the standing monk made a good point, he clapped his hands emphatically. So we watched and heard claps popping all around us. We enjoyed that, and then we wandered to another temple within the complex (I don't have my book...darn) and the big thing we noticed there besides the colorful interior was equal-sized stacks of cookies and crackers around statues of Buddha...the monk said they were offerings. I wish I knew more about the purpose behind that.
The next afternoon we went to another Buddhist Monastery called Dip Tselongking (sp probably wrong). This monastery sat a few hundred feet below the town on a pleasant hillside, so we enjoyed the walk. We walked in on a chanting...ritual or ceremony..I am not sure....the purpose was not described in my guidebook, nor in the brochure about the monastery, nor by any of the monks, but they were a little busy....:) Anyhow, their chants were not monotone, nor were they in harmony. Some spoke the chants in a tenor voice, some baritone, and at least one really low bass, so the overall effect was kind of soothing, even though the composite effect sounded unfamiliar. The monks read the chants in small books laid out in front of them, think small choir music books...and many of the monks also played cymbals, a couple played a gong, and someone was playing perhaps a digeridoo...the gong blocked that instrument from my sight..darn.....but if you have seen the movie Seven Years in Tibet, and you can remember the music Brad Pitt's characters hears when he stumbles into Lhasa, the instrumental accompaniment to these chants sounded just like that. It was quite powerful, and very scripted. After the chanting ceremony...we walked around the temple, inside and out, and took pictures. The monks displayed a row of large butterwax sculptures which depict...guessing here....elements of their mandalas (wheel of spiritual considerations) They destroy the sculptures after a certain amount of time (Tibetan New Year?) because they'd rather not become too attached to their creations.
The following day we visited the Kangra Art Museum in Dharamasala, where we enjoyed the miniature paintings depicting human emotional experiences through the Hindu gods. The Kangra School of Miniature Painting...(guessed the title here) continues today, and we chatted with some of the artists and saw some of their work, and I should have bought that painting of the woman going to see her lover....she was wearing an orange dress, and she was stepping on a snake....showing that the snake did not scare her off from where she wanted to do. Then an author of a book of these paintings showed up, invited us upstairs to see his book, and we had a good discussion about the symbolism of the many heads, arms, and legs given to many of the Hindu gods. Basically, the numerous limbs depict possessing a great amount of power to destroy.
After the art museum we went to the Norbulinka Institute for Tibetan Handicrafts. The school is set in nicely designed stone buildings which are nestled in a Japanese-style garden. The ambiance was very peaceful. We saw artists hammering metals to make sculptures of Buddha, and we saw woodcarving work as well. The main temple looked more Japanese in design than what I have seen of Tibetan architecture. Inside sat an enormous Buddha. Heather mentioned that she saw even larger ones in Japan. I wondered just how gigantic these Buddhas can get.
These descriptions are really not adequate to convey the experience of visiting these places, within all the stuff that happens behind the cultural wall, the stuff that is so different from home: the lack of interest in keeping bathrooms clean, seeing taxi drivers and servants socializing while their customers patron the art institutes, haggling and making friends with the store-owners, and later, after telling them the Rohtang Pass was thwarting our plan to visit Leh, listening to them trying to convince us that Srinigar (in Kashmir) was safe to visit, and that they JUST let a german woman stay in one of their boathouses---yep, these store-owners all just HAPPEN to own a boathouse in Srinigar!! At least three shopkeepers gave us this story! "Wow, what a coincidence....the guy at the other shawl store ALSO has a boathouse!! AND, there is a German girl staying there too!!! I guess Kashmir IS safe!!!" Don't worry, the sarcasm was for my amusement, the only Indian to catch my kind of sarcasm worked at the resturaunt we ate at in Manali....more on Manali and Naggar later....
The drive from Dalhousie to Dharamasala went very well, despite the challenges of mountain driving. Part of this is because we took avormine to prevent motion-sickness, and because a good portion of the drive was in a valley, so our driver speeded along straight-aways more than whirling around hairpin turns. So far, I have felt really, really fortunate with my taxi driver experiences. They really have the power to make their passengers' lives heaven or hell, and ours have been kind, knowledgeable, and safe.
We chose to stay in a government run hotel, The Hotel Bhagsu, which sat in a very nice location in McLeodganj, the seat of the Tibetan government. One thing I am learning about the hotels here is that they have a way of screening their guests. If I try to arrange a stay or reserve rooms beforehand, I have been told that they cannot make reservations before-hand, and that they only have one room available, and only for one day, so when we arrive we can look at the room and see if it will be appropriate. This has happened with every hotel, except for our current residence, Naggar Castle, in Himachal Pradesh. So, we arrive at the hotel, we chat, they get a sense of our plans, who we are, and etc, and then, each time, it turns out that our room is available if we want to stay longer! Nice! Luckily, each time, we passed their 'riff-raff' or 'low-caste' test---I am not sure why they screen ppl like this, but they do, and I haven't asked them why yet, since when I am dealing with them, I still need their 'goodwill.'
Mcleodganj is a hippie-shoppers paradise. Those of you who have seen my crazy silk hat that I bought in the Village in NYC will be pleased to know it has been replaced by another wacky hat that I found here. I bought anklets, shawls, postcards (the first place I have found postcards!!) and a Tibetan painting and a colorful wall-hanging that looks like a tie, which stands for victory. I may bring this uplifting decoration to my v-ball tourneys for that extra edge, haha.
My childhood pal for life, Heather, and another midwestern champ, Cailin, joined Navjot and I, and we had great times laughing it up at meals, and also having great discussions about art, travel, culture,food, beer, bathrooms, etc...those are the travelers' topics in a nutshell. Heather and I also caught up on all kinds of stuff we never get to in USA cause we are always so busy in our own lives....that has been so much fun for me.
Our first morning in Mcleodganj I went for a walk, and I believe this walk took me to the temple that leads to the Dalai Lama...I had planned to actually enter and explore more once I had the rest of the group with me.....but we never got around to it. Another reality of travel. We did visit the Buddhist School of Dialects where the monks sat in pairs--one standing and one on the floor, and debated in Tibetan. Every time the standing monk made a good point, he clapped his hands emphatically. So we watched and heard claps popping all around us. We enjoyed that, and then we wandered to another temple within the complex (I don't have my book...darn) and the big thing we noticed there besides the colorful interior was equal-sized stacks of cookies and crackers around statues of Buddha...the monk said they were offerings. I wish I knew more about the purpose behind that.
The next afternoon we went to another Buddhist Monastery called Dip Tselongking (sp probably wrong). This monastery sat a few hundred feet below the town on a pleasant hillside, so we enjoyed the walk. We walked in on a chanting...ritual or ceremony..I am not sure....the purpose was not described in my guidebook, nor in the brochure about the monastery, nor by any of the monks, but they were a little busy....:) Anyhow, their chants were not monotone, nor were they in harmony. Some spoke the chants in a tenor voice, some baritone, and at least one really low bass, so the overall effect was kind of soothing, even though the composite effect sounded unfamiliar. The monks read the chants in small books laid out in front of them, think small choir music books...and many of the monks also played cymbals, a couple played a gong, and someone was playing perhaps a digeridoo...the gong blocked that instrument from my sight..darn.....but if you have seen the movie Seven Years in Tibet, and you can remember the music Brad Pitt's characters hears when he stumbles into Lhasa, the instrumental accompaniment to these chants sounded just like that. It was quite powerful, and very scripted. After the chanting ceremony...we walked around the temple, inside and out, and took pictures. The monks displayed a row of large butterwax sculptures which depict...guessing here....elements of their mandalas (wheel of spiritual considerations) They destroy the sculptures after a certain amount of time (Tibetan New Year?) because they'd rather not become too attached to their creations.
The following day we visited the Kangra Art Museum in Dharamasala, where we enjoyed the miniature paintings depicting human emotional experiences through the Hindu gods. The Kangra School of Miniature Painting...(guessed the title here) continues today, and we chatted with some of the artists and saw some of their work, and I should have bought that painting of the woman going to see her lover....she was wearing an orange dress, and she was stepping on a snake....showing that the snake did not scare her off from where she wanted to do. Then an author of a book of these paintings showed up, invited us upstairs to see his book, and we had a good discussion about the symbolism of the many heads, arms, and legs given to many of the Hindu gods. Basically, the numerous limbs depict possessing a great amount of power to destroy.
After the art museum we went to the Norbulinka Institute for Tibetan Handicrafts. The school is set in nicely designed stone buildings which are nestled in a Japanese-style garden. The ambiance was very peaceful. We saw artists hammering metals to make sculptures of Buddha, and we saw woodcarving work as well. The main temple looked more Japanese in design than what I have seen of Tibetan architecture. Inside sat an enormous Buddha. Heather mentioned that she saw even larger ones in Japan. I wondered just how gigantic these Buddhas can get.
These descriptions are really not adequate to convey the experience of visiting these places, within all the stuff that happens behind the cultural wall, the stuff that is so different from home: the lack of interest in keeping bathrooms clean, seeing taxi drivers and servants socializing while their customers patron the art institutes, haggling and making friends with the store-owners, and later, after telling them the Rohtang Pass was thwarting our plan to visit Leh, listening to them trying to convince us that Srinigar (in Kashmir) was safe to visit, and that they JUST let a german woman stay in one of their boathouses---yep, these store-owners all just HAPPEN to own a boathouse in Srinigar!! At least three shopkeepers gave us this story! "Wow, what a coincidence....the guy at the other shawl store ALSO has a boathouse!! AND, there is a German girl staying there too!!! I guess Kashmir IS safe!!!" Don't worry, the sarcasm was for my amusement, the only Indian to catch my kind of sarcasm worked at the resturaunt we ate at in Manali....more on Manali and Naggar later....
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Dalhousie
Nav and I are experiencing the mountains!! YAY! The weather here has been like fall in USA, but the sun is warmer when it shines full strength. Level ground is mainly for our convenience, so there is not much of it, just enough for a road. There are no walking trails, except for the Kalatope Wildlife Sanctuary, where we saw little wildlife, but many beautiful views. Most of the mtns here are covered in pine trees, so those of you who know of my love for pine trees can imagine how pleased I am with the surroundings! There are also many flowers n grass that would be found in Michigan, so this place reminds me a little of being up north.
We got on the 4:45 am sleeper train. The train guy for our car was a sleaze--he was allowing people on who did not have a reservation, so there were people lying in both of our berths! The audacity!! Luckily, a young family of 3 kindly didn't protest as we placed all of our luggage, and a cannon-ball shaped Jamie, onto one of their berths. Navjot was talkative with them, and we all understood that we were victims of a problem we had no hope of solving. Navjot managed to get to one of our berths and move out a mother and her daughter out (sounds heartless, but it wasn't theirs---the audacity!!--) so he could have a place to sit. This allowed me to stretch a little, and take photos of the plains of Punjab thru my little window. Later, another mom and her daughter sat on the original families' berths and just faced me. I felt they were doing this to stare at me, and I got annoyed. However, I cheerily asked to take their photo and doing that allowed me to try to make this interaction more positive. Again, the bulk of my annoyance came from the fact that they didn't have their own spots on this car! RRRRR!
Then, we arrived in Pathankot and met our taxi driver and his...? traveling buddy? The driver was this well-built road warrior with long, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes. I was really worried that he would be more insane than the Haryana bus driver I wrote about when we traveled to Shimla in 04. I tried to get him off his game of total ruthlessness, taking the constant curves at 40 mph, overtaking everyone, by expressing American style road rage at every opportunity. I had thought that maybe he would drive more slowly, carefully, then I would shut up. This approach really got on Nav's nerves, and it proved completely ineffective. The driver was totally crazy, and we really had to lean into every turn to lessen the effects of motionsickness, which we did have, despite taking the meds...they helped, but to ride a rollercoaster for two hours without stopping is a great challenge for our inner ear. And, I hate to admit it, but he was also a very competent driver: he would honk at all the hairpin turns, and we reached Dalhousie in 2 hours--30 min less than the estimates.
The Alps Resort seemed dumpy at first....but it has a fair amount of land landscaped with roses and other pretty flowers, a ping pong table and a pool table (which we haven't used) and the surroundings are very quiet and peaceful. I had some laundry done for a little over 2$.
Day 1: Walked around Bakrota Hill: GREAT MTN VIEWS....mostly pine trees and terraced farming (for potatoes!) and in the distance were snowcapped mts on one side. The other had glacial lakes.
Day 2: We walked to Panchpula, where there was a rock garden and a couple of waterfalls. Here we met our first in a long series of saffron sellers. These guys appear out of virtually nowhere, selling strands of red saffron in small steel containers.
Day 3: Khajjiar: Touristy place. A bunch of clueless people taking people parasailing. We saw a lot of crashlandings. The best part: it was for kids only. GREAT. However, it has a long, flat-ish park, surrounded by pine trees. People strolled, and cows grazed.
Kalatope Wildlife Sanctuary: A great walk, except when lazy people passed us in cars, or made a bunch of racket at the rest stop, and I even think my guidebook warned me about the loudmouths!! The final climb, to about 8200 ft, about killed me, despite my exercise n training at the gym.
Daikund Peak: This is straight above Kalatope, higher on the mtn. From the top, the snow-capped mts looked almost eye-level. Khajjiar sat way below us, a little green bowl of land admist the steep tree filled mtn sides. I preferred this look at Khajjiar to my actual visit there.
Can it get any better? No. We brought enough $ to get us started. Now, we thought a tourist town like Dalhousie would have ATMs....that work. NOPE. Dalhousie has one ATM, and it is not working for us. So, our new problem is to find a way to access our $ so we can pay our hotel and get over to Dharamasala and meet up with our other players: Cailin and Heather. Wish us luck!
We got on the 4:45 am sleeper train. The train guy for our car was a sleaze--he was allowing people on who did not have a reservation, so there were people lying in both of our berths! The audacity!! Luckily, a young family of 3 kindly didn't protest as we placed all of our luggage, and a cannon-ball shaped Jamie, onto one of their berths. Navjot was talkative with them, and we all understood that we were victims of a problem we had no hope of solving. Navjot managed to get to one of our berths and move out a mother and her daughter out (sounds heartless, but it wasn't theirs---the audacity!!--) so he could have a place to sit. This allowed me to stretch a little, and take photos of the plains of Punjab thru my little window. Later, another mom and her daughter sat on the original families' berths and just faced me. I felt they were doing this to stare at me, and I got annoyed. However, I cheerily asked to take their photo and doing that allowed me to try to make this interaction more positive. Again, the bulk of my annoyance came from the fact that they didn't have their own spots on this car! RRRRR!
Then, we arrived in Pathankot and met our taxi driver and his...? traveling buddy? The driver was this well-built road warrior with long, greasy hair and bloodshot eyes. I was really worried that he would be more insane than the Haryana bus driver I wrote about when we traveled to Shimla in 04. I tried to get him off his game of total ruthlessness, taking the constant curves at 40 mph, overtaking everyone, by expressing American style road rage at every opportunity. I had thought that maybe he would drive more slowly, carefully, then I would shut up. This approach really got on Nav's nerves, and it proved completely ineffective. The driver was totally crazy, and we really had to lean into every turn to lessen the effects of motionsickness, which we did have, despite taking the meds...they helped, but to ride a rollercoaster for two hours without stopping is a great challenge for our inner ear. And, I hate to admit it, but he was also a very competent driver: he would honk at all the hairpin turns, and we reached Dalhousie in 2 hours--30 min less than the estimates.
The Alps Resort seemed dumpy at first....but it has a fair amount of land landscaped with roses and other pretty flowers, a ping pong table and a pool table (which we haven't used) and the surroundings are very quiet and peaceful. I had some laundry done for a little over 2$.
Day 1: Walked around Bakrota Hill: GREAT MTN VIEWS....mostly pine trees and terraced farming (for potatoes!) and in the distance were snowcapped mts on one side. The other had glacial lakes.
Day 2: We walked to Panchpula, where there was a rock garden and a couple of waterfalls. Here we met our first in a long series of saffron sellers. These guys appear out of virtually nowhere, selling strands of red saffron in small steel containers.
Day 3: Khajjiar: Touristy place. A bunch of clueless people taking people parasailing. We saw a lot of crashlandings. The best part: it was for kids only. GREAT. However, it has a long, flat-ish park, surrounded by pine trees. People strolled, and cows grazed.
Kalatope Wildlife Sanctuary: A great walk, except when lazy people passed us in cars, or made a bunch of racket at the rest stop, and I even think my guidebook warned me about the loudmouths!! The final climb, to about 8200 ft, about killed me, despite my exercise n training at the gym.
Daikund Peak: This is straight above Kalatope, higher on the mtn. From the top, the snow-capped mts looked almost eye-level. Khajjiar sat way below us, a little green bowl of land admist the steep tree filled mtn sides. I preferred this look at Khajjiar to my actual visit there.
Can it get any better? No. We brought enough $ to get us started. Now, we thought a tourist town like Dalhousie would have ATMs....that work. NOPE. Dalhousie has one ATM, and it is not working for us. So, our new problem is to find a way to access our $ so we can pay our hotel and get over to Dharamasala and meet up with our other players: Cailin and Heather. Wish us luck!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Moving on to HP
Delhi Part II is coming, I hope, but tomorrow, at 3:30am, we will wake up, go to the train station, and begin our journey to Dalhousie, a hill station town in Himachal Pradesh...it is supposed to have lots of nice English style cottages and architecture due to British presence during the Raj. My landlady, and Navjot's Guru keep steering us off to the smaller surrounding towns, claiming that Dalhousie, and Dharamasala are too busy and uninteresting...and I've been taking their suggestions, so we will see how our first stops play out.
I am very excited, but I was a little sad telling the people at the gym that I will be gone for a few weeks, and telling my landlady, etc. People here give me a little bit of a hard time if I go away...it is kind of similar to what my parents would do! It is very sweet, and I feel a little sad to leave, especially since I will be returning to USA shortly after...I fly back June 4th, and I will be back in Lansing June 7th to settle in before summer school at MSU...
OK, Gotta go!
I am very excited, but I was a little sad telling the people at the gym that I will be gone for a few weeks, and telling my landlady, etc. People here give me a little bit of a hard time if I go away...it is kind of similar to what my parents would do! It is very sweet, and I feel a little sad to leave, especially since I will be returning to USA shortly after...I fly back June 4th, and I will be back in Lansing June 7th to settle in before summer school at MSU...
OK, Gotta go!
New Delhi, Part One
Soon after my arrival in New Delhi, I met the entire cast of characters with whom I would be engaging with in these next days: Massiji, Vinay's aunt, who kindly showed me her bengali cotton saris, and her daughters, Minima (to
represent the minimum number of children to have) and Maxima (to represent the maximum number to children to have). Minima I met later, she brought her children to stay for a few days. She talked with me about her beliefs in child rearing: she believes (as do many Indian women I've spoken to) that parents place too much pressure on their children to succeed academically. Because of that, she is not forcing English instruction upon her daughter, who is around 3. She will allow her daughter to receive the instruction at school. Not that her sentiments matched
her actions: if the three of us were interacting, Mom began speaking to her in English and asking that she try to use English. One morning the I took the daughter to the playground: we communicated with my elementary Punjabi/Hindi, and her elementary English. At the end of the play date, I had valuable practice with my vocabulary, but the girl had learned and used many more English words. Maxima is the independent high-achiever of the family, somehow striking a balance between functioning within the tightly-knit, interdependent Indian family, and leading
an separate life with her husband, her friends, and her work, in Mumbai. She speaks genuinely, without formal airs, so I felt more sure-footed in conversation with her, her meanings were not tied up in too many of the silent Indian cultural codes. Didi and Vinay considered her a life-boat, especially in the early days, when they did have to navigate all of those rules, dishonesties, religious encroachments, and more traditional ways of thinking with the rest of Vinay's, then later, with Didi's family. Minku, Vinay's brother, and a student in accounting, met us at the Baha'i Temple and remained with us until the following evening.
I was first introduced to Vinay's parents, his sister-n-law, Poonam, her daughter, Sonu, a shy, sweet 10 year old, and Sona, Vinay's sister, who had a little more pluck to her personality, an artist's temperament, and a good sense of humor. We had a very tasty lunch. Most of the conversation occured between Didi, Vinay, Sona, and I, with some warmth from Vinay's mother, who continued to bring in tasty dishes, especially fried eggplant, or brinjal, which tasted somewhat of a cross between a french fry and a seasoned potato chip, but they were a lighter snack, being less starchy than potatoes.
I had expected to eat a very bland diet of bread and jam to avoid the dreaded Delhi-belly. But, after seeing and smelling the delicious Bengali food Vinay's family prepared, I chucked that plan. Well, I revised it: I ate the bland stuff if we ate out: I ate noodles and french fries at an outdoor Japanese steakhouse called Bonsai. But if the food was cooked in the home, I ate it. Rice, fried eggplant, fish, dal, aloo, flavored with the usual Indian spices, but also with kalonji, and mustard oil. Coconut ladoos (we usually eat lentil-made ladoos) were my favorite dessert.
Formality and politeness characterized the social exchanges at Vinay's parents' house. After lunch, Didi and I walked along a road of tall, block-long concrete condos/flats, turned at the corner, walked in the street under trees which were crawling with white tree bugs which fascinated me in a repulsive sense, like when I watch moving snakes. Didi urged me to keep moving, all the while filling me in on the rich history of Vinay's family, the history that takes years of learn.....I had to take it all in as rapidly as possible before we reached Vinay's aunt's house, for while the topics were not taboo in the family, the history is taken seriously; it is very personal, delicate, therefore, fairly, the members should feel comfortable enough with me to share it on their own...but that was impossible with the few days I was to spend with them. Instead, Didi helped me to 'cheat', something she has done many times before, allowing me to circumnavigate all the visits, the imprecision due to the language barrier, and stumbling over social rules that I know little of. Without slowing our pace, we ended my history lesson as we entered Massiji's house. Here, Didi and Vinay talked more freely with Massiji. Vinay encouraged us to sit in his favorite room as a child: a small, square,screened in porch just off one of the living rooms. Sitting there, we felt mild breezes
from outside, in addition to air from the ceiling fan. It did have that cozy feel, perfect for spending time chatting with good friends, and a long seat which bordered one side made a comfy nook for reading. Plus, since the room sat at the edge of the house, far away from the kitchen, TV room, and washing machine, it seemed very peaceful and quiet, the kind of room teachers try to get their students to create so they can study without distractions.
We were sitting here when I met Maxima, rushing back from a visit with her in-laws, a little flustered from living her ambitions: to be a host of New Delhi to Vinay and Didi, a doting daughter-in-law to her husband's parents, reconnecting with her New Delhi friends, and being present as an aunt, sister, and a daughter at home. Still, her voice carried a warmth, and a confidence, perhaps, that although so many events are taking place, things will fall together. This assuredness made the anxiety in her voice just a tiny layer which came through sometimes when she gently asked for a little time to collect herself. While she took a shower, I took a nap, my mind grateful for a little rest from going within a new family.
Our first excursion: the Baha'i Temple. I sat in the front seat for the first time, and Maxima drove. Didi and Vinay sat in the back.
Didi said, "Maxima is such a fantastic driver in Indian traffic. She is amazing!"
Indeed, Maxima handled New Delhi driving the with the deftness I hope I have driving at home. However, Maxima truly impressed me with her driving prowess at the
very end of the evening, when she backed her car into the parking spot, within in an inch of the concrete wall, without needing any assistance from us.
Maxima knew where the Baha'i Temple was, but the lack of signs, the one-way roads, and the roundabouts kept us driving in circles and asking directions until we eventually pulled up next to a large green lawn with symmetrical landscaping, small trees, green shrubs clipped to a rounded shape, and rectangular plots of colorful flowers, all forming a straight-edge border to the brick footpaths. From here, I could look over a long distance of greenery, something I can only do during train rides, otherwise the rest of the landscape is urbanized. The Lotus Temple sat, enormous against the horizon, like a huge white, blooming lily pad on a natural section of flat, light green, arid land.
The Baha'i religion is fairly new, and my first impression, upon hearing the speech the temple guides gave us in very polite, smooth English, was that this was a progressive religion, one that welcomes all faiths, to meditate in their temple. Inside the silent temple, surrounded by ivory marble, I indeed felt very calm and peaceful. Didi was more restless, taking me to see inscriptions tucked away in the many corner nooks. One of the inscriptions emphasized the importance of believing in God. Many others made little sense to me. I began to get the sense that there was more to the Baha'i faith than a secular practicality for a peaceful community.
This message communications this combination of secular values with supernatural acknowledgment: "The religion of God is for love and unity, make it not the cause of enmity and dissension."
I found a strong inital statement of dedication to the secular on their website (www.bahaindia.org)
The Baha'i believe in the removal of prejudice by caste, creed, religion, sex, color, race, and language via universal education and the use of the scientific method in our thinking. A true religion conforms to reason, not to the old
standards of superstition, rituals, and dogmas.
To a secular humanist like me, this sounds almost too good to be true!
And it is.
Another piece of Holy writing, found further in the website:
The divine prophets came to establish the unity of the kingdom in their hearts. All of them proclaimed the glad tidings of the divine bestowals to the world of mankind.
Divine. Not of this world. Supernatural. The word divine contradicts the positive secular focus of the religion. Why do we have such a hard time trusting someone here on this imperfect world to have a good idea without divine intervention?? Is our world really so deceitful that we must ascribe altruistic, pure intents to something that could never exist on this planet?
Sure enough, The Baha'i was conceived by a young Persian man, called, "The Bab,
meaning, "gate." He announced the appearance of the Messenger of God. After this hallmark event, add a lot of persecution by the Muslims, a wealthy guy who cheered for the underdog, and voila: The Baha'i faith is born.
It gets even better: The Baha'i are a subversive bunch: Change the system from within, brothers and sisters! Read on..
God educated humanity through Divine Manisfestations, named as: Krishna, Buddha, Abraham, Moses, Zoroaster, Jesus, and Muhammad.
These guys were the nice guys in their respective religions, though I already know Muhammad made an expanding empire with his new religion and his posse. The most recent Divine Manifestation is (that good ol' wealthy guy who rooted for the small fry who received flak for his audacity in seeing a messenger from God): Baha'u'llah.
The Divine Manisfestations had the right idea, they were trying to unite humanity, and make it one soul. Therefore, Manisfestations were good, altruistic, and thus deserving of the name, divine. HA!
I believe having supernatural origins ultimately dooms the Baha'i to the same religious baggage it seeks to eliminate; what a shame. I will credit the originality of promoting secular practices as a means for creating world peace. It almost reminds me a little of the message of the Sikh religion, that sense of: lose the baggage and get practical! Both are newer religions, which gives me a little hope we may eventually lose all the religious baggage that keeps us from absolute focus on our lives and the earth.
After spending time in the temple, we walked around the gardens, which Maxima explained were Mughal in design, and we played with the camera, taking nice pictures and silly pictures. Dusk had settled in by the time we reached Maxima's SUV. Minku and Vinay smiled a lot and both seemed peaceful and happy in each other's presence, and I continued to see this the next day too. Perhaps it was due to the relief and joy that can be experienced after renewing what was once a strong family tie, and then, almost luckily, actually experiencing the fun times similar to those of childhood. Thus, one can rediscover that one doesn't have distance themselves from most aspects of childhood experience due to disappointments or struggles; sometimes one can savour the laughter and the innocent blissful moments once more...
More to come...
represent the minimum number of children to have) and Maxima (to represent the maximum number to children to have). Minima I met later, she brought her children to stay for a few days. She talked with me about her beliefs in child rearing: she believes (as do many Indian women I've spoken to) that parents place too much pressure on their children to succeed academically. Because of that, she is not forcing English instruction upon her daughter, who is around 3. She will allow her daughter to receive the instruction at school. Not that her sentiments matched
her actions: if the three of us were interacting, Mom began speaking to her in English and asking that she try to use English. One morning the I took the daughter to the playground: we communicated with my elementary Punjabi/Hindi, and her elementary English. At the end of the play date, I had valuable practice with my vocabulary, but the girl had learned and used many more English words. Maxima is the independent high-achiever of the family, somehow striking a balance between functioning within the tightly-knit, interdependent Indian family, and leading
an separate life with her husband, her friends, and her work, in Mumbai. She speaks genuinely, without formal airs, so I felt more sure-footed in conversation with her, her meanings were not tied up in too many of the silent Indian cultural codes. Didi and Vinay considered her a life-boat, especially in the early days, when they did have to navigate all of those rules, dishonesties, religious encroachments, and more traditional ways of thinking with the rest of Vinay's, then later, with Didi's family. Minku, Vinay's brother, and a student in accounting, met us at the Baha'i Temple and remained with us until the following evening.
I was first introduced to Vinay's parents, his sister-n-law, Poonam, her daughter, Sonu, a shy, sweet 10 year old, and Sona, Vinay's sister, who had a little more pluck to her personality, an artist's temperament, and a good sense of humor. We had a very tasty lunch. Most of the conversation occured between Didi, Vinay, Sona, and I, with some warmth from Vinay's mother, who continued to bring in tasty dishes, especially fried eggplant, or brinjal, which tasted somewhat of a cross between a french fry and a seasoned potato chip, but they were a lighter snack, being less starchy than potatoes.
I had expected to eat a very bland diet of bread and jam to avoid the dreaded Delhi-belly. But, after seeing and smelling the delicious Bengali food Vinay's family prepared, I chucked that plan. Well, I revised it: I ate the bland stuff if we ate out: I ate noodles and french fries at an outdoor Japanese steakhouse called Bonsai. But if the food was cooked in the home, I ate it. Rice, fried eggplant, fish, dal, aloo, flavored with the usual Indian spices, but also with kalonji, and mustard oil. Coconut ladoos (we usually eat lentil-made ladoos) were my favorite dessert.
Formality and politeness characterized the social exchanges at Vinay's parents' house. After lunch, Didi and I walked along a road of tall, block-long concrete condos/flats, turned at the corner, walked in the street under trees which were crawling with white tree bugs which fascinated me in a repulsive sense, like when I watch moving snakes. Didi urged me to keep moving, all the while filling me in on the rich history of Vinay's family, the history that takes years of learn.....I had to take it all in as rapidly as possible before we reached Vinay's aunt's house, for while the topics were not taboo in the family, the history is taken seriously; it is very personal, delicate, therefore, fairly, the members should feel comfortable enough with me to share it on their own...but that was impossible with the few days I was to spend with them. Instead, Didi helped me to 'cheat', something she has done many times before, allowing me to circumnavigate all the visits, the imprecision due to the language barrier, and stumbling over social rules that I know little of. Without slowing our pace, we ended my history lesson as we entered Massiji's house. Here, Didi and Vinay talked more freely with Massiji. Vinay encouraged us to sit in his favorite room as a child: a small, square,screened in porch just off one of the living rooms. Sitting there, we felt mild breezes
from outside, in addition to air from the ceiling fan. It did have that cozy feel, perfect for spending time chatting with good friends, and a long seat which bordered one side made a comfy nook for reading. Plus, since the room sat at the edge of the house, far away from the kitchen, TV room, and washing machine, it seemed very peaceful and quiet, the kind of room teachers try to get their students to create so they can study without distractions.
We were sitting here when I met Maxima, rushing back from a visit with her in-laws, a little flustered from living her ambitions: to be a host of New Delhi to Vinay and Didi, a doting daughter-in-law to her husband's parents, reconnecting with her New Delhi friends, and being present as an aunt, sister, and a daughter at home. Still, her voice carried a warmth, and a confidence, perhaps, that although so many events are taking place, things will fall together. This assuredness made the anxiety in her voice just a tiny layer which came through sometimes when she gently asked for a little time to collect herself. While she took a shower, I took a nap, my mind grateful for a little rest from going within a new family.
Our first excursion: the Baha'i Temple. I sat in the front seat for the first time, and Maxima drove. Didi and Vinay sat in the back.
Didi said, "Maxima is such a fantastic driver in Indian traffic. She is amazing!"
Indeed, Maxima handled New Delhi driving the with the deftness I hope I have driving at home. However, Maxima truly impressed me with her driving prowess at the
very end of the evening, when she backed her car into the parking spot, within in an inch of the concrete wall, without needing any assistance from us.
Maxima knew where the Baha'i Temple was, but the lack of signs, the one-way roads, and the roundabouts kept us driving in circles and asking directions until we eventually pulled up next to a large green lawn with symmetrical landscaping, small trees, green shrubs clipped to a rounded shape, and rectangular plots of colorful flowers, all forming a straight-edge border to the brick footpaths. From here, I could look over a long distance of greenery, something I can only do during train rides, otherwise the rest of the landscape is urbanized. The Lotus Temple sat, enormous against the horizon, like a huge white, blooming lily pad on a natural section of flat, light green, arid land.
The Baha'i religion is fairly new, and my first impression, upon hearing the speech the temple guides gave us in very polite, smooth English, was that this was a progressive religion, one that welcomes all faiths, to meditate in their temple. Inside the silent temple, surrounded by ivory marble, I indeed felt very calm and peaceful. Didi was more restless, taking me to see inscriptions tucked away in the many corner nooks. One of the inscriptions emphasized the importance of believing in God. Many others made little sense to me. I began to get the sense that there was more to the Baha'i faith than a secular practicality for a peaceful community.
This message communications this combination of secular values with supernatural acknowledgment: "The religion of God is for love and unity, make it not the cause of enmity and dissension."
I found a strong inital statement of dedication to the secular on their website (www.bahaindia.org)
The Baha'i believe in the removal of prejudice by caste, creed, religion, sex, color, race, and language via universal education and the use of the scientific method in our thinking. A true religion conforms to reason, not to the old
standards of superstition, rituals, and dogmas.
To a secular humanist like me, this sounds almost too good to be true!
And it is.
Another piece of Holy writing, found further in the website:
The divine prophets came to establish the unity of the kingdom in their hearts. All of them proclaimed the glad tidings of the divine bestowals to the world of mankind.
Divine. Not of this world. Supernatural. The word divine contradicts the positive secular focus of the religion. Why do we have such a hard time trusting someone here on this imperfect world to have a good idea without divine intervention?? Is our world really so deceitful that we must ascribe altruistic, pure intents to something that could never exist on this planet?
Sure enough, The Baha'i was conceived by a young Persian man, called, "The Bab,
meaning, "gate." He announced the appearance of the Messenger of God. After this hallmark event, add a lot of persecution by the Muslims, a wealthy guy who cheered for the underdog, and voila: The Baha'i faith is born.
It gets even better: The Baha'i are a subversive bunch: Change the system from within, brothers and sisters! Read on..
God educated humanity through Divine Manisfestations, named as: Krishna, Buddha, Abraham, Moses, Zoroaster, Jesus, and Muhammad.
These guys were the nice guys in their respective religions, though I already know Muhammad made an expanding empire with his new religion and his posse. The most recent Divine Manifestation is (that good ol' wealthy guy who rooted for the small fry who received flak for his audacity in seeing a messenger from God): Baha'u'llah.
The Divine Manisfestations had the right idea, they were trying to unite humanity, and make it one soul. Therefore, Manisfestations were good, altruistic, and thus deserving of the name, divine. HA!
I believe having supernatural origins ultimately dooms the Baha'i to the same religious baggage it seeks to eliminate; what a shame. I will credit the originality of promoting secular practices as a means for creating world peace. It almost reminds me a little of the message of the Sikh religion, that sense of: lose the baggage and get practical! Both are newer religions, which gives me a little hope we may eventually lose all the religious baggage that keeps us from absolute focus on our lives and the earth.
After spending time in the temple, we walked around the gardens, which Maxima explained were Mughal in design, and we played with the camera, taking nice pictures and silly pictures. Dusk had settled in by the time we reached Maxima's SUV. Minku and Vinay smiled a lot and both seemed peaceful and happy in each other's presence, and I continued to see this the next day too. Perhaps it was due to the relief and joy that can be experienced after renewing what was once a strong family tie, and then, almost luckily, actually experiencing the fun times similar to those of childhood. Thus, one can rediscover that one doesn't have distance themselves from most aspects of childhood experience due to disappointments or struggles; sometimes one can savour the laughter and the innocent blissful moments once more...
More to come...
Monday, April 27, 2009
Walking to Jalandhar Train Station
Navjot walked me to the Jalandhar Railway Station. We left at 5:15am. We walked at a brisk pace for about 45 minutes to reach the station at 6am. The train left at 6:15am. Although I rode this route a few times before either on rickshaw or autorickshaw, walking here provided the time to experience the route differently.
5:15-6am is a major transition time in India: everyone begins waking up. At 5:15 the dark sky and silent streets suggest a slumbering population. At this time I walked along the middle of the narrow roads, foggy-minded at the early hour, and thus strangely confident that these roads only belonged to Navjot and I. Twice Navjot asked me to come to the side and be aware of my surroundings: the first time I turned to see a noisy, nasty three-wheeler autorickshaw wheeling towards us. I rubbed my eyes, feeling a little worried because I didn't hear it. We continued on, and something stirred near me on a pile of sand on my left. A dog. I jumped a little. The dogs here seemed harmless, rarely did we find one with a leash, but still I did not want to appear threatening. The dog I had disturbed rested only a couple of feet away and I didn't even see it. Silence and stillness dulled my mind, it wanted a predictable environment.
After 20 minutes of walking, dawn awoke the birds, and scooters and motorcycles began using the roads. The environment stimulated my mind to a more alert state. But even then Navjot and I responded differently to our surroundings. Recent rains formed puddles and muddy footpaths along the roadsides, so Navjot and I continued
walking in the street. Although it is common for people here to walk in the street, as soon as I heard the engine of a motorcycle nearing us from behind, I would turn and check to make sure it would avoid us. Traffic became plentiful enough to keep my head turning regularly. Navjot kept his head forward, looking ahead the entire time.
"You sure trust the drivers here."
"Yeah, if we stay to the side of the road, the drivers will avoid us. We all (Indians) know this. We just don't walk in the middle of the street like you were doing earlier. I don't know why you do that."
"Yeah, I don't know either. I don't think people back in Michigan do that either. I must like the space."
A clanging bell announced our close proximity to the railway station. I had been listening for it, it had cued our arrival to the station on previous trips. This time, walking, I realized the bell ringing sounded much closer to me than the station, which was still a little ways ahead, though we could easily see the block letters, in English: Jalandhar Railway Station. I turned to my left and saw the ringing bell within the cleanest, most decorated building in the area: a Hindu temple. The rest of the buildings looked drab, old, decrepit. The surprising part to me was that since I had associated the bell sound with the station, I assumed the bell came from the station. I enjoyed the discovery; adjusting my truth with that of reality.
One more interesting sight caught my attention on the left, just as we crossed the last intersection, a few feet before the station entrance. A tall, narrow gateway. It looked more like a tiny bridge where people cross under the bridge, but never over it, for it was so tall and narrow. It also looked very ancient, older than the neglected slabs of concrete on the streetsides. Then I remembered reading that Jalandhar was one of the oldest cities in Punjab, and that it had 12 gateways to the city. This antique construction must have been one of them.
Business proceeded normally at the station. The previous day, the Shtabadi, the fast train I was taking, was held up for four hours by Sikhs protesting the candidacy of Jagdish Tytler, a politician who, (since the riots occured),
has been suspected of leading murderous riots against Sikhs in New Delhi after the assassination of Indira Ghandi in 1984, for the Lok Sabha, India's version of Parliament. Tytler had also been recently given a 'clean chit,' which means a clean bill of health, by India's Central Bureau of Investigation (like FBI). Navjot and his family was one of the Sikh families living in New Delhi when the assassination and riots occurred. They had to leave. Didi had to leave her nice school. Dad had to leave his business. Today, none of Navjot's family express interest in these events. Perhaps they have long given up on justice for Indians; they rarely discuss Indian politics at all; but all of them have made comments about how the American government does a much better job in serving its people: tax money is visibly used to improve the life of regular people, and money doesn't automatically buy you
out of every problem. I like knowing that this positive perspective exists after the Americans foolishly chose to endure at least four of the eight rock-bottom years of our previous administration.
Navjot and I sat on a bench on the train platform, and two child beggars approached. I tried not to make eye contact; that seems to make them more aggressive. Since I am white, beggars already tend to flock to me at train stations, busy chowks (roundabouts), and the Model Town shopping area. The beggars in India speak in a creepy, raspy-sounding, zombiesque monotone: "Give me money for food. I need to eat," etc. This morning the little child stood face-level from Navjot, just mere inches in front of him. He wheezed these requests to Navjot, who merely rested his chin on his hand in a classic "Thinking Man" pose, and serenely gazed across the tracks to a further platform. Knowing the child wouldn't understand me, I still neurotically protested: "Whoa! Personal space issues!" Even Navjot ignored that. The child gave up and moved to an Indian family; he got lucky, a middle-class looking lady handed him some change. As long as they keep getting money, people are going to continue to beg. It is one of the oldest human professions, along with prostitution.
The train ride passed pleasantly. I enjoyed a good breakfast of an aloo parantha, bread, and jam, and two cups of tea. I read the Hindustan Times. I talked to Navjot and Didi almost hourly; they were concerned as this was my first train trip alone in India. When I arrived in New Delhi, Didi, Vinay and I struggled to locate each other, and I finally chose to do the unthinkable: make my presence conspicuous. I stood on a raised curb in front of the noisy, busy, crowded station, tried to look calm, failed, instead I drummed my thighs nervously, and waited for
taxi-drivers and beggars to surround me. To my relief I remained undisturbed until I saw Didi a couple of minutes later. Meeting loved ones in unfamiliar places makes the discomforts and anxieties of travel worthwhile; the hugs and relieved smiles give me a great reward.
5:15-6am is a major transition time in India: everyone begins waking up. At 5:15 the dark sky and silent streets suggest a slumbering population. At this time I walked along the middle of the narrow roads, foggy-minded at the early hour, and thus strangely confident that these roads only belonged to Navjot and I. Twice Navjot asked me to come to the side and be aware of my surroundings: the first time I turned to see a noisy, nasty three-wheeler autorickshaw wheeling towards us. I rubbed my eyes, feeling a little worried because I didn't hear it. We continued on, and something stirred near me on a pile of sand on my left. A dog. I jumped a little. The dogs here seemed harmless, rarely did we find one with a leash, but still I did not want to appear threatening. The dog I had disturbed rested only a couple of feet away and I didn't even see it. Silence and stillness dulled my mind, it wanted a predictable environment.
After 20 minutes of walking, dawn awoke the birds, and scooters and motorcycles began using the roads. The environment stimulated my mind to a more alert state. But even then Navjot and I responded differently to our surroundings. Recent rains formed puddles and muddy footpaths along the roadsides, so Navjot and I continued
walking in the street. Although it is common for people here to walk in the street, as soon as I heard the engine of a motorcycle nearing us from behind, I would turn and check to make sure it would avoid us. Traffic became plentiful enough to keep my head turning regularly. Navjot kept his head forward, looking ahead the entire time.
"You sure trust the drivers here."
"Yeah, if we stay to the side of the road, the drivers will avoid us. We all (Indians) know this. We just don't walk in the middle of the street like you were doing earlier. I don't know why you do that."
"Yeah, I don't know either. I don't think people back in Michigan do that either. I must like the space."
A clanging bell announced our close proximity to the railway station. I had been listening for it, it had cued our arrival to the station on previous trips. This time, walking, I realized the bell ringing sounded much closer to me than the station, which was still a little ways ahead, though we could easily see the block letters, in English: Jalandhar Railway Station. I turned to my left and saw the ringing bell within the cleanest, most decorated building in the area: a Hindu temple. The rest of the buildings looked drab, old, decrepit. The surprising part to me was that since I had associated the bell sound with the station, I assumed the bell came from the station. I enjoyed the discovery; adjusting my truth with that of reality.
One more interesting sight caught my attention on the left, just as we crossed the last intersection, a few feet before the station entrance. A tall, narrow gateway. It looked more like a tiny bridge where people cross under the bridge, but never over it, for it was so tall and narrow. It also looked very ancient, older than the neglected slabs of concrete on the streetsides. Then I remembered reading that Jalandhar was one of the oldest cities in Punjab, and that it had 12 gateways to the city. This antique construction must have been one of them.
Business proceeded normally at the station. The previous day, the Shtabadi, the fast train I was taking, was held up for four hours by Sikhs protesting the candidacy of Jagdish Tytler, a politician who, (since the riots occured),
has been suspected of leading murderous riots against Sikhs in New Delhi after the assassination of Indira Ghandi in 1984, for the Lok Sabha, India's version of Parliament. Tytler had also been recently given a 'clean chit,' which means a clean bill of health, by India's Central Bureau of Investigation (like FBI). Navjot and his family was one of the Sikh families living in New Delhi when the assassination and riots occurred. They had to leave. Didi had to leave her nice school. Dad had to leave his business. Today, none of Navjot's family express interest in these events. Perhaps they have long given up on justice for Indians; they rarely discuss Indian politics at all; but all of them have made comments about how the American government does a much better job in serving its people: tax money is visibly used to improve the life of regular people, and money doesn't automatically buy you
out of every problem. I like knowing that this positive perspective exists after the Americans foolishly chose to endure at least four of the eight rock-bottom years of our previous administration.
Navjot and I sat on a bench on the train platform, and two child beggars approached. I tried not to make eye contact; that seems to make them more aggressive. Since I am white, beggars already tend to flock to me at train stations, busy chowks (roundabouts), and the Model Town shopping area. The beggars in India speak in a creepy, raspy-sounding, zombiesque monotone: "Give me money for food. I need to eat," etc. This morning the little child stood face-level from Navjot, just mere inches in front of him. He wheezed these requests to Navjot, who merely rested his chin on his hand in a classic "Thinking Man" pose, and serenely gazed across the tracks to a further platform. Knowing the child wouldn't understand me, I still neurotically protested: "Whoa! Personal space issues!" Even Navjot ignored that. The child gave up and moved to an Indian family; he got lucky, a middle-class looking lady handed him some change. As long as they keep getting money, people are going to continue to beg. It is one of the oldest human professions, along with prostitution.
The train ride passed pleasantly. I enjoyed a good breakfast of an aloo parantha, bread, and jam, and two cups of tea. I read the Hindustan Times. I talked to Navjot and Didi almost hourly; they were concerned as this was my first train trip alone in India. When I arrived in New Delhi, Didi, Vinay and I struggled to locate each other, and I finally chose to do the unthinkable: make my presence conspicuous. I stood on a raised curb in front of the noisy, busy, crowded station, tried to look calm, failed, instead I drummed my thighs nervously, and waited for
taxi-drivers and beggars to surround me. To my relief I remained undisturbed until I saw Didi a couple of minutes later. Meeting loved ones in unfamiliar places makes the discomforts and anxieties of travel worthwhile; the hugs and relieved smiles give me a great reward.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Cultural Education and Experience in India
I had promised myself I would make use of some of my readings in intercultural communication with my own experience here in India. So, here it is.
My approaches to adjusting to India was informed by an article penned by Gary Weaver, a professor in the field of intercultural communications, called, "Understanding and Coping with Cross Cultural Adjustment Stress."
Weaver gives three explanations for the occurrence of culture shock:
1) the loss of familiar cues
2) the breakdown of interpersonal communication
3) an identity crisis
I experienced stress more from explanations 1 and 2, with 3 being a distant third which may become more of a factor as I continue adapting to India.
The Loss of Familiar Cues
"Cues," Weaver writes, "are signposts which guide us through our daily activities in an acceptable fashion which is consistent with the total social environment." p.178
"They may be words, gestures, facial expressions, postures, or customs.......they tell us when or how to give gifts or tips, when to be serious or humorous, how to speak to leaders and subordinates, who has status, what to say when we meet people, when and how to shake hands, how to eat......they make us feel comfortable because they seem so automatic and natural." p. 178
The social cues in India are different from the cues in Michigan, and I had some experience with this through the time spent with Navjot's family, before I even came to India. One 'crossed cue' which was too uncomfortable for me to alter in the States was my habit of saying a gracious thank-you to either Mom or Grandma after eating one of their fantastic meals. To me, their cooking is an investment of their time which they could use to do other things. For them, spending two to four hours dong cooking and cooking related work is what they do. It is the expected, (unpaid), work of a wife and mother, but even more than that, their mastery and consistency in this work seems to be a strong part of their identity as good wives and mothers in a family. Therefore, hearing my thank-you actually gives them a little discomfort, because to hear it may suggest (to others) that they are motivated by recognition, instead of the purer value of being a very good wife, mother, and member of the Indian family/extended family. After some explanations by me, and just to be nice, Mom says, "Your welcome," instead of giving a slightly reproachful look couched within a bewildered expression, sharply exclaiming: "Why thank-you? You're family!"
Other familiar social exchanges, such as: "Hey, how're ya doin?" and "Good afternoon" and "Good morning" which are some of my favorite greetings, are absent in India (except as a joke from Vinay, "Yo, Whatssssssssup, Grandma....Whatsssssssup?" (which I quietly find hilarious). Here, religious affiliation dictates the greeting you give to adults. For Hindus, you put your hands together and say, "Namaste," or "Namaskaar," depending on the dialect or region....you can kick it up a notch with adding a further respectful designation, "ji"....which becomes: "Namaste-ji" and "Namaskaarji". For Sikhs, the greeting is "Susrikall...or Susrikallji" I have adapted the 'ji' version because as a foreigner who does not have, and never will attain, all the social cues, I need to pursue maximum amounts of social points whenever possible.
Being non-religious (a secular humanist) at best I feel uncomfortable, at worst, I resent, pandering to religious sentiment to begin my interactions with people here.
"Cues also serve as reinforces of behavior because they signal if things are being done appropriately."-p 179.
Many articles in this collection on Intercultural Relations reiterate that American, Swiss, and German cultures have a low-context, heterogeneous nature, meaning we want explicit rules of behavior so our interactions have a high amount of predictability. Non-western cultures, like India, have a high-context, homogeneous orientation, meaning the rules of conduct are learned implicitly, any request for specific guides are met with vague replies, since the info was never directly taught to anyone (the rules were inferred).
In Michigan, when I invited Navjot's sister to my school to do henna tattoos, I tried to prepare her for the experience: the typical behavior of the children and why, the typical behavior of the teachers in the classroom and in the lunchroom, and why. Didi is intelligent, personable, and outgoing, who could put herself at ease anyway, but I like to think that the cultural preparation helped Didi to quickly make herself 'at home' those days in our little community.
In India, Navjot, Mom, and Didi, they try, they really do try to prep me for the unknown. But there are some things that are so automatic, that it doesn't 'pop up' in their consciousness that I won't know how to act in a certain way until a few seconds before the opportunity comes for me to act. These minefields within India's cultural landscape have become rather treacherous for me at an unlikely time: when we entertain Punjab/Indian company in our apartment.
Before guests arrive, Navjot doesn't say, "Jamie, it is better if we behave like Indians even if we don't usually do it. This means only you will prepare anything that will be served, you will serve the items in this particular order: water/juices/sodas, then teas with snacks. 15 min after you offer the water set, offer tea, if they say no, offer 10 min later and make it regardless. Bring the tea, and set the tray on the table. If they don't reach for it, set a cup in front of the eldest person. Continue setting cups until everyone has a cup in front of them. Then provide a plate of cookies/snacks. Again, circulate this plate to each person. Repeat the cookie tray act at least once more. When the last person finishes, collect the cups and wash them. Although I would usually help with dishes at home, when company is here, you will do all of this kitchen work, because that is how Indians do it."
You may think, "Whoa, she says they have a cook! The cook does the dishes! Why is she whining about doing tea dishes? Geez! Talk about high maintenance! Poor Nav. He probably has to hear a lot of nagging."
Maybe Navjot thought the above too.
My best explanation is that the event above demonstrates a time when Nav 'shifts' from our own 'Jamie-Nav' culture, to "Indian" culture. I feel 'demoted' in some odd sense, like my power standing in the household went from co-CEO to a servant, or a child. The experiences of these feelings disturb me, because I do not mind making people comfortable in our home. Perhaps the difference lies in the intensity of the sentiments. I 'do not mind' making people comfortable. Indians take the comfort of their guests very seriously. My intensity does not match theirs, therefore, when placed in the role of providing, 'serious comfort', I feel out of my element, yet, later I will endure little aftershocks of guilt, since I so often enjoy the hospitality bestowed upon me by Indians, yet I inherently lack their zeal to master their moves myself and return the favor. It has the same smell as a statement I made, to my own surprise, to my sister-in-law, Michelle, on Christmas Day: "I think I like receiving more than giving (presents)."
I have felt strangely while performing these duties each time. Isolation and anxiety pervades the kitchen, or, if Nav is absent from the home at this time, the entire house. Perhaps this feeling of isolation comes from experiencing a role that is mutually exclusive...a role shared by no-one else. Only I tend the kitchen and serving. Or I could be feeling the rigidity of the role.
Yep, having a job myself is looking pretty good from where I'm standing...rigid roles seem to lose a bit of their grip when a woman has a career too.
Instead, before guests arrive, there were no pre-play strategies. Navjot said, "You'll be fine." But, soon into the gathering, I started receiving instructions, when Navjot noticed that I haven't done items on the implicit guest itinerary at a 'certain' time. I received the instruction after the fact, but I responded, internally, as if I were directly taught the material, but I had not performed it correctly, and so I was receiving public chastisement. I became anxious, and watched Navjot and the guests, hoping for a clue that will help me avoid another inadvertent chastising. If I were to explicitly ask questions about best procedures, then the gathering could become a garish mass of confusions: some wanting to help me with these basics, others preferring that I don't take the trouble. The latter see themselves as 'hosts of India' and I am a guest...even though we are all in my apartment. Plug this formula into several other social scenarios: visiting a gurudwara, visiting Guruji's family, visiting Navjot's family, and you have my social experience in India.
Or, for longer-stay guests: "Jamie, you will be seeing to the guests. I will continue my regular routine even more strictly than I would if there were no guests. We don't do it this way at 1430 New York Ave, but it is permissible in India, so therefore, this is the way I will conduct myself when we have guests." Nope. I never heard those words. But this was exactly how our guests experienced our recent stint as hosts. My subsequent anxiousness and periods of silence created a strained atmosphere, and I bewildered Navjot with my frustrations with his absences. At the time neither of us really understood my un-Zen-like demeanor. But hey, I like predictability, and these scenarios have not unfolded in any predictable way.
To add on to what felt like a mountain of failure with our recent guests, I still was not able to navigate the Indian way of handling someone's personal upset.
My way: Create a safe haven where I am alone, it is quiet, I make the boundaries, and from there, I can reset myself and put my rational mind in charge of the situation. Then, I feel 'safer' with my senses and my behavior, I venture back out, ready to give the world what I would prefer them to see.
Indian way: Talk to me and problem-solve until I am happy again.
See 'problem-solve' has sinister connotations for me regarding loved ones wanting to 'get to the bottom' of what is bothering me. Nine times out of ten, what the loved ones end up doing is trying to convince me to understand why such and such has to be this way (the way I don't like), and, since they have rationalized the issue for me, I can see it their way, accept it and 'be happy!' HA!
Maybe I can participate in such an exchange, but if I feel that burning need to isolate myself, then my rational mind is not in charge, and so I would not be interested in knowing why something needs to be the way I don't want it. So why force it? Perhaps when Indians become emotional, they find it easier to plug back into the rational mindset in the presence of loved ones. I don't. I have learned to be AWAY from loved ones to re-set. That lesson was essential to my survival as a child...and my transition to an adult. I don't think I can change that approach.
But my withdrawal at best confuses, at worst hurts, the loved ones (particularly the Indian side) around me, perhaps because they believe if I won't have them near to help me to feel better, then I do not love them. I do love them, but I do not like arguments, and I don't like telling people things that will hurt them just because it bothers me. My way of interacting is indeed still a work in progress.
Also, my rational mind may believe that I still think X is a bunch of baloney, but I can't change people, so I just have to regain the perspective that I am playing a role, but I am not the role, so, I will adjust according to my preferences when I can do so. Obviously a discussion with people who believe the opposite will likely result in an argument, and perhaps rifts will be formed with people I'd rather be close to. Nowadays my approach to conflict in the family is: If you can do it delicately, and if it is very important, do it. If not, avoid it. I have engaged in enough arguments and rifts within my own family to last me 1000 lifetimes!
You would think that entertaining guests with tea, and overnight stays comprise only simple sets of easy rules. They are!! But, I naturally do not adhere to strict 'host rules.' Growing up, gatherings were informal, buffet-style affairs. Today, people who come to my house at 1430 tend to feel pretty comfortable, and sometimes I offer water/tea, sometimes we are chatting and I don't think of it, but if they are thirsty, they will ask for water, or they will just help themselves (Amy does this and I love it!) So, will I adapt to a more formal way of hosting while I am in India, and thus be more comfortable with it? We'll see!
This rant about my cultural and personal struggles strayed a tad from the original "Loss of Familiar Cues." But maybe not. Weaver says we experience pain and frustration when we do not receive reinforcements from our behavior. I can safely say that my behavior has elicited few reinforcements. Instead, I am offered confused looks, and reprogramming. Hence, perhaps, the anxiety, the silence, and a stronger need for Navjot's presence during these social settings.
My ego needs to see and hear, "Oh my, but isn't she socially astute?" In Navjot n Jamie's culture, I hear that a lot. In Indian culture, I hear crickets; albeit friendly crickets. Well, I would if there weren't so many drivers beeping their horns.
My approaches to adjusting to India was informed by an article penned by Gary Weaver, a professor in the field of intercultural communications, called, "Understanding and Coping with Cross Cultural Adjustment Stress."
Weaver gives three explanations for the occurrence of culture shock:
1) the loss of familiar cues
2) the breakdown of interpersonal communication
3) an identity crisis
I experienced stress more from explanations 1 and 2, with 3 being a distant third which may become more of a factor as I continue adapting to India.
The Loss of Familiar Cues
"Cues," Weaver writes, "are signposts which guide us through our daily activities in an acceptable fashion which is consistent with the total social environment." p.178
"They may be words, gestures, facial expressions, postures, or customs.......they tell us when or how to give gifts or tips, when to be serious or humorous, how to speak to leaders and subordinates, who has status, what to say when we meet people, when and how to shake hands, how to eat......they make us feel comfortable because they seem so automatic and natural." p. 178
The social cues in India are different from the cues in Michigan, and I had some experience with this through the time spent with Navjot's family, before I even came to India. One 'crossed cue' which was too uncomfortable for me to alter in the States was my habit of saying a gracious thank-you to either Mom or Grandma after eating one of their fantastic meals. To me, their cooking is an investment of their time which they could use to do other things. For them, spending two to four hours dong cooking and cooking related work is what they do. It is the expected, (unpaid), work of a wife and mother, but even more than that, their mastery and consistency in this work seems to be a strong part of their identity as good wives and mothers in a family. Therefore, hearing my thank-you actually gives them a little discomfort, because to hear it may suggest (to others) that they are motivated by recognition, instead of the purer value of being a very good wife, mother, and member of the Indian family/extended family. After some explanations by me, and just to be nice, Mom says, "Your welcome," instead of giving a slightly reproachful look couched within a bewildered expression, sharply exclaiming: "Why thank-you? You're family!"
Other familiar social exchanges, such as: "Hey, how're ya doin?" and "Good afternoon" and "Good morning" which are some of my favorite greetings, are absent in India (except as a joke from Vinay, "Yo, Whatssssssssup, Grandma....Whatsssssssup?" (which I quietly find hilarious). Here, religious affiliation dictates the greeting you give to adults. For Hindus, you put your hands together and say, "Namaste," or "Namaskaar," depending on the dialect or region....you can kick it up a notch with adding a further respectful designation, "ji"....which becomes: "Namaste-ji" and "Namaskaarji". For Sikhs, the greeting is "Susrikall...or Susrikallji" I have adapted the 'ji' version because as a foreigner who does not have, and never will attain, all the social cues, I need to pursue maximum amounts of social points whenever possible.
Being non-religious (a secular humanist) at best I feel uncomfortable, at worst, I resent, pandering to religious sentiment to begin my interactions with people here.
"Cues also serve as reinforces of behavior because they signal if things are being done appropriately."-p 179.
Many articles in this collection on Intercultural Relations reiterate that American, Swiss, and German cultures have a low-context, heterogeneous nature, meaning we want explicit rules of behavior so our interactions have a high amount of predictability. Non-western cultures, like India, have a high-context, homogeneous orientation, meaning the rules of conduct are learned implicitly, any request for specific guides are met with vague replies, since the info was never directly taught to anyone (the rules were inferred).
In Michigan, when I invited Navjot's sister to my school to do henna tattoos, I tried to prepare her for the experience: the typical behavior of the children and why, the typical behavior of the teachers in the classroom and in the lunchroom, and why. Didi is intelligent, personable, and outgoing, who could put herself at ease anyway, but I like to think that the cultural preparation helped Didi to quickly make herself 'at home' those days in our little community.
In India, Navjot, Mom, and Didi, they try, they really do try to prep me for the unknown. But there are some things that are so automatic, that it doesn't 'pop up' in their consciousness that I won't know how to act in a certain way until a few seconds before the opportunity comes for me to act. These minefields within India's cultural landscape have become rather treacherous for me at an unlikely time: when we entertain Punjab/Indian company in our apartment.
Before guests arrive, Navjot doesn't say, "Jamie, it is better if we behave like Indians even if we don't usually do it. This means only you will prepare anything that will be served, you will serve the items in this particular order: water/juices/sodas, then teas with snacks. 15 min after you offer the water set, offer tea, if they say no, offer 10 min later and make it regardless. Bring the tea, and set the tray on the table. If they don't reach for it, set a cup in front of the eldest person. Continue setting cups until everyone has a cup in front of them. Then provide a plate of cookies/snacks. Again, circulate this plate to each person. Repeat the cookie tray act at least once more. When the last person finishes, collect the cups and wash them. Although I would usually help with dishes at home, when company is here, you will do all of this kitchen work, because that is how Indians do it."
You may think, "Whoa, she says they have a cook! The cook does the dishes! Why is she whining about doing tea dishes? Geez! Talk about high maintenance! Poor Nav. He probably has to hear a lot of nagging."
Maybe Navjot thought the above too.
My best explanation is that the event above demonstrates a time when Nav 'shifts' from our own 'Jamie-Nav' culture, to "Indian" culture. I feel 'demoted' in some odd sense, like my power standing in the household went from co-CEO to a servant, or a child. The experiences of these feelings disturb me, because I do not mind making people comfortable in our home. Perhaps the difference lies in the intensity of the sentiments. I 'do not mind' making people comfortable. Indians take the comfort of their guests very seriously. My intensity does not match theirs, therefore, when placed in the role of providing, 'serious comfort', I feel out of my element, yet, later I will endure little aftershocks of guilt, since I so often enjoy the hospitality bestowed upon me by Indians, yet I inherently lack their zeal to master their moves myself and return the favor. It has the same smell as a statement I made, to my own surprise, to my sister-in-law, Michelle, on Christmas Day: "I think I like receiving more than giving (presents)."
I have felt strangely while performing these duties each time. Isolation and anxiety pervades the kitchen, or, if Nav is absent from the home at this time, the entire house. Perhaps this feeling of isolation comes from experiencing a role that is mutually exclusive...a role shared by no-one else. Only I tend the kitchen and serving. Or I could be feeling the rigidity of the role.
Yep, having a job myself is looking pretty good from where I'm standing...rigid roles seem to lose a bit of their grip when a woman has a career too.
Instead, before guests arrive, there were no pre-play strategies. Navjot said, "You'll be fine." But, soon into the gathering, I started receiving instructions, when Navjot noticed that I haven't done items on the implicit guest itinerary at a 'certain' time. I received the instruction after the fact, but I responded, internally, as if I were directly taught the material, but I had not performed it correctly, and so I was receiving public chastisement. I became anxious, and watched Navjot and the guests, hoping for a clue that will help me avoid another inadvertent chastising. If I were to explicitly ask questions about best procedures, then the gathering could become a garish mass of confusions: some wanting to help me with these basics, others preferring that I don't take the trouble. The latter see themselves as 'hosts of India' and I am a guest...even though we are all in my apartment. Plug this formula into several other social scenarios: visiting a gurudwara, visiting Guruji's family, visiting Navjot's family, and you have my social experience in India.
Or, for longer-stay guests: "Jamie, you will be seeing to the guests. I will continue my regular routine even more strictly than I would if there were no guests. We don't do it this way at 1430 New York Ave, but it is permissible in India, so therefore, this is the way I will conduct myself when we have guests." Nope. I never heard those words. But this was exactly how our guests experienced our recent stint as hosts. My subsequent anxiousness and periods of silence created a strained atmosphere, and I bewildered Navjot with my frustrations with his absences. At the time neither of us really understood my un-Zen-like demeanor. But hey, I like predictability, and these scenarios have not unfolded in any predictable way.
To add on to what felt like a mountain of failure with our recent guests, I still was not able to navigate the Indian way of handling someone's personal upset.
My way: Create a safe haven where I am alone, it is quiet, I make the boundaries, and from there, I can reset myself and put my rational mind in charge of the situation. Then, I feel 'safer' with my senses and my behavior, I venture back out, ready to give the world what I would prefer them to see.
Indian way: Talk to me and problem-solve until I am happy again.
See 'problem-solve' has sinister connotations for me regarding loved ones wanting to 'get to the bottom' of what is bothering me. Nine times out of ten, what the loved ones end up doing is trying to convince me to understand why such and such has to be this way (the way I don't like), and, since they have rationalized the issue for me, I can see it their way, accept it and 'be happy!' HA!
Maybe I can participate in such an exchange, but if I feel that burning need to isolate myself, then my rational mind is not in charge, and so I would not be interested in knowing why something needs to be the way I don't want it. So why force it? Perhaps when Indians become emotional, they find it easier to plug back into the rational mindset in the presence of loved ones. I don't. I have learned to be AWAY from loved ones to re-set. That lesson was essential to my survival as a child...and my transition to an adult. I don't think I can change that approach.
But my withdrawal at best confuses, at worst hurts, the loved ones (particularly the Indian side) around me, perhaps because they believe if I won't have them near to help me to feel better, then I do not love them. I do love them, but I do not like arguments, and I don't like telling people things that will hurt them just because it bothers me. My way of interacting is indeed still a work in progress.
Also, my rational mind may believe that I still think X is a bunch of baloney, but I can't change people, so I just have to regain the perspective that I am playing a role, but I am not the role, so, I will adjust according to my preferences when I can do so. Obviously a discussion with people who believe the opposite will likely result in an argument, and perhaps rifts will be formed with people I'd rather be close to. Nowadays my approach to conflict in the family is: If you can do it delicately, and if it is very important, do it. If not, avoid it. I have engaged in enough arguments and rifts within my own family to last me 1000 lifetimes!
You would think that entertaining guests with tea, and overnight stays comprise only simple sets of easy rules. They are!! But, I naturally do not adhere to strict 'host rules.' Growing up, gatherings were informal, buffet-style affairs. Today, people who come to my house at 1430 tend to feel pretty comfortable, and sometimes I offer water/tea, sometimes we are chatting and I don't think of it, but if they are thirsty, they will ask for water, or they will just help themselves (Amy does this and I love it!) So, will I adapt to a more formal way of hosting while I am in India, and thus be more comfortable with it? We'll see!
This rant about my cultural and personal struggles strayed a tad from the original "Loss of Familiar Cues." But maybe not. Weaver says we experience pain and frustration when we do not receive reinforcements from our behavior. I can safely say that my behavior has elicited few reinforcements. Instead, I am offered confused looks, and reprogramming. Hence, perhaps, the anxiety, the silence, and a stronger need for Navjot's presence during these social settings.
My ego needs to see and hear, "Oh my, but isn't she socially astute?" In Navjot n Jamie's culture, I hear that a lot. In Indian culture, I hear crickets; albeit friendly crickets. Well, I would if there weren't so many drivers beeping their horns.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Thoughts on the Punjabi language
I have been, in a puttering manner, learning to speak, read, and understand Punjabi, and, to a lesser degree, Hindi. Currently I can read punjabi in a decoding way, perhaps as a struggling 1st or 2nd grader would read. I am still learning hindi letters, which seem to have more twists and funny loops.
Anyways, there are many businesses which offer to teach English here, but no one offers classes in Punjabi. However, no native speakers I know has the pedigogical know-how or the patience to build my skills. I have one teacher who promises that I can visit her school, where I planned to explore the option of attending their punjabi classes, but I have been put off twice since her principal's approval. I have some sympathy for them, because the few times I walked by a nearby school as the students were leaving, I received gawking, giggles, stares, and 'hellos.' A visit from me may put a strain on the 'classroom management' aspect of the school day. I will try Monday to just walk in to a few nearby schools, and see if I have any luck..
So far, my materials have been an Activity Book, and Navjot, who has been essential in providing a broken record for Punjabi sounds, letters and words, chunked together gradually.
In the past, I have made some general statement like: There are 5 ways to sound t in Punjabi! Therefore it is hard for me to learn! This is true, but here I will list the different ways. In the punjabi alphabet these letters are parsed out into two sounds, but when you sound it, it is the combination of the two sounds, heard together.
Sorry, I don't know how to put punjabi symbols here.
Ts: tainka, t(h)at(h)ta (hard t sound), tudha, tata (this t is the end of Navjot's name, a 'soft t') thatha (lispy), and thudha (lispy form of tudha).
Ds: dhadha, dudha, (hard and soft, different tongue placements)
CH: chicha, chhuchha (strong ch sound, as in much), and chaja
Ks: kaka, khakha (hard k), khuga
Ps: papa and puba
S, H, N, F. G, L, B, Y and M sounds are the same as english, they serve as lifeboats. E, A, and O are quite similar but their sounds are fixed, they do not vary the way they do in English, so sometimes I find myself 'modifying' unnecessarily.
And if that weren't enough, the language has modifiers which allow even more vowel and nasal variety to nuance and color the language. The vowel combinations sound more familiar than the nasal sounds: ung and ng.
One of the most challenging sounds for me is the last 'letter' of the alphabet, 'erdhara'. I have to flip my tongue forward from the roof of my mouth, which I can do, but I have been practicing making that sound within a word, like the word for horse, kgoherda (hahahahaha, I know Indians would not translate the word to these letters).
Practicing speaking sentences in gradually larger chunks with Nav helps me to understand each word as it occurs in 'regular speech time' I have also been writing sentences to help me learn the different ways to say 'you'...one for elders, one for younger people, one that relates directly to you, such as, "you are nice' and one that is possessive, like, 'your hair.' Verbs also change according to the male and female designation of the object, which I've tackled by writing sentences. However, I find my mind is not ready to commit these sentences to speaking memory, so, in the most useful way, my sentences are mostly unavailable. Fortunately, I brought the notebook to the old neighborhood I lived in briefly in 2004, and I read questions to right out my notebook tothe people who wanted to chat with me. They have been so kind, and so helpful to me, only they make my written practice more meaningful.
The construction of the spoken Punjabi language also does not translate well. Here are a set of directions from my kid-level activity book, directly translated to English in order:
Every one line in one fruit and one animal of name hidden is. Find.
I already know translating everything to English is NOT learning the language, but this translation makes it very clear that along with learning how the male/female/class and age distinctions are built into even the simplest aspects of the language, I have to learn these cultural codes within a different language construct.
My brain still needs to perceive the activity directions above as:
One fruit name and one animal name is hidden in every line. Find the names.
Navjot and I stumbled onto a little game which is helping me to become more familiar with the language construct. We were playing around a little with Punjabi during lunch a few days ago, and Navjot started asking me to move items around on the table. Very simple directions, such as: Put the spoon on the plate. Put the glass on the plate. Put the cucumber on my plate. Put the spoon in the glass. Another exercise: I had to move either my right arm or my left arm above, below, front, behind. Or he moved, and I had to name the direction in Punjabi. This kinesthetic learning is much more fun for me, so I am hoping to create similar language activities. Again, since I know nearly all of the words already in these very simple directions, the purpose here is that I have to comprehend the ORDER in which the information is presented, then act, not speak! The sentences are short enough that I don't reach out for English or for translation help. I have to wait for the verb! I have to keep track of all the things that are involved in the action, and their relationships, until I learn the action....at the end.
All right, that's all from here today. I am going to turn on the AC and go to sleep.
Anyways, there are many businesses which offer to teach English here, but no one offers classes in Punjabi. However, no native speakers I know has the pedigogical know-how or the patience to build my skills. I have one teacher who promises that I can visit her school, where I planned to explore the option of attending their punjabi classes, but I have been put off twice since her principal's approval. I have some sympathy for them, because the few times I walked by a nearby school as the students were leaving, I received gawking, giggles, stares, and 'hellos.' A visit from me may put a strain on the 'classroom management' aspect of the school day. I will try Monday to just walk in to a few nearby schools, and see if I have any luck..
So far, my materials have been an Activity Book, and Navjot, who has been essential in providing a broken record for Punjabi sounds, letters and words, chunked together gradually.
In the past, I have made some general statement like: There are 5 ways to sound t in Punjabi! Therefore it is hard for me to learn! This is true, but here I will list the different ways. In the punjabi alphabet these letters are parsed out into two sounds, but when you sound it, it is the combination of the two sounds, heard together.
Sorry, I don't know how to put punjabi symbols here.
Ts: tainka, t(h)at(h)ta (hard t sound), tudha, tata (this t is the end of Navjot's name, a 'soft t') thatha (lispy), and thudha (lispy form of tudha).
Ds: dhadha, dudha, (hard and soft, different tongue placements)
CH: chicha, chhuchha (strong ch sound, as in much), and chaja
Ks: kaka, khakha (hard k), khuga
Ps: papa and puba
S, H, N, F. G, L, B, Y and M sounds are the same as english, they serve as lifeboats. E, A, and O are quite similar but their sounds are fixed, they do not vary the way they do in English, so sometimes I find myself 'modifying' unnecessarily.
And if that weren't enough, the language has modifiers which allow even more vowel and nasal variety to nuance and color the language. The vowel combinations sound more familiar than the nasal sounds: ung and ng.
One of the most challenging sounds for me is the last 'letter' of the alphabet, 'erdhara'. I have to flip my tongue forward from the roof of my mouth, which I can do, but I have been practicing making that sound within a word, like the word for horse, kgoherda (hahahahaha, I know Indians would not translate the word to these letters).
Practicing speaking sentences in gradually larger chunks with Nav helps me to understand each word as it occurs in 'regular speech time' I have also been writing sentences to help me learn the different ways to say 'you'...one for elders, one for younger people, one that relates directly to you, such as, "you are nice' and one that is possessive, like, 'your hair.' Verbs also change according to the male and female designation of the object, which I've tackled by writing sentences. However, I find my mind is not ready to commit these sentences to speaking memory, so, in the most useful way, my sentences are mostly unavailable. Fortunately, I brought the notebook to the old neighborhood I lived in briefly in 2004, and I read questions to right out my notebook tothe people who wanted to chat with me. They have been so kind, and so helpful to me, only they make my written practice more meaningful.
The construction of the spoken Punjabi language also does not translate well. Here are a set of directions from my kid-level activity book, directly translated to English in order:
Every one line in one fruit and one animal of name hidden is. Find.
I already know translating everything to English is NOT learning the language, but this translation makes it very clear that along with learning how the male/female/class and age distinctions are built into even the simplest aspects of the language, I have to learn these cultural codes within a different language construct.
My brain still needs to perceive the activity directions above as:
One fruit name and one animal name is hidden in every line. Find the names.
Navjot and I stumbled onto a little game which is helping me to become more familiar with the language construct. We were playing around a little with Punjabi during lunch a few days ago, and Navjot started asking me to move items around on the table. Very simple directions, such as: Put the spoon on the plate. Put the glass on the plate. Put the cucumber on my plate. Put the spoon in the glass. Another exercise: I had to move either my right arm or my left arm above, below, front, behind. Or he moved, and I had to name the direction in Punjabi. This kinesthetic learning is much more fun for me, so I am hoping to create similar language activities. Again, since I know nearly all of the words already in these very simple directions, the purpose here is that I have to comprehend the ORDER in which the information is presented, then act, not speak! The sentences are short enough that I don't reach out for English or for translation help. I have to wait for the verb! I have to keep track of all the things that are involved in the action, and their relationships, until I learn the action....at the end.
All right, that's all from here today. I am going to turn on the AC and go to sleep.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Finally...Adjusting to India
The day we arrived home from our trip, Navjot and I both fell ill....me with the Delhi-belly, which still allowed me to eat, but I had a fever and endured quite a bit of lower abdominal pain for well over a week. Navjot had a nasty cold, with a short fever. I also got the cold, so I was still sick when I joined the gym two weeks later, but I was determined to find a place with equipment I could use to help me heal my runners knee.
I had been reading articles of out a collection on the subject of intercultural communications, and this collection had a few informative pieces on culture shock. One article described about 10 'symptoms' of culture shock, and to my surprise, I had every one of them. One of them was excessive cleanliness.....and I did a lot of cleaning during my first week in Jalandhar City, and I still dust more consistently here than I have ever done at 1430! During my first month here, Navjot and I actually had an ARGUMENT about my excessive interest in cleaning the rooftop......this would never happen in USA. Never.
The article suggested the obvious: learn the language and make friends. I took up the language workbooks again, and allowed anyone who was interested (Navjot, and his guru's daughters) to help me pronounce words and speak sentences. I visited my landlady more, and allowed her to help me navigate Indian shopping. She inspired me to design my own cotton shirts for the summer...because her tailor can make my designs if I provide the cloth and any decorative accessories. In order to do this, I had to try to communicate what I want to the people in the shops the best I can with my language limitations.
The first day, I just went out in the afternoon, by myself, to see if I could deal with the busy streets and the staring people. I wanted to just walk down a new street to see something new. That's where I found an affordable, good gym. I was able to, on my own, find the price of joining for three months, and make them understand that I would return the next day. True, the lady who helped me could speak English fairly well, (which does not mean we will understand each other--India English is not American English at all)..but this experience felt like such a victory for me. It spurred me to visit the chemist's shop to get throat lozenges for the nasty cold that was settling in. I knew some words for this exchange, but 'throat' wasn't one of them, so some gestures and guessing were necessary, but I left with not only lozenges, but with some other symptom relievers (which worked great!!!!...it ended up being the easiest cold I ever had).
Since that day, I have been going out almost every day to the gym...this has added routine to my life, and I 'deal' with India every day: communicating at stores, avoiding or ignoring beggars, securing a rickshaw for a reasonable price, and being able to direct him, and practicing (Navjot taught me) the self-absorbed look I have to have on my face when I am out (or staring men will think I am interested in them). I have been taking on most of the grocery shopping, and I have been dealing with some of the tenant/landlord issues, like paying rent and getting receipts.
Overall, I feel better because I can be a little more helpful to Navjot, so he is not completely running the house and performing his studies. Getting back into shape and healing my knee is keeping me physically active, which is important to my well-being. The language is still very difficult. I am making slow progress in both Punjabi and Hindi. I can pronounce letters and words better, but, as my Italian friend Paolo feels about learning German, I feel it would take a century to be able to communicate well in these languages. I keep practicing patience....that things so simple, like making a dental th and a 'roof-of-the-mouth' th sound, will take practice and patience, and time, just time. The individual letter sounds are so simple, but put within the context of a word...it becomes difficult, and then putting that word in a sentence with other unfamiliar sounds... makes the speaking almost impossible until my multiple, ridiculous sounding imitations begin to so slowly coalesce into the correct sounds...
This evening I returned to the neighborhood I lived in briefly in 2004. People there remembered me, particularly for the volleyball. They seemed quite happy to see me, the ladies laughing as they remembered the volleyball games (as told to me by the young sign painter), and the young adults trying their hardest to communicate meaningfully with me, both of us mixing our limited English and Punjabi. Young girls crowded around me and stared at me until I asked them to tell me their names in Punjabi. My visit became a little party of sorts. I really wanted to find those children who loyally visited me every day in 2004, Preinka and Saahil. Saahil did appear this evening, he must be a young teenager now, he looks much older! He still presents a shy, sweet demeanor, but he is no longer an innocent child who would show me all the happiness he had through his eyes when we played volleyball or walked in the park with Preinka. Preinka did not appear, so I will return another time to find her. We exchanged letters during my absence; I would feel terrible if I didn't see her while I was here!!
Well, it is getting late, I hope Michigan State wins the basketball game, for the safety of East Lansing, and for the fact it would make so many of my friends and family joyous!!
I had been reading articles of out a collection on the subject of intercultural communications, and this collection had a few informative pieces on culture shock. One article described about 10 'symptoms' of culture shock, and to my surprise, I had every one of them. One of them was excessive cleanliness.....and I did a lot of cleaning during my first week in Jalandhar City, and I still dust more consistently here than I have ever done at 1430! During my first month here, Navjot and I actually had an ARGUMENT about my excessive interest in cleaning the rooftop......this would never happen in USA. Never.
The article suggested the obvious: learn the language and make friends. I took up the language workbooks again, and allowed anyone who was interested (Navjot, and his guru's daughters) to help me pronounce words and speak sentences. I visited my landlady more, and allowed her to help me navigate Indian shopping. She inspired me to design my own cotton shirts for the summer...because her tailor can make my designs if I provide the cloth and any decorative accessories. In order to do this, I had to try to communicate what I want to the people in the shops the best I can with my language limitations.
The first day, I just went out in the afternoon, by myself, to see if I could deal with the busy streets and the staring people. I wanted to just walk down a new street to see something new. That's where I found an affordable, good gym. I was able to, on my own, find the price of joining for three months, and make them understand that I would return the next day. True, the lady who helped me could speak English fairly well, (which does not mean we will understand each other--India English is not American English at all)..but this experience felt like such a victory for me. It spurred me to visit the chemist's shop to get throat lozenges for the nasty cold that was settling in. I knew some words for this exchange, but 'throat' wasn't one of them, so some gestures and guessing were necessary, but I left with not only lozenges, but with some other symptom relievers (which worked great!!!!...it ended up being the easiest cold I ever had).
Since that day, I have been going out almost every day to the gym...this has added routine to my life, and I 'deal' with India every day: communicating at stores, avoiding or ignoring beggars, securing a rickshaw for a reasonable price, and being able to direct him, and practicing (Navjot taught me) the self-absorbed look I have to have on my face when I am out (or staring men will think I am interested in them). I have been taking on most of the grocery shopping, and I have been dealing with some of the tenant/landlord issues, like paying rent and getting receipts.
Overall, I feel better because I can be a little more helpful to Navjot, so he is not completely running the house and performing his studies. Getting back into shape and healing my knee is keeping me physically active, which is important to my well-being. The language is still very difficult. I am making slow progress in both Punjabi and Hindi. I can pronounce letters and words better, but, as my Italian friend Paolo feels about learning German, I feel it would take a century to be able to communicate well in these languages. I keep practicing patience....that things so simple, like making a dental th and a 'roof-of-the-mouth' th sound, will take practice and patience, and time, just time. The individual letter sounds are so simple, but put within the context of a word...it becomes difficult, and then putting that word in a sentence with other unfamiliar sounds... makes the speaking almost impossible until my multiple, ridiculous sounding imitations begin to so slowly coalesce into the correct sounds...
This evening I returned to the neighborhood I lived in briefly in 2004. People there remembered me, particularly for the volleyball. They seemed quite happy to see me, the ladies laughing as they remembered the volleyball games (as told to me by the young sign painter), and the young adults trying their hardest to communicate meaningfully with me, both of us mixing our limited English and Punjabi. Young girls crowded around me and stared at me until I asked them to tell me their names in Punjabi. My visit became a little party of sorts. I really wanted to find those children who loyally visited me every day in 2004, Preinka and Saahil. Saahil did appear this evening, he must be a young teenager now, he looks much older! He still presents a shy, sweet demeanor, but he is no longer an innocent child who would show me all the happiness he had through his eyes when we played volleyball or walked in the park with Preinka. Preinka did not appear, so I will return another time to find her. We exchanged letters during my absence; I would feel terrible if I didn't see her while I was here!!
Well, it is getting late, I hope Michigan State wins the basketball game, for the safety of East Lansing, and for the fact it would make so many of my friends and family joyous!!
Varanasi
We took a boat ride at 6am, and saw people beginning their morning routine on the Ganges. Ghats, which means steps to the river, lined the banks of the river all along the city. Most of the ghats had a different look, depending on who built them and when. Tourists like ourselves were drifting around in other boats; we were all watching the locals on the shore. I found this disturbing, but I was still dealing with the culture shock, so I accepted my place firmly behind the 'glass.'
The river was nasty. At 6-ish am, some Indians bathed, some still wearing their bright cloth wrapped around their hips, like a large diaper, some men didn't wear anything. All women bathed clothed. Others began their laundry by beating their cloth on flat slabs of stone placed in knee deep water. The stones must have been propped up with something. Further up, loud laughter echoed over the river from a group of people practicing laughter yoga. I took a picture of them as they performed a string of synchronized movements.
The main ghat, the Dasashwamedha Ghat, was filled with people so early in the morning. Bright boats bordered the busy steps. The Priyang ghat, next to Dasashwamedha, was populated with as many large, colorful umbrellas as Dasashwamedha had people. Just before our turning point, we came upon an area with wide piles of white and black ashes which were surrounded by stacks of logs about 3 feet high. Behind these piles sat two or three large, soot stained concrete temples. The ghats themselves were covered in a dark ash. Smoke billowed out from the ash. I didn't see a name, but I believe this was the Manikarnika ghat, (or the ghat NEXT to Manikarnika) where the cremations took place. It is believed that this area has been burning for centuries continuously. This place held my attention. However, the book Michelle, a Fulbrighter friend, gave to me did not hold my attention. In explaining the origins and functions of this cremation ground, the author told about 10 myths and legends all in a row, inserting a phrase here or there about how this place actually functions. Sifting through all the stories does help me to understand how tied up this place is in hindu...mythology. Knowing the myths/stories will probably be the only way I will understand why these people want to bathe in a filthy river, and why they are so convinced they will receive the holy benefits promised in bathing, cremating, and performing rituals (yagnis).
Although I enjoyed the boat ride, the rest of the time I felt exhausted from travel. I didn't even want to venture out to see the temples! Lame! We only had about an hour or two to do so anyway, and I spent that time taking a nap. Navjot was more enterprising: he bought 2 tabla drums, which thankfully, our "Big Red" suitcase made room for them, with some help and pleading from me. I love you Big Red!
I did receive continual amusement from one of our traveling companions, Paul. We were three days early for the big Hindu holiday/festival of colors called Holi. Well, a refreshment enjoyed on and around Holi is a yogurt drink called Bhang Lassi. Bhaang is...marijuana. It is pureed and blended with yogurt and water. On our first day, our friend persistently asked locals where he could get this drink. Finally, he got one, on a rooftop restaurant. His persistence, and the word Bhaang, kept me giggling at just about any time I happened to think of it.
We only had a day and a half here....I think if I were a little less tired and cultured shocked, and had a another day, I would have experienced more of this city.
The river was nasty. At 6-ish am, some Indians bathed, some still wearing their bright cloth wrapped around their hips, like a large diaper, some men didn't wear anything. All women bathed clothed. Others began their laundry by beating their cloth on flat slabs of stone placed in knee deep water. The stones must have been propped up with something. Further up, loud laughter echoed over the river from a group of people practicing laughter yoga. I took a picture of them as they performed a string of synchronized movements.
The main ghat, the Dasashwamedha Ghat, was filled with people so early in the morning. Bright boats bordered the busy steps. The Priyang ghat, next to Dasashwamedha, was populated with as many large, colorful umbrellas as Dasashwamedha had people. Just before our turning point, we came upon an area with wide piles of white and black ashes which were surrounded by stacks of logs about 3 feet high. Behind these piles sat two or three large, soot stained concrete temples. The ghats themselves were covered in a dark ash. Smoke billowed out from the ash. I didn't see a name, but I believe this was the Manikarnika ghat, (or the ghat NEXT to Manikarnika) where the cremations took place. It is believed that this area has been burning for centuries continuously. This place held my attention. However, the book Michelle, a Fulbrighter friend, gave to me did not hold my attention. In explaining the origins and functions of this cremation ground, the author told about 10 myths and legends all in a row, inserting a phrase here or there about how this place actually functions. Sifting through all the stories does help me to understand how tied up this place is in hindu...mythology. Knowing the myths/stories will probably be the only way I will understand why these people want to bathe in a filthy river, and why they are so convinced they will receive the holy benefits promised in bathing, cremating, and performing rituals (yagnis).
Although I enjoyed the boat ride, the rest of the time I felt exhausted from travel. I didn't even want to venture out to see the temples! Lame! We only had about an hour or two to do so anyway, and I spent that time taking a nap. Navjot was more enterprising: he bought 2 tabla drums, which thankfully, our "Big Red" suitcase made room for them, with some help and pleading from me. I love you Big Red!
I did receive continual amusement from one of our traveling companions, Paul. We were three days early for the big Hindu holiday/festival of colors called Holi. Well, a refreshment enjoyed on and around Holi is a yogurt drink called Bhang Lassi. Bhaang is...marijuana. It is pureed and blended with yogurt and water. On our first day, our friend persistently asked locals where he could get this drink. Finally, he got one, on a rooftop restaurant. His persistence, and the word Bhaang, kept me giggling at just about any time I happened to think of it.
We only had a day and a half here....I think if I were a little less tired and cultured shocked, and had a another day, I would have experienced more of this city.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Doon Express: Overnight Train
"Yeah, I looked up the Doon Express on the internet, and the first sites said, "Horror stories on the Doon Express." I didn't want to scare anyone, so I didn't say anything."
He didn't read anything, either; he had closed the browser window, choosing the bliss of ignorance. In the autorickshaw, heading to our hotel in Varanasi, Navjot looked and sounded a little remorseful, unusual of his stoic demeanor. Here's the story of why.
Navjot and I sat in the 3rd AC sleeper, meaning our train car had AC and fans, and the beds are stacked 3 high in the compartments, and 2 high in the aisle. My slightly paranoid disposition led me to secure the highest bunk almost as soon as the train began moving. I returned to the open ground seat and had dinner; a vegetarian dinner plate prepared and sealed at the train station restaurant, which looked impressively clean, and the food appeared well-prepared. I did notice a few bugs crawling around our seats and the walls; Navjot said they were cockroaches, but they looked a little darker than the roaches I've seen in many houses and apartments here (but, thankfully, not at 602a Model Town!)
We went to our bunks around 10 pm. The train provides 1 sheet, 1 woolen blanket, and 1 pillow. Since I've noticed Indians sometimes staring at my feet on previous train rides, I took care to make sure that my toes (which faced the aisle) were completely covered by the blanket. I popped a sleeping aid, and slept fairly well, allowing for the occasional rolling bumps.
Yelling voices disturbed my sleep early the next morning. People spoke in Hindi, so I understood...nothing, especially when listening with drowsy ears. The train seemed still for longer periods than I'd expect from routine stops. At 6am, I was content to continue snoozing, and allowed these puzzles to remain unsolved.
Until I heard the yelling people dashing up and down our aisles.
Whooshing sounds, then cries and whimpers; I even heard a couple of screams.
These people are afraid, I thought. I inched myself back slowly against the back wall, and curled my legs.
All sleepiness disappeared. Are people trying to rob the train? Do these people have GUNS??
"Hide yourself. Don't move. Do not show yourself. Do not say anything." Navjot's quiet voice sounded steady and grave near my ear.
The aisle seemed to experience a brief calm.
"What is happening?" I whispered.
Navjot listened to the quiet car and relaxed slightly. "Students are rioting. They keep stopping the train, coming on board and harassing people. They do not want to take their 10th standard exams." (very important exams in India--these tests help determine their career path).
"Why would they do this?"
"I don't know, Bihar sucks (the state we were traveling though). They are just teenagers, but there are many of them, and these people won't stand up to them. If I had one other person, like Sonu (his cousin) here, we could shut off this car. But for now I've been guarding the compartment. Keep yourself hidden. Do not attract their attention."
My cubby near the ceiling made this an easy task. I remained practically invisible: something lumpy covered with a gray wool blanket. After two hours, we were moving without further delays.
Our traveling friends encountered a few more problems. One of them got smacked for his efforts to shut the kids up. The other was just harassed, the students pulled at her compartment curtains, and she had already been disturbed the previous evening, when she saw a mouse casually crouched next to her on the seat, as if they were buddies...
Somehow, upon our arrival in Varanasi, the sensationalist news crew found our traveling friends and Navjot. One interviewed Navjot as we hauled our heavy luggage down the stairs onto the train platform. There, the reporter included our traveling friends. I tried to avoid the camera lens, and noticed something creeping towards us from behind the stairs. A puddle of water. Was this sewage??
I began moving our luggage, our friends' luggage out of the way as best I could, hoping this interview would end quickly. The water reached our toes. At this point the group noticed the water, and we moved away.
The two ladies, Cailin and I, still ended up in front of a camera lens for a minute while we waited for the guys to finish talking to the reporter.
Soon we were headed for our hotel. I saw road rage for the first time, when a rickshaw driver got off his bike, walked to a guy sitting on a cart behind him, and started beating him on the back and arms. What a wonderful introduction to a holy city!!
He didn't read anything, either; he had closed the browser window, choosing the bliss of ignorance. In the autorickshaw, heading to our hotel in Varanasi, Navjot looked and sounded a little remorseful, unusual of his stoic demeanor. Here's the story of why.
Navjot and I sat in the 3rd AC sleeper, meaning our train car had AC and fans, and the beds are stacked 3 high in the compartments, and 2 high in the aisle. My slightly paranoid disposition led me to secure the highest bunk almost as soon as the train began moving. I returned to the open ground seat and had dinner; a vegetarian dinner plate prepared and sealed at the train station restaurant, which looked impressively clean, and the food appeared well-prepared. I did notice a few bugs crawling around our seats and the walls; Navjot said they were cockroaches, but they looked a little darker than the roaches I've seen in many houses and apartments here (but, thankfully, not at 602a Model Town!)
We went to our bunks around 10 pm. The train provides 1 sheet, 1 woolen blanket, and 1 pillow. Since I've noticed Indians sometimes staring at my feet on previous train rides, I took care to make sure that my toes (which faced the aisle) were completely covered by the blanket. I popped a sleeping aid, and slept fairly well, allowing for the occasional rolling bumps.
Yelling voices disturbed my sleep early the next morning. People spoke in Hindi, so I understood...nothing, especially when listening with drowsy ears. The train seemed still for longer periods than I'd expect from routine stops. At 6am, I was content to continue snoozing, and allowed these puzzles to remain unsolved.
Until I heard the yelling people dashing up and down our aisles.
Whooshing sounds, then cries and whimpers; I even heard a couple of screams.
These people are afraid, I thought. I inched myself back slowly against the back wall, and curled my legs.
All sleepiness disappeared. Are people trying to rob the train? Do these people have GUNS??
"Hide yourself. Don't move. Do not show yourself. Do not say anything." Navjot's quiet voice sounded steady and grave near my ear.
The aisle seemed to experience a brief calm.
"What is happening?" I whispered.
Navjot listened to the quiet car and relaxed slightly. "Students are rioting. They keep stopping the train, coming on board and harassing people. They do not want to take their 10th standard exams." (very important exams in India--these tests help determine their career path).
"Why would they do this?"
"I don't know, Bihar sucks (the state we were traveling though). They are just teenagers, but there are many of them, and these people won't stand up to them. If I had one other person, like Sonu (his cousin) here, we could shut off this car. But for now I've been guarding the compartment. Keep yourself hidden. Do not attract their attention."
My cubby near the ceiling made this an easy task. I remained practically invisible: something lumpy covered with a gray wool blanket. After two hours, we were moving without further delays.
Our traveling friends encountered a few more problems. One of them got smacked for his efforts to shut the kids up. The other was just harassed, the students pulled at her compartment curtains, and she had already been disturbed the previous evening, when she saw a mouse casually crouched next to her on the seat, as if they were buddies...
Somehow, upon our arrival in Varanasi, the sensationalist news crew found our traveling friends and Navjot. One interviewed Navjot as we hauled our heavy luggage down the stairs onto the train platform. There, the reporter included our traveling friends. I tried to avoid the camera lens, and noticed something creeping towards us from behind the stairs. A puddle of water. Was this sewage??
I began moving our luggage, our friends' luggage out of the way as best I could, hoping this interview would end quickly. The water reached our toes. At this point the group noticed the water, and we moved away.
The two ladies, Cailin and I, still ended up in front of a camera lens for a minute while we waited for the guys to finish talking to the reporter.
Soon we were headed for our hotel. I saw road rage for the first time, when a rickshaw driver got off his bike, walked to a guy sitting on a cart behind him, and started beating him on the back and arms. What a wonderful introduction to a holy city!!
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