Category Archives: India

India, On the Road

Wagah Border ceremony – Pakistan and India say “good night”

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After grumbling about working on Thanksgiving, I happily got home from school that evening and packed a bag for our weekend excursion to Amritsar. Located about 260 miles northwest of Delhi in the state of Punjab, Amritsar is the spiritual center of the Sikh religion. It’s also just a short drive from Wagah, a village that was split in 1947 with the end of British rule. Independence brought Partition, so the eastern half of Wagah went to India, and the western half to Pakistan.

Wagah is now home to the main road border crossing between the two countries and an unusual ceremony that has closed the border each night since 1959. The Border Security Force of India and the Pakistan Rangers engage in a series of choreographed marching, foot-stomping, high-kicking, head-wobbling, thumb-gesturing bravado before lowering the Pakistani and Indian flags in perfect unison, shaking hands and shutting the gates.

Shortly after checking in to our hotel in Amritsar, we hired a taxi to the border. Our driver dropped us off, pointed us in the right direction and told us to meet him at that same spot after the ceremony. We joined the throng on a road lined with vendors selling snacks and souvenirs. At the security checkpoint, we ladies breezed through and watched Tony slowly ebb forward with the sea of men until he finally emerged for his pat-down by a camouflage-clad guard. We passed through another security area set up for VIP foreign passport holders that spat us out at the “Foreigners Gallery.” Among the VIPs were several other teachers from our school!

Crowds on both sides of the border filled the stands, shouting nationalistic slogans and waving the flags for their respective countries. In India, an image of Gandhi overlooked the pre-ceremony revelry that included energetic dancing to Bollywood tunes and cheers of “Hin-du-stan!” Just a few yards away in Pakistan, the country’s first governor-general, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, watched Muslim spectators divided into gender-specific sections, alternately chanting “Pak-i-stan!” and playing Koranic verses.

We couldn’t see the goings-on in Pakistan very well. However, the Indian activities were perplexing enough to keep us riveted. First, two female guards marched dramatically from the staging area to the gate. Next, several guards lined up at a microphone. One at a time, they took a deep breath and then hollered what sounded like, “Goooaalll!” in an apparent competition to stretch it out the longest. Eventually, they all marched (a bit out of sync) to the gate and back, stomped a bit, led the crowd in more cheering and ultimately opened and closed the Indian gate a few times. I assume the Pakistani guards were putting on their own version of the show until they opened their gate. (Note to other countries considering this type of ceremony: The Pakistani gate slides open, which is much more dramatic than the Indian gates, which swing open from the middle.) When both gates were open and the guards had faced off with some clomping and shaking of their pleated headwear, they took the ropes from the flagpoles and simultaneously lowered the Pakistani and Indian flags. Flags folded and carried away, a guard and a ranger exchanged a quick handshake and a smile before slamming the gates for the night.

According to news reports, the confrontational ceremony was toned down starting last year to reflect the desire for better relations between the two neighbors. The vibe on our side was definitely one of pride and giddiness more than anger, but who knows what tensions rippled below the surface and beyond the gate?

I had hoped to pose with the guards following the ceremony but the surge of Indians with the same plan dissuaded me. Instead, I snapped a few shots of the rapturous crowd and made a quick escape.

Here’s a video of our experience at the Wagah border.

Here’s some old BBC footage featuring Michael Palin on the Pakistan side of the gate. Much nicer production quality than mine!

Ironically, Michael Palin also starred in the Monty Python sketch, “The Ministry of Silly Walks,” which I’ll post here just to amuse myself. (Another teacher pointed out the irony!)

India, On the Road

Golden Temple – urban oasis

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Before leaving New Delhi for our weekend excursion, I had this vision: Our train pulls out of the station, thick air pollution swirling in its wake. We slowly chug-a-chug-chug into the countryside, where the brown haze gradually dissipates and the blue sky bursts into the scene. Green crops sway in the crisp, cool breeze while farmers wave in slow motion.
(Cue the sound of a needle scratching a record.)
Reality check.

Our train DID pull out of the station with thick air pollution swirling in its wake, and that air stuck with us all the way to Amritsar. No blue sky, no green grass, no friendly farmers. Everything was gray and brown and dirty. In Amritsar, we tuktuk’ed to our hotel – HK Clarks Inn, which veiled itself in that all-too-familiar western style designed to fool unsuspecting guests into thinking western-style customer service was on order.

As a traveler, I am often guilty of letting little disappointments condense in a cloud over my head. It’s been a long time since I visited a place like the Golden Temple, which blew that cloud away with a tranquil ethereal breeze.

Checking our shoes at the gate, we walked barefoot for a considerable distance on path covered with a damp woven mat. Before entering the temple, we had to walk through a little pool of water to wash our feet. Although I have serious issues regarding bare moist feet in public places, my OCD went out the window when the temple came into view.

The Golden Temple – Harmandir Sahib – rises up from the Sarovar, a lake considered holy by Sikh pilgrims, who immerse themselves and their children for its auspicious and healing powers. Home to the religion’s holy text, Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the temple is the spiritual center for Sikhs but welcoming to everyone. The chaos, pollution, traffic and frustrations outside the complex evaporated, overcome by smiles and spirituality.

Our group strolled clockwise with the other visitors along the white marble parikrama path, pausing frequently to absorb the serenity and appreciate the importance of this place. A mother sat fully dressed, splashing water over her naked toddler and gleefully pointing him in our direction. People knelt at shrines located along the parikrama in honor of Sikh gurus, saints and soldiers. Families sat huddled together, mumbling from prayer books and staring out at the gleaming temple. Men crouched lakeside, scooping water over their torsos and laughing. For some, it seemed a culmination of their life’s dream.

Nancy cropped her photo in the name of decency.
baby

Photo by Katrina.

Another by Katrina.

Photo by Cristi.
Keeping the knife dry

“Please, miss, one snap!” A gentle touch on the arm, a shy gesture pleading for a photo. We must have paused 20 times to pose with other temple-goers. All across India, people are whipping out their mobile phones to share pics of themselves with the foreigners and … oh yeah … the Golden Temple. Within the temple complex, everyone was deeply respectful, though; we never felt overwhelmed by the attention.

This man didn’t speak English, but he gestured at my camera and then at himself. I took the photo and showed it to him. He nodded, smiled and walked away. Beautiful.

Everyone was required to remove their shoes and cover their heads – even men! Tony bought this handkerchief from a vendor outside the temple.

Our posse: Katrina, Nancy, me, Tony, Cristi and Jan

In line to enter the temple building itself, I was amazed at the peace. Nobody pushed or shouted. Everyone waited expectantly, many carrying packets of sweet halvah to present as an offering. Musical scriptures, recited inside the temple from the sacred book, poured out of speakers to create a spiritual soundtrack.

Katrina entering the temple; this shot is from her camera.

That night, Jan, Cristi and I revisited the temple. We were surprised to see hundreds of people clearly set up to spend the night. Some leaned against the walls; others sprawled out in the open space, covered with blankets too thin to compensate for the cold marble. We nearly stepped on one sleeping pilgrim who picked an unfortunate spot near the donation window. Although I prefer a warm bed, I understood the appeal of dozing in the glow of the beautifully illuminated temple.

Before heading back to the hotel, we popped in to the “langar,” where thousands of people each day gather for a free sanctified vegetarian meal cooked and served by volunteers. This New York Times article has a wonderful description of the temple and its community kitchen.

The guy on the left was passing out plates. I really wanted to eat here, but we ran out of time.

A blurry shot of people eating at the langar.

Back outside the temple, it’s chaos as usual.

India, On the Road

Unwanted Adulation Mars Memorial Visit

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On April 13, 1919, thousands of people gathered in the Jallianwala Bagh, a garden down the street from the Golden Temple in Amritsar, for a religious celebration amidst a buzz of political restlessness. In the weeks preceding this day, tensions had escalated between British imperial authorities and activists for Indian independence. A series of protests and riots rocked Punjab, and rumors circulated that a revolt was planned for later that spring. To quell the uprisings, British governor of Punjab, Sir Michael O’Dwyer, declared martial law, which included a ban on public gatherings. When word of the crowd in Jallianwala Bagh reached Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer, he marched British and Gurkha troops into the garden and ordered them to open fire. His armored cars with mounted machine guns were too wide for the enclosure gate or he would have used those, too, he later admitted. Official figures put the death count at 379 with almost 1,200 injured, but other sources say close to 1,000 people were killed. More than 100 died by leaping into a well to escape gunfire.

The garden now stands as a memorial to the massacre, so we stopped by to check it out. Entering the garden, we could envision people 92 years ago chatting under the trees and lounging by the stone wall, never suspecting the imminent ambush. Just as we were feeling appropriately somber, just as Jan was reading the story of the massacre from a guide book, we experienced a completely different kind of attack.

“On April 13, thousands of people gathered at Jallianwala Bagh in 1919. An hour after the meeting had started at 4:30,” Jan read, slowly raising her head from the book, “they were attacked by a wild mob of women in saris!” I looked around at the encroaching photo-seeking fans. We laughed but honestly couldn’t escape. Lucky for me, Jan created a diversion with her sing-song voice: “Well, hellllooooo. Oh, don’t you just look so beautiful! Well, I don’t know what you’re saying, but you’re absolutely adorable.” And so on. I slipped away and stared in shock at the group engulfing her. We had warned her not to make eye contact! We had tried to teach her the art of kind rejection, but there she was, trapped. I wish I could say that I parted the crowd and staged a daring rescue, but I am ashamed to admit I bolted for safety without a backward glance. Well, I looked back long enough to snap this picture.

I didn’t get far, however. Another group of smiling Indian tourists accosted me, rattling off Hindi louder and louder to help me understand. Finally, an English speaker asked where I was from, and I heard, “No British, American!” For once, being an American was an asset. It was far worse to be British in this emotional place. The group moved in closer. One lady embraced me, stroking my face and resting her head on my shoulder. She and her entire extended family insisted on cuddling and posing for phone photos, which took ages and left me a bit traumatized.

Finally, I was released to walk about the garden. But freedom was short-lived. Every time, I lifted my eyes from the ground, somebody was desperately bobbing around trying to catch my glance. Unlike the gentle snapshot requests at the Golden Temple, the memorial paparazzi were brutal. Although amusing, the attention really did keep us from fully experiencing the memorial and its displays. Next time, we’ll have to wear disguises.

Notice the girl taking a picture of me taking a picture of the memorial. ALL of my photos at the memorial have that common feature.

Can’t you hear their moms? “Go stand by the tall white man!”

These school kids were dying to bust out of that line and chat with us, but a nun with a stern face kept them in check.

India, On the Road

Amritsar by Rickshaw

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After being mauled at the massacre memorial, we needed time to decompress. How do Brad and Angelina handle it? Exiting the Jallianwala Bagh, we hired a few bicycle rickshaw drivers to take us to lunch. I was looking forward to dining at a restaurant recommended by the brother of my colleague, Shafali. He visits Amritsar frequently and raves about this place. The rickshaw drivers merged into the busy traffic, and off we went.

After darting through alleys, zipping around corners, and pedaling up and down a highway overpass (well, technically, we got off and walked for that part), the rickshaws pulled up to our destination. Closed.

“We can take you to Crystal Restaurant,” said our driver.
“Sure,” said Tony. “Why not?”
“Why not? Why NOT? Well, maybe because he is a RICKSHAW DRIVER,” I said to Tony as we hit the road again. “Are we really taking restaurant recommendations from a rickshaw driver?”
“I bet he’s taking us to his favorite place,” said Tony, who obviously hadn’t thought it through.
“Yeah, I bet the Crystal Restaurant is a popular hangout for the rickshaw crowd,” I muttered. Still, it was an adventure. For the second time, we hiked up the hill to the highway overpass and reboarded the rickshaw for another wild ride.

The Crystal Restaurant turned out to be a typical packaged-tour eatery with a thick menu catering to the culinary preferences of various nationalities. Katrina snapped this shot.

After lunch, we asked our drivers to take us back up and over the highway to the Durgiana Mandir, a Hindu temple that was lovely but a bit anti-climactic compared to the Golden Temple.

You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell! (Nancy’s photo)
bell

Returning to our rickshaws, we decided to head back to the hotel. That involved another trek up and over the highway, but at the end of our journey, we all agreed this impromptu tour was a highlight of our Amritsar visit.

Katrina was terrified, but Nancy kept her calm.

Jan and Cristi.

Tony and me (from Jan).

A beggar lady outside Crystal Restaurant.

Walking up the hill to the overpass for the jillionth time.

The rickshaw drivers pushed their vehicles up to the top.

As you may recall from our first Indian rickshaw ride, it is not easy to get good photos! Here are a few I like.

India, On the Road

Kesar Da Dhaba

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I came to Amritsar with only one restaurant recommendation: Kesar Da Dhaba. It came from the brother of my colleague, Shafali. When I searched for it online, I discovered it was tripadvisor‘s number one restaurant in town! I didn’t get a good look at the place when the rickshaw brought us here for lunch (only to find it was closed), but I knew not to get my expectations too high.

Our taxi parked a short distance away, and the driver got out to help us find the restaurant. We meandered through some alleys and eventually found it. At around 6:30 p.m., we were the only ones there. In most countries, that would be a red flag, but Indians eat dinner well after our bedtime.

The decor could be described as “prison minimalist” with a Coke poster to liven up the joint. We sat in concrete booths with gray marble tables and cluelessly perused the menu. The waiter appeared and cheerfully addressed us in Hindi. We ordered water, which he seemed to understand.

Then we experienced a classic ESL moment: Oftentimes, teachers present English learners with a choice, “Do you want to use crayons or colored pencils?” and the kids respond, “Yes.” You can’t help but giggle. Unless you’re the one saying “yes.” So the waiter said, “Blah blah blah” with one hand extended, followed by “blah blah blah” with his other hand extended. And we said, “Yes!” Then he shook his head (oh boy, been there, done that) and repeated the “blah blah blahs” with the hand gestures, to which we repeated, “Yes!” Finally, he laughed, wandered away and returned with two bottles of water – one cold and one at room temperature. Oh, right!

The confusion continued. We had no idea what to order. So I pointed to the menu, made a thumbs-up gesture (please don’t let that be offensive in India), rubbed my tummy and smacked my lips, pointed at the waiter and then shrugged my shoulders, which is obviously the international message: “What’s good here?” Somehow it all worked out. Our meal – parantha thali (which kind of translates to “delicious flat bread with a few small servings of other things on a round tray”) – featured bowls of dal (fried lentils), channa masala (spicy/sweet chickpeas), raita (thick yogurt with cucumber) and the most delicious butter nan bread I’ve ever tasted.

We asked for more bread, and a young boy delivered it, picking up each newly fried piece and crunching it in his bare hands.

Dessert was an almond custard called firni. Pretty and scrumptious!

Cristi and I were members of the Clean Plate Club!

There’s very little on this planet that I won’t eat, and I don’t have a lot of hang-ups when it comes to hygiene or western standards at restaurants. That said, I am SO glad we visited the kitchen AFTER dinner. It was open to the street, and the cooks sat cross-legged on the counter.
Katrina took this one.

Here are a couple shots from our walk back to the taxi.

Daily Life, India

Times of India – all the news that’s fit to … confuse

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For the last 10 years, Tony and I have lived abroad in a disconcerting cloud of ignorance. Lacking fluency in our host country’s language, we miss out on key news items, social discourse on current events, celebrity gossip, and other societal tidbits that make people feel “at home.” I invested countless hours in learning Turkish and Mandarin – and to a lesser degree, Lao – but my local news was still limited to foreigner-oriented magazines and censored English-language newspapers. Here in India, I eagerly subscribed to the local paper, The Times of India, which has the largest circulation of all English-language newspapers in the world. I felt my time as a clueless expat had come to an end … until I started reading.

Vague headlines, unexplained acronyms, “English” words that make no sense to me, Hindi words tossed in for flavor, breaking news without any back story, and assumed familiarity with Indian politicians and Bollywood stars – it all adds up to utter confusion. Here are a few examples.

This teaser was on the front page of last Sunday’s paper:
Creamy layer bar set to be raised?
The National Commission for Backward Classes has proposed raising the bar for creamy layer – from Rs 4.5 lakh income a year to Rs 12 lakh – effectively extending reservation benefits to many more members.
(What is a backward class? What is a creamy layer? What is a lakh? What are reservation benefits? The full story on page 8 only raised more questions. I had to spend a significant amount of time on Wikipedia just to understand that ONE sentence! Spoiler alert: The “creamy layer” has nothing to do with Oreos.)

Another Sunday edition gem:
Swamy to file FIR on black money
Janata Party president Subramanian Swamy on Saturday said he will soon register an FIR with CBI on the issue of black money.
(The article never defines FIR, CBI or black money. At least they explained that Swamy is the president of the Janata Party, which is …?)

This showed up in yesterday’s paper:
BJP councillors in rath yatra mode, MCD business hit
With BJP leader LK Advani’s rath yatra now just a day away from the Capital, the party’s municipal councillors are caught up in preparations for his reception at Ramlila Maidan on Sunday, leaving the MCD’s affairs in disarray, sources say.
(Rather than explaining the acronyms, the story actually throws out a couple more – RP and BSP. What’s “rath yatra” and is it anything like the “wrath of Khan”? I suppose I’ll never know.)

So, it’s not just my head cold or the smog that’s creating such a haze. Upon further reflection, maybe I should abandon efforts to stay informed. Maybe it’s not so important that I “fit in.” Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

Daily Life, India

Munnerlyns in Delhi – Golden!

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I sang it in Girl Scouts, and it still rings true:
“Make new friends, but keep the old.
One is silver, the other is gold.”

Some of our favorite people from the Shanghai days swept through New Delhi last week, and I am still feeling the glow. Tim, Jen and Sydney Munnerlyn were our downstairs neighbors at Green Court in Shanghai. They left China the year before we did and now live in Abu Dhabi. Sydney, a wee 4-year-old when we met her, is now a sensitive, beautiful, fifth-grade blogger, horsewoman, actress, swimmer, traveler, storyteller. How special to be part of her life experience!

The Gandhi Smriti affected me so deeply that I wanted to share it with the Munnos.

Saturday evening, our school held its big Fall Fiesta, a Halloween party/fund-raiser for high school service clubs. Tony volunteered for the dunk tank, but got reassigned to the pie-in-the-face booth. Turns out Sydney has a good arm.
tony and syd

I had planned Sunday breakfast with a group of former Shanghai American School teachers who now work here at AES, but only Cheryl Perkins was able to make it.

Syd bought a leather-bound journal and a pack of jewel-encrusted pens at Dilli Haat, a local handicrafts market. She couldn’t wait to start writing.
syd writes

Zangoora, which bills itself as the “only Bollywood stage musical,” took place at a Vegas-y venue called Kingdom of Dreams. It featured horrifically loud music and hilariously bad English dubbing (piped into our headsets), but also outrageous special effects and brilliant dancing. A definite Delhi “don’t miss”!
kingdom of dreams

Still new to India, Tony and I were not the best tour guides. We hauled them to a few places in town, dragged them to school and then sent them off to Rajasthan for a few days. The best part of their visit for me, though, was the seamless simple process of reconnecting.

(The photos at the Fall Fiesta, Dilli Haat and Zangoora are stolen from Jen’s Facebook page.)

Daily Life, India

Old Delhi by Rickshaw

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When we lived in Laos, I often cycled to to the countryside for a genuine slice of life. Saturday morning Tony and I decided to seek out a slice of life in Old Delhi, but we left the pedaling up to our new buddy Iqbal.

Our apartment is in a relatively quiet suburb of NEW Delhi, which is quite distinct from OLD Delhi. I am generally an adventurous traveler, but I have to admit the trailer for “Slumdog Millionaire” (yes, I’m the only person on the planet who hasn’t seen the whole film) had me feeling squeamish. Plus, my friend Sandra ventured into the bowels of Old Delhi last week and returned a bit traumatized by the smells. If the street kids banging on my taxi windows in NEW Delhi make me uncomfortable, imagine the power wielded by the throngs of beggars in OLD Delhi. Thus, we’ve lived in this city for three months, and we hadn’t ventured far from home … till Saturday, when we took the metro into the city.

Sidebar: This was also my first time on the Delhi Metro! Easy, clean, cheap … but unfortunately, no stops close to our house. Still, I would rather take a short taxi ride to the metro stop and stand in an air-conditioned metro car for 40 minutes than suck fumes in a sweltering taxi boxed in by stagnate traffic.

We took the metro to Chandni Chowk, a major street that runs through the walled city of Old Delhi, and met Iqbal the Rickshaw Driver in front of the Sikh Temple. He was dressed for success in a pinstriped shirt and brown slacks, and he barely broke a sweat pedaling us through twisted, crowded, colorful alleys. With no real agenda, we let Iqbal call the shots.

In the early morning, the streets were busy but not packed. He maneuvered his rickshaw through the traffic and parked at the Khari Baoli – a street featuring Asia’s biggest wholesale spice market, which dates to around 1650. We climbed out the rickshaw and up several flights of stairs for a bird’s eye view of the adjacent Fatehpuri Mosque. On the roof, huge vats of rice and curry cooked over an open fire to be sold by street vendors later in the day. (Note to self: Don’t eat street curry.)

Wandering around the ancient market, we posed with bursting burlap bags of chili peppers, and I experienced a massive convulsive sneezing fit.

Back at street level, we checked out the wares of various vendors, but our cupboards are presently well-stocked with dried fruits and nuts, which are traditional Diwali gifts.

Next, Iqbal steered the rickshaw into the getting-busier passageways and markets branching off Chandni Chowk. Rocking over broken pavement and swerving around pedestrians, all sorts of vehicles and goats, we struggled to capture our experience in photos. I loved the sari shop that “deals in ALL KINDS OF FANCY.” Full disclaimer: This slideshow is full of blurry, poorly composed shots, but that’s pretty much how the ride felt.

Here’s a shorter slideshow focusing on the state-of-the-art power lines serving this part of the city.

After pop-a-wheeling down “silver street,” “sari street, “wedding street” and other niche markets, Iqbal pulled over and told us to step out. He heaved the rickshaw over a short barrier and through a doorway to a peaceful alley with brightly painted doorways.

We were visiting a Jain temple. In a city with predominantly Muslim antiquities and a present-day Hindu vibe, it’s fun to stumble upon a fresh perspective. Upon entering the temple, we were handed a slate with the “rules.” One rule was “no photography” … so I couldn’t take a picture of the rules. I do recall that I wasn’t allowed upstairs if I was menstruating, and we had to remove anything leather (so Tony took off his belt). We had to visit the temple sink to wash our hands and rinse out our mouths (I faked that part), as well. Eventually, a priest took us up the steep marble stairs, where an elderly man in a white loincloth used a mortar and pestle to smash a paste of saffron and sandalwood. The priest blessed us with a smear of the paste between our eyes and pointed out the similar smears on all the statues. The paste is one of eight symbolic offerings, which the BBC nicely details in the online article Eightfold Puja.

Like I said, photography was prohibited, which was a shame because for a religion with a strict minimalist tradition, this temple shimmered with gold (not gold leaf, the priest emphasized), silver, carved marble, dazzling mosaics, fine paintings and other photo-worthy decor. Somehow, the guy who writes The Delhi Walla managed to snap pictures throughout the temple. So rather than describe everything, I’ll just oppress my blog envy and refer you to his site.

After making a donation to the temple and tipping our priest, we reboarded the rickshaw and rattled straight into a traffic jam. We baked in the sun with a car-horn cacophony for about 10 minutes before telling Iqbal to skip the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, which we’ll be sure to visit another day. Eventually, he returned us to the metro. On the morning trip, I had joined Tony in the unisex car. The afternoon trains, however, were packed, so I opted to avoid the lewd looks and potential gropes from creepy men and instead threw my hat in the ring with the ladies. I happily hopped aboard the “Women Only” car, and the glass doors trapped me inside with an ominous hiss before I realized that with ladies come babies, whiny toddlers and rambunctious pre-schoolers. Can’t they introduce the “Self-Righteous DINK” car? I would be all over that.

Oh, the smells? Unremarkable. In fact, other than the sneeze-inducing chili dust, we mostly inhaled mouth-watering scents wafting out of restaurants. The beggars? Not at all scary. I gave a bag of cashews to two little girls hanging out at the metro station because they were cute, but nobody harassed us. Maybe we were just having a lucky day.

Daily Life, India

Persistence pays off at India Habitat Centre

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The India Habitat Centre is supposed to be THE place for cultural events in New Delhi, so Katrina and I decided to check out the Delhi Photo Festival there.

We found the “information office,” which I encourage you to say while making ironic quotation marks with your fingers.
Me (with a big friendly smile): Hi! I saw on your website that there is a guided walk through the Delhi Photo Festival today. I was just wondering what time that will take place.
Information Office lady (with a surly frown): There is no walk.
Me (smaller smile): Well, I saw it on your website. I think it might have been added recently because it had a yellow-highlighted, all-caps “latest news” headline.
Crabby lady: There is no walk.
Me (head cocked, forced smile, gesturing at her computer): Maybe you could just open up your website there…
Crabby lady (bangs on her keyboard and then turns away to answer the phone): Sigh…
Me (turning the monitor so I can see it): Yes, see, there it is in all capital letters – LATEST NEWS. The curator is leading photo walks. See it says, “great opportunity to understand the thinking behind the Festival and the photographs on display.” But there’s no time listed.
Crabby lady (refusing to acknowledge the screen): You have to go to the Visual Arts Office.

Instead, we went to lunch at the Eatopia food court. (Side note: One of the food court eateries is called Wild Willy’s Western and its counter is decorated with American pioneer paraphernalia, such as cowboy hats, spurs, holsters and guns. Nothin’ says “wild west” like that ol’ wrangler favorite, The Naanza™ – Tandoori Chicken or Paneer Tikka on a Tandoori Naan base.)

After lunch, Katrina had to leave for a doctor’s appointment, but I toured the photo festival on my own. The IHC is a huge complex of buildings with shady courtyards, small outdoor performance spaces, and wonderful little nooks full of artwork.

There were several engaging photography collections, such as this one by renowned Indian photographer and photojournalist Raghu Rai.

Having just immersed myself in Gandhi’s story earlier in the day, I was especially intrigued by the photographs of his grandnephew, Kanu Gandhi.

While popping in and out of the different exhibits, I accidentally discovered the Visual Arts “Office” (more ironic finger quotes), which consisted of a table in one of the galleries.
Me: Excuse me, can you tell me when the curator is leading the photo walk?
Helpful Visual Arts Office man: Five O’clock! Hope you can join us!

That was still a couple hours away, and I had already done my own photo walk, so I decided to skip the tour. Before leaving the IHC, however, I stuck my head in the door of the “Information Office” and said with a super huge friendly smile, “Helloooo! It’s me again! Just in case somebody else comes in and asks about the photo walk, it’s going to be at 5 o’clock! ‘K, byeeee!”

At the risk of dwelling TOO much on the IHC’s lack of customer service and/or marketing savvy, I have to say it is not easy to plan ahead in this country. I subscribe to the local newspaper AND the bi-weekly Time Out Delhi magazine, but it seems many events I would like to attend are top secret and poorly promoted. While noshing on my chicken biryani at Eatopia, I checked out the IHC events calendar and discovered a concert scheduled for the next day: “Reflections of Kabir in Gandhian Philosophy and African Ubuntu,” which I had not seen advertised anywhere else. With my brain all full of Gandhi and his ties to both India and Africa, I decided to attend.

Katrina, Tony and I met up with my friend Gopa and her family at the IHC’s Stein Auditorium, which was filled to about half capacity, for the FREE concert Friday night. Turns out (a) Gandhi’s philosophies and African gospel music both echo the teachings of Kabir, a 15th-century Sufi saint and poet; (b) Robin Hogarth, a Grammy Award-winning producer, auditioned high-school students in South Africa to participate in this project and brought a choir of seven children and two teachers to India for a month; and (c) Hindustani classical vocalist Sumitra Guha and her troupe had only one week to rehearse with the kids. The Indian and African styles melded beautifully; I actually teared up several times. The most powerful part of the concert for me was when the singers ended one of the songs in typical yoga style – “om shanti” three times.

Here the African choir sings a protest song that was banned for awhile in South Africa.

Daily Life, India

Eternal Gandhi

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I’m having a hard time getting started on my post about the Gandhi Smriti and Eternal Gandhi Multimedia Museum. So many emotions surfaced during my visit to the place where Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated; how can I harness them to write about it? Most brain-freezes will thaw with the making of a list, so here goes.

Things I Felt at the Museum
Awe – I knew Gandhi had been a powerful force in India, but I hadn’t realized how far-reaching – geographically and philosophically – his influence was. The museum features comments and film footage from esteemed world leaders in politics, education, science, social welfare and more – including Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and Albert Einstein.
Grief – Seeing the movie or reading books about Gandhi cannot compare to standing in the spot where he was gunned down on his way to pray.
Fear – It seems too easy for the extremist minority to destroy the dreams of the moderate majority. This theme has played out so many times in history, and I worry that it’s happening today in the States.
Understanding – A somewhat cheesy collection of dioramas clarified the major events in Gandhi’s life. For example, he had been working as a lawyer in South Africa when authorities kicked him off a train for sitting in the “whites only” compartment. This, combined with other indignities he experienced there, was apparently a life-changing catalyst for him to embrace social activism.
Humility – A pair of simple sandals at the museum affected me deeply. Gandhi had made the sandals while in prison and presented them to Gen. Jan Smuts, an adversary who advocated racial segregation in South Africa. In 1939, when Smuts was Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa, he returned the sandals in honor of Gandhi’s 70th birthday with the following message: “I have worn these sandals for many a summer, even though I may feel that I am not worthy to stand in the shoes of so great a man.”
Wonder – While I appreciated the old-school panels with photos and text, dioramas, and artifacts downstairs, I was unprepared for the cutting-edge fusion of technology, art and education that we encountered upstairs. According to the Eternal Gandhi Multimedia Museum’s brochure, the project’s tradition-based interactions with classical symbols, sacred objects, collaboratively created artworks, collective chanting and more “inspire a rich panorama of tactile interfaces that allow people to access the multimedia imagery and multidimensional mind of Gandhiji.”

I guess it would be fair to say I was a bit overwhelmed.

The Gandhi Smriti is housed in the Birla House, the former home of a New Delhi businessman where Gandhi spent the last few months of his life. “Smriti” is Sanskrit for “that which is remembered.” The house and gardens include footsteps to mark Gandhi’s last walk to prayer, the living quarters that have been untouched since his death in 1948, the diorama exhibit and many interpretive panels with hundreds of photos.

The Eternal Gandhi museum fills the second floor of the Birla House with amazing exhibits. Please visit the Eternal Gandhi Multimedia Museum website for details on the brilliant and powerful interactive displays. Here are some photos, but they really can’t capture the fascination inspired during my visit.

One installation offers scenes of Gandhi’s life in prison. During that time, he wrote his autobiography, which unfolds digitally in his own handwriting on the floor of the prison cell.