As I write this, I’m sucking on a twig. I have no idea what it is, but my landlady (and downstairs neighbor) says it will help restore my voice. As we were leaving for Night Under the Stars, Alka greeted us and discovered my laryngitis. She quickly ran back into her house and returned with a baggie full of little sticks, some kind of Indian herb. A university professor, she said, “You know, my voice is my livelihood, so I have used this many times! Just suck on one until it loses flavor, and then start another.” I worried that the sticks might not mix well with red wine, so I saved them till this morning. So far – and I’m only only stick number one – I can attest to a soothing quality of the mild liquorice-flavor. Still no voice, though. Breakfast of champions.
You know I couldn’t just suck on a stick without researching it first, right? Well, I actually started sucking and THEN started researching, but look what I found! As I suspected, the wood chip under my tongue is liquorice root, called “mulethi” here in India. According to the Speedy Remedies website, this little stick can cure just about anything, from bad breath to genital herpes. Laryngitis? We shall see.
Jangling bangles, swirling skirts, glittering bindis and big smiles set the stage for a gala evening yesterday at Night Under the Stars, an annual fundraiser staged by our school’s PTA. Indian drummers greeted guests on a candle-lit path past a pink-draped tent photo-opp and down to the AES field, where sponsors’ booths ringed the dinner tables and Mughal Empire-themed props set the mood.
As we lingered in the courtyard next to the field, a school employee quickly pushed me away from a dia that threatened to send my lehenga up in flames. The little traditional candles posed a serious fire hazard to those of us dressed in floor-grazing elegance! However, it was hard to focus on fire prevention while gawking at everyone arriving at the party. Just one formally clad mannequin in a store window here can take your breath away; imagine hundreds of people sashaying by in an unimaginable range of silken styles and colors. The men, in general, wore interesting but understated costumes or suits, but the women stole the show. Rhinestone-encrusted tops and full heavy skirts. Glimpses of skin under carefully draped shimmering saris. Bare-backed anarkalis with fitted bodices that flared into golden trim. Dramatic make-up and hair ornaments dripping with jewels. Delicate dupatta scarves tossed over shoulders. We kept telling each other, “You look so beautiful!” because everyone honestly did.
The visual feast served as a great distraction from my lingering cold and laryngitis. We mingled, enjoyed a nice dinner and even got Tony out on the dance floor. Truly a special night.
This is how we got to the party. No, not really.
AES Director Bob Hetzel gets thronged by the ladies.
Tony shunned a turban for his suit, but you know I love to break out the fancy costumes!
That’s our table in the foreground.
It is NOT easy to dance in these clothes.
Prop du jour: cowboy hat, courtesy of Laura Pitale, another AES teacher.
For our date-night dinner Thursday, Tony and I went to a wonderful restaurant in the historic Mehrauli District. We called a taxi from our neighborhood stand and got picked up by Mr. Kapoor (not to be confused with the Kapoor who drives us to school every day). As we inched along in traffic, Mr. Kapoor couldn’t resist judging us.
“Most people go out on Friday or Saturday,” he said.
“That’s true,” I admitted.
“This restaurant is very far. Are you meeting people there?” asked Mr. Kapoor.
“No, it’s just us,” Tony answered.
Did we really have to justify our mid-week excursion to a taxi driver? Did he really want to hear that we have made a commitment to spending time together on a school night once a week? It was funny but also annoying.
I had felt a cold coming on, and sure enough, during our date my voice went from normal … to Kim Carnes-esque sultry … to gone. Within two hours, I had completely lost my voice. I contemplated texting in sick on Friday, but I knew several of my colleagues were out, and substitute teachers are hot commodities. I showed up, skipped my in-class support lessons and taught a whispery EAL class before taking off early. Outside the school gate, I walked the short distance to a taxi stand and climbed into a taxi van. The driver called out my address, which was a relief since I couldn’t speak. (We take taxis home every day, so most of these drivers know where we live.) About halfway home, I spotted something that snapped me out of my head-cold haze.
The dashboard components had been ripped out, and wiring hung down around the driver’s feet.
Devoid of needles, the gauges were useless. I was riding in the equivalent of a motorized tin can.
When we arrived at my house, I made several universal gestures of confusion – shrugged shoulders, hands outstretched, crunched up forehead and questioning smile – and then swept my arm toward the dangling wires.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why,” he replied.
I decided to interpret his answer as a powerful commentary on our life choices. Rather than assume the obvious (that the driver didn’t speak English), I am choosing to believe it was a sign.
Why? Why, indeed?
Why do we put up with this silliness? Why worry so much about transportation? Why panic when I can’t find a taxi to take me home after school? Why ride in a bone-rattling death trap? Why wonder if the driver is drunk, crazy or simply reckless? Why stress about getting stranded somewhere?
So that was a long, convoluted way of announcing … we bought a car!
We won’t take possession till the end of the school year (the seller is a departing AES teacher), but I already feel a sense of relief. Even better, we are hiring the driver who works for the car’s current owner.
Today is Holi, the Hindu Festival of Colors that celebrates the start of spring with a daylong lifting of social taboos and a rainbow of revelry.
The Times of India delivered these messages from the nation’s leaders.
President Pratibha Patil and Prime Minister Manmohan Singh greeted the nation on the occasion of the festival.
“Holi is a festival of colours that heralds joy, hope and fulfilment in our lives… May this festival bring together all the colours of India’s diversity in a rainbow of unity,” Patil said in her message.
“Let the spontaneity and liveliness of this spring festival yet again affirm the togetherness of our multi-cultural nation,” the Prime Minister wished.
Tony came home Wednesday afternoon with a pink tikka between his eyes, courtesy of high school administrative assistant, Maggie. “That’s good enough for me,” he said. “I feel like I experienced Holi.”
As for me, the long list of advice for protecting our skin, hair and dignity on this day (“wear dental caps to prevent unwanted stains” and “avoid getting attacked by hooligans” were my favorite tips), made me consider hunkering down in bed with a good book for the day. However, I can’t resist an authentic encounter with the local culture. Fortunately, a couple friends got invited to a Holi party, so I tagged along!
The hostess, Sonya, owns a dog kennel not far from my neighborhood, and she welcomed both human and canine celebrants. Our contingent included Nancy, her two kids and their dog, The Dread Pirate Wesley Crusher (Wesley, for short), as well as Drew, Andi and me. When we arrived, there were just a few other guests with their dogs. After receiving some gentle smears of color and “happy holi” wishes, we tentatively dipped into the powder pots and pinched color to brush on each other.
As more people and pets arrived, the party got gradually more raucous. We discovered “tentatively” is not a common adverb on Holi.
I had brought a special guest, Flat William, who is visiting from Kansas. He got powdered, but I saved him from the water gun. (Confused? Google the Flat Stanley Project.)
Tables were laid with tasty treats, but we had been forewarned. Sure enough, platters of marijuana balls (“bhang golis”) made the rounds, along with the traditional Holi drink, “bhang,” a cannabis-milk concoction.
Soon, a pattern emerged.
(a) Allow random strangers to paint you with brightly colored powder.
(b) Get a bucket of pink water (drawn from the pool) dumped on your head OR get doused by water guns OR get tossed in the pool, effectively washing off much of your powder.
(c) Repeat a and b ad infinitum.
When I sensed a plot was under foot to pitch me in the pink pool, I grabbed my friends and made a quick escape. Our taxi pulled up to Nancy’s house, where a group of locals greeted us with purple paste and more hugs. They may or may not have been friends and family of Nancy’s housekeeper.
We left the kids at home and walked to my street, after stopping to visit Cindy and Cyril, who had spent the morning at a different Holi party.
Happy Holi!! (I was told to wear this “traditional” hat, but I’m not convinced that wasn’t a classic mislead-the-clueless-foreigner trick.)
This slideshow features other shots from the party.
Wikipedia has a solid article about Holi that explains its cultural significance.
When we first moved to New Delhi, someone mentioned a biodiversity park near our house. Tony and I wandered over to the park entrance to check it out, but the seedy-looking men hanging around the gate deterred us. Picturing a big open area with scrubby bushes and sleeping vagrants, we figured we weren’t missing much.
Last week, the subject came up again. Another neighborhood resident insisted it was a nice place to walk and escape from city smells and sounds. Saturday morning, Tony and I gave it another shot. This time, we strolled boldly past the seedy crowd (who actually look normal to us now) and found a single path that wound through real nature for about 2.5 kilometers. With the New Delhi airport a stone’s throw away, planes roared overhead, but otherwise the park proved to be a genuine oasis literally in our backyard!
According to the Biodiversity Parks website, Aravalli Biodiversity Park – or ABP, as we locals call it – comprises 692 acres on the South-Central Ridge of the Aravalli Mountain Range. Its undulating landscape resulted from years of pit mining, which left deep valleys, ridges and hillocks. Conservationists are re-introducing indigenous plants, developing a deciduous forest, and removing invasive trees introduced during the British Raj. The park features a “fernary” with Aravalli ferns (including a few threatened species), an “orchidarium” with about 70 orchid species, a butterfly garden with up to 40 species, 150 acres of grasslands and woodlands, a conservatory for native medicinal plants and a rich wetland ecosystem.
Teeming with wildlife, the park attracts birders and other nature enthusiasts. Excited about our new discovery, Tony went for a run here on Sunday and saw about 50 peacocks!
Environmental consciousness is difficult to foster in a developing country with such glaring poverty. How can you keep people from chopping down trees for cooking fires? How can you stop the killing of wild animals when people are starving? How can you justify spending thousands of dollars to plant flowers when the park backs up to a slum? So often, municipalities take action that provides a short-term solution to escalating problems. I feel optimistic that Delhi has acknowledged the long-term value of protecting and nurturing its green spaces. For Tony and me, the park has already taken our quality of life up a notch. I hope it will do the same for generations of Delhiwallas.
Why must fabrics in India be so pretty?! How can a girl resist?
My friend Nancy played host for a little sari party last night. A man, whose name I failed to get in my bling-induced fervor, brought heaps of fabric, saris, lehengas (a long full skirt with belly top), and embroidered salwar kameez suits (long blousy top with Hammer pants).
Nancy took these photos with her phone, mostly with hands shaking from laughter.
This is one of my favorite moments of the evening, when Nancy’s maid, Sonu, took the bindi off her own face and stuck it on Nancy for the full effect.
Andi looks like a fairy princess in this lehenga. She wins the prize for best adjective: “bedazz-erific.”
Sandra couldn’t be bothered with asking Sari Man to wrap her properly.
Katrina tried this lehenga on first, but then I tackled her and stole it. Because a girl can’t have too many lehengas … and because my other lehenga is gold and red, and my Chinese feng shui horoscope said I should be wearing more blue to counter my “pitta” fire element. See? I can justify ANY purchase.
After three months of moaning about the cold and smog, I parted the drapes Sunday morning to find blue skies!
Our little park across the street suddenly burst into color with patches of flowers, so I forced my sleestak of a husband to leave the house and stroll through the gardens.
Grass doesn’t seem to interest anyone here, and whoever planted the flowers clearly hasn’t researched what to plant where. For example, marigolds ringed a huge tree, blooming on the sunny side and withering on the shady side, as would be expected. True, too, for the vast stretches of poppies lining the fence.
If we’ve learned anything as global residents, though, it’s that not everyone does things the way WE do things. And that’s OK. And I should stop judging and enjoy the park.
Blue skies!
See, it’s a GOOD thing they don’t cultivate the grass because these cricket-playing kids would just mess it up.
Napping in the sunshine.
Poppies! Beautiful poppies! (Admit it: You can’t say “poppies” without using your Wicked Witch of the West voice. It’s OK. We all do it.)
Tony just left for the Marwari Safari, an Indian take on “City Slickers.” He’ll spend five days at the Krishna Ranch near Udaipur, which is southwest of New Delhi, learning horsemanship and exploring the Arravali mountains on horseback … with 19 high school students. His trip is one of several mini-courses offered this week to students at the American Embassy School in New Delhi. They are so lucky!
Never mind that the last time we went horse-back riding, Tony dropped the reins and let his horse eat grass while I cantered in circles around him.
Tony, another teacher, and the kids will ride to Tiger Lake, rural villages, a wildlife sanctuary and several agricultural areas. He may come home a little saddle-sore, but I bet he’ll have some wonderful stories.
When it comes to dance, I have neither skill nor inhibitions, which explains my tendency to get stupid on the dance floor. I’m happy to settle for laughs if admiration is out of the question. My first Bollywood dance lesson Saturday afternoon was no exception. Dizzy from spinning and unable to keep my lotus fingers pointing in the right direction, I took excessive water breaks and offered encouraging words to my fellow participants.
Gina Shah, a lovely young dancer from Atlanta, is studying classical Indian dance and visiting her sister (whose husband is stationed here with the U.S. Embassy) for the next couple weeks. She accompanied her sister to Nancy’s Zumba class a few times and offered to repay the favor with a private lesson. We met at Nancy’s house and tried to follow Gina’s lead. As you can see here, she’s pretty fantastic!
The other ladies wouldn’t let me post a video with us in the frame. Maybe after a LOT more practice!
Even standing still, my fingers look wonky.
Me and Cristi in the back; Katrina, Gina and Nancy in the front.
(Disclaimer: Nancy is making me point out that she is not pregnant. Her funky harem pants and blouse are just loose and billowy.)
Picture this: A teaching assistant on playground duty intercepts a wayward soccer ball, picks it up and hefts it back to the players. Did you picture her in an aqua-colored sari, the skirt swishing around her feet, the loose end tossed over her shoulder and flapping in the breeze? Probably not, but that’s what she was wearing!
Even after seven months in India, I remain entranced by the prevalence of women – from all walks of life – dressed in saris. The long flowing sari seems so cumbersome to me, but Indian women carry it off effortlessly and elegantly.
A sari is a long swath of fabric – up to 9 yards! – wrapped in a specific way without zippers or buttons or pins. Ladies wear a petticoat underneath with a midriff-baring top called a “choli.” Every region of India seems to have its own style of sari, not to mention all the fashion trends and myriad designers. As a foreigner who likely won’t need more than a couple saris, how will I ever choose?
Enter Skye Sanford, elementary music teacher, who has lived here for six years. Saturday morning she led 10 of us on a sari expedition to Babu Market, a section of the popular Sarojini Market. We filed in to Harish Kumar’s shop, sat on the benches and watched as the salesmen slowly pulled sari after sari off the shelves and out of their cellophane bags, unfurling miles of stunning fabric. A sari collector, Skye explained what we were seeing and steered us away from poor quality or unfortunate fashion trends (such as saris made of tulle).
Based on my experience in Turkish carpet shops (flash back to emotional meltdowns and street fights with Tony), I needed to scope out the sari scene a couple times before I buy. I was happy to watch, learn and snap some photos, but I will definitely go back. Who wants to join me?
Salesman at the ready.
The show begins.
Picking favorites.
Skye added two more saris to her collection!
Sandra and Alicia get wrapped.
Eva looks lovely in gray … but I think she bought this style in blue.
Sandra tries on another sari. You can’t do it by yourself!
Decisions, decisions!
The salesmen tossed saris back and forth across the shop.
Sari pile.
A little shrine in the shop.
Alicia ironically pulled out “Real Simple” from her bag …
