When I was living in the States, I struggled to resist processed food products at the grocery store. The lure of quick, cheap, filling meals cannot be ignored. Day after day of craptastic frozen dinners infused my body with the salt, sugar, fat and empty calories it craved with little impact on my digestive system. A night out for Indian food, on the other hand, was likely to cause quite a rumbly in my tumbly.
Now I live in India and eat home-made (not by ME, silly!) Indian food almost every night, much to the pleasure of both my mouth and stomach. You know what gets my tummy in a twist these days? That’s right. You know it. Processed nature-free boxed food imposters.
Wednesday, I stayed at school till almost 9 p.m. for the staff musical rehearsal, which meant I had to scavenge my own dinner. There’s no better place than the American Embassy Commissary for quick, cheap, filling “food.” The place is stocked like a 7-11, and it’s right across the street from school.
Look what I ate for dinner. Gross.
Add a backstage beer, and you’ve got an unpredictable bubbly belly brew.
Lesson learned.
I just released my LAST ESL class of the semester. Do I sound excited? Because I AM! Students come to school for a half-day tomorrow, and then we’re OUTTA HERE. Woah. That was a lot of capital letters.
Anyway, my third-grade English learners sang “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” which required a bit of vocabulary building: reindeer, shiny, glow, “call someone a name,” foggy, Christmas Eve, sleigh, glee, “go down in history.” Thanks god for YouTube because my iPod chose this exact moment to die, but I quickly found the song online.
We sang it several times before flipping over the lyrics page to do one of the silliest activities of the year: The Rudolph Mad Lib. I had retyped the song, leaving cleverly placed blanks. Previously, before they knew why they were doing it, they had chosen words in different categories and made a list. Today, they copied the words from their list into the song. Hilarity ensued and chaos reigned for awhile. Everyone had the opportunity to sing their song to the class.
My favorite was “Rudolph the red-nosed hippopotamus.” That had them rolling on the floor.
Another enlightening moment from this class was the discovery that most kids know the song in their home language. The Korean kids stood up and sang it exuberantly in Korean.
Best of all, I learned how to say “Rudolph” in Korean: Lutorpa. Isn’t that fantastic?
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.
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.
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.
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”!
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.)
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.
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.
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.
We live in a southern New Delhi neighborhood called Vasant Vihar, which is split into several blocks. Ours is D like Delhi. Knowing Diwali night traditionally calls for excessive fireworks, we opted to stay around D-Block. To be more specific, we opted to stay on our sofa with an occasional foray to the balcony. Tony tried a few times to grade papers, but ultimately the explosions and high-pitched whistling of wayward firecrackers sent him back to the couch. We were slightly embarrassed when our landlord’s daughter came upstairs decked out in turquoise chiffon and sequins to bring us small oil lamps called “diyas.” Wearing sweatpants, an old T-shirt and glasses, I followed her out to our balcony, where she placed them on the railing. Downstairs, her mother positioned more lamps along the garden wall.
Lights are key to attracting Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. People leave electric lights on inside, string more lights on the outside of their homes, and fire up numerous diyas, which are placed inside and outdoors, in hopes that Lakshmi will visit and bring prosperity and happiness for the coming year.
Here’s another take on the illumination tradition from the diwalicelebrations website.
According to Ramayana, Diwali commemorates the return of Ram, an incarnation of Lord Vishnu and the eldest son of King Dasharath of Ayodhya, from his 14-year exile with Sita and Lakshman after killing the Ravan, a demon king. The people of Ayodhya illuminated the kingdom with earthen diyas (oil lamps) and fireworks to celebrate the return of their king. … Twinkling oil lamps or diyas were there in every home and fireworks were there too. Great celebrations were held and everyone was happy for Rama to be the King of Ayodhya. This celebration took place on the night of the new moon of Ashwin (October-November). The tradition and the timing continued to be followed even these days. Even today Diwali celebration means happiness, fireworks and sweets. Thus the festival of diwali is in honour of Rama’s victory over Ravana. Among all the legends of Diwali this one is the most believed one.
After visiting the Lotus Temple yesterday, we popped in to a few shops at Hauz Khas, ate lunch at Bagel’s Cafe and stopped at Katrina’s dressmaker to pick up her latest creations. Getting ready to head home, I snapped a few shots of flower sellers, which you’ll find on every street corner. Men, women and children sit on the ground amidst mountains of marigold blossoms, threading the blooms onto garlands. Apparently the flower prices skyrocket for the Diwali holiday because everyone needs them! They adorn storefronts and homes, as well as serving a key role in the worship of Hindu deities. I just think they’re pretty.
