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Daily Life, India

Sari School wraps up my birthday

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In my closet here in New Delhi, I have a stunning lehenga with a long full skirt of gold and a low-back fitted top heavy with beads. The sheer saffron dupatta adds an extra touch of glamour. When elegant occasions (or fabulous photo opps with friends) arise, it’s my go-to garment. Other ladies opt for the sari, but my one experience draped in six yards of slippery chiffon filled me with anxiety. Sure, several large safety pins held it securely in place, but I spent the evening worried I or someone else would step on the hem and bring the whole mess down around my ankles.

Sari stress.
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The thing is, my lehenga is almost too fabulous. It’s actually a tad over the top. I feel a tiny competitive urge to understand the sari and its appeal to Indian ladies. Women from all walks of life wear it effortlessly – riding sidesaddle on the back of a motorcycle, swishing through a crowded cocktail party, balancing a basket of bricks atop their heads at a construction site, strolling arm-in-arm with friends, shopping, dancing, driving. I’ve seen young girls playing volleyball in their saris. What’s to fear?

A group of us from AES spent my birthday afternoon learning more about India’s sari tradition and experimenting with several styles. Textile scholar Rta Kapur Chishti has published several books about saris, including Saris of India: Tradition and Beyond, and her label TAANBAAN promotes the revival of hand spinning and hand weaving in India. She launched The Sari School in 2009 to promote and celebrate “the unstitched garment.”

“We have great backsides in India,” Chishti said. “We have great backsides and great busts. But we don’t reveal them. We drape them.”

With that, she kicked off her fascinating – and cheeky – presentation. Her slides took us on a tour with photos and facts about saris in most of the Indian states. The white saris of Kerala were traditionally splashed with turmeric or vermillion for a wedding, but the new bride would wash it clean again for daily use. Many Chinese artisans settled in Gujarat, explaining the heavily embroidered saris there. Madya Pradesh is known for its 9-yard sari and double-color borders. Ladies in Andara pleat their saris in the back. And so on. She explained the science behind the sari; for example, the fabric is woven more loosely in the middle and with tighter density along the borders and free ends to better stand up to wear and tear.

The choli, a short, tight blouse, is believed to be a relatively recent addition to the sari ensemble, especially in the south. Chishti told an anecdote about a government official trying to impose western-style modesty before the arrival of a British leader. He passed out cholis to the ladies in town, who turned out for the procession with their bosoms exposed and blouses worn on their heads like colorful caps.

After the slideshow, we practiced wrapping ourselves in the provided saris. (Unfortunately, I wore jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, which looked ridiculous under the saris. Bad choice.) During a break, I was treated to a little birthday celebration with cupcakes baked by my friend Skye.

First, we learned the Mohiniattam style from Kerala, which gathers up nine yards of fabric to create a dainty look with a little apron of pleats in the front. Mine wasn’t so dainty.

Next, we learned two Bengali styles: Nadia, which seemed more stereotypical with the free end of the sari (pallu) draped over the head, and the Dhokna Jalpaiguri style, a one-shouldered drape with the pallu wrapped around back and tied in the front. Very funky!

Finally, we looped the sari through our legs for the Odissi Dance style from Orissa, which was basically a pantsuit.

Nancy and I browsed through the TAANBAAN items for sale, and I bought an eye-popping orange cotton sari. I need to get the blouse made, but then I’ll give the complicated “unstitched garmet” another shot.

Chishti’s one admonition: no pins! Yikes, I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.

You can see more photos at my flickr.com set Sari School.

Daily Life, India

Birthday Girl Book Club

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“You’re only as old as you feel.”

Well, to be honest, I’ve been feeling pretty stinkin’ old lately. Consumed by work, I feel too tired to kick back and have some fun. You know what they say about all work and no play. It makes Sharon feel like an old lady.

When my friend Mary Catherine suggested taking our book club out to a restaurant to celebrate my birthday, I retorted that it would have to be close to my house. However, she already had a place in mind. She knew a chef with a pasta restaurant in Gurgaon. If you don’t live in Delhi, then you won’t appreciate the impact of hearing that you have to leave work on a Friday afternoon and drive to Gurgaon, technically a Delhi suburb but far enough out that it considers itself a separate city. I had only been there once before and my strongest memory was of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic for hours. I swore I would never again go to Gurgaon. And yet, that’s where I found myself on my birthday eve.

Mary Catherine had booked a van for most of the group, but some of them were delayed at school by parent-teacher conferences, so my friend Nancy and I headed out a bit early in my car. Despite the gloomy prognostications, my driver Gilbert found the restaurant in about 45 minutes. It was a BYOB joint, so Nancy and I popped across the street to the pompously named Galleria outdoor market to buy some wine. We asked the shopkeeper to chill a few bottles while we killed time poking around the shops.

When we spotted the Disney princess party hats, we knew we had stumbled upon Birthday Mecca. Inside, we found everything a birthday girl could ever want: tiaras, boas, sashes, chunky plastic jewelry, you name it. We settled on sparkly hats with marabou feathers. Mine featured a big taffeta rose and a ruffled button proclaiming “Birthday Girl.” The man, who was much too serious to work in this kind of store, pulled out a selection of white, pale pink and magenta hats, telling us, “Also have red for boys,” which made Nancy and me collapse in giggles because what boy wouldn’t feel much more masculine if his bedazzled party hat were RED instead of PINK? After buying hats for all the book club ladies, we were about to leave when Nancy spotted a fart machine. “Batteries not included,” said the deadpan shopkeeper, inducing another round of hysterics.

Strolling through the Galleria, we decided to spread some birthday joy.

First, we convinced the momowallahs to don party hats for a photo.

Then I wedged in between these two guys for another shot.

We picked up our chilled wine (and posed for a few more photos), and then walked back to the Pasta Bowl Company to meet up with the rest of our gang.

The Birthday Book Club

Mary Catherine with Chef Om and his lovely wife, Aditiy.

Chef Om and Aditiy treated us like royalty, even though we were quite loud and silly. From the various bruschetta appetizers to the perfectly tossed salads to the beautiful main courses, everything was deliciously fresh. While many Italian restaurants feature the same boring fare with the same gluey sauces, Chef Om’s creations clearly reflected his creativity and commitment to quality. Mary Catherine had ordered a chocolate cake with the inscription, “Happy birthday to our beautiful Sharon!” (awwwwww…), which we followed with mouth-watering tiramisu and a little banafee pie.

The evening was filled with so much laughter. We talked about our book for about five minutes (The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner … snore) and then moved on to more interesting topics.

Mary Catherine brought wine and paper cups from school in case the restaurant didn’t have wine glasses (which they did).

Chef Om mixed up some scrumptious salads.

Of course I had to help … and ended up spilling olive oil all over the place.

Cheese and wine – my two favorite food groups.

This was my dinner. A pumpkin-y ravioli with chorizo on top. I nearly licked my plate.

I blew out the candles AND blew cocoa powder all over myself and the surrounding area.

Swag! (Olive oil and a bag of pasta – so nice!)

One of the bench dwellers from our earlier market photo shoot had said good-bye with that classic line: “You’re only as old as you feel!” and his words stuck with me all night. It’s such a cliché and yet so true! A few hours of hilarity snapped me out of my funk and made me feel years younger than this newly acquired and meaningless 47. Happy birthday to me!

Postscript: Guess who loved my party hat even more than I did?

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Daily Life

Happy 70th birthday, Mom!

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My mother turned 70 years old on Nov. 16, but her four kids are scattered around the world. We wanted to get together and surprise her with something special. An impromptu visit to Michigan wasn’t going to happen. Ultimately, we collaborated on this video tribute. My brother shared a Photo Stream, and we collected video clips from Kate in the States, Meg in Korea, Mike in England and me here in India. Then I pulled everything in to iMovie. Despite an application update that changed the whole program and forced me to re-learn it AND despite a ridiculously slow internet connection all week at home, the video got finished in time to premiere at my mom’s birthday party Sunday night. I’m so grateful to be part of this crazy family!

Mom’s Bday from Sharon Dent on Vimeo.

Daily Life, India

Mundane but thought-provoking: A typical week in Delhi

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Sometimes daily life seems so mundane. Then you drive past an elephant in your neighborhood, and it makes you think.
Sure, we go to work early and come home late. Sure, we play with our cats, watch TV and go to bed.
But we also drive past elephants.
Mundane? Maybe for India.
May I never pass an elephant without recognizing how truly weird and special that is.
(photo by Tony)
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What else happened in my mundane week? Well, Nancy and I visited the Blind School Diwali Mela, where you can find everything gilded and sparkly one needs for a proper Diwali celebration while helping to support the local school. The bazaar is called the “Blind School Diwali Mela,” but I guess I never really processed the fact that it takes place on the campus of the BLIND SCHOOL. When Nancy and I sought a restroom, we wandered into part of the school where kids were hanging out in tiny austere classrooms.
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While shopping, we paused for a coconut thirst quencher, a 15-minute massage (less than $1) and a tarot card reading.
Mundane? Maybe for India.
May I never tire of glimpses behind the scenes, exotic treats, cheap foot rubs and dabbling in the occult.
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Some friends hosted a Halloween party Friday night. I dressed as the Air Quality Indicator, a timely costume as the air pollution skyrocketed off the chart that day. There were a few zombies, but India-centric costumes at the party also included a gone-native Delhi tourist, a backpacker on her way to a yoga course, a Diwali diya (oil lamp), an elephant, a covered-up tuk-tuk meter, a belly dancer and a worker at our campus coffee shop.
Mundane? Maybe for India.
May I always surround myself with friends who treasure the inside stories of our host country.
(Photo by Marina)
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Fall Fiesta, our school’s Halloween-themed fund-raiser for high school activities, took place Saturday night. I volunteered selling wristbands for kids to play the homemade “arcade games,” which were split into Big Camp for youngsters over 7 and Small Camp for the little ones. Tony volunteered at the Small Camp tricycle races. I bought 48 raffle tickets and won an emerald bracelet, but my favorite part of the night was hearing, “Hi, Mrs. Dent!” from current and former students, including a French Canadian Dracula and his older sister zombie, a Japanese cat, a Kuwaiti princess, an Australian strawberry, an American bride, and a collection of monsters, skeletons and creepy characters from around the world.
Mundane? Maybe for India.
May I always value the global perspective of a diverse classroom.
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Another typical event in our New Delhi lives: The cats discover endless ways to trash our home. Here, Ella’s face is a blur as she maniacally shreds a roll of toilet paper.
Mundane? Yes.
And there’s no lesson to be learned. It just makes me laugh.
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Daily Life, India

Child beggar plays mind games at Delhi intersection

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Earlier today, I read an article on Slate magazine online about the damage tourists do by contributing money or food to child beggars. (My colleague, Eric Johnson, took the accompanying photo!)

I already knew much of the information the article imparted. For example:

In India, roughly 60,000 children disappear each year, according to official statistics. (Some human rights groups estimate that the actual number is much higher than that.) Many of these children are kidnapped and forced to work as beggars for organized, mafia-like criminal groups. According to UNICEF, Human Rights Watch, and the U.S. State Department, these children aren’t allowed to keep their earnings or go to school, and are often starved so that they will look gaunt and cry, thereby eliciting more sympathy—and donations—from tourists. And since disabled child beggars get more money than healthy ones, criminal groups often increase their profits by cutting out a child’s eyes, scarring his face with acid, or amputating a limb.

We encounter beggars every time we leave the house. Some actually live in the medians near our neighborhood, taking shelter under the overpass. As soon as we stop at a red light, they descend. Some tap on our windows and gesture at their mouths or bellies, playing on our guilt. Some youngsters with drawn-on mustaches and other silly body paint perform flips or cartwheels, bang drums, sing and otherwise attempt to earn a few coins. Some sell individual flowers.

Usually the adults handle the intersection commerce. They drift through the captive cars, carrying stacks of books and magazines, phone chargers, toys, bouquets of flowers, steering wheel covers, balloons shaped like electric guitars, peacock feathers, tissue boxes and seasonal items, such as fireworks at Diwali or colorful powders at Holi.

We have had some amusing interactions with the street sellers. Once we were giving my friend Nancy a ride home on the last day of school after she had received two massive flower arrangements from students. She and I sat in the backseat, unable to see each other through the enormous bouquets. Stopped at an intersection, we pushed aside the flowers to look out the window. A flower seller leaned down to look in my car and rapped on the window. He gestured at Nancy’s flowers and then at his own with an expectant smile. We laughed and said, “Obviously we don’t need any flowers!” He tried repeatedly to convince us otherwise. Another time, a hawker sidled up to my car with a tower of tissue boxes. I responded to his window knock by holding up the TWO boxes of tissues we had in the car. Unfazed, he pointed out that Britney Spears was featured on his boxes. Sometimes it’s just too surreal.

Neither Nancy nor I have ever bought anything from the street sellers, although it’s frequently tempting as we sit, stuck in traffic, bored, watching the parade of hawkers.

“I’ve really been wanting one of the peacock-feather fans,” Nancy said. “But I’m scared to open the window. What if they all come running over to sell me stuff?”

Exactly.

This holiday afternoon, Nancy and I were heading home after lunch at a nearby restaurant when we stopped at a red light. A man selling books walked by, and Nancy spotted The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri, most likely our next book club book.

“Isn’t that the book I need?” she asked.

“It is,” I answered, apathetically as I’ll buy it on my kindle.

“I’m gonna get it!” she said, rolling down the window.

By the time she had made the transaction, a young girl selling flowers came slinking over to my car. Excited to cross “buy something at a Delhi intersection” off her bucket list, Nancy didn’t close the window fast enough, and the girl tossed in a small cellophane-wrapped bouquet of three roses, which wedged between Nancy’s seat and the door. As Nancy fumbled around trying to find the flowers, the girl leaned on my car hood, staring at us with an expression of total contempt. Slowly, she lifted one windshield wiper up, making eye contact the entire time.

Nancy found the flowers and tried to hand them back to the girl through the open window. The girl ignored her, so Nancy flipped them onto the hood within her reach. Apparently the girl was fed up with noncompliant customers, so she waited – hip jutted out, insolent expression on her face – until just before the light turned green. And then she extended my other windshield wiper.

There was no time to jump out and push the wipers down. Other drivers were already honking at me. So off we went, like a ridiculous taupe metallic insect in this concrete jungle of Delhi, wobbly antennae leading the way.

I know it’s not politically correct to laugh about this, but Nancy and I were in hysterics. One minute, we feel oppressive expat guilt driving past the desperately poor children, half naked and dirty, begging for money. The next minute, that little girl – who really should be in school, probably fourth grade – dumps all her frustration on us, and we had to admit she was pretty badass. We were laughing at ourselves, with a tinge of disbelief, and sending some respect and hope out into the universe for that scrappy kid.

Daily Life, India

Hangin’ with the djinns at Kotla Firuz Shah

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Homebound with a bad cold this weekend, I am devouring my kindle. This morning, I clicked on City of Djinns: A Year in Delhi, by William Dalrymple, a book I’ve been meaning to read since moving here. The first line hooked me: “It was in the citadel of Feroz Shah Kotla that I met my first Sufi.”

I was just AT the Feroz Shah Kotla!

I visited the 14th-century capital city of Firuzabad with newbie teachers Jenna and Kaye on a tour with Delhi Heritage Walks. Our guide, Kanika, introduced us to the resident djinns at the ruins, but Dalrymple’s mystic told of their origin: “He said that when the world was new and Allah had created mankind from clay, he also made another race, like us in all things, but fashioned from fire. The djinns were spirits, invisible to the naked eye; to see them you had to fast and pray.”

The 5-Rupee entrance fee (8 cents) for Indians is waived on Thursdays, so locals come in droves to leave offerings and petitions for the djinns. Wedged into cracks or left on the ground next to burning incense, flowers, puffed rice and lighted oil lamps, sheets of white paper pleaded for the djinns to do everything from curing illnesses to fixing a cricket match, Kanika said.
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Some pilgrims tied ribbons, threads or strips of plastic to mark their prayer requests, especially on the fence surrounding the “Lat Baba.” The Ashokan pillar, moved from another location by Tughluq Emporer Firuz Shah, is reputedly home to the most powerful djinns, so its monument was rife with offerings.
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The pillar itself was fascinating. I had initially dismissed it as another concrete smokestack or unfinished construction project.
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Up close, you could see its inscriptions, which were unfamiliar to Firuz Shah but compelling enough for him to move the 27-ton monolith to his capital city. The pillar was one of many inscribed with edicts from the third emperor of the Mauryan Empire, King Ashoka, during the 3rd century BCE, promoting nonviolence and early Buddhist teachings.
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From the roof of the pillar’s monument, we could see the ruins juxtaposed with modern East Delhi. In 1354, Feroz Shah would have walked down a flight of stairs to the banks of the Yamuna River, but the river has since changed course and Delhi’s congested Ring Road now runs parallel to the ancient citadel.
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Kaye climbs back down.
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Other highlights of our visit included the remains of a mosque, which is still being used today, and a three-story circular “baoli,” or step well.
The entrance to the mosque.
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Prayer mats were stored in the niches.
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Schedule of prayer services.
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Jenna exploring the mosque.
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We climbed down a dark stone stairwell full of bats to reach the step well’s water level.
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Although this would have been a bustling city in its day, I appreciated the early morning tranquility. Parakeets soared overhead as Kanika relayed her stories, and shadows shrank as the sun rose high in the hazy humid sky. We were parched and peckish by the time the tour finished, but before heading off to lunch we accepted the tour company’s offer of fresh limeade “salty sweet.”
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I had planned to write more about this tour, but Kanika did such a beautiful job on the Delhi Heritage Walks website. Check it out!

Here’s a link to a World Monument Funds brochure, also pretty cool.

This e-book, Delhi: Ancient History, edited by Upinder Singh, features interesting anecdotes about the Ashokan pillar. Scroll to page 207.

Daily Life, India

Anyone know a good cat exorcist? Evil djinns possess newly spayed kittens

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I took my kittens Ella and Khushi to get spayed Friday, but I’m pretty sure the vet misunderstood and instead performed a brain-switching operation with some local djinns. I learned about djinns on my recent walking tour of the Kotla Firoz Shah ruins, where people leave offerings and prayers for the resident djinns – spiritual creatures that can be benevolent or evil.

Clearly, the vet brain-switched some evil djinns with my cats.

Tony and I picked up the girls at the vet after school and were surprised to see their bellies mummy-wrapped. If we know anything about cats, it’s that they HATE that. We used to torture our old cat Ketta (may she rest in relative peace) by putting a loose hair scrunchie around her tummy and laughing hysterically as she wobbled around like a pissed-off drunk, taking a few steps and then tipping over. Clearly, the belly band messes with cats’ center of gravity.

Fortunately, Ella and Khushi were catatonic from the anesthesia, so when we got home, we left them in their roomy carrier while we popped some popcorn, poured a little wine and curled up on the bed to watch “Arrested Development” on Netflix. Around 8 p.m., Tony said, “Let’s open the cage door so they can come out when they’re ready.”

If only we’d known what hell we were unleashing.

I took the door off the cage, and Khushi’s limp head rolled out. I gently pulled her out of the cage and scratched behind her ears for a moment. Suddenly, the cage began crashing and jumping around the room. That is, Ella – either channeling Linda Blair in “The Exorcist” or suddenly overcome by her new evil djinn brain – began leaping and howling INSIDE the cage. Soon, she escaped and, with no control over the back half of her body, Cirque du Soleil’ed through the air, up on to the bed, and into the bookshelf, screaming like a ninja the entire time.

Meanwhile, Khushi had been resting peacefully outside the cage but was frightened out of her stupor and did a 3-foot vertical leap, landing on her newly stitched incision.

Tony tried to grab Ella, but her maniacal biting and scratching deterred him. I threw myself on top of the hysterical kitten and scooped her up. My gentle baby immediately sank her fangs into my arm and embedded her back claws in the soft pocket of skin between my thumb and finger. Somehow I held on long enough to toss her back in the carrier. I draped my bloody body over the crate and spoke soothingly to Ella until she relaxed and burrowed into the bunched-up towel inside.

When I phoned the vet to report this incident, she told me to bring Ella in right away. I did, and she gave Ella a sedative, saying it would last all night. (It did not last all night.)

We sequestered the cats in two separate bathrooms, equipped with litter, food, water and a comfy towel. Then we tried to lay down for a little sleep. Tony, already punch drunk and exhausted from a full day of parent-teacher conferences, was not coping well with this drama. He struggled with seeing the kittens in pain and hearing their cries. I’m trying to say this diplomatically, but the fact is: I was on my own.

Around 11 p.m., Ella began howling again. So much for the sedative.

I had been frantically texting my friend Nancy all evening. She went through this process with two cats here in Delhi. Finally, she texted back, “Are you OK?” No, I wasn’t OK! Nancy said her cat Annie (the mother of our kittens) also went berserk over the bandage. “She ripped it off before we got her home,” Nancy said, “but she never tried to pull out her stitches.”

With that in mind, I cut the bandage off Ella, second-guessing this decision the entire time. Ella calmed down right away, so I went to bed, certain that I would open the bathroom door in the morning to find her in a pool of blood.

Poor Khushi. I basically neglected her all night as I dealt with Ella’s djinn.

After dozing fitfully for a couple hours, I got up to treat my throbbing puncture wounds and check on the girls. Tony was already awake, trying to distract himself with YouTube videos on his iPad. I peeked in on Khushi, who was curled on a towel on the bathroom floor. She hadn’t touched her food, and she gave a sad little mew as I stroked her head. Ella, on the other hand, was rarin’ to go. She meowed happily, rubbed up against my legs and circled her empty bowl when I opened her bathroom door.

Although the monsoon season supposedly ended last week, heavy rain lashed our windows all day Saturday. We had to take the kittens for a follow-up vet visit, but we stalled, waiting for a break in the weather. It never happened. After borrowing a second carrier from Nancy in the late afternoon, we finally dashed through the downpour to put the cats in the car and drive the short distance to the clinic. Driving in Delhi is crazy under the best of circumstances, but driving in Delhi at dusk during monsoon rains is masochistic. Other drivers, attempting to avoid pooled water, swerved into my lane full-speed, with their brights on. Literally driving blind, I stayed in second gear for much of the trip, praying I wouldn’t hit a holy cow or stall out in the deep water. As if we needed more stress.

We begged the vet to remove Khushi’s bandage, hoping it would snap her out of her funk the way it did for Ella. He complied and gave both girls an antibiotic.

Back on the road, I was just starting to moan about the oncoming bright lights when Tony pointed out there were people in the road. An accident? No, it was a long procession, hundreds of ladies in colorful rain-soaked saris carrying jars of flowers on their heads. Why? Who knows? But it reminded us that we were in India, and for a moment, we felt grateful for that beautiful cultural distraction.

Tony took this shot out the car window.
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I speculated that part of Khushi’s problem was missing her sister, so I had planned to reunite the girls when we got home. Ella totally supported that idea, seemingly free of her evil djinn. She approached Khushi, who surprisingly fluffed up and hissed. Seems her djinn needed a bit more recuperation time.

Another night of sequestration in their respective bathrooms. Fortunately, the humans got some sleep this time.

It’s now Sunday morning, and Khushi is still sulking. Well, I hope she’s just sulking and not suffering too much. I hope her djinn is wallowing in self-pity rather than pain.

Weirdly, Ella has been the stand-offish cat up to now. Always just out of reach when you want to pet her, watching us with disdain. Khushi always greets us at the door like a dog, eager for love, purring uncontrollably, begging for cuddles. Now, Ella follows me around the house with her purr machine on full blast. She can’t get enough petting. Khushi remains huddled on her towel, unfazed by my presence.

Maybe there were no djinns. Maybe the vet simply switched the cats’ brains. Regardless, I’ll be relieved when they both feel good enough to climb the curtains once again.

Would YOU kick out this poor post-op kitty from YOUR one-of-a-kind hand-made bowl that YOU bought directly from the artist in Jingdezhen, China?
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Clearly, we are pussy-whipped (by the pussy CATS, geez). We let Ella sleep in the bowl even when she’s NOT fresh out of surgery.
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Daily Life, India

Delhi Heritage Walks – getting the lowdown on Lodi Garden

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Sweethearts, joggers, picnickers, playgroups, families and tourists all seem to find what they’re looking for at Lodi Garden, Delhi’s 90-acre premier park sprinkled with 15th- and 16th-century monuments. Saturday, a group of us met there for a steamy tail-end-of-monsoon-season tour with Moby, of Delhi Heritage Walks.

I can’t believe I haven’t visited this spot before now. It’s about 15 minutes from our house, and its grassy slopes, thick trees, ubiquitous flowers, swarms of yellow dragonflies and soaring parakeets created a surprising oasis.
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Bottle palms imported from Cuba line the path.
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Wikipedia offers this background:

Under the Mughals major renovations would often take place depending on what occasions they would use the gardens for, under Akbar the Great the garden was used as an observatory and to keep records in a purpose built library. In the centuries, after the 15th century Sayyid and Lodi dynasties, two villages grew around the monuments, but the villagers were relocated in 1936 in order to create the gardens. During British Raj, it was landscaped by Lady Willingdon, wife of Governor-General of India, Marquess of Willingdon, and hence named the ‘Lady Willingdon Park’ upon its inauguration on April 9, 1936, and in 1947, after Independence, it was given its present name, Lodi Gardens.

Moby had an excellent understanding of Delhi’s history and shared interesting anecdotes and facts about the park’s design and architecture. She explained that most of the tombs in the park dated from the short-lived Sayyid Dynasty, which ruled from 1414 to 1451. Not much remains from that dynasty, she said, so these monuments are under the protection of the Archaeological Survey of India.

The tomb of Mohammed Shah, the last of the Sayyid dynasty rulers, was built in 1444.
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Arches were a new architectural feature of this era, Moby told us. Traditional Hindu architecture featured doorways with decorative beams, which couldn’t support towering domes.
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Graves inside the tomb.
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The stone used for construction was impossible to carve, so builders used limestone plaster to carve ornamental designs and inscriptions from the Qur’an.
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The ceiling must have been stunning back then.
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Signs help with identification of the garden’s many species of butterflies, migratory birds, trees and plants.
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We saw lots of common Hindus, but we didn’t spot any Common Mormons.
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I never tire of seeing daily life in the shadow of ancient monuments. This group played badminton next to the Bada Gumbad Mosque. An inscription inside dates the mosque to 1494.
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More carved limestone plaster. So fancy!
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The Bada Gumbud building is believed to be a gateway and dates to the Lodi Dynasty, which ruled from 1451 to 1526.
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This Lodi Dynasty-era tomb is called Shish Gumbad. We thought that name might stem from the very steep steps, which make you say, “Sheeesh!” It turns out the name actually means “dome of glass” and refers to its glazed tiles. There are several graves inside, but nobody knows who they are.
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At one point, the sky filled with kites. Not the colorful attached-to-strings kind, but the forked-tail birds-of-prey kind. Very cool.
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Moby encouraged us to pick up the pace or risk getting locked out of the last monument. Sure enough, when we arrived at Sikandar Lodi’s tomb, the gate was padlocked.
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A kind guard let us in “for five minutes.” By now, it was getting dark, and we couldn’t really see the painting or carving work inside the tomb. Sikandar Lodi’s son built the tomb but then went on to lose a battle that ended his dynasty and brought the Mughal Empire to power.
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On our way out, Moby showed us another tower that may or may not be the oldest building in the park. To be honest, I was too peckish to pay attention anymore. In fact, we were all sweaty, tired and hungry. Good thing we had a reservation at The Garden Restaurant attached to the park. Good food and good company!
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Daily Life, India

Back in the saddle – Horseback riding in New Delhi

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One morning during water aerobics, our instructor Sherry said, “Wow, I’m so sore from riding yesterday.” I assumed she meant bike riding, so this was my inner monologue: “Mmmm… I sure miss my bike … I especially miss riding my bike in Laos. Sure wish I could do that here, but too many potholes, cows, cars, and the air pollution would kick my butt. Dang, I just can’t cope…”

Sherry’s voice interrupted. “… so we kept trotting for a really long time.”

(Insert sound effect of screeching needle on a record.)

Wait. Trotting? Maybe Sherry hadn’t been on a bike, after all. “When you say ‘riding,’ do you mean HORSEBACK riding?” I asked her. Sure enough. Sherry leases a horse at a nearby stable. For about $200 a month, you can LEASE a horse! A handler feeds it, grooms it and exercises it every day. If you decide to go for a ride, the handler saddles up your horse and then sticks around to put everything away and give the horse a bath after your ride. All of the fun and none of the work? Where do I sign?

Friend and fellow water-aerobicizer, Holli, also expressed enthusiasm for horse leasing, so we joined Sherry at the stable a few days later. Side note: The stable is located in a district called Race Course, but Holli and I mistakenly went to the ACTUAL race course, which is a creepy place full of desperate men and absolutely no women … other than us. We quickly realized we were in the wrong place and jumped back in the car for the short drive to the Children’s Riding Club.
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That’s right. The CHILDREN’S Riding Club.

Holli and I inquired about leasing horses, but ultimately decided to take lessons instead (on borrowed horses). We clipped on our new black velvet helmets and joined the line-up at the mounting block. Sherry, Holli and I joined about 6 youngsters in the arena for a riding lesson. The youngest, atop a white pony, appeared to be around 5 years old.

I’m pretty sure my assigned horse, Magic, rolled his eyes when he saw me coming. Despite years of lessons and horse ownership in my pre-teen years, I flopped around like a fish in the saddle. The stirrup straps pinched my flailing calves, and my girl parts took a beating. Even more humiliating, a handler held Magic’s bridle, walking and jogging alongside until I smiled and asked, “What’s your name?” He muttered, “Arif,” and hastily dashed away. “Thank you, Arif,” I called out. Maybe he thought I was dismissing him, but really I just wanted to express my appreciation. I completed the lesson without Arif and, thankfully, without incident.

There was no denying we were still in India. To reach the arena, we walked past what appeared to be an ancient ruin, but large dumpsters overflowing with garbage blotted the landscape. Dogs and dog-sized crows rummaged through the rubbish while we breathed through our mouths. However, the riding club itself was clean and well-maintained with scrubbed concrete stalls and small smokey fires to deter the nasty biting flies. The horses – all retired race horses! – seemed healthy with shiny coats and high spirits. The arena was smallish but served the purpose, despite several large trees springing out of the middle (anyone else foresee a cartoon-like distracted rider trotting along, looking backwards just in time to get smacked off her horse by a tree branch?). A large pool of mosquito-breeding water worried me in this season of dengue fever, but it was filled with fresh dirt within a week.
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The riding school director, Anu, was a small no-nonsense woman who stood in the middle of the arena barking out instructions and correcting our form. At times, she got frustrated with the children who lazily let their horses call the shots, but I appreciated her genuine love and concern for the horses.
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Look at this cute little sign she posted at the entrance.
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Happy Holli at the end of our first ride.
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Me feeding a carrot to Magic while Arif glares at me.
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On our second visit, the handler saddled up a large gelding named Grey Gaston for me. The monsoon season brings out some nasty flies, which were driving the horse insane. When we were moving, he was compliant, but whenever we stopped to hear Anu’s lesson, he kicked, twisted and writhed around to elude the flies so much I thought he might toss me.

At one point, Anu shouted, “Check your diagonals!” Hmmm… diagonals? That sounded familiar, but my brain must have locked up all my horse vernacular with the rest of my junior-high wisdom (maybe in a cerebral box titled “Braces and Home Perms”). Fortunately, Anu explained: Diagonals refer to your posting position when the horse trots. When the horse’s inside leg is forward, you come up out of the saddle, and when the outside leg is forward, you sit back down. Right! I knew that!

Back in the day, my horse Princess threw me countless times. Scrapes, nasty bruises and concussions were a regular part of my adolescent life. These days, I know my body would not recover quickly from a fall, so that fear lingers. But by the end of our second lesson with Anu, I was starting to feel more confident. She provided some guidance that kept me from flopping around so much, and I could feel myself panicking less and enjoying the experience. It was all coming back… The more I can relax my mind, the more I can dredge up that junior-high understanding of horses and the beauty they can bring to my life.

Daily Life, India

Yoga in India – omnipresent yet elusive

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India is the home of yoga. People come from all over the world to study yoga here. You can’t throw a scented candle in this city without hitting an ashram or yoga center. And yet … I just couldn’t seem to find what I was looking for.

Maybe I’ve been spoiled by all the mutant yoga in the States: Anusara, Yin, Slow Flow … with the hip music, clean props and blankets, gentle voices, supportive comments and eucalyptus-scented cream rubbed on my temples during savasana. I thought I would appreciate frills-free get-back-to-the-roots yoga, but apparently I like frills.

First, I enrolled in a Bikram Yoga class taught by an American instructor two evenings a week at school. I had tried Bikram before and couldn’t cope with the nonstop instructions (which I think is intentional to maintain the correct flow and timing of postures), but I figured it was better than nothing. After just a couple weeks, I bailed. The talking still annoyed me, but even more un-doable were the long days. Delhi’s heavy traffic precludes heading home after school when you know you have to return a few hours later, so I would just stay and work or socialize until 6:30 p.m. when yoga started and then get home around 8 p.m. Exhausting.

Tony and I then tried Active Yoga, which has branches all over Delhi. We were optimistic when we realized one branch was just a block from our house in the basement of an apartment building. When we entered the studio, the instructor immediately accosted us to buy a membership, but we insisted on trying a class first. He told us to set aside our yoga mats. Instead, padded mats were provided for the class, which included marching back and forth (two steps each way … weird), getting into a pose and then bouncing, running in place, and lots of push-ups. We did end in savasana, “corpse pose,” but the instructor yelled at us the whole time.

Next, I tried yoga after school with a teacher who trained in the Sivananda tradition. It was fine, but … meh … I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to return.

For awhile, two girlfriends and I practiced yoga with a popular teacher, Raju, on Sunday mornings. Quite a character, she focused extensively on breathing and getting us to activate our “urinary muscle.” It was the best instruction I’ve ever had in “mula bandha,” a fundamental technique. However, I longed for a yoga practice with a little more emphasis on the asanas, eager to stretch out my entire body.

Finally, a friend from water aerobics said, “I have a great yoga teacher.”
(a) Yes, I go to water aerobics. That’s another story.
(b) I didn’t really believe her.

Fortunately, my friend had more perseverance than I do and arranged for me to attend her private class. I met Rita, a lovely gentle woman who teaches in her tiny basement space with room for only six mats. She did the whole practice with us, unlike Stateside yoga, where teachers often roam the room while giving instructions. She also counted off every movement. “Inhale one, exhale one.” The practice felt a bit calisthenic, different from what I thought I wanted, but not in a bad way. My joints felt looser, my muscles longer, my mind calmer. At the end of the class, we all sat together and enjoyed hot tea and homemade cookies. Again, not a typical experience in Michigan.

Rita told us that she had wanted to remodel and expand her studio, but she was discouraged by none other than the Dalai Lama himself. Some of her students were U.S. diplomats hosting the Buddhist spiritual leader, so they brought him to her studio to practice yoga. “He sat here and prayed, although I couldn’t understand his language,” she said. “Afterwards, he told me to take down all the mirrors and posters. He said I shouldn’t knock down the wall because it was a healing place.” Strangely, it really does feel like a healing place with a soothing energy.

Since returning to India, Tony has also craved yoga, so I invited him to join me at a class with Rita. The two of us and an Israeli lady named Yanna practiced with Rita Saturday morning. Tony had to change spots several times or risk smacking a sconce or whacking his hands in the ceiling fan at the start of a sun salutation. However, when we headed back out into the steamy Delhi air, he said, “That was probably my favorite yoga class of all time.” Maybe because of the cookies.

It takes about 15 minutes by car to reach Rita’s home early on a Saturday, but we live on either end of the Aravalli Biodiversity Park path, so we may start walking the 2.5 kilometers through real nature (!) to reach our class each week.

When I think back to summer in Michigan with all the trails and clean air and Americanized yoga that we love so much, I realize how big this void has been in our Delhi lives. I have made a commitment to finding more balance in my life this school year, and I think Rita may just help me do that.

Namaste.