Tag Archives: New Delhi

Daily Life, India

Sari School wraps up my birthday

Leave a comment

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.
P1000987

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

2 Comments

“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?

P1040064

Daily Life, India

Hangin’ with the djinns at Kotla Firuz Shah

1 Comment

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.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The pillar itself was fascinating. I had initially dismissed it as another concrete smokestack or unfinished construction project.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

Kaye climbs back down.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

Prayer mats were stored in the niches.
Untitled

Schedule of prayer services.
Untitled

Jenna exploring the mosque.
Untitled

Untitled

We climbed down a dark stone stairwell full of bats to reach the step well’s water level.
Untitled

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.”
Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

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

4 Comments

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.
photo (1)

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?
photo

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.
Untitled

Daily Life, India

Back in the saddle – Horseback riding in New Delhi

2 Comments

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.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

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.
Untitled

Look at this cute little sign she posted at the entrance.
Untitled

Happy Holli at the end of our first ride.
Untitled

Me feeding a carrot to Magic while Arif glares at me.
Untitled

Untitled

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

1 Comment

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.

Daily Life, India

Wrapping up year 2 in India

Leave a comment

Our first year in India was hard, possibly the hardest first year we’ve had in our 12 years overseas. As Bob Hetzel, our outgoing school director, is fond of saying, “Whatever is true about India, the opposite is also true.” That makes it particularly difficult to learn the ropes and settle in to this city that defies all western logic. Add that to the heat, the pollution, the crowds, the chaos.

By the end of our first year, we were feeling marginally better about our decision to move here but still overwhelmingly frustrated. Then a departing teacher, who spent five years in New Delhi, shared this snippet of wisdom: “Your second year will be exponentially better. And your third year will be exponentially better than your second year. And so on. You won’t believe it!”

He was right. Year two really WAS exponentially better than year one. Not perfect, but much much better. I don’t really know WHY, but it was. As I gear up for a Michigan summer, I can honestly say I look forward to coming back to India in the fall.

New Delhi is finally starting to feel like home. We’ve even expanded our family after talking about it for years. We’re going to miss these girls over the summer, but I made a quick video to keep them with me as we travel.

Daily Life, India

Glamour Shots – Delhi Style

10 Comments

Browsing through the shops in Delhi’s backpacker district, Pahar Ganj, I laughed with my friends Katrina and Nancy at the spangly belly dancing costumes for sale. “We should totally do a photo shoot wearing those outfits at some historical site!” we joked. Somehow that throw-away comment turned into a brilliant plan, which came to fruition last weekend.

The three of us became fast friends as “newbies” at the American Embassy School, and we’re now struggling with the knowledge that Katrina won’t be here after summer break; she’s heading back to the States. There couldn’t be a better going-away gift for this beautiful, elegant lady than Glamour Shots – Delhi Style. In addition, over the last two years, we three felt compelled to stage the clichéd Charlie’s Angels guns-drawn pose every time we spotted a camera. While those shots were all spontaneous, we couldn’t resist actually planning a special culminating picture.

As the day of the photo shoot approached, I tried on my costume. It was completely see-through and not at all flattering.

Untitled

“Maybe we should wear our pretty Indian clothes instead,” I suggested. We each have saris, anarkalis or lehengas, which pop with color and better camouflage our flaws. We agreed to pose in our fancy outfits first, and then we’d change into our belly dancing costumes.

Around 7 a.m. Sunday, our make-up artist arrived (late) and went to work on me.

Untitled

Yogita had no sense of humor about this experience, or maybe she just wasn’t a morning person. I told her I could do my own mascara, and she commanded me to make my lashes thick. “I’ll try,” I said, “but I only have about four lashes on each eye.” Katrina and Nancy laughed, but Yogita only responded drily, “I know. I saw.”
Katrina was next, then Nancy.

Untitled

Untitled

Finally we were ready to meet up with our photographer, Tim Steadman, who was patiently waiting at the Qutub Minar parking lot. Yogita clumsily banged her make-up suitcase down the stairs until it burst open and spilled her supplies everywhere. Already more than 30 minutes late, we rudely tiptoed over the scattered plastic boxes and brushes to dash out to my car.

Worried my long full skirt would get bunched under the car pedals, I opted to drive in capris. At the Qutub Minar parking lot, I pulled on my skirt and whipped off my pants before we phoned Tim to say we’d arrived. By the time we climbed into his car, it was about 9:45 a.m. and already 108ºF. He drove a short distance and pulled into a quiet road leading to the Mehrauli Archaeological Park, where we ladies had once visited on a walking tour. Check out MEHRAULI ARCHAEOLOGICAL PARK – AN URBAN OASIS. If you don’t feel like reading my old blog post, here’s a paragraph about the spot Tim chose for the day:

Sir Thomas Metcalfe, who was the East India Company’s resident at the Mughal Court, constructed his 19th-century country house right over the 17th-century mausoleum of Muhammad Quli Khan (an attendant to the Mughal emperor Akbar and stepson of Akbar’s wet nurse). Metcalfe’s dining room was apparently directly over Khan’s tomb, and he further embellished the area with pavilions, a dovecote and a waterway to bring visitors to the estate by boat.

Unfortunately, getting there required a bit of walking and climbing of steep steps. This trek was much easier on the aforementioned walking tour in appropriate footwear and sensible clothes. I tottered in my strappy sandals over the lawn and up the broken stone steps, clutching my wadded-up tulle dupata in one sweaty hand and layers of heavy polyester skirt fabric in the other. We took refuge in the shade but couldn’t avoid the scorching breeze that evaporated all the moisture from our eyes and lips.

Katrina’s a natural.
ksn05

Lovely Nancy.
ksn10

Me “working it.”
ksn25

ksn64

I think we were going for sultry here, but we mostly just look pissed.
ksn20

One of my favorites.
ksn43

That’s the 12th-century Qutub Minar in the background. Standing on the grounds of Delhi’s “first city” dressed in fancy Indian garb felt kinda magical.
ksn50

Unlike Yogita, Tim had a wonderful sense of humor. “Just put one hand on your hip like this,” he would say, striking the pose. “And then stick out your other hip and look off in the distance.” It’s a good thing he knew how to pose us because only Katrina seemed to have a natural flair for modeling. I couldn’t help acting ridiculous, quoting Zoolander and Austin Powers. “Now you’re a lemur!”

We eventually got around to our Charlie’s Angels pose, accentuated with a nice windblown hair effect.

ksn45

Not yet ready to wrap it up, we threw in a little Matrix action, too.
ksn77

By the time we trudged back to Tim’s car, sweaty and dehydrated, we had lost the motivation to peel off our dresses and stage a redux in the belly dancing costumes. Whew!

Looking at Tim’s photos, we can’t help but notice our saggy baggy flabby bits, but it’s also easy to see the beauty – inside and out. This was a joyous, silly, beauty-filled day, and I felt especially grateful to have such amazing ladies in my life.

ksn21

ksn75

Here’s a video with some of my favorite shots.

Want more? Check out my flickr album, Charlie’s Angels – Delhi Style, with all 160 photos (80 shots in both color and B&W).

Daily Life, India, On the Road

5 weekends, 5 countries

Leave a comment

Yowza.

Maldives
Thailand
Oman
Nepal
India

In the last five weeks, I spent only one weekend in New Delhi. Finally, a few moments to process. So much has happened in such a short amount of time, personally and professionally. Here’s the scoop in chronological order:

Maldives – Nothing soothes my soul like a little time by the sea. Tony and I escaped for a week in Paradise for Spring Break. See my post about our relaxing vacation – Maldives Diary.

Thailand – As an EAL (English as an Additional Language) specialist, I co-teach in grade-level classrooms, usually during the literacy block. The workshop model at our school draws heavily on resources from the Teachers College Reading and Writing Project at Columbia University. For years, I’ve heard teachers rave about the Teachers College summer institutes, but I’ve never had an opportunity to go. Unable to get to the mountain, I brought the mountain to me! Well, the Near East South Asia Council of Overseas Schools brought the “mountain” to its Spring Educators Conference, and I was lucky to land a coveted spot in The Writing Project’s Foundation Course. I can see the eyerolls and exaggerated snoring sounds, but seriously, I was like a kid in a candy store. Top-notch instruction with immediate take-aways. That’s the kind of stuff teachers drool over. Another perk was networking and sharing ideas with educators from other international schools.
After 12 years overseas, it would be impossible to attend an international teachers conference and not see friends from my past – thank goodness! This conference was no different; I ran into people from our days in Istanbul, Shanghai and Vientiane.

Oman – As arguably the least-sporty coach at our school, I gave a pathetically weepy speech at the Season 3 Awards Ceremony last week. For some reason, the Forensics Team (debate, public speaking and drama) gets recognized alongside softball, baseball, badminton and track-and-field athletes. Maybe the “real” coaches found me a bit overdramatic, but that’s what we forensics geeks love. As one of four coaches who traveled with the team to Muscat, Oman, in mid-April, I felt overwhelmed with pride for their accomplishments at the tournament. See details at O, Man! Forensics and Fun in Muscat.

Nepal – With the end of the school year in sight, I joined four other ladies for a weekend get-away to Kathmandu to recharge our batteries and enjoy some quality time with two friends moving back to the States. Check out that post at Kathmandu – Ladies Weekend.

India – This is such a busy and emotional time in the life of a teacher abroad. Report cards, placement decisions for next year, language testing, farewell parties for friends moving on, big changes.

Looking back to May 2012, I can say our first year in India was hard, possibly the hardest first year we’ve had anywhere. As Bob Hetzel, our departing school director, is fond of saying, “Whatever is true about India, the opposite is also true.” That makes it particularly difficult to learn the ropes and settle in to this city that defies all western logic. By the end of our first year, we were feeling marginally better about our decision to move here but still overwhelmingly frustrated. Then a departing teacher, who spent five years in New Delhi, shared this snippet of wisdom: “Your second year will be exponentially better. And your third year will be exponentially better than your second year. And so on. You won’t believe it!” He was right.

Year two really WAS exponentially better than year one. Not perfect, but much much better. Despite the daily head-slapping confusion of living in a developing country, we also experience daily revelations. I cautiously look forward to an exponentially better year three. As we add two new members to our household, New Delhi is finally starting to feel like home.
Introducing Ella and Khushi.
Untitled

Daily Life, India

Cue the cows … and … action! Mom and Dad see REAL India

7 Comments

India kindly handed my parents a genuine slice of life during their two-week visit.

Untitled

Their taste of New Delhi’s daily grind included: pollution in the “red zone,” several power outages, taps running dry, driver had a row with his wife and didn’t show up to take us to work, housekeeper/cook took a day off for her uncle’s funeral, car broke down, dogs in the dumpsters, cows in the road, street kids tapping on the car windows at stoplights, and oh so many more sights, sounds and smells that keep our anxiety levels higher than healthy.

Untitled

Untitled

But set aside your disgust and frustration, and you see another side of India that sparks appreciation, or at least fascination. My parents also experienced:

The costumes, arts, crafts and music from the state of Karnataka (as well as the exuberance of school kids) at the annual Surajkund Mela.

The get-away-from-it-all Aravalli Biodiversity Park‘s twisting path through scrubby acacia trees and wild peacocks, just around the corner from our house.

Untitled

The drumming, the dancing, the sequins of the over-the-top Epcot-esque venue and Bollywood stage show at Kingdom of Dreams.

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The levity and intensity of eight Indian men desperately trying to pick out sunglasses for Dad at Ambience Mall.

Untitled

The sneeze-inducing spice market, technicolor sari shops and gilded, spangly, tassled wedding accessories during a death-defying rollicking bicycle rickshaw ride through Old Delhi’s congested alleys.

The comfort zone of mini-America at our school and the American Embassy restaurant.

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The time-travelling trip to the Mughal Dynasty in Agra (Taj Mahal, Agra Fort, Fatepur Sikri) and Delhi’s Qutub Minar.

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The saris, the chaos, the smiles, the 10-minute alterations on vintage sewing machines at the local Sarojini Market.

The posh indulgence of a proper breakfast at the Imperial Hotel – twice.

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

Untitled

The relative peace – not counting slum drumming, the high-pitched drone of construction equipment, and bellows of strolling cows – in our leafy Vasant Vihar neighborhood, with help from lovely Raji.

Untitled

Untitled

Poor Dad came down with the flu, or a cold, or pollution-related respiratory problems, poor guy. But overall, we had a great time! Tony and I enjoyed sharing the ups and downs (and fast curves and U-turns) of life in this place! We wanted to show them what we love about Delhi, but ultimately, they saw it all – the stunning and the heart-breaking. Because, really, there’s no other way to experience India.

(The iPhoto slideshows are a bit lame, I admit. I’m looking for a way to easily link photos from Flickr to make slideshows visible on Apple devices… in the meantime, you can check out the photos at my flickr photostream.)