Thank Goodness the Pig is Fine!

Ambrose called me yesterday. In his halting English, I understood "Raju, car, pig, under, car not run." I was so sure I could not be hearing correctly so I asked him to repeat the story. Nope, it was true. There was a car and a pig in the same story!

Raju was driving back to the office from the Honda repair shop when a pig suddenly either ran under the car or ran in front of the car (I still do not know the exact story) causing major damage to the radiator. The coolant gushed out and the car is drivable only in 3 minute segments to avoid overheating the engine. Imagine having a car like that--in Indian traffic! If someone told me this story, I would never believe it. But here, now, believe me because I have a 36,000 Rupee radiator replacement bill that will attest to this story.

"But madam, the pig is fine," Ambrose reassured me.

"The pig is fine? The pig is fine? Why would I care about the pig?"

Not having had time to reflect on this unusual event, I was hassled by the inconvenience, the 36,000, and the sheer absurdity of the whole thing! I was just beginning to see Raju in a different light, starting to think that perhaps I have treated him less than fairly. He holds on to his job by the skin of his teeth. He either locks the keys in the car, comes late for a drive to the airport, has trouble with his motorcycle and cell phone, or has a relative or two dieing. His employment with us has been quite eventful. Yet, he is always there with a smile, is never disrespectful, is a superb driver, and most of all, doesn't honk his horn unnecessarily (in India it is a pleasure to have a driver who does not use his horn as his brakes!). And now this incredulous pig under the car story.

"Raju was lucky it was not a cow," David teased when he saw my agitation.

"Better a pig than an elephant," Angelika joked.

In truth in India it is entirely possible to encounter a goat, a donkey, an elephant, or even a camel on the road. You know about the cows, of course. And I did once see a little piglet. So I suppose this story is not so far fetched after all. I finally decided there was nothing to do about this pig story. The radiator had to be replaced, that was all there was to it. No sense in reprimanding Raju. No sense in hassling about it. That was that. He was still going to get his Diwali bonus, it wasn't his fault the pig ran into the car.

Having made peace with the situation, I was ready to laugh at the incident. I recounted the story to Shailan (my photography guru). With a hearty laugh, he said, "So are we going to have a party?"

I just had to laugh! He explained that I should count my blessings that it was only a pig, not a man. True. And count my blessings that the pig is fine. Again that pig is fine line! He told me a story of a man who ran over a hen. The owners of the hen demanded 10,000 Rupees. The hen had just come of age, was going to lay eggs and would have earned the owners 10,000 Rupees!

"So Belinda," Shailan explained patiently, "thank goodness the pig is fine!"

It is Never as Easy as it Seems, A Day in Delhi

After church today, I decided to drop in on Amit's photography exhibit at the Convention Foyer of the Indian Habitat Center. That should be easy, I've been to the Habitat Center countless times. But wait, where is the Convention Foyer? I walk around the expansive Habitat Center mercifully shaded by the blue open tile-work that is the signature of the grounds. I consult two men with Habitat IDs but they could not give me directions. It wasn't just the language gap, mind you, they honestly did not know where the Convention Foyer was! I came upon two elderly American ladies looking as lost as I was. I couldn't help them, they couldn't help me. We shook our heads in unison and wondered why there was no map. Wouldn't life be easier with a map? I am not looking for a map to life, just a map to the Center; it shouldn't be that difficult! After 10 minutes under 38 degree heat, I find the Convention Foyer at the exact place of Amit's last exhibit. In the absence of a map, why don't they just call it the usual place?

Our weekends always include an afternoon at the club. Rachel does her thing at the gym while David and I are at the squash court. On the way home, Rachel had a hankering for a smoothie. I finagled our schedule for the evening so that she and I could sneak away to Choco La for a smoothie. I made her a solemn promise that she will definitely have her smoothie.

David volunteered to cook dinner and after a trip to the vegetable wallah and the grocery store, we still needed the last few ingredients to get the meal together: red bell peppers, tomato sauce, olives, pickles, liver paste (I know this sounds like a horrid combination but trust me when I tell you that these things make for a sumptuous caldereta!). Before Rachel and I can sneak away, I must get those ingredients so that David can put dinner together.

Ambrose dropped David off at home.

Ambrose took us to Modern Bazaar at Basant Lok.

I got all the ingredients and sent Ambrose back home.

Ambrose came back to Basant Lok.

Finally, Rachel and I can sneak off for her smoothie. I ordered a mango passion fruit granita. Rachel ordered a kiwi and banana smoothie. "Sorry mam, but we have no bananas." So she settled for a mango and orange smoothie. In a few minutes the waiter returns. "Sorry mam, we only had one portion of mango and it was used in the granita. What about a strawberry smoothie?" Rachel hates strawberries. A smoothie was such a simple wish and yet, it wasn't simple after all. I suggested we make a smoothie at home. We'll need mangoes, orange juice, a banana, and yogurt. I assign Rachel to gather the ingredients at Modern Bazaar while I go to the chemist.

After a quick detour to the fruit wallah, we have all the makings of our mango smoothie plus a pineapple for the next day's juice. Home, Ambrose!

David was busily preparing dinner. I love to hear stories of how husbands prepare dinner. Imagine a kitchen with all the counters covered with something--a towel, a pot, a pan, a bowl, knives, plates, plastic bags, etc. And any counter that has nothing on it was splattered with either grease or salt or pepper! And the floor! Bits of cheese are all over the floor! "The cheese exploded!" David announces. "I just picked it up and it exploded in all directions! I've been slaving over a hot stove for hours!"

I was furious! I make dinner 5 nights a week and he never comes home to a kitchen disaster! Then realizing the futility of my frustration, I just gave him a wry smile. So, cooking dinner it is not as easy as it seems, does it? I came to his rescue and tried to organize the kitchen sink which was full of piled up plates and utensils. The water trickled out, literally trickled out!!! What else can go wrong? (By the way, the next day, Ambrose discovered that almost a teaspoon of little rocks was blocking the faucet spout. Go figure!)

I will admit to you that living is India has its perks in the way of the Ambroses and Meenus and sometimes even the Rajus. But it is the little inconveniences that can drive you mad! Why isn't anything as easy as it seems? Why do I wait 3 hours for the computer man, watch him figure out the problem for one and a half more hours only to announce to me that "yes, madam, I need to install the Bridge program" when that is exactly what I told him 6 hours ago? Why does our pressure pump need a slap every other week to make it work? Why does Rachel's air-conditioner only run on temperatures above 26? Why is the key to the balcony door so crooked that it needs manly force to turn it? Why does rain come in torrents inside my downstairs bathroom? Why do my dressing room lights go off after 5 minutes of use? Nothing comes easy!

So when you start to think that we here live a life of privilege and luxury, you are absolutely right. But remember that nothing here comes easy. Remember Sisyphus and his rock? Camus claims that when Sisyphus acknowledges the futility of his task and the certainty of his fate, he is freed to realize the absurdity of his situation and to reach a state of contented acceptance. That is where I want to be, in that state of contented acceptance. There, I feel much better now. I just had to tell someone!

If I Knew Then What I Know Now

Sleeping bag? Check. Down jacket? Check. Windbreaker? Check. Fleece top? Check. Ski pants? (Yes there was no chance we would be skiing but I packed it all the same just in case we might need the extra layer for warmth.) Check. Hiking shoes? Check. Wool socks? Check. Wool hat? Check. Gloves? Check. Three extra jackets? Check.

D700, D300, 14-24, 24-70, 105, 18-200, 12-24, 70-210? Check. 77mm polarizing filter, 500d close-up filter? Check. 62 to 77, 72 to 77 step up rings? Check. CF cards? Check. Batteries? Check. Solar charger, battery car charger, regular Nikon charger, BlackBerry charger, Mac charger? Check. Mac? Check. My Passport external hard drive? Check. Tripods? Check.

Thus went my three-week preparation for our photo-trek to Chandratal Lake. I'd exhausted all my options on finding someone to carry my equipment on the trek so I resigned myself to having my camera and lenses on my back. Jogi and Shailan, our trek gurus would not be cajoled into allowing me to have my own Sherpa. That would take away from the purity of the experience, Jogi said, from knowing that you conquered all on your own. So okay then, let's go the pure way.

Our summer plans center on Daniel and Rachel. Daniel, having just graduated from university and with a few weeks before his job training was to begin in New York, had time to spare in between. I persuaded him to join me on the trek. For purely selfish reasons perhaps? Could he possibly be sweet talked into carrying a lens or two? In truth, I wanted to share this experience with him. I have always admired his photography, which he decided to put on hold once the demands of university studies came upon him. This was the chance to rekindle his interest. But simply, I was a mom whose son was going out into the big world and I wanted to spend time with him. Rachel was safely in Delhi and David was happy to have some father-daughter time with her. Rachel was waiting to start her summer internship.

We began or trip with a 16-hour bus ride to Solang. You have all seen those movies that show rundown old buses in India? The one where the windows are open to the swirling dust of the streets? Where people are crammed into the bus holding their baskets on their laps? Where men of all ages hang on to the bus as it speeds away recklessly? And where the chickens are piled high on the bus rooftops? Fortunately, we were on the "other" bus! Ours was air conditioned and had cushy reclining seats. It was going to be a long bus ride but it would be bearable. I put our jackets into pillowcases, packed some trail mix and water; Daniel and I were ready.

We made our first stop for dinner. In America, this might be a a truck stop, perhaps a diner. The Indian version was an organized affair with a dining hall preceded by a large room with larger than life size European looking cherubic ceramic statues for sale along with shampoo and cologne, toothpaste and tissues...everything a traveler might need, I suppose?

We got back into the bus to continue our journey. Our next stop was breakfast. I had an omelet sandwich. Imagine that, an omelet sandwich! Why didn't anyone think of that? Back to the bus again and after a few more hours of fitful sleep, we arrived at Solang. We collected our bags and squeezed into white gypsies that took us to our hotel. Our rooms in Solang were spacious and clean; walls were of pine and smelled positively mountainous. The air was clean and cool and did not have the dry and dusty, hot and suffocating feel of Delhi air. This was a great start.

Dan and I unkinked our crooked bodies, stretched out and dozed off. All too soon, we had to pull ourselves away from our warm and cozy beds to shower then join the group for a slide presentation. It was time to learn everyone's name as well. Imagine how confused we were to be in a room with Vivek, Arvinder, Saarthak, Vikram, Ankit, Radha, Shubhra, Neeraj, Sonal and Vibhor (don't be too impressed, I cut and pasted these names from our trek directory). But we had time to get this all down pat so we relaxed and learned what we could from the days presentation.

The next day, we got back into our little white gypsies and headed to our first campsite that would be 8000 feet above sea level. We traversed a two lane rocky road a side of which was the edge of a precipice. In spite of this, we traveled at brisk speed and overtook other gypsies whose drivers were perhaps not as experienced as ours. There were brief stretches of road where we collectively breathe in with the futile hope that it would somehow help in getting the provision trucks by us as we shared these narrow passages.

We stopped at a wide-open field. Although I knew we would be camping for the next seven days, it was still a shock to realize that we would be sleeping under the open skies, surrounded by the snowy Himalayas. Our staff of eight pitched our tents, set up our mattresses (oh dear, this was not the two-inch mattress Jogi and I talked about, this was a thin sheet of Styrofoam!) and threw in our sleeping bags. We were good to go. They pitched the dining room tent, pitched the "convenience" tent and went on to prepare lunch.

Our first hike took us through rolling hills leading to a waterfall. A swift stream traversed our path. We removed our hiking shoes and gingerly crossed one at a time led by Yogi, our smiling and surefooted guide. I was the most cowardly of all waiting to see if everyone made it across before I grabbed Yogi's hand as he steadied me through the stream smiling encouragingly with every step I took. At the other end, everyone stood victorious yet slightly stunned at how the freezing water numbed their toes. The photography that afternoon was uneventful for me. I was bothered by the weight on my back and the altitude was starting to take its toll. That evening I succumbed to a headache, curled up in our tent and skipped dinner.

Everyone fell victim to the altitude; no one was spared. The evening wind howled that night violently flapping our securely anchored tent doors and windows. In the deep of the night I got up and ventured out. Everything was silent, everyone was asleep. A little white dog curled himself into a tiny ball and huddled next to Jogi and Shailan's tent trying desperately to shelter himself from the harsh wind. I looked up at the sky and saw the most magnificent canopy of stars. I have never seen a sky such as this; was that the Milky Way? Were those auroral lights?

We fell into a pattern. Breakfast was followed by a gypsie ride to a higher altitude where we would spend the next night. We stopped along the road to photograph shepherds and their flocks of sheep and goat heading toward green fields for the days meal. We laughed and enjoyed each others company as we bobbled up and down while our drivers navigated the treacherous and potholed roads. As the sun came down, some ventured out to catch the golden light of day, the light all photographers wait for.

Our final destination was Chandra Tal Lake, 14,000 feet in the Himalayas. Crescent shaped, the lake is located in the Spiti district of Himachal Pradesh. A popular destination for trekkers and campers, the lake is accessible by foot only for a few months in a year, from May to August. We basked in the warmth of the day certain that the night would bring freezing temperatures and that we would wake up to a blanket of little flecks of morning frost on our tents. We walked and talked and photographed. We hiked independently and in groups hoping to find the perfect scene or lone flower that would catch our eyes. In the mornings, the water on the still lake was Prussian blue gently changing to emerald green in the evenings. It was magical!

If I knew then what I know now, I would still have gone on this trek.

Eating 24 Indian meals was not easy. There is just no two ways about this.

Yes, I disliked sleeping on inclined and stony ground with just a sheet of foam and a sleeping bag between me and the damp. But it was touching to have friends come and knock on our tent doors to check if the altitude headache was gone. It was nice to be called to chai and meals and huddle against the cold with everyone.

The thought of spending the days with complete strangers was daunting but I discovered the most wonderful group of people: two young boys who quietly watched and listened to the adult (only sometimes) repartee, three architects who had keen and practiced eyes for the beauty in lines and forms, three ladies who braved the elements and passed with flying colors, a merchant marine who could fix anything you broke, a fellow who seemed to be the embodiment of Murphy's law yet triumphed against all odds, a young man so passionate about photography that I suspect he slept with with a camera slung around his neck, and a wise and gentle guru whose only true passion was pressing the shutter.

True, it was tough to learn all those names, but we had a riotous time westernising everyone's name. Thus, Vivek was Vick, Arvinder was Arby, Saarthak was Star Trek, Vikram was Victor, Ankit was Andy, Radha was Rosa, Neeraj was Nick, and Sonal was Sonia. And who could have trouble remembering the name Shoe Bra (Shubhra)? In a few days everyone answered to their western names.

Under the circumstances, it was reasonable to expect our experience to be fraught with unpredictable adventures but we heard nary a complaint from our staff of eight; they seemed almost invisible, only around when food was served and chai was wanted. They set up and packed up camp each day, drove gypsies and cooked meals like clockwork. Could we therefore expect and perhaps hope that India could one day be like this?

The air was thin, the nights were cold, but to be embraced by the Himalayas was humbling. What greater discovery is there than to feel that indeed we are small and insignificant against the beauty, grandeur, majesty and power of God and nature?

Unequivocally, I would still have gone on the trek if I knew then what I know now. I would still have gone because my learning was not just about photography; it was about life, humility and hope.

Summer of '09

The order of my blogs now run helter-skelter as my mind moves from this and that. Summer is always an event for us now that we are empty nesters. Trips to see the kids or meet the kids or set the kids up in whatever place they have chosen for the summer always takes precedence over all that we do.

This summer has been so remarkably different that I would like to tell you three different stories about the past few weeks. There is so much that has filled our lives that to write here is to commit it to memory so that we can savor again and again the sweetness of our days.

Being the hopeless procrastinators that we are, our flight reservations were settled a mere three weeks before our first departure date. I am not sure how we manage this but over the past 10 years or so, we’ve scraped by, finding flights that suit us, more or less. Whoever the flight gods are, thank you! We had two flights originating from Delhi but departing on different days, a flight originating from the west coast of the United States and one from the east coast. All flights converged in New York City where we were to attend Daniel’s graduation at Columbia University and all flights headed to back Delhi. In truth, that route is not quite complete because one of those flights headed to New York once again via Istanbul and the other is heading to Los Angeles via Frankfurt! It is indeed a small world.

We spent a week in New York City. This “city that never sleeps” is, in my mind, everything that Delhi is not and I immersed myself completely in its rhythm. As a young woman, I spent seven years here and to this day I enjoy her skyscrapers and historic buildings, central park and her green respite, her crowds of tourists and natives alike, avant garde and street fashion, enticing shops, her unlimited variety of cuisine, and oh those delicious toasted bagels with schmear! Yes, my tastes and pleasures run shallow but my joy and contentment run deep!

We headed to Connecticut to visit family. Having lived out of the United States for 16 years, we have failed miserably in keeping contact with close family: we dare not call them close except that truly, they are close to our hearts. We have Daniel to thank for fostering the connection. He seems to have an innate inclination towards the warmth of family and has visited Connecticut on numerous occasions over his two years in Columbia.

They say that you can choose your friends and that it is unfortunate that you cannot choose your family. I humbly disagree. If I were given free rein to pick and choose the people that will make up my family, I would still choose the family that God has blessed me with. I kick myself for letting so many years go by without having basked in the love and caring that was that was so freely given to us now.

"Dad, when you saw mom, what did you think?" Nancy asked.

Nancy is of my generation (though admittedly a few years younger) and her Dad, Uncle Arthur is brother to David’s late father, Jerry. Our immediate family is small. Jerry had three children and Arthur two.

“She’s a doll!” was Uncle Arthur’s unhesitating reply.

And that is where it all begins. There could be, in my eyes, no truer love and devotion than Uncle Arthur’s to Auntie Anne and Auntie Anne to Uncle Arthur. Perhaps the years have shaped them, honed them in to two halves of one, each separate yet truly a wonderful whole! I could not ask for a kinder and gentler father-in-law standing in stead of father Jerry who I never had the good fortune to meet. There could not be a more embracing Auntie Anne who has made me feel more of a Nishball than I ever did. I hope that my children embrace them as grandparents as Uncle Arthur and Auntie Anne have a bottomless well of love and affection for them.

It is easy to love Nancy and Judy who may be the wackiest aunts my kids could hope for. Quick with the repartee, teasing smiles escaping their lips, Nancy and Judy were pure fun. Scott and Judy opened their home to us, kitchen, laundry room, garage, and all. More than a few times I wished that we lived around the corner, that we could do Trader Joe’s at a moment’s notice, enjoy the concerts at the green whenever we pleased, and enjoy this treasure of a family.

We visited with friends in Virginia. We drove to Washington DC, made a leisurely trip on Skyline Drive, visited Annapolis and had our crab cakes. Daniel and I explored DC while David and Rachel worked at the conference.

On our way back to Connecticut we visited with family in New Jersey. Another taste of home cooking and familial togetherness greeted us, making me feel the remoteness of Delhi even more. It is funny, I realize now. As children and young adults, we are impatient to grow up and test our wings, to discover the world and create our own universe. Yet as time weaves its tapestry in our lives, our heart’s desire evolves into the simplest of joys: hearth and home, family and love. There is nothing more complete.

Just Ask

My first year in India was about planting my feet firmly on the ground to conquer each challenge that was set before me. I am, after all, a veteran of 28 moves. Oh yes, I knew that I would have to fell the dragons and dispel the demons that would make our lives here less than a swashbuckling adventure. I was just naive about how much time it would take to kill those dragons and slay those demons.

On my first weeks and months in India, in spite of the horror of the hyjiras at my door and the terror of discovering rats on the A-block tomatoes, I reminded myself that my life here would be more than just tennis and lunches. For two decades life was about Daniel and Rachel. Now it would be about David and I and our dreams.

Even after seeing O.P. Sharma's basement classroom, and suspecting he fibbed about English being the medium of instruction, I still dared to enroll in his 6-month basic photography course. How could I pass up 144 hours of education working out to roughly 55.55 rupees an hour?

Two years later, my life is truly not just about tennis and lunch. Photography is firmly ensconced in my life. I have discovered yoga. I am rediscovering Spanish. And it is not just tennis and lunch. My tennis friends have become truly dear to me and our lunches are always occasions for the laughter that keeps the Indian blues away!

With the relative stability of my domestic situation, the dragons and devils slain, friends made, and routine established, I decided it was time to add a new dimension to my days. It was always in my mind but the daily hiccups of life here were always a good excuse to delay the "giving back."

I met Mala over lunch. In between the niceties of how do you do and how do you like India, she talked about her kids. She runs a center in Malviya Nagar that provides underprivileged children the opportunity to learn English, math and science over and above what the local schools provide (which apparently isn’t very much). Programs run from morning to evening, reaching out to children of all ages.

Mala invited me to come and see the center. With two minds about giving away my only free morning of the week, I agreed. Mala involved me with the kids enjoining me to make sure they were keeping to their learning levels in their varied subjects. That was easy enough.

One Wednesday, Mala suggested we take the kids on a photography outing to the zoo. I consulted my gurus Jogi and Shailan. They urged me to set the kids off and let them find their own vision. And so the seed was planted. We set a date.

Believing that the chemistry of things eventually work themselves out, I let the idea settle in my head and refused to worry about it. Then I thought, why not get my photography friends to mentor these kids? Yes, indeed why not? I “facebooked” Santosh and bless him, he volunteered to come to the center and give the kids a pre-outing talk. Though I was not present, Mala reported that the kids were enthralled and engaged and were psyched about our outing.

I begged and cajoled Neeraj and Hitesh into coming and being a part of my project. They agreed. I asked Amit, to give his time and in his usual gracious manner, he agreed. Vineet to date has never said no to my requests, he was there too! I found Avika on Santosh’ facebook page. Pratibha too was a blessing from Santosh. All I did was ask! All we ever need to do is ask!

Sunday morning. Organized to the minute, Mala and I divided our energies. I would organize the mentors and she would organize the kids. The 12 eager young boys were at the bus stop at 6:00 am and at 6:30 still no bus had come. These clever boys found a Qualis and negotiated a fare of R200 to take them to Lodhi Gardends. My hat off to them!

The outing was a success. Perhaps we did not produce photographic masterpieces but we had given these boys a wonderful Sunday morning. The mentors were happy to give their time, even graciously thankful that I had thought of including them in our project!

Next Sunday morning, I arrived at Qutub Minar at 6:45 to make sure I would be there before our boys got there. At 650 I saw a group of young boys walking towards the entrance. There was Rafi carrying a big box of sandwiches. Truly, a big box of sandwiches! The box was lined with newspaper; they had carefully laid out cheese sandwiches with the crust sides neatly cut off! These young boys walked 45 minutes to get here! I had 15 boys and 10 mentors! The word of our project had spread and friends of friends were dropping by to give our kids their time.

I said goodbye to the kids two days ago. By this time, we have dreams of an exhibition of the children’s photographs. We spread the word that we need wall space to hang their pictures. I am not certain how it will evolve in my absence but I have the suspicion that merely asking for time, or kindness will take us a long way. It has been an amazing three weeks with the boys. If our dream ends here, we will have given them Sundays to remember. If only for those few hours, we will have kept them safe from harm and given them gifts of time and mentorship that were so outside their realm of possibilities. Thank you, my friends and mentors, I now know that all we really need to do is ask and then open our arms to embrace the gifts that we receive.

Hope Springs Eternal at Sarojini Market

Guidebooks say that if you want something inexpensive and are willing to brave the market, Sarojini is the place to go. Rachel and I have had fabulous finds there. For R100 each, Rachel has bought a white American Eagle summer dress, a brand new Fcuk skirt, and a few Billabong tops. I on the other hand have bought a skirt, a dress, and a top none of which I ever wore.

Ambrose now knows exactly where to drop me off. After several instances of confused coordinates, he drops me off in front of the plastic wallah. I walk straight ahead passing the blanket wallah, the shoe wallah, and countless earring and bracelet wallahs.

I take my usual route. Down to peruse the fruits and vegetables, right through the alley where shirts, skirts, dresses and pants hang, covering two tall walls. The vendors sit on their haunches and with eagle eyes monitor passersby for any hint of interest. I walk with head high determined to make obvious my disinterest in their display. However, I spot a pretty white cotton shirt with some delicate blue embroidery. I ask to see it and upon closer inspection find that the embroidery is incomplete in some parts. Pity, it would have been a very cool thing for the summer. I return the shirt to him saying that I don’t want it. He attempts to close a sale.

No madam, how much you want pay?

I don’t like it, embroidery ripped.

Okay, Madam, I give you good price. Only 250.

No, I don’t like it. Embroidery broken. My English fails as I try to get myself understood.

Madam, no, is good!

No.

No? This said in a tone as though he could not believe I could possibly pass up such a good offer.

No!

This exchange is of course witnessed by all the other clothes wallahs hoping to get an insight on how to bargain with me to convince me to part with my 100 or 200 rupees. But I move along, strong in my resolve.

I turn right again to visit the man under the tree who has British India rejects on display.

Tell me what British India stuff you have.

This top, madam, this skirt, all here, British India. There, Billabong.

Show me this skirt. Kitna?

350.

350?! Why so expensive?

British India, madam. And when police come, I have to hide British India.

Fair enough. I consider a purplish blue skirt with floral appliqués. Still a bargain at 350INR but in the end, I conclude that it is not the perfect skirt I came here to buy. So I walk away. This is a confident British India wallah. He allows me to walk away with nary an attempt at a bargain. He knows that the next dilliwali will buy that skirt.

Walking straight ahead, the street is lined with stores selling what seems to be the same tacky skirts and shirts. Yet, it does not stop me from inspecting each store in search of that one special skirt that I am sure will be a steal!

I walk towards a stall. I spot a skirt with an intact Zara label. The sparring begins.

Kitna?

250.

Realize now that this converts to US$4!

I quickly return the skirt to the vendor and show my indifference to his attempt at cheating me. I continue to look at the skirts while he is hopeful I will decide to do some bargaining with him.

He begins, ok, how much?

100.

No madam, 150.

No, 100.

No madam, 150.

I walk away. He doesn’t stop me.

I have just established that the walk-away price for that skirt is 150.

No loss, there will be many other Zara skirts.

I zigzag my way to the “cave” through Ray Ban, handkerchief, laundry basket, papadum, and nimbu panni vendors.

Here comes the apron vendor.

Madam, apron?

No, thank you.

I have many colors, madam.

No thank you.

But madam, it is made of plastic! (How could I possibly not want his apron, it is made of plastic, darn it!)

No thank you.

Here comes an earring vendor. He is the 20th vendor to approach me with this same box of 12 plastic multi-colored earrings.

What patience, what persistence! How can they persist in trying to sell these earrings when there are about 50 other vendors selling the exact same thing? And how can the apron wallah think he can sell me an apron when I so clearly do not want an apron? There must be a Hindu god of patience and perseverance that they have prayed to.

This may amuse you too. Whatever article of clothing you choose, the vendor will try and convince you that it is the right size. I see a pretty skirt which is clearly four sizes too big for me. The skirt wallah starts to explain that it is exactly the right size! See? He shows me how they have stitched a gulley on the inside of a skirt where they have snaked in a fabric pull to make the skirt gather or loosen as the situation demanded! And this size 44 top? Why you not buy, madam? I will give you a good price, you can have stitched on sides, make size 36! What patience, what perseverance, and now what inventiveness!

I manage to dodge all hopeful vendors and reach the "cave." I realize now, that this Sarojini Market which I have always feared getting lost in is really just two streets and that walking as I did today just brings me back to where I started. It took me two years to figure that out, 7 or 8 visits to this market. I've always gone with Rachel who has a keener sense of things than I do and now, left to my own devices, I've finally conquered Sarojini!

Those of you who have been to Sarojini will know exactly where the "cave" is. There are two caves. I am mercifully shielded from the 35C heat though this cave is sweltering as well. The cave holds a treasure trove of Billabongs and other foreign branded items. I slowly look through each item. Sadly, there is nothing that piques my interest and I go out to the sunlight to continue my search. I am empty handed after walking through the market for an hour and a half.

I came today to find the pretty skirt Debbie wore at yoga today. It is a 50INR skirt that looks just perfect as a yoga cover up. However, seeing piles and piles of these haphazardly tailored skirts made me realize that I didn't want one after all.

Why do I visit Sarojini?

When I am with Rachel it is because she enjoys the hunt and has the patience to comb through all the hanging merchandise to find that one special thing. She is very good at it and I enjoy watching her. Maybe I miss her just a little bit and want to revisit places we conquered together.

Perhaps it is because I really thought I wanted that skirt.

Or perhaps it could be that Sarojini is a place of hope. I see hope in the 50th earring wallah trying to sell his wares against all odds. I see hope in the skirt wallah who never tires of attempting to sell the very same thing that his neighbor is selling. Hope is in the manner of the Ray Ban Wallah as he surreptitiously shows me his fake sunglasses. And the apron wallah, he hopes to sell me something I would never possibly want! It is hope and the absence of despair that this place reminds me of. And for myself, I am always hopeful to find that treasure. I never do, but I always hope that next time I will.

Just Another Day

Monday mornings are always full of plans for the week.

What shall I make for dinner tonight and the next four nights? Oh yes, remember to send David a reminder about making plans for Srinagar. Send Daniel a copy of his tax information. Oh my! My son now does his own taxes, bless him! Investigate our United Airline miles that we must use. Take care of that pesky club bill which has now morphed into a monster issue.

Thank all the thousand Indian gods for yoga at 10:20 this morning.

After an hour, I have all these to do items safely tucked away in my mind and I face my week with renewed energy, reclaimed calm, and a silent resolve to cross those items off my list as though to clear all the toxins out of my system. Ommm....

I head to Choco La for lunch. Choco La is the one safe, predictable, and usually pleasant little cafe that shields me from the chaos outside its doors.

But here is where the turmoil begins. Three young women chat animatedly, occupying my favorite spot. Ommm...no worries, even I can be generous and forgiving after my hour of cleansing breaths at yoga.

I choose a little table for two by the window. Spanish book and dictionary on the table, I begin to tackle my “deberes." As I look up from my books, I realize they are doing major repair work on the ceiling just behind me. They've opened up the ceiling exposing dark and scary places where lurks vicious little critters that I am certain are set to jump out of the darkness on to my feta cheese bruschetta!

Back to the three young women out for brunch. They each have two children in tow, perhaps seven to nine years of age. The kids have been set loose in the cafe, running back and forth, screeching in their high pitched kids' voices, scurrying around gathering pillows here and depositing them there while their mothers chat blissfully unaware (I suspect that they are inured to the chaos their children create) that their cute little monsters have shattered my morning calm and serenity.

Still determined to hold on to my peace in spite of being swallowed up in this very high decibel room, I walk to the other side of the cafe, my back turned away from the repair work and my ears determined to ignore the children's noise and upheaval. I am hopeful.

I am generally an observant sort. At times, I wish I could learn to focus only on what is in front of me. Not this morning it seems. The repair work, the noisy children, and now this woman at the next table busily performing her private ablutions as though she were sitting in her boudoir! Bas, bas, bas! Too much for today!

You know those pesky little survey cards restaurants push in front of you at bill paying time? I have filled up those cards countless times hoping that one day, a restaurant manager will actually heed my words and make my day just that little bit brighter. But that day has not come, at least not at Choco La. Once again, the sweeper promenades past me with his wet and disgusting mop! Sweeper number two passes me leisurely with his green bucket heading to the restroom for patrons. ¡Que asqueroso!

The chatting mothers are finally finished and have once again invaded my space, their unruly children following them. They choose breads, inspecting every little cake and treat while their children pass by my table putting my cous cous and vegetable soup in danger of being upended and spilled. There is drilling on the other send of the cafe while Il Divo blares in the background. Those poor chaps have been singing non-stop for three weeks now! Next time I fill up that survey form, I will strongly suggest they give Il Divo a rest!

Never have I ever been surer that pushing back and trying to buck the system will not work here in India. After all, there are 1.2billion of them and only one of me! Insurmountable odds!

Yet, there is inspiration and hope! Angieji, my German angel, has eight years in India under her belt. I have watched her in action challenging all status quos, speaking out against all that is unreasonable. She is a picture of charm at cocktail parties but at any other time is a true German soldier, never giving up any good fight! Full of wisdom, full of courage, she faces India squarely, looks it in the eye and bends this mighty world to her will and at the end of it all, comes out smiling and truly reveling in the wonder that is India.

India is a world of contradictions you say? So true, so true, but perhaps then I too must be a contraction? After this morning, I too will be wiser, fighting, yielding, battling, relenting, and keeping myself at an even keel. In the end, I will be victor over the challenges I have chosen to face and be at peace with the battles I have chosen to forgo.

Contradiction vs contradiction: both sides winners, both sides happy!

Perhaps that is the only way.