For almost a year now, I have listened to Sharma sir expound on the wonders of lighting and lenses, cameras and composition. Though theory is taught in English, most of his anecdotes, which I long to understand, go over my head as he uses Hindi to reach his students (except me, of course). What amazes me is how much I have picked up not from understanding his vignettes delivered with his signature crooked smile, but rather by being in the mere presence of all the avid and eager photographers and learned and accommodating teachers. I have long debated with myself about remaining matriculated at Treveni but today, I have ascertained the validity of my decision to remain.
Photography as a hobby has already rewarded me immensely. Celso in Davao has asked me for prints to display proudly in his office. He has also asked me to put together a collection of prints to frame and hang in his sweet shop at the Fort in Makati. He suggested we put them up for sale and donate the proceeds to a charity of our choice. Cherry in Manila has requested a series of black and whites to adorn the walls of her soon to be completed black and white themed house. I have received numerous positive comments about the relatively minuscule pictures I have posted here and requests to post larger versions of my work. All this I receive humbly, with gladness in my heart that my fledgling efforts have not gone unnoticed.
But all patience and hard work eventually come to fruition. Last weekend, Sidharthe (of the Close Encounters of the Third Kind blog fame) needed professional photographs taken of his Silverline jewelry and thought that I would do the job. With a new showroom having branched off the more established and iconic store of his father, Sidharthe J. spearheads innovative efforts at putting Silverline out there for everyone to notice. Young, energetic, and sometimes even irreverent, he is the fresh force driving the new store to success. A firm believer in exposure and advertising, he and Silverline, Khan Market has been the subject of several interviews and features in newspapers and magazines.
I am touched by his belief in me as a photographer. Sidharthe J.and I are "gemology junkies" but this has brought a new dimension to our friendship. I do not for one moment suggest that he has the critical and practiced eye to discern a well composed, well lit, and well focused photograph. Not at all. I see him as a young man who allows his intuitive senses and gut feelings to guide him in his forays. Seeing as he sits on the bosses chair at his store, seeing that people gather and crowd in his showroom, my guess is that he has indeed been blessed with the magic to mix his education and good sense with the intangible of his intuition. I prayed I would not disappoint him.
Jointly we chose pieces to be photographed. I wracked my brain for a way to make the bracelets sit, the earrings stand, and the bangles hang. I was not going to do this alone. I invited Siddarth D. (of the Red Earth blog fame) to be my partner in this project. We set our shoot for Monday, a mere two days before Sidharthe's (J) Wednesday deadline. Talk of pressure! Not knowing that this project would come my way, I had also invited three ladies to lunch on Monday and promised to cook them a simple meal before our afternoon shopping trip. Multi-tasker to the max, I figured I could make lunch, entertain three ladies and my pal Etienne, shoot with Siddarth, and after that, head to Basant Lok for our afternoon outing. Whew! I was tired already.
I worried about the shoot all of Sunday. At the end of the day, upon Siddharth's (D) suggestion, I went to a stationery store to buy poster cards for backgrounds. Black, blue, Indian red, textured and smooth, I bought all I could lay my hands on still not knowing exactly how I would pull this off. Adjacent to the stationery store was a rice and grain store. I saw gunny sacks of various pulses: red kidneys, green mung, black dal, yellow and orange lentils, unhusked rice. What a perfectly organic background to Silverline jewelry! I purchased a kilo of every color of every pulse I saw. I suspect the young boy attending to me wondered what in the world I was going to cook with all these different beans but I didn't care, I was ecstatic with my idea!
Siddharth (D) arrived at my house with his strobe, diffuser, reflector and camera. I was ready with my pulses, Silverline jewelry and of course my magnificent D300 and an array of lenses. Siddharth set up the main light. We struggled with the poster backgrounds, tried bust forms for the necklaces, acrylic hangers for the earrings. Everything looked stilted and stiff. This simply would not do. I poured the unhusked rice in a crystal bowl and sat the Hyderabadi polke bangle and dangling earrings on the mound of rice. Perfection! We experimented with a few shots honing in on the exact exposure needed. Once we got the proper exposure, we varied our perspective to capture the jewelry's allure. It was a tedious process of trial and error, moving the camera up or down, using the 50mm vs the wide angle lens, pointing the reflector to the left or to the right, using its gold or silver side. We complimented a Lapiz Lazuli pendant with red kidney beans, textured gold and diamond earrings with black pulses. We walked back and forth to the computer to view our work. What joy to see our creations! We coordinated pulse colors with jewelry, lenses with the pieces to be photographed. At the end of the day, our energies were depleted but our spirits were high!
I returned home today after having shown Sidharthe (J) our photographs. He loved them! Happily, Siddarth and I congratulated ourselves on a job well done.
Here is what I have learned. Sometimes, we don't know what we are capable of. Other people see it in us but we fail to see it ourselves. Sometimes we just have to take that leap of faith to explore what is out there. Sometimes we succeed brilliantly and I am sure we will also fail miserably. Sometimes, all we need to do is to say "YES." To Sidharthe and Siddharth, my sincere thanks.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Another One Bites the Dust...and Angels Fall from Heaven
Just when I think I can live with the status quo, bam, everything changes~! Yes, you guessed it right, this is another Apprentice installment!
I've introduced you to spitfire Mary. We've managed a reasonable relationship over the two months--I stay out of the house while she is there. She cleans, thoroughly by her standards, reasonably well for mine. All is well in spite of the frequent "Madam, I don't like your (fill in the blank, rice, milk, etc...)" encounters which I've managed to avoid by just getting out of her way.
Bravely, and foolishly, I planned a luncheon party for three friends who are leaving Delhi in the summer. I kept the party down to a reasonable number, ten, the maximum my dining table can sit. I was prepared to do the marketing, cutting, chopping, cooking, table setting, flower arrangements. I was counting on a clean house and someone to wash the dishes when all was done. Though I knew it would be a lot to take on, I decided that we all are blessed abundantly in material ways that the only way to express my thanks and appreciation to these ladies was through this labor of love. And now, this!
Early Saturday morning, Sharma Sir took us on a shoot at the little lake outside the Purana Qila. From this angle, the fort was a majestic sight, it's red power rising high above us. Through Sharma Sir's eyes, we saw light and its enthralling effects on portraiture. How awesome to distill his art into a few simple concepts, concepts that make creativity and beauty soar in photography. In spite of the early morning hour, the sun was blazing. We broke off in groups trying to recreate and practice the few simple concepts he imparted to us.
I left David to instruct Mary to do two things: clean three windows and dust the sofa (yes, dust the sofa--only if you have lived in Delhi will you know why this is a must.) I was shocked to hear that Mary refused to do the three windows telling David that she had too much work and that it was not her job. When I got home, I once again asked her to clean the windows. Again, the reply was that there was too much work in my house, that it was not her job.
Alright. Mentally, I pushed my sleeves up ready for this encounter, ready to "get my hands dirty" to sort this all out.
Madam, there is too much work in this house. That is not my job, you need to get someone else to clean those windows.
Mary, you don't cook.
You don't wash.
You don't iron.
You ask me for transport money, I give it to you.
You ask me for uniforms, I give it to you.
You ask me for slippers, I give it to you.
You ask that you work 7 hours without a lunch break I give it to you (in spite of the fact that I know you take a lunch break).
You don't like my brown rice, I get you white rice.
You don't like my skimmed milk, I get you your Mother Dairy milk.
Though we don't keep bread at home, I get you your bread for your snack.
I did not have to do any of those things, it is not my job.
I ask you to clean three windows and it is not your job?
Madam, there is too much work. I clean the kitchen everyday, it takes four hours.
Four hours! How can the kitchen take four hours?
The exchange continued, her voice escalating. Madam, everyday you complain. You tell me this not clean, you see this, you complain. Everyday complain, complain.
Mary, the other day, I told you that you threw my new contact lenses out. This cost me R600!
Yes Madam, that was my mistake.
I pulled out the dryer and bins from the laundry room and showed you all the dust and dirt that had accumulated there. You have never swept there!
Madam, that is my mistake, that is my job.
Today, I told you the sofa was incredibly dusty, dust accumulated not over a day or a week but over months! Yes madam, that is my job, that is my mistake.
Madam, for 25 years I work for British, they not complain. Everyday you complain, complain, complain. If you not like I work here, I go.
What unmitigated insolence!
I left her to her work and enlisted David and Ambrose to help me clean the three windows in the dining room. We got the job done and my ladies can now enjoy the park view over lunch.
Here is my question to you. If Mary works seven hours today, and seven hours everyday, how is there too much work? Seven hours work is seven hours work. At the interview, she said she would do whatever work needed to be done. Ah yes, the courtship stage, promises, promises! And at what particular point does a reminder become a complaint? And what is the best approach to all this? Should I breathe down her neck about every little thing so that she gets used to my presence (as I have been strongly advised to do) or should I stay out of her way and have as little contact as possible and have my every comment taken badly? Where does the balance lie? I have not been able to understand the psyche of the Indian domestic helper this after having lived with help for practically all of my life.
I mulled over keeping her or firing her. David advised me strongly that I should fire her immediately. He added, "I have 2,000 people working for me. I know." And of course he was right. True to form, he added, "but you are coming close to 2,000 too." Oh yes, nothing like a little acerbic wit to diffuse a situation. And you know what? Our stint in India might just come to that--2,000 helpers in 3 years is starting to look like a possibility.
We calculated her pay, paid her over and above that (though I really wanted my money back for the slippers and uniforms) and sent her on her way. In parting, I said, "Mary, I am sorry this did not work out." She picked up her sandals, walked out, slammed the door with nary a murmur of thanks. Unmitigated insolence!
As Ambrose holds the Apprentice of the Year title, Raju's claim to fame, among other things is being an excellent maid pimp. Pardon the crudeness, but truly, if you were witness to our household goings on, you too would agree. The last go round, he sent me elderly ladies who could barely walk, a young girl with painted face and purple nails and all sorts and sizes in between! This afternoon, barely 48 hours after Mary's departure and two hours after we put Raju to task he has brought me Rosie, his brother's sister-in-law!
Rosie is a young girl with a smiling face to camouflage her lack of English. I have her in my kitchen now and I have decided to test her mettle. I've warned her that I want someone who wants to work hard. I believe I got that point across. Everything remains to be seen.
I try and remind myself constantly that life is too short to spend even one moment in frustration and anger. So I've decided to roll with the punches, Rosie cleans while I blog. Tomorrow is another day and I will be ready for the delights or debacles to come.
Domestic disasters continue to haunt me. I have not managed to conquer that chapter of my Indian experience. But this much I know, this much I have manged. Mary bites the dust but I now have wonderful and true friends who have come to my rescue. As angels from heaven they have volunteered to come and help me cook and get ready for tomorrow's luncheon party. That is an achievement.
I've introduced you to spitfire Mary. We've managed a reasonable relationship over the two months--I stay out of the house while she is there. She cleans, thoroughly by her standards, reasonably well for mine. All is well in spite of the frequent "Madam, I don't like your (fill in the blank, rice, milk, etc...)" encounters which I've managed to avoid by just getting out of her way.
Bravely, and foolishly, I planned a luncheon party for three friends who are leaving Delhi in the summer. I kept the party down to a reasonable number, ten, the maximum my dining table can sit. I was prepared to do the marketing, cutting, chopping, cooking, table setting, flower arrangements. I was counting on a clean house and someone to wash the dishes when all was done. Though I knew it would be a lot to take on, I decided that we all are blessed abundantly in material ways that the only way to express my thanks and appreciation to these ladies was through this labor of love. And now, this!
Early Saturday morning, Sharma Sir took us on a shoot at the little lake outside the Purana Qila. From this angle, the fort was a majestic sight, it's red power rising high above us. Through Sharma Sir's eyes, we saw light and its enthralling effects on portraiture. How awesome to distill his art into a few simple concepts, concepts that make creativity and beauty soar in photography. In spite of the early morning hour, the sun was blazing. We broke off in groups trying to recreate and practice the few simple concepts he imparted to us.
I left David to instruct Mary to do two things: clean three windows and dust the sofa (yes, dust the sofa--only if you have lived in Delhi will you know why this is a must.) I was shocked to hear that Mary refused to do the three windows telling David that she had too much work and that it was not her job. When I got home, I once again asked her to clean the windows. Again, the reply was that there was too much work in my house, that it was not her job.
Alright. Mentally, I pushed my sleeves up ready for this encounter, ready to "get my hands dirty" to sort this all out.
Madam, there is too much work in this house. That is not my job, you need to get someone else to clean those windows.
Mary, you don't cook.
You don't wash.
You don't iron.
You ask me for transport money, I give it to you.
You ask me for uniforms, I give it to you.
You ask me for slippers, I give it to you.
You ask that you work 7 hours without a lunch break I give it to you (in spite of the fact that I know you take a lunch break).
You don't like my brown rice, I get you white rice.
You don't like my skimmed milk, I get you your Mother Dairy milk.
Though we don't keep bread at home, I get you your bread for your snack.
I did not have to do any of those things, it is not my job.
I ask you to clean three windows and it is not your job?
Madam, there is too much work. I clean the kitchen everyday, it takes four hours.
Four hours! How can the kitchen take four hours?
The exchange continued, her voice escalating. Madam, everyday you complain. You tell me this not clean, you see this, you complain. Everyday complain, complain.
Mary, the other day, I told you that you threw my new contact lenses out. This cost me R600!
Yes Madam, that was my mistake.
I pulled out the dryer and bins from the laundry room and showed you all the dust and dirt that had accumulated there. You have never swept there!
Madam, that is my mistake, that is my job.
Today, I told you the sofa was incredibly dusty, dust accumulated not over a day or a week but over months! Yes madam, that is my job, that is my mistake.
Madam, for 25 years I work for British, they not complain. Everyday you complain, complain, complain. If you not like I work here, I go.
What unmitigated insolence!
I left her to her work and enlisted David and Ambrose to help me clean the three windows in the dining room. We got the job done and my ladies can now enjoy the park view over lunch.
Here is my question to you. If Mary works seven hours today, and seven hours everyday, how is there too much work? Seven hours work is seven hours work. At the interview, she said she would do whatever work needed to be done. Ah yes, the courtship stage, promises, promises! And at what particular point does a reminder become a complaint? And what is the best approach to all this? Should I breathe down her neck about every little thing so that she gets used to my presence (as I have been strongly advised to do) or should I stay out of her way and have as little contact as possible and have my every comment taken badly? Where does the balance lie? I have not been able to understand the psyche of the Indian domestic helper this after having lived with help for practically all of my life.
I mulled over keeping her or firing her. David advised me strongly that I should fire her immediately. He added, "I have 2,000 people working for me. I know." And of course he was right. True to form, he added, "but you are coming close to 2,000 too." Oh yes, nothing like a little acerbic wit to diffuse a situation. And you know what? Our stint in India might just come to that--2,000 helpers in 3 years is starting to look like a possibility.
We calculated her pay, paid her over and above that (though I really wanted my money back for the slippers and uniforms) and sent her on her way. In parting, I said, "Mary, I am sorry this did not work out." She picked up her sandals, walked out, slammed the door with nary a murmur of thanks. Unmitigated insolence!
As Ambrose holds the Apprentice of the Year title, Raju's claim to fame, among other things is being an excellent maid pimp. Pardon the crudeness, but truly, if you were witness to our household goings on, you too would agree. The last go round, he sent me elderly ladies who could barely walk, a young girl with painted face and purple nails and all sorts and sizes in between! This afternoon, barely 48 hours after Mary's departure and two hours after we put Raju to task he has brought me Rosie, his brother's sister-in-law!
Rosie is a young girl with a smiling face to camouflage her lack of English. I have her in my kitchen now and I have decided to test her mettle. I've warned her that I want someone who wants to work hard. I believe I got that point across. Everything remains to be seen.
I try and remind myself constantly that life is too short to spend even one moment in frustration and anger. So I've decided to roll with the punches, Rosie cleans while I blog. Tomorrow is another day and I will be ready for the delights or debacles to come.
Domestic disasters continue to haunt me. I have not managed to conquer that chapter of my Indian experience. But this much I know, this much I have manged. Mary bites the dust but I now have wonderful and true friends who have come to my rescue. As angels from heaven they have volunteered to come and help me cook and get ready for tomorrow's luncheon party. That is an achievement.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Whose Job is it Anyway? (Sidebar to The Apprentice)
If you have never lived in India, what I am about to tell you might amuse or exasperate you depending on your position on this matter. When you are done reading, you might choose to guffaw at my bafflement or throw your hands up in exasperation as you understand exactly what I mean.
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
A quick Apprentice update: After my three week search, I found Mary, a spunky little south Indian lady. Though I am almost a full head taller than her, she breathes fire and I can almost see smoke emanate from her nostrils when something does not quite go her way. At interview time, she promised that she would do whatever needed to be done, whenever it needed doing. True, she asked for an eight-hour day (which I vaguely agreed to), uniforms (which I agreed to), lunch (which I vaguely agreed to as well) and right then, I should have had a clue as to the spitfire in this little package. I realized the challenge in finding a reliable English speaking housekeeper so I cut my losses and decided to hire Mary.
Mary planned to move into our servants quarters that weekend. Come Saturday, she announced that her husband needed three months to find suitable quarters in Bangalore and that she would have to commute during that time.
"Madam, you give me transportation money?" Honestly, I am unsure whether that sentence ended with a period or a question mark as it was spoken in true spitfire fashion! I replied that I would think about it and get back to her. I discussed this with David who wisely advised that it was unreasonable to ask for transportation money since the quarters were available for her. Putting this in perspective, we are talking about $20. Is it worth worrying about $20 for three months? Weigh $60 against the possibility of having to start the search all over again. Your answer? Eight-hour day, uniforms, lunch, and now transportation money.
Score:
Mary 4
Me, zilch!
Mary spent no time at all settling down into her new position: head housekeeper, boss of all household underlings. Mr Lal, the dhobi always goes about his work quietly, his only demands being hot tea a few times a day and some bread and butter for snack. I suspect wise old Mr. Lal was secretly overjoyed that he now had someone to make his tea and wash his cup. He was in dhobi heaven!
"Madam, I don't like this milk. I cannot drink your milk." David and I prefer skimmed milk while Mary prefers Mother Dairy full-of-fat milk! If I really wanted to even out our score, I could have scolded her and told her off. But no! Alright, Mother Dairy milk coming up!
Mary 5
Me, still zilch!
The next day, I traced more smoke coming from Mary's nostrils. Why? "Madam, I cannot eat brown rice. I do not like your rice." To avoid being a total pushover, I told her that she had to eat brown rice until I found the time to get her some white rice. I delayed giving this matter any attention at all. That should show her who's boss! I stretched it out for a week!
Mary 5
Me 1
"Madam, I need slippers. Please find me a pair of small slippers." I wear a size 38 while she a 35. The possibility of finding small slippers around our house was nil. So, I promised her I would buy her a pair of slippers. Two weeks later, she is still barefoot around the house.
Mary 4
Me 3 (that coup deserves 2 points at least)
At about the same time I hired Mary, I hired a mali to take care of our garden. Ambrose was my broker and he conveyed the scope of the work to be done. As much as possible, I like to buffer myself from these goings-on. Besides that, Ambrose can speak Hindi ever so much better than I can (my entire Hindi vocabulary consists of a mere 15 words at most and none of them garden related!). I put Mary in charge of the mali, the mali-police so to speak. Mary got the mali to come at 2:00 p. m. instead of his usual 5:00 p.m. because it interfered with her departure time. I didn't care much either way. I only cared that I didn't have to be around to escort the mali around the garden and up to the second floor balcony.
Mary 5
Me 3
Mali zilch!
To get to our front door, you have to go through our gate and up a flight of stairs. I asked Mary to keep the area clean. "Madam, that is the mali's job." Alright then, get the mali to do it. I told her in no uncertain terms that I did not care who did it, just that it got done. Get the mali to do it or get it done yourself. Ha! I smell a victory! Mary now walks out with a broom Monday, Wednesday and Friday. YES!
Mary 5
Me 4 (I share this victory with the mali.)
Mali 1
Our front steps are now relatively clean courtesy of Mary. I also asked that the area immediately outside the gate be cleared of all debris and trash that blows over from the surrounding area. Done, courtesy of the mali. Stairs, check. Outside gate, check. Wait a minute! Why is that gate dusty? Why is the marble that lines the 15-foot wall along the walkway filthy?
I asked Mary once again to take care of the "dusty 15 (feet)." Madam, it is the mali's job." I replied that she therefore needed to get him to do it. The next day, she announced that it is the sweeper's job. The sweeper? Let me try and understand this. We have a housekeeper who cleans the steps, a mali who cleans outside the gate but we need a sweeper to clean the dirty 15? I asked Ambrose his take on the situation. "Yes, Madam, you can hire a sweeper to clean the walkway."
This is the puzzle. It takes all of two minutes to clean the area. Ambrose sits outside waiting for me for hours on end when I am home. He points a finger at the mali or the housekeeper or the sweeper but he does not take it upon himself to run a rag along the area. His Apprentice of the Year title is in serious jeopardy! The mali and housekeeper want nothing to do with it. If we hired a sweeper to clean the dirty 15, our household of two will have a staff of 6! The minutiae of our lives in India is unbelievable. Are jobs so specialized? Does a population of 1.2 billion people mandate that each job be limited in scope? How much pride is involved? Is it pride or is it laziness in disguise? Is this a tried and tested system that I should not mess with? As they like to say in India,
You tell me.
Whose job is it anyway?
The score stands but the battle continues....
Thursday, March 27, 2008
In All Humility
I made a deliberate choice. I would explore all Delhi and India had to offer and revel in every new experience ahead of me. Where tennis filled my hours no end in Singapore, Delhi would be different. I have been blest with the freedom to do as I please and I would blaze ahead with it. For three-hundred-and-eighty-two days, I have lived the Delhi chapter of my life with structure that did not allow for much female friendship and camaraderie. After all, I had so many worlds to conquer, and conquer them all I would!
Photography classes at Triveni Kala Sangam took 3 mornings of my week plus some evenings and afternoons for shooting. Tennis took two mornings and a Friday evening. Weekends with David were sedate and sometimes frenetic but who can't use a little spice now and then? Seeing India with David always took precedence: photography and tennis took a back seat to that. So, my life was pretty set, (barring my domestic staff drama, of course) I was on track, my eyes steadily on the goal to conquer the world! With an empty nest, I had the complete freedom and the wherewithal to get anything done, the world was my oyster!
This has been a week of surprises. I reluctantly participated in a tennis tournament. I allowed myself to go with the flow; I set aside my plans of conquering the world and reinventing myself, immersed in the here and now of the tournament. I played hard, cheered louder, and laughed heartily. I discovered and forged friendships that I never sought. I have found new delight in the courts. Once again, tennis is taking center stage. In all humility, I embrace the tender buds of friendship. You awesome tennis ladies have melted my cold, cruel and wicked heart.
Photography classes at Triveni Kala Sangam took 3 mornings of my week plus some evenings and afternoons for shooting. Tennis took two mornings and a Friday evening. Weekends with David were sedate and sometimes frenetic but who can't use a little spice now and then? Seeing India with David always took precedence: photography and tennis took a back seat to that. So, my life was pretty set, (barring my domestic staff drama, of course) I was on track, my eyes steadily on the goal to conquer the world! With an empty nest, I had the complete freedom and the wherewithal to get anything done, the world was my oyster!
This has been a week of surprises. I reluctantly participated in a tennis tournament. I allowed myself to go with the flow; I set aside my plans of conquering the world and reinventing myself, immersed in the here and now of the tournament. I played hard, cheered louder, and laughed heartily. I discovered and forged friendships that I never sought. I have found new delight in the courts. Once again, tennis is taking center stage. In all humility, I embrace the tender buds of friendship. You awesome tennis ladies have melted my cold, cruel and wicked heart.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Sometimes It's Better Not to Know
One of the many delights of India is her abundant and fresh produce. This spring, cart fulls of bright yellow mini-melons, deep red pomegranates, oranges, big and small papayas, green and black seedless grapes, sweet smelling guavas, and bunched up gooseberries line the streets of every enclave and colony. Glowing white radishes, deeply red orange carrots, rockette lettuce, cauliflower, slim lady fingers, multi-colored bell peppers, fresh scallions and bigger leeks can all entice a sworn carnivore into vegetarianism.
One-stop shopping here is far removed from its western concept. We have no Safeway or Kings where vegetables are under dim lights and cold misters as though they were being styled for a photo shoot. We have no Price Club where large quantities of produce are clinically packaged for the American household. What thrives are block markets. In my community, I have the choice of doing my "one-stop" shopping at Basant Lok, or the A-block, C- block, D-Block or E-block market. Block markets will allow you to buy one banana or lime or onion if you wish. You can go over the tomato bin and pick just the ripest ones for the evening salad. You can choose just a couple of bananas for next morning's pancakes. If by unfortunate coincidence you run out of money, the merchant is quick to give you credit.
A recent newspaper article brought to light that among the market scales surveyed, only a mere 30% were accurate. Aha! I am not surprised! The A-block fruitwallah takes my fruits, makes a show of putting them on a scale and without pen or paper, comes out with a total for my day's purchases. I never challenge the accuracy of his scale nor his arithmetic. A few rupees here and there doesn't make much difference. But a few rupees every day can come up to quite a tidy sum.
My friends and I discussed our fruit-buying habits. I was not surprised to discover that they are not too fond of my A-block fruitwallah. Too expensive, one says. He is so snooty, another complains. True, true, but you've got to admit, his fruit looks good. They admonish that I try their more friendly E-block fruitwallah.
One evening, my dinner menu included a salad of fresh ripe tomatoes with lots of cilantro and a vinaigrette dressing. India's tomatoes are red and luscious unlike the hothouse version we see in Singapore. I stopped at my unfriendly and snooty A-block fruitwallah to pick out my 5 salad tomatoes. I headed to the dark corner where he has a crate of tomatoes. As I headed over, I saw a rat which must have been at least five inches long with an even longer tail! Horrors! I ran out immediately and told him that there was a rat amongst his vegetables. He looked at me very calmly and said "THAT IS NOT MY RAT, MADAM, THAT IS MY NEIGHBOR'S RAT."
I could not have my tomato salad that evening.
Not that evening, not the next evening.
Later that week, I recounted my story to a group of local friends. They sat, listened indulgently and smiled at me. My dear, they advised, anywhere there is fruit, there will be rats. There are rats out on the fields where the tomatoes grow. There are rats on the orchards and farms where fruits and vegetables grow. I've never quite thought of it that way but I suppose they were right. Sometimes it's just better not to know.
Enjoy your tomatoes!
One-stop shopping here is far removed from its western concept. We have no Safeway or Kings where vegetables are under dim lights and cold misters as though they were being styled for a photo shoot. We have no Price Club where large quantities of produce are clinically packaged for the American household. What thrives are block markets. In my community, I have the choice of doing my "one-stop" shopping at Basant Lok, or the A-block, C- block, D-Block or E-block market. Block markets will allow you to buy one banana or lime or onion if you wish. You can go over the tomato bin and pick just the ripest ones for the evening salad. You can choose just a couple of bananas for next morning's pancakes. If by unfortunate coincidence you run out of money, the merchant is quick to give you credit.
A recent newspaper article brought to light that among the market scales surveyed, only a mere 30% were accurate. Aha! I am not surprised! The A-block fruitwallah takes my fruits, makes a show of putting them on a scale and without pen or paper, comes out with a total for my day's purchases. I never challenge the accuracy of his scale nor his arithmetic. A few rupees here and there doesn't make much difference. But a few rupees every day can come up to quite a tidy sum.
My friends and I discussed our fruit-buying habits. I was not surprised to discover that they are not too fond of my A-block fruitwallah. Too expensive, one says. He is so snooty, another complains. True, true, but you've got to admit, his fruit looks good. They admonish that I try their more friendly E-block fruitwallah.
One evening, my dinner menu included a salad of fresh ripe tomatoes with lots of cilantro and a vinaigrette dressing. India's tomatoes are red and luscious unlike the hothouse version we see in Singapore. I stopped at my unfriendly and snooty A-block fruitwallah to pick out my 5 salad tomatoes. I headed to the dark corner where he has a crate of tomatoes. As I headed over, I saw a rat which must have been at least five inches long with an even longer tail! Horrors! I ran out immediately and told him that there was a rat amongst his vegetables. He looked at me very calmly and said "THAT IS NOT MY RAT, MADAM, THAT IS MY NEIGHBOR'S RAT."
I could not have my tomato salad that evening.
Not that evening, not the next evening.
Later that week, I recounted my story to a group of local friends. They sat, listened indulgently and smiled at me. My dear, they advised, anywhere there is fruit, there will be rats. There are rats out on the fields where the tomatoes grow. There are rats on the orchards and farms where fruits and vegetables grow. I've never quite thought of it that way but I suppose they were right. Sometimes it's just better not to know.
Enjoy your tomatoes!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Another Apprentice Season Begins
A few friends have jokingly asked me who the 2007 Apprentice winner is. I had not given this much thought. I was left with two contenders: Suresh and Ambrose. Mr. Lal was disqualified due to a technicality. Having only joined the race in November and with only two days a week performance results at that, it would have been unfair to pit him against Suresh and Ambrose who had 6 days a week to shine or fail. Raju, David's driver who is hanging on to his job by the skin of his teeth, though never a contender, still deserves kudos for exemplary behavior displayed after every infraction and subsequent warning.
I returned to India after a month's protracted holiday. Before my departure, I made a complete "to do" list for Suresh so that everything that was left undone daily would be attended to. Things like clean out shoe cabinets, clean shoes, dust bookshelf tops, clean fans, clean out kitchen drawers, etc. It would have been foolish for me to assume that in my absence he would seek this work to fill his time. I had a pretty good idea of how he envisioned my absence to be--it would be his time to kick back and take things easy. And I don't blame him. Mind you, anyone with half a brain would do the same. I requested David's secretary to monitor him from time to time just to make sure he was on track, just to keep him honest.
At this point, I would like to explain my style of managing the help. I am liberal enough to allow them to do things their way as long as the job gets done satisfactorily. I don't hover, I don't check work daily. I leave notes as required so that what I see that needs doing gets done. I do not like to raise my voice, I do not like to show traces of anger and impatience. I only expect that when I run my fingers across a piece of furniture, that it not be dusty. That if I choose to wear my black patent shoes, they not be muddy. That when I pull open a kitchen drawer, utensils not be thrown in helter-skelter. I do not ask for much.
After a month's absence, my furniture was dusty, my black patent shoes muddy, and my kitchen drawers messy. I pointed these all out to Suresh with, I admit, some impatience in my voice. I could feel his frustration.
The dust flies when he sweeps.
Then use a damp mop, or dust after you sweep.
He missed cleaning just that one black patent pair.
Is that so? Because my black Nikes and the white Pumas were also muddy.
He has no clue where things belong in the drawers.
And that is why you had a month to organize!!!
The next morning, Suresh arrives and arrogantly tells me that he cannot work here. The long and short of it is that he feels he works very hard and I still am not happy with the results. I reply that it is not that I question whether he works hard or not. The issue is that if something needs to be done, I have the right to let him know, to point it out. I will not bore you with our exchange. I conclude that my holiday was too much fun for him. He had free rein of the house, was in charge of Mr. Lal, in charge of tea making for what seemed like all of Vasant Vihar (judging from my sugar and milk bill) and my return was a big downer! There is nothing one can say to change another person's mind once it is made up. I had no desire to allow such arrogance in my home. Off with his head!
I would pay him for the 11 days he had worked. But there was a matter of the the 7 days he still owed me. Ok, down to 5 days pay. Then Suresh pulled a rabbit out of a hat and demanded that I owed him a month's bonus pay for a year of service. A wicked laugh was welling in me. I never promised him a month's bonus (besides any money exchange could no longer be called a bonus, what with his acrimonious tone). Second, he had only worked here for eleven months! I gathered that he was quick and brave about quitting because he figured he would have a month's pay as cushion before he found his next job. Gotcha!
Oh, and yes, there was the matter of the huge 10,000IR phone bill of which, by extrapolation, 4,000IR was his! It was pointless even to mention that if he incurred such a huge phone bill, did he really have time to work at all? I forgave him the phone bill and had Ambrose escort him out the door.
I've closed the Suresh chapter of my sojourn in India and I inaugurate a new Apprentice season! I therefore declare Ambrose the Apprentice of 2007!
Hours after Suresh's departure, I had visited two domestic registries and gotten a list of 6 prospects. I made my calls and by afternoon, I had Dolma working on a trial basis. Dolma is from Tibet. She turns 35 next week. She has been married but is now separated. She has no children. If one were to judge by looks alone, one would conjecture that she is a wholesome young lady, not fond of nightlife or drink or any other frivolities of the single. She speaks English quite well, has a happy disposition and the eagerness of anyone unemployed. So far so good. The race is on!
This season's race will be tougher. While all Ambrose has to do is drive safely, keep the car clean, and be attentive to my comings and goings, Dolma will have obstacles to hurdle. Will she pass the dust test? The neatness test? The organization test? The towel test? Only time will tell.
But here is what I have learned. The status quo is always the easy way out. Any progress requires some pain and discomfort. The rewards of change can be wonderful. I am thrilled that I don't have to worry about getting up fully dressed in the morning just to open the door for Suresh. I am ecstatic that Dolma can cook (remains to be tested and verified), and clean, and even wash and iron in the absence of Mr. Lal. I am hopeful that I can teach her to fold the towels as they do at Nordstrom's, and shirts as they do at the Gap.
The dreary Delhi winter is on the way out to give way to the beauty of spring. Out with the old, in with the new! All contenders! On your marks, get set, GO!
I returned to India after a month's protracted holiday. Before my departure, I made a complete "to do" list for Suresh so that everything that was left undone daily would be attended to. Things like clean out shoe cabinets, clean shoes, dust bookshelf tops, clean fans, clean out kitchen drawers, etc. It would have been foolish for me to assume that in my absence he would seek this work to fill his time. I had a pretty good idea of how he envisioned my absence to be--it would be his time to kick back and take things easy. And I don't blame him. Mind you, anyone with half a brain would do the same. I requested David's secretary to monitor him from time to time just to make sure he was on track, just to keep him honest.
At this point, I would like to explain my style of managing the help. I am liberal enough to allow them to do things their way as long as the job gets done satisfactorily. I don't hover, I don't check work daily. I leave notes as required so that what I see that needs doing gets done. I do not like to raise my voice, I do not like to show traces of anger and impatience. I only expect that when I run my fingers across a piece of furniture, that it not be dusty. That if I choose to wear my black patent shoes, they not be muddy. That when I pull open a kitchen drawer, utensils not be thrown in helter-skelter. I do not ask for much.
After a month's absence, my furniture was dusty, my black patent shoes muddy, and my kitchen drawers messy. I pointed these all out to Suresh with, I admit, some impatience in my voice. I could feel his frustration.
The dust flies when he sweeps.
Then use a damp mop, or dust after you sweep.
He missed cleaning just that one black patent pair.
Is that so? Because my black Nikes and the white Pumas were also muddy.
He has no clue where things belong in the drawers.
And that is why you had a month to organize!!!
The next morning, Suresh arrives and arrogantly tells me that he cannot work here. The long and short of it is that he feels he works very hard and I still am not happy with the results. I reply that it is not that I question whether he works hard or not. The issue is that if something needs to be done, I have the right to let him know, to point it out. I will not bore you with our exchange. I conclude that my holiday was too much fun for him. He had free rein of the house, was in charge of Mr. Lal, in charge of tea making for what seemed like all of Vasant Vihar (judging from my sugar and milk bill) and my return was a big downer! There is nothing one can say to change another person's mind once it is made up. I had no desire to allow such arrogance in my home. Off with his head!
I would pay him for the 11 days he had worked. But there was a matter of the the 7 days he still owed me. Ok, down to 5 days pay. Then Suresh pulled a rabbit out of a hat and demanded that I owed him a month's bonus pay for a year of service. A wicked laugh was welling in me. I never promised him a month's bonus (besides any money exchange could no longer be called a bonus, what with his acrimonious tone). Second, he had only worked here for eleven months! I gathered that he was quick and brave about quitting because he figured he would have a month's pay as cushion before he found his next job. Gotcha!
Oh, and yes, there was the matter of the huge 10,000IR phone bill of which, by extrapolation, 4,000IR was his! It was pointless even to mention that if he incurred such a huge phone bill, did he really have time to work at all? I forgave him the phone bill and had Ambrose escort him out the door.
I've closed the Suresh chapter of my sojourn in India and I inaugurate a new Apprentice season! I therefore declare Ambrose the Apprentice of 2007!
Hours after Suresh's departure, I had visited two domestic registries and gotten a list of 6 prospects. I made my calls and by afternoon, I had Dolma working on a trial basis. Dolma is from Tibet. She turns 35 next week. She has been married but is now separated. She has no children. If one were to judge by looks alone, one would conjecture that she is a wholesome young lady, not fond of nightlife or drink or any other frivolities of the single. She speaks English quite well, has a happy disposition and the eagerness of anyone unemployed. So far so good. The race is on!
This season's race will be tougher. While all Ambrose has to do is drive safely, keep the car clean, and be attentive to my comings and goings, Dolma will have obstacles to hurdle. Will she pass the dust test? The neatness test? The organization test? The towel test? Only time will tell.
But here is what I have learned. The status quo is always the easy way out. Any progress requires some pain and discomfort. The rewards of change can be wonderful. I am thrilled that I don't have to worry about getting up fully dressed in the morning just to open the door for Suresh. I am ecstatic that Dolma can cook (remains to be tested and verified), and clean, and even wash and iron in the absence of Mr. Lal. I am hopeful that I can teach her to fold the towels as they do at Nordstrom's, and shirts as they do at the Gap.
The dreary Delhi winter is on the way out to give way to the beauty of spring. Out with the old, in with the new! All contenders! On your marks, get set, GO!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Being Previleged
A dhobi washes and irons.
A mali tends a garden.
A fruitwalli sells fruit.
And a glasswallah sells glass.
In a country where jobs are stratified and specialized, why, for heaven's sake, have they not invented someone who stands in for you at the bureau*?
A day before my departure for our holiday in Manila, I was informed that my visa was expiring and thus needed extension. I knew this would be no pleasure trip to the bureau having gone through the relatively laborious process nine months before. Laborious though the process is, we are part of the privileged few who have someone prepare the paperwork for us; someone who has the connections in the bureau so that the exercise which sometimes takes days takes a few hours at most! The special someone is Magic Mahesh.
I met Mahesh at the lobby of the VV Club. We waited for courier Shiva to deliver a document needed for our application. David and I were seeking an extension yet it was only I present at the bureau. We were going to wing it, Mahesh said, lead the bureau to believe that David was actually present. Just go along with whatever I tell you, he instructed. This is quickly turning out to be a James Bond kind of day!
The bureau breaks at 1:00 pm. It was 12:54 and I was concerned we would not make it to the office before break time. Mahesh looked at his watch and confidently declared we would be fine, we had six minutes to make it. Six minutes to have my passport photo taken, printed, cut and made ready before we rushed into the office! Not surprisingly the photowallah (who by the way had a butterfly bandage on his forehead and traces of a bad bruise on his cheek--maybe he took a bad passport photo?) had no change for my 500IR bill. Mahesh instructed him with a mere look to bring the photos and change to the bureau office. He has obviously done this more than twice before! He has a whole network!
Magic Mahesh merits description, oh so bloggable is he! Quite tall and almost burly he is a handsome clean cut fellow permanently attached to a handkerchief he uses to wipe his sweaty face and palms. His watch sits over the cuff of his perfectly ironed beige shirt. His black shoes are dust free, immaculately clean, suspiciously military. On both occasions I was with him at the bureau, his files, collated in clear folders were impeccably neat, in consequential order, all pages ticked off where signatures were needed. Nothing askew, nothing missing, nothing out of place! That is Mahesh!
If Indian bureaucracy does not intimidate you, the sheer number of people in this office will. People fell in queues behind counters. Other counters disappeared behind people surrounding it in no apparent order. On rows of cold metal chairs sat people of all races and ages. Grandfathers sat with their grandchildren happily playing their video games. A pair of backpacking hippie looking boys sat lazily and read their books and sipped their 1.5 L bottled water obviously prepared for the wait. A few young European faces were accompanied by older local looking faces. Older men and women sat patiently knowing that exasperation, impatience and any kind of emotion was futile. This was the process and nothing any of them could do or say would speed things up.
Mahesh had the only smile in the room. He instructed me to sit down and be visible to the examiner. He quickly walked up to a counter and without fuss jumped the invisible queue of a hundred. No one noticed. Everyone was consumed with trying to forget the interminable wait in front of them. Everyone with seething exasperation was concerned with his own troubles. In the meantime, as luck would have it, I sat sandwiched between two men shaking their legs furiously giving my chair a rather jarring sway! I sat quietly not having to pretend annoyance. Mahesh glanced at me once in a while, keeping the smile on his face. He handed our applications to the examiner and confidently waited for the stamp of approval. After a decent wait of about 20 minutes, Mahesh walked over to me, files and approval in hand. He asked me for 6500IR in cash.
We walked to the cashier where surprisingly, there was no queue. Could they be doing this all wrong? Mahesh handed in our papers and cash. He whispered that if they ask where David is, I should go along with his story, that he stepped out momentarily to the rest room. But the cashier could care less. Once handed the cash, he never bothered to look up. How efficient this part of the exercise is. We walked out, everything in order. The cost of extension is 6000IR. But since as I said we are part of the privileged few, we handed him 6500IR and did not request change. This is a tiny fraction of the cost of privilege.
Having experienced efficient bureaucracy in both Hong Kong and Singapore, my brushes with Indian government have been painful. Even my experience and tolerance honed in by dealing with the Philippine government did not prepare me for my bureaucratic expeditions in India. I say, if there is a dhobi and a mali, a fruitwalli and a glasswallah why can't there be a bureaustandinwallah? I remain ever hopeful.
*the bureau will remain unnamed.
I have taken no photos of the bureau for fear of recrimination but will post irrelevant photos in the near future. Many thanks for your patience.
A mali tends a garden.
A fruitwalli sells fruit.
And a glasswallah sells glass.
In a country where jobs are stratified and specialized, why, for heaven's sake, have they not invented someone who stands in for you at the bureau*?
A day before my departure for our holiday in Manila, I was informed that my visa was expiring and thus needed extension. I knew this would be no pleasure trip to the bureau having gone through the relatively laborious process nine months before. Laborious though the process is, we are part of the privileged few who have someone prepare the paperwork for us; someone who has the connections in the bureau so that the exercise which sometimes takes days takes a few hours at most! The special someone is Magic Mahesh.
I met Mahesh at the lobby of the VV Club. We waited for courier Shiva to deliver a document needed for our application. David and I were seeking an extension yet it was only I present at the bureau. We were going to wing it, Mahesh said, lead the bureau to believe that David was actually present. Just go along with whatever I tell you, he instructed. This is quickly turning out to be a James Bond kind of day!
The bureau breaks at 1:00 pm. It was 12:54 and I was concerned we would not make it to the office before break time. Mahesh looked at his watch and confidently declared we would be fine, we had six minutes to make it. Six minutes to have my passport photo taken, printed, cut and made ready before we rushed into the office! Not surprisingly the photowallah (who by the way had a butterfly bandage on his forehead and traces of a bad bruise on his cheek--maybe he took a bad passport photo?) had no change for my 500IR bill. Mahesh instructed him with a mere look to bring the photos and change to the bureau office. He has obviously done this more than twice before! He has a whole network!
Magic Mahesh merits description, oh so bloggable is he! Quite tall and almost burly he is a handsome clean cut fellow permanently attached to a handkerchief he uses to wipe his sweaty face and palms. His watch sits over the cuff of his perfectly ironed beige shirt. His black shoes are dust free, immaculately clean, suspiciously military. On both occasions I was with him at the bureau, his files, collated in clear folders were impeccably neat, in consequential order, all pages ticked off where signatures were needed. Nothing askew, nothing missing, nothing out of place! That is Mahesh!
If Indian bureaucracy does not intimidate you, the sheer number of people in this office will. People fell in queues behind counters. Other counters disappeared behind people surrounding it in no apparent order. On rows of cold metal chairs sat people of all races and ages. Grandfathers sat with their grandchildren happily playing their video games. A pair of backpacking hippie looking boys sat lazily and read their books and sipped their 1.5 L bottled water obviously prepared for the wait. A few young European faces were accompanied by older local looking faces. Older men and women sat patiently knowing that exasperation, impatience and any kind of emotion was futile. This was the process and nothing any of them could do or say would speed things up.
Mahesh had the only smile in the room. He instructed me to sit down and be visible to the examiner. He quickly walked up to a counter and without fuss jumped the invisible queue of a hundred. No one noticed. Everyone was consumed with trying to forget the interminable wait in front of them. Everyone with seething exasperation was concerned with his own troubles. In the meantime, as luck would have it, I sat sandwiched between two men shaking their legs furiously giving my chair a rather jarring sway! I sat quietly not having to pretend annoyance. Mahesh glanced at me once in a while, keeping the smile on his face. He handed our applications to the examiner and confidently waited for the stamp of approval. After a decent wait of about 20 minutes, Mahesh walked over to me, files and approval in hand. He asked me for 6500IR in cash.
We walked to the cashier where surprisingly, there was no queue. Could they be doing this all wrong? Mahesh handed in our papers and cash. He whispered that if they ask where David is, I should go along with his story, that he stepped out momentarily to the rest room. But the cashier could care less. Once handed the cash, he never bothered to look up. How efficient this part of the exercise is. We walked out, everything in order. The cost of extension is 6000IR. But since as I said we are part of the privileged few, we handed him 6500IR and did not request change. This is a tiny fraction of the cost of privilege.
Having experienced efficient bureaucracy in both Hong Kong and Singapore, my brushes with Indian government have been painful. Even my experience and tolerance honed in by dealing with the Philippine government did not prepare me for my bureaucratic expeditions in India. I say, if there is a dhobi and a mali, a fruitwalli and a glasswallah why can't there be a bureaustandinwallah? I remain ever hopeful.
*the bureau will remain unnamed.
I have taken no photos of the bureau for fear of recrimination but will post irrelevant photos in the near future. Many thanks for your patience.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Looking Back, an Apprentice Update and a Little ETC.
Suresh has, by far been the finest contestant besting the likes of Miss Skinny, Sarita, Panna, and even a contestant baptized (yes, by the church) Queen Mary. The Queen did not even get past the interview room. She should have known better: there can only be one queen in any household and mine already has a queen bee! Suresh retains his title of Director of Maintenance. Sadly even after almost 10 months, we continue to be plagued by repairs both major and minor. He has had his shining moments & moments when I might have banished him to the Hall of Shame. But I think all things considered he deserves to be THE apprentice if not at least a finalist!
Smart & versatile as Suresh is, he is an utter failure at laundry and keeping closets neat. He can't keep the hangers facing the same direction nor keep the long-sleeved office shirts apart from the long-sleeved casual shirts or even the short sleeved shirts. Fortunately, David is the epitome of tolerance so the situation is livable. However, I go through the closets every other week and into a frenzy of reorganization. I have yet to understand why this is so difficult! My shoes & clothes are off limits to Suresh. How confusing it must be to have daytime casual sandals, daytime going out shoes, shoes that only go to C block market, sandals worn only after a pedicure, summer shoes, winter shoes, clay court shoes, hard court shoes, and the baffling categories continue! How can I expect dear Suresh to understand this? Suresh who keeps a pair of sandals for the summer and a pair of closed shoes for the winter. He has graduated to having a sporting pair of Adidas after David saw him wearing sandals in the increasingly cold mornings. Perhaps the abundance is so foreign to Suresh that his mind cannot build a working system to sort it all out.
I have been fortunate to have Mr. Lal come in twice a week. A wizened man of 70 or so, he handles the iron as a calligrapher would his pen. He has elevated laundry and ironing to an art form! David's shirts are perfectly pressed. My pants are pressed with or without a center line as I please! Organza comes back as crisp as it was when purchased. Pajamas are pressed and meticulously folded. If that is not luxury, what is? If somehow I could clone a Suresh with a Mr. Lal thrown in, I would have the best of them all!
Faithful Ambrose has continued his unwavering service. Aside from a few language based misunderstandings, we have gotten along quite well. He is always ready to take me here or there, never slacking off on his driving duties. He tends to gun the car once in a while but driving through so much traffic daily, the urge to zoom a bit now & again is understandable. His sense of direction needs to be honed and I have given him the ever useful Eicher map of Delhi. I might quiz him now and then but that would also mean a bit of studying on my part.
Ambrose has shown me his gentility and fine upbringing. When Aaron was born, he brought me two sinfully delicious cakes that his father had baked, brought sweets for Suresh & Panna. When Angel, his wife, finally came into their home after her stay with her family during her last months of pregnancy, he asked to come and introduce both her and their new baby. He came one Sunday afternoon beaming and proud to introduce his family to us. What a gesture of respect he has shown me. I remember clearly the day we drove Rachel to the airport after her summer with us in Delhi. Ambrose was quiet then softly said that he understood how sad I felt and that we should pray for her safety. I was touched by his empathy. Though he has kept his distance as is proper with the employer/employee relationship, he has nevertheless demonstrated that he has a heart for David & me. No truer person shall I find. Ambrose is certainly a finalist too.
Raju, David's driver continues to test me. Everything seems to go over David's head as he is always preoccupied with business. But Raju's white-turned gray shirts, long nails and inattentive behaviour has continued to grate at me. He has come late so that David had to drive himself to the airport. Another instance, he came late as his motorcycle ran out of gas! David, the ever patient and forgiving boss merely turns on his computer and does his work while waiting for Raju--this even after he has to miss a morning meeting! Clearly God has given David patience and God has gifted me with the feistiness to never give up in trying to make things right for him. This is not to say that David does not recognize the failings; he does but this is not high on his priority of things that need his attention. Raju will always be on the end of the gangplank with me on the safe end holding him at bayonet point!
Life has become easier since I found my favorite C-block chemist, the best hair-care specialist in Basant Lok, the fruit wallah in A-block, the chorizo at Le Marche, my DVD guy who delivers anything for 100 rupees a piece, Salsa Puja, the colorful flower street on MG Road, and of course, life would not be complete without the most entertaining jewelry store in Khan Market!
Though I am still stumped now and again by the craziness and unfathomable that Delhi can sometimes be, I can, after 9 months say that I am home.
Smart & versatile as Suresh is, he is an utter failure at laundry and keeping closets neat. He can't keep the hangers facing the same direction nor keep the long-sleeved office shirts apart from the long-sleeved casual shirts or even the short sleeved shirts. Fortunately, David is the epitome of tolerance so the situation is livable. However, I go through the closets every other week and into a frenzy of reorganization. I have yet to understand why this is so difficult! My shoes & clothes are off limits to Suresh. How confusing it must be to have daytime casual sandals, daytime going out shoes, shoes that only go to C block market, sandals worn only after a pedicure, summer shoes, winter shoes, clay court shoes, hard court shoes, and the baffling categories continue! How can I expect dear Suresh to understand this? Suresh who keeps a pair of sandals for the summer and a pair of closed shoes for the winter. He has graduated to having a sporting pair of Adidas after David saw him wearing sandals in the increasingly cold mornings. Perhaps the abundance is so foreign to Suresh that his mind cannot build a working system to sort it all out.
I have been fortunate to have Mr. Lal come in twice a week. A wizened man of 70 or so, he handles the iron as a calligrapher would his pen. He has elevated laundry and ironing to an art form! David's shirts are perfectly pressed. My pants are pressed with or without a center line as I please! Organza comes back as crisp as it was when purchased. Pajamas are pressed and meticulously folded. If that is not luxury, what is? If somehow I could clone a Suresh with a Mr. Lal thrown in, I would have the best of them all!
Faithful Ambrose has continued his unwavering service. Aside from a few language based misunderstandings, we have gotten along quite well. He is always ready to take me here or there, never slacking off on his driving duties. He tends to gun the car once in a while but driving through so much traffic daily, the urge to zoom a bit now & again is understandable. His sense of direction needs to be honed and I have given him the ever useful Eicher map of Delhi. I might quiz him now and then but that would also mean a bit of studying on my part.
Ambrose has shown me his gentility and fine upbringing. When Aaron was born, he brought me two sinfully delicious cakes that his father had baked, brought sweets for Suresh & Panna. When Angel, his wife, finally came into their home after her stay with her family during her last months of pregnancy, he asked to come and introduce both her and their new baby. He came one Sunday afternoon beaming and proud to introduce his family to us. What a gesture of respect he has shown me. I remember clearly the day we drove Rachel to the airport after her summer with us in Delhi. Ambrose was quiet then softly said that he understood how sad I felt and that we should pray for her safety. I was touched by his empathy. Though he has kept his distance as is proper with the employer/employee relationship, he has nevertheless demonstrated that he has a heart for David & me. No truer person shall I find. Ambrose is certainly a finalist too.
Raju, David's driver continues to test me. Everything seems to go over David's head as he is always preoccupied with business. But Raju's white-turned gray shirts, long nails and inattentive behaviour has continued to grate at me. He has come late so that David had to drive himself to the airport. Another instance, he came late as his motorcycle ran out of gas! David, the ever patient and forgiving boss merely turns on his computer and does his work while waiting for Raju--this even after he has to miss a morning meeting! Clearly God has given David patience and God has gifted me with the feistiness to never give up in trying to make things right for him. This is not to say that David does not recognize the failings; he does but this is not high on his priority of things that need his attention. Raju will always be on the end of the gangplank with me on the safe end holding him at bayonet point!
Life has become easier since I found my favorite C-block chemist, the best hair-care specialist in Basant Lok, the fruit wallah in A-block, the chorizo at Le Marche, my DVD guy who delivers anything for 100 rupees a piece, Salsa Puja, the colorful flower street on MG Road, and of course, life would not be complete without the most entertaining jewelry store in Khan Market!
Though I am still stumped now and again by the craziness and unfathomable that Delhi can sometimes be, I can, after 9 months say that I am home.
Friday, November 23, 2007
85 Down, 915 to Go! The Pushkar Cattle Fair
With my imagination piqued by colorful photographs of the tribes of the Thar Desert and camel-herds in profile languidly moving across the vast expanse of of the desert lit golden by the sunrise, I persuaded David to take two days off to experience what is described as a tribal gathering unlike any other--the Pushkar Cattle fair.
I diligently waded through the many websites that touted luxury accommodations for this mela (fair) which would swell the population of the small town with visitors and avid photographers. I chose a luxury tent a stone's throw away from the fair. It promised Maharajah style luxury and I thought to myself that if it was good enough for a Maharajah it should be good enough for David and me. After over 8 hours on the road we arrived at the campsite farm of our luxury tent. I may not have thought this through...did the Maharajahs enjoy the indulgence of hot running water back then? Our green carpeted tent had two single beds pushed together, a solitary little red lamp on a side table, a rickety black metal luggage stand all housed in the vinyl tent which did not provide much protection from the freezing cold of the desert. A canvas door led to the facilities...a spacious brown carpeted room with a flushing toilet, a wok-looking sink, and a 4' x 4' square metal basin sitting on the carpet with a low faucet and a bucket. I quickly realized that the Maharajahs probably travelled with an entourage including 10 minions just to heat up bath water! David and I quickly got ready for bed, and yes, this did not include my almost ritual ablutions. Under the covers we slipped, popsicle toes and all, cold and unwashed! Surely this is how the Maharajahs did it? A window was above my head. Exhaustion caused me to drift to sleep quickly only to be awoken by the cold air seeping through the window. I fumbled for my now very precious red cashmere shawl, turbaned it around my head as the tribal dessert men do and curled up closer to David who was now designated as my personal radiator.
As an amateur and ambitious photographer, I requested that hot water to be brought into our bathroom at 6am the next morning. I planned to get up early, greet the day and the languid camels by the time the sun rose to light the dunes gold. I would then click away and capture the idyllic photograph I would proudly show Sharma sir upon my return. 6:00 am came and all was still at the camp. No one stirred. No hot water either. I decided to go back to sleep thinking better of my ambitious plans.
Finally ready to explore Pushkar before breakfast at 8:00, we took a quick drive around town plotting our course for the day. From the car window I spotted an amazing field of pink. A mellow rose aroma surrounded us as we got off the car. Yes, it surrounded and embraced us, an aroma so sweet, a sight so splendid that it caressed all the senses. I have never loved the rose as much! Rose petals covered the grounds. They were to be dried for medicine. What a sweet cure it must be!
Pushkar is a sleepy town in eastern Rajasthan. It sits on the edge of the small and beautiful Pushkar lake. It is believed that during the kartik month of the Hindu calendar, the lake takes on magical powers: a dip in the lake will purify the body and cure all ailments. It is at this same time of the year that the frenzy of activities and the riot of colors of the desert tribes takes over the town in the grand scale Pushkar Cattle Fair.
Ambrose drove as close to the mela as was allowed. A road block and uniformed police stood at the entrance to the pedestrianized grounds. The freezing night temperature gave way to a hot dessert day. All manner of kiosks and stands were set up on the side of the roads. Mahendi men laid out their blankets and woodblocks; women sat with their children as they displayed their metal woks and cooking implements. Fruit and vegetable carts were plentiful; bangle bazaars, frying food stalls, cotton candy men all contributed color and dazzle to the already festive air. Richly festooned camels walked about.
Tall and lean old mustachioed men donned chartreuse, fuchsia, and gold colored turbans. The women in their bright ghargas, arms covered in bangles, noses pierced with three-inch loop nose rings walked in groups sometimes their faces covered, but more often with wide friendly smiles. The children, forever inquisitive, marveled at my camera and requested "one photo please." I always obliged when there was no enterprising mother close by who would bill me 10rupees per shot! The one constant in every Indian city I have visited is the persistent peddler, whether he be selling camel rides, guides to the festivities, a Pushkar photo book, or anything at all. They too roamed the grounds and it became tiresome saying no to all the offers of a desert safari.
There were many scheduled events for the day: turban tieing contests, best mustache contest, camel decoration contest, camel races. However, try as I did to follow the events as listed on the fair announcement, the events never occurred when they were supposed to. I guess everyone just went with the flow of the day, conducting this contest or that whenever it was convenient.
The camels! Festooned in plastic roses, colorful ropes, ribbons, yarn pompoms, feathers, sequins, beads, mirrors, and anklets, they alone were a sight worth travelling 8 hours for! They walked obediently, parading the opulence of their ornamentation. What docile uncomplaining animals they seemed to suffer through all the "make-up" and "get-up"!
We meandered on to the cattle ground. Camels, horses, cattle were about. Some were strong, handsome and sturdy and it was clear they would fetch higher prices. Others looked old and tired. They were scattered on the sand dunes tethered to their owners tents. They stood patiently eating their grasses oblivious to the activity and frenzy of the deals struck around them. Men sat in groups checking out the livestock, bargaining back and forth. This was the heart of the fair, the center where business was conducted.
Taking a respite from the mela we joined the moving crowd to the bathing ghats: all roads in Pushkar seemed to lead to the 52 bathing ghats. Priests performed pujas continuously and led people through the rituals of taking the holy dip in the lake. The frenzy of the mela was transformed into the solemnity of purification. How I would have loved to see the final day of the festival when the faithful set afloat a hundred lights on the lake with the full moon shining above!
We returned to our tents for an afternoon nap and an early dinner. In the evening, we returned to the mela for more festivities--more dancing, more pageantry and color, more music, more tradition...a whole day and evening of imbibing the ambience of the festivities was worth the trip after all. Perhaps I did not see the romantic golden dunes and the languid camels. Perhaps our tent was a far cry from its claim to luxury. But the color, the vibrancy, the solemnity at the ghats, the festooned camels were all worth the long drive to Pushkar.
1,000 Places to See Before You Die--I am crossing Pushkar off my list now. 85 down, 915 to go!
Please click on the link below to view my photographs of the Pushkar Mela.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8774&l=e7454&id=686591597
I diligently waded through the many websites that touted luxury accommodations for this mela (fair) which would swell the population of the small town with visitors and avid photographers. I chose a luxury tent a stone's throw away from the fair. It promised Maharajah style luxury and I thought to myself that if it was good enough for a Maharajah it should be good enough for David and me. After over 8 hours on the road we arrived at the campsite farm of our luxury tent. I may not have thought this through...did the Maharajahs enjoy the indulgence of hot running water back then? Our green carpeted tent had two single beds pushed together, a solitary little red lamp on a side table, a rickety black metal luggage stand all housed in the vinyl tent which did not provide much protection from the freezing cold of the desert. A canvas door led to the facilities...a spacious brown carpeted room with a flushing toilet, a wok-looking sink, and a 4' x 4' square metal basin sitting on the carpet with a low faucet and a bucket. I quickly realized that the Maharajahs probably travelled with an entourage including 10 minions just to heat up bath water! David and I quickly got ready for bed, and yes, this did not include my almost ritual ablutions. Under the covers we slipped, popsicle toes and all, cold and unwashed! Surely this is how the Maharajahs did it? A window was above my head. Exhaustion caused me to drift to sleep quickly only to be awoken by the cold air seeping through the window. I fumbled for my now very precious red cashmere shawl, turbaned it around my head as the tribal dessert men do and curled up closer to David who was now designated as my personal radiator.
As an amateur and ambitious photographer, I requested that hot water to be brought into our bathroom at 6am the next morning. I planned to get up early, greet the day and the languid camels by the time the sun rose to light the dunes gold. I would then click away and capture the idyllic photograph I would proudly show Sharma sir upon my return. 6:00 am came and all was still at the camp. No one stirred. No hot water either. I decided to go back to sleep thinking better of my ambitious plans.
Finally ready to explore Pushkar before breakfast at 8:00, we took a quick drive around town plotting our course for the day. From the car window I spotted an amazing field of pink. A mellow rose aroma surrounded us as we got off the car. Yes, it surrounded and embraced us, an aroma so sweet, a sight so splendid that it caressed all the senses. I have never loved the rose as much! Rose petals covered the grounds. They were to be dried for medicine. What a sweet cure it must be!
Pushkar is a sleepy town in eastern Rajasthan. It sits on the edge of the small and beautiful Pushkar lake. It is believed that during the kartik month of the Hindu calendar, the lake takes on magical powers: a dip in the lake will purify the body and cure all ailments. It is at this same time of the year that the frenzy of activities and the riot of colors of the desert tribes takes over the town in the grand scale Pushkar Cattle Fair.
Ambrose drove as close to the mela as was allowed. A road block and uniformed police stood at the entrance to the pedestrianized grounds. The freezing night temperature gave way to a hot dessert day. All manner of kiosks and stands were set up on the side of the roads. Mahendi men laid out their blankets and woodblocks; women sat with their children as they displayed their metal woks and cooking implements. Fruit and vegetable carts were plentiful; bangle bazaars, frying food stalls, cotton candy men all contributed color and dazzle to the already festive air. Richly festooned camels walked about.
Tall and lean old mustachioed men donned chartreuse, fuchsia, and gold colored turbans. The women in their bright ghargas, arms covered in bangles, noses pierced with three-inch loop nose rings walked in groups sometimes their faces covered, but more often with wide friendly smiles. The children, forever inquisitive, marveled at my camera and requested "one photo please." I always obliged when there was no enterprising mother close by who would bill me 10rupees per shot! The one constant in every Indian city I have visited is the persistent peddler, whether he be selling camel rides, guides to the festivities, a Pushkar photo book, or anything at all. They too roamed the grounds and it became tiresome saying no to all the offers of a desert safari.
There were many scheduled events for the day: turban tieing contests, best mustache contest, camel decoration contest, camel races. However, try as I did to follow the events as listed on the fair announcement, the events never occurred when they were supposed to. I guess everyone just went with the flow of the day, conducting this contest or that whenever it was convenient.
The camels! Festooned in plastic roses, colorful ropes, ribbons, yarn pompoms, feathers, sequins, beads, mirrors, and anklets, they alone were a sight worth travelling 8 hours for! They walked obediently, parading the opulence of their ornamentation. What docile uncomplaining animals they seemed to suffer through all the "make-up" and "get-up"!
We meandered on to the cattle ground. Camels, horses, cattle were about. Some were strong, handsome and sturdy and it was clear they would fetch higher prices. Others looked old and tired. They were scattered on the sand dunes tethered to their owners tents. They stood patiently eating their grasses oblivious to the activity and frenzy of the deals struck around them. Men sat in groups checking out the livestock, bargaining back and forth. This was the heart of the fair, the center where business was conducted.
Taking a respite from the mela we joined the moving crowd to the bathing ghats: all roads in Pushkar seemed to lead to the 52 bathing ghats. Priests performed pujas continuously and led people through the rituals of taking the holy dip in the lake. The frenzy of the mela was transformed into the solemnity of purification. How I would have loved to see the final day of the festival when the faithful set afloat a hundred lights on the lake with the full moon shining above!
We returned to our tents for an afternoon nap and an early dinner. In the evening, we returned to the mela for more festivities--more dancing, more pageantry and color, more music, more tradition...a whole day and evening of imbibing the ambience of the festivities was worth the trip after all. Perhaps I did not see the romantic golden dunes and the languid camels. Perhaps our tent was a far cry from its claim to luxury. But the color, the vibrancy, the solemnity at the ghats, the festooned camels were all worth the long drive to Pushkar.
1,000 Places to See Before You Die--I am crossing Pushkar off my list now. 85 down, 915 to go!
Please click on the link below to view my photographs of the Pushkar Mela.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=8774&l=e7454&id=686591597
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
I can now smile about all this. However, I must confess that at the time, I was in shock, shaken and in tears. I have given myself six months to get over it. And now, perhaps you too can be shocked and shaken and finally, entertained.
Our doorbell rang at 7:20 that morning. Over the past week, no one came to my door in the morning except Raju. Still dazed with very little sleep the previous night with mozzie's buzzing around me (no one told me about Odomos or All Out) and the airconditioner out of commission, I stumbled down to open the door.
As soon as there was a crack in the door, four brightly sareed women with loud voices appeared. "Namaste Madam!"
"No, no, no, I don't want it!" was all I could stammer thinking they were door-to-door peddlers. Now that I think about it, they could have been Avon ladies! I screamed for David but he was in the shower and could not hear me. (He would not make a very good Superman, would he?)
The strong ladies pushed the door intending to come in or at least be heard and I pushed back. The pushing and loud voices continued for what seemed like an eternity until I finally managed to close the door. In the span of what was really only a few seconds, what assaulted me were four powdered faces, red lipsticked lips, bindi-ed foreheads. Their dress was tawdry. They were rather large boned women, dark, and loud.
I ran up to David and told him what had happened. As far as I knew, four women tried to rob me and break into my house! That's it, we're moving back to Singapore! I sobbed and shook then quickly became angry at the security guard who let these women go past the gate, climb up the stairs, then ring my doorbell! What was he thinking? How useless was he down there? I demanded that he be fired, and fired he was the very next day.
Our first source of information was Raju, our driver. After recounting the story to him and asking him exactly who these women were, he gave us rather sketchy information. Raju's command of English leaves much to be desired.
'Sir, not man, not woman. Middle class."
"What?" but at that point, we both understood what Raju was trying to say. What we did not understand is why they would bang on our door at 7:20 in the morning. If I have piqued your curiosity, and hopefully to make you understand how visually shocking this all was, visit this link: http://images.google.co.in/images?q=hijra&hl=en&client=firefox-a&channel=s&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&hs=n6O&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=images&ct=title
These "ladies" are hijras.
"Most hijras live at the margins of society with very low status: the very word "hijjra" is sometimes used in a derogatory manner. Few employment opportunites are available to hijras. Many get their income from performing at ceremonies, begging or prostitution — an occupation of eunuchs also recorded in premodern times. Violence against hijras specially sex workers is often brutal and occurs in public spaces, police stations, prisons and their homes. As with transgender people in most of the world they face extreme discrimination in health, housing, education, employment, immigration, law, and any bureaucracy that is unable to place them into male or female gender categories. One hijra reports waiting in the emergency room of a hospital for hours while medical staff debated whether to admit her into the men's or women's ward.
Hijras are often encountered on streets, trains, and other public places demanding money from young men. If refused, the hijra may attempt to embarrass the man into giving money, using obscene gestures, profane language, and even sexual advances. Hijras also perform religious ceremonies at weddings and at the birth of male babies, involving music, singing, and sexually suggestive dancing. These are intended to bring good luck and fertility. Although the hijra are most often uninvited, the host usually pays the hijras a fee. Many fear the hijras' curse if they are not appeased, bringing bad luck or infertility, but for the fee they receive, they can bless goodwill and fortune on to the newly born. Hijras are said to be able to do this because, since they do not engage in sexual activities, they accumulate their sexual energy which they can use to either bestow a boon or a bane." Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hijra_(South_Asia)
Our doorbell rang at 7:20 that morning. Over the past week, no one came to my door in the morning except Raju. Still dazed with very little sleep the previous night with mozzie's buzzing around me (no one told me about Odomos or All Out) and the airconditioner out of commission, I stumbled down to open the door.
As soon as there was a crack in the door, four brightly sareed women with loud voices appeared. "Namaste Madam!"
"No, no, no, I don't want it!" was all I could stammer thinking they were door-to-door peddlers. Now that I think about it, they could have been Avon ladies! I screamed for David but he was in the shower and could not hear me. (He would not make a very good Superman, would he?)
The strong ladies pushed the door intending to come in or at least be heard and I pushed back. The pushing and loud voices continued for what seemed like an eternity until I finally managed to close the door. In the span of what was really only a few seconds, what assaulted me were four powdered faces, red lipsticked lips, bindi-ed foreheads. Their dress was tawdry. They were rather large boned women, dark, and loud.
I ran up to David and told him what had happened. As far as I knew, four women tried to rob me and break into my house! That's it, we're moving back to Singapore! I sobbed and shook then quickly became angry at the security guard who let these women go past the gate, climb up the stairs, then ring my doorbell! What was he thinking? How useless was he down there? I demanded that he be fired, and fired he was the very next day.
Our first source of information was Raju, our driver. After recounting the story to him and asking him exactly who these women were, he gave us rather sketchy information. Raju's command of English leaves much to be desired.
'Sir, not man, not woman. Middle class."
"What?" but at that point, we both understood what Raju was trying to say. What we did not understand is why they would bang on our door at 7:20 in the morning. If I have piqued your curiosity, and hopefully to make you understand how visually shocking this all was, visit this link: http://images.google.co.in/images?q=hijra&hl=en&client=firefox-a&channel=s&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&hs=n6O&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=X&oi=images&ct=title
These "ladies" are hijras.
"Most hijras live at the margins of society with very low status: the very word "hijjra" is sometimes used in a derogatory manner. Few employment opportunites are available to hijras. Many get their income from performing at ceremonies, begging or prostitution — an occupation of eunuchs also recorded in premodern times. Violence against hijras specially sex workers is often brutal and occurs in public spaces, police stations, prisons and their homes. As with transgender people in most of the world they face extreme discrimination in health, housing, education, employment, immigration, law, and any bureaucracy that is unable to place them into male or female gender categories. One hijra reports waiting in the emergency room of a hospital for hours while medical staff debated whether to admit her into the men's or women's ward.
Hijras are often encountered on streets, trains, and other public places demanding money from young men. If refused, the hijra may attempt to embarrass the man into giving money, using obscene gestures, profane language, and even sexual advances. Hijras also perform religious ceremonies at weddings and at the birth of male babies, involving music, singing, and sexually suggestive dancing. These are intended to bring good luck and fertility. Although the hijra are most often uninvited, the host usually pays the hijras a fee. Many fear the hijras' curse if they are not appeased, bringing bad luck or infertility, but for the fee they receive, they can bless goodwill and fortune on to the newly born. Hijras are said to be able to do this because, since they do not engage in sexual activities, they accumulate their sexual energy which they can use to either bestow a boon or a bane." Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hijra_(South_Asia)
So why me? They come to give their blessing to new homes, new babies, new marriages. I was in a new home thus needed their blessings and of course, they needed their "blessings" too. I later learned that they come to Indian families only so I was even more angry that they had invaded me. Someone else warned me that they would return again and again until they extorted their payment. Just what I needed in this already tumultuous adjustment to India!
Our downstairs neighbor had not moved in but even before they did, the hijras would circle our block and wait it out downstairs hoping to catch them. They finally succeeded but shrewd Nuwayri was ready for them. The hijra wanted 55,000IR. After two hours of haggling, she had them down to 3,000IR and two sarees! Even in this madness there is protocol! Ambrose, my driver had a baby and he knew the hijra would come around. They came to his father-in-law's house to give the baby their blessing.
I've put all this behind me, forgotten, locked away in my storybook of tales to tell my grandchildren someday. Until Monday.
I met Sidharthe, a most wonderful young man, proprietor of a lovely recently opened jewelry store in Khan Market. If you don't already know, I can sit in a jewelry store for hours just looking and touching and enjoying everything around me. This was such an afternoon. We sat talking shop, trying to outwit each other gemologically, watching customers come in and out. In the mid-afternoon bustle, the hijiras came.How clever they are to come when they can be the most trouble, when they can create the biggest distraction.
The immediately zoomed in on Sidharthe sitting behind his desk. I watched his smile disappear and his eyes narrow with annoyance. Fear was not far behind I am sure, but he held his own, kept his cool. I saw him pull out a few bills from his stash hoping that he could make them go away quickly. Hijra #1 came in speaking loudly. I can't tell you how the exchange proceeded. I can only tell you that there was a lot of pushing and pulling, a lot of arguing. Surely a few expletives were unleashed as well. This continued for a few minutes until they began to approach him and invade his very private space, touching him with thier dupattas, brushing his face with it, coming very uncomfortably close. His voice went up a notch, theirs escalated as well.
We now had two hijras in the room. A very confused and annoyed German lady was asking to just pay her bill so she could get out of the way but no one was paying attention to her. I quietly explained to her what was going on (I am now an expert!) and she waited patiently. I cautioned her to watch her purse. Hijra #2 must have seen her pull the purse closer to her body and she started lambasting the poor lady. Not knowing any Hindi but catching some words uttered in English, I knew she was incensed that we would even suggest that they would steal, as though extortion were not exactly the same thing. She continued to almost scream behind me but I stood my ground, never turned to look at her (horrors!) and allowed her to rant and rave unacknowledged.
Haggling went on and I worried that they would get the better of Sidharthe. Remember that three men stood guard at the door and yet the hijras were able to enter the store. That is the magic they weave, the power they wield. What chance did good Sidharthe have over the wicked? But the good prevail and after more back and forth, more screaming, and fortunately not more touching, Sidharthe triumphed and they were gone. A big sigh of relief.
Not many are fortunate enough to experience the unfortunate twice over. I was, and after all is said and done, I have a story to tell, an experience to laugh about. It wasn't so bad after all...but this I can only say in retrospect, after the 6 months it took me to recover. Perhaps my first encounter helped me cope with the second, wiser now and more steady of heart, yet only clever enough to stay mum while the proceedings continued. Yet, were there to be a third encounter, I am still not certain that I would fare much better. I believe the hijra will always evoke in me a fear, a deep fear of the unknown and ununderstood.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Oh Calcutta!
If the title teases you to read on, let me tell you now, there is nothing risque in this piece.
Of all the cities in India, Calcutta in particular suggests unbearable poverty to me. I remember my father recounting his visit to Calcutta in the very early 1970s. Coming from a third world nation, we Filipinos are not new to poverty being around us; however, his recount was so vivid, and his feeling of desperation at the poverty he saw stayed with me. Though decades might have changed or even reincarnated India, I was prepared to see the deprivation of poverty in Calcutta.
Calcutta, now known as Kolkata is one of the world's greatest cities. From an obscure village on the banks of the Hooghly river, it evolved as the capital of Great Britain's Indian empire. Over the 200 years after the establishment of an English trading post by Job Charnock in 1690, Kolkata flourished, a commercial city with Victorian Gothic buildings, churches, and boulevards. In 1911, the capital was shifted to New Delhi and coupled with the urban decay of the 1960s, Kolkata's affluence diminished, but as I have witnessed, not its vibrancy and color.
We made a smart decision to stay outside the city though the commute into the city office was 40 minutes, through dusty and bumpy roads, twisting and turning, vegetable & fruit vendors with their merchandise laid out on the sidewalks, people milling about busily, bicycles boldly darting in and out of traffic. I must applaud Rajendra, our super driver for navigating these streets expertly twice a day. I dared not watch the road and as usual, I took my nap en route to the city or hotel. I only know that Rajendra got me there!
We arrived Kolkata with time to spare before David's first meeting in the afternoon. Our hotel was a Vedic spa so we took the lead of its peaceful surrounds and took the morning easy. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch at their restaurant. Vedic, yes...we attempted to order a couple of very healthy sounding juices only to be cautioned by the waiters that the juices probably would not taste very good. Nonetheless, we ordered them and instantly felt rewarded by the many good things it was doing to our bodies. I ordered a "sprout route" which turned out to be a delightfully nutty sprout salad with a ginger and lime kick to it. (I recreated the salad to go along with last night's dinner, it was equally tasty). Lunch was wholesome, healthy, and actually tasty.
Magic Rajendra drove us to the city that afternoon. I visited the Victoria Memorial, Kolkata's most celebrated landmark. This domed classical structure, completed in 1921 was made with marble from Makrana which also supplied marble for the Taj Mahal. It is now a museum and houses 25 galleries which feature Raj memorabilia. Again, as with all public buildings and parks, the museum was full of people, some tourists but many locals as well eagerly perusing the exhibits. There were numerous paintings and sketches depicting life during the Raj. In particular was a series of sketches with commentary--a British family of four needed 110 people to attend to their needs! We've certainly come a long way! Every other family I know in Delhi today has one or two in their staff (outside farm houses) so I do wonder why I am having such a difficult time finding my apprentice! There should be thousands upon thousands of available help!
Many years ago, I had the privilege of spending one night at a convent in Rome. In that evening, I experienced joyous tranquillity. There was a complete absence of distraction and discord. The kindness and love were palpable and intense. This is the same feeling that greeted us at the door of Mother House. We entered the little chapel, Mother Teresa's final resting place. It was free of all ornamentation save a Bible on her grave with a scattering of marigold petals. The walls of Mother House contain stillness and peace while outside Kolkata is in motion.
Next day's agenda was full. My first stop was Marble Palace, listed as one of the 1,000 places to visit before you die. It was like entering a military zone! A khaki uniformed man stood at the gateway. After a brief exchange in Hindi with Rajendra, we were granted entry. Rajendra asked for R100 for the guide. It is obvious to me that there are no rules here. This is not a public monument governed by India's laws. My guide and I walked through room after room of ostentatious display. If you closed your eyes and tried to imagine ostentation, even for European palaces, it would not come close to the contents of this place. It made Imelda Marcos look frugal! Bronzes, marble sculptures, carpets, paintings, Venitian glass chandeliers, four, five or six in a row, enormous mirrors on both ends of a room, this is only the beginning of a list of things that are housed in this estate. It is not the state of disrepair that shocks, it is the sinful extravagance and and almost vulgar display of wealth, a seemingly compulsive desire to acquire all things western! This, I read, is how rich Bengali families lived in the days of the Raj!
I was most interested in visiting Jorasanko, the ancestral home of Bengal's favorite son, Rabindranath Tagore. But things in India are, if anything, reliably unpredictable. It was closed for no reason I could fathom. We drove through old Kolkata, through mazes of streets with every imaginable storefront. Old Babu houses, grand Victorian buildings, rickshaws, the slow tram, all these are Kolkata, unique, colorful, frenetic, annoying, yet awesome.
Saturday was a Vedic day. David booked a foot reflexology session. I booked a treatment with the works. I awoke at 530 in the morning to brush my teeth with a neem bark and some herbal toothpaste (yuck, I am not giving up my sonicare for that!). I downed a 300 ml herbal drink which really was not that horrid. Next I was to take a brisk walk before heading to the yoga studio for a session at 630. I had a face massage. I headed back to the room for breakfast and a brief nap before my full massage at 11 a m. I was awoken by the ringing of the phone. It was 1110 a m ! I wondered whether it was the face massage that helped me sleep so deeply or whether it was the waking up at 530 that did me in! I am all for trying massages and facials and all that. I was not going to miss my chance at this Vedic spa. However, I doubt that I would book myself for another one of these Ayurvedic classics, at least not for the next month or so. A lot of oiling and rubbing was involved culminated by warm oil dripping on my forehead. Relaxing, I will give them that.
It might well be that Delhi has dulled my senses to poverty. But I did not see in Kolkata the deprivation and poverty that my father told me about. What I saw was vibrancy and color, a people educated with a good command of English, unbearably gridlocked, tangled traffic, masses of people, and yes, even dim traces of Kolkata's glory.
Please visit this link below for some of my photographs of Kolkata.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=6316&l=b929b&id=686591597
Of all the cities in India, Calcutta in particular suggests unbearable poverty to me. I remember my father recounting his visit to Calcutta in the very early 1970s. Coming from a third world nation, we Filipinos are not new to poverty being around us; however, his recount was so vivid, and his feeling of desperation at the poverty he saw stayed with me. Though decades might have changed or even reincarnated India, I was prepared to see the deprivation of poverty in Calcutta.
Calcutta, now known as Kolkata is one of the world's greatest cities. From an obscure village on the banks of the Hooghly river, it evolved as the capital of Great Britain's Indian empire. Over the 200 years after the establishment of an English trading post by Job Charnock in 1690, Kolkata flourished, a commercial city with Victorian Gothic buildings, churches, and boulevards. In 1911, the capital was shifted to New Delhi and coupled with the urban decay of the 1960s, Kolkata's affluence diminished, but as I have witnessed, not its vibrancy and color.
We made a smart decision to stay outside the city though the commute into the city office was 40 minutes, through dusty and bumpy roads, twisting and turning, vegetable & fruit vendors with their merchandise laid out on the sidewalks, people milling about busily, bicycles boldly darting in and out of traffic. I must applaud Rajendra, our super driver for navigating these streets expertly twice a day. I dared not watch the road and as usual, I took my nap en route to the city or hotel. I only know that Rajendra got me there!
We arrived Kolkata with time to spare before David's first meeting in the afternoon. Our hotel was a Vedic spa so we took the lead of its peaceful surrounds and took the morning easy. We enjoyed a wonderful lunch at their restaurant. Vedic, yes...we attempted to order a couple of very healthy sounding juices only to be cautioned by the waiters that the juices probably would not taste very good. Nonetheless, we ordered them and instantly felt rewarded by the many good things it was doing to our bodies. I ordered a "sprout route" which turned out to be a delightfully nutty sprout salad with a ginger and lime kick to it. (I recreated the salad to go along with last night's dinner, it was equally tasty). Lunch was wholesome, healthy, and actually tasty.
Magic Rajendra drove us to the city that afternoon. I visited the Victoria Memorial, Kolkata's most celebrated landmark. This domed classical structure, completed in 1921 was made with marble from Makrana which also supplied marble for the Taj Mahal. It is now a museum and houses 25 galleries which feature Raj memorabilia. Again, as with all public buildings and parks, the museum was full of people, some tourists but many locals as well eagerly perusing the exhibits. There were numerous paintings and sketches depicting life during the Raj. In particular was a series of sketches with commentary--a British family of four needed 110 people to attend to their needs! We've certainly come a long way! Every other family I know in Delhi today has one or two in their staff (outside farm houses) so I do wonder why I am having such a difficult time finding my apprentice! There should be thousands upon thousands of available help!
Many years ago, I had the privilege of spending one night at a convent in Rome. In that evening, I experienced joyous tranquillity. There was a complete absence of distraction and discord. The kindness and love were palpable and intense. This is the same feeling that greeted us at the door of Mother House. We entered the little chapel, Mother Teresa's final resting place. It was free of all ornamentation save a Bible on her grave with a scattering of marigold petals. The walls of Mother House contain stillness and peace while outside Kolkata is in motion.
Next day's agenda was full. My first stop was Marble Palace, listed as one of the 1,000 places to visit before you die. It was like entering a military zone! A khaki uniformed man stood at the gateway. After a brief exchange in Hindi with Rajendra, we were granted entry. Rajendra asked for R100 for the guide. It is obvious to me that there are no rules here. This is not a public monument governed by India's laws. My guide and I walked through room after room of ostentatious display. If you closed your eyes and tried to imagine ostentation, even for European palaces, it would not come close to the contents of this place. It made Imelda Marcos look frugal! Bronzes, marble sculptures, carpets, paintings, Venitian glass chandeliers, four, five or six in a row, enormous mirrors on both ends of a room, this is only the beginning of a list of things that are housed in this estate. It is not the state of disrepair that shocks, it is the sinful extravagance and and almost vulgar display of wealth, a seemingly compulsive desire to acquire all things western! This, I read, is how rich Bengali families lived in the days of the Raj!
I was most interested in visiting Jorasanko, the ancestral home of Bengal's favorite son, Rabindranath Tagore. But things in India are, if anything, reliably unpredictable. It was closed for no reason I could fathom. We drove through old Kolkata, through mazes of streets with every imaginable storefront. Old Babu houses, grand Victorian buildings, rickshaws, the slow tram, all these are Kolkata, unique, colorful, frenetic, annoying, yet awesome.
Saturday was a Vedic day. David booked a foot reflexology session. I booked a treatment with the works. I awoke at 530 in the morning to brush my teeth with a neem bark and some herbal toothpaste (yuck, I am not giving up my sonicare for that!). I downed a 300 ml herbal drink which really was not that horrid. Next I was to take a brisk walk before heading to the yoga studio for a session at 630. I had a face massage. I headed back to the room for breakfast and a brief nap before my full massage at 11 a m. I was awoken by the ringing of the phone. It was 1110 a m ! I wondered whether it was the face massage that helped me sleep so deeply or whether it was the waking up at 530 that did me in! I am all for trying massages and facials and all that. I was not going to miss my chance at this Vedic spa. However, I doubt that I would book myself for another one of these Ayurvedic classics, at least not for the next month or so. A lot of oiling and rubbing was involved culminated by warm oil dripping on my forehead. Relaxing, I will give them that.
It might well be that Delhi has dulled my senses to poverty. But I did not see in Kolkata the deprivation and poverty that my father told me about. What I saw was vibrancy and color, a people educated with a good command of English, unbearably gridlocked, tangled traffic, masses of people, and yes, even dim traces of Kolkata's glory.
Please visit this link below for some of my photographs of Kolkata.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=6316&l=b929b&id=686591597
My Apologies
I have been meaning to add to my blog but have encountered a temporary hitch. I am unable to load my photos so please be patient and for now, just ignore the old photos that sit along side new blogs. Blogspot is aware of the problem and promise to fix it.
Many thanks!
Many thanks!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
A Growing Passion
Having played truant from Sharma sir's classroom for two weeks, I made a trip to the National Zoological Park to try my hand at photographing wildlife, our next assignment. It has been years since my last visit to the zoo as Dan & Rae are now in university and are no longer eager to make zoo trips.
Even on a weekday, the zoo was full of people meandering the grounds: families with young kids, packs of young boys just having a good time, men walking together in twos, threes, fours. What is it about young Indian kids and a camera? Each of the groups of boys that I saw made eye contact with me and asked me to take their photograph. I of course obliged and after the click of the shutter, they scrambled to see their photo on the digital viewing screen. It made them so happy! And why deny them this little joy when they reward me with such smiles! A particular group of boys knew enough English to attempt a conversation with me.
"One photo please?"
"Yes, of course! Stand over there."
As soon as they heard the click, they rushed over and surrounded me. One put his hand on my shoulder as though we were long time buddies. All smiles! Pure pleasure. I moved away to say goodbye. One of the other boys wanted a solo. This is where digital camera has it over film--you can always click, keep or chuck a photograph and no body need be the wiser for it! Another click. One boy shyly says, "One kiss?" I look at him, smile, and say, "one photo yes, one kiss no." HUH! A kiss from this old biddy? Not likely. What could they possibly be thinking?
Walking around the zoo later in the day (4pm - 6pm) is unnerving. The park is full of turns and little walkways. Weeds and tall grasses grow abundantly on the side of the paths making anyone who walks down it virtually disappear. I proceed carefully. I pass the emu, the Bengal tiger, the sloth bear (unfortunately he was not doing his upside down thing), giraffes, zebras...click, click, click.
It is unfortunate that the zoo opens at 9am. How wonderful it would be to see the animals in the early morning light, gentle shadows on their faces, furs and feathers. What a delight it would be to watch their early morning rituals and ablutions. I made it to the zoo the next morning. Mornings are less crowded. However, that too was unnerving as I could be mugged and robbed (wild imagination?) and no one would ever know!
I happened upon a little lake with pink pelicans. I settled down on the grass to shoot. It was not so much the joy in photography but the delight in watching these birds that consumed me! On the grass behind me were love birds (not birds, humans) while I sat facing the lake clicking away. Life often gets too frenetic that we fail to see the enchantment of nature that surrounds us. Behind a lens, we are gifted with the focus to see God's greatest miracles in nature.
I walked away and headed to the giraffes. Giraffes are such gentle creatures that watching them walk slowly and reach up to trees is always a great photo opportunity. The 5 giraffes were feeding off a trough perched on a metal fence. All the animals in shadows, gathered for breakfast or perhaps brunch. No photo op there. The zebras were next door, also following their instinct and staying in shade. It was nearly 1130 and the sun was beating down.
The lake was still the best place to go; the pelicans had been very obliging. I met two older gentlemen with cameras. At first, I thought of retreating as their long bazooka lenses made my 70-300 telephoto look puny! But there is always something to learn from others and I boldly made my way towards the edge of the lake. We started a conversation. The gentlemen work for a newspaper and in their spare time, enjoy photography. They were very kind to me. I learned that feeding time was 1130. We all waited. At around 1130, the birds started gliding over to the side of the lake. How wise God has made them! Lunch was late today. Finally we heard a meal call. A wondrous sight! The birds glided towards their meal, getting their share of lunch. Some headed towards the trees with fish in their beaks to feed their young. Some headed to a quiet spot to enjoy their meal privately A riot of birds darting about, some over head, some above us, such an unexpected pleasure for me!
I now understand why photography can be an all consuming passion. The rewards of patience and focus, the miracles that unfold before the lens are cherished blessings. Being behind the lens is discovering secrets, being privy to the to the marvels of our daily lives. What a gift: photography, my new passion!
Please visit the link below to view my photographs at the zoo.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=6313&l=15b5a&id=686591597
Even on a weekday, the zoo was full of people meandering the grounds: families with young kids, packs of young boys just having a good time, men walking together in twos, threes, fours. What is it about young Indian kids and a camera? Each of the groups of boys that I saw made eye contact with me and asked me to take their photograph. I of course obliged and after the click of the shutter, they scrambled to see their photo on the digital viewing screen. It made them so happy! And why deny them this little joy when they reward me with such smiles! A particular group of boys knew enough English to attempt a conversation with me.
"One photo please?"
"Yes, of course! Stand over there."
As soon as they heard the click, they rushed over and surrounded me. One put his hand on my shoulder as though we were long time buddies. All smiles! Pure pleasure. I moved away to say goodbye. One of the other boys wanted a solo. This is where digital camera has it over film--you can always click, keep or chuck a photograph and no body need be the wiser for it! Another click. One boy shyly says, "One kiss?" I look at him, smile, and say, "one photo yes, one kiss no." HUH! A kiss from this old biddy? Not likely. What could they possibly be thinking?
Walking around the zoo later in the day (4pm - 6pm) is unnerving. The park is full of turns and little walkways. Weeds and tall grasses grow abundantly on the side of the paths making anyone who walks down it virtually disappear. I proceed carefully. I pass the emu, the Bengal tiger, the sloth bear (unfortunately he was not doing his upside down thing), giraffes, zebras...click, click, click.
It is unfortunate that the zoo opens at 9am. How wonderful it would be to see the animals in the early morning light, gentle shadows on their faces, furs and feathers. What a delight it would be to watch their early morning rituals and ablutions. I made it to the zoo the next morning. Mornings are less crowded. However, that too was unnerving as I could be mugged and robbed (wild imagination?) and no one would ever know!
I happened upon a little lake with pink pelicans. I settled down on the grass to shoot. It was not so much the joy in photography but the delight in watching these birds that consumed me! On the grass behind me were love birds (not birds, humans) while I sat facing the lake clicking away. Life often gets too frenetic that we fail to see the enchantment of nature that surrounds us. Behind a lens, we are gifted with the focus to see God's greatest miracles in nature.
I walked away and headed to the giraffes. Giraffes are such gentle creatures that watching them walk slowly and reach up to trees is always a great photo opportunity. The 5 giraffes were feeding off a trough perched on a metal fence. All the animals in shadows, gathered for breakfast or perhaps brunch. No photo op there. The zebras were next door, also following their instinct and staying in shade. It was nearly 1130 and the sun was beating down.
The lake was still the best place to go; the pelicans had been very obliging. I met two older gentlemen with cameras. At first, I thought of retreating as their long bazooka lenses made my 70-300 telephoto look puny! But there is always something to learn from others and I boldly made my way towards the edge of the lake. We started a conversation. The gentlemen work for a newspaper and in their spare time, enjoy photography. They were very kind to me. I learned that feeding time was 1130. We all waited. At around 1130, the birds started gliding over to the side of the lake. How wise God has made them! Lunch was late today. Finally we heard a meal call. A wondrous sight! The birds glided towards their meal, getting their share of lunch. Some headed towards the trees with fish in their beaks to feed their young. Some headed to a quiet spot to enjoy their meal privately A riot of birds darting about, some over head, some above us, such an unexpected pleasure for me!
I now understand why photography can be an all consuming passion. The rewards of patience and focus, the miracles that unfold before the lens are cherished blessings. Being behind the lens is discovering secrets, being privy to the to the marvels of our daily lives. What a gift: photography, my new passion!
Please visit the link below to view my photographs at the zoo.
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=6313&l=15b5a&id=686591597
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Bom Bahia
Perhaps the question all along was not whether I could call Delhi my home but WHEN I would call Delhi my home.
Raju met us at the Delhi airport after a protracted flight from Mumbai. The flow of traffic was brisk; we had a quick drive and were home in 20 minutes flat. How comfortable our own CRV felt, how familiar everything was from the baggage carousel to our night guard coming to greet us good evening. We were home.
Ever the trailing spouse, I joined David on another whirlwind of a trip to Mumbai. As usual, his day was full of to-dos, from a conference morning to an office inauguration pooja afternoon. I am learning to see cities on my own, without David's expert map reading skills and well organized outings. Armed with my Eyewitness Guide, my Nikon, and new found courage, I plan to see all of India!
We arrived Mumbai midnight Thursday. David warned me that the drive from the airport to the hotel could take up to two hours depending on the traffic. Fortunately, our drive took about an hour, partly because midnight traffic was lighter but more because we had a "video-game" driver, weaving in and out of lanes as though if we lost this life, we would have another one to keep us going!
Bombay (from the Portuguese Bom Bahia or good bay), capital of Maharashra, is India's most dynamic, cosmopolitan and crowded city.The city has now reverted to its local name Mumbai, from Mumba Devi, the eight-armed goddess worshipped by the Koli fishermen who were the islands' orignal inhabitants. The country's financial center and its busiest port, Mumbai is also home to the world's biggest cinema industry, popularly known as Bollywood. Although we did not bump into Ashwariya and Abhishek I am pretty sure they were also on Pali Hill Saturday afternoon as we lunched at Out of the Blue. Some 15 million people, from billionaire tycoons to homeless pavement dwellers, live in this teeming megalopolis. Mumbai probably has the largest number of skyscrapers and slums in south Asia, an indicator of the disparity in living standards of its residents. Its architecture is mainly Gothic in influence. The Victoria Terminus, the Prince of Wales Museum, the Rajabai Clock tower and the Elphistone College all exude a Gothic air. On the main road on the drive to Malabar Hill, homes stand, one connected to the next sharing a common wall. Their telltale Gothic windows and tiny balconies are witness to Mumbai's past. They stand side by side as though a house of cards where the ruination of one would surely result in the ruination of all!
Our hotel was located on Marine Drive facing the Arabian Sea (in an Internet ad our room would have been described as having a view of the Sea but in truth, a view was there only if you craned your neck and looked left). Hotel prices in Mumbai are more inflated than Delhi prices and I was shocked to learn that home rentals here are quite a lot more expensive than they would be in New York City! It had been a long day for both of us so we quickly settled down and got some rest.
Mumbai is a long, narrow promontory covering 430 sq km (166 sq miles) which juts into the Arabian Sea. Its downtown is the historic Fort area in South Mumbai, the city's nerve center with its best known sights. The day was already hot by the time I got to the Gateway of India, Mumbai's most famous landmark. During the heyday of the British Raj, it was the first sight to greet travellers to Indian shores; ironically, it also became the exit point for British troops after India gained independence in 1947. I walked around the landmark seeking a good vantage point for a photograph. With the monument's proportions and the fenced off area immediately surrounding it, it was almost impossible to get a good shot. There were touts aplenty. By now I have learned to speak a very firm "nahi" though that is often not good enough to dissuade them. A particularly persistent tout attempted to entice me to a trip to Elephanta Island. He claimed there was a very interesting Jain festival with a thousand men washing clothes. HUH! That I would like to see! But, no thank you.
The red-domed Taj Mahal Hotel stands behind the Gateway of India. It has been rumoured that this Taj was built by a prominent Parsi industrialist Jamshedji Tata who decided to construct it when he was barred from entering the "whites only" Watson's Hotel. The Watson is now a dilapidated building. I walked through the Taj and indeed, its fluidity and hushed elegance is its best revenge! What we can do when someone tells us we can't!
At this point, I must describe my driver for the day. A stocky well meaning man, he drove like a maniac through the streets of Mumbai. It might well be that I am not accustomed to the demands of the streets of this city but please, how fatalistic is he that he must include me into his daring assaults at death! Seeing that I was alone, and perhaps sensing my desire for shopping (which I believed I was keeping under raps), he insisted on taking me to a cottage industry store instead of the Wellington Fountain. His schpeel continued "very good store madam, just looking, ten minutes only." And again, a very firm "nahi" from me. All is well once again. He drives me to a fountain. I happily shoot photographs of this fountain and the wonderfully Gothic structures around it. The sky was blue, white tufted cumulus clouds were above. However, I later discovered that it was not the Wellington fountain he took me to! Aiyooh, we would say in Singapore!
I had my own shopping agenda. I instructed my video-game driver to take me to The Courtyard where an Abraham and Thakore was located. Once again, he drove me to HIS shopping place insisting that I go down and "have a look madam." I try and hold my temper towards people I don't know only because I do not know what evil they can be capable of. I raised my voice slightly and pointed at my guide. He took a quick look, headed out the car to inquire. He came back with a smile, and said, "same place madam. Upstairs, look." And what sign was upstairs? He claimed that the letters that spelt "Apsara" also spelt "The Courtyard!" "Bas!" I put on my fiercest face and repeated my instructions. The Courtyard is a string of lovely stores surrounding a garden. It was very pleasant, posh and inviting. I had barely began to explore Abraham and Thakore when David called and said he had time for lunch.
We lunched at the Leopold Cafe which my guide claims is a long time favorite for travellers and has a wonderful selection of multi-cuisine dishes. I suppose its read on the cafe was true enough. It just sounded much more enticing than it really was: a large, open but darkish hall distinctly refectory in feel. Servings were generous and admittedly tasty. Good enough for a quick meal.
My afternoon challenge was getting around Mumbai on my own. David had his pooja (and thankfully he needed the car and driver) and I had my shopping~and never the two shall mix! The sun was too high for photographs so I decided to explore Mumbai's shopping scene. I re-visited the Courtyard. To get to my next stop, I walked in search of a taxi with a gentle looking driver. I came upon one with a white haired old man as driver. You dilliwallis who think our Ambassadors are relics, have another think! This timeless Ambassador had carpeting on the celing with a twenty-four inch flourescent bulb installed on it. The meter was on the opposite side of the driver, outside the taxi. Does it therefore never rain in Mumbai? Not a bad ride at all for R20! I visited Ensemble, a rather chi-chi shop with a big assortment of sarees. My next Ambassador had black disco lights. What an unlikely adventure! I continued my shopping at the Oberoi then walked back to the hotel.
Dinner was at a charming restaurant called Salt Water Grill. Their menu is almost an exact replica of our Delhi Smoke House Grill. Cuttlery and other accoutrements were almost identical. Food was also consistent with its Delhi counterpart. Located on the beach, under a big white tent, a breeze blowing from the sea, dinner at the grill was perfect.
Saturday was a wet day in Mumbai. We drove around town seeing Malabar Hill, the Haji Ali Mosque, the Hanging Gardens. I squeezed in a visit to Melange, a chic boutique on Altamount Road. We enjoyed the azure coastline and were surprised by a rainbow. A slow relaxing day until we embarked on our drive to the airport. Once again, our indefatigable video-game driver took us to a mall where he said he could park safely. We wanted to have lunch and he wanted to park safely! And oh yes, Madam, "very good store, just take a quick look, ten minutes only."
Ah Delhi, how wonderful to be back!
Raju met us at the Delhi airport after a protracted flight from Mumbai. The flow of traffic was brisk; we had a quick drive and were home in 20 minutes flat. How comfortable our own CRV felt, how familiar everything was from the baggage carousel to our night guard coming to greet us good evening. We were home.
Ever the trailing spouse, I joined David on another whirlwind of a trip to Mumbai. As usual, his day was full of to-dos, from a conference morning to an office inauguration pooja afternoon. I am learning to see cities on my own, without David's expert map reading skills and well organized outings. Armed with my Eyewitness Guide, my Nikon, and new found courage, I plan to see all of India!
We arrived Mumbai midnight Thursday. David warned me that the drive from the airport to the hotel could take up to two hours depending on the traffic. Fortunately, our drive took about an hour, partly because midnight traffic was lighter but more because we had a "video-game" driver, weaving in and out of lanes as though if we lost this life, we would have another one to keep us going!
Bombay (from the Portuguese Bom Bahia or good bay), capital of Maharashra, is India's most dynamic, cosmopolitan and crowded city.The city has now reverted to its local name Mumbai, from Mumba Devi, the eight-armed goddess worshipped by the Koli fishermen who were the islands' orignal inhabitants. The country's financial center and its busiest port, Mumbai is also home to the world's biggest cinema industry, popularly known as Bollywood. Although we did not bump into Ashwariya and Abhishek I am pretty sure they were also on Pali Hill Saturday afternoon as we lunched at Out of the Blue. Some 15 million people, from billionaire tycoons to homeless pavement dwellers, live in this teeming megalopolis. Mumbai probably has the largest number of skyscrapers and slums in south Asia, an indicator of the disparity in living standards of its residents. Its architecture is mainly Gothic in influence. The Victoria Terminus, the Prince of Wales Museum, the Rajabai Clock tower and the Elphistone College all exude a Gothic air. On the main road on the drive to Malabar Hill, homes stand, one connected to the next sharing a common wall. Their telltale Gothic windows and tiny balconies are witness to Mumbai's past. They stand side by side as though a house of cards where the ruination of one would surely result in the ruination of all!
Our hotel was located on Marine Drive facing the Arabian Sea (in an Internet ad our room would have been described as having a view of the Sea but in truth, a view was there only if you craned your neck and looked left). Hotel prices in Mumbai are more inflated than Delhi prices and I was shocked to learn that home rentals here are quite a lot more expensive than they would be in New York City! It had been a long day for both of us so we quickly settled down and got some rest.
Mumbai is a long, narrow promontory covering 430 sq km (166 sq miles) which juts into the Arabian Sea. Its downtown is the historic Fort area in South Mumbai, the city's nerve center with its best known sights. The day was already hot by the time I got to the Gateway of India, Mumbai's most famous landmark. During the heyday of the British Raj, it was the first sight to greet travellers to Indian shores; ironically, it also became the exit point for British troops after India gained independence in 1947. I walked around the landmark seeking a good vantage point for a photograph. With the monument's proportions and the fenced off area immediately surrounding it, it was almost impossible to get a good shot. There were touts aplenty. By now I have learned to speak a very firm "nahi" though that is often not good enough to dissuade them. A particularly persistent tout attempted to entice me to a trip to Elephanta Island. He claimed there was a very interesting Jain festival with a thousand men washing clothes. HUH! That I would like to see! But, no thank you.
The red-domed Taj Mahal Hotel stands behind the Gateway of India. It has been rumoured that this Taj was built by a prominent Parsi industrialist Jamshedji Tata who decided to construct it when he was barred from entering the "whites only" Watson's Hotel. The Watson is now a dilapidated building. I walked through the Taj and indeed, its fluidity and hushed elegance is its best revenge! What we can do when someone tells us we can't!
At this point, I must describe my driver for the day. A stocky well meaning man, he drove like a maniac through the streets of Mumbai. It might well be that I am not accustomed to the demands of the streets of this city but please, how fatalistic is he that he must include me into his daring assaults at death! Seeing that I was alone, and perhaps sensing my desire for shopping (which I believed I was keeping under raps), he insisted on taking me to a cottage industry store instead of the Wellington Fountain. His schpeel continued "very good store madam, just looking, ten minutes only." And again, a very firm "nahi" from me. All is well once again. He drives me to a fountain. I happily shoot photographs of this fountain and the wonderfully Gothic structures around it. The sky was blue, white tufted cumulus clouds were above. However, I later discovered that it was not the Wellington fountain he took me to! Aiyooh, we would say in Singapore!
I had my own shopping agenda. I instructed my video-game driver to take me to The Courtyard where an Abraham and Thakore was located. Once again, he drove me to HIS shopping place insisting that I go down and "have a look madam." I try and hold my temper towards people I don't know only because I do not know what evil they can be capable of. I raised my voice slightly and pointed at my guide. He took a quick look, headed out the car to inquire. He came back with a smile, and said, "same place madam. Upstairs, look." And what sign was upstairs? He claimed that the letters that spelt "Apsara" also spelt "The Courtyard!" "Bas!" I put on my fiercest face and repeated my instructions. The Courtyard is a string of lovely stores surrounding a garden. It was very pleasant, posh and inviting. I had barely began to explore Abraham and Thakore when David called and said he had time for lunch.
We lunched at the Leopold Cafe which my guide claims is a long time favorite for travellers and has a wonderful selection of multi-cuisine dishes. I suppose its read on the cafe was true enough. It just sounded much more enticing than it really was: a large, open but darkish hall distinctly refectory in feel. Servings were generous and admittedly tasty. Good enough for a quick meal.
My afternoon challenge was getting around Mumbai on my own. David had his pooja (and thankfully he needed the car and driver) and I had my shopping~and never the two shall mix! The sun was too high for photographs so I decided to explore Mumbai's shopping scene. I re-visited the Courtyard. To get to my next stop, I walked in search of a taxi with a gentle looking driver. I came upon one with a white haired old man as driver. You dilliwallis who think our Ambassadors are relics, have another think! This timeless Ambassador had carpeting on the celing with a twenty-four inch flourescent bulb installed on it. The meter was on the opposite side of the driver, outside the taxi. Does it therefore never rain in Mumbai? Not a bad ride at all for R20! I visited Ensemble, a rather chi-chi shop with a big assortment of sarees. My next Ambassador had black disco lights. What an unlikely adventure! I continued my shopping at the Oberoi then walked back to the hotel.
Dinner was at a charming restaurant called Salt Water Grill. Their menu is almost an exact replica of our Delhi Smoke House Grill. Cuttlery and other accoutrements were almost identical. Food was also consistent with its Delhi counterpart. Located on the beach, under a big white tent, a breeze blowing from the sea, dinner at the grill was perfect.
Saturday was a wet day in Mumbai. We drove around town seeing Malabar Hill, the Haji Ali Mosque, the Hanging Gardens. I squeezed in a visit to Melange, a chic boutique on Altamount Road. We enjoyed the azure coastline and were surprised by a rainbow. A slow relaxing day until we embarked on our drive to the airport. Once again, our indefatigable video-game driver took us to a mall where he said he could park safely. We wanted to have lunch and he wanted to park safely! And oh yes, Madam, "very good store, just take a quick look, ten minutes only."
Ah Delhi, how wonderful to be back!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Jama Masjid, Delhi
Hoping to catch the afternoon light for a bit of photography, we traveled to Jama Masjid at 4pm this afternoon.
We alighted at the eastern entrance. A teeming mass of humanity crushed us from all sides. Every imaginable item was on sale: colorful beaded shoes for little girls, water proof watches sitting in a kiddie pool, Adidas gym bags, Muslim hats.... I used David as shield for all oncoming human traffic as we sidestepped the rain puddles and fought our way through the throng.
I thought I had steeled myself to the poverty and agony of India. The walk to the masjid shocked me into understanding that there is so much more that I have not seen, so much more suffering that I do not recognize. Shrouded women extended their veils hoping for some charity. Lame and leprous men sat on the masjid steps hands reaching out. Children chased after us, touching my arm begging for chapati rupees. An old blind man made his way through the mob guided by a younger friend. In Aurangzeb's time, this area attracted horse sellers and jugglers: today shoe minders and beggars fill the space. The magnitude of need and suffering on this short stretch is unimaginable.
We walked around the masjid seeking a less crowded entrance. Two hundred rupees for the camera! We were ordered to remove our shoes. David was quickly put into a veshti. My arms were covered with a shawl.
Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque, was built in 1656 by the Emperor Shah Jahan. It took six years and 5,000 workers to construct, at a cost of nearly a million rupees. Its huge square courtyard can accommodate up to 20,000 people at Friday prayer sessions and at Id when it looks like a sea of worshippers.
We strolled around the courtyard, less crowded now and feeling more like a place of worship. Men sat on the sandstone steps, discussing among themselves, enjoying the afternoon. Women and children walked about. Elderly men chose their niches and watched as people walked by. Children ran around in groups. A row of Muslim men squat by the dukka (water tank) for their ritual ablutions.
It will never cease to amaze me that these historical monuments of beauty, now almost four hundred years old still serve their original purpose today. What a gift and legacy from the past! It is wretched that today, the stench of poverty pervades its environs. Shall this be our legacy?
We alighted at the eastern entrance. A teeming mass of humanity crushed us from all sides. Every imaginable item was on sale: colorful beaded shoes for little girls, water proof watches sitting in a kiddie pool, Adidas gym bags, Muslim hats.... I used David as shield for all oncoming human traffic as we sidestepped the rain puddles and fought our way through the throng.
I thought I had steeled myself to the poverty and agony of India. The walk to the masjid shocked me into understanding that there is so much more that I have not seen, so much more suffering that I do not recognize. Shrouded women extended their veils hoping for some charity. Lame and leprous men sat on the masjid steps hands reaching out. Children chased after us, touching my arm begging for chapati rupees. An old blind man made his way through the mob guided by a younger friend. In Aurangzeb's time, this area attracted horse sellers and jugglers: today shoe minders and beggars fill the space. The magnitude of need and suffering on this short stretch is unimaginable.
We walked around the masjid seeking a less crowded entrance. Two hundred rupees for the camera! We were ordered to remove our shoes. David was quickly put into a veshti. My arms were covered with a shawl.
Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque, was built in 1656 by the Emperor Shah Jahan. It took six years and 5,000 workers to construct, at a cost of nearly a million rupees. Its huge square courtyard can accommodate up to 20,000 people at Friday prayer sessions and at Id when it looks like a sea of worshippers.
We strolled around the courtyard, less crowded now and feeling more like a place of worship. Men sat on the sandstone steps, discussing among themselves, enjoying the afternoon. Women and children walked about. Elderly men chose their niches and watched as people walked by. Children ran around in groups. A row of Muslim men squat by the dukka (water tank) for their ritual ablutions.
It will never cease to amaze me that these historical monuments of beauty, now almost four hundred years old still serve their original purpose today. What a gift and legacy from the past! It is wretched that today, the stench of poverty pervades its environs. Shall this be our legacy?
Monday, September 3, 2007
Around India in 80 days
Travelling on business is not at all like traveling for the pure pleasure of it. Trailing David last weekend took me to Chennai after blasting through Bangalore. Another plane ride, another airport, another car ride to spend two days in Chennai. This trip has given me a deeper appreciation of the work business travel really is. My wholehearted appreciation goes to David! Travelling with David has an "Around the World in Eighty Days" feeling! However, now that Daniel and Rachel are off to college, I plan to seize each opportunity to travel and see India. Carpe diem!
We arrived Chennai after a forty-five minute plane ride from Bangalore. Unlike cool Bangalore, Chennai has warmer, Delhi-like weather albeit with more humidity. I felt right at home!
Chennai, formerly known as Madras, is the state capital of Tamil Nadu and the gateway to the rich and varied culture of the South Indian peninsula. Originally a cluster of fishing hamlets along the Coromandel coast, the city developed its cohesive shape under the British. Today, it is South India's commercial and cultural capital, the fourth largest metropolis in India. It is a dynamic mix of the old and the new, its stately colonial structures juxtaposed with modern high-rises.
The Hindu Kapaleshvara Temple opened to worshippers later in the day but was equally interesting from the outside. The temple gate had the typical colorful recursive fractal-like spires. Flower ladies ensconced themselves in front of the large green temple door. They had heaps of flowers and adroitly strung them to make garland offerings for the temple. Along the streets were numerous kiosks doing the same. Flowers were everywhere and a hushed tranquil feeling pervaded the atmosphere around the temple. A bent lady carried white powder and created a lavish rangoli on the street facing the temple gate. On special days, the rangoli became more elaborate and was filled in with different shades of powder. I walked down the street and visited the little stalls. There were bowls of bindi powder, jars of pooja powder, strands of black hemp with crystal terminations to ward off evil spells, turmeric roots for bathing...such an abundance of ritual, color and history in these little stalls! A microcosm of India itself!
Chennai's link with Christianity dates to the 1st century AD, to the time of St. Thomas the apostle. It is believed that in 72AD, a mortally wounded St Thomas sought refuge in a cave on Little Mount. The Portuguese subsequently built the Blessed Sacrament Chapel over the cave. In the 10th century, a group of Nestorian Christians from Persia discovered the saint's burial site and built a church and tomb. This is the present Basilica of San Thome, an impressive Gothic-style structure built in 1898.* I followed suit and left my shoes at the door to say a short prayer. San Thome has an ornate interior with magnificent stained glass windows. There was a scattering of believers around me. All noise and worries seemed to vanish in this reverent sanctum.
We awoke early next morning and departed our hotel at 6:30am to visit Mamallapuram, 58 km south of Chennai. Our driver proceeded very slowly (as if to allow the morning light to escape). He explained that the site opens at 9:00am. We decided to stop for breakfast at the Taj Fisherman's Cove, a pleasant and relaxing resort off the Bay of Bengal. I thought it was unlikely that this UNESCO World Heritage Site would not be open at an early hour. After all, it was in the morning light that would cast the best shadows on this awesome monument. We got there past 8am to find that the visiting hours began at 6am! Lesson learned: do your homework!
Mamallapuram, built in the 7th century by Mamalla was once a major port-city. This spectacular site situated on the Bay of Bengal extends across a boulder strewn landscape and comprises rock-cut caves and monolithic shrines, structural temples and huge bas-reliefs that are considered the greatest examples of Pallava art. The stone-carving tradition that created these wonders is still alive in the many workshops scattered around the village. The spectacular Shore Temple, perched dramatically on a promontory by the sea has survived the ravages of time and erosion.* We marveled at the Panch Pandava Cave Temple. We saw Krishna's Butter Ball, a natural boulder sitting precariously on a slope. Groups of people had their photographs taken in the rolling path of the giant boulder. What belief, what faith, that today is not the day that big rock rolls down!
We returned to town to have lunch with N. Kumar. A smiling man with marvelous manners that put everyone instantly at ease, he met us at the door of his home. Mr. Ajit Singh, Consul-General of Singapore had arrived before us. A little later we were introduced to the gracious Mrs.Kumar, who unfortunately could not join us due to unexpected circumstances.
Kumar hosted lunch at the elegant Taj Coromandel. As I have experienced many times in India, stepping into an upper crust hotel means leaving the dust, dirt, and chaos that is India and stepping into paradise which is also India! While wiating at the Taj lobby with Kumar we peered into the elegant hotel boutique. A mannequin in a salwar kameez stood at the window. Madras conjures up images of flowing silks and cottons blowing in a gentle warm breeze. I commented to Kumar that I wished I could wear a sari. It seemed too daunting a task! From our conversations, I also learned that Kumar is a tennis enthusiast. Ah, a man after my own heart! He has stood on the same court as Vijay Armitrage and has even taken sets off the Indian legend! A few days later, we received an email and Kumar has reserved me a seat at the Chennai Open in January. YES!
Kumar introduces us to South Indian cuisine. A warm silver plate is set in front of us; six or seven katoris (small metal bowls) are arranged around the warm plate. There was an amazing range of imaginatively cooked dishes which I shall not attempt to name. Fish was at the center of the plate. We were also treated to the delicious Appam, a bowl shaped thin pancake meant to be the wrapper for a creamy vegetable dish. I watched Mr. Singh and Mr. Kumar for cues on how to properly proceed with eating the feast laid in front of us. Upon Mr. K's urging, I tried some 'gunpowder' and decided it was not nearly as threatening as its name! What a wonderful introduction to south Indian cuisine, in the most elegant of surroundings with the most gracious of hosts! Thank you, Mr. Kumar!
We had a few hours before our flight departed at 8:00pm that evening. Upon both Mr. Kumar and Mr. Singh's suggestion, we visited Amethyst, a beautiful boutique tucked into an ancestral home set amidst a mature garden. Frangipanis, palms, yuccas, and ferns growing in and through each other in a bramble reminded me of a garden my mother might have tended. Tulsi (basil) grew profusely along the paths. I wandered through the interconnecting rooms picking out kurtas and tops to try, enjoying the experience of shopping at such posh surroundings. Amethyst had beautiful shoes and bags and an amazing collection of silver jewelry. Immediately outside the shopping rooms was a large parlour with tables and chairs scattered around it. Lighting was subdued and relaxed; white ceiling fans gave the home a decidedly British Raj look. A wrap around veranda ran the perimeter of the house. A lady in her purple chiffon kali walked following her daughter in tee shirt and jeans. David and I picked our corner and settled down to read and unwind. He enjoyed an affogato al cafe, a gloriously decadent dessert of espresso poured over ice cream. I decided to be sensible and ordered a bowl of fruit with cinnamon and orange. It hit the spot but I looked wistfully at David and wished I had been decadent instead!
Where ever I find myself, I discover two Indias. It no longer confuses and confounds me. No longer frustrates me. After all, Mr. Kumar assures us, "No one knows India." He adds, "you must accept confusion; only then will you see clarity in this confusion." Soon I will be wise enough to accept India as it is, enjoy all it has to offer. Very soon.
*India Eyewitness Travel Guides
We arrived Chennai after a forty-five minute plane ride from Bangalore. Unlike cool Bangalore, Chennai has warmer, Delhi-like weather albeit with more humidity. I felt right at home!
Chennai, formerly known as Madras, is the state capital of Tamil Nadu and the gateway to the rich and varied culture of the South Indian peninsula. Originally a cluster of fishing hamlets along the Coromandel coast, the city developed its cohesive shape under the British. Today, it is South India's commercial and cultural capital, the fourth largest metropolis in India. It is a dynamic mix of the old and the new, its stately colonial structures juxtaposed with modern high-rises.
The Hindu Kapaleshvara Temple opened to worshippers later in the day but was equally interesting from the outside. The temple gate had the typical colorful recursive fractal-like spires. Flower ladies ensconced themselves in front of the large green temple door. They had heaps of flowers and adroitly strung them to make garland offerings for the temple. Along the streets were numerous kiosks doing the same. Flowers were everywhere and a hushed tranquil feeling pervaded the atmosphere around the temple. A bent lady carried white powder and created a lavish rangoli on the street facing the temple gate. On special days, the rangoli became more elaborate and was filled in with different shades of powder. I walked down the street and visited the little stalls. There were bowls of bindi powder, jars of pooja powder, strands of black hemp with crystal terminations to ward off evil spells, turmeric roots for bathing...such an abundance of ritual, color and history in these little stalls! A microcosm of India itself!
Chennai's link with Christianity dates to the 1st century AD, to the time of St. Thomas the apostle. It is believed that in 72AD, a mortally wounded St Thomas sought refuge in a cave on Little Mount. The Portuguese subsequently built the Blessed Sacrament Chapel over the cave. In the 10th century, a group of Nestorian Christians from Persia discovered the saint's burial site and built a church and tomb. This is the present Basilica of San Thome, an impressive Gothic-style structure built in 1898.* I followed suit and left my shoes at the door to say a short prayer. San Thome has an ornate interior with magnificent stained glass windows. There was a scattering of believers around me. All noise and worries seemed to vanish in this reverent sanctum.
We awoke early next morning and departed our hotel at 6:30am to visit Mamallapuram, 58 km south of Chennai. Our driver proceeded very slowly (as if to allow the morning light to escape). He explained that the site opens at 9:00am. We decided to stop for breakfast at the Taj Fisherman's Cove, a pleasant and relaxing resort off the Bay of Bengal. I thought it was unlikely that this UNESCO World Heritage Site would not be open at an early hour. After all, it was in the morning light that would cast the best shadows on this awesome monument. We got there past 8am to find that the visiting hours began at 6am! Lesson learned: do your homework!
Mamallapuram, built in the 7th century by Mamalla was once a major port-city. This spectacular site situated on the Bay of Bengal extends across a boulder strewn landscape and comprises rock-cut caves and monolithic shrines, structural temples and huge bas-reliefs that are considered the greatest examples of Pallava art. The stone-carving tradition that created these wonders is still alive in the many workshops scattered around the village. The spectacular Shore Temple, perched dramatically on a promontory by the sea has survived the ravages of time and erosion.* We marveled at the Panch Pandava Cave Temple. We saw Krishna's Butter Ball, a natural boulder sitting precariously on a slope. Groups of people had their photographs taken in the rolling path of the giant boulder. What belief, what faith, that today is not the day that big rock rolls down!
We returned to town to have lunch with N. Kumar. A smiling man with marvelous manners that put everyone instantly at ease, he met us at the door of his home. Mr. Ajit Singh, Consul-General of Singapore had arrived before us. A little later we were introduced to the gracious Mrs.Kumar, who unfortunately could not join us due to unexpected circumstances.
Kumar hosted lunch at the elegant Taj Coromandel. As I have experienced many times in India, stepping into an upper crust hotel means leaving the dust, dirt, and chaos that is India and stepping into paradise which is also India! While wiating at the Taj lobby with Kumar we peered into the elegant hotel boutique. A mannequin in a salwar kameez stood at the window. Madras conjures up images of flowing silks and cottons blowing in a gentle warm breeze. I commented to Kumar that I wished I could wear a sari. It seemed too daunting a task! From our conversations, I also learned that Kumar is a tennis enthusiast. Ah, a man after my own heart! He has stood on the same court as Vijay Armitrage and has even taken sets off the Indian legend! A few days later, we received an email and Kumar has reserved me a seat at the Chennai Open in January. YES!
Kumar introduces us to South Indian cuisine. A warm silver plate is set in front of us; six or seven katoris (small metal bowls) are arranged around the warm plate. There was an amazing range of imaginatively cooked dishes which I shall not attempt to name. Fish was at the center of the plate. We were also treated to the delicious Appam, a bowl shaped thin pancake meant to be the wrapper for a creamy vegetable dish. I watched Mr. Singh and Mr. Kumar for cues on how to properly proceed with eating the feast laid in front of us. Upon Mr. K's urging, I tried some 'gunpowder' and decided it was not nearly as threatening as its name! What a wonderful introduction to south Indian cuisine, in the most elegant of surroundings with the most gracious of hosts! Thank you, Mr. Kumar!
We had a few hours before our flight departed at 8:00pm that evening. Upon both Mr. Kumar and Mr. Singh's suggestion, we visited Amethyst, a beautiful boutique tucked into an ancestral home set amidst a mature garden. Frangipanis, palms, yuccas, and ferns growing in and through each other in a bramble reminded me of a garden my mother might have tended. Tulsi (basil) grew profusely along the paths. I wandered through the interconnecting rooms picking out kurtas and tops to try, enjoying the experience of shopping at such posh surroundings. Amethyst had beautiful shoes and bags and an amazing collection of silver jewelry. Immediately outside the shopping rooms was a large parlour with tables and chairs scattered around it. Lighting was subdued and relaxed; white ceiling fans gave the home a decidedly British Raj look. A wrap around veranda ran the perimeter of the house. A lady in her purple chiffon kali walked following her daughter in tee shirt and jeans. David and I picked our corner and settled down to read and unwind. He enjoyed an affogato al cafe, a gloriously decadent dessert of espresso poured over ice cream. I decided to be sensible and ordered a bowl of fruit with cinnamon and orange. It hit the spot but I looked wistfully at David and wished I had been decadent instead!
Where ever I find myself, I discover two Indias. It no longer confuses and confounds me. No longer frustrates me. After all, Mr. Kumar assures us, "No one knows India." He adds, "you must accept confusion; only then will you see clarity in this confusion." Soon I will be wise enough to accept India as it is, enjoy all it has to offer. Very soon.
*India Eyewitness Travel Guides
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