Although September is still considered monsoon season, it only rains at night now. Between nine and ten the black sky erupts with electric blue bursts of lightning, followed soon after by rocking vibrations of thunder. A refreshing cool breeze blows through the streets providing a temporary break from the oppressive heat. Alexander and I open all our windows and balcony door, waiting excitedly for the expected downpour. By the time the rain stops the roads are submerged beneath a thick layer of hot, murky water.
There is something comforting about the storms here. I am convinced nothing bad can happen to us during the downpours. Every living creature has taken shelter and the bustle of the world is put on pause. All we can do is sit and wait.
But the rainstorms have an unfortunate aftereffect. Usually they are accompanied by a humid heat wave that settles over the city. The muddy soup that forms on the street congeals into an abominable paste penetrating even the most sealed windows with its nose-piercing stench. Last night was especially bad because the power shut off. I awoke disoriented in the middle night, my shirt drenched with hot sweat, crying out to Alexander, “What has happened to our fan? Why have you turned off our fan?!?” After deducing that a lack of electricity was the real culprit, we reluctantly forced open all our windows and attempted to endure the reek of cow poop and aerating sewers. As if this was not bad enough, some poor soul started coughing and vomiting beneath our window. The heat, stench and noise made it impossible to fall back asleep until our adored pedestal fan came back on at 5am.
Alexander and I thought the whole experience was hysterical and laughed throughout the ordeal. We have learned that a sense of humor is crucial.
9.24.2007
Adventures, Continued
Despite our efforts to aggregate the basic necessities, Alexander and I have made time for some magical excursions.
On September 11th we visited the famous Calico Museum of Textiles. A stern woman wielding a stick gave us a three-hour regimented tour of the many extensive collections (the museum is only accessible through daily tours). “You. Come now! Through door. Watch your head,” she demanded. Alexander and I struggled to take notes and absorb the beauty of the fading pieces. One of my favorite artifacts was a curtain made for the 16th century Portuguese market. Although it appeared at first to be a simple white hanging, a light was turned on to reveal an intricate design– all sewn with thin white thread. The picture showed a story of dozens of hunters running through the jungle, shooting arrows at a group of elusive tigers. “When the sun shines through, the picture appears,” our tour guide explained.
The following day we were advised to stay within the campus of NID due to Hindu fundamentalist protests. Alexander and I took refuge in the air-conditioned library. He researched leheria turban design, mata ni pachedi, and mashru fabric patterns in an attempt to narrow his research project while I read The Social Life of Things. That night we caught a lecture on Iranian cinema and a screening of Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry. Incredible.
The 14th was one of the best days to date. In the morning we made a visit to a tailor who had been recommended to us by several NID professors. The rickshaw dropped us off at the tiny shop, located on a quiet dirt alley away from the main road. The tailor and his son welcomed us inside and showed us countless sketches, photographs and articles of clothing that they had designed. The tailor told us about the many famous clients he had dressed over the years, showing us pictures and notes written from appreciative customers abroad. Alexander requested some lightweight pants (all he has right now are heavy jeans) and a thin cotton button-up shirt. After we settled on the design, the tailor’s son took us to a khadi shop to pick out material. We traveled by a motorcycle attached to a small, rusty sidecar. Alexander rode behind the tailor’s son as I sat sweating with fear in the sidecar.
At first the material selection at the khadi shop appeared bleak. Bolts of muted grays and blues were stacked on top of checkered tans and textured whites. As we approached the counter, however, a khadi salesman began retrieving colorful bolts of fabric from the surrounding cupboards. Alexander selected a dark indigo and a warm gray stitched with a delicate red and yellow plaid. Meanwhile, I fell in love with a brilliant piece of woven ikat with a repeating design of purple, scarlet, gold, orange and green stripes, and spontaneously bought enough to make a dress.
After delivering our khadi purchases to the tailor, Alexander and I set off for Honeycomb International. Tucked away in the bottom of a hotel, Honeycomb sells antique textiles from all over India. We met the owner, Nazeer, and his son. They showed us a collection of hand-dyed turbans, many of which were nearly a century old. Before we left, Nazeer invited us to return with a camera to document some of his amazing artifacts.
Our last stop of the day was a small, nameless handloom shop hidden deep in the residential district of the Old City. Specializing in antique products from Kutch, the tiny store was stacked with intricately woven designs. We took an hour to examine various crafts as the relaxed salesmen let us touch and scrutinize every piece. At the very end of our visit, one of the men brought out a large plastic bag filled with turbans. Although they were all beautiful, there was one in particular that stood out. It had a tie-and-dye leheria pattern in pink, yellow, lavender and dark blue, and, despite its age of eighty years, looked in near perfect condition. It stretched nearly twenty feet when completely unraveled. Without hesitation, we happily purchased it for twelve dollars.
On September 11th we visited the famous Calico Museum of Textiles. A stern woman wielding a stick gave us a three-hour regimented tour of the many extensive collections (the museum is only accessible through daily tours). “You. Come now! Through door. Watch your head,” she demanded. Alexander and I struggled to take notes and absorb the beauty of the fading pieces. One of my favorite artifacts was a curtain made for the 16th century Portuguese market. Although it appeared at first to be a simple white hanging, a light was turned on to reveal an intricate design– all sewn with thin white thread. The picture showed a story of dozens of hunters running through the jungle, shooting arrows at a group of elusive tigers. “When the sun shines through, the picture appears,” our tour guide explained.
The following day we were advised to stay within the campus of NID due to Hindu fundamentalist protests. Alexander and I took refuge in the air-conditioned library. He researched leheria turban design, mata ni pachedi, and mashru fabric patterns in an attempt to narrow his research project while I read The Social Life of Things. That night we caught a lecture on Iranian cinema and a screening of Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry. Incredible.
The 14th was one of the best days to date. In the morning we made a visit to a tailor who had been recommended to us by several NID professors. The rickshaw dropped us off at the tiny shop, located on a quiet dirt alley away from the main road. The tailor and his son welcomed us inside and showed us countless sketches, photographs and articles of clothing that they had designed. The tailor told us about the many famous clients he had dressed over the years, showing us pictures and notes written from appreciative customers abroad. Alexander requested some lightweight pants (all he has right now are heavy jeans) and a thin cotton button-up shirt. After we settled on the design, the tailor’s son took us to a khadi shop to pick out material. We traveled by a motorcycle attached to a small, rusty sidecar. Alexander rode behind the tailor’s son as I sat sweating with fear in the sidecar.
At first the material selection at the khadi shop appeared bleak. Bolts of muted grays and blues were stacked on top of checkered tans and textured whites. As we approached the counter, however, a khadi salesman began retrieving colorful bolts of fabric from the surrounding cupboards. Alexander selected a dark indigo and a warm gray stitched with a delicate red and yellow plaid. Meanwhile, I fell in love with a brilliant piece of woven ikat with a repeating design of purple, scarlet, gold, orange and green stripes, and spontaneously bought enough to make a dress.
After delivering our khadi purchases to the tailor, Alexander and I set off for Honeycomb International. Tucked away in the bottom of a hotel, Honeycomb sells antique textiles from all over India. We met the owner, Nazeer, and his son. They showed us a collection of hand-dyed turbans, many of which were nearly a century old. Before we left, Nazeer invited us to return with a camera to document some of his amazing artifacts.
Our last stop of the day was a small, nameless handloom shop hidden deep in the residential district of the Old City. Specializing in antique products from Kutch, the tiny store was stacked with intricately woven designs. We took an hour to examine various crafts as the relaxed salesmen let us touch and scrutinize every piece. At the very end of our visit, one of the men brought out a large plastic bag filled with turbans. Although they were all beautiful, there was one in particular that stood out. It had a tie-and-dye leheria pattern in pink, yellow, lavender and dark blue, and, despite its age of eighty years, looked in near perfect condition. It stretched nearly twenty feet when completely unraveled. Without hesitation, we happily purchased it for twelve dollars.
Domestic Concerns
Alexander and I have been living in our new apartment for nearly a week. The space consists of two bedrooms, one drawing room, a kitchen and a small balcony. We live on the first floor of a new-ish complex with a view of the dirt road and the adjacent building.
In the morning men push carts along the street hawking a rainbow of fresh vegetables, fruits and grains. They pause periodically to announce their goods, shouting up to the many windows that line their route. Children in grade school uniforms ride their bicycles, dogging hazardous potholes and giant piles of dung. By noon the clotheslines of every apartment are adorned with translucent saris fluttering in the afternoon breeze. In the evening the spicy scents of Gujarati food waft through our flat, causing me to salivate. At nine o’clock sharp one can hear the predictable clatter of stainless steel dishware- the signal that dinnertime has ended. From our balcony you can see a column of lighted kitchen windows, each with a woman washing piles of reflective plates and cups.
Our fellow tenants are friendly. The family members who live next door have repeatedly offered their assistance, whether helping Alexander translate to the woman collecting trash or giving me a tray full of ice. The only unnerving part is that the mother, father and daughter are all noticeably cross-eyed which prevents eye contact and gives them the unfortunate look of Siamese cats.
It takes less than five minutes to walk to the back gate of NID. Also within walking distance are several bakeries, a limited grocery store, a barber, an egg cart, a vegetable stand, and a man selling Chinese food. Rickshaws wait at the entrance of our apartment complex providing easy and affordable access to the rest of the city.
I feel very safe and at ease here. The more we furnish the flat, the more it seems like home. We are still lacking some essential things. Still in order are an air conditioner, small fridge, single stovetop burner (and the required gas tank), 2 desks, and some plastic chairs. We have decided to forgo hot water (which wastes energy and requires installation) and also refused to buy a doorbell.
Some of the most important items acquired thus far are the two sets of curtains now hanging in both bedrooms. Before we purchased them our apartment was a veritable theater with a predictable audience of one or two curious bystanders. Another key item is the cheap, stationary bike we purchased from an athletic shop. Although we bought it new, the manual says it was made in 1988. Scrawled across the side in bright pink is the machine’s name: ‘Hero Allegro Digital-1.’ The Allegro is just what one needs for those moments of culture shock. From now on we will bike all our anxieties away! On a serious note, it is impossible to avoid the large amounts of butter, oil, and ghee that are the base of every dish here. Since we cannot exercise outside (due to the polluted air), the Allegro is essential to our health, as well as our sanity.
Recently I bought a plastic tub to hand wash all our clothes. Alexander strung twine across our balcony and inside our kitchen to make clotheslines. It is easy to wash my apparel, most of which is thin cotton, but Alexander’s beloved white tees are strengthening my hand muscles by the day.
Yesterday Barnum’s son’s friend’s cousin came to install a small Aquaguard water filtration system. He was accompanied by two of Barnum’s grandsons both of who are obsessed with Alexander. They take great joy in watching Alexander’s facial expressions as he tries to process every situation. After some serious drilling the man attached a translucent contraption above our sink. The good news is that we can now brush our teeth and drink water from the tap. The bad news is that the water tastes like ass. I have had no problems drinking filtered water elsewhere, but somehow the lukewarm liquid from our faucet is indigestible. I sprinkled an Emergen-C packet into a glassful, hoping that it would disguise the trace of metallic dust, but paid dearly for my ingenuity with a bout of traumatic sour burps. I am crossing my fingers that the water will taste better chilled.
In the morning men push carts along the street hawking a rainbow of fresh vegetables, fruits and grains. They pause periodically to announce their goods, shouting up to the many windows that line their route. Children in grade school uniforms ride their bicycles, dogging hazardous potholes and giant piles of dung. By noon the clotheslines of every apartment are adorned with translucent saris fluttering in the afternoon breeze. In the evening the spicy scents of Gujarati food waft through our flat, causing me to salivate. At nine o’clock sharp one can hear the predictable clatter of stainless steel dishware- the signal that dinnertime has ended. From our balcony you can see a column of lighted kitchen windows, each with a woman washing piles of reflective plates and cups.
Our fellow tenants are friendly. The family members who live next door have repeatedly offered their assistance, whether helping Alexander translate to the woman collecting trash or giving me a tray full of ice. The only unnerving part is that the mother, father and daughter are all noticeably cross-eyed which prevents eye contact and gives them the unfortunate look of Siamese cats.
It takes less than five minutes to walk to the back gate of NID. Also within walking distance are several bakeries, a limited grocery store, a barber, an egg cart, a vegetable stand, and a man selling Chinese food. Rickshaws wait at the entrance of our apartment complex providing easy and affordable access to the rest of the city.
I feel very safe and at ease here. The more we furnish the flat, the more it seems like home. We are still lacking some essential things. Still in order are an air conditioner, small fridge, single stovetop burner (and the required gas tank), 2 desks, and some plastic chairs. We have decided to forgo hot water (which wastes energy and requires installation) and also refused to buy a doorbell.
Some of the most important items acquired thus far are the two sets of curtains now hanging in both bedrooms. Before we purchased them our apartment was a veritable theater with a predictable audience of one or two curious bystanders. Another key item is the cheap, stationary bike we purchased from an athletic shop. Although we bought it new, the manual says it was made in 1988. Scrawled across the side in bright pink is the machine’s name: ‘Hero Allegro Digital-1.’ The Allegro is just what one needs for those moments of culture shock. From now on we will bike all our anxieties away! On a serious note, it is impossible to avoid the large amounts of butter, oil, and ghee that are the base of every dish here. Since we cannot exercise outside (due to the polluted air), the Allegro is essential to our health, as well as our sanity.
Recently I bought a plastic tub to hand wash all our clothes. Alexander strung twine across our balcony and inside our kitchen to make clotheslines. It is easy to wash my apparel, most of which is thin cotton, but Alexander’s beloved white tees are strengthening my hand muscles by the day.
Yesterday Barnum’s son’s friend’s cousin came to install a small Aquaguard water filtration system. He was accompanied by two of Barnum’s grandsons both of who are obsessed with Alexander. They take great joy in watching Alexander’s facial expressions as he tries to process every situation. After some serious drilling the man attached a translucent contraption above our sink. The good news is that we can now brush our teeth and drink water from the tap. The bad news is that the water tastes like ass. I have had no problems drinking filtered water elsewhere, but somehow the lukewarm liquid from our faucet is indigestible. I sprinkled an Emergen-C packet into a glassful, hoping that it would disguise the trace of metallic dust, but paid dearly for my ingenuity with a bout of traumatic sour burps. I am crossing my fingers that the water will taste better chilled.
The Big Move
Our move to the Pushkar Apartments would not have been possible without the support and practical aid of a number of people. Our Landlord (who I have taken to calling P.T. Barnum because his real name sounds so similar) has been particularly helpful. While having lunch with his family the other day, he told Alexander and I that, “I do good to you because so many have done good to me, and because you are treated well, you will do the same in your life. You are guests in India and I will help you any way I can.”
P.T. Barnum lives less than a two-minute walk from our apartment. He seems to have an endless supply of energy, working several jobs and taking care of his large extended family. Although I approximate him to be about sixty, his stride carries a sense of youthful determination. With piebald hair and a jet-black mustache he could be mistaken as severe when not smiling.
After we signed an official contract with P.T. Barnum, he gave us his guarantee that we could move on the 16th of September. To make matters simple, he would try to get us the keys by the night of the 15th. But our arrangement became complicated when the previous tenants failed to return their set of keys. Around noon on the 16th we found ourselves temporarily homeless when NID insisted we clear out. “Soon, soon,” Barnum assured us, “They’ll deliver them any minute now.” Meanwhile, we waited anxiously with our luggage at the back gate of NID, imagining worst-case scenarios.
Around 1pm Barnum called to tell us one of his family members was ill. “I must go to the hospital. But you go to my home. The keys will be there.” We locked our bags to a metal stairwell and walked to his flat. His wife, son, two daughters-in-law and three grandchildren greeted us with smiles and orange soda. “Key?” we inquired, hopefully. “No, no, it has gone away. Maybe at 3.” Alexander persisted: “No. We need it now.” Two of the women laughed. “You just wait,” Barnum’s son told us. His turquoise shirt read: Success is never final. I decided it must be some kind of augury and tried my best to relax.
One hour later we had the keys in our hand! After promising the women that we would return shortly for the lunch they had prepared us, we excitedly ran to the Pushkar Apartments. We flew up the single flight of stairs and opened the door to reveal…a war zone! Wires hung from the ceiling, marking places where fans had been ripped from their sockets. Large puddles of liquid- one of which was a suspicious yellow- coated the linoleum floors. Nests of black hair obscured the bathroom drains. Even the doorbell had been ripped from the wall.
My face sank. After Alexander made an abortive call to Barnum we decided we had no choice but to clean the place ourselves. “Forget the lunch!” I cried out. We rushed to the nearest grocery store and picked up some of the most toxic, chemical solutions I have ever smelled. But on our return journey back to the apartment, Barnum called to say that several “servants” had arrived at the apartment and were ready to clean it. “Come relax at my home. Take your lunch. Your food is still waiting for you.”
Feeling like we had foolishly overreacted (and determined to loose our do-it-now attitude), we returned to Barnum’s house where his daughter-in-law served an incredible home-cooked meal. “What will we sleep on tonight?” I asked Alexander as we ate, hoping Barnum would overhear my distress. My attempts at subtlety failed. Eventually I asked Barnum point-blank: “We need a bed. Please help.”
Barnum was quick to come to our aid. He took us by rickshaw into the Old City’s carpenter district. We entered through a low, unmarked doorway into a cobblestone courtyard carpeted with wood shavings. The sharp smell of cedar and wood stain masked the less pleasant odors of the outside street. A handful of men sat in front of a row of small garages packed with beds, tables and other wooden amenities. After deliberating and bartering, we purchased three simple bed frames with the dimensions of 2.5’ x6,’ two of which could be pushed together to make a full size bed.
Next, Barnum led us down a winding street to visit a mattress shop. A man wearing a white khadi khuta greeted us with a toothless smile at the entrance of what seemed like a barn. I pretended not to notice the thick layer of grime that covered our potential purchases. When the salesman smacked one of the mattresses to demonstrate its durability, a thick cloud of dust clouded the afternoon air. Regardless of our reservations, we bought one full and one twin. After a failed attempt at haggling, we paid the man in full. To add insult to injury he refused to give us back our change. A sinewy man loaded all our newly bought goods in a cart drawn by a rickety bicycle and told us he would meet us back in Paldi (the district where we live).
It took less than an hour to transfer all our belongings to our cleaned apartment. During the move the now sweaty, sinewy deliveryman arrived with our beds. It was a relief to see everything coming together. Exhausted, dehydrated and delirious, Alexander and I set off again in search of some bed sheets. Jay and his friend drove us to a large fluorescent-lit furniture showroom called Hometown (reminiscent of Ikea) where we procured two fans, tungsten lights, pillows, lilac sheets and a hot water kettle (we must filter AND boil all our water before drinking).
When we returned, Jay stayed behind to help us assemble our pedestal fan. Soon after Jay left, Barnum and four family members surprised us with a delivery of whole-wheat roti and traditional Gujarati khichidi. “Everything OK now? Can I take my leave?” he asked us politely before departing.
Needless to say we slept well that night.
P.T. Barnum lives less than a two-minute walk from our apartment. He seems to have an endless supply of energy, working several jobs and taking care of his large extended family. Although I approximate him to be about sixty, his stride carries a sense of youthful determination. With piebald hair and a jet-black mustache he could be mistaken as severe when not smiling.
After we signed an official contract with P.T. Barnum, he gave us his guarantee that we could move on the 16th of September. To make matters simple, he would try to get us the keys by the night of the 15th. But our arrangement became complicated when the previous tenants failed to return their set of keys. Around noon on the 16th we found ourselves temporarily homeless when NID insisted we clear out. “Soon, soon,” Barnum assured us, “They’ll deliver them any minute now.” Meanwhile, we waited anxiously with our luggage at the back gate of NID, imagining worst-case scenarios.
Around 1pm Barnum called to tell us one of his family members was ill. “I must go to the hospital. But you go to my home. The keys will be there.” We locked our bags to a metal stairwell and walked to his flat. His wife, son, two daughters-in-law and three grandchildren greeted us with smiles and orange soda. “Key?” we inquired, hopefully. “No, no, it has gone away. Maybe at 3.” Alexander persisted: “No. We need it now.” Two of the women laughed. “You just wait,” Barnum’s son told us. His turquoise shirt read: Success is never final. I decided it must be some kind of augury and tried my best to relax.
One hour later we had the keys in our hand! After promising the women that we would return shortly for the lunch they had prepared us, we excitedly ran to the Pushkar Apartments. We flew up the single flight of stairs and opened the door to reveal…a war zone! Wires hung from the ceiling, marking places where fans had been ripped from their sockets. Large puddles of liquid- one of which was a suspicious yellow- coated the linoleum floors. Nests of black hair obscured the bathroom drains. Even the doorbell had been ripped from the wall.
My face sank. After Alexander made an abortive call to Barnum we decided we had no choice but to clean the place ourselves. “Forget the lunch!” I cried out. We rushed to the nearest grocery store and picked up some of the most toxic, chemical solutions I have ever smelled. But on our return journey back to the apartment, Barnum called to say that several “servants” had arrived at the apartment and were ready to clean it. “Come relax at my home. Take your lunch. Your food is still waiting for you.”
Feeling like we had foolishly overreacted (and determined to loose our do-it-now attitude), we returned to Barnum’s house where his daughter-in-law served an incredible home-cooked meal. “What will we sleep on tonight?” I asked Alexander as we ate, hoping Barnum would overhear my distress. My attempts at subtlety failed. Eventually I asked Barnum point-blank: “We need a bed. Please help.”
Barnum was quick to come to our aid. He took us by rickshaw into the Old City’s carpenter district. We entered through a low, unmarked doorway into a cobblestone courtyard carpeted with wood shavings. The sharp smell of cedar and wood stain masked the less pleasant odors of the outside street. A handful of men sat in front of a row of small garages packed with beds, tables and other wooden amenities. After deliberating and bartering, we purchased three simple bed frames with the dimensions of 2.5’ x6,’ two of which could be pushed together to make a full size bed.
Next, Barnum led us down a winding street to visit a mattress shop. A man wearing a white khadi khuta greeted us with a toothless smile at the entrance of what seemed like a barn. I pretended not to notice the thick layer of grime that covered our potential purchases. When the salesman smacked one of the mattresses to demonstrate its durability, a thick cloud of dust clouded the afternoon air. Regardless of our reservations, we bought one full and one twin. After a failed attempt at haggling, we paid the man in full. To add insult to injury he refused to give us back our change. A sinewy man loaded all our newly bought goods in a cart drawn by a rickety bicycle and told us he would meet us back in Paldi (the district where we live).
It took less than an hour to transfer all our belongings to our cleaned apartment. During the move the now sweaty, sinewy deliveryman arrived with our beds. It was a relief to see everything coming together. Exhausted, dehydrated and delirious, Alexander and I set off again in search of some bed sheets. Jay and his friend drove us to a large fluorescent-lit furniture showroom called Hometown (reminiscent of Ikea) where we procured two fans, tungsten lights, pillows, lilac sheets and a hot water kettle (we must filter AND boil all our water before drinking).
When we returned, Jay stayed behind to help us assemble our pedestal fan. Soon after Jay left, Barnum and four family members surprised us with a delivery of whole-wheat roti and traditional Gujarati khichidi. “Everything OK now? Can I take my leave?” he asked us politely before departing.
Needless to say we slept well that night.
9.10.2007
Virgin Magaritas
9.9.07
After a trip to the Ahmedabad Management Association (AMA) Jay and his friend Roy picked Alexander and I up for a light snack. We stopped at a coffee shop called “Mocha,” a popular hotspot for young locals and NRIs ( Non-Resident Indians). The interior resembled a bar. Clusters of people congregated around small tables and in hidden booths. Loud music, dim light, and a haze of cigarette smoke dulled the senses. A waiter handed us thin menus advertising a wide variety of drinks, from “Cool Californians” to “Peach Pleasures.” The only feature that distinguished Mocha from a bar was the absence of alcohol.
As I mentioned before, Gujarat is a dry state. I am not suggesting Gujaratis don’t drink. After all, word on the street claims that there are more alcoholics in Gujarat than any other Indian province. The difference is that Ahmedabad residents cannot drink in public. Imbibing alcohol in large, anonymous groups is an improbable occurrence. Abstinence thus greatly figures in the dynamics of Gujarati youth culture.
Jay has never tried hard alcohol. On a rare occasion he drinks one, maximum two, beers. In these circumstances he cannot return home for hours. When he drinks he must plan ahead by either starting early (so he can arrive home when expected) or spending the night at a friend’s. “If my mother ever smelled beer on me, she would slap me hard!” Jay said, laughing.
It was late when we returned to the NID campus. While walking the stone path back to our room, Alexander noticed a large gathering of people in the corner of an adjacent grassy field. Roughly five hundred people sat cross-legged on a slope facing an enormous stage. Three musicians and a narrator were positioned in a semi-circle, back-dropped against a crumbling façade embellished with ivy. A dancer entered from left stage as we took our seats in the audience. For the next 1.5 hours Alexander and I watched a varied performance of classical Indian dance.
After a trip to the Ahmedabad Management Association (AMA) Jay and his friend Roy picked Alexander and I up for a light snack. We stopped at a coffee shop called “Mocha,” a popular hotspot for young locals and NRIs ( Non-Resident Indians). The interior resembled a bar. Clusters of people congregated around small tables and in hidden booths. Loud music, dim light, and a haze of cigarette smoke dulled the senses. A waiter handed us thin menus advertising a wide variety of drinks, from “Cool Californians” to “Peach Pleasures.” The only feature that distinguished Mocha from a bar was the absence of alcohol.
As I mentioned before, Gujarat is a dry state. I am not suggesting Gujaratis don’t drink. After all, word on the street claims that there are more alcoholics in Gujarat than any other Indian province. The difference is that Ahmedabad residents cannot drink in public. Imbibing alcohol in large, anonymous groups is an improbable occurrence. Abstinence thus greatly figures in the dynamics of Gujarati youth culture.
Jay has never tried hard alcohol. On a rare occasion he drinks one, maximum two, beers. In these circumstances he cannot return home for hours. When he drinks he must plan ahead by either starting early (so he can arrive home when expected) or spending the night at a friend’s. “If my mother ever smelled beer on me, she would slap me hard!” Jay said, laughing.
It was late when we returned to the NID campus. While walking the stone path back to our room, Alexander noticed a large gathering of people in the corner of an adjacent grassy field. Roughly five hundred people sat cross-legged on a slope facing an enormous stage. Three musicians and a narrator were positioned in a semi-circle, back-dropped against a crumbling façade embellished with ivy. A dancer entered from left stage as we took our seats in the audience. For the next 1.5 hours Alexander and I watched a varied performance of classical Indian dance.
9.09.2007
Call Me
9.8.07
We have come to the realization that in order for something to get done quickly, we must do it ourselves. More importantly, we ARE capable of completing most basic tasks without any assistance. With this in mind we took the initiative and walked to the nearest Hutch store. Hutch is one of the main (and best advertised) cell phone companies in India and it offers excellent international plans. Directly after we bought cell phones, so you will be happy to know we are now just a phone call away!
Email me if you want our numbers. It is my understanding that you must simply add a +91 if dialing from the USA.
After a long day of “roaming here and there” (to borrow Jay’s phrase) we ended up at Green House, an upscale restaurant with a large seasonal menu. We ordered several dishes and iced teas, but don’t worry: The bill only came to a whopping $6.50.
We have come to the realization that in order for something to get done quickly, we must do it ourselves. More importantly, we ARE capable of completing most basic tasks without any assistance. With this in mind we took the initiative and walked to the nearest Hutch store. Hutch is one of the main (and best advertised) cell phone companies in India and it offers excellent international plans. Directly after we bought cell phones, so you will be happy to know we are now just a phone call away!
Email me if you want our numbers. It is my understanding that you must simply add a +91 if dialing from the USA.
After a long day of “roaming here and there” (to borrow Jay’s phrase) we ended up at Green House, an upscale restaurant with a large seasonal menu. We ordered several dishes and iced teas, but don’t worry: The bill only came to a whopping $6.50.
Things Work Out
9.7.07
The last two days have been madness.
On the sixth Alexander and I ventured into the heart of Ahmedabad alone. We hailed a rickshaw near NID and stopped at CG Road, the main thoroughfare that runs through the New City. Our main objective was to see how difficult/stressful it was to travel by without a local by our side. Good news: Although the city can be overwhelming and chaotic, we can definitely manage!!
That night we met Jay for dinner. We were supposed to see several apartments in the evening but Jay’s father called unexpectedly and requested the car. After taking a rickshaw back to NID we ran into a fellow student who had heard of good housing available in the area. She promised she would look into the possibility.
On the morning of September seventh our dreams of an apartment were crushed! The student we had talked to the night before telephoned to tell us the place was no longer available. Furthermore, we learned that it was a two-minute walk from campus and brand-new; we would have been the first to live there. What a heartbreaker!
But wait! At noon she called again to tell us a similar apartment in the same complex would be vacant on the sixteenth! Alexander and I met a broker who showed us the place and we immediately secured a deal. It includes two bedrooms, one drawing room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. We are the second people to live there. The eggshell walls still look brand-new and the shiny floor is unmarred. There is plenty of natural light but we are on the first floor, which will prevent us from getting too hot.
An hour later we met the owner of the complex and went through a detailed contract. The monthly rate is 6,000 rupees ($150) excluding furniture and utilities.
Minutes later we were rushing to the police station to register our new address. Alexander was required to register his permanent address to the Indian Government within two weeks of his arrival and large bribes were to be expected if he exceeded this window of time. A woman from NID accompanied us on our journey, eventually leading us to a small hidden corner on the third floor of the police station. A monotone man interrogated Alexander and instructed him to fill out several countless forms before giving his stamp approval.
What a relief!
The last two days have been madness.
On the sixth Alexander and I ventured into the heart of Ahmedabad alone. We hailed a rickshaw near NID and stopped at CG Road, the main thoroughfare that runs through the New City. Our main objective was to see how difficult/stressful it was to travel by without a local by our side. Good news: Although the city can be overwhelming and chaotic, we can definitely manage!!
That night we met Jay for dinner. We were supposed to see several apartments in the evening but Jay’s father called unexpectedly and requested the car. After taking a rickshaw back to NID we ran into a fellow student who had heard of good housing available in the area. She promised she would look into the possibility.
On the morning of September seventh our dreams of an apartment were crushed! The student we had talked to the night before telephoned to tell us the place was no longer available. Furthermore, we learned that it was a two-minute walk from campus and brand-new; we would have been the first to live there. What a heartbreaker!
But wait! At noon she called again to tell us a similar apartment in the same complex would be vacant on the sixteenth! Alexander and I met a broker who showed us the place and we immediately secured a deal. It includes two bedrooms, one drawing room, a bathroom, and a kitchen. We are the second people to live there. The eggshell walls still look brand-new and the shiny floor is unmarred. There is plenty of natural light but we are on the first floor, which will prevent us from getting too hot.
An hour later we met the owner of the complex and went through a detailed contract. The monthly rate is 6,000 rupees ($150) excluding furniture and utilities.
Minutes later we were rushing to the police station to register our new address. Alexander was required to register his permanent address to the Indian Government within two weeks of his arrival and large bribes were to be expected if he exceeded this window of time. A woman from NID accompanied us on our journey, eventually leading us to a small hidden corner on the third floor of the police station. A monotone man interrogated Alexander and instructed him to fill out several countless forms before giving his stamp approval.
What a relief!
Making Good Impressions
9.5.07
September is towards the end of the monsoon season. It rains every day, although each shower lasts no more than an hour. Downpours are usually followed by sun. The rain does nothing to cool things down. What is hot, dry and dusty temporarily turns to hot, humid and muddy.
After a morning of rain Alexander and I met Jay at a local barbershop. We watched as the barber shaved the delicate skin beneath Jay’s chin with a sharp silver razor. After wiping the chin clean, the barber applied a thin layer of white talcum power to Jay’s face in an attempt to lighten his skin. It was one of infinite daily reminders that whiteness is extremely desirable.
Jay drove us across the Sabarmati River into the Old City, where we had been invited to eat lunch with his grandmother. Girls sped by in their motorcycles, their heads wrapped in swatches of fabric to filter the polluted air. We passed a busy market where drooling camels yawned over the bartering crowds, a carpet of trampled iceberg lettuce beneath their feet. Women walked at the edge of the dirt road with large baskets balanced on their heads. Their saris stood out against the dusty storefronts in shades like canary yellow, bubblegum pink and hibiscus red.
We parked in a sunny alley with rows of drying clothes above our heads. We climbed two flights of stairs and greeted his grandmother with “Namaste” and a traditional bow. She ushered us into her home where she lived with her daughter-in-law. It seems that when Jay’s uncle had taken a second wife after his first proved barren, Jay’s grandmother had invited the woman to live with her. Both women share a love of laughter and relaxed personalities.
Their home was quaint with rose-colored walls and fresh air. We sat in a circle on the floor. Alexander’s jeans had become stiff in the humid heat and- much to the delight of the women- was unable to bend his legs. He struggled to sit cross-legged (as Jay’s grandmother giggled) and eventually took her offer to use a chair.
We ate traditional Gujarati food consisting mainly of dahl (a sweet soup-like liquid made from lentils that is eaten with rice), cauliflower and tomato curry, whole-wheat roti (thick, tortilla-like bread) and sour pickles. Jay’s grandmother complemented us. “You are so beautiful,” she said with a smile. “And I am impressed you like Gujarati food. I thought it might be too spicy.” Then she told us that her last dying wish was to see Jay go to America. “Help him,” she said, gesturing with her arms.
On the way home we passed ten different clusters of men, women and children, each group dancing and cheering around a statue of Krishna. Jay explained that they were celebrating the end of the Krishna festival. Soon those bright statues would be taken to a bridge where they would be tossed into the Sabarmati River. “Will they dissolve in the water?” I asked Jay. “No. If the river was drained, there would be a million statues sitting there in perfect condition.”
September is towards the end of the monsoon season. It rains every day, although each shower lasts no more than an hour. Downpours are usually followed by sun. The rain does nothing to cool things down. What is hot, dry and dusty temporarily turns to hot, humid and muddy.
After a morning of rain Alexander and I met Jay at a local barbershop. We watched as the barber shaved the delicate skin beneath Jay’s chin with a sharp silver razor. After wiping the chin clean, the barber applied a thin layer of white talcum power to Jay’s face in an attempt to lighten his skin. It was one of infinite daily reminders that whiteness is extremely desirable.
Jay drove us across the Sabarmati River into the Old City, where we had been invited to eat lunch with his grandmother. Girls sped by in their motorcycles, their heads wrapped in swatches of fabric to filter the polluted air. We passed a busy market where drooling camels yawned over the bartering crowds, a carpet of trampled iceberg lettuce beneath their feet. Women walked at the edge of the dirt road with large baskets balanced on their heads. Their saris stood out against the dusty storefronts in shades like canary yellow, bubblegum pink and hibiscus red.
We parked in a sunny alley with rows of drying clothes above our heads. We climbed two flights of stairs and greeted his grandmother with “Namaste” and a traditional bow. She ushered us into her home where she lived with her daughter-in-law. It seems that when Jay’s uncle had taken a second wife after his first proved barren, Jay’s grandmother had invited the woman to live with her. Both women share a love of laughter and relaxed personalities.
Their home was quaint with rose-colored walls and fresh air. We sat in a circle on the floor. Alexander’s jeans had become stiff in the humid heat and- much to the delight of the women- was unable to bend his legs. He struggled to sit cross-legged (as Jay’s grandmother giggled) and eventually took her offer to use a chair.
We ate traditional Gujarati food consisting mainly of dahl (a sweet soup-like liquid made from lentils that is eaten with rice), cauliflower and tomato curry, whole-wheat roti (thick, tortilla-like bread) and sour pickles. Jay’s grandmother complemented us. “You are so beautiful,” she said with a smile. “And I am impressed you like Gujarati food. I thought it might be too spicy.” Then she told us that her last dying wish was to see Jay go to America. “Help him,” she said, gesturing with her arms.
On the way home we passed ten different clusters of men, women and children, each group dancing and cheering around a statue of Krishna. Jay explained that they were celebrating the end of the Krishna festival. Soon those bright statues would be taken to a bridge where they would be tossed into the Sabarmati River. “Will they dissolve in the water?” I asked Jay. “No. If the river was drained, there would be a million statues sitting there in perfect condition.”
Meet the Family
9.4.07
Today Jay took us to try one of his favorite street foods- potato sandwiches. He pushed us through the large crowd until we were inside the rickety stall. The cook sliced chunks of butter into an oversized metal wok and added different spices to the sizzling fat until he had a thick, ochre paste. He then mopped up the butter-concoction with what looked like small hamburger buns and added deep-fried potatoes. Yum?
Next we accepted an invitation to meet Jay’s family. He took us to his home in the Satellite, one of the safest districts in Ahmedabad. Jay’s house is in an Indian-version of a cul-de-sac with several small apartment complexes lining three sides of a grassy lot. He lives on the second floor with his mother, father, and until recently, his sister Meena. Although Meena moved to Pune when she married three months ago, she had returned for Janmastami- a festival that celebrates Krishna’s birthday.
Also present was Jay’s girlfriend of twenty years, Rita. When Jay was in kindergarten, he wrote “J loves R” on his hand and received a slap from the teacher. He went on to pursue Rita for more than a decade until he asked for her hand in marriage at the age of sixteen. Although she accepted, her parents refuse to let the couple marry until Jay has a steady, respectable job or a visa to the USA, another reason he wants to come to America.
Jay’s home was sparkling with love. A large, colorful portrait of the elephant-headed god Ganesh had been hand painted directly on the white stucco walls. Two swords were conspicuously mounted in the entryway- symbols of the family’s membership in the Kshatriya (warrior) caste.
Alexander and I were greeted with smiles. Jay led us into his mother’s room where we sat in a circle on her bed (A typical Indian mattress is thin and firm, and thus a bed can comfortably sit a group of cross-legged people). His mother served homemade crackers. She told Jay he looked South Indian in contrast to our white skin. “So white,” she said again looking at us. At one point during our conversation she went over to a mirror and applied talcum powder to her face in an attempt to appear whiter.
We talked about our stay in Ahmedabad. I mentioned some of our many acquaintances and adventures. I made a joke about Jay and everybody laughed. “They’re just like us,” Meena exclaimed to her brother, seemingly surprised that we shared a sense of humor.
Meena told us about her new life in Pune. Living with her in-laws was difficult and she missed her family. Before leaving three months ago she had never been away from home. She showed us several wedding pictures and one of the twenty-five saris given to her as a gift. When she opened her mother’s closet to show us a piece of traditional Indian apparel I was awed by the contents. A rainbow of thirty glittering saris hung neatly folded over hangers. It was beautiful. A bit of emerald silk bordered with scarlet thread was draped next to a thick bolt of yellow, studded with gold embroidery. A splash of royal mauve stitched with silver was suspended next to a translucent blue. It was the most stunning closet I have ever seen.
We stopped for a midnight dinner of roadside Chinese food on our way back to the NID campus. A stocky man on a motorcycle pulled up alongside our small table and started talking to Jay in Gujarati. Within minutes he invited Alexander and me to his November wedding and joined us for our vegetarian meal. “You are Americans. Good. But you have stolen my friend away from me,” he teased. “I don’t see Jay anymore because he is always with you!”
Today Jay took us to try one of his favorite street foods- potato sandwiches. He pushed us through the large crowd until we were inside the rickety stall. The cook sliced chunks of butter into an oversized metal wok and added different spices to the sizzling fat until he had a thick, ochre paste. He then mopped up the butter-concoction with what looked like small hamburger buns and added deep-fried potatoes. Yum?
Next we accepted an invitation to meet Jay’s family. He took us to his home in the Satellite, one of the safest districts in Ahmedabad. Jay’s house is in an Indian-version of a cul-de-sac with several small apartment complexes lining three sides of a grassy lot. He lives on the second floor with his mother, father, and until recently, his sister Meena. Although Meena moved to Pune when she married three months ago, she had returned for Janmastami- a festival that celebrates Krishna’s birthday.
Also present was Jay’s girlfriend of twenty years, Rita. When Jay was in kindergarten, he wrote “J loves R” on his hand and received a slap from the teacher. He went on to pursue Rita for more than a decade until he asked for her hand in marriage at the age of sixteen. Although she accepted, her parents refuse to let the couple marry until Jay has a steady, respectable job or a visa to the USA, another reason he wants to come to America.
Jay’s home was sparkling with love. A large, colorful portrait of the elephant-headed god Ganesh had been hand painted directly on the white stucco walls. Two swords were conspicuously mounted in the entryway- symbols of the family’s membership in the Kshatriya (warrior) caste.
Alexander and I were greeted with smiles. Jay led us into his mother’s room where we sat in a circle on her bed (A typical Indian mattress is thin and firm, and thus a bed can comfortably sit a group of cross-legged people). His mother served homemade crackers. She told Jay he looked South Indian in contrast to our white skin. “So white,” she said again looking at us. At one point during our conversation she went over to a mirror and applied talcum powder to her face in an attempt to appear whiter.
We talked about our stay in Ahmedabad. I mentioned some of our many acquaintances and adventures. I made a joke about Jay and everybody laughed. “They’re just like us,” Meena exclaimed to her brother, seemingly surprised that we shared a sense of humor.
Meena told us about her new life in Pune. Living with her in-laws was difficult and she missed her family. Before leaving three months ago she had never been away from home. She showed us several wedding pictures and one of the twenty-five saris given to her as a gift. When she opened her mother’s closet to show us a piece of traditional Indian apparel I was awed by the contents. A rainbow of thirty glittering saris hung neatly folded over hangers. It was beautiful. A bit of emerald silk bordered with scarlet thread was draped next to a thick bolt of yellow, studded with gold embroidery. A splash of royal mauve stitched with silver was suspended next to a translucent blue. It was the most stunning closet I have ever seen.
We stopped for a midnight dinner of roadside Chinese food on our way back to the NID campus. A stocky man on a motorcycle pulled up alongside our small table and started talking to Jay in Gujarati. Within minutes he invited Alexander and me to his November wedding and joined us for our vegetarian meal. “You are Americans. Good. But you have stolen my friend away from me,” he teased. “I don’t see Jay anymore because he is always with you!”
Swimming in Potholes
9.3.07
Alexander and I are anxious to leave the NID guesthouse. The narrow windows are tinted dark blue and rusted shut. The weak light from the room’s single lamp does nothing to dispel eternal darkness. There is scarcely enough space for the two twin beds, flimsy desk and our four exploded suitcases. Hundreds of rapidly procreating flies and one lonely lizard keep us company. There is no shower. We must use a bucket. If we want hot water we must wait for the water heater, which dispenses only one liter of water every forty seconds.
None of this bothers me. The room has white walls and tiled floors that look clean in the dim gloom. We are grateful for the ceiling fan and efficient A/C- things we have discovered are rarities in our desperate search for an apartment. Our location on the campus of NID is superb and a nice man comes daily to clean the toilet. And I like showering from a bucket.
I am only bothered by this unshakable sense of uneasiness. Our inability to unpack makes it seem as if our move to India is a mere trip, some whirlwind vacation that will soon be over. I know better, however, and the realization that we must leave the guesthouse by Friday puts some pressure on the situation. Where will be go if we can’t find a place? Who can we trust? In the states I would scour Craigslist.org, send several emails and make a deposit. In my experience, such transactions have been quick and relatively stress free. But we have no game plan here. We must depend on a student’s friend’s aunt, or maybe the daughter-in-law of her second cousin. Everything is word of mouth and those mouths don’t always speak English.
Jay has tried his best to help. He has contacted nearly a dozen brokers and called up many family friends. Yet it seems as if we are getting nowhere. The few options seem overpriced, run-down and twenty minutes away from NID. Alexander and I have posted our needs in different parts of the campus and asked for assistance from many faculty and students. But everything takes time here. We can do little now but hope for the best.
After a frustrating day of failed attempts, Jay made an effort to buoy up our spirits. He took us to Mirch Masala, a quaint restaurant specializing in Punjabi cuisine. The waiter mistook our inquiry about which dishes were spiciest as a request for no spice, and so we endured several dishes of bland, greasy grub.
Next Jay treated us to an American flick. He bought three tickets (at roughly $2 a pop) for The Invasion, a remake of a 1956 sci-fi film based on a book by Jack Finney. The theater was located in a large complex with arcades, restaurants and a small bowling alley where groups of men bowled with bright orange balls. Inflatable palm trees and advertisements for Bollywood films adorned the walls.
The movie itself was terrible but far worse was the experience of watching a scary film in a scary place. Usually I can shut my eyes and be assured that everything is going to be ok. If my fear is too intense, I always have the option of taking a bathroom break. Such was not the case here, where it is not safe to exit the theater alone. The stale air and grimy seats served as a constant reminder of our distance from home. My fears of the unknown already haunt the dark corners of reality, so what is worse? Aggressive zombies or the possibility of not finding an apartment? I am already operating in a constant state of anxiety; the last thing I need to worry about is some humanity-robbing pandemic. The greatest irony came when I started to envy the heroine. Yes, she was chased by soulless fiends, but she looked clean. And those suburb streets didn’t look like had that nose-piercing stench of sh*t.
On the way out I stepped in a deep puddle of putrid mud. “Your shoes like to swim with the potholes,” Jay said, laughing.
Alexander and I are anxious to leave the NID guesthouse. The narrow windows are tinted dark blue and rusted shut. The weak light from the room’s single lamp does nothing to dispel eternal darkness. There is scarcely enough space for the two twin beds, flimsy desk and our four exploded suitcases. Hundreds of rapidly procreating flies and one lonely lizard keep us company. There is no shower. We must use a bucket. If we want hot water we must wait for the water heater, which dispenses only one liter of water every forty seconds.
None of this bothers me. The room has white walls and tiled floors that look clean in the dim gloom. We are grateful for the ceiling fan and efficient A/C- things we have discovered are rarities in our desperate search for an apartment. Our location on the campus of NID is superb and a nice man comes daily to clean the toilet. And I like showering from a bucket.
I am only bothered by this unshakable sense of uneasiness. Our inability to unpack makes it seem as if our move to India is a mere trip, some whirlwind vacation that will soon be over. I know better, however, and the realization that we must leave the guesthouse by Friday puts some pressure on the situation. Where will be go if we can’t find a place? Who can we trust? In the states I would scour Craigslist.org, send several emails and make a deposit. In my experience, such transactions have been quick and relatively stress free. But we have no game plan here. We must depend on a student’s friend’s aunt, or maybe the daughter-in-law of her second cousin. Everything is word of mouth and those mouths don’t always speak English.
Jay has tried his best to help. He has contacted nearly a dozen brokers and called up many family friends. Yet it seems as if we are getting nowhere. The few options seem overpriced, run-down and twenty minutes away from NID. Alexander and I have posted our needs in different parts of the campus and asked for assistance from many faculty and students. But everything takes time here. We can do little now but hope for the best.
After a frustrating day of failed attempts, Jay made an effort to buoy up our spirits. He took us to Mirch Masala, a quaint restaurant specializing in Punjabi cuisine. The waiter mistook our inquiry about which dishes were spiciest as a request for no spice, and so we endured several dishes of bland, greasy grub.
Next Jay treated us to an American flick. He bought three tickets (at roughly $2 a pop) for The Invasion, a remake of a 1956 sci-fi film based on a book by Jack Finney. The theater was located in a large complex with arcades, restaurants and a small bowling alley where groups of men bowled with bright orange balls. Inflatable palm trees and advertisements for Bollywood films adorned the walls.
The movie itself was terrible but far worse was the experience of watching a scary film in a scary place. Usually I can shut my eyes and be assured that everything is going to be ok. If my fear is too intense, I always have the option of taking a bathroom break. Such was not the case here, where it is not safe to exit the theater alone. The stale air and grimy seats served as a constant reminder of our distance from home. My fears of the unknown already haunt the dark corners of reality, so what is worse? Aggressive zombies or the possibility of not finding an apartment? I am already operating in a constant state of anxiety; the last thing I need to worry about is some humanity-robbing pandemic. The greatest irony came when I started to envy the heroine. Yes, she was chased by soulless fiends, but she looked clean. And those suburb streets didn’t look like had that nose-piercing stench of sh*t.
On the way out I stepped in a deep puddle of putrid mud. “Your shoes like to swim with the potholes,” Jay said, laughing.
9.03.2007
So It Goes
Jay picked us up at 11am “India-time,” which in this case meant an hour and a half late. Our first stop was a failed attempt to acquire a cell phone. Apparently you cannot buy a phone without a permanent address and so we must wait until we have secured an apartment (which should be in the next four days!). Then we went to a store called Fabindia where Alexander and I both bought some traditional Indian garb. I purchased a bright red khuta (a knee-length tunic), black dupatta (extra long scarf) and some traditional black linen pants. Alexander bought a beautiful Indian-style men’s shirt and a traditional vest used in special occasions.
My outfit is useful for many reasons. The weather, which is hot and humid with frequent rain showers, is tough to dress for. Additionally, wearing more traditional and Indian-inspired garb is very well received. People are pleased and surprised. Jay pointed out the irony. “Indian boys and girls want to dress like Americans, but you want to dress like Indian,” he said. When I bought the dupatta, which is worn one of three different traditional ways, Jay was convinced I would not be able to “manage.” “Frankly Amy-lei, I don’t think you can do.” I assured him I could and that I would. I surprised him even more when I confided my love for saris. “You wear sari?!” he asked, shocked. “Not yet, but I will.” I think he will only believe it when he sees it.
The best perk about my new outfit is the modesty factor. Because American women have a reputation of being sexually “loose” I have to be twice as modest as my Indian peers in order to disprove the stereotype. Traveling with Alexander as my companion is key. This trip would have been radically different had I been traveling alone. From the way I am treated at the airport to my comfort level walking on the street to meeting older Indian couples, my status as a “partner” (we try to augment the ambiguity there as much as possible) makes me feel far more at ease.
No doubt it also has the potential to get us in sticky situations. Nobody dates here, at least not in the open. Marriages are arranged. Three months ago, Jay’s younger sister (who is my age- 22) was married to a boy chosen by her parents and a marriage bureau. She met him twice before the wedding day. The idea that Alexander and I chose each other and the idea that we are living together as an unmarried couple could definitely put some off. We are going to be playing deceptive games for months to come!
After our shopping excursion Jay took us to lunch at a place called Havor. I did my best to order something sans-grease and failed miserably. Next Jay took us to a flat owned by one of his friends. He led us into a back room where a group of ten young men sat in a circle on an unused mattress. “Gambling,” he said, pointing. We pulled up chairs and watched.
Alcohol is illegal in Gujarat. There seems to be an official exception to foreigners but I still don’t know the details. Later that evening Jay needed to get some whiskey for someone. At first I thought he was fulfilling a request from his uncle but later learned it was an entirely different story. I do not know how much I should write here but imagine some extremely shady encounters, a trip to the jail outside of Ahmedabad (where there are 5,000 prisoners, 4 of which are American according to the friendly guards) and drinking Ok-Cola (a coke like drink) with undercover cops.
Both Alexander and I were happy to arrive home safe and sound.
My outfit is useful for many reasons. The weather, which is hot and humid with frequent rain showers, is tough to dress for. Additionally, wearing more traditional and Indian-inspired garb is very well received. People are pleased and surprised. Jay pointed out the irony. “Indian boys and girls want to dress like Americans, but you want to dress like Indian,” he said. When I bought the dupatta, which is worn one of three different traditional ways, Jay was convinced I would not be able to “manage.” “Frankly Amy-lei, I don’t think you can do.” I assured him I could and that I would. I surprised him even more when I confided my love for saris. “You wear sari?!” he asked, shocked. “Not yet, but I will.” I think he will only believe it when he sees it.
The best perk about my new outfit is the modesty factor. Because American women have a reputation of being sexually “loose” I have to be twice as modest as my Indian peers in order to disprove the stereotype. Traveling with Alexander as my companion is key. This trip would have been radically different had I been traveling alone. From the way I am treated at the airport to my comfort level walking on the street to meeting older Indian couples, my status as a “partner” (we try to augment the ambiguity there as much as possible) makes me feel far more at ease.
No doubt it also has the potential to get us in sticky situations. Nobody dates here, at least not in the open. Marriages are arranged. Three months ago, Jay’s younger sister (who is my age- 22) was married to a boy chosen by her parents and a marriage bureau. She met him twice before the wedding day. The idea that Alexander and I chose each other and the idea that we are living together as an unmarried couple could definitely put some off. We are going to be playing deceptive games for months to come!
After our shopping excursion Jay took us to lunch at a place called Havor. I did my best to order something sans-grease and failed miserably. Next Jay took us to a flat owned by one of his friends. He led us into a back room where a group of ten young men sat in a circle on an unused mattress. “Gambling,” he said, pointing. We pulled up chairs and watched.
Alcohol is illegal in Gujarat. There seems to be an official exception to foreigners but I still don’t know the details. Later that evening Jay needed to get some whiskey for someone. At first I thought he was fulfilling a request from his uncle but later learned it was an entirely different story. I do not know how much I should write here but imagine some extremely shady encounters, a trip to the jail outside of Ahmedabad (where there are 5,000 prisoners, 4 of which are American according to the friendly guards) and drinking Ok-Cola (a coke like drink) with undercover cops.
Both Alexander and I were happy to arrive home safe and sound.
Expect the Unexpected
Enter Jay. That is actually not his real name but I have changed it for his protection etc. He is in his mid-twenties, with glasses and a partial goatee. Jay is a social butterfly; he has a seemingly infinite supply of friends all over the city. Remember that the population of Ahmedabad is roughly 5.5 million so his ability to introduce us to nearly everyone on the street is quite impressive. In addition to having a family that seems to be well known/connected, Jay is involved in politics. His position (which is quite high up for a “youth”) is a great source of pride and is printed on the hood of his car in both English and Gujarati. When two policemen pull us over for not wearing seatbelts, the conversation goes something like this:
Policemen: (In Gujarati they tell him of the offense and ask for a bribe)
Jay: Did you read the hood of my car?
Policemen: Yes
Jay: Then can I go?
Policemen: (Smiles and nods)
Everywhere we go, people know Jay. He is friends with the men who sell us tea on the side of the road, middle-aged police officers and hundreds of his peers, most of who enjoy gambling during the day and hanging out by their motorcycles at night.
We met Jay through a Gujarati acquaintance from Boston. A young man who owns a store near Alexander’s home put us in contact with Jay, who is his brother-in-law’s best friend. I could never imagine how incredible this contact would be. The moment we landed here Jay offered his services indefinitely. He is currently helping us obtain a cell phone, rent an apartment and navigate the many districts of the city. Ahmedabad has opened up to us in ways I never even dreamed about. It is easy to imagine that one could live here for years without experiencing some of the events we have already seen.
On our second day in Ahmedabad, Jay picked us up in a small car that was not unlike a VW rabbit. Jay took us to lunch at a place called Freeze, a college hotspot with a menu divided into different cuisines (i.e. Italian, Chinese, Indian). We washed down our curry and paninis with peach juice and tried to ignore the much-unwanted attention.
After lunch Jay insisted we eat paan. I had no idea what it was but he described it like a dessert- a “homeopathic” after-the-meal remedy to improve digestion and alleviate any pain. Furthermore, paan sounded like pan, which in many romantic languages and Japanese translates as bread. I was not afraid.
But when we pulled up I saw a group of men outside the paan shop munching on some sort of wad and spitting on the street. Jay led us inside smiling. The man behind the counter took three large green leaves and used his fingers to coat it with a layer of opaque, white paste. Then he smeared on a layer of shiny brown sauce. On top of the leaves he began to drizzle a variety of bright-colored pastes. One looked like a gelatinous squirt of raspberry jam, another appeared to be some kind of chocolate sauce or marmite. The finishing touch was some sort of viscous gel with flakes of what looked like flakes of silver metal. The paan-wallah finally wrapped each leaf up into a triangular package and handed them to us. Jay instructed we eat it in one bite.
I consider myself an adventurous eater. Even if I do not like a particular food, I can easily feign enjoyment. This was not the case with the paan. My eyes watered and my throat contracted as if I was about to vomit. Alexander could not fit the entire leaf-thing into his mouth and some of the juice splattered on the shop’s floor. We looked at each other wide-eyed, wondering who would be the first to betray our extreme discomfort. We munched and chewed and sucked down the spicy, sweet, nutty flavor all the while wincing in pain. After five minutes, Alexander finally swallowed his wad and washed it down with some bottled water. I just couldn’t do it. No matter what, my body rejected that lump of abject nastiness. When Jay turned his head, I discretely spat in a pink paper napkin.
Later that night we dined in the Old City, a predominately Muslim area on the other side of the Sabarmati River. In 2002, in the tragic Gujarat riots, the Old City was under strict curfew and it took some time before Jay- who is Hindu- felt comfortable to venture there. We ate at a nice restaurant that served Punjabi food and chicken- Jay’s favorite. Later we drove back towards the New City, Ahmedabad’s lights glittering in the dark. Loud music played on every block. Swarms of people crowded the sidewalks of the better-lit streets, paying no head to Jay’s incessant honking. We stopped by a small lake where children played on jungle gyms until a guard kicked us out at 11pm.
Near midnight Jay took us to the opening of a “friend’s” temple. The structure was painted a crisp white and festooned with metallic streamers and strings of lights. A large crowd sat around a group of musicians playing traditional music. The attendance was so big that many stood on the outskirts and in the dirt street. Jay escorted us through the mob and directed us to take off our shoes at the entrance. We carefully stepped through the seated men and women and entered a small central room, which was open to onlookers. The priest sat cross-legged inside, surrounded by bright flowers and a neon painting of Krishna. He dipped his hand in a pot of reddish ink and carefully marked our foreheads. Then he took a pinch of white rice and stuck it into the wet liquid mark. Alexander and I exchanged a glance of amazement.
Policemen: (In Gujarati they tell him of the offense and ask for a bribe)
Jay: Did you read the hood of my car?
Policemen: Yes
Jay: Then can I go?
Policemen: (Smiles and nods)
Everywhere we go, people know Jay. He is friends with the men who sell us tea on the side of the road, middle-aged police officers and hundreds of his peers, most of who enjoy gambling during the day and hanging out by their motorcycles at night.
We met Jay through a Gujarati acquaintance from Boston. A young man who owns a store near Alexander’s home put us in contact with Jay, who is his brother-in-law’s best friend. I could never imagine how incredible this contact would be. The moment we landed here Jay offered his services indefinitely. He is currently helping us obtain a cell phone, rent an apartment and navigate the many districts of the city. Ahmedabad has opened up to us in ways I never even dreamed about. It is easy to imagine that one could live here for years without experiencing some of the events we have already seen.
On our second day in Ahmedabad, Jay picked us up in a small car that was not unlike a VW rabbit. Jay took us to lunch at a place called Freeze, a college hotspot with a menu divided into different cuisines (i.e. Italian, Chinese, Indian). We washed down our curry and paninis with peach juice and tried to ignore the much-unwanted attention.
After lunch Jay insisted we eat paan. I had no idea what it was but he described it like a dessert- a “homeopathic” after-the-meal remedy to improve digestion and alleviate any pain. Furthermore, paan sounded like pan, which in many romantic languages and Japanese translates as bread. I was not afraid.
But when we pulled up I saw a group of men outside the paan shop munching on some sort of wad and spitting on the street. Jay led us inside smiling. The man behind the counter took three large green leaves and used his fingers to coat it with a layer of opaque, white paste. Then he smeared on a layer of shiny brown sauce. On top of the leaves he began to drizzle a variety of bright-colored pastes. One looked like a gelatinous squirt of raspberry jam, another appeared to be some kind of chocolate sauce or marmite. The finishing touch was some sort of viscous gel with flakes of what looked like flakes of silver metal. The paan-wallah finally wrapped each leaf up into a triangular package and handed them to us. Jay instructed we eat it in one bite.
I consider myself an adventurous eater. Even if I do not like a particular food, I can easily feign enjoyment. This was not the case with the paan. My eyes watered and my throat contracted as if I was about to vomit. Alexander could not fit the entire leaf-thing into his mouth and some of the juice splattered on the shop’s floor. We looked at each other wide-eyed, wondering who would be the first to betray our extreme discomfort. We munched and chewed and sucked down the spicy, sweet, nutty flavor all the while wincing in pain. After five minutes, Alexander finally swallowed his wad and washed it down with some bottled water. I just couldn’t do it. No matter what, my body rejected that lump of abject nastiness. When Jay turned his head, I discretely spat in a pink paper napkin.
Later that night we dined in the Old City, a predominately Muslim area on the other side of the Sabarmati River. In 2002, in the tragic Gujarat riots, the Old City was under strict curfew and it took some time before Jay- who is Hindu- felt comfortable to venture there. We ate at a nice restaurant that served Punjabi food and chicken- Jay’s favorite. Later we drove back towards the New City, Ahmedabad’s lights glittering in the dark. Loud music played on every block. Swarms of people crowded the sidewalks of the better-lit streets, paying no head to Jay’s incessant honking. We stopped by a small lake where children played on jungle gyms until a guard kicked us out at 11pm.
Near midnight Jay took us to the opening of a “friend’s” temple. The structure was painted a crisp white and festooned with metallic streamers and strings of lights. A large crowd sat around a group of musicians playing traditional music. The attendance was so big that many stood on the outskirts and in the dirt street. Jay escorted us through the mob and directed us to take off our shoes at the entrance. We carefully stepped through the seated men and women and entered a small central room, which was open to onlookers. The priest sat cross-legged inside, surrounded by bright flowers and a neon painting of Krishna. He dipped his hand in a pot of reddish ink and carefully marked our foreheads. Then he took a pinch of white rice and stuck it into the wet liquid mark. Alexander and I exchanged a glance of amazement.
Welcome to Ahmedabad
We awoke at 3am for our 6am flight, and landed in Ahmedabad two hours later. The drive to the National Institute of Design (NID) was arresting. The streets were much narrower, without even the pretense of painted lanes. Wandering cows stopped traffic intermittently as enormous camels towed carts of goods alongside cars. Scruffy dogs- many with open wounds and missing ears- scavenged for trash. Begging children, their stomachs bloated with hunger, followed us, sticking their scrawny arms into our car every time we stopped. The pollution was like a thick, hazy blanket that blurs the sun.
Large billboards and the polished storefronts of stores like Nike, Levi’s, and various jewelers contrasted such images of poverty, as did the gorgeous saris of female pedestrians. The lush foliage and sultry subcontinental air gave the city a pulsing, tropical vibe.
NID is different than I had pictured. This is to be expected, of course, since I have had nothing more than our friend Nikhil’s descriptions to go on. However different, it is just as beautiful as he described. The campus is like a haven in the city, removed from the bustle of everyday life. Manicured gardens and courtyards separate the studios and classrooms. The animals are magical. The snails are the size of my fist and I think the wingspan of the black birds is probably more than five feet. Peacocks roam free, as do mother gray monkeys and their babies. White and golden cats strut as they please, despite their reputation of bringing bad luck.
There is an eatery on campus- the canteen. It serves three meals a day for 30 rupees (75 cents) a piece. I am already missing fresh raw food but am content with the spicy deliciousness of Indian cuisine. We ate at the canteen before getting a tour of the campus. Alexander was introduced to many professors, least of not someone who is in the textile department. Everyone seems friendly and helpful although eating dinner in the canteen reminded me of being a lonely middle-schooler at the cafeteria.
Large billboards and the polished storefronts of stores like Nike, Levi’s, and various jewelers contrasted such images of poverty, as did the gorgeous saris of female pedestrians. The lush foliage and sultry subcontinental air gave the city a pulsing, tropical vibe.
NID is different than I had pictured. This is to be expected, of course, since I have had nothing more than our friend Nikhil’s descriptions to go on. However different, it is just as beautiful as he described. The campus is like a haven in the city, removed from the bustle of everyday life. Manicured gardens and courtyards separate the studios and classrooms. The animals are magical. The snails are the size of my fist and I think the wingspan of the black birds is probably more than five feet. Peacocks roam free, as do mother gray monkeys and their babies. White and golden cats strut as they please, despite their reputation of bringing bad luck.
There is an eatery on campus- the canteen. It serves three meals a day for 30 rupees (75 cents) a piece. I am already missing fresh raw food but am content with the spicy deliciousness of Indian cuisine. We ate at the canteen before getting a tour of the campus. Alexander was introduced to many professors, least of not someone who is in the textile department. Everyone seems friendly and helpful although eating dinner in the canteen reminded me of being a lonely middle-schooler at the cafeteria.
Last Day in Delhi
The second day of orientation passed quickly. Different professors and professionals came to speak about a handful of broad topics including Indian economics, history, politics, media, volunteerism, and health/safety hazards. Alexander and I crashed after they sent us back to the hotel, waking only to order dal via room service and re-pack for our flight to Ahmedabad.
Orientation in Delhi
I could not sleep past 3am. I turned restlessly until a free continental breakfast was served at 7:30.
USEFI (United States Education Foundation in India) sent a bus to pick us up- along with the other five Fulbright scholars. All of them are very nice and their projects seem as intriguing as they are diverse. Everyone gave me a warm welcome even though my position is rather ambiguous (even to myself). I introduced myself as Alexander’s assistant, who is also doing anthropological research for a MA degree in the U.K. but who also plans to complete several film projects, start learning Hindi, and who might volunteer at the local organization SEWA (Self-Employed Women’s Association). It is a wordy and confusing introduction, even to myself, but the USEFI directors welcomed me nonetheless and included me in all the day’s activities. I got along exceptionally well with one woman who gave me a crash course in Indian culture, explaining the many things I should watch out for as a woman. Among many other instructions, I must never make physical contact with Alexander in public- not even holding hands. Tear.
At the end of the day USEFI hosted a large reception to welcome and honor the Fulbright scholars. The setting was beautiful. They had erected a large, bamboo tent and draped it with a white, pleated material. Bushes adorned with lights bordered the space beneath. Around the dozens of round tables sat Fulbright alums, mysterious officials and businessmen, and other people from the American Embassy, many of whom had played some role in acquiring student visas for the scholars. Alexander presented his project to the crowd for the 100th time that day. It went something like this:
“Hello, my name is Alexander Dynan. I just graduated from Wesleyan University in Connecticut and will be affiliated with the National Institute of Design in Ahmedabad. I am studying the effects of the International market on Indian textiles, focusing on color and design in Ahmedabad and Surat.”
By the time we left the event we had been at the Fulbright headquarters for nearly twelve hours.
USEFI (United States Education Foundation in India) sent a bus to pick us up- along with the other five Fulbright scholars. All of them are very nice and their projects seem as intriguing as they are diverse. Everyone gave me a warm welcome even though my position is rather ambiguous (even to myself). I introduced myself as Alexander’s assistant, who is also doing anthropological research for a MA degree in the U.K. but who also plans to complete several film projects, start learning Hindi, and who might volunteer at the local organization SEWA (Self-Employed Women’s Association). It is a wordy and confusing introduction, even to myself, but the USEFI directors welcomed me nonetheless and included me in all the day’s activities. I got along exceptionally well with one woman who gave me a crash course in Indian culture, explaining the many things I should watch out for as a woman. Among many other instructions, I must never make physical contact with Alexander in public- not even holding hands. Tear.
At the end of the day USEFI hosted a large reception to welcome and honor the Fulbright scholars. The setting was beautiful. They had erected a large, bamboo tent and draped it with a white, pleated material. Bushes adorned with lights bordered the space beneath. Around the dozens of round tables sat Fulbright alums, mysterious officials and businessmen, and other people from the American Embassy, many of whom had played some role in acquiring student visas for the scholars. Alexander presented his project to the crowd for the 100th time that day. It went something like this:
“Hello, my name is Alexander Dynan. I just graduated from Wesleyan University in Connecticut and will be affiliated with the National Institute of Design in Ahmedabad. I am studying the effects of the International market on Indian textiles, focusing on color and design in Ahmedabad and Surat.”
By the time we left the event we had been at the Fulbright headquarters for nearly twelve hours.
Alive and Well
Alexander and I arrived in Delhi on a Tuesday, in the wee morning hours of the 28th. The flight to India was relatively uneventful. I slept nearly the entire time, excluding a layover in Frankfurt to purchase Haribo gummy bears. When we touched ground after a total of fourteen hours in the air, nothing could stop me from smiling. We made it!!! After months of preparation, our unbounded imaginings are finally a reality…
We loaded our heavy luggage onto carts and rolled through customs, out the airport doors, into the thick, warm, night air. A man holding a sign with our names escorted us to a white van. We sped through the streets- past cows, stray dogs, abandoned storefronts and bustling shacks- narrowly avoiding accidents with the flighty green rickshaws, weaving motorcycles, and pungent garbage trucks. The taxi-wallah (taxi driver) deposited us at the Grand Sartaj, a mid-range hotel booked by Fulbright-affiliated travel agents. Our room had two double beds, windows looking out on a quiet side street and a shower that I would later reflect on as quite nice.
It was well past noon when we woke up the next day. Alexander called the front desk and ordered a taxi to take us around Delhi. Minutes later we were again whizzing through the streets, grabbling our seats and gasping every time a nearby vehicle got too close. The driver looked in his review mirror and laughed.
Our first stop was the result of a misunderstanding. Mistaking our request for a government affiliated emporium, the driver dropped us off at an upscale retail shop selling fine goods from Kashmir. The salesmen were insistent, nearly forcing us to admire expensive bedspreads, bolts of jewel-toned cloth and translucent pashminas. We narrowly escaped the pressures to buy! Fortunately, our driver was waiting for us when we exited and he agreed us to take us to the emporium in which Alexander was initially interested.
Again, the salesmen were overbearing, but they were not only interested in selling their goods. One man, who told us he was Muslim, briefly lectured me in the difference between a nation’s politics and people. “We hate American government,” he said, “But American people, we love. All governments are bad. India, China, America… but all people- they are good.” In the end I purchased a pashmina the color of copper.
The third and final stop of our day was the Red Fort (Lal Qila), a massive sandstone structure completed in 1648, at the height of Mughal power. Alexander and I aimlessly wandered inside the walls of the structure, taking pictures and trying to ignore the endless glances cast in our direction. The view was spectacular. Large green gardens extended between each interior structure, offering themselves to clusters of cross-legged men. Large black birds dotted the mauve sky, swooping between the government buildings beyond. The incessant honking and sounds of the city beyond the fort’s walls completed the scene.
As dusk began to fall over Delhi, the driver returned us to our hotel where we ordered dal (a lentil dish), chickpea curry and some unknown hours d’ourves drowned in yogurt.
We loaded our heavy luggage onto carts and rolled through customs, out the airport doors, into the thick, warm, night air. A man holding a sign with our names escorted us to a white van. We sped through the streets- past cows, stray dogs, abandoned storefronts and bustling shacks- narrowly avoiding accidents with the flighty green rickshaws, weaving motorcycles, and pungent garbage trucks. The taxi-wallah (taxi driver) deposited us at the Grand Sartaj, a mid-range hotel booked by Fulbright-affiliated travel agents. Our room had two double beds, windows looking out on a quiet side street and a shower that I would later reflect on as quite nice.
It was well past noon when we woke up the next day. Alexander called the front desk and ordered a taxi to take us around Delhi. Minutes later we were again whizzing through the streets, grabbling our seats and gasping every time a nearby vehicle got too close. The driver looked in his review mirror and laughed.
Our first stop was the result of a misunderstanding. Mistaking our request for a government affiliated emporium, the driver dropped us off at an upscale retail shop selling fine goods from Kashmir. The salesmen were insistent, nearly forcing us to admire expensive bedspreads, bolts of jewel-toned cloth and translucent pashminas. We narrowly escaped the pressures to buy! Fortunately, our driver was waiting for us when we exited and he agreed us to take us to the emporium in which Alexander was initially interested.
Again, the salesmen were overbearing, but they were not only interested in selling their goods. One man, who told us he was Muslim, briefly lectured me in the difference between a nation’s politics and people. “We hate American government,” he said, “But American people, we love. All governments are bad. India, China, America… but all people- they are good.” In the end I purchased a pashmina the color of copper.
The third and final stop of our day was the Red Fort (Lal Qila), a massive sandstone structure completed in 1648, at the height of Mughal power. Alexander and I aimlessly wandered inside the walls of the structure, taking pictures and trying to ignore the endless glances cast in our direction. The view was spectacular. Large green gardens extended between each interior structure, offering themselves to clusters of cross-legged men. Large black birds dotted the mauve sky, swooping between the government buildings beyond. The incessant honking and sounds of the city beyond the fort’s walls completed the scene.
As dusk began to fall over Delhi, the driver returned us to our hotel where we ordered dal (a lentil dish), chickpea curry and some unknown hours d’ourves drowned in yogurt.
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