PAR AVION

A Day in Mumbai

2008-03-06T18:38:00.000+05:30

Alexander and I set off for Mumbai/Bombay in the evening of January 25th, three hours after he successfully finished teaching a two-week course in contemporary book design at NID. By the time we had packed our bags and locked up the apartment we were running a dangerous twenty minutes behind schedule. Luckily we hailed a perceptive rickshaw driver who sensed our anxiety. He weaved through the bumper-to-bumper late night traffic at death defying speeds and played risky games of chicken with oncoming trucks to get us to the railway station on time. As we flew forward– wind-in-hair and heart-in-mouth- I felt the now familiar throb of anticipation pulse through my veins. Adventure ho!

We boarded the night train to Mumbai three minutes before it left the platform. Ten hours later, after a restless night of sleep on a middle berth, we arrived at Chhatrapati Shivaji Station- Victoria Terminus. From there it was a quick seven-rupee ride on the commuter rail to Churchgate in the southern district of downtown.

Immediately after exiting the station, I was struck by a vision of wide brick roads, towering colonial-era architecture and vacant sidewalks. The weather was dreamy: swaths of clouds filtered the warm morning light and a gentle sea breeze carried the scent of salt water. In a city notorious for its relentless crowds, chronic shortage of space, and Asia’s largest slums, my first impression of daybreak in south Mumbai was bewildering.

Alexander and I made our way to the nearby American Center, which was conveniently conspicuous with its kitschy striped awnings. After passing through security we were escorted to the apartment of our friend Lynne. She welcomed us into her home- and what a home it was! The floors were marble and cool to the touch. The spacious guest room had seventh story views and a handicap accessible bathroom. The air was filtered, the fridge was stacked, and the water was purified by a complex system of reverse osmosis. There was even a new issue of Time Out on the coffee table, which listed endless events- from gallery openings to book readings to musical performances.

Unlike Ahmedabad, Mumbai had a bustling, cosmopolitan feel. There was no shortage of events to attend, restaurants to sample, and nightspots to seek out. The city’s composite history was evident in everything from Koli shanties that occupy parts of the shoreline to imposing Art Deco facades. As an island, Mumbai’s only connection with the mainland is several bridges; the surrounding body of water seems to heighten one’s sense of confinement when trying to navigate the crowded streets. Fortunately the ocean views, large maidans (parks), and air-conditioned museums have a calming effect when the frenzied pace of the city becomes too much.

Alexander and I spent the day exploring several districts. A half hour walk from Churchgate brought us to the happening Colaba district on the city’s southernmost peninsula. There we gazed upon the Gateway of India, a striking basalt arch that opens up to the Mumbai harbor and is world famous as the city’s defining landmark. We visited the nearby Taj Mahal Palace and Tower, a grand, water-facing heritage hotel built in 1903. Rumor has it that the hotel’s architect, Parsi industrialist JN Tata, built the Taj when he was refused entry to one of the European hotels on account of being ‘a native.’

We spent the afternoon walking north past Horniman Circle, through Crawford Market, Chor Bazarre and on to Mutton Street, which is lined with antique shops selling old gramophones, vintage Bollywood posters, rusty tins, chipped porcelin, broken clocks and early 20th century postcards. In the evening we walked along the harbor-bordered promenade of Marine Drive before dining at the popular upscale fish restaurant Trishna, where we ordered Padma Laxsmi’s (think Top Chef, or Salmon Rushdie’s fourth ex-wife) dish of pomfret in green masala.

We returned to the American Center at eleven and caught three hours of sleep before hailing a cab to the International airport.

A Better Blogger (From Now On)

2008-01-25T20:22:00.000+05:30

Dear All,

I apologize for my two-month-long hiatus. I have failed to post consistently, and in doing so, have forsaken the most fundamental objective of blogging! But my silence has its own reasons, some of which I will briefly explain:

The end of November marked my fourth month in India. When Alexander and I returned from our three-week tour through Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh and Delhi, something changed for the both of us. For the first time, Ahmedabad felt like home, regardless of how transitory or uncomfortable it may be. At first I was excited. I finally felt confident in our new space. I could navigate the city relatively easily and was no longer intimidated by the demands of daily life. In short, I was getting used to living here.

At the same time that life seemed more manageable, it also seemed less interesting. The same objects that once arrested my attention now appeared ubiquitous. My conversations with people, while no less edifying, were quickly assimilated into a perpetual series of daily exchanges from which it became difficult to isolate particulars. Colors started to look duller. Food tasted blander. Even the burning piles of rubbish and human excrement were not quite as assaulting.

My experiences started to feel more like predictable encounters than exciting adventures, and it seemed impossible to retell them in any other way. Activities such as hand-washing laundry, buying vegetables, and ridding the apartment of dust and mosquitoes did not provide much fodder for interesting analysis. They did even seem worthy of a bland summary. On the other hand, anything but my basic routines were too overwhelming to fully digest and regurgitate. My thoughts all seemed embarrassingly incomplete; my observations underdeveloped. I was stuck in a margin between simple actions and their meanings, and my mind felt blocked. It no longer felt possible to describe a walk down the street without talking about the ways my whiteness, gender, nationality and class produced the experience; they were one in the same.

Although I am still trying to figure things out, I feel ready to write. Besides, writing is way of figuring things out in and of itself- a method of inquiry, as Laurel Richardson would say. Alexander and I have accomplished and lived through a lot in the past two months, and much of it is worth mentioning. I will do my best to summarize my favorite moments from recent weeks in the following three posts. I also promise to post more frequently, so please keep checking.

Part I- Highlights from December

2008-01-25T20:20:00.000+05:30

In early December Alexander and I returned to the region of Kutch, near the Pakistani border, to film artisan and friend Jabbar. As I mentioned in a previous post, Jabbar is a master tie-and-dyer whose products are popular abroad. Unlike the pieces of bandhani readily available in the domestic market, Jabbar’s work is done on silk (instead of cotton), dyed in natural dyes (instead of synthetic), and requires a great deal more labor and skill (one piece can take up to four months). Alexander and I collected nearly seven hours of footage in our attempt to capture the process from start to finish. We also conducted interviews with Jabbar and his family to provide a social context for the craft. Our main aim was/is to illustrate the ways artisans have been able to preserve and innovate on traditional crafts by entering into an international market.

After returning from Kutch, Alexander started to prepare for the course he was asked to teach at the National Institute of Design. Entitled “Contemporary Book Making and Book Design,” the course concentrates on the physical process of book making and highlights current trends in British and American graphics industries, both of which have seen a resurgence in production oriented and material based design. Alexander designed a syllabus, set up “fieldtrips” to a handmade paper factory and a manuscript museum, and brushed up on his own book binding skills.

At the same time we both continued to work on the Rajasthani turban campaign. Because we were unable to scan the turbans (they cannot be subjected to intense lights), we photographed the long objects in segments. As a result, we are forced to “sew” the individual images together in Photoshop. To make matters more complicated, however, the edges of each image were slightly distorted by the camera. We have had no choice but to spend endless hours trying to create yards of seamless cloth. At one point I started to dream about the complex, colorful, crosshatched design!

Around the same time I made a trip to Ahmedabad’s English bookstore and purchased the complete works of Haruki Murakami and Salmon Rushdie. I am currently making my way through each collection.

Towards the end of December I started to fear that the holiday season would be particularly disorienting and depressing. Wilting in the desert heat without the company of family and friends did not seem like something to celebrate. But Alexander and I managed to make due. We decorated a desiccated, potted shrub with stale popcorn and concocted a strangely satisfying brunch comprised of experimental dishes. Christmas proved to be a wonderful, love-filled day, although we missed everyone a lot.

Part II- Kerala with Melisa and Evan

2008-01-25T20:19:00.000+05:30

On December 28th my mother and brother made the long 36-hour journey from California to Ahmedabad. Alexander and I were there to greet them at the airport. I could barely contain my excitement when they exited through the terminal’s glass doors! It was shockingly surreal to see them in the flesh; like worlds colliding.

We spent our first week together in Ahmedabad. Alexander and I served as tour guides showing Mom and Evan our favorite corners of the city. We visited the famous Gandhi Ashram, the busy market of Manek Chowk, the renowned Calico Museum, intricate Jain temples, exquisite Mosques, well-stocked khadi bandhars, the congested New City, and NID’s lush campus. A morning Heritage Walk gave us a well-informed tour of the Old City’s tangled streets and its historic architecture. On New Years, the four of us celebrated with a bottle of Brut that Mom managed to smuggle through airport security.

On the morning of January 2nd, we boarded a plane to the state of Kerala, a narrow, fertile strip on the southwest coast. After a five-hour layover in Mumbai, we landed in Kochi (Cochin). Located in central Kerala, Kochi consists of a cluster of islands and narrow peninsulas and is famous for its many historical sites. The region’s maritime contact with other cultures over the centuries has greatly contributed to Kochi’s eclectic scenery in the form of Syrian-Christian churches, Dutch and Portuguese Heritage homes, Raj-era game lodges, a complex system of Chinese fishing nets, streets reminiscent of Medieval Holland and a visible Jewish community.

The four of us chose to stay in the older, quieter district of Fort Cochin, which is linked to the bustling city of Ernakulam by a bridge. We lodged at a beautiful, calming guesthouse that was within walking distance of nearly all our destinations. Our three days in the area were spent exploring the tranquil streets and absorbing the relaxed, tropical vibe. We saw the oldest church in India, watched the cantilevered Chinese fishing nets in action, strolled along the sunny, sea-bordered promenades, examined the graphic murals of Mattancherry Palace, and gazed upon the crumbling gravestones of the Dutch cemetery. Our last day was spent in a region of the peninsula known as “Jew Town,” an area that is known for the antique and spice shops that line the narrow roads, as well as the centrally located Pardesi Synagogue. First built in 1568 and later re-built by the Dutch in 1664, the synagogue is tucked away at the dead end of one of the town’s many labyrinthine streets. It features a gold pulpit, colorful glass chandeliers, and a floor made up of hand-painted, blue and white tiles imported from China. On our last night we enjoyed a traditional Kathakali performance (a dramatized presentation of a play- usually based on Hindu epics such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, and the Puranas- acted out by heavily made-up men wearing extravagant costumes).

Much to my delight, our sweat-inducing adventures were punctuated with excellent meals and retreats into the sanctuary of ocean-view hotels, where we sipped on sodas and cold beer. My favorite dishes included a seasoned snapper steamed in banana leaves and a North Indian inspired fish thali.

On January 7th Alexander, Mom, Evan and I took a morning taxi to the town of Alappuzha (Alleppey). Encompassing laidback markets, groves of palm trees and a system of interconnecting canals, Alleppey was once one of the best-known ports along the Malabar Coast. The four of us stayed outside the town, on the banks of the backwaters, in a cluster of bamboo huts. We spent the day swinging in hammocks strung between palm trees and watching dozens of impressive houseboats drift down the river.

The following morning we boarded our very own houseboat, complete with a personal chef, captain, and navigator. For twenty-four hours we drifted along the network of waterways that fringe the coast, winding their way inland. As the sun made its arch across a cloud-studded dome of blue sky, we passed palm-fringed lakes, lush rice patties, small villages, mosques, temples, children on their way to school, men diving for fish and prawns, and women washing piles of sodden clothes. When we passed a small stall built into the riverbank, Alexander bought a chopped coconut with a pink straw. We played gin rummy and read until our chef presented us with a delicious dinner of cooked spicy fish, vegetables and fried plantains. When twilight descended, and the river water turned ink black, we docked on the bank and counted fireflies before falling asleep to the sound of lapping water.

Our adept captain returned us to Alleppey before noon the next day. From there we took another long taxi ride further along the coast to Thiruvanathapuram (Trivandrum). Trivandrum has a reputation as one of India’s most pleasant cities for its temples, museums and gardens. Mom, Evan, Alexander and I spent a full three days sampling new foods, shopping in the local markets, and visiting the Palace Museum. The highlights of our stay included Patayam, a natural health food restaurant serving multiple mini-courses and tiny shots of blended fruit, and the Swathi Sangeethotsavan Music Festival, where we heard Master Balamuralilkrishna perform carnatic vocals with a violin, mridangam and ghatam.

On the 12th it was time to say goodbye. Alexander and I flew north while Melisa and Evan braved the journey back to the States. All in all, our two weeks together were terrific, but our apartment in Ahmedabad has started to feel a little empty!

Part III- Back to Ahmedabad

2008-01-25T20:16:00.001+05:30

Alexander and I returned from Kerala in time for Gujarat’s famous Kite Festival, Uttarayan. In preparation, groups of men dusted yards of kite string with a neon pink powder (made from chalk and ground glass) and wound the colorful thread into spools. Other vendors hawked diamond-shaped paper kites, some with bow-tie tails. Before the festival officially began, children would gather before and after school to hone their kite-flying skills. Soon the streets were littered with wads of bright string and the torn shreds of fallen kites.

In kite flying, as in life, the main objective is to survive as long as possible. Staying afloat is not as easy as it seems, however, because the glass-infused kite strings “cut” each other whenever they meet in mid- air. Sometimes the “cut” kite will attach itself to the victorious kite, and then that lucky someone will be flying a double-headed kite! But in most cases, it is either “cut or be cut.” You can either be defensive by avoiding any contact with other kites, or you can be offensive by trying to “cut” down as many other kites as possible.

On January 14th, Alexander and I ascended the stairs of our apartment complex and joined the thousands of people gathered on rooftops all over the city. The site was breathtaking. The sky was packed with the colorful dots of kites. It looked like the air was churning with colorful confetti. The airborne diamonds swooped and spiraled as they caught different drafts while the severed kites floated down to the street like crisp autumn leaves. Groups of neighbors cheered for their family members and friends as they tried to fell the competition. Alexander and I both tried our hand at flying but I cannot say it went well.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the kites turned into silhouettes against the subcontinental sunset. Firecrackers exploded over the city as children lit small explosives. The vision was scored with the Bollywood music that blasted from rooftop stereo systems.

Days later Alexander started to teach his course at NID. He spent an intense thirteen days teaching both morning and afternoon sessions on campus. The class turned out to be a great success. Most of his students produced innovative books and they had a popular exhibition at the end. Alexander says he loved the experience, but is happy to get back to his own work. Also, we learned recently from some student friends that Alexander has earned quite the reputation at NID as a “harsh critic” and “strict instructor.” Not bad for his first time teaching, especially considering many of his students were older than him!

Now we are off to Mumbai. We will be flying to Thailand on January 27th. Check back for more updates!

Life on the Platform

2007-11-25T20:37:00.000+05:30

Express trains regularly run between Agra and Delhi. Despite their frequency, the trains are notorious for running late. Alexander and I had the minor misfortune of waiting two hours for our third class coach to arrive.

Our delay gave us time to examine the station milieu. Plump rats scurried across the tracks nibbling at an abundance of trash. A man with an oversized moustache sold carrot-glucose sweets from a cart. Three teenagers poured hot chai from large silver canteens. “Chai!! Chai Garam!” they called out into the heavy night air.

Despite the excess of distractions, my attention was drawn to the dozens of begging children darting about the platform. They tugged on arms, motioning to their empty tummies and mouths. The girls wore tattered, ill-fitting dresses with broken zippers and missing buttons. Their hair was either cropped close to their head or tied back in long, matted ponytails. I watched as one girl, clad in a ragged, orange shirt, coughed up large amounts of phlegm and spit into the tracks below.

Each time a train arrived at the platform, the children greeted it with excitement. After the passengers boarded, they clung to the sides of cars, waiting for their ride to begin. As the train picked up speed, the kids jumped between the coach doorways and crowded platform. The coughing girl joined her peers, giggling as she ran alongside the train in search of a vacant spot. But the car was moving too fast. Her leg slipped into the dark crevice between platform ledge and train. Onlookers screamed as two young men sprinted to the rescue, violently whacking her back towards safety and away from the lethal chasm. It was all too much for me to bear and I closed my eyes until our train arrived.

Pretty Picture Postcard

2007-11-25T20:36:00.002+05:30

Alexander and I took the 6 a.m. train to Agra and arrived four hours later. Although the city was wrapped in a thick morning mist, I recognized the subtle outline of the Taj Mahal as we drove to our hotel. It stood like a distant mirage, luring us closer.

As can be expected, the highlight of our stay in Agra was the Taj Mahal. Alexander and I woke at five a.m. to be present when the sight’s doors opened an hour later. We shuffled past security and several tour groups wearing matching yellow baseball caps. Through a colossal red-stone entrance gate I caught my first intimate look at the world’s most famous monument to love.

The Taj was built by Emperor Shah Jahan to commemorate the passing of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. The elaborate monument took more than two decades to complete and required a work force of 20,000 people from India and Central Asia. Architects were brought in from Europe to help produce the intricate marble screens and inlay work made with thousands of semiprecious stones.

For years I envisioned the Taj to be creamy white with the smooth texture of a meringue. Imagine my surprise as I began to notice the gray swirled marble and intricate inlay work. As we walked along the thin reflecting pool I could distinguish intricate designs on the exterior. Vines of colorful flowers and large Koran passages written in Arabic calligraphy decorated the mausoleum’s entrance. It was beautiful.

Alexander and I spent five hours wandering around gardens and mosques. We took pictures from every angle and sketched pieces of the structure in our sketchbooks. In the central mausoleum we admired the lace-like marble screens and dragged our hands over the flawless inlay work. The Taj changed colors with the rising sun. Under our gaze the central dome transformed from pale blue to a golden yellow to a subtle cherry-blossom pink. At noon the Taj turned a brilliant cotton-white, framed by a cloudless, autumn sky. By the time we left, however, a thin haze had settled over the gardens, veiling the monument in a thin lavender curtain.

As we departed, I felt a twinge of discontent, as if I had somehow failed to absorb, capture or retain the Taj’s beauty. Here I was: Standing halfway around the world and in the presence of one of the world’s most celebrated wonders, the image of which I have seen reproduced on stamps, calendars, book covers, postcards and on TV. But how can one consume such a significant landmark? How can one preserve an impermanent moment? Staring, wandering, taking pictures, sketching, meditating, touching, smelling- all yielded fleeting pleasures that immediately congealed into memories. When we exited the monument’s gates, the Taj Mahal had already converted itself into an imprecise image projected against the black of my mind.

Research in Jaipur

2007-11-25T20:36:00.001+05:30

In the morning Alexander and I visited our first contact in Jaipur- Gitto, an ex-faculty member of NID who specializes in wood block printing. It took a half-hour for the rickshaw driver to find her workshop hidden behind the lush palms of a residential garden. We were greeted by a team of men dipping wooden blocks in pads of colored ink, and stamping them on long sheets of white cloth.

Behind them sat boxes of unused blocks stacked in marked boxes. The range of patterns was incredible! From intricate roses to clusters of ants to tiny cartoon dogs to Japanese-inspired clouds- it seemed as if there was a design for every possible market. Gitto took a break from her meeting with three Italian clients to give us a brief tour of the studio. When Alexander told her that he was particularly interested in leheria (an intricate wave pattern created by tying and dyeing thin material such as the silk and fine cotton used to make traditional Rajasthani turbans) she informed us that the best person to talk to had recently “expired.” Instead she provided us with the name of a sari shop owner who sells contemporary leheria pieces.

We spent an hour in the sari shop sipping chai and examining crude examples of leheria, all of which had been dyed in synthetic, neon colors. “Women want bright colors. Dusty colors do not sell,” the owner explained. “Rani- dark hot pink- sells best,” he said holding up a piece of translucent silk the color of fuchsias. The borders of the more expensive saris were decorated with intricate, sequin-studded, hand-stitched embroidery that glinted under the store’s fluorescent lights. Although our discussions about the contemporary Indian market were edifying, it was disappointing to see how much the quality of the craft has been comprised due to the cost of labor and the availability of natural dyes.

Next we visited the City Palace, next to which was our second contact in Jaipur- an antique textile dealer who collects Rajasthani turbans. We ogled over his impresive collection of rare specimens. The most expensive turban for sale cost $3,500 (the best ones are in his private collection and are not for sale) and was 120 years old! Despite its age, the colors remained vibrant and the cloth was in perfect condition. Before leaving the shop the owner gave us permission to photograph his collection if we ever returned to Jaipur. He also gave us our third contact in the city: Badshah Ahmed, a national award-winning leheria dyer who uses only natural dyes.

When we called Badshah the following day, he immediately sent his son to pick us up on his motorcycle. Alexander and I climbed aboard and gripped the bike for dear life. We swerved around large pigs, their swollen teats dragging in the dust. Curious bystanders stopped to gawk at the motorcycle carrying two foreigners. After we dismounted, a group of children ran to welcome us to their neighborhood.

Badshah’s son brought us inside where his father displayed several award winning pieces and talked about his craft. Next his son brought us to the rooftop terrace. We gazed upon a bustling neighborhood. Dozens of kites spiraled in the afternoon breeze. The son spent four hours teaching us how to make leheria, from rolling the cloth to tying the knots to boiling indigo dye. Our final products were less than impressive, but we purchased several of the son’s leheria silk pieces to add to our collection.

Up At Arms

2007-11-25T20:21:00.000+05:30

Over the months I have grown somewhat impervious to the aggressive calls of rickshaw drivers, salesmen and the occasional delinquent teen. But when Alexander and I arrived in Jaipur, tired and shaken from our bus driver’s insistent demands for a bribe, I lost it. As a crowd of drivers swarmed around me, I started to pull at my hair and shrieked: “Leave us alone!” Small tears balanced on the rims of my eyes. My scene must have made quite an impression because the pack of vying men quickly dispersed. The single, remaining gentleman quietly offered us a fair price and remained mute for our ten-minute journey to the hotel.

At the reception counter a short, slimy attendant told us that he had nearly given away our room. “You are forty minutes late,” he said, casually pointing to a clock. “Now I must tell the couple waiting for your room that you have showed up.” I stared hard in disbelief. Alexander had booked our room one month in advance and re-confirmed three times! He had even called the previous night to verify our time of arrival. “You are very lucky,” the attendant reiterated. I watched as a German couple scowled from a corner couch.

The man showed us our room, and offhandedly informed us of the price. It was twice the listed price that the hotel had confirmed and reconfirmed over the phone! November is the busy season in Jaipur (one must book their rooms ahead) and we had no choice but to accept the fee. Meanwhile, the attendant acted as if we should thank him for not canceling our reservation. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow we will find you a cheaper room,” he lied confidently.

To forget our worries, Alexander turned on the tiny television set in our room. We laughed at episodes of Seinfield and Friends until our sides hurt. In retrospect, none of the jokes were particularly funny, but we were in dire need of a good laugh.

Living Lakeside

2007-11-25T20:20:00.002+05:30

In Udaipur we ate on the city’s highest terraces. In Jodhpur we stayed in a haveli’s sky-scraping room. When we were escorted to our quarters in a Pushkar guesthouse, it became clear that we are destined to experience some of Rajasthan’s most spectacular altitudes.

Our room itself was unremarkable, with pallid walls and a pink-tiled bathroom, but the large, lake-facing windows were some of the best in town. Our door opened up to an enormous, private rooftop terrace overlooking the water. From its edge I accessed an unobstructed, 360-degree view of my surroundings.

Imagine: An imperturbable body of water bordered by blanched marble stairs. The holy lake shines jade in the morning and dulls to a pale azure in the afternoon. Barefooted women draped in vibrant cloth descend the steps of Pushkar’s famous bathing ghats while their bare-chested male counterparts thrash about in the thick water. Instrumental music pours from the surrounding temples, drowning out the excited chatter of pilgrims and impersonating priests.

Alexander and I sipped fresh lime sodas and black chai from our private vantage point. We spent our days wandering the surprisingly serene bazaars and eating fresh Israeli food. In the evening we visited the legendary Brahma temple- marked with a red spire. And on our last day in Pushkar we stopped by the town’s khadi bhandar where a retired priest gave us a fervent lecture on the benefits of monogamy. “I hope, and I REQUEST, that you remain faithful,” he said waving a bony finger at Alexander.

To Pushkar!

2007-11-25T20:20:00.001+05:30

We left Jodhpur at 7 a.m. in a rickety bus. I spent most of the six-hour ride watching scenes of hot rocky desert and rural villages. I saw a group of men wearing neon orange turbans leading an elephant painted in the same color. I observed a slight woman in a pink sari balancing giant tree branches on her head. I noticed advertisements painted on menacing boulders in primary colors. “Buy Ax Tires,” one said in yellow. Another one depicted a bar of blue soap next to a line of Hindi script. At the end of our journey I was unpleasantly surprised when a shower of human spit came through my window. Apparently a woman several rows up had decided to spew and the force of the wind had blown it back several rows down. My stomach turned as I wiped the foul substance from my arm.

Although our final destination was Pushkar, our ticket was to the nearby city of Ajmer. From the Ajmer bus station we intended to take a local bus 10km to the scenic town of Pushkar. Our plans were complicated when our bus driver decided to deposit us on the outskirts of Ajmer, far from the bus station. “You going to Ajmer? Get off. We are here,” he lied. Once we had been ejected, the bus abandoned us. A group of rickshaw drivers quickly smelled our vulnerability and crowded around, yelling their exorbitant rates. Alexander and I joined forces with a similarly unfortunate French couple and, after a short walk and several hostile interactions, jumped on a cramped shared jeep for the twenty-minute ride.

Once at the Ajmer bus station we purchased a ticket for Pushkar and immediately boarded the already crowded local bus. Alexander and I were forced to stand in the aisle, crushed between knees and our burdensome backpacks. The winding, hilly road took more than thirty minutes to traverse.

Pushkar’s distinctive vibe was discernible the moment we exited the bus. The main street was bustling with tourists and Hindu pilgrims. New age music blasted from boom boxes in shops selling hemp clothing, pipes, used books, crystals, yoga videos, earth-toned pashminas and posters of Bob Marley. Restaurants claimed to serve “organic” and “healthy” food. Barbers advertised dreadlocks. Most foreigners sported facial hair, baggy pants, tight tees and tattoos of the “om” sign; the similitude between their styles was almost comical.

The Lonely Planet Effect

2007-11-25T19:39:00.002+05:30

We spent our second night in Jodhpur strolling through the busy Sadar Bazaar, a market that is famous for its spices. The different stalls twinkled with metallic decorations, painted mirrors and strings of rainbow lights. Aggressive men attempted to lure us into their shops, yelling prices and motioning to their goods. We toured a spice shop recommended to us by our Lonely Planet guidebook, but it was so packed with foreigners that we decided to look elsewhere. Several stores down we came upon an empty, well-lit spice market nearly identical to the first (except, of course, it was missing customers). The single salesman seemed surprised when we entered on our own accord. He offered us two generous glasses of his best product- pure saffron with a single bud of green cardamom and three chunks of cinnamon bark. The taste was incredible!

When the young salesman said that his family’s spice shop had first opened its doors in the sixties, I immediately inquired about whether the publication of Lonely Planet’s India guidebook- with its endorsement of another local shop- had affected profits. At first he denied the idea claiming, “people are smart…they see the high prices and eventually wander over to our store.” But several more questions confirmed that foot traffic had decreased and that his shop had been forced to offer more deals and gifts (such as large free samples and free cloth gift bags) in order to stay in competition. They had even opened an identical shop around the corner.

His story was one of countless indications that Lonely Planet has dramatically changed tourism in India. Lonely Planet guidebooks (referred to by locals as the “foreigner’s bible”) dictate where much of the foot traffic goes, whether it is guesthouses, restaurants or shops. The power of their reporting is unfathomable. In short, their journalists have succeeded in creating a tiny, reliable world inside the unpredictable chaos of India’s cities. Although their work is a welcomed relief to many tourists, it makes it possible to travel without wandering off the beaten path. Furthermore, (according to my conversations with several Rahasthanis) it seems to greatly affect the local economy.

I bought some green cardamom buds and tea masala- a finely ground powder made from cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and white pepper. On my way back through the bazaar I noticed the popular spice shop we had seen before, now packed with a new group of tourists. They sat on short stools while fingering plastic bags and smelling open containers. Many held a printed list of prices. I asked a salesman for a list and compared it to the price I paid for my tea masala. The difference was astounding; every item was marked up by at least two US dollars.

The Attraction of Discovery

2007-11-25T19:39:00.001+05:30

When I heard that Jodhpur has some of India’s best antique shops, I imagined unmarked stores hidden in a maze of twisted streets. I expected to find overlooked treasures in discarded heaps of rubble. But our trip to Palace Road defied all assumption.

As we exited the rickshaw we were greeted by several plush tour buses packed with ageing Brits. The “antique shops” resembled enormous warehouses, most with multiple levels. The first place we toured turned out to be a handicraft emporium specializing in export. A young salesman named Saleem eagerly showed us a sampling of the famous company’s products. We saw blankets and pashminas custom-made for Hermes, duvet covers ordered by Donna Karen New York, and quilts designed by Armani. Saleem showed us a recent photograph of famous American actors Bill Murray and Jason Schwartzman sitting in the store’s largest showroom (apparently they had visited while shooting’s Wes Anderson’s new film “The Darjeeling Limited”) as well as an article printed in the UK that documents Richard Gere’s purchase of 108 blankets from the same store. “He bought one hundred and eight,” Saleem confirmed, pointing to the colorful stack of fine Hermes throws.

A neighboring store lived up to the “antique shop” sign hung above its door. From British cookie tins from the 1930s to green-tinted glass perfume bottles to old plastic toys, the shop’s endless shelves made its singular treasures seem like the ubiquitous stock of a grocery store. Meanwhile, hoards of tourists swarmed through the rooms, thumbing through faded postcards and inspecting miniature paintings. “Is this authentic?” a woman wearing black and holding up a crude piece of pottery asked the salesman. It was a strange sight to behold.

The most disturbing aspect of this scene was outside, where hundreds of priceless, museum-worthy artifacts lined both sides of the road. Intricately carved wooden haveli doors- some painted unexpected shades of pale green, bright violet and salmon- leaned against a stretch of chain link fence. The dust kicked up by passing trucks fell on hand carved window frames complete with their original panes of glass. Many of the items were enormous- entire solariums, iron entrance gates and painted gazebos. There was even a complete wing of a haveli transplanted on the barren desert highway! All such historic relics had been ripped from their original location to be sold into the homes of wealthy Europeans and Americanss.

After purchasing two vintage postcards, Alexander and I decided to walk to a nearby restaurant. We followed the lights of the highway for a quarter mile, stepping over sleeping cows and holding pieces of cloth over our mouth to filter the stifling exhaust. Near our destination we were startled by a wild scream in the bushes. Terrified, we watched as a homeless woman emerged, her gray hair in a wild halo around her head. I froze. “What should we do?” I asked Alexander. We both stood for a second, deciding how to best negotiate our imminent encounter (Although we are forced to deal with extreme poverty on a daily basis, this woman’s desperation was petrifying). I stared as she feverishly clawed over gravel and came running (as best she could) directly at us. My heart started to race. “RUN!” Alexander cried. And so we were forced to flee, sprinting along the highway, fear and guilt following us like a dark cloud.

Adventures in the Blue City

2007-11-25T19:20:00.000+05:30

Singhvi’s Haveli is a red sandstone wonder complete with a large courtyard, half dozen flights of stairs, and multiple terraces at varying levels. Each façade is lined with exquisite jails- carved lattice screens made from peach-painted stone. The Guest House is family run and decorated in traditional Rajasthani style with ornate floor cushions, hanging swings, wall paintings and silk sari curtains.

In the morning we were directed two flights of stairs to the top terrace. There were three old wooden doors, one of which led to our simple whitewashed room. The walls were adorned with a hand painted scene of two Indian lovers and a portrait of a young woman wearing a translucent sari. Our single window faced the “Blue City,” the oldest district of Jodhpur.

The view from here is arresting. We gaze upon a vision of cubist buildings fit together in a tight puzzle of disorienting angles and lines. Most homes have been painted an electric shade of neon pastel blue; they glow against the duller tones of earthy brown and gray. According to locals, the unique shade is thought to repel mosquitoes and other unwanted insects. Decades ago, the color denoted the residence of a Brahmin family, the most respected caste known for producing teachers and priests. But such symbolism has worn away as members of other castes adopt the trend, leaving Jodhpur’s cityscape a haunting and memorable blue.

The city sits at the edge of the Great Thar Desert. The urban sprawl is seemingly built into the surrounding ridges, the crests of which dramatically rise above the last line of houses. A 10-kilometer wall encircles the oldest and bluest part of the city. Founded in 1459, the city of Jodhpur served as a vital trade route for goods such as opium, sandalwood, dates and copper. The surrounding Kingdom of Rathore was once fondly known as Marwar- the Land of Death.

Now Jodhpur is famous for the Meheran Garh, a huge fort that towers above the city with an unexpected palace poking above its foreboding walls. It took Alexander and I more than half an hour to climb to the entrance gate while vultures circled overhead. The architecture is remarkable. It looks as if the fort’s massive turrets sprouted naturally from the ochre-shaded rocky cliffs. The view from the top is no less impressive; the scene extends for miles and gives a rare aerial perspective on the city’s seemingly erratic urban geography. Hundreds of feet blow we could make out people immersed in their daily routines. They looked like tiny, colored dots moving on rooftops and in labyrinth of tangled streets.

Our ventures into the picturesque old city contrasted to our placid views from above. The rickshaws dangerously swerved through the narrow, winding streets leaving clouds of lilac exhaust in their wake. Vendors called to us to purchase bananas, heavy locks, pointed shoes, silver jewelry, and sweets made from spices and boiled milk. Old men (many with ear hair several inches long!) sat in the doorways of their tiny shops spitting tobacco juice into the street. Small mules, their backs swaying under heavy loads of crumbling bricks, meandered through the congested traffic as a boy whipped them from behind. A middle-aged man pushed a cart filled with stacks of white, women’s underwear. Bands of schoolchildren clad in starched uniforms tried to touch my arms.

Once in a while Alexander and I would stop to browse through doorways and windows. We watched artisans at work as they tooled leather, cut picture frames and strung together garlands of pink flowers. Near a main square we saw teenagers stirring copper vats of boiling cooking oil used to make many popular snacks. One of our most rewarding stops was at a local turban shop. We examined contemporary designs and asked questions about modern consumer tastes. It was fascinating to see how much the products have changed- from color to design to labor- in such a short period of time.

On to Jodhpur

2007-11-25T19:18:00.001+05:30

Following another memorable rooftop dinner, a rickshaw dropped us off at the local bus station. We joined a herd of foreign backpackers, most of who hailed from France, Britain or Spain. At 9:30 a stout man with a commanding voice ordered us to follow him to our bus. Everybody formed an awkward single file line and marched through the small dunes of red dust lining the busy street. We looked silly, like a pack of timid livestock migrating through unfamiliar territory.

After passing several comfortable-looking buses, we were ushered towards an unpleasant vehicle with rusty paint. “To Jodhpur,” our informal guide announced. Alexander and I made our way to the back of the bus and scaled the metal lattice into our sleeper (that same tiny compartment built into the ceiling of the bus that we had occupied in the first leg of our journey). But this sleeper was different. The windows were caked with a thick layer of dust. There was no air-conditioning. Orange curtains, dulled from the unforgiving desert sun, billowed in the putrid night breeze. It was not until the end of our ride that I would realize that the stench I assumed was coming from outside was in fact the cloth inches from my nose.

To make matters worse, our suicidal bus driver was intent on speeding. He careened to the right and left, dodging the slower cars and trucks, sending his passengers flying. My head knocked against the ceiling as I tried to brace myself; Alexander slammed against the compartment walls. When the paved roads turned to gravel, the bus often teetered on the sharp curves, giving the sensation that we were momentarily balancing on two wheels. It was impossible to fall asleep and so we lay as rigid as boards, preparing for impact.

At four a.m. the driver announced our destination- more than two hours before the scheduled arrival. Most of the tourists exited with us. By the time we had made it to the street, all but one rickshaw had departed, bumbling off in different directions. We squeezed into the one remaining vehicle with a British couple traveling in India for a two-week holiday. (The woman was an accountant- “very boring,” she said- and was enjoying the adventure.) The driver dropped us off at Singhvi’s Haveli, located in the heart of the old city. All rooms were occupied and so we were asked to wait until the 10 a.m. checkout time. In the meantime we gratefully snoozed on an abandoned twin mattress in the corner of the lobby.

Gastronomic Adventures in Udaipur

2007-11-25T19:15:00.001+05:30

No account of Udaipur would be complete without mention of our memorable dining experiences. In this I am not referring to the quality of the food (although the diverse dishes we ordered were some of the tastiest meals I have ingested to date.) It was the location of each restaurant that made our meals so remarkable. At Udai Kothi we ate by candlelight on the terrace of one of the city’s fancy, historic hotels. As dusk fell we watched the striking skyline change into constellations of blinking yellow lights reflected back to us in the heart-shaped lake below. The following day, our aimless rambles through the old city led us to an eye-catching, near vacant heritage hotel where we took dinner IN a turret overlooking Lake Pichola. We were so high that flocks of diving white birds looked like mere specks against the lake’s blue-black water. And I cannot forget our lunches at the outdoor restaurant Ambrai, situated on a strip of land that juts into the lake. Alexander and I sipped black chai and ate Aloo Palak (Potato and Spinach curry) while taking in the surrounding scenery: the creamy vanilla city palace façade; the sun setting over the bright, water-bounded lake palace; and a nearby ghat, busy with women in colorful saris washing their jewel-toned, dirty laundry.

The "City of Lakes"

2007-11-25T19:13:00.000+05:30

Rajasthan’s southern city of Udaipur is known as one of India’s most romantic destinations. The surrounding ginger-shaded mountains give the impression of a secluded and serene retreat, far from the flat lands of Gujarat. Intricate, sun-bleached buildings surround the placid lake Pichola, at the center of which sits the extravagant bone-white Lake Palace on a tiny island all to its own. Dozens of rooftop terraces provide excellent views of the golden city palace, the famous Jagdish temple and a chaotic urban sprawl.

I was immediately put off by the commercialism that had (according to locals) transformed the most historic part of the old city. Every shop was designed to appeal to tourists. French bakeries and Italian restaurants lined the narrow streets. Overpriced tailors advertised that they could sew exact replicas of H&M jackets. “Madam, you like this dress?” one man asked, thrusting a British Vogue in my face. “Only 4,000 rupees.”

It did not help matters that we were two of many tourists. Crowds of foreigners, their white skin turning pink under the Indian sun, sipped espresso on verandas and took pictures of locals without asking. Small groups of middle-aged women donned skimpy tank tops and large Chanel sunglasses, eagerly buying large numbers of overpriced, striped pashminas. Men wore shorts. Young partners kissed in public. Elderly British couples held hands as they shooed away begging children.

Understandably, relations with residents were tense. Nearly all interactions ended in talks of money. Groups of boys lit fireworks in our path; Onlookers laughed as we covered our ears. Alexander’s attempts to contact a textile dyer dead-ended in several textile “boutiques” where salesmen lied about their products. “So this is tie-and-dye?” I asked, looking at Alexander. (By this point our knowledge of different crafts can easily distinguish an imitation). “Yes, yes, hand tied, natural dye, my family makes,” said the desperate retailer. “Oh,” I replied, obviously unconvinced. And then: “We live in India…yes…no, we study textiles…yes…but this is screen printed imitation, no?” The salesmen gave a disappointed smirk. “Yes, yes, imitation, but a good price for you.”

Despite some unrewarding interviews and an unshakable sense of discomfort, we managed to have a spectacular time. We visited the colorful Indo-Aryan Jagdish temple with its ebony black stone image of Vishnu as Jagannath. A young boy with a bowl cut greeted us at the entrance. “What country?” he asked. When I replied “the U.S.” he broke into song:

“I’m just a buffalo soldier in the heart of America…Stolen from Africa, brought to America.” Then he smiled and said, “Bob Marley- American, no?”

In the afternoon we explored a restored 18th century haveli consisting of 138 rooms set around a central courtyard, and enjoyed the setting sun from its rooftop. The following morning found us at the enormous City Palace where we examined countless miniature paintings, intricate stained-glass windows, carved stone lattices, jewel-encrusted mosaic sculptures of peacocks, ornate tiles, delicate glass work, and mirrored rooms. The view from the top balcony was breathtaking. On the third day we wandered the gardens of Saheliyon ki Bari, where countless Indian mothers took pictures of us posing with their children.

Our less touristy experiences included a peek into an empty junk shop. The salesman, a once nomadic musician with a passion for German psychotherapy, shared stories about the many foreigners who came to Udaipur to “find themselves” and “get cured.” He explained that chosen people were naturally attracted to his shop; he always had a steady stream of strangers requesting his assistance. “Five years ago, an Olympic rower from Seattle marches in here and announces, without any explanation, ‘I am a narcissist. Can you cure me?’ And I reply, ‘Why, of course. I can cure you in one sentence: You let the world go to hell.’ Then the man ran in circles, because I had cured him.” The junk salesman gave a satisfied nod. He commenced to tell us several additional vignettes about curing foreigners and told us about his “hot hammer” technique, a four-five hour intense process in which he yells and insults his “patient” until they “open-up.”

Perhaps to erase my look of doubt, he presented several leather-bound books, each brimming with the comments of “satisfied customers.” I flipped through the pages and saw the business cards of Stanford professors, the email addresses of Brown University students, and the gushing gratitude of countless foreigners. “You have changed my life. I will remember you forever,” one letter read. “You are the man I have been searching for. You are the star I saw from my balcony. I will never doubt again because fate has brought us together,” another page said. And then: “You have given me my second birth. You are an angel, touched by god.”

“People come here, and they are all so unhappy,” the junk seller said. “I send them home with a lighter heart and a clearer mind.” I withheld judgment and answered, honestly, that I was truly happy. Then I purchased a vintage postcard and Alexander and I departed.

On the Road (Again)

2007-11-25T19:01:00.000+05:30

After surviving our disastrous trip to Bhuj, I prepared for our journey through Rajasthan by expecting the worst. I packed carefully, making sure to include those precious items I had forgotten on my first attempt at traveling in India. A clothesline, flip-flops, clean pillowcases, anti-nausea medication, bed sheets, extra toilet paper- all found their way into my backpack. I also readied myself mentally by anticipating food poisoning, dirty buses and money-hungry strangers looking for every opportunity to pounce.

Alexander and I embarked on our trip at 9pm. A friendly rickshaw driver with three teeth delivered us to a bus station crowded with people eager to attend their Diwali family reunions. We watched green and saffron fireworks explode in the sky as we waited for our bus to arrive.

But the bus was nowhere to be seen. After an hour we started to worry. Did we miss it in the holiday chaos? Had we confused the identification number of our vehicle? The men at the nearby travel agency were of little help. Each time we asked a question they directed us to wait in a different place. “Across the road, by the paan cart- there you should wait,” one man said. Minutes later his co-worker pointed in the opposite direction. “Down the road, on your right…should be there any minute.” And then suddenly a young man was ordering us to run. He shouted at a passing bus in Gujarati, motioning for us to sprint after it. Finally the bus driver pulled to the side of the road. We boarded, panting and sweat soaked, shocked that we had made it onto the correct vehicle.

My surprise was instantly replaced by joy as I observed a luxury bus that lived up to its name. The center isle was wide, the seats plush, and the commodious sleepers were clean. There was even (gasp!) a bathroom on board! Alexander and I slept until 5am when the driver announced our first stop: Udaipur. A talkative rickshaw driver took us to our hotel where a sleepy attendant checked us in at no extra charge.

Welcome Home

2007-11-25T19:00:00.000+05:30

We returned to Ahmedabad via train and slept peacefully through the eight-hour journey. Alexander gently woke me up at 4am to say we had reached our final destination. Although a swarm of crooked rickshaw drivers nearly assaulted us after we exited the station, we were able to find an honest man who gave us an “Indian price.” “My cousin lives in Arizona,” he said with bright eyes. “I like Americans.”

I could not contain my excitement as I climbed the flight of stairs to our first story flat. My body convulsed with shivers of relief. My heart trembled as our apartment door fell open, welcoming us into a familiar space. …And then it hit me: Ahmedabad felt like home. Regardless of how temporary it may seem, our comfortable little flat has become a true refuge from the outside world.

After our return, I had a renewed sense of energy. Suddenly everything seemed manageable. I woke easily at daybreak and consistently accomplished all the tasks at hand. I hand washed our mounting loads of laundry and scrubbed the apartment. I bought fresh flowers for our beloved landlord who recently survived a heart attack. And I spent hours connecting raw images of turbans in Photoshop. Most importantly of all, however, I convinced Alexander to see a doctor at the best hospital in Ahmedabad and, following the doctor’s orders, he followed it up with a visit to the main clinic in the neighboring city of Ghandinagar. All test results came back negative (including his blood type, which turns out to be O-), but our excellent American-trained physician was able to locate the reason for Alexander’s recurrent health problems and prescribed some pills accordingly.

Meanwhile, Ahmedabad prepared for Diwali, the nationwide festival of lights celebrating the beginning of the Hindu calendar. Street vendors started to sell the small bags of colored rice flour and large stencils used to make impermanent designs on doorsteps. At night our neighbors lit tiny oil lamps and placed them on either side of their front doors- a symbolic act thought to show Rama (the seventh incarnation of Vishnu) the way home from exile. Everyone from local children to our tailor offered us cashew sweets wrapped in thin sheets of real silver.

The less pleasant preparations included the erection of large firework stalls on the side of the road. Boys of all ages lined up to purchase the cheap explosives. It soon became impossible to walk outside without encountering an unexpected blast. I watched in thinly veiled horror as small children lit their crackers with matches and then sprinted away, a shower of sparks erupting behind them. The city was transformed into a veritable war zone, and the air became clouded with choking smoke.

To Kutch and Back

2007-11-25T18:53:00.000+05:30

Alexander and I set off for Bhuj at 10 pm. We caught a rickshaw to nearby Paldi Crossroads, where dozens of buses begin their journey to different regions of India. After waiting nearly an hour, a tourist agent instructed his ten-year-old boy to lead us to our vehicle. We were the last to board.

Weeks prior, when we purchased our tickets for a double sleeper in a luxury vehicle, I naively assumed that our journey would be relatively comfortable. I was sincerely surprised to discover that a "double sleeper" is in fact a tiny, claustrophophic compartment attached to the ceiling of a regular bus. A flimsy metal lattice provides the only way up. As is the case in most buses here, a tiny television (with no “off” switch) broadcasted loud Hindi movies throughout the night. We swallowed some sleeping pills and waited to be lulled to sleep by the bumpy ride.

At four a.m. we arrived weary and disoriented. We hailed a rickshaw and made our way through the dusty streets. Even in the dark it was clear that Bhuj was no metropolitan city. The unmarked bus station, deserted streets and heavy quiet were all signs of a smaller town.

Our first day exploring the region of Kutch was wildly successful. In the morning we called Jabbar, a master artisan who specializes in the traditional Gujarati technique of tie-and-dye. He was extremely responsive to our questions over the phone and moments later showed up at our hotel on his motorcycle. Alexander and I hopped on and were escorted back to his family home where we drank black chai and talked about his craft.

We discussed changes in consumer demand, the differences between the American, European and Indian textile markets, and how he imagined his industry changing in the future. To illustrate his words he pulled out a diverse selection of his best silk shawls, which ranged from traditional red and black designs to modern, multi-colored floral patterns. He spoke about the different methods that made his technique so respected, as well as the ways he has been able to maximize production while remaining a creative overseer. The more we talked, the more varied his job description seemed. The titles of businessman, creative director, market researcher, professional teacher, student and artisan proved equally fitting.

Following our informal interview, he showed us his dyeing headquarters in the back of his brother's home. Large copper pots boiled with natural dyes. "This is turmeric and pomegranate skin," he said, pointing to an alluring shade of lavender gray. "And this is iron-ore and berries.”

We watched as a dyer took two pieces of white material, each with countless tiny knots sectioning off almost invisible points of fabric. "It takes one part-time working woman one or two months to complete the ties on this shawl," he said, pointing to a single piece. The dyer submerged the blank cloth into the liquid color. Moments later it emerged a brilliant ochre. "This will sell well in the States," Jabbar said. "Americans like natural, duller tones."

Our second stop of the day was at a family-run shop dealing in antique textiles. We spent more than two hours talking to the shop's owner about how local crafts have changed in the last century. He showed us exquisite embroideries, most of which dated back one hundred years. We discussed the development of textile NGOs in the area, as well as his fears for the future of Indian crafts. “What happens when the NGO leaves?” he asked, rhetorically. “When you teach people to make products marketable for foreigners, they forget their traditional techniques.”

The remaining four days we spent in Bhuj were memorable for all the wrong reasons. Alexander fell extremely ill and, after twenty-four hours of no improvement, we were forced to call a local doctor. I watched horrified as he received an injection and was hooked up to an I.V. (which they hung from our florescent light!). It took days for him to fully recover and we were forced to delay our return home to Ahmedabad. Thankfully, he has not been sick since.

Dancing Nine Nights Away

2007-10-31T20:44:00.001+05:30

Alexander and I heard about Navarati the day we arrived in Ahmedabad. While touring the NID campus our guide said we should look forward to the October celebrations. “There are many festivals in Gujarat,” she said, “But I think you will enjoy Navarati the most.”

Navarati is a nine-day celebration that honors the Mother Goddess and her different forms each night. Known as the world’s longest dance festival, it is celebrated in every village, town, and city across the state of Gujarat. People of all ages congregate in the night to dance Garba, a folk dance that involves circular actions and repeating steps.

In October we witnessed the city prepare for the festivities. At dusk Law Garden’s sidewalks transformed into a glittering night market selling silver jewelry and chaniya cholis- the traditional, mirror studded Gujarati dresses worn for Navarati. Groups of young men practiced complicated dance steps on the side of the road. Local residents decorated their homes with metallic streamers and strings of lights. The lawn in the center of our apartment complex was converted into a flashing atrium complete with a shrine and garlands of marigolds.

Determined to participate as best we could, Alexander and I prepared in advance. Several NID students and Jay’s girlfriend helped us learn the basic twelve steps of Garba, which included twirls, claps and synchronized steps. Alexander purchased a khuta and a colorful duppatta. We even got our hands on some traditional pointed flats made from tooled leather.

Despite our appropriate attire and skilled moves, we were not ready for the chaos that ensued. On the first night of Navarati fifteen boys from our apartment complex knocked on our door. “What is your name?” one asked Alexander. “Please- come dance with us,” another commanded. Soon we were in the crowded courtyard, surrounded by hundreds of people. Dozens of men approached Alexander, shaking his hand and asking questions. “What country? Where you from?” Two children filled our hands with an assortment of mints and sticky hard candy.

Then two gigantic speakers started to blast the first song of the night. The bass reverberated through the entire complex as the concrete driveway transformed into a pulsing dance floor. People quickly formed a circle and started to move in rhythm to the music. Round and round we went, much to the delight of onlookers. First came the sweat, rushing down our faces and soaking our cotton outfits. Next came the ache in our lungs, as the crowd insisted we continue without taking a break. After two hours of continuous dancing, blisters started to form on the soles of our feet. Finally we called it a night, but not before saying goodbye to our countless acquaintances and the band of children.

The next night we attended Garba at NID (much to the disappointment of our neighbors). The setting was far more impressive than the homemade celebrations at our apartment. A large circular dancing ground had been cordoned off with colorful bunting on a grassy field in the corner of campus. A tall, red flame-like structure stood in the center, symbolic of the “garbha deep,” the oil lamp set in a perforated earthen pot around which people traditionally dance. A live band played Navarati tunes while a man and a woman sang the accompanying lyrics. Many of the attendants wore traditional garb. Booths selling Gujarati food and water lined the periphery. The entire event was sponsored by Airtel, a popular Indian cell phone company.

Dancing at NID was a completely different experience. The steps were more complicated, but once we memorized them, we flew! The moist grass felt so good under our bare feet. Instead of thinking about the steps, I simply listened to the loud music and let my body move on its own accord. It felt as if I was connected to the other dancers in my line, as if we had turned into a single organism. Every time I twirled I caught a glimpse of Alexander as he pranced behind me. “I felt like a Modern Dancer!” he said at the end of the night.

The ninth and final night of Navarati celebrations at NID was conducted in the dark. Each dancer was given two votive candles to place in either palm. The music started slowly. From far away the scene looked like a sea of floating candles, gently moving in rhythm to the singers’ voices. As the beat quickened, so did the movement of the dancers. They spun in small circles and took large leaps forward, making their way around the circular dance floor. The warm candlelight reflected in the small mirrors stitched onto the women’s tops and skirts. By the end of the song, it was impossible to decipher the fast-moving dancers from the mass of illuminated hands, smiling faces and sparkling outfits.

The Biggest Kid on the Block

2007-10-31T20:43:00.000+05:30

After Alexander made an appearance at the neighbors’ Navarati celebrations, he became extremely popular among the local children. “ALIX!” they yelled up to our window from the street below. Every night a group of eight or nine boys knocked on our door. “Hi Alix! Can you play with us?” they asked in unison. When I answered the door, they made no attempt to mask their disappointment. “Where is Alix? When will he be back?” they inquired. “He is tired,” I would tell them while Alexander hid in the bedroom.

After several days of harassment, Alexander caved. In a desperate attempt to end the constant knocking he consented to a game of cricket. Near noon, when the hot sun was at its peak, he put on his small tennis cap and set out for the concrete “playing field.” Hours later he returned to our flat, sweaty and dazed. “I think I played well,” he said, choking down our filtered water. It took no more than fifteen minutes before we heard a loud knock from the front room. As I expected, a small boy was waiting for me when I opened the door. “Can Alexander come play?” he asked.

The boys were not satisfied with just one game. They continue to visit us daily in the hope that their new American friend will join them for another afternoon of play. Alexander is running out of excuses.

Alexander's Sick Day

2007-10-31T20:39:00.000+05:30

Contrary to expectations, I have remained incredibly healthy since landing in India. I have survived some risky roadside food and questionable glasses of water. Unfortunately, Alexander has not been so lucky.

I blame the air in NID’s Knowledge Management Center (yes, that is a fancy word for library), which is recycled and overly air-conditioned. After several long days researching Rajasthani turbans in the KMC, Alexander complained that he felt dizzy. Hours later his fever spiked and he suffered a severe bout of indigestion. By one a.m. he was clutching our decrepit toilet and crying out that he wanted to go home. “I am done! It’s over!” I stroked his head and made him drink mineral water with a dash of sugar and lime.

It took forty-eight hours for the worst to subside. His teeth chattered with chill while his brow sweated. He was unable to sleep or eat, and could not keep the antibiotics down. It was excruciating to watch, in part because I was convinced that I would be next!

Just when I began to seriously worry, his health improved. Within a day the viral infection mysteriously transformed into a serious cold, complete with congestion and a deep cough. I am happy to say I remain in the pink.

Adjusting

2007-10-12T14:09:00.000+05:30

Today I saw a cow eating a discarded newspaper. It struck me like most things have in recent weeks: unexpected, unsettling and seemingly absurd.

Most agree that the human mind has an inherent tendency to impose order upon the chaos of its environment by classifying its contents. Without classification, knowledge of the world and the ability to live in it would be impossible. Culture is the method of classification that imposes a collectively shared cognitive order upon a world that, objectively, is totally incomprehensible.

What happens when one must adjust to a foreign culture? What happens to one’s now useless systems of meaning once used to decode her surroundings? How can one collapse her order of the world into another foreign system of classification? And what is lost in this translation?

It is impossible for me to assimilate the world I see here with the world as I know it. As I adjust to life in India, I abandon my points of reference along with an urge to classify all that I encounter. I try to process information without judgment. All that is simply is. Begging amputees, constrictive gender roles, indigent children are no longer individual moral crises. They are simply connected parts of the larger cultural system.

There is a boy who lives in the open-air courtyard beneath our flat. I estimate him to be about ten years old. It is hard to tell, however, because he is confined to a metal cot. He remains prostrate through the hottest hours of the day, feebly swatting at flies. Sometimes he pulls a thin blanket over his entire frame, giving the impression that he has disappeared.

I always look for the boy on my ascent and descent from the apartment. Yesterday I was surprised to see the cot empty, the blankets thrown aside. I glanced around for a clue to his whereabouts. Several yards away I caught sight of his emaciated frame, silhouetted by the brilliant morning light. He limped slowly, with rigid, unbending limbs like those of a scarecrow.

My first impulse is to approach his bedside, to bring him cold water or maybe a snack. I know enough Gujarati to ask him his name. “Aap kaa shubh naan kyaa hai?” I could ask. “Maru naam Amelia che.” If I wanted to engage in further conversation, I could easily ask one of my Gujarati friends to translate.

But the truth is that far more lies between this boy and me than a barrier of language. Although we live less than thirty feet apart, we occupy different worlds. I cannot begin to imagine what he is thinking during those long, lonely, humid afternoons.

Last week we visited Ahmedabad’s train station for the first time. When Jay picked us up for a late dinner, he insisted we go to the only twenty-four hour restaurant in city. We drove through the desolate roads while the radio blared Indian pop music. The streets looked eerily beautiful, like the abandoned set of a movie. Colorful wrappers littered the ground and twinkling canopies of lights were suspended overhead. With the warm breeze blowing in through our car window, it was almost possible to forget the sea of bodies that had inhabited the same spaces hours earlier. It was as if we were momentarily privy to a post-apocalyptic vision.

But the streets were far from deserted. Thousands of motionless forms lined our route. Tucked beneath blankets and lying in rows. Families huddled together in an indecipherable mass of arms and legs. As we approached the station, the density of sleeping people increased.

After parking the car, we walked to the nearby platform. Jay noticed my eyes fixating on a sleeping teenager lying in the middle of our path, her face resting directly on the filthy pavement. “It is OK,” he said, waving his hand as if to fan away the stench of the nearby bathrooms. “This is their bed. This is the real India.”

Gandhiji!

2007-10-12T14:08:00.001+05:30

October second marked the anniversary of Gandhi’s birthday. It also marked the first day that Alexander and I picked up our camera and started filming. Jay came to get us at 5:30am to attend the rally that his political party was supporting. Like the thousands of parade participants we would soon film, he wore white khadi.

Khadi is handspun, hand-woven cloth made from threads of cotton or silk. In the 1920s, Gandhi started promoting the spinning of khadi as a way to boycott the British and foreign made fabrics that had flooded the market. Khadi thus became a symbol for India’s struggle for independence and self-sufficiency.

After parking the car, Jay ran to join his political party. Hundreds of young men were waiting, green and red National Congress Party scarves around their necks. Soon after they were joined by a group of older men and senior politicians. One of Jay’s unofficial assistants helped direct Alexander and I to the action as the crowd began to surge. The men chanted as the walked “Gandhiji! Gandhiji! Gandhiji! NCP (National Congress Party)! NCP! NCP!”

In the early morning hours a transportable float festooned with garlands of flowers had been placed in one of the city’s busiest intersections. Now the men walked towards the red contraption and ascended the steps to a raised platform. They blessed a figure of Gandhi at the top. Later, the ruling party (BJP) would ascend the same steps and wash the figure in milk and water. The members of the BJP were the only people allowed to have this honor; anyone who attempted to do the same would be arrested.

Alexander filmed while I steadied his body, pointed to interesting shots, and navigated us both through the steady stream of traffic. Buses and rickshaws barreled down the streets in both directions as we nervously perched ourselves on the median. After Jay and his congregation had descended, we followed them to watch a parade. A constant stream of men dressed in white extended as far as the eye could see in two directions. Many carried large Indian flags that rippled in the morning breeze. Towards the end of the parade we saw a thin Gandhi look-a-like dressed up for the part. Using the support of a wooden stick, he walked with large strides, raising his hand as if to politely refuse the cheers that greeted him. It was a beautiful scene, both in person and on camera.

Throughout the day people responded well to the camera. Everyone we interviewed was excited to have his opinion heard. When Jay introduced us to a large group of friends, they whipped out camera phones to record our voices and take our picture. Many insisted we show clips from our footage. It felt like a more equal exchange than it has in the past.

All Noisy on the Creative Front

2007-10-12T14:07:00.001+05:30

Alexander and I live in a two-bedroom flat. One room has our bed, a clothesline, and an assortment of books. The other has been designated a sacred creative space. We have dubbed it the “sancta sanctorum.”

The sancta sanctorum is virtually empty. Thick auburn curtains adorn the windows and a hand woven purple carpet decorates the floor. We keep the door closed to prevent dust from entering.

The space is incredibly useful in our creative pursuits. After a month of research, Alexander has narrowed his project to focus on three methods of textile production. He will concentrate on one handmade craft that is disappearing (mashru or patola weaving), one craft that has modernized in order to survive changes in the market (mata ni pachedi) and one fully mechanized product. It is his hope that by looking at the individuals involved in production he will be able to address larger trends in Indian textile industries and explore aspects of global trade. The project will culminate in a three-part film, each examining one craft, and will be accompanied by a booklet that will include historical background and interviews.

In addition, Alexander and I have started a project examining Rajasthani turban design. We are both designing books. One concentrates on a single turban, looking at the details of its 20-meter design. The other considers the range of turban designs coming from Rajasthan, comparing colors, patterns and tie-and-dye methods.
Meanwhile I am continuing to grapple with the analytical importance of hope, which was central to the thesis I completed last spring. Eager to examine the dynamics of optimistic thinking in a completely new social context, my interest is in the ways youth envision their futures in India. I focus on the ideas that inform positive outlooks and consider how a shared sense of hopefulness influences attitudes towards and participation in emerging political and social projects. Depending on how much time and luck I have, I will focus on three individual youth. One will be Jay.

In our free time Alexander is teaching me design programs, we are taking pictures of the old city and breaking into a new box of watercolors. It is such so nice to be able to indulge in creative endeavors after being so constricted by our academic responsibilities in college.

Roaming in the Night

2007-10-12T14:05:00.000+05:30

Although we have made many friends since our arrival, Jay remains a fixture in our social life. He knows Ahmedabad far better than any NID students, most of who hail from other parts of India. His job in politics and penchant for socializing bring us into contact with a varied group of people. Furthermore, he is proud of his cultural heritage and committed to abiding by the traditions he has been taught. The three of us spend much of our time together explaining how we see the world, how we were brought up and the many misconceptions about our cultures.

One of Jay’s favorite things to do is to “roam in the night.” Usually this consists of a stop at the juice stand followed by an excursion into the Old City. The empty roads are lit with large streetlights that illuminate dozens of vendors selling grains, sweets, hot drinks and mouth fresheners. We often take tea on a dusty stoop and watch the people go by. We watch men make jalebi, a process that consists of pouring a thin batter into boiling oil and then drenching the translucent spirals into a vat of sweet syrup. Sometimes Jay teaches us phrases in Gujarati, urging us to engage in conversation with the friendly vendors.

I feel safe with Alexander and Jay, and also extremely lucky to witness Indian nightlife as a woman. Recently I spoke with two female foreign exchange students who told me they were warned about going into the Old City past 9am, even when they were with female friends from Ahmedabad. I think it helps that I have both a “partner” and a male local “guide.” I have yet to be bothered.

Cricket Mania

2007-10-12T14:04:00.000+05:30

Alexander and I are still shaking with fear after India won an important cricket match against Pakistan. Large mobs gathered in the streets, cheering for their country. Fireworks exploded in allies and outside stores. On my way back from a local grocer, I noticed a boy covering his ears with both hands. Alexander yanked me back as a large explosive erupted in a flurry of silver sparks and smoke. I still cannot hear properly out of my left ear.

NID students gathered in the canteen to watch the game. The cafeteria was transformed into a dark cinema. Jay called to say we should come to CG Road- one of the main roads in Ahmedabad. “You must come now if you want to be on the news for all of India,” he said, the sounds of the crowd in the background. We politely declined, taking refuge within the walls of NID as the explosions continued.

Later we would learn that Jay had stolen forty sets of keys from cars stranded in nearby traffic. He climbed atop a parked bus and demanded the entire crowd chant “We love India! We love India! We love India!” before returning the keys. We saw photographs of the event in the newspaper the following day. "It's good publicity for my [political] party,” Jay explained.

Mourning Nana

2007-10-01T15:05:00.000+05:30

My beloved grandmother died unexpectedly several days ago. I am still grappling with the tragic news. Dealing with such a significant loss is strange in a foreign place. At first I felt distanced from the trauma, as if the expanse that separates me from home translated into emotional distance. I thought that I would be able to mourn without experiencing sensual vertigo; that what I learned about attachment and death in the remote mountains of Japan would now be put to good use.

But the grief grows with each day. The realization that I will never hug her again produces a lump in my throat that makes it hard to swallow. When I shut my eyes I am flooded by memories: the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh, her glittering collection of paperweights. I remember Thanksgiving dinners, never-ending games of crazy eights, and the books she used to read aloud. Nana shared stories about growing up in Oakland, attending Pomona, marrying a WWII vet, raising two darling children, traveling the world and the many events that punctuated her ever-busy social life. It breaks my heart to think she will be no more and I am not quite ready to say good-bye.

The Nightly Tempest

2007-09-24T18:42:00.000+05:30

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.

Adventures, Continued

2007-09-24T18:40:00.000+05:30

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.

Domestic Concerns

2007-09-24T18:39:00.000+05:30

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.

The Big Move

2007-09-24T18:38:00.000+05:30

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.

Virgin Magaritas

2007-09-10T16:42:00.000+05:30

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.

Call Me

2007-09-09T21:06:00.000+05:30

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.

Things Work Out

2007-09-09T21:02:00.000+05:30

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!

Making Good Impressions

2007-09-09T21:01:00.000+05:30

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.”

Meet the Family

2007-09-09T21:00:00.000+05:30

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!”

Swimming in Potholes

2007-09-09T20:29:00.000+05:30

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.

So It Goes

2007-09-03T17:32:00.000+05:30

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.

Expect the Unexpected

2007-09-03T17:31:00.000+05:30

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.

Welcome to Ahmedabad

2007-09-03T17:30:00.002+05:30

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.

Last Day in Delhi

2007-09-03T17:30:00.001+05:30

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

2007-09-03T17:26:00.000+05:30

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.

Alive and Well

2007-09-03T17:25:00.000+05:30

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.