A Word of Advice

Having spent the Summer eating mangoes daily and constantly, there are times when I crave the succulent fruit. (Ah! To have a fresh dussehri or sapeda lakhnavi!) More often than not, I don't have the time to go down to Murray/Curry Hill and buy bottles of Maaza or Fruiti and have to spend my time dreaming of the wonderful juice.

I was in my local market today and happened upon dried mango. I bought them and brought them with me to the library. I just opened the container, had one and must say it's one of the most dreadful fruit products I've ever had. It tastes Nothing like mango.

Please, never buy them. Unless they're guaranteed to taste like the real thing.

Sincerely,

Disappointed Me

I Left You at Nizamuddin

I think about you - often, and more so these days. I think about that endearing smile of yours, part playful, part mischievous, genuine and free. About your sheer confidence and shrewdness, the latter and how it bothered me for days, but which makes me proud of you - in an odd sense of the term. It was your freedom of spirit - the term, so often misused, but apt in your case - that drew me to you, that disengaged all my apprehensions of who you are, of what you are. I still remember the old women, the one that refused to let me capture her face but whose face remains etched in my mind, and her warnings about you. How I shouldn't let you watch me, or talk to me, or help me, how your family's trade would force you to harm me and that I would regret my decisions. But I didn't listen.

I think about you and your friend - yes the other one. The one that followed you around, that hung on your every word, that didn't even talk back at you when you accused him of lying. He was slower than you, not a natural leader like you. Unbelievably sweet, but without that charisma that you possess in excess.

I think about saying bye to you and wandering into the gullies of Nizamuddin. How I didn't expect to see you again, but how you waited for me and came to me and then spoke to me. How could I have not expected it? She had told me you would. But there was a part of me that didn't believe her. That didn't want to believe her. I still remember your high-pitched voice. I still wonder whether you had been trained, or whether it was natural. I remember you tapping on my arm, being disgusted at first, but then other instincts sinking in and wanting to do anything I could for you. Of fearing for your safety, of not wanting to be accosted like that time, 10 years ago, in a distant parking lot, at another sacred place. Of telling you to be quiet and to follow me and to wait, and promising. Of getting into the rickshaw. Of you not believing me. Of seeing the hurt in your eyes. Of telling you to come to the other side of the auto and giving you the note, telling you to use it well and to be safe. Of seeing you stare at the note - in some sort of amazement - of looking up, smiling, and running away. I hope you shared with your friend. I hope you bought food. I hope they didn't take it from you, or hurt you because of it.

I hope you're ok.

I wonder if I'll ever see you again.

Khuda Hafiz Ali,

Didi.

Delhi in 18 Hours - Part 1

I was in Delhi two days ago. Having missed the entire tourist experience when I was in the city 10 years ago, I figured I'd use my 18 hour long stop-over in the city (en route to Amritsar from Lucknow) to take in the sights. Being the Mirza Ghalib fan that I am, I decided that his mazaar, along with Nizamuddin Auliya's dargah and the tomb of Aamir Khusrao were on the top of my list. After a quick breakfast of wonderful sandwiches and cold coffee in Jangpura Extension, a trip to the ever-wonderful and oh-so-NRI Khan Market (where I saw some gorgeous Jamini Roy paintings), I hailed an auto and went to Nizamuddin with a friend.

We went through the narrow alleyways and happened on the Ghalib Academy. I'd been looking for it, but had decided I'd wander around and hope to find it, rather than actually ask someone for directions. We went in and I was immediately shocked with how nonchalant everyone was. It was as if they didn't care at all about Mirza-sahab (which they probably didn't), and were just there to earn some money.

Hue mar ke hum jo rusvaa hue kyon na garq-e-darya,
Na kabhi janaaza uthtaa, na kahin mazaar hota.

Immediately upon entering the Ghalib Academy, I was greeted by a stack of books - arranged helter-skelter of course - on a wide variety of subjects. A book of ghazals by Qateel Shifai caught my eye, and I started going through the book, in the hope of finding the words to a beautiful ghazal sang by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan.

Hum apni shaam ko jab nazar-e-jaam karte hain,
Adab se hum ko sitaarein salaam karte hain.

As I was flipping through the book, a random guy came up to me and asked me what I was looking for. I told him that I was looking for a Qateel ghazal. He responded that he had no idea what I was talking about and that I should buy the Kulliat-e-Iqbal. My entire exchange with him weirded me out. He tried forcing me to buy an English translation, to which I responded that I knew Urdu and how to read the language. He either didn't believe me, or really wanted me to buy the English version, and kept on repeating that I should buy it. To which I, in a frustrated manner, responded that I already had the Urdu Kulliat-e-Iqbal and wasn't going to buy the English version. I then demanded to see the other books, and was taken first to the library (which was full of old Muslim men, who stared in shock when a girl walked into the library) and then to the little museum on the top floor.

The museum was interesting enough. There were some curios from Ghalib's lifetime, paintings of famous poets, paintings of Ghalib, some of his letters, stuff like that. It also looked as if it was kept shut most of the time. It was disappointing to say the list. Annoyed, I got out of there as soon as I could, and went looking for his mazaar.

NB: I was in Delhi on the 13/14th of July.

SarZameen-e-Avadh

Lucknow is beautiful - the streets, the people, the air, the light, the food. I think I'm in love with this city already, and it's only been 4 weeks. My housemates and I wandered around and got lost in Chowk this past weekend. It was amazing. Here are some pictures from our wanderings...

The Great Indian Stare

Ever watched Russel Peters? He has this fantastic one about how all Indians, well desis in general, will stop and stare at other desis on the street, as if in amazement that others exist. We, apparently, haven't got it into our heads that there are actually more than a billion of us on this planet. I fall prey to this constantly, and I know for a fact that other desis do this too.

Anyway. I never really understand why we do it. Having only been here for a couple days, I still haven't figured it out. That being said, today I was subjected to the Great Indian Stare multiplied by 300. I was one of the first to get off the last bus heading to our plane. I walked up the stairs, went into the plane and turned right to walk down the aisle, towards my seat. And all I saw were 150 pairs of male eyes staring at me as if I'd just gotten off a UFO. It was unnerving, but all I could think of was Russel and how he would have loved to be in my position. Laughing, well trying to hide my laughter, I headed to my seat and sat down.

In Vino Veritas - Or Something Like That

I'm currently sitting on the seat of the toilet in my bathroom at the Taj Palace Hotel, New Delhi. Random place to sit and blog - I know. Usually, people sit with the lid up, but that's not my style. I'm sitting like this because I called my language program director last night to ask what time we were heading to the airport for our flight to Lucknow and he told me to be in the lobby by 4:45am. So, the insomniac that I am, I went to bed at midnight and was up by 3:15am (although, I had actually wanted to be up at 4:10am). I finished packing, woke up my roommate in the process (who has to leave the hotel at 7am) and opened the door to take my luggage downstairs. For some random reason, which I can no  longer remember (probably to check the time, because I can't read the time on my analog watch), I looked at my phone. There was a text message from Khan-sahab telling me that we were now meeting in the lobby at 6am. I thought about going back to sleep, but given my fear of being late and knowing that all I'd do is toss and turn, I decided to turn on my laptop. I didn't want to wake-up my roommate again, so decided that the quietest place to type from would be the bathroom.

Yesterday was a pretty awesome day. I was up at 5:45am and then HK (my roommate) and I headed down to breakfast at 7am. We had our language orientation right after breakfast and I got to meet a bunch of the people learning Urdu in Lucknow. Afterwards, I came back to the hotel, made a fool of myself in front of the WiFi help desk (I couldn't figure out why my internet wasn't working - turns out I was putting my room number in the last name box and vice-versa), and relaxed until a friend of mine showed up. We went for coffee in the tea place downstairs and I had this absolutely fantastic "Istanbul coffee." I thought it would be thick, like Turkish coffee, but, instead, it had cardamom powder in it. The server was really sweet and, when we were leaving, came up to me to ask how I had liked the coffee. I replied that it was fantastic and that I had loved the cardamom touch. She was ecstatic and was like, 'Ma'am, can I ask you a question? You're Indian right?' I smiled, and said 'yes.' (Sorry Shalimar and Yogi).

Anyway, so after exchanging some money, which was an experience (good) in itself, my friend and I headed to Hauz Khas. It was so cool! I had no idea there was a mini-lake/reservoir in the middle of the city, and was totally amazed by the greenery. We wandered through the ruins and park near Hauz Khas village, saw Tughlaq's tomb (we think...), and then headed back to the village for dinner/drinks. The place we went to was pretty 'funky,' and it totally didn't feel as if I was in Delhi. As I said to my friend, it could have been in the middle of NYC (the Central Park-esque feeling that I got from the reservoir area totally helped). Anyway, so we decided to try out an Indian wine. I had heard pretty good things about Indian wines and neither of us had tried any. I ordered the Zinfandel. I think his was a Cabernet Shiraz. Anyway. Getting to the point. Our wine arrived and I took my first sip, expecting something good. It was disgusting.

The wine was way too warm, was really acidic, and had a horrible taste that was nothing like Zinfandel. I was mad. One thing I hate, apart from bad service (that's what you get when you grow up in a family that's in the hospitality business - high expectations), is bad food/wine (that's what you get when you grow up in a family that is famous in your community for its great cooks). I debated whether or not to call the waiter and snap at him, or to shut up and share my friend's glass of wine, which according to him wasn't that bad (until he got his whiskey - and then he admitted that his wine had been quite crappy as well). I decided to call the waiter...

He arrived. "Yes ma'am?" The poor guy. I told him off in Hindi and told him the wine was horrible and they had no business serving wine if they didn't know how to serve it, and what temperature to serve it at. He responded, "but ma'am, we can't refrigerate the wine." To which I responded that it didn't matter and that they had to store it properly, otherwise it would turn into shit-wine (which it had). Anyway, he talked to his manager, and they agreed to change our drinks. The Kingfisher was much better.

What was great about the entire exchange though was how it all happened in Hindi and how, by the end of it, the guy was convinced that I was a 'native.' Given the ease with which people here can tell that you're not really one of them, I was surprised and delighted.

Hello Motherland – It’s Been A While:

11 June 2010 - 11:19am

It’s the season before the monsoons, and like the lovers of yore I have returned after a ten-year long viraha. It doesn’t seem like I’d ever left. It doesn’t seem as if I’m in a different country. Surprisingly, it feels completely natural: from the lota usage in the morning (although, some things are easier to do with a lota than others – and I’ve never used a lota before this morning), to aunty’s aloo paratha with makhan and chai, to the cold shower, to sitting on the bed in the 35 degree Celsius heat with the fan humming.

Hello Ghaziabad/Delhi.

I arrived at the airport after a 24-hour journey at 1:45am. By the time I got through customs, which took longer than it should have because of my customary post-airplane washroom break, and got my luggage it was 2:40am. I had to wait for a friend to come pick me up, so I sat in the arrivals lounge and wrote in my travel journal. By the way – these posts will be quite different from the journal, for obvious reasons, but will draw from my journal entries as needed. Anyway, my friend showed up at 3am, and after a scare that involved me thinking my suitcase had been stolen, we headed to his house in Ghaziabad. It was a pretty cool journey. Imagine Delhi at 3am, completely quiet except for truckers on the road. I saw this one truck full of small red potatoes, another full of chickens. I’ve never seen a live chicken before. Now I’ve seen hundreds. Poor chickens. They were all squashed up in tiny cages. Their bills, is that what you call them? The flappy thingies. I’ll call them bills – you can see how ignorant I am about poultry – anyway, the bills were this bright red colour. Well, they looked bright red in the hazey darkness.

Once we got to his house, he showed me to the room and I went to sleep – or at least tried to. I started freaking out because I saw a mosquito in the room (more on my mosquito hate/love relationship later). It was also really hot, so he turned on the A/C and the fan. I tried going to sleep, but couldn’t. I can’t sleep in noise, or light, or heat. Looks like I won’t be getting much sleep while I’m here…

Anyway. So after about an hour of trying to sleep with the A/C and fan on, I turned them both off – and woke up, sweating (because I also can’t sleep without a blanket) at 6am. I had to go to the washroom, so I went – and then decided to turn on the fan (even though I have this fear of fans falling on me while I’m asleep – I’m weird. Yes. I know). I went back to sleep and was woken up by my father texting me at 9am and aunty ringing the bell as she did her morning pooja on the landing outside my room. I brushed my teeth, ate aunty’s wonderful aloo parathas with butter and had a really amazing cold shower. Having grown up in V-city, where it’s cold and rarely over 27 degrees Celsius, I’d never experienced the amazing-ness of cold showers in the heat. Oh. They are simply amazing. Culture shock? Not really. Cultural amazement? Yes.

Before I finish up this disjointed and somewhat random post, one last thing. As a Canadian, I have this thing about following ‘the law,’ or ‘the rules.’ We Canadians do it a bit much, I think. But anyway, it’s ingrained in our systems. I was leaving the airport and had some things to declare. I didn’t really want to, because the monetary amount was significantly less than the maximum and because I didn’t feel like dealing with Indian bureaucracy as soon as I had landed (and while I was still semi-groggy from sleeping on the plane). I asked one of the airport ‘officials’ – this really friendly-looking 20-something year old lady- whether I had to actually go through ‘customs’. She looked at me, smiled and sort of laughed. Her answer was fascinating. She said,

Why do you want to trouble yourself? Don’t go through it. If they want to stop you, they’ll stop you. Otherwise, why take the risk of having to deal with them? Just go through the ‘nothing to declare’ line.

It made sense, and Canadian passport in hand, I went through the ‘nothing to declare’ line, handed the official (a lady in one of those khakee saris) my declaration form, saw her put it into the pile without even glancing at it to make sure it had been filled in, and walked through the doors into the arrival lounge.

Juicy, Juicy Mangoes

11 June 2010 - 11:40pm

Today I had my first Indian mango (in India).

That's all

An Indian Summer

As I said in my last post, I'll be blogging - or at least trying to blog - from India. I'm not sure what my internet connection will be like, so I'll be posting multiple entries at the same time. That being said, I'll also write down when I wrote the post - for your sake and mine, of course.

Right. Scroll upwards to read the first one.

Cheers from Delhi,

N