*it's 6:45 pm New Delhi time, Friday December 21st, 2007
*I've just come from swimming in the ocean, the Arabian sea: like a few days ago, the water is bathwater today. No one on the beach, with the exception of a few other guests from this resort. Two hotel guards sit by the edge of the palms, watching the after-sunset. The moon is nearly full tonight, and the colors are purple, blue and grey as the light lowers and lowers. The whole Western sky (looking out over the sea) is a giant mass of clouds; sort of an anvil shape. There are fishing canoes in the distance to the left and the right, but I am the only one left swimming. I find myself thinking, 'this is goodbye... It's quiet and I'm on the shore, looking West.' How (overly) appropriate.
*Our resort is decked-out in Christmas decor: oversized silver bells hang from the pillars and eves; pine-wreaths, garlands, and hanging balls have been placed, especially in the lobby and common area; giant paper stars lit from within by small electric lights are hung between different pairs of palm trees on the sweeping lawn; around the campus, Christmas lights have been strung along all the prominent angles and edges, and dipped from small Kerala trees. Here in the lobby (where I'm using typing) there is a small, artificial Christmas tree complete with ornaments, and presents beneath. Christmas carols are played softely over the P.A., a selection of songs that mention the lord's name more than I've ever heard.
*Today I spent a while talking with a young Londoner, here at the resort with his two sisters and parents. They're all on holiday, but after new years his family will leave, and he'll be traveling in India for the duration of his six-month visa. He's 26, a graduate with a B.A. in biology. He picked my brain a little about my time in India. He's just coming, and I'm just leaving.
I can't believe I'm about to leave. It started to really sink in for the first time when I was swimming--now around 30 minutes ago. Right now, I'm of so many minds. ["Jesus come into my heart, promise to never depart," sings an eight year old soprano. "Forgive me for all I've done wrong...!] I can't wait to be home, but I'm not sure I'm ready for this to be over. This may sound grim, but I think the hardest part about being truly happy is knowing that it will not last forever. I don't expect it to, nor should it. But I like who I am right now; and I think part of who I am right now, is in India.
It is time to go home now: quite simply, the tickets have been purchased--the plans have been made. But also, I think it's time to go home. That's where the next challenge is, inshallah. And I can't wait.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
India, at the 11th hour.
Well, I can hardly believe it, but this show is nearly over. Semester wrapped up about a week and a half ago, and now mom and I are nearing the end of our little India tour. It's been terrific to have her hear, and we've been having a very nice time. Now I'm writing from a little internet cafe in the mountain town of Kumily, Kerala--in the southern portion of India. It's rainy and misty--it has been since we got here yesterday--but somehow that fits well with being in this lush jungle-ecosystem. Kerala is the spice-capital of India, and the country's main exporter of pepper and cardamon. We've been seeing the plantations, which are wonderful, and took an elephant ride this morning. This afternoon, we head out for a tour of the Periyar animal preserve, and hope to see some little creatures despite the constant rain. Hope everyone stateside (and otherwise) is doing well, and feeling nice as the crazy season kicks into high-gear. I'll be flying home at 1:00 am (Delhi time) on December 23, and arriving at JFK sometime in the evening of that same date. It's hard to believe! And mostly, I can't wait to see anyone who I see!
All the best, and signing off.
-Nick
All the best, and signing off.
-Nick
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Bikaner House
Had a lovely taste of Indian bureaucracy this afternoon. I needed to buy my bus ticket and book a couple nights at the state hotel in Nathdwara, so I took a rickshaw to India Gate, where many of the government offices are. I had made this same mission less than a week ago with Kylie, when I was planning to depart for N. on Sunday, so I already knew the hassle of getting down there and dealing with these jokers.
First I went to the bus ticket office, which is adjacent to Bikaner House--the Delhi headquarters of the Rajasthan Tourism department. The small concrete building was even fuller today than last time. I found my spot in the reservations line and settled in for a long, sweaty wait with everyone else. India seems to have less of a culture of lines than the U.S.; today, every third person first came to the front of the queue to scope out the scene and ask some questions of the cashier, before finding their spot in the back.
About halfway through this experience, a portly albino--wearing brown, flesh-colored makeup on the front of his head--planted himself to my left, at a closed window. Soon he was jamming his hand and slip through the plexi-glass opening, across the divide, towards the cashier helping my line, reservations. When the cashier attended to the albino next, rather than the person whose turn it was, I wasn't surprised. When you deal with a scene like this 40 hrs. a week in an un-airconditioned office, I imagine your sense of propriety adjusts to the strain. I tapped the albino on the shoulder and gave him a questioning look. He responded with a vigorous, smiling monologue that I decided was convincing enough, even though it was in Hindi and totally beyond my comprehension. I shrugged and waggled my head and the man to my right, whose turn it was supposed to be, gave me a reassuring grin.
Around this time, the lady in line behind me became more urgent. A squat yet formidable middle-aged woman, she began gently pushing me forward, demonstrating her conviction that the closer we all were to the window, the better our chances of getting served. I felt her pressure against my back periodically for the rest of the time until I was talking to the cashier.
When I finished with the ticket buying business, I walked over to Bikaner house. Last week, Kylie and I found the large building in the midst of a complete renovation and today the scene was no different. I worked my way around tired workers, bamboo ladders, wet paint and open circuitry to the staircase and second floor. The fun thing about booking a hotel room with the Rajasthan tourism office is that it is a three-stage process. In the outer office, two weary clerks sat behind desks trying to hear above the din of circular saws and yelling from the first floor. Here, I completed stage one: you tell the man where you want to stay, and then he gives you the form on which you write all the information yourself. In stage two, you go to the inner office where a second clerk reads the form you filled out and calls the actual hotel to make the reservation. The progress made in stage two is recorded with an illegible scribble drawn on the form. Finally, in stage three you return to the outer office, give the slip back to the first clerk, and pay him the amount owed.
I was packing up my things, having completed all three stages, when I asked the first clerk about the availability of non-state hotel rooms in Rajasthan. It was impossible to hear over the circular saw--which seemed to have gotten closer during stage two--so I kept raising my voice. Amazingly, every time I increased my volume the circular saw increased its RPMs to drown me out. After a minute of this game, the clerk--who had been leaning closer and closer to me across his desk--sat back again, folded his arms, and said: "I'm sorry, I just can't hear you," with a finality that led me to believe that my question could not be answered at all, at least not today. At which point the circular saw cut out completely, I repeated my question for the fourth time, and the man answered it concisely.
First I went to the bus ticket office, which is adjacent to Bikaner House--the Delhi headquarters of the Rajasthan Tourism department. The small concrete building was even fuller today than last time. I found my spot in the reservations line and settled in for a long, sweaty wait with everyone else. India seems to have less of a culture of lines than the U.S.; today, every third person first came to the front of the queue to scope out the scene and ask some questions of the cashier, before finding their spot in the back.
About halfway through this experience, a portly albino--wearing brown, flesh-colored makeup on the front of his head--planted himself to my left, at a closed window. Soon he was jamming his hand and slip through the plexi-glass opening, across the divide, towards the cashier helping my line, reservations. When the cashier attended to the albino next, rather than the person whose turn it was, I wasn't surprised. When you deal with a scene like this 40 hrs. a week in an un-airconditioned office, I imagine your sense of propriety adjusts to the strain. I tapped the albino on the shoulder and gave him a questioning look. He responded with a vigorous, smiling monologue that I decided was convincing enough, even though it was in Hindi and totally beyond my comprehension. I shrugged and waggled my head and the man to my right, whose turn it was supposed to be, gave me a reassuring grin.
Around this time, the lady in line behind me became more urgent. A squat yet formidable middle-aged woman, she began gently pushing me forward, demonstrating her conviction that the closer we all were to the window, the better our chances of getting served. I felt her pressure against my back periodically for the rest of the time until I was talking to the cashier.
When I finished with the ticket buying business, I walked over to Bikaner house. Last week, Kylie and I found the large building in the midst of a complete renovation and today the scene was no different. I worked my way around tired workers, bamboo ladders, wet paint and open circuitry to the staircase and second floor. The fun thing about booking a hotel room with the Rajasthan tourism office is that it is a three-stage process. In the outer office, two weary clerks sat behind desks trying to hear above the din of circular saws and yelling from the first floor. Here, I completed stage one: you tell the man where you want to stay, and then he gives you the form on which you write all the information yourself. In stage two, you go to the inner office where a second clerk reads the form you filled out and calls the actual hotel to make the reservation. The progress made in stage two is recorded with an illegible scribble drawn on the form. Finally, in stage three you return to the outer office, give the slip back to the first clerk, and pay him the amount owed.
I was packing up my things, having completed all three stages, when I asked the first clerk about the availability of non-state hotel rooms in Rajasthan. It was impossible to hear over the circular saw--which seemed to have gotten closer during stage two--so I kept raising my voice. Amazingly, every time I increased my volume the circular saw increased its RPMs to drown me out. After a minute of this game, the clerk--who had been leaning closer and closer to me across his desk--sat back again, folded his arms, and said: "I'm sorry, I just can't hear you," with a finality that led me to believe that my question could not be answered at all, at least not today. At which point the circular saw cut out completely, I repeated my question for the fourth time, and the man answered it concisely.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
I'm So Adult!
[Well, it's been a while since I've updated here, and I feel a minor obligation to do so—at least for the sake of posterity, in lieu of actual readership. In fact, I wrote a long post around five days ago which I never put up. It was all about the end of regular classes, the beginning of ISP, endings/beginnings generally, and the distant-eyed thinking a time like this encourages. It’s hard to write about these things without being self-indulgent: without using those tired descriptions of emotion; and without pontificating like an early-twenties college student, who’s received too much positive feedback over the years from English teachers. In other words, the trick is to not sound like Jane Eyre. With apologies to Charlotte Bronte, here is my attempt.]
According to a timeline finalized months ago, the first part of our program officially ended with the last day of class on Friday. Here is my epilogue.
During the past two months, my life has felt truly ‘epic.’ The location, design and conditions of the program, explain this feeling easily enough. Yet, besides the obvious (i.e., being in India), there is also the fact of being put together with 16 other students, 16 strangers, who I quickly recognized as the only source of continuity from my life prior to August 29th—not because I knew them specifically, but just because they were U.S. college students. In this city of New Delhi, those three descriptors alone (nationality, age, and occupation) separate our group of 17 from 13 million others.
I’ve written a lot about how good the social thing has been. The group is remarkably compatible and close; even the tensions and personality conflicts are handled graciously. So, I guess it makes sense that, interpersonally, things have continued to grow deeper, more complex, and intense—in different combinations. I might have written this previously, but the group stuff reminds me somewhat of summer camp: in the course of weeks, you move thru stages of relationships that normally take months, or longer. All of which is to make the point that, to me at least, the social aspect of this program has been ‘epic’ in its own right.
The transition from the classes portion of our semester to the ISP period came and went uneventfully. Sunday marked the official start of ISP, and it’s now late Tuesday night. There were some casual goodbyes and half-hearted celebrations towards the end of last week, but mostly people seemed to mark the change privately. I saw a number of goodbyes where I was really struck by the tone; to me, they seemed uninterested and barely felt. Bear in mind, these are the same people whose social interest, whose joy in each other’s company, has sometimes approached mania. So, I was struck. But tonight, in hindsight, it is making more sense to me.
One of the things I see ( and appreciate) in much of the group, is an attitude of self-reliance. I think now, and on the eve of ISP, people are almost totally consumed with what’s ahead. And what’s ahead is even more dramatic than what’s behind. Now, we’re going out alone to some spot in India, to conduct research of our own design, and to manage every aspect of this endeavor—timeline, budget, transportation, lodging, and the research itself. Crikey! If this program weren’t ending when it is, a year from now I’d probably be writing a term paper on the orphanage I started in Varanassi. In fact, I feel very challenged by this all, but in some exciting and pleasant ways.
(sing-song voice, ala Bart Simpson) “… I am so smart! I am so great! I turn adversity into something positive! I’m so adult!…”
Anyway, wrapping up. I’ve been staying at the program center since Sunday afternoon, now that the homestay period is officially over. I’m taking a few days here in Delhi to finish the first stage of my book research, so that I have plenty of context and background material before arriving in Nathadwara. It’s been extremely comfortable, albeit surreal, boarding at the center. The two smaller classrooms, which were used for Hindi sections, are also guestrooms for our program. I’m in one of these and it’s been great. I have tons of space, a big desk, a hot shower, quiet, good light, and my stuff is spread out everywhere. There is wireless internet access here 24/7, and a full-time staff who clean and cook meals for whoever happens to be around. Finally, there is Choti Billi (“little cat”), who is a tiny, black, male kitten, which the center got a few weeks ago. He is terrific, and usually a complete fireball. He’s slept with me for the past two nights, waking every so often to nibble at my side. Right now, he’s asleep on my lap as I type. So, conditions are pretty ideal, and I’ve been able to get a lot done on my book research.
I leave via overnight bus for Nathadwara village in less than two days, and it blows my mind. I’m going to wake up in this remote, holy city in the southern portion of Rajasthan, in the middle of the desert. And I may ask myself, well, how did I get here? And I may ask myself, how do I work this? (But I probably won’t ask myself about houses, wives, or large automobiles, unless something unforeseeable happens).
According to a timeline finalized months ago, the first part of our program officially ended with the last day of class on Friday. Here is my epilogue.
During the past two months, my life has felt truly ‘epic.’ The location, design and conditions of the program, explain this feeling easily enough. Yet, besides the obvious (i.e., being in India), there is also the fact of being put together with 16 other students, 16 strangers, who I quickly recognized as the only source of continuity from my life prior to August 29th—not because I knew them specifically, but just because they were U.S. college students. In this city of New Delhi, those three descriptors alone (nationality, age, and occupation) separate our group of 17 from 13 million others.
I’ve written a lot about how good the social thing has been. The group is remarkably compatible and close; even the tensions and personality conflicts are handled graciously. So, I guess it makes sense that, interpersonally, things have continued to grow deeper, more complex, and intense—in different combinations. I might have written this previously, but the group stuff reminds me somewhat of summer camp: in the course of weeks, you move thru stages of relationships that normally take months, or longer. All of which is to make the point that, to me at least, the social aspect of this program has been ‘epic’ in its own right.
The transition from the classes portion of our semester to the ISP period came and went uneventfully. Sunday marked the official start of ISP, and it’s now late Tuesday night. There were some casual goodbyes and half-hearted celebrations towards the end of last week, but mostly people seemed to mark the change privately. I saw a number of goodbyes where I was really struck by the tone; to me, they seemed uninterested and barely felt. Bear in mind, these are the same people whose social interest, whose joy in each other’s company, has sometimes approached mania. So, I was struck. But tonight, in hindsight, it is making more sense to me.
One of the things I see ( and appreciate) in much of the group, is an attitude of self-reliance. I think now, and on the eve of ISP, people are almost totally consumed with what’s ahead. And what’s ahead is even more dramatic than what’s behind. Now, we’re going out alone to some spot in India, to conduct research of our own design, and to manage every aspect of this endeavor—timeline, budget, transportation, lodging, and the research itself. Crikey! If this program weren’t ending when it is, a year from now I’d probably be writing a term paper on the orphanage I started in Varanassi. In fact, I feel very challenged by this all, but in some exciting and pleasant ways.
(sing-song voice, ala Bart Simpson) “… I am so smart! I am so great! I turn adversity into something positive! I’m so adult!…”
Anyway, wrapping up. I’ve been staying at the program center since Sunday afternoon, now that the homestay period is officially over. I’m taking a few days here in Delhi to finish the first stage of my book research, so that I have plenty of context and background material before arriving in Nathadwara. It’s been extremely comfortable, albeit surreal, boarding at the center. The two smaller classrooms, which were used for Hindi sections, are also guestrooms for our program. I’m in one of these and it’s been great. I have tons of space, a big desk, a hot shower, quiet, good light, and my stuff is spread out everywhere. There is wireless internet access here 24/7, and a full-time staff who clean and cook meals for whoever happens to be around. Finally, there is Choti Billi (“little cat”), who is a tiny, black, male kitten, which the center got a few weeks ago. He is terrific, and usually a complete fireball. He’s slept with me for the past two nights, waking every so often to nibble at my side. Right now, he’s asleep on my lap as I type. So, conditions are pretty ideal, and I’ve been able to get a lot done on my book research.
I leave via overnight bus for Nathadwara village in less than two days, and it blows my mind. I’m going to wake up in this remote, holy city in the southern portion of Rajasthan, in the middle of the desert. And I may ask myself, well, how did I get here? And I may ask myself, how do I work this? (But I probably won’t ask myself about houses, wives, or large automobiles, unless something unforeseeable happens).
Thursday, October 25, 2007
C.R. Park, Kalka Ji
I've been taking long walks in our neighborhood, C.R. Park, and the adjacent neighborhood, Kalka ji. A few days ago, I went out in the late afternoon with my camera.
A few blocks from our flat, a man stuffs giant burlap sacks--with what, I don't know. C.R. Park.
Store front, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
It's not too special to see a cow standing in the median, but I can't help myself.
Besides, this cow has class.
This man is selling garlands. In Delhi, you are never far from a street-side barber, shoeshine, ironing person (Dhobie), fruit stand, roasted corn-on-the-c0b cart, or seller of garlands.
Kalka Ji.
Eggs, peanuts, or chew, Kalka Ji.
A fabric vendor loads his bike, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
More of the giant burlap sack trade, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
Kids play in an auto-rickshaw, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
Bike mechanics, Kalka Ji.
Bicycle repair shop, Kalka Ji.
These four kept asking me to take their photo. Every time, the boy in the center tried to keep the girl in red out of frame.
Cow and scooters, Kalka Ji.
Men and boys, Kalka Ji.
A few blocks from our flat, a man stuffs giant burlap sacks--with what, I don't know. C.R. Park.
Store front, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
It's not too special to see a cow standing in the median, but I can't help myself.
Besides, this cow has class.
This man is selling garlands. In Delhi, you are never far from a street-side barber, shoeshine, ironing person (Dhobie), fruit stand, roasted corn-on-the-c0b cart, or seller of garlands.
Kalka Ji.
Eggs, peanuts, or chew, Kalka Ji.
A fabric vendor loads his bike, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
More of the giant burlap sack trade, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
Kids play in an auto-rickshaw, Kalka Ji.
Kalka Ji.
Bike mechanics, Kalka Ji.
Bicycle repair shop, Kalka Ji.
These four kept asking me to take their photo. Every time, the boy in the center tried to keep the girl in red out of frame.
Cow and scooters, Kalka Ji.
Men and boys, Kalka Ji.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
draft draft draft
Alone in her office a few weeks ago, I said to Storm-Ji that it was somewhat unhinging: coming to India prepared for a wonderful, and "life-changing" experience, and then being made aware of my own issues... at least some of them. That may not be Irony, but it is backwards.
I always think that I understand myself, and my life. What is more, I always feel that I've reached a nice point on that road-of-personal-growth, where I can finally stop or at least slow down. Storm-Ji, (as usual?), was not surprised to hear what I was saying, and nodded knowingly [even if this is sleight-of-hand on her part, it's damn effective]. What I'm saying is true, though. You're 22 and you think you've gone thru a number of challenging things, and then you continue to be challenged. And it's challenging.
I think study abroad programs like this one are a bit of a pressure cooker. Storm-ji said during orientation that by the end of the program we'd all know each other better than anyone else. In a way I think she is right. It's like a constant, collective microscope that we're all under: I have been seen in every activity, every time of day, every mood. And coming back to the point, there is nothing like being called-out on something that really touches a nerve.
What happened was this: today, Kylie, Katherine, Connie and I went out for coffee after our Matubani painting class. A little while in, we got to talking about Storm-Ji, and her alleged tendency to pick favorites. At which point, Kylie made a comment that she's made before. To me, she says, "it bothers me so much that you turn in every assignment late." She said this in that ambiguous smiling way, where a serious criticism is poorly disguised as wit. I became defensive, explaining that I had only turned in some assignments late; that I had spend a total of 7 days in the hospital; that I had totally changed my ISP topic; and that I had never asked for, or expected an extension. Afterwards, once Katherine and Connie had found rickshaws home, Kylie and I had it out privately... a real quality fight! [It seems we each had our own reasons for being mad at the other, and, to be honest, almost all of it was my fault.]
And to be honest again, that last part--about not expecting an extension--isn't totally true. Storm-Ji clearly likes me a lot; it seems like everything I say in class is met with her approval; when I worriedly told her that I thought I needed to turn in my revised second draft proposal late, she told me not to sweat it. Ultimately, I turned it in even later than I said I would, and when I got it back yesterday, she had given me an 'A' with no points taken off. I clearly receive preferential treatment, and clearly part of me thinks I deserve it, which is totally embarrassing.
It's upsetting to be called out on something that you don't like about yourself. Worse, to be suddenly aware that other people can see it--people you like and trust. I can't handle criticism like that. Not in a group setting, not in a back-handed way. And I think Kylie was wrong to do it. But she was also right. I have turned in almost everything late; I've taken my unspoken extensions further than I rightfully should have; and there have been no consequences. There probably won't be.
On the one hand, I think I've been working really hard and doing high quality work. But I should also learn to do things on time, to finish my projects on time. I should hold myself to that standard, even if Storm-Ji doesn't. And getting away with things should not be good enough.
I always think that I understand myself, and my life. What is more, I always feel that I've reached a nice point on that road-of-personal-growth, where I can finally stop or at least slow down. Storm-Ji, (as usual?), was not surprised to hear what I was saying, and nodded knowingly [even if this is sleight-of-hand on her part, it's damn effective]. What I'm saying is true, though. You're 22 and you think you've gone thru a number of challenging things, and then you continue to be challenged. And it's challenging.
I think study abroad programs like this one are a bit of a pressure cooker. Storm-ji said during orientation that by the end of the program we'd all know each other better than anyone else. In a way I think she is right. It's like a constant, collective microscope that we're all under: I have been seen in every activity, every time of day, every mood. And coming back to the point, there is nothing like being called-out on something that really touches a nerve.
What happened was this: today, Kylie, Katherine, Connie and I went out for coffee after our Matubani painting class. A little while in, we got to talking about Storm-Ji, and her alleged tendency to pick favorites. At which point, Kylie made a comment that she's made before. To me, she says, "it bothers me so much that you turn in every assignment late." She said this in that ambiguous smiling way, where a serious criticism is poorly disguised as wit. I became defensive, explaining that I had only turned in some assignments late; that I had spend a total of 7 days in the hospital; that I had totally changed my ISP topic; and that I had never asked for, or expected an extension. Afterwards, once Katherine and Connie had found rickshaws home, Kylie and I had it out privately... a real quality fight! [It seems we each had our own reasons for being mad at the other, and, to be honest, almost all of it was my fault.]
And to be honest again, that last part--about not expecting an extension--isn't totally true. Storm-Ji clearly likes me a lot; it seems like everything I say in class is met with her approval; when I worriedly told her that I thought I needed to turn in my revised second draft proposal late, she told me not to sweat it. Ultimately, I turned it in even later than I said I would, and when I got it back yesterday, she had given me an 'A' with no points taken off. I clearly receive preferential treatment, and clearly part of me thinks I deserve it, which is totally embarrassing.
It's upsetting to be called out on something that you don't like about yourself. Worse, to be suddenly aware that other people can see it--people you like and trust. I can't handle criticism like that. Not in a group setting, not in a back-handed way. And I think Kylie was wrong to do it. But she was also right. I have turned in almost everything late; I've taken my unspoken extensions further than I rightfully should have; and there have been no consequences. There probably won't be.
On the one hand, I think I've been working really hard and doing high quality work. But I should also learn to do things on time, to finish my projects on time. I should hold myself to that standard, even if Storm-Ji doesn't. And getting away with things should not be good enough.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Dussehra
I’m in the basement now, but I just came down from the rooftop, having reluctantly pulled myself away to continue working. Today/tonight is Düssehra (sic), the celebration immediately after Navaratri. The latter is the Hindu celebration of The Goddess (Durga). Bengalis go the craziest for Navaratri, while for most Hindus Dewali is the major festival of this season; people call Dewali “Indian Christmas.” Some background: for two weeks now, James, Nick and I have been living at our new homestay in C.R. Park C.R. Park Delhi
The Durga Pujas are the neighborhood holy celebrations. There are 20 inC.R. Park India
The three of us (four, when Parker joins) have been going around our little village for the past few nights and trying to take it all in. Last night was the wildest. In market 2, which is the one closest to our flat, thousands of people moved and stood on the main drag—eating, waiting in line, and just being there. We ate dinner at a small street-side carry-out joint, and Nick remarked that the scene looked like a cross between Christmas, the county fair, and perhaps some third, unknown ingredient. Looking out and walking around, it was pure stimulation. The kind of overload where your senses of depth, scale and movement all seem compromised. For a while I felt like I was watching something in miniature.
Tonight, I’m at Shantinu’s alone because James and Nick have gone out to see a play. I was walking thru the living room on my way to the basement, when I stopped to explain to Aunti-ji (Shantinu’s mother) that the other two wouldn’t be eating in tonight. She was watching something on TV, a news network’s live coverage of what seemed to be giant effigies burning in different parts of town. We’ve all been having a lot of, “wow, we’re inIndia India
In the shadowy-glow ofDelhi Cairo
The Durga Pujas are the neighborhood holy celebrations. There are 20 in
The three of us (four, when Parker joins) have been going around our little village for the past few nights and trying to take it all in. Last night was the wildest. In market 2, which is the one closest to our flat, thousands of people moved and stood on the main drag—eating, waiting in line, and just being there. We ate dinner at a small street-side carry-out joint, and Nick remarked that the scene looked like a cross between Christmas, the county fair, and perhaps some third, unknown ingredient. Looking out and walking around, it was pure stimulation. The kind of overload where your senses of depth, scale and movement all seem compromised. For a while I felt like I was watching something in miniature.
Tonight, I’m at Shantinu’s alone because James and Nick have gone out to see a play. I was walking thru the living room on my way to the basement, when I stopped to explain to Aunti-ji (Shantinu’s mother) that the other two wouldn’t be eating in tonight. She was watching something on TV, a news network’s live coverage of what seemed to be giant effigies burning in different parts of town. We’ve all been having a lot of, “wow, we’re in
In the shadowy-glow of
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