*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
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
New photos, mostly from Agra
Storm-Ji, Arjun and seven of us students woke at the crack of dawn on Friday to catch the express train to Fatapur Sikhri. We spent a day and a half there, at the ancient capital of Akbar's empire. On Saturday we hit the road again, making the short trip to Agra. It is the site of Shah Jahan's capital (the Agra red fort) and also where he constructed his famous monument to his late wife, Moomtaz--the Taj Mahal. The trip was excellent: 3.5 days of art history and historic architecture, at some of the most important sites of Mughal construction. It was also nice to be traveling in a smaller group for a change. Storm-Ji was an excellent guide as usual, and she got us special (rare) access to some parts of the monuments not open to tourists.
Storm-Ji lectures at Fatapur Sikhri as we listen on.
Katherine caught, Fatapur Sikhri.
The Darga (tomb) at Fatapur Sikhri. The lacy screens surrounded the inner sanctum are made from meticulously carved marble, in single slabs. This is called "jolli."
A detail of the jolli from the previous photo.
Local women lounge at the mosque, Fatapur Sikri.
Our program's coordinating assistant and CPA, Arjun, came with our smaller group to Agra. He asked me to take this photo of him posing (quite seriously) in front of the Darga at Fatapur Sikhri. He is a very sweet and funny man.
A monument to Akbar's favorite elephant, just outside the perimeter wall of the fort at Fatapur Sikri. It is several stories high; its overall shape and "tusk" spikes, make it a mega-phallice: phallic upon phallic.
Here we are at the top of the elephant monument.
Outside the mosque, steps lead down the hilltop towards the village itself. A temporary ferris wheel has been installed below to attract the younger devotees after prayers.
Me outside of Akbar's tomb, Agra.
Akbar's tomb, Agra.
Restoration work by the Indian Archaeological Society in progress, at the private court mosque of Agra's red fort.
Completed restoration work at the court mosque, Agra red fort.
I.A.S. restoration workers break for lunch at the site. They work eight hours a day, six days a week and still, progress is very slow. The I.A.S. is a very good, but sometimes frustrating organization according to Storm-Ji.
Here is my requisite silly photo in front of the Taj Mahal. We rose in the dark on Sunday morning so that we arrived there in time to see the sun rise on the monument. The Taj is everything it has been cracked up to be.
[This is from a while ago, but I like it a lot and I never got around to posting it.] Workers sleep at the job-site, four stories up, in a flat being renovated (Delhi).
Storm-Ji lectures at Fatapur Sikhri as we listen on.
Katherine caught, Fatapur Sikhri.
The Darga (tomb) at Fatapur Sikhri. The lacy screens surrounded the inner sanctum are made from meticulously carved marble, in single slabs. This is called "jolli."
A detail of the jolli from the previous photo.
Local women lounge at the mosque, Fatapur Sikri.
Our program's coordinating assistant and CPA, Arjun, came with our smaller group to Agra. He asked me to take this photo of him posing (quite seriously) in front of the Darga at Fatapur Sikhri. He is a very sweet and funny man.
A monument to Akbar's favorite elephant, just outside the perimeter wall of the fort at Fatapur Sikri. It is several stories high; its overall shape and "tusk" spikes, make it a mega-phallice: phallic upon phallic.
Here we are at the top of the elephant monument.
Outside the mosque, steps lead down the hilltop towards the village itself. A temporary ferris wheel has been installed below to attract the younger devotees after prayers.
Me outside of Akbar's tomb, Agra.
Akbar's tomb, Agra.
Restoration work by the Indian Archaeological Society in progress, at the private court mosque of Agra's red fort.
Completed restoration work at the court mosque, Agra red fort.
I.A.S. restoration workers break for lunch at the site. They work eight hours a day, six days a week and still, progress is very slow. The I.A.S. is a very good, but sometimes frustrating organization according to Storm-Ji.
Here is my requisite silly photo in front of the Taj Mahal. We rose in the dark on Sunday morning so that we arrived there in time to see the sun rise on the monument. The Taj is everything it has been cracked up to be.
[This is from a while ago, but I like it a lot and I never got around to posting it.] Workers sleep at the job-site, four stories up, in a flat being renovated (Delhi).
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
My Old Friend, the East West Medical Center
I had such a nice stay the last time I was here, that I decided to go out and get another intestinal bacterial infection. Not sure quite what I’m doing right, but I now lead the pack in days spent at the clinic—and the gap is widening even as I sit in my room typing. I started feeling sick in my stomach Sunday night—a day after moving into my new homestay—and by midnight had begun “losing my lunch.” Three hours and 10 purges later, I decided to wake up my new host-dad and call up Dheeraj-ji, the assistant program director. Fourty-five minutes later I was checking-in at East West reception. Weakly, I followed the nurses upstairs—this time, to room #10; last time was #15—and received a smile of recognition from each nurse. After all, it has only been about a week and a half since I left.
During this second visit, almost everything is familiar: the man who sweeps and mops my floor every morning; the woman in charge of changing my sheets and wrapping my IV-inlet in plastic when I shower; the team of sweet and quite nurses who take my vitals five times a day and connect diffferent bottles of solution to my arm; and the three or four calm, erudite doctors who visit me alternately, perhaps twice or three times a day.
The esteemed Dr. Chawvla (who studied at Harvard) continues to direct things, albeit from a certain distance. He makes his rounds at this branch-location of the Hospital in the early afternoon, usually accompanied by an entourage of attending nurses and doctors, and the occasional white medical student, presumeably from the states or G.B. The med students are an odd addition to the pack; they observe me with the same clinical detachment they would show for any patient, with no apparent interest in our common homeland. I feel like saying, “come on, now—we’re surrounded by Indians, many of whom don’t even speak english… You can’t even say, ‘yeah, I like the Red Sox too’?”
I am learning once again that, for me, boredom and deprivation inexplicably lead to feelings of elation and sociability. I was feeling downright gleeful after my toast and tea this morning, and all I want to do now is get on the internet and have some fun, superficial instant-message conversations. Too bad there is no internet here—or rather, I don’t know the password to join the wireless network, “EastWestB28.” This is how I used to feel when working shifts at the library at Wesleyan; with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I find myself experiencing an excited readiness for action.
It is also strange timing to be sick and prevented from doing work. This week is our second to last week of formal classes (interrupted next week by our five-day site workshops) and I’ve heard, via James, that people are really beginning to scramble. There are several major deadlines this week related to the forthcoming ISP period and I have already missed a lecture devoted to ISP research methodology. Apparently, there has been a certain mood of panic among the students at the center in the past two days, and I can’t say I’m dissapointed to be away from it. At the very worst, I’m falling behind and will need to work faster once I’m released; but it’s better than breathing all that second-hand anxiety. Besides, I always work better under the gun (for better or for worse).
[[The nurses just came in and changed my inlet from the left to the right arm… God, I hate needles!]]
So, why am I sick again? I’ve spent a certain amount of time speculating as to how I got infected. There are so many opportunities for a Westerner in India! And, especially now that I’ve been sick twice, I’m wondering what I’ve been doing differently from the rest. There is a certain small group of my friends, namely Kylie, who are convinced that it’s this pool I’ve been swimming at. So at every conversational opportunity, she refers to the Pacific Sports Complex as “Giardia.”
“How was Giardia?” she asks, and, “I can’t believe you’re still swimming at Giardia!”
Regarding this second bout of infection, there is some reason to suspect a package of imported dates I bought from a fruit stall on the street. They were sealed in plastic, and Dr. Chawvla doubts they are responsible. Still, I will be avoiding all but the safest food from here on out; sadly, it might also be prudent to give up my daily swims at “Giardia…” On one hand, they use so much chlorine in the pool, that you could wash your hands there before surgery. On the other hand, though, it’s probably not worth the risk, however small it may be.
So, at Storm-ji’s and Dheeraj-ji’s behest I will be “babying” myself (a little) for the forseeable future. Storm-ji has also said that I should be treating myself “like an invalid” from here on out. Apparently, I’ve earned the reputation of ‘that sick, fragile guy,’ which is an odd thing for me. What is also odd, is that for a couple weeks now—concurrent with this new designation—I’ve been feeling truly at home in Delhi; it is a state of mind that I’m not sure I would have been able to picture on August 29th. In fact, I was saying to Steve M., over skype a few days ago, that I can’t remember the last time my life felt so full of life. It is all struggle, stimulation, and the feeling of goodness:
“To my eyes, the city was beautiful. It was wild and exciting. Buildings that were British Raj-romantic stood stide to side with modern, mirrored business towers. The haphazard slouch of neglected tenements crumbled into lavish displays of market vetetables and silks…
“I saw that liberated, unconstrained spirit wherever I looked, and I found myself responding to it with the whole of my heart. Even the flare of shame I’d felt when I first saw the slums and the street beggers dissolved in the understanding that they were free, those men and women…
“Yet I was a little unnerved by the density of purposes, the carnival of needs and greeds, the sheer intensity of the pleading and the scheming on the street. I spoke none of the languages I heard. I knew nothing of the cultures there, clothed in robes and saris and turbans… But I smiled, and smiling was easy, no matter how strange and disorienting the street seemed to be.” (21)
—Gregory David Roberts, upon reaching Bombay, from his autobiography Shantaram
During this second visit, almost everything is familiar: the man who sweeps and mops my floor every morning; the woman in charge of changing my sheets and wrapping my IV-inlet in plastic when I shower; the team of sweet and quite nurses who take my vitals five times a day and connect diffferent bottles of solution to my arm; and the three or four calm, erudite doctors who visit me alternately, perhaps twice or three times a day.
The esteemed Dr. Chawvla (who studied at Harvard) continues to direct things, albeit from a certain distance. He makes his rounds at this branch-location of the Hospital in the early afternoon, usually accompanied by an entourage of attending nurses and doctors, and the occasional white medical student, presumeably from the states or G.B. The med students are an odd addition to the pack; they observe me with the same clinical detachment they would show for any patient, with no apparent interest in our common homeland. I feel like saying, “come on, now—we’re surrounded by Indians, many of whom don’t even speak english… You can’t even say, ‘yeah, I like the Red Sox too’?”
I am learning once again that, for me, boredom and deprivation inexplicably lead to feelings of elation and sociability. I was feeling downright gleeful after my toast and tea this morning, and all I want to do now is get on the internet and have some fun, superficial instant-message conversations. Too bad there is no internet here—or rather, I don’t know the password to join the wireless network, “EastWestB28.” This is how I used to feel when working shifts at the library at Wesleyan; with nowhere to go and nothing to do, I find myself experiencing an excited readiness for action.
It is also strange timing to be sick and prevented from doing work. This week is our second to last week of formal classes (interrupted next week by our five-day site workshops) and I’ve heard, via James, that people are really beginning to scramble. There are several major deadlines this week related to the forthcoming ISP period and I have already missed a lecture devoted to ISP research methodology. Apparently, there has been a certain mood of panic among the students at the center in the past two days, and I can’t say I’m dissapointed to be away from it. At the very worst, I’m falling behind and will need to work faster once I’m released; but it’s better than breathing all that second-hand anxiety. Besides, I always work better under the gun (for better or for worse).
[[The nurses just came in and changed my inlet from the left to the right arm… God, I hate needles!]]
So, why am I sick again? I’ve spent a certain amount of time speculating as to how I got infected. There are so many opportunities for a Westerner in India! And, especially now that I’ve been sick twice, I’m wondering what I’ve been doing differently from the rest. There is a certain small group of my friends, namely Kylie, who are convinced that it’s this pool I’ve been swimming at. So at every conversational opportunity, she refers to the Pacific Sports Complex as “Giardia.”
“How was Giardia?” she asks, and, “I can’t believe you’re still swimming at Giardia!”
Regarding this second bout of infection, there is some reason to suspect a package of imported dates I bought from a fruit stall on the street. They were sealed in plastic, and Dr. Chawvla doubts they are responsible. Still, I will be avoiding all but the safest food from here on out; sadly, it might also be prudent to give up my daily swims at “Giardia…” On one hand, they use so much chlorine in the pool, that you could wash your hands there before surgery. On the other hand, though, it’s probably not worth the risk, however small it may be.
•••
So, at Storm-ji’s and Dheeraj-ji’s behest I will be “babying” myself (a little) for the forseeable future. Storm-ji has also said that I should be treating myself “like an invalid” from here on out. Apparently, I’ve earned the reputation of ‘that sick, fragile guy,’ which is an odd thing for me. What is also odd, is that for a couple weeks now—concurrent with this new designation—I’ve been feeling truly at home in Delhi; it is a state of mind that I’m not sure I would have been able to picture on August 29th. In fact, I was saying to Steve M., over skype a few days ago, that I can’t remember the last time my life felt so full of life. It is all struggle, stimulation, and the feeling of goodness:
“To my eyes, the city was beautiful. It was wild and exciting. Buildings that were British Raj-romantic stood stide to side with modern, mirrored business towers. The haphazard slouch of neglected tenements crumbled into lavish displays of market vetetables and silks…
“I saw that liberated, unconstrained spirit wherever I looked, and I found myself responding to it with the whole of my heart. Even the flare of shame I’d felt when I first saw the slums and the street beggers dissolved in the understanding that they were free, those men and women…
“Yet I was a little unnerved by the density of purposes, the carnival of needs and greeds, the sheer intensity of the pleading and the scheming on the street. I spoke none of the languages I heard. I knew nothing of the cultures there, clothed in robes and saris and turbans… But I smiled, and smiling was easy, no matter how strange and disorienting the street seemed to be.” (21)
—Gregory David Roberts, upon reaching Bombay, from his autobiography Shantaram
Thursday, October 4, 2007
a boring post about studying
It's 12:30 am, New Delhi time and 3:00 pm in New York City (did I mention that India time, it's bizarre, is on a half time-zone?). I'm studying hard for our first major Hindi exam tomorrow morning; I have an especially large amount of material to cover owing to the week of classes I missed during the excursion. I'm hoping to get thru Okay, though. Classes begin 1.5 hours late tomorrow (at 10:00 am), which gives me a little extra time.
Busy Busy Busy. We're definitely moving towards high-gear on the academic side of things, here. The workload has always been rigorous, but in the past three weeks, there has been a two-part, complementary change in focus: less and less on living "effectively" in India; and, more and more on the readings, lectures, excursions and assignments. It's amazing to me, but, if you account for the upcoming week-long workshops we'll all be participating in, there are just two complete remaining weeks of formal classes. And then we all ship off to the freedom and intensity of our month-long Independent Study Projects. We'll be living on our own in whatever region of India we choose, conducting research of our own design.
For my part, I have done a complete 180 on my topic--and I was one of the first students to nail things down. I decided to study Indian Art Cinema in Bombay--not Bollywood, but its neglected sister. Serendipitously, I found an adviser in Sangeeta's border Mena; she has spent most of her journalism career as a film critic for the Time of India, and has been on the selection committees for several festivals, including Cannes and Toronto. Moreover, I already had some good connections through Sangeeta in another way: she knows a woman documentary film maker in Bombay. I decided to take the angle of gender portrayals in the contemporary art cinema catalogue, so this was perfect.
But I couldn't shake this feeling that I was wasting an opportunity. One of the principal guidelines for our topic choice is that it must entail research that can only be conducted in India. My interviews would meet this requirement, but the prospect of spending endless hours watching films (films that, with some perseverance, could be obtained in the States) felt like missing the point.
So I have decided, with Storm-Ji's endorsement to switch my topic. Picking up on a course from last fall at Wesleyan, I am going to research traditional N. Indian village planning. The course at Wes was on West African architecture; it was remarkable to me to be studying the most humble of structures made of mud bricks, many of which only survive in descriptions and drawings. My term paper was on the Dogon society: what are the social implications of how the Dogon arrange their villages, on the level village planning and compound planning.
I'm real excited about taking this project to India. The first hurdle will be locating a traditional N. Indian village that has, for the most part, survived modernization. I will spend the better part of three weeks in the village drawing bird's eye plans and conducting interviews. And then (like everyone else) I'll return to Delhi for the last week of the semester to turn all this data into some sort of something... hopefully a convincing term paper. And who knows, maybe I'll learn something about something--I've always wanted to.
If anyone out there in digital land is actually reading this, send me Hindi brain power for tomorrow morning. I'll need it.
Busy Busy Busy. We're definitely moving towards high-gear on the academic side of things, here. The workload has always been rigorous, but in the past three weeks, there has been a two-part, complementary change in focus: less and less on living "effectively" in India; and, more and more on the readings, lectures, excursions and assignments. It's amazing to me, but, if you account for the upcoming week-long workshops we'll all be participating in, there are just two complete remaining weeks of formal classes. And then we all ship off to the freedom and intensity of our month-long Independent Study Projects. We'll be living on our own in whatever region of India we choose, conducting research of our own design.
For my part, I have done a complete 180 on my topic--and I was one of the first students to nail things down. I decided to study Indian Art Cinema in Bombay--not Bollywood, but its neglected sister. Serendipitously, I found an adviser in Sangeeta's border Mena; she has spent most of her journalism career as a film critic for the Time of India, and has been on the selection committees for several festivals, including Cannes and Toronto. Moreover, I already had some good connections through Sangeeta in another way: she knows a woman documentary film maker in Bombay. I decided to take the angle of gender portrayals in the contemporary art cinema catalogue, so this was perfect.
But I couldn't shake this feeling that I was wasting an opportunity. One of the principal guidelines for our topic choice is that it must entail research that can only be conducted in India. My interviews would meet this requirement, but the prospect of spending endless hours watching films (films that, with some perseverance, could be obtained in the States) felt like missing the point.
So I have decided, with Storm-Ji's endorsement to switch my topic. Picking up on a course from last fall at Wesleyan, I am going to research traditional N. Indian village planning. The course at Wes was on West African architecture; it was remarkable to me to be studying the most humble of structures made of mud bricks, many of which only survive in descriptions and drawings. My term paper was on the Dogon society: what are the social implications of how the Dogon arrange their villages, on the level village planning and compound planning.
I'm real excited about taking this project to India. The first hurdle will be locating a traditional N. Indian village that has, for the most part, survived modernization. I will spend the better part of three weeks in the village drawing bird's eye plans and conducting interviews. And then (like everyone else) I'll return to Delhi for the last week of the semester to turn all this data into some sort of something... hopefully a convincing term paper. And who knows, maybe I'll learn something about something--I've always wanted to.
If anyone out there in digital land is actually reading this, send me Hindi brain power for tomorrow morning. I'll need it.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Ghandi-Ji
The rest of the group arrived back in Delhi today after taking an all-night sleeper train from Varranassi. James walked into our room while I was skyping with Hondo, and I thought, who is this tall man?
Today is Ghandi's birthday, which is a national holiday--all the institutions (public and private) and businesses are closed, as it is illegal and a serious moral violation to conduct business today. As such, we're off from classes, which works out well for everyone who just got off a 12-hour train ride, and just wrapped up a very strenuous excursion.
I went over to Ravi's around midday so Katherine and I could get a cooking lesson from him. Julie and Lane (who also live there) joined us, recently showered. We learned to make a very simple but common curry gravy, to which anything can be added; we made it with peas and potatoes. Unfortunately, didn't get to do any of the actual cooking or prep. because this was an "intro lesson" in Ravi's words, and that will come next time. We also learned about making saag paneer, which is spinach puree (or kale, or swiss chard) with firm balls of cottage cheese; and roti, which is Hindi for bread, and usually designates the most simple form of Indian bread, made from whole-wheat flower and water. Afterwards, we ate everything and it was a nice meal.
Now I'm back at Sangeeta's. Going for a swim soon at the Pacific club sports complex (where I've been going). Afterwards, dinner in some form or another. Then tonight, Sangeeta and her other boarder Mena (the 40-something columnist from the Times of India) are taking James and I out to a kareoke bar, which should be a riot.
Today is Ghandi's birthday, which is a national holiday--all the institutions (public and private) and businesses are closed, as it is illegal and a serious moral violation to conduct business today. As such, we're off from classes, which works out well for everyone who just got off a 12-hour train ride, and just wrapped up a very strenuous excursion.
I went over to Ravi's around midday so Katherine and I could get a cooking lesson from him. Julie and Lane (who also live there) joined us, recently showered. We learned to make a very simple but common curry gravy, to which anything can be added; we made it with peas and potatoes. Unfortunately, didn't get to do any of the actual cooking or prep. because this was an "intro lesson" in Ravi's words, and that will come next time. We also learned about making saag paneer, which is spinach puree (or kale, or swiss chard) with firm balls of cottage cheese; and roti, which is Hindi for bread, and usually designates the most simple form of Indian bread, made from whole-wheat flower and water. Afterwards, we ate everything and it was a nice meal.
Now I'm back at Sangeeta's. Going for a swim soon at the Pacific club sports complex (where I've been going). Afterwards, dinner in some form or another. Then tonight, Sangeeta and her other boarder Mena (the 40-something columnist from the Times of India) are taking James and I out to a kareoke bar, which should be a riot.
Monday, October 1, 2007
winding down, winding up
Well I'm settled back in at Sangeeta's flat. Got here around noon today (Monday) and met her younger daughter, Guni, for the first time. She is home during a rare two days off from boarding school (where she is in 11th grade); the time off is a special reward for five medals she just won in competitive swimming--a very nice girl, and like a young version of Sangeeta in many ways. It's also very cool to see Sangeeta doing the full-fledged mothering thing. Ebony, the giant black lab also arrived today from Sangeeta's ex-husband's house, and, apparently is a new resident of R-42. A welcome addition: she is quite friendly and energetic, as labs tend to be (I am told).
I'm happy to report that I'm nearly recovered at this point. I'm taking smaller food portions, but otherwise feeling good. That broth-and-toast diet at the East West Medical Center appears to have taken 15 pounds off my body. Thank god it was the muscle I lost, and not my hard-earned fat. Now, rather than looking trim--as you might expect--I look like a waif who recently got flab implants. It's quite lovely. But I have discovered a new ridge on the upper part of my nose. Apparently, I lost half-an-ounce from the proboscis region. I'll have to get some silicone injecting when I return.
Actually, not much to say after that run-on post from last night. Here is one funny thing from today, though: I had been trying to get a rick-shaw for a couple minutes (from Ravi's back to Sangeeta's) when one pulled up.
"G.K. One ?" I asked. He swung his head to the right, and I kept walking.
For a moment, I was congratulating myself for being able to decode this nuanced Indian gesture: him saying no. 'A couple weeks ago,' I thought to myself, 'I would have mistaken that head-swing for the classic Indian head wag, but now I know better.' [The Indian head wag (my name, not nec. a used designation), is a "yes"-nod on a different axis; the face tilts down slightly and wags back and forth around the nose, which makes semi-revolutions in the center of the whole rotation. It is a continual source of confusion for non-Indians, especially because it seems to mean both "yes" and "yes," but reluctantly.] But you've already guessed it: 10 seconds later the scooter-wallah pulls up to me again, this time looking bewildered, and indicates the passenger seat with a faintly amused expression. I got in, and we drove off--me, put in my place by India, once again.
I'm happy to report that I'm nearly recovered at this point. I'm taking smaller food portions, but otherwise feeling good. That broth-and-toast diet at the East West Medical Center appears to have taken 15 pounds off my body. Thank god it was the muscle I lost, and not my hard-earned fat. Now, rather than looking trim--as you might expect--I look like a waif who recently got flab implants. It's quite lovely. But I have discovered a new ridge on the upper part of my nose. Apparently, I lost half-an-ounce from the proboscis region. I'll have to get some silicone injecting when I return.
Actually, not much to say after that run-on post from last night. Here is one funny thing from today, though: I had been trying to get a rick-shaw for a couple minutes (from Ravi's back to Sangeeta's) when one pulled up.
"G.K. One ?" I asked. He swung his head to the right, and I kept walking.
For a moment, I was congratulating myself for being able to decode this nuanced Indian gesture: him saying no. 'A couple weeks ago,' I thought to myself, 'I would have mistaken that head-swing for the classic Indian head wag, but now I know better.' [The Indian head wag (my name, not nec. a used designation), is a "yes"-nod on a different axis; the face tilts down slightly and wags back and forth around the nose, which makes semi-revolutions in the center of the whole rotation. It is a continual source of confusion for non-Indians, especially because it seems to mean both "yes" and "yes," but reluctantly.] But you've already guessed it: 10 seconds later the scooter-wallah pulls up to me again, this time looking bewildered, and indicates the passenger seat with a faintly amused expression. I got in, and we drove off--me, put in my place by India, once again.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
telegram "brevity"
well it's very late here, (2:45 am) so just a 'one-liner.'
eight day excursion to south totally aborted for me and peer katherine. on second day of trip came down with intense fever, and on third day the two of us were sent back to delhi. admitted to clinic back here in the city, where quickly diagnosed with mixed infection: bacterial intestinal infection and giardia--oh, boy! spent four very long days and nights in the clinic hooked up to an IV and learning all sorts of things about diarrhea (actually, a little too experiential for my taste...).
finally, 104 degree fever subsided and I became re-hydrated by end of second day in clinic. watched lots of american tv and bored out of my head in four white walls=claustrophobia. However, very comfortable set-up with a/c and appropriately bland food, and constant supervision by nurses who knew a few key words of english and otherwise talented at reading frantic pantomimes (another roll of toilet paper, please!) (harder to convey: "is this tingling sensation normal?" ... eventually just got a smile, so i decided, 'well, it's normal enough').
thankgod katherine was there with me, or I would have gone really nuts. as it was, i spent much of my time fantasizing about american food (i was only allowed to eat broth and toast, and even that only after two days of nothing but intravenous NaCl and dextrose) ...
[tangent: food like oreo ice-cream and zaftig's (or home-grilled) cheeseburgers (medium rare with lettuce, onions, tomato, mayo, and ketchup... would someone please eat one in my honor? oh, and a bagel with cream cheese, nova, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and capers.... but it has to be a good bagel, maybe from rosenfelds, not the crap they have at zaftigs: Bruegger's=shudder)]
... and also spent time comparing the food i was craving with what k was craving. Also, reading High Fidelity (very funny, even if you've already seen the movie like i had); watching plenty of american tv (turned out to be very comforting in between shitting my brains own (pardon the crudeness)); pacing my cubical for exercise; and trying to come up with clever titles for the epic blog entry i was composing in my head (i think this abbreviated version will drag on LESS than that epic would have). I wish i could remember some of the potential titles. actually, i wish i could remember any of them. what i do remember was that i was planning to write this clever thing (at least, i thought) about how my first time staying in a hospital was also happening in India. a dual delight.
Anyway, finally sprung from the clinic yesterday afternoon=not a moment too soon. Whisked away by Ravi (K's host dad and for all of us the homestay coordinator/advisor... a lovely man) to his country farm where i spent an extremely refreshing night and day, especially by contrast. Swam in his well-water pool, which was a definite high-lite.
Tonight, crashing at Ravi's (where k normally stays anyway) b/c it's easier than going back to sangeeta's and, to be honest, i think i would be lonely apart from K given that everyone else is still away on their fucking excursion (pardon the language, Granny. clearly still bitter about spending our epic week in my epic hospital room) and i've never stayed there without james.
i guess this is the post of parenthetic clauses; oh well, i'm too lazy to properly order this thing at this hour and after having written 5 emails already.
If i sound grumpy about the experience, it's half for effect (though i was quite pissed a couple days ago, in the midst of my clinic experience) because I'm feeling about 100 times better. nearly feel in full health at this point, although the stomach is still dodgy, i.e. needs bland, small portions (which i have stupidly refused to feed it in the past 24 hours out of pure greed for flavor and delicious fat).
well, so much for the one-liner. all for now.
eight day excursion to south totally aborted for me and peer katherine. on second day of trip came down with intense fever, and on third day the two of us were sent back to delhi. admitted to clinic back here in the city, where quickly diagnosed with mixed infection: bacterial intestinal infection and giardia--oh, boy! spent four very long days and nights in the clinic hooked up to an IV and learning all sorts of things about diarrhea (actually, a little too experiential for my taste...).
finally, 104 degree fever subsided and I became re-hydrated by end of second day in clinic. watched lots of american tv and bored out of my head in four white walls=claustrophobia. However, very comfortable set-up with a/c and appropriately bland food, and constant supervision by nurses who knew a few key words of english and otherwise talented at reading frantic pantomimes (another roll of toilet paper, please!) (harder to convey: "is this tingling sensation normal?" ... eventually just got a smile, so i decided, 'well, it's normal enough').
thankgod katherine was there with me, or I would have gone really nuts. as it was, i spent much of my time fantasizing about american food (i was only allowed to eat broth and toast, and even that only after two days of nothing but intravenous NaCl and dextrose) ...
[tangent: food like oreo ice-cream and zaftig's (or home-grilled) cheeseburgers (medium rare with lettuce, onions, tomato, mayo, and ketchup... would someone please eat one in my honor? oh, and a bagel with cream cheese, nova, lettuce, onions, tomatoes and capers.... but it has to be a good bagel, maybe from rosenfelds, not the crap they have at zaftigs: Bruegger's=shudder)]
... and also spent time comparing the food i was craving with what k was craving. Also, reading High Fidelity (very funny, even if you've already seen the movie like i had); watching plenty of american tv (turned out to be very comforting in between shitting my brains own (pardon the crudeness)); pacing my cubical for exercise; and trying to come up with clever titles for the epic blog entry i was composing in my head (i think this abbreviated version will drag on LESS than that epic would have). I wish i could remember some of the potential titles. actually, i wish i could remember any of them. what i do remember was that i was planning to write this clever thing (at least, i thought) about how my first time staying in a hospital was also happening in India. a dual delight.
Anyway, finally sprung from the clinic yesterday afternoon=not a moment too soon. Whisked away by Ravi (K's host dad and for all of us the homestay coordinator/advisor... a lovely man) to his country farm where i spent an extremely refreshing night and day, especially by contrast. Swam in his well-water pool, which was a definite high-lite.
Tonight, crashing at Ravi's (where k normally stays anyway) b/c it's easier than going back to sangeeta's and, to be honest, i think i would be lonely apart from K given that everyone else is still away on their fucking excursion (pardon the language, Granny. clearly still bitter about spending our epic week in my epic hospital room) and i've never stayed there without james.
i guess this is the post of parenthetic clauses; oh well, i'm too lazy to properly order this thing at this hour and after having written 5 emails already.
If i sound grumpy about the experience, it's half for effect (though i was quite pissed a couple days ago, in the midst of my clinic experience) because I'm feeling about 100 times better. nearly feel in full health at this point, although the stomach is still dodgy, i.e. needs bland, small portions (which i have stupidly refused to feed it in the past 24 hours out of pure greed for flavor and delicious fat).
well, so much for the one-liner. all for now.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
saturday afternoon
finally a lazy day for james and I. got a terrific amount of sleep last night, and I think I'm finally beating this cold. just had a late lunch with Sangeeta; Raj, the cook, continues to work his magic. Today we had a chilled lentil-sprout, cucumber and tomato salad; potato curry; rice; chipatie; sauteed okra; and yogurt. right now james and I are relaxing in the living/dinning room both on our laptops, under the perpetual ceiling fans, listening to modest mouse. I think he's writing a letter to Chelsea, his girlfriend.
when I was doing research at the Hare Krishna temple last week, a trio of girls approached and started talking to me. They all gave me their numbers and two of them seemed to be encouraging the third to talk to me. Very weird, but funny. So, a few days later, I got a call from the third one (Sonal) while on the train to Pushkar; she was asking me out to coffee--and clearly interested going on a date with me. Well, sadly (perhaps) for Sonal, I don't think there is any romantic future for the two of us. But last night James and I were feeling very carefree, thinking of seeing a movie, so we decided to call these girls up and see if they wanted to hang out.
They were very pleased we had called, and invited us over to their flat, which happens to be just a few minutes walk from Sangeeta's. We thought, "well, this should be a riot no matter what it turns out to be," so we got dressed and ventured out. Oddly enough, being invited over to an Indian girls' flat who we barely know violates so many expectations and rules of decorum that we were coached in during orientation. So much for that.
So we took a motor-rickshaw over there and awkwardly sat down in the living room with these three Indian girls and these two Quebecois girls--who happened to have just arrived the previous night, didn't know them, and were couch surfing there. The seven of us had a very odd, sometimes raucous, sometimes stilted conversation and then moved on to dinner. (this was the second dinner for James and I, but we didn't want to be rude). Repeatedly, I was seated next to Sonal, which I sure was no coincidence. I hadn't felt like this since middleschool. She kept on looking at me and smiling. Poor Sonal. (Hey, I'd probably be too weird for her anyway if the language barrier didn't prevent all but the most superficial conversation).
We had a film rental delivered; this movie "Chuk'h Dae India!" that is all abuzz in India right now. About the triumphant rise of the womens' field hockey team. We got thru the first half before James and I decided to call it a night. It was very awkward telling them we needed to go to bed, verging on rude. At the very least, they expected us to finish the movie, as any normal guest would. But James and I were getting a strong feeling that it was more prudent for us to leave, so James started talking about how tired we were. We apologetically thanked them for a nice evening. We were exiting when it became clear that two of the Indian girls, Sonal and her more english-fluent friend, were going to walk us home. A few yards later, we heard the rest of them walking quickly to catch up.
James and I found ourselves in this walking gang of Indian and Quebecois girls, moving thru this posh Delhi neighborhood at 1am. About halfway home we told them we could find the rest of the way on our own. After we parted, James pointed out that they might have all been hoping for good night kisses! (at least the Indian girls). One of the things we were told is that Indian men and women often have very odd expectations about dating in the U.S. Mostly what they know about U.S. courtship conventions they have learned (and believe verbatim) from the random selection of Hollywood romantic-comedy blockbusters; additionally, the exaggerated impression left by American free-love in the 70s still lingers strongly here. As such, Indian men expect white girls to be very easy, and Indian women expect white guys to move very quickly, and pull all the moon-lit good-night kissing moves. I think James was absolutely right in his interpretation--very bizarre and pretty hilarious, too.
I'm going to see if I can find a pool to go swimming at this afternoon. Early to bed, then wicked early to rise for 5:30 am train to Varnassi tomorrow.
when I was doing research at the Hare Krishna temple last week, a trio of girls approached and started talking to me. They all gave me their numbers and two of them seemed to be encouraging the third to talk to me. Very weird, but funny. So, a few days later, I got a call from the third one (Sonal) while on the train to Pushkar; she was asking me out to coffee--and clearly interested going on a date with me. Well, sadly (perhaps) for Sonal, I don't think there is any romantic future for the two of us. But last night James and I were feeling very carefree, thinking of seeing a movie, so we decided to call these girls up and see if they wanted to hang out.
They were very pleased we had called, and invited us over to their flat, which happens to be just a few minutes walk from Sangeeta's. We thought, "well, this should be a riot no matter what it turns out to be," so we got dressed and ventured out. Oddly enough, being invited over to an Indian girls' flat who we barely know violates so many expectations and rules of decorum that we were coached in during orientation. So much for that.
So we took a motor-rickshaw over there and awkwardly sat down in the living room with these three Indian girls and these two Quebecois girls--who happened to have just arrived the previous night, didn't know them, and were couch surfing there. The seven of us had a very odd, sometimes raucous, sometimes stilted conversation and then moved on to dinner. (this was the second dinner for James and I, but we didn't want to be rude). Repeatedly, I was seated next to Sonal, which I sure was no coincidence. I hadn't felt like this since middleschool. She kept on looking at me and smiling. Poor Sonal. (Hey, I'd probably be too weird for her anyway if the language barrier didn't prevent all but the most superficial conversation).
We had a film rental delivered; this movie "Chuk'h Dae India!" that is all abuzz in India right now. About the triumphant rise of the womens' field hockey team. We got thru the first half before James and I decided to call it a night. It was very awkward telling them we needed to go to bed, verging on rude. At the very least, they expected us to finish the movie, as any normal guest would. But James and I were getting a strong feeling that it was more prudent for us to leave, so James started talking about how tired we were. We apologetically thanked them for a nice evening. We were exiting when it became clear that two of the Indian girls, Sonal and her more english-fluent friend, were going to walk us home. A few yards later, we heard the rest of them walking quickly to catch up.
James and I found ourselves in this walking gang of Indian and Quebecois girls, moving thru this posh Delhi neighborhood at 1am. About halfway home we told them we could find the rest of the way on our own. After we parted, James pointed out that they might have all been hoping for good night kisses! (at least the Indian girls). One of the things we were told is that Indian men and women often have very odd expectations about dating in the U.S. Mostly what they know about U.S. courtship conventions they have learned (and believe verbatim) from the random selection of Hollywood romantic-comedy blockbusters; additionally, the exaggerated impression left by American free-love in the 70s still lingers strongly here. As such, Indian men expect white girls to be very easy, and Indian women expect white guys to move very quickly, and pull all the moon-lit good-night kissing moves. I think James was absolutely right in his interpretation--very bizarre and pretty hilarious, too.
I'm going to see if I can find a pool to go swimming at this afternoon. Early to bed, then wicked early to rise for 5:30 am train to Varnassi tomorrow.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Me achcha larkah hum ("I am a good boy").
just woke up from a long afternoon nap, and man did I need it. Been getting a consistent six hours of sleep every night with all this reading, Hindi homework, essays and weekly 7am yoga classes. But I do better with eight. Tomorrow is our first exam on the ACS material (all the lectures and readings we've had on Indian religion, art, etc.). I was very happy when they let us have a half-day today. James and I came home after lunch and sacked out. Now I'm waking up, feeling a little disoriented, and drinking disgusting Echinaciea water--or however you spell that.
Okay, to recap a little. Last weekend was a free weekend, so pretty much everyone made some sort of fun plan.
[Major tangent: The first people to do so were a group of five girls who (while I like them a lot... in fact I'm with them a lot) are the closest thing approaching a clique in this group. But emphasis on the word approaching. This is to say, they are not at all exclusive, but they have found that they like each other, and therefore end up being together a lot. James and I have spoken a lot about all these interesting social dynamics. Not everyone is having an easy time of it. And that's hard to see. What's also hard is there is not always a clear-cut solution. There is a lot of maturity and kindness in this group, but people just have different expectations and desires; some are much more whole-group oriented, and some want to enjoy the whole group while spending separate time with the people they click with most. So back to the weekend, these five girls were the first to make arrangements. And there was some tension about other people not being included. I found out about their plans after they were finalized, and felt kind of miffed that they hadn't very vocally invited the whole group. So a second round of reservations was made for this same little trip they had planned, during which James, Nick and I really tried to invite everyone. Ultimately, only the three of us were in this second round. So there were two trips this weekend; one, our group of seven; another group of five, and a group of three, and two individuals (one in the hospital with fever, and one hiking the foothills of N. India). That was kind of a weird thing, mostly because the main division between the group of seven and everyone else matches with a more organic division that has developed in the group as a whole. Anyway, there is a danger to over-thinking-over-talking all of this. The point being, ongoing efforts need to be made towards making the whole-group experience really good.]
Our group of seven went to Pushkar, south of Delhi, in Rajahstan. It is a holy city in the desert, that is centered around a holy lake beneath a Brahma temple. The weekend was amazing. We stayed at this country-style resort (thatched roof cottages), rustic but with all the amenities, (including A.C) that was totally luxurious and wonderful. Took a couple dips in the pool, which for me was a very mundane highlight, but a highlight none the less=my first chance to swim since I got to India... felt heavenly. In Pushkar proper we visited a Hindu temple, and then performed the ritual of Puja at the holy lake's edge. In Puja, we were in pairs, each with a Brahman guide who walked us thru the ceremony. It is done with prayer and recitations, and a plate of holy items including string (fire), and red powder dye for creating the forehead tilak, your third eye, god's eye. One of the intense parts of the ritual is how personalized it is. You are asked your mother and father and family members' names; you say the names of people you have lost, and say their names in a special prayer. My eyes were wet at the end. Finally, we throw the contents of the plate into the water, after being doused in it ourselves.
We did some serious walking around the markets of Pushkar and very much enjoyed being out of Delhi. Had some delicious meals. On saturday evening, we took a camel-pulled sunset ride through the hilly desert near our resort. Nice to meet our camels Rama and Brahma, both Hindu gods, don't you know! The group vibe was very awesome and very relaxed and we all got closer over the weekend (a double-edged sword, see above).
This week has been intense, as I've explained, but it's very nearly over. Plenty of class time and double-lecture days, on top of our 3 hr. morning sessions of Hindi. Currently, we are moving at a breakneck pace in Hindi, thru a constant state of confusion and anxiety. We have learned a new grammar structure (two chapters in our books) every morning for the past two weeks. When it comes to Hindi, many of us (including myself) are half-way to a nervous breakdown. But a light-hearted nervous breakdown.
This Sunday morning at 5:30 am, we are embarking on our longest excursion yet (eight days of steady travel on the road, trains, and a short plain flight). We will be going to Varnassi to do some serious field research and training. This will include architectural site drawings; visiting plenty of temples; seeing some absolutely top-notch classical Indian music performances (sitar and tablaa); and doing the travel thing. All of us need it, and it will be very nice to get out of the intense in-class thing for a while. Storm-Ji spoke to us this morning about the third-week rut, which normally happens. She explained that around this time, ppl. typically begin getting homesick, feeling frustrated with each other and Delhi, and generally go thru a period of hardening, being less receptive to the experience. Basically everyone in the class was nodding their heads as she described all of this. It was a nice validation, and it continues to amuse and delight me how astute she is. I love her. So, the third-week rut will be a passing thing, but I am no exception to this experience. I've had a cold (along with seven others) for the past couple days, and am very under--Mom, you're probably saying "yeah underslept and getting sick--THAT's a new thing for you." Well, I'm drinking lots of fluids, and doing the whole homeopathic thing, so I should be on the road to recovery in no time flat. Also, I'll be catching up on my sleep in a serious way.
My thoughts are with everyone at home and I hope all you important people are doing well. love, Bunny
P.S. Because there are three nicks on the program and only five guys (James' real name is Nick), Storm-Ji decided that I would be "Bunny," about two weeks ago. Bunny is a very common nick-name, oddly enough, for big, tough guys in India. So most everyone has been calling me Bunny much of the time, (James even said it to me when we were at home alone the other day) and it is a small source of amusement for the group.
... and some nice photos from pushkar, taken by Rachel
steps of Hindu temple
nick with a boy
People at the edge of the holy lake, bathing (this was the Ganesh festival, which is why there are so many people).
James, Nick, Emily, Kylie, and me on the steps near the holy lake.
... and some photos taken by me:
pushkar street at night
women air their fabric at the holy lake in Pushkar so that it absorbs the lake's essense
because cows are holy, they are pretty much allowed to go where-ever they want... although you will see street vendors shoo-ing them away from their vegetables. I am endlessly delighted by all these cows.
this cute boy asked me to take is photo. I was a little wary, because beggars and children often use this tactically, asking you for payment after the photo is taken. But this was just a cute boy who wanted his photo taken.
three nicks enjoy good company
these two seemed to be in love. We watched the cow lick the dog (with the dog occasionally craning upwards to lick the cow in return) for several minutes. When the dog trotted off, the cow looked after it longingly.
the view from our hotel in Pushkar. very beautiful
Okay, to recap a little. Last weekend was a free weekend, so pretty much everyone made some sort of fun plan.
[Major tangent: The first people to do so were a group of five girls who (while I like them a lot... in fact I'm with them a lot) are the closest thing approaching a clique in this group. But emphasis on the word approaching. This is to say, they are not at all exclusive, but they have found that they like each other, and therefore end up being together a lot. James and I have spoken a lot about all these interesting social dynamics. Not everyone is having an easy time of it. And that's hard to see. What's also hard is there is not always a clear-cut solution. There is a lot of maturity and kindness in this group, but people just have different expectations and desires; some are much more whole-group oriented, and some want to enjoy the whole group while spending separate time with the people they click with most. So back to the weekend, these five girls were the first to make arrangements. And there was some tension about other people not being included. I found out about their plans after they were finalized, and felt kind of miffed that they hadn't very vocally invited the whole group. So a second round of reservations was made for this same little trip they had planned, during which James, Nick and I really tried to invite everyone. Ultimately, only the three of us were in this second round. So there were two trips this weekend; one, our group of seven; another group of five, and a group of three, and two individuals (one in the hospital with fever, and one hiking the foothills of N. India). That was kind of a weird thing, mostly because the main division between the group of seven and everyone else matches with a more organic division that has developed in the group as a whole. Anyway, there is a danger to over-thinking-over-talking all of this. The point being, ongoing efforts need to be made towards making the whole-group experience really good.]
Our group of seven went to Pushkar, south of Delhi, in Rajahstan. It is a holy city in the desert, that is centered around a holy lake beneath a Brahma temple. The weekend was amazing. We stayed at this country-style resort (thatched roof cottages), rustic but with all the amenities, (including A.C) that was totally luxurious and wonderful. Took a couple dips in the pool, which for me was a very mundane highlight, but a highlight none the less=my first chance to swim since I got to India... felt heavenly. In Pushkar proper we visited a Hindu temple, and then performed the ritual of Puja at the holy lake's edge. In Puja, we were in pairs, each with a Brahman guide who walked us thru the ceremony. It is done with prayer and recitations, and a plate of holy items including string (fire), and red powder dye for creating the forehead tilak, your third eye, god's eye. One of the intense parts of the ritual is how personalized it is. You are asked your mother and father and family members' names; you say the names of people you have lost, and say their names in a special prayer. My eyes were wet at the end. Finally, we throw the contents of the plate into the water, after being doused in it ourselves.
We did some serious walking around the markets of Pushkar and very much enjoyed being out of Delhi. Had some delicious meals. On saturday evening, we took a camel-pulled sunset ride through the hilly desert near our resort. Nice to meet our camels Rama and Brahma, both Hindu gods, don't you know! The group vibe was very awesome and very relaxed and we all got closer over the weekend (a double-edged sword, see above).
This week has been intense, as I've explained, but it's very nearly over. Plenty of class time and double-lecture days, on top of our 3 hr. morning sessions of Hindi. Currently, we are moving at a breakneck pace in Hindi, thru a constant state of confusion and anxiety. We have learned a new grammar structure (two chapters in our books) every morning for the past two weeks. When it comes to Hindi, many of us (including myself) are half-way to a nervous breakdown. But a light-hearted nervous breakdown.
This Sunday morning at 5:30 am, we are embarking on our longest excursion yet (eight days of steady travel on the road, trains, and a short plain flight). We will be going to Varnassi to do some serious field research and training. This will include architectural site drawings; visiting plenty of temples; seeing some absolutely top-notch classical Indian music performances (sitar and tablaa); and doing the travel thing. All of us need it, and it will be very nice to get out of the intense in-class thing for a while. Storm-Ji spoke to us this morning about the third-week rut, which normally happens. She explained that around this time, ppl. typically begin getting homesick, feeling frustrated with each other and Delhi, and generally go thru a period of hardening, being less receptive to the experience. Basically everyone in the class was nodding their heads as she described all of this. It was a nice validation, and it continues to amuse and delight me how astute she is. I love her. So, the third-week rut will be a passing thing, but I am no exception to this experience. I've had a cold (along with seven others) for the past couple days, and am very under--Mom, you're probably saying "yeah underslept and getting sick--THAT's a new thing for you." Well, I'm drinking lots of fluids, and doing the whole homeopathic thing, so I should be on the road to recovery in no time flat. Also, I'll be catching up on my sleep in a serious way.
My thoughts are with everyone at home and I hope all you important people are doing well. love, Bunny
P.S. Because there are three nicks on the program and only five guys (James' real name is Nick), Storm-Ji decided that I would be "Bunny," about two weeks ago. Bunny is a very common nick-name, oddly enough, for big, tough guys in India. So most everyone has been calling me Bunny much of the time, (James even said it to me when we were at home alone the other day) and it is a small source of amusement for the group.
... and some nice photos from pushkar, taken by Rachel
steps of Hindu temple
nick with a boy
People at the edge of the holy lake, bathing (this was the Ganesh festival, which is why there are so many people).
James, Nick, Emily, Kylie, and me on the steps near the holy lake.
... and some photos taken by me:
pushkar street at night
women air their fabric at the holy lake in Pushkar so that it absorbs the lake's essense
because cows are holy, they are pretty much allowed to go where-ever they want... although you will see street vendors shoo-ing them away from their vegetables. I am endlessly delighted by all these cows.
this cute boy asked me to take is photo. I was a little wary, because beggars and children often use this tactically, asking you for payment after the photo is taken. But this was just a cute boy who wanted his photo taken.
three nicks enjoy good company
these two seemed to be in love. We watched the cow lick the dog (with the dog occasionally craning upwards to lick the cow in return) for several minutes. When the dog trotted off, the cow looked after it longingly.
the view from our hotel in Pushkar. very beautiful
Monday, September 17, 2007
a few 2nd–3rd week photos
I'm realizing I haven't posted in a week, which is testament to the fact that time is really flying. I wish I had time to do a post now, but my paper is calling me. So here are a few photos in the meantime.
Taking a horse-pulled rickshaw to the Golden Temple, Amritsar: Me, Nick G., James, Katherine.
Indian man carries the flag at the nightly ceremony, Amritsar (India-Pakistan border).
yet another in the endless series of bland group photos--this one taken in Amritsar
On the train to Amritsar: Kylie, Storm Ji, James, Ari (clockwise from left).
A stall near M-Block Market, G.K. 1, nighttime.
Two bike-riders at dusk, G.K.1
DuringKrishna's birthday festival, at a small Hindu temple near G.K. 1, Delhi. (where I live) The temple is atop a small hill; it is very beautiful, and also very kitsch, which is pretty standard for popular Indian Devotional art these days.
Taking a horse-pulled rickshaw to the Golden Temple, Amritsar: Me, Nick G., James, Katherine.
Indian man carries the flag at the nightly ceremony, Amritsar (India-Pakistan border).
yet another in the endless series of bland group photos--this one taken in Amritsar
On the train to Amritsar: Kylie, Storm Ji, James, Ari (clockwise from left).
A stall near M-Block Market, G.K. 1, nighttime.
Two bike-riders at dusk, G.K.1
DuringKrishna's birthday festival, at a small Hindu temple near G.K. 1, Delhi. (where I live) The temple is atop a small hill; it is very beautiful, and also very kitsch, which is pretty standard for popular Indian Devotional art these days.
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