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.

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.

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, with Shantinu the dancer. C.R. Park is a colony that was originally given to displaced Bengalis after partition in 1947. It has the highest density of Bengalis anywhere in Delhi, and therefore is the wildest place to be during Navaratri. So we’ve been getting quite a show since we returned from our site workshops last week—just a few days into the festival.

The Durga Pujas are the neighborhood holy celebrations. There are 20 in C.R. Park alone. They are held everyday during Navaratri in huge, temporary tents erected in parks and open lots. Usually there is a low stage near the rear (for dancing and singing) and metal detectors at the entrances, manned by guards or police. [In India, anything religious is a target for bombing.] At the Durga Pujas, giant queues inch towards tables where food is given out twice a day in honor of The Goddess—it’s delicious and well-made and not what you’d expect from giant batches of free grub. Over the rows of rented chairs, fastened to the skeletons of the tents, are intestinal-tangles of wire, spliced and patched together—a makeshift artery of electricity, being drawn from all over the nearest street. Near the entrance, a man sits at a table beneath this scary mess, manipulating 6 or 10 archaic looking switches. Apparently they control the coloured lights over the stage.

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 India” moments lately, and this was another. I decided to go up to the roof and breathe some night air before restarting my work. Here is the final India moment for tonight, and the last paragraph of my entry, written in the present tense because it still feels immediate.

In the shadowy-glow of Delhi at night, hundreds of rooftops and upper-floors rise to four-stories, and none go higher. It looks like a million facets of orange and brown. [Last night on the roof, I said I felt like I was in Cairo; James, who has actually been there, said he agreed.] Tonight there are two familiar sensations: the smell of cooking and burning leaves, and the noise of cars honking at one-hundred intersections and bottlenecks. However, tonight there is also something new: I count six different fireworks displays on the horizon around me. I see the classic starbursts in green and white and those crackling streamers of gold shooting upwards. Happy Dussehra to all, and to all a good night!

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).

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

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.

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.

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.