A good drink

I take back my contention in my prior post that I can't find a good drink in Delhi and present to you the below: a watermelon jalapeno spritzer.

Ok, to be honest it was a bit weird because they salted the edges, but still quite tasty. Like a bizarrely-sweet/spicy/salty slushee.

Of course, I still can't find a good alcoholic drink. I swear, they water those things down like its monsoon season.

Fine dining in Delhi

My brother told me that one of the more interesting things he discovered on his trip to India (what, 10 years ago now?) was that he could eat a delicious meal for either less than $1 or for over $50, but there wasn't much in between.  I think things have changed a bit since his trip here in that Delhi, at least, has a burgeoning "casual cafe" culture which is aimed at wealthy Indians and expats where you can eat (generally pretty lackluster) meals for somewhere between $5-10 bucks. However it is true that I can eat deliciously for very little money and it is also true that there are some truly elegant fine dining experiences to be had.

Because I don't earn much money here, because it's quicker and easier, and because even in a developing country I'm a big ole cheapskate I do tend towards the cheap eats. However, in case y'all think I never go anywhere nice, I offer you the below pictures from my dinner at "Accent India".

 

This was some kind of potato watermelon concoction.

Foie gras ice cream cone.

 

Duck and cheese naan

 Traditional Indian deserts, done untraditionally.

This was actually a going-away dinner for my briefly-former roommate. It was an eight-course meal (well, ok, 5 courses if you don't count the amuse bouche, the watermelon sorbet palate cleanser, and the post-dessert sweets--which I do) wherein each course of food was paired with a delicious wine. I think the full price of the meal, without wine, was about $40, with wine, maybe 80? As you can see, still pretty reasonable by NYC standards. And, it's even more reasonable when your generous roommate surprises the whole table by picking up the tab!

I gotta be honest though, I still can't find a good drink here.

Office supplies

Ok, ok, I KNOW I said that I wouldn't write (or bitch) about work, but I've just got to tell you guys about this one thing that is killing me. It's about my chair. Really, it's about our office chairs in general. THEY SUCK! There are a few good ones floating around, but they've all been appropriated by our Women's Rights department in the building next door.

 I got my hands on a good chair once, during my first week--but then I made the mistake of leaving it unguarded to go to the bathroom. I was gone for like, 2 minutes TOPS, but when I came back someone had taken my chair. Seriously, my computer, my wallet, my ipad all sitting on my desk untouched--my chair GONE. I think those dirty Women's Rights chicks took it.

For a week I suffered through sitting in a chair that was far too low for the desk which made me feel like the kid sitting at the ergonomically incorrect adult's table.

After some careful searching, I did manage to locate an office chair that is roughly the right height, with two functioning arm rests, which I promptly swapped in for my too-low chair. However, this one is a wheelie chair, and it's missing the wheel on the left-hand side. When I'm sitting in a balanced manner, just typing away at my computer, this is just fine. But sometimes I forget that it's missing a wheel and I lean too far over to the left, and then the chair topples over and I fall out of my seat onto the floor.

For any of you have not experienced this first-hand, it's like really embarrassing to continually fall out of your seat in an open office/cubicle environment.

It's times like that, shamefaced, crumpled on the floor, that I really do miss the superb facilities of Big Law. Damn, what I wouldn't give for my former chair now!

Momento judaeorum

As many of you know, I am a Very Bad Jew. I wasn't bat mitzvahed, I celebrate Christmas and more often than not do not celebrate the Jewish high holy days, I sometimes make up plausible answers when asked about Jewish traditions that I'm not aware of and I LOVE eating bacon. While I certainly identify as being Jewish (at least culturally, as I can't say that I follow Jewish religious dictates) it is very rarely something that comes up in my daily life back in the USA. Here I bet that most people assume I'm Christian. India is a pluri-religious state, with Hindus, Muslims, Siks, Buddhists, Jains, Christians, etc., all rubbing up against each other with varying degrees of friction, yet it may be interesting to note that, though I had to fill in a "religion" column on my visa application, "Jewish" was not one of the choices.

Yet here, more than anywhere else I've been, I'm constantly being reminded that I'm Jewish. Why? Because there are swastika's effing everywhere. On ornamental gateways, rickshaws, hospital signs, food products, even on the the door to the bathroom in my yoga studio.

Now, before anyone freaks out and assumes that India is secretly harboring Adolf Eichmann's doppleganger, I should mention to the unawares that these are NOT the Nazi swastikas.  This swastika is actually an ancient symbol of good fortune in the Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain religions. I do know this intellectually, but I have to tell you that a little jolt goes through me every single time that I see a swastika here--which is literally dozens of times a day. Maybe I'll get used to it in time, but maybe not.

And, by the way, it's not just the swastikas that remind me that I'm Jewish--Indians are also big on the Star of David, which I've normally seen embossed on vehicles. I still haven't figured out what this one means, though, so if any of my enterprising readers know, please tell me!

Breaking News!

I played my first (two) soccer games in Delhi today in the monthly women's tournament. It was 104 degrees out and I played almost the full two games and . . . my team won a trophy!

Give us this day our daily chai

Ok, I just need to dedicate one brief post to my daily chai(s). Here it is.

I know, not much to look at, but my chai is sweet and life affirming. Seriously, the office chaiwallah adds more value to my life and productivity to my work than almost all of the secretaries I ever had. In fact, Big Business, listen up! Forgot fancy support staff teams--if you really want to support your employees bring on the chaiwallahs!

Fun quotes from Indian forms

I finally managed to register as a foreigner living in Delhi yesterday. Wooohooo! Unfortunately, due to the general incompetence of the Indian bureaucracy my official registration form actually lists an incorrect address. I should correct it, but apparently that would require me to fill out the entire application again, make a new appointment with the registration office, and hand in the exact same documentation that I've already handed in. So, yeah . . . I think I'll skip that.

But, as I learned, having the wrong address on my application form can have all sorts of repercussions on all of the other forms I need to fill out . . . to apply for a taxpayers card, to apply for a bank account, etc. For now I'm skating by on luck and crossed fingers, but I do think it's possible I will, eventually, need to re-register myself all over again. Oh! The insanity of it all!

On the bright side, I did find the form I filled out today for the tax payers card to contain these two gems.

From the "Dos and Donts" instruction section of the form:

"Do not mention Husband's Name in Father's Name column. Please note that even married women should give father's name only."

(In fact, every form I've filled out in India so far has asked for my father's name and many ask for my husband's name as well. But nobody really cares who my mom is).

"Do provide details of Representative Assessee in column 14 of application for, if applicant is Minor, Idiot, Lunatic or Deceased." 

(Yup, indeed, apparently "Idiot" and "Lunatic' are legal categories here.)

You know, I'd really like to write some additional instructions for these forms myself. It would start with:

- Do complete this entire form within 20 minutes or else you'll be booted off the website and your application erased.
- Do upload your documents at a quality so low that no one can read them in order to meet size restrictions. Really, it's OK. No one is reading them anyway.
- Do carry some extra cash with you to the appointment. You never know when it will come in handy.
- Do not read any further instructions as they will only prove contradictory and totally confusing.

Lunch, daily

As there have been several requests for more food pictures I offer you the below: my daily lunch. (Well, I mean the menu does change every day. This, in fact, was Monday's lunch).

The way it works is that I call up some mysterious phone number which my colleagues gave me and I say "1 lunch, Lawyers Collective please" and then hang up the phone. Anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour later some guy shows up (a different guy every time) with a cardboard lunchbox enclosing (a) one small plastic bag--like a ziplock bag, but tied off with a tight rubberband instead of a zip--containing some form of dal (lentil soup); (b) one even smaller plastic bag containing the (always vegetarian) entree of the day (on Monday it was aloo panner, or potatos with spinach, yum!); (c) a small plastic bag containing a garnish of cut cucumbers and onion, and (d) 4 roti.

It's always totally filling and absolutely delicious. And, for only a dollar, it's pretty much the best cheapest lunch I'll ever have.

And in case anyone was wondering, below is Tuesday's lunch.

This is what you can buy in a Delhi clothing market for $10 dollars

Isn't it grand! I love shopping here!

The great thing about this particular market is that it sells brand name clothing that actually aren't well-made fakes. They're the real thing! The reason is that many clothing manufacturers have their factories in India, so when there is a surplus of a particular item, or quite frankly, where there are small errors in the item, the manufacturers just dump all of the unwanted pieces on nearby markets. (I was suspicious, at first, but this has been verified by numerous sources.) The shirt on the bottom right, which was the most expensive item I purchased for $2.50, is currently being sold here for $50.

The other two patterned shirts you see there are long kurta tops. I'm planing on starting to wear more Indian-style clothing as they are really comfy in the hot weather. (Like, wearing lightweight pajamas everywhere).

The shoes, shown in their adorable close-up below, set me back a grand total of $2. But, unlike the shirts I have to admit that these slippers are quite cheaply made. After one wear around the neighborhood they turned my feet entirely blue! Ah well, I knew there had to be a catch somewhere.

Mallrat: Part II

So, once I got to the mall and cooled off in the delightfully frigid A/C, I started exploring the place with my stated mission of finding women's soccer shoes. (Spoiler Alert: I did, ultimately find some cleats--but they were so expensive I decided to try playing a game first in my old jogging sneakers before committing to the purchase of specialty shoes).

The Saket mall is basically a combination of every American 14-year-old girl's favorite stores--showcasing the trendy stylings of such fashion behemoths as Forever 21 and Claires--and highish-end Indian stores. (I say highish end, but not highest end, you understand. The highest end Indian fashions can be found on this amazing alley not too far from my house, and in the temples to bling that line the highways in another part of Delhi. More on that in another post).

In addition to the windows presenting colorful saris or kurtas, there were a few delightful and/or absurd features that made this mall quintessentially Indian.

For example, the mall seemed to employ a staff astrologer.

Also, and this was my favorite, the mall broadcasts the name and amount of the high spender of the week.  This is hilarious, tawdry and entirely in line with everything I have been lead to believe about the culture of conspicuous consumption amongst (some) wealthy Indians.

(By the way, in case you're wondering, 36,164 rupees is about U$D 600).

And then there was the food court, chock full of American favorites like McDonalds and Subway and Indian chains. I decided to get myself a Tikka Paneer Kathik roll at Tikka Town because it looked delicious. And then the games began!

First, I stood on line (well, that's a bit generous, more like I stood on the outer edges off this crowded mass of people that would every so often inhale someone to the front register before burping them out again).  When I finally made it to the register, the harried cashier informed me Tikka Town doesn't accept cash. In fact, the only way to buy a meal in the entire food court is to first buy a prepaid food court card. So off I trotted to the food court card dispenser. I had noted the amount of the roll I wanted to purchase (110 rupees) and so, once I stood "on line" at the card dispenser I craftily put $120 rupees on the card--you know, in case there was tax.

Once more to Tikka Town where I muscled my way to the register. She took my order and swiped my card, but alas! The amount, with tax, was 128 rupees. I was 8 rupees short so, back I went, sheepishly, to the card dispenser.

With 10 more rupees put on the card I placed my face into its "determined grimace" setting, sharpened my elbows, and marched back over to Tikka Town.  But . . . again denied!Woe is me! I had neglected to realize that there was a 15 rupee safety deposit made on each food court card purchased, so I was still 13 rupees short!

Rinse, wash, repeat.

The fourth time I made my way Tikka Town I was an old hand and was finally able to place and pay for my order. And finally, finally, the delicious-looking, mouth-watering smelling paneer tikka roll was mine to savour!

But, what a letdown--it was totally disgusting. Let the word ring out from this place and time worldwide--fast food is disgusting everywhere.

Mallrat: Part I

This weekend I went to the mall in hopes of finding some women's soccer shoes. All in all, it was a failed, but highly amusing trip.

Saket Market is an upscale mall fairly close to my house. Most important it is on my metro line, and since I love the Delhi metro more than anything else in this entire city (with the possible exception of the street samosas I get everyday for lunch) I decided to seek my fortunes that-a-ways.

(the lovely, clean, air-conditioned, safe, cheap, fast, Delhi metro)




Googlemaps told me that the walk from the metro stop to the mall would be about 20 minutes, so I'd predetermined that I would take a bicycle rickshaw from the metro. I really enjoy taking the sensation sailing through the city on a bike--without having to do any of the work myself--and the opportunity to employ the cyclist, who tend to be at the bottom of the Delhi-transport-for-hire heap. (As a side story, once I was riding a bicycle rickshaw when suddenly I became aware of my cyclist tiny frame and wondered why I hadn't noticed that my cyclist was a prepubescent boy when I got into the rickshaw. Then I noticed that my cyclist had grey hair and realized that actually, he was an older man with the frame of a child. And since then I've noticed that almost every cyclist I see is very, very small. I suspect this is because the cyclists tend to be quite poor, and were perhaps malnourished as children.)

Anyway, emerging from the metro stop closest to the mall I noticed that a large congregation of auto-rickshaw drivers had congregated at the top of the stairs and were yelling out to each person as s/he summited. The attention that your average Indian gets from hawkers is generally quadrupled when it comes to me, and sure enough, as soon as the auto-rickshaw drivers saw me they descended upon me like the eighth plague of Egypt. There I was, standing at the center of a circle of 10-15 rickshaw drivers, all yelling out different prices, locations, and frantically trying to usher me into their autos. Indians have perhaps a different concept of personal space than Americans do, which is to say that this circle was tight. I looked in vain for a bicycle rickshaw, but saw to my dismay there was none. I was boxed in, with no escape.

And so, I panicked.

Now, what I should have done was just gone with the flow, picked an autodriver and gotten into his auto rickshaw, demanded he put on the meter or negotiate a reasonable price upfront then Poof! Off I would have gone, arriving at the mall in high auto rickshaw style.

What I did instead was to fake a phone call to myself in Spanish.

Actually, generally speaking in loud Spanish to or around hawkers has worked wonders here, I thought that that drivers would leave me alone when they realized that I was engaged in a conversation in a language they don't speak and showing them no mind.  And I'd say about half of the rickshaw drivers did, in fact, buzz off. But the other half not-so-patiently still encircled me--every now and then trying to interrupt my call to offer me "special-price rickshaw." And as soon as I ended my fake call, the circle reconstituted in full force.

Well, to make a very long story short--after trying several other absurd strategems to lose/choose an auto-rickshaw driver I finally decided just to walk. And the walk was dusty, and by the side of a major road, and hot, and loud, nd smelly, and not at all nice. But I arrived at the mall more or less in one piece and after making my way through the bag scanner and metal detector (oh yes, Delhi has scanners everywhere), finally made it into the nice air-conditioned comfort of homey capitalism.  Ahhhhh!

Stay tuned to hear about my adventures in the mall later!

I could never afford to live here in NYC

With the notable exception of my apartment in Argentina, where the couches were literally stuffed with maggots, I have always lived in much nicer apartments in the developing world than I could ever afford in NYC. India is no exception and, after visiting many horrifying apartments (Thanks, but I'm not going to spend the entire year taking cold water bucket showers), I'm quite pleased with what I ended up with. I previously posted the picture of the living room, but by popular request, here's what the entirety of the house looks like.

This is half of the balcony

 This is the guest room (where I'm currently staying until the fourth roommate moves out)

 This is the area where we do the laundry, and sort of keep all of the stuff that prior residents have left. There is also a balcony outside that door which we don't use at all because pigeons have totally taken it over. It's pretty gross, actually.

 The kitchen (with a washing machine. Yay!) That blue jar on the left is how we get our drinking water.

 A view into the living room from the foyer.

 The foyer. We keep track of who has paid for what communal thing on the blackboard.

 This will be my bedroom (with balcony!)

 

The living room.

View from the living room into the dining area.

Private roof deck. In this picture it's lit up for my roommate's going away party (which was totally awesome until I tried to go to bed and found three men locked in my bathroom. I figured they were either having sex, vomiting, or doing coke in there--and I'm happy to report that it was probably the third option, which is the easiest to clean up)

It's a four-bedroom place, though there will only be three roommates from next week forward (so there is an additional guestroom). What's really nice about the apartment is that it comes fully-stocked. I mean the kitchen gear is legit, the fridge is crammed full with yummy things (and because the maid/cook does all the shopping basically all roommates can eat anything in the kitchen--except for my stash of diet cokes which I guard zealously), the bookshelves are filled with interesting reads (and India guidebooks), there are more than enough sheets and towels to go around, and there are like three full cabinets stocked with booze of various types. I didn't have to buy anything (except for possibly my departing roommate's bed). Basically, I think that this apartment has been handed down from expat to expat over the last however-many years and each person has left their home appliances/linens/whatever else they didn't want to schlep back to their home country with them. (For example, I was asking my roommates where I could buy a yoga mat in Delhi and they pointed out that we have three nice yoga mats here--left by previous tenants).

The flat even comes with a part-time dog. We call her Schmoozie. Urban legend is that Schmoozie used to live in our flat until her owners moved away. Now the guards downstairs take care of her--but she comes up to visit nightly and we give her doggie treats and lots of petting.

So that's my place here. Pretty nice, no? But, ever since I first went up to the non-private part of the roof and surprised an elderly Indian man sitting on the floor eating a watery dal I have suspected that there are people actually living up there. And now I've confirmed it--yes, there are in fact people living on the roof; there are little concrete rooms with tin roofs set up.   I'm dying to know more about the roof-dwellers, who I think are the servants of the people living downstairs,  but don't want to invade their privacy. . .

Breaking news!

I've joined a soccer team here! We're called the Diamonds. (I mean, not my first choice for an intimidating name, but whatevs). Now I just need to figure out where I can buy some cleats and shin guards . . .

Even more things that don't make sense to me

Can anyone explain to me why diet coke should be so much more expensive than regular coke here? I mean, the distribution chain is the exact same.

Will I EVER wake up early enough to get to yoga class? And can someone please remind me that 600 rupees (or $10) is actually not an outrageous price to pay for an hour at a good studio--even though that amount could almost certainly feed me here for a week.

Are the rumors actually true that certain chaiwallahs put small amounts of opium into the tea to encourage return customers? Is it possible that's why my chaiwallah has me up to three cups a (work)day?

(chai/opium dealer?)

Are you all astounded that it has been over 90 degrees since I arrived every day (and yesterday, it hit 98 degrees, but I have yet to turn on the AC at home (or at work)? The ceiling fans are actually doing a pretty good job of keeping me cool.

Why is it that on the way to work the rickshaw drivers will happily take me for 80 rupees, but on the way home from work I can't get a ride for less than 100 rupees? It's the same distance, guys!

Isn't this raw silk scarf that I bought at my friend's charity auction for for $11 gorgeous?

Why is the Indian bureaucracy specifically out to get me? For example, in order to register as a foreign national I need to show proof of address. Today, I show the evil bureaucrats the following: (1) a stamped and certified copy of the lease between the landlord and my roommate (who is subleasing to me); (2) a copy of my roommate's identify card, which she has signed (apparently Indian bureaucrats LOVE when you sign your identity card); and (3) an agreement which my roommate has signed confirming she is subleasing to me. Apparently this is not good enough for evil bureaucrats who have demanded that I produce certain documents from the landlord himself (with whom I have NO contact). The consequences of non-registration are dire: I can't get paid from my job or leave the country with any hopes of reentry. When I mentioned all of this to one of the four evil bureaucrats who I had to deal with over the course of the day, she very kindly explained to me that if I can't get the absurd information required from my landlord, I should move to a different apartment. Thanks, lady.

Why is nobody commenting on my blog? Sniff. And who, exactly, are my viewers in Nigeria and Greece?

Chandni Chowk, Part II

Why is Chandni Chowk not for a woman with a faint heart? I think because it is in North Delhi, which tends to be the more traditional and conservative area of the city. Being more traditional does give the streets a certain flair--the women are more often dressed in churidars then jeans, and the buildings, especially in the smaller alleys, are certainly reek of age and exoticism (cracked and carved archways, fading script over doorways, broken stone lattices).  However I'm finding that the more conservative parts of the city are somewhat less welcoming towards women, and perhaps towards western women in particular.

Now, before (and after) coming to Delhi I had been warned about how difficult this city can be for women, how patriarchal Indian culture is, and in particular, how gender-based violence permeates both the home and the streets. I know western women are portrayed in Indian media as being sexually-available, and so I arrived here half-expecting to be catcalled, pinched, and groped anytime I got within grabbing distance of an XY chromosome. I have been pleasantly surprised over the past few weeks to have been largely ignored by the male population of Delhi and, in fact, a bit embarrassed by how nervous I was upon my initial arrival.

But, for the past few weeks I'd been staying in South Delhi, which is where I live, and where I work. South Delhi tends to be more upscale then North Delhi and is also not a touristed part of the city. In fact, my first time seeing any tourists was in Chandni Chowk. I think the combination of South Delhi being wealthier, less conservative and less touristy than North Delhi means that western women are more likely to be viewed as (and more likely to be) keep-it-moving-nothing-to-see-here residents of the city.

Not so near Chandni Chowk. I hadn't even made it up the subway stairs when a detached voice whispered in my ear "Hello. This is your first time visiting India?" I didn't turn around or engage with the speaker, and no further whispers followed after the first. But I thought, Aha, so it's going to be like that, eh!

And over the next 2 hours as I wondered around with a studied grimace on my face I elicited some form of spontaneous comment about every 3 minutes or so. These ranged from the totally innocuous "Hello!" from children to the more urgent "You buy something, yes?" from vendors to the slightly threatening "Hello, sexy baby" from creepy adolescents. There was also a cacophony of bizarre sounding grunts, banging or kissing noises made in my general direction, usually from passing vehicles.

Every single person who spoke to me was male.

Now, no one actually approached me, stopped me, touched me and I would deem that about 70% of all comments were pecuniary rather than sexual in nature. And, to be fair, in those 2 hours I probably passed like, a million men (it was crowded!) so a relatively small percentage did in fact try to engage my attention. But still, the pervasiveness of the street harassment was both annoying (to me as a tourist) and unnerving (to me as a single female).

It was also bit heartbreaking, though perhaps not at all surprising, to note that most of the more "aggressive" sexual comments came from pre-teen boys (say 11 or 12) who were clearly trying to show-off to their mates by discomfiting a woman. I was considering scolding some of these offenders, but decided that any reaction from me might elevate their status amongst the adolescent audience.

All in all, the cacophony of comments was pretty annoying, but didn't ever feel threatening. Still, I don't think I'd like to walk around Chandni Chowk at night . . .

Chandni Chowk: Part I

Yesterday I went touristing in Chandni Chowk, which is described in my guidebook as “the madcap Chandni Chowk…a wide avenue thronged by crowds, hawkers and rickshaws.” I was pretty excited to go because one of my favorite things about India are the crazy street scenes and markets which remind me that, no Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.  In that respect, Chandni Chowk did not disappoint. 

(smaller street off of Chandni Chowk)

 

The street called Chandni Chowk itself is as my guidebook described it—a fairly wide avenue which jumbles together spice sellers,  barbers, beggars, cloth merchants, tourists, stray dogs, cars, goats, rickshaws, etc. Here’s how you should picture a wide avenue in Delhi; on the furthest edges are the shops themselves which are usually small three-sided kiosks with their wares prominently on display. In front of the shops are the stationary street-hawkers who have spread their goods on the ground (well, usually on a cloth on the ground).  These stationary street hawkers can also provide services and there were quite a number of barbers who were just sitting on the ground in front of (or behind—depending on whether a shave or a haircut was being given) their client.

(a mid-ranger barber--not sitting on the ground, but not in a kiosk either)

(Note: the Delhi sidewalks, to the extent they exist, tend to be fairly broken up and you have to be very careful not to step into an uncovered manhole.  Seriously, the sidewalks are often built over the gutters so, if you’re walking along and not paying attention it would pretty easy to fall a couple feet down into this disgusting, stagnant water. I’m pretty sure this is why must Indians don’t walk on sidewalks even when they are provided, but rather on the edges of the road. )

Just to the interior of the stationary hawkers are the cart vendors. These tend to be guys selling fruits, vegetables or some kind of street food.  And just to their inside would be the pedestrians, walking on the general edges of the road, and stepping onto the sidewalks usually just to visit a particular vendor. Mostly, the vendors are men.

(Kiosks)

(Random mosque just off of Chandni Chowk)

(random upscale hotel just off of Chandni Chowk)

 The road itself is sort of a screaming racetrack with cars, autos and rickshaws (yes, these are each different sorts of vehicles) all clamoring to get ahead.  Everything that you can imagine that would be dangerous about a road is encapsulated in your average Delhi street (and Chandni Chowk is no exception), but to date I haven’t seen a single accident.  Delhites must be both the best drivers and the worst drivers in the entire world. 

So that’s Chandni Chowk the street. But Chandni Chowk the area is even more interesting, I think. Because once you turn off the major thoroughfare you get to smaller streets that pretty much market just one thing—i.e., the shoe seller’s street or the stationary street.  And you can turn off those streets into even smaller streets, which have the really local stores. And you can turn off those streets to get into even smaller alleyways and you can turn off of those alleyways to get into even smaller alleyways and so on and so forth until you find yourself wondering if you’re still on a street anymore at all or if you’ve somehow just wandered into someone’s house because all of a sudden there are half-naked children running around and veiled women giving you the stink-eye. 

The character of this web of alleyways is fascinating because in each little kiosk or street there is something super-interesting going on. This one is a paper-manufacturer, that one is a tea seller. This one is an electronic store, that one has an impromptu cricket match going on. And throughout everything—temples and tiny shrines, everywhere. I wanted to take pictures of the individual kiosks and shrines so badly, but I didn’t because the alleyways are so tiny and personal that it would have felt pretty intrusive on the people working or praying. (Plus, the one time I tried to take a picture I quite unceremoniously got a some red slimy mixture dumped on me from above. I’m not saying the two incidents were connected, but I put my camera away after that). 

However, for all of the fascinating things going on in Chandni Chowk, I have to say that it is not for a woman with a faint heart . . . read why tomorrow!

Chor Minar

Oh, this old thing? Why it's just the local 13th century monument down the street. What, you don't have one?

Below is the explanatory text for this monument, which explains that it was used as 'tower of beheading', where the severed heads of thieves were displayed on spear through its 225 holes, to act as a deterrent to thieves. Actually, what the text literally says is that "it was built to strike terror to the thieves by placing their severed heads in these holes for public exposure."

I don't know about you guys, but if my severed head were placed in a hole for public exposure it would definitely freak me out.

And in case you were wondering what a 13th century tower of beheading is used for today, I give you the below--the kids on the right are in the middle of an intense cricket game.

Being careful

One of the things that has struck me over the past few weeks is how careful I have to be all of the time here. I'm actually not taking about being careful safety wise (though, don't worry Mom, I am), but rather being careful in my daily interactions with the people I meet.

In the USA, obviously, I generally have a fairly good grasp on the social, political, and cultural contexts of most situations and can edit my conversation appropriately. Moreover, having  chatted my way through worlds of NYC big law and ivy league law schools for the past 7 years, I can also fairly assume a certain level of intellectual sophistication and the western-liberal worldview of the majority of my conversation partners. (Obviously, there are notable exceptions to this rule--you wouldn't believe some of the idiots they let into Wharton).

However in India I don't know if I can properly assess the context or the general world-view of the people I interact with. On top of that, I know that I don't have a sophisticated understanding of most things Indian--politics, culture, history--so I find myself pretty cautious about trying to give my opinion on these matter. (And, as many of you can probably imagine, for as outspoken and opinionated a woman as I am, finding myself unqualified to speak my mind is pretty uncomfortable!)

So, given the above considerations, I feel that I constantly have to be careful in conversations. For example:

- I struck up a conversation with the taxi driver on my ride from the airport. His English was not great, but he was able to understand that I was a lawyer come from New York to work in Delhi. What he was unable to understand, and what I had difficulty explaining, was why I would leave a job in the USA (which he of course assumed would pay more than an Indian job) to come work here.  The real answer, of course, is that no matter where I work I will earn enough money to meet my desired standing of living, and I'm willing to trade in gobs of money for a career that feels more meaningful and interesting to me.  But that's the answer of a woman who has never had to consider opportunity based strictly on the salary and, I imagine, might sound fairly-snotty/delusional if explained during a 20 minute cab ride. So instead I  replied that yes, I had a good job in the USA but I was hoping to get an even better job upon my return and, in order to obtain this better job, employers wanted to see the sort of training I would get in India. This is, of course, all true--but a very careful way of explaining it.

- I went out for a coffee with some Indians (friends of friends) and talk turned to the upcoming election. For those of you who have not been following the Indian election, the leading candidates are the guy from the incumbent party (which apparently has shown itself to be fairly inept and corrupt) and the challenger, Narendra Modi, who is praised as being business and development-friendly but also dangerously playing the game of religious politics. He is famous for perhaps being responsible for the 2002 Hindu-Muslim riots in which hundreds of Muslims were killed. (Modi was the governor of the state in which these riots occurred and, if he didn't take an active role (which he may have) he at least looked the other way  at every opportunity. It's also quite suspicious that everyone who was going to testify against his involvement was killed.)

So, I really don't envy Indians their choice in this election. But I was quite surprised when one of my new friends--who had been raised in India but studied and lived in London for several years (and is, by the way, otherwise a lovely guy)--went off on the kind of veiled-discriminatory, sectarian rant (in favor of Modi) which would be totally unacceptable amongst most educated Americans. Now, no doubt many educated Americans harbor sectarian prejudices, but have been trained to understand that decorum, especially amongst new acquaintances, requires a certain level of political correctness.

So, how do I react to my new friend's opinions? Carefully. I don't believe that people get a pass at being dangerously sexist, racist, or biased simply because of their culture--but I guess I do think that people get a pass at being mildly sexist, racist, or biased. I also think that without a better understanding of the cultural context (and, quite frankly, the facts surrounding the 2002 massacre) I can't express my thoughtful opinion on the matter. So, the best I could do here was to ask my new friend if he would still vote for Modi if he were Muslim and then to use his hesitation as a prompt in explaining that I find identity politics to be a dangerous game (and that voting for a candidate simply because he shares your immutable characteristics seems like a shit-poor way to run a country).

- I want to make sure I treat everyone with whom I interact with respect and dignity. But how to I respond when a servant bows deeply to me? Do I bow back and hold the bow for longer than he does? I'm like, pretty sure that would weird him out. It also, quite frankly, would seem totally inappropriate to my host, usually employer of the servant. For now I've just been smiling widely and nodding for a brief moment before turning my attention back to the host, but I'm always worried that it feels inauthentic to return a deep bow with a quick smile.

So these are just a few scenarios, but you can see how this all makes me feel like I need to take much care in my interactions with folk. Here's hoping as I get better grounded in the Indian context, I'll be able to regain some of my usual sloppiness!

Things that don't make sense to me

A random assortment of things that don't (yet) make sense to me here:

- Why is Indian food so spicy when it's so hot outside? Personally, when it's hot all I want to do is eat gazpacho and ice cream, so the fact that one of the spiciest cuisines in the world was developed in a tropical climate continues to boggle the mind.

- Why do the drivers of most taxis and most auto-rickshaws wear a uniform? (Which looks like the below--characteristic grey shirt). Why don't the "drivers" (well, more like bikers) of the bike-rickshaws wear the same uniform?

- Why do many wealth-looking women (on the metro, which is where I do most of my discreet observations) wear the most beautiful sandals and foot jewelry, with grossly-unpedicured feet? Actually, that's probably a question for many New Yorkers as well.

- What the heck is this? On the right-hand side, an ancient crumbling wall. On the left-hand side, a 1960's spaceship?

- Why do so many babies wear kohl under their eyes? You already have huge eye-head ratios, dammit! No need to show-off.

- Why would the spa in my neighborhood think that advertising with a Hillary Duff look-alike is a good idea? Most women in India are not looking for a place to style their wavy blond hair. (Note, this question also goes to advertisements for salons I've seen in China, Namibia and Mexico as well).

- Why has it been 90+ every day since I've arrived, but many Indians are still comfortably walking around in jeans? I understand wearing long pants that are made out of some light cotton materials--but jeans?

- Why is it that the guy at the official airtel store in the airport insisted that NO foreigner in India can get a SIM card that lasts more than 3 months (meaning either that (a) I need to renew my number every three months or that (b) I need to get a whole new SIM card every three months--I pray it's the former) when most foreigners I know here have normal SIM cards? And speaking of SIM cards, why do I need to fill out a 4-page application to get one? Why does the application need to know my father's name? Why does it require a copy of my passport, and my current and former addresses? It's just a SIM card!

- And don't get me started on FRRO registration.

However, it is also true that in addition to the many things in India that I don't yet understand there have been some true revelations. For example, for years I'd puzzled over the true purpose of a paperweight--I mean not that many people work outside and it's not like there is a huge risk of a drafty wind blowing my papers all about when I'm inside an office, you know? And then, on my first day on the job here the raison d'etre for paperweights came to me in a moment of document-scattering clarity: paperweights are for offices with ceiling fans!!!!!

Street food: nothing ventured nothing gained? (Part II)

For those of you who adventurously answered "Yes" to yesterday's quiz of the day ("Should I eat this?"), I'm sorry to tell you that you would now probably be bedridden with all sorts of unpleasant symptoms that I feel no need to detail here. I, fortunately, am among those who answered "Hells no! Wait till you're out of sight of the street vendor before dumping in the nearest garbage!"

As a general rule of thumb when considering whether or not I should eat  street food, I first determine whether or not I can actually watch the food being prepared. Is the samosa being friend in front of me? Is the dosa being cooked before my very eyes (much like a crepe)? If the answer is no, I won't eat it--unless of course a friend has already told me that the vendor is reliable or there is a line of people requesting food from that vendor or I'm really, really hungry.

Another gateway question is whether there is any fluid as a component to the dish. As you can see from the picture posted yesterday, a strange greenish fluid seems to permeate throughout. Again, fluid is a dead give-away that said dish will probably make you sick.

And finally, I inspect the food for bugs, making sure to not only review the immediately-visible portion of the food but also making sure to check under the hood, as it were.

If I've watched the food being made, there is no fluid and there are no bugs, I say go for it!

Now yesterday's attempt at street food went all wrong because I approached a vendor who appeared to be making what I mistook for a sweet, solid bun. However, upon pointing and saying "I want that--two please", the vendor then opened the lid on what I had assumed was a garbage can besides him, from which he poured out a dark yellow-green liquid all over my food.  (It was done in one swift motion, I had no chance to stop him) As it turned out the sweet buns were in fact not, solid nor sweet--but rather sickly-looking pastry-crusts filled with assorted sickly-looking vegetables. So I thanked the vendor heartily, kissed my Rs 30 goodbye (about fifty cents) and threw out the food as soon as I turned the corner.


Ok, ok--the close readers in my audience will be wondering how I know that the bun was not sweet if I didn't taste it? Ok, ok, I did break down and have one bite--I mean, c'mon, it just looked so interesting!

Street Food: nothing ventured nothing gained? (Part I)

Should I have eaten this?

Find out the answer tomorrow!

First day at work

Because I am a professional--and a lady--I will by and large not be blogging about work. Which is to say, I will not be complaining, whining, bitching, mewling, or otherwise grumbling about my job in a public forum (unless you get me boozy). However as today was my very first day in this new job I thought it might be worthwhile to give y'all a sense of what, actually brought me to Delhi and what I'll be doing here for the next year.

As many of you already know, I'll be working with Lawyers Collective, a NGO which focuses on health issues and on women's issues. The organization has been around for over 30 years and it's fairly well respected both within India and within the world of international health organizations. I'm a member of the "UNSR" team, which stands for the "United Nations Special Rapporteur",  because my boss is the current Special Rapporteur, and in addition the the specific project I was hired for--expanding the database of cases worldwide relating to health and human rights (http://www.globalhealthrights.org/)--I'll be helping out with the bossman's mandate.

I met the bossman today for the first time. He is epic.

With three office locations and a comfortable two floor presence in Delhi, it's probably one of the larger NGO's that I've worked at (though by no means a behemoth). It is, I believe, the first NGO I've worked at with a dedicated administrative team, which I take to be a good sign. It is also the only NGO I've worked with that has its very own chaiwallah, who comes around and serves chai several times a day.

Side note: I love chai. I will get fat off of chai.

The office space itself is . . . perfectly suitable. I get my very own cubicle (where I've figured out how to open one of the three desk draws), but have yet to locate my own phone. I think I'll choose to bring in my own laptop, although some older desktops would be available for my use if I so desired. There's a kitchen at the back, the bossman's office at the front, a mini reception area, a mini-conference area and, today at least, about 10 attorneys working in the middle. (I was told, however, that because tomorrow is a holiday here, the office was emptier than usual). Many of the cubicles are empty--a new development because the entire women's issues department has just moved to a new floor (which, I must say, is a bit nicer than where they've left us UNSR folk).

It's been, in fact, 8 years since I last worked in a cubicle/bull pen stye office. The extravert sociable Kate thinks this will be fun and good for meeting people/making friends. The I-MUST-HAVE-ABSOLUTE-SILENCE-WHEN-I-WORK-DO-NOT-TALK-TO-ME Kate thinks it could be a bit challenging.

The work itself, I think, has the potential to be really interesting, which is obviously the most important thing. I suspect it also has the potential to be quite frustrating, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the interesting outweighs the frustrating.

And finally, the general working hours are Mon-Friday, 10-7pm, every other Saturday 10-2pm. I can find no rhyme or reason for the requirement to work half days every other Saturday instead of simply working 9:30-7pmish during the week. And considering that my new apartment is a like a 45 min commute, I am, in fact, a bit irked by the half day Saturday requirement. So inefficient.

But considering that I used to be on call pretty much 24/7, I guess I can't complain about half day Saturday work every other weekend. Right?