Jane Austen's Delhi

A British friend of mine told me a story the other day wherein his friend called up an expensive restaurant to make a reservation for his anniversary with his wife. Joking around he said, "Do I get a discount because I know the owner?" (He did, actually, know the owner). Fast forward a week and his wife gets a call from a very concerned friend of hers. "I've heard that your husband is having serious financial problems. I just want you to know that I'm here for you if you need me."

Cue laughter.

My friend's take away from this story was that Delhi, at times, can feel like England of yore; there is a small group of wealthy elite who all know each other and keep gossipy close tabs on each other's reputation. The more I've thought about this the more I've realized that yes, Delhi is probably as close to a modern-day equivalent of the world I've only read about in Jane Austen novels as I'll ever get.

For example, I have a very wealthy friend here--a lovely, intelligent, talented woman. The first time I went to her house for a "casual" girl's lunch, she sent one of the family's chauffeurs to pick me up, the butler welcomed me into the house, and were waited on at lunch by two servants. (The lunch, of course, was a multi-course affair cooked by one of the family's chefs and served on silver platters). All in all, I counted about 25 servants in uniform (uniform depending on the servant's position in the house, of course)--including one fellow who was my friend's personal valet, and who waited on us throughout the course of the afternoon.

 Doesn't that sound to you all like what life at Pemberley might have been like?
 
Most of the wives of the wealthy industrialists that I've met here don't work (or have token positions). Many have moved onto their husband's estates where they live in strict hierarchy with their husband's other family members and many seem to entertain themselves through the day by "running the big house" and by making social calls on one another.  And almost everyone of some means that I've met here has been educated at least partially in England or the US; a sort of "Grand Tour" rite of passage.

Despite the liberal, western education of the upper classes, there are definite Austen-like social taboos for women, like drinking or smoking, and even though people pretend that it doesn't matter any more, caste (or class, as Jane Austen would call it), still matters quite a lot. One fellow I was at dinner with a while back mentioned offhandedly that one of his maids is not allowed to step foot into the kitchen because she is a Dalit (AKA, an Untouchable) and by tradition, Dalits can't be near food preparation as their mere presence sullies it.

There is of course a huge number of lower caste persons who work and live on the streets.  There are both slums-dwellers and pavement-dwellers (who aren't even lucky enough to get a slum shelter). And street children, lots of street children. According to the shelter for street children that I visited last Saturday, frequently gangs of kids band together--led by an unscrupulous adult--and make their living by picking pockets (or sex work, if they're girls). And despite laws against it, child labor in factories is also rampant. The image here is perhaps more Dickensian than Austenian--but you get the point.

Basically India is a severely stratified society: at the top it seems to me there are strict codes of behavior, traditional gender and family roles, and a constant monitoring of reputation; at the bottom there are all the evils of the industrial revolution. 

I have to say, it is certainly more relaxing to read an Austen novel than to see her world played out in front of me in living (Indian) color. Ms. Elizabeth Bennett, while I agree it's probably fun to be mistress of Pemberley, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't trade places with you.

Casual sexism in Delhi

Below is a picture of my PAN card, which is my Indian tax-payer ID card. (No, it doesn't come with the number scribbled out like that, I just did a quick and sloppy blackout job in order to protect my Indian identity online.)

Those of you who are paying close attention might notice that below my name it states the name of my father (not my mother, naturally). Because, you know, the government needs to make sure there is a responsible adult backing up a woman's tax payment.

B-list: Safdarjung's Tomb

The other day I decided to go to Safdarjung's Tomb, which is one of the few Mughal-era tombs scattered around Delhi. Although Safdarjung's Tomb is mentioned in my guidebook it is given no love there--the entire entry is like two sentences. Also, in William Dalrymple's great travel book, City of Djinn's: a Year in Delhi, William seems singularly unimpressed and basically talks smack about the place during his entire visit there--that it's rundown, has none of the grace and detailing of the Taj, is a patch-work of second rate materials, etc.

So, I wasn't expecting much when I went to visit (and honestly, I just decided to visit because it was an attraction easily accessible from my metro line). I was pretty much the only tourist there during the hour and half I wandered around the place, though there were many of Indian couples nestled away in the nooks of the tomb on and the ground. (As I've mentioned in prior posts--young, likely illicit, Indian couples just love themselves some good ruins and a park for canoodling.)

Anyway, this is what B-list Delhi attraction looks like: an enormous, beautifully designed Mughal building, fully intact and just radiating in the afternoon sun. (And did I mention I had it all to my touristy self?)

This was the best of many awkward selfies I tried to take. What can I say, there were no other tourists I could ask to take the picture for me!

 

Safdarjung's actual tomb itself. See, glowing!

 

I enjoyed the fact that all of the graffiti on the tomb was romance-based.

 

At one point, an Indian women making out with her boyfriend/husband/lover noticed my awkward attempts to take selfies, paused her make-out session and took this picture. While I very much appreciated her good manners (though, I think her boyfriend did not!) I think she could have used some initial point and shoot pointers.

Bonus, note my cute kurta and pyjama ensemble!

The tomb from the front view.

And the back view

Live and let die?

On Saturday night, as my roommates and I were coming home from a party, we passed a dead body on the road. There had clearly just been a motorcycle accident and the dead cyclist was splattered on the ground with his limbs unnaturally askew.  Although there had been time for the police to block off the road around him (and to congregate at the scene in fairly large numbers) there was no ambulance anywhere in sight. The police appeared to be making no effort to tend to the body in anyway; the dead cyclist was on full view to passersby.

It was a sobering and terrible sight and as our car needled past the scene my roommate mentioned that he had passed another dead body as he was walking down the street a few weeks earlier. I asked him how he knew the man he passed was dead.

"At first I didn't," my roommate said. "I thought he was just sleeping because, you know, lots of people sleep on the streets. But there was something very unnatural about the angle of his limbs which caught my attention. So I looked a little closer and saw that there were bugs coming in and out of his mouth and clustered near his eyes."

Yes, that sounds pretty dead to me.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Nothing. What could I do? The man was already dead and there was no way I was calling the cops. So I just walked on."

I've been thinking about my roommate's response, and in particular, what I would do if I passed a dead body on the street. While it might sound callous to "just walk on", I really don't think there are too many other options here. Because whatever you do, you don't want to call the cops.

The Indian police scare me.  Here's one fun fact: by law, male police officers are not allowed to arrest women at night unless they are accompanied by a female police officer. This is because male police officers were sexually assaulting or raping the women in their custody at such frequency that the Indian government decided it was better just to let any female perpetrators get away with their night-time crimes than to risk their being in police custody. A friend of mine here who works with an NGO on police corruption issues has told me straight out that if I should ever be robbed or assaulted I need to call a male friend immediately and I must not call the police until I have a trusted man by my side. If I want to call them at all. "Honestly," she said, "there's very little chance that the police here can bring your attacker to justice and you really run some risks getting them involved. Call your embassy, perhaps, but not the police." (Note, there is actually a woman's only police hotline--but my friends have tried calling in to see if anyone answers, and it's pretty hit or miss).

So, maybe if I pass a dead man in the street I do just walk on--after all, there really is nothing I can do for a person who has already died. But what happens if I pass an injured person or a dying person?

There is a terrible scene in Katherine Boo's non-fiction book, Behind the Beautiful Forevers, in which she describes a man injured in the street over the course of several hours with passersby doing nothing to help; no one calls for help or even brings the thirsty man water when he's calling out for it. (He eventually dies of his injuries which could have been taken care of if he'd made it to a hospital). It is a horrific image--but I'm beginning to understand why that might happen here.  No one wants to call the cops for reasons above and no one wants to call an ambulance or a hospital as it is possible that the caller would then be responsible for payment of medical fees (or otherwise implicated in whatever led to the injury).  If you're not involved, it's really, really best not to get involved.

Also, let's be real; in a city with this much poverty there are sick and dying people all over the street--just not easily identifiable as so.

Still, while my sense of self preservation may convince my conscience that walking by a dead body without action is justifiable, I don't think I could walk by a person in need of immediate medical care in the same laissez-faire manner. I think I would have to call the cops or a hospital in that case and, perhaps, dangerously involve myself in a situation.

Fingers crossed I never have to.

Mystery solved!

Guys, mystery solved. It's a honeydew melon! (Just a honeydew melon with a little style, that's all).

Ok, maybe it's not actually a honeydew melon because the internet gives me nothing for a "striped honeydew melon" search. But the inside looks and tastes like a honeydew melon--so a honeydew melon it is (for me)!

Tailoring

My local tailors (these guys are just out on the street, not in a shop)

 

I would really like to take advantage of the fact that tailoring and fabric is so cheap here to get lots of perfectly bespoke things made--but I'm nervous. For one, do you guys see a dressing room anywhere? No. So, how can they properly fit me? For two, I'm pretty sure these guys don't speak English (at least no one seemed to understand much when I came to get pants hemmed last month) so I'm doubtful that I can explain in detail what I want. 

However, provided I could get properly fitted and provided I could communicate with them, I just see visions of mass produced perfectly tailored button-down shirts dancing before my eyes (and maybe a sari or two). Should I give it a go?

Not always as easy as it looks

I've gotten a few emails from friends to the effect of: "How are you? I've been reading your blog and you seem really good. I guess moving to Delhi was easier than you thought it would be!" It's true, I am doing pretty well and moving to Delhi was a smoother transition that I had feared. However, as I tend to write my blog postings when I'm in an upbeat mood, I don't want to give you all the impression that Delhi is a piece of cake, that every day is an unadulterated bundle of joyousness and that life is nothing but mangos and flowers over here. And so, to counteract that impression, and for your general amusement, I offer the below: an email I wrote to my boyfriend one day two weeks ago when I was having a particularly low moment. Don't worry--all mushy bits have been redacted.

"Alright, I'm just to get it all out on "paper" because I find that usually when I write out my bad moods it's really helpful. If this sounds like a rant, feel free not to read.

I'm feeling blue today. I HATE feeling blue. It's a feeling totally anathema to my usual sunny personality, n'est pas? Now, I knew that I would have this period because I usually do when I move to a new place, but I think it doesn't help that my birthday is next week and I just have NO desire to do anything for it. WHICH IS VERY UNLIKE ME!! As you know, I usually declare May my birthday month! But here we are, my roommates are goading me to throw a house party, and I'm all like, "Meh, I'll think about it." ISN'T THAT WEIRD?

Because here's what I'd really like to do for my birthday--eat a delicious sushi dinner with my family before heading out dancing with you on my arm and the usual crew of ladies and gents jamming away.

Also, it's another of my friend's weddings this weekend, which I'm missing. (My friend Paul-- you know, Law School Paul). I'm also missing seeing all of my law school friends, some of whom I haven't seen since 2010, coming together. Wah!

Here's really the problem. The thing I love MOST about living abroad is getting to explore new places. But I can't do that in Delhi for another 3 months or so. Do you know why? BECAUSE IT'S TOO EFFING HOT OUT THERE! Like, seriously. So when I'm not working, I'm effectively home bound. I think I really need to start thinking about great indoor activities (like spa-ing? Museum-ing?) that I can enjoy in Delhi. 

And another thing, the food. Now, as you know Indian food is delicious, but I'm eating basically from only two sources--the lunch guy who brings food to the office, and my maid. Which is both very tasty--but getting repetitive. And I can't really eat elsewhere because (a) it's just too hot outside to go look for other food and (b) I've relied on my maid for the cooking I literally don't know where to go to buy other things I might want to eat. Plus, cooking isn't so easy when (i) you're a bit scared of the water and (ii) it's really hot in the kitchen. (Only room in the house without AC).

Now, work is generally pretty good, except for two fairly minor HUGE annoyances. 1) I bring my laptop into work with me every day, which is a hassle and prevents my afterwork socializing since I don't really want to schlep this thing around (today though, I'm asking them to give me a real computer) [Editor's note. I now have a desktop computer at work and no longer bring in my laptop everyday]; and 2) my computer faces the main bull pen so I'm constantly wary when I'm on facebook or something that people (i.e., my boss) is noticing. I didn't have to put up with this stuff for the past 2.5 years at the firm (though, I guess I did for the first year).

ALSO, THE MOTHERFUCKING CHAIWALLAH IS NOT HERE TODAY SO THERE IS NO CHAI! No, that's not actually true. Because Deet (that's his name, or how you pronounce it, anyway) isn't here someone went for an early morning chai-run--but because I was late into the office I missed it. So, I was forced to make myself a crappy cup of Nescafe--with cold milk. (Which I got from an open container in the fridge where just a few days ago I saw a cockroach roaming around. Yes, in the fridge. But Nescafe is too crappy to drink without milk, so I took my chances).

Also, I'm pretty sure my coworkers may think I'm an A-type crazy person--and they're not wrong. But, perhaps not entirely right either--I just need to learn to adjust to a non-law firm perfectionist environment.

[REDACTED]

Ok, phew. I do feel better now. During yoga today our teacher gave us a moment to think about our blessing and I focused on my Delhi-specific blessings. Finding a soccer team and a yoga studio so close to my house, generally enjoying the work and feeling like I have much to learn, finding my apartment and enjoying my roommates. [REDACTED] I have actually been pretty lucky so far. . .

Smooch! 
K"

Random things seen in Delhi

Seen at the entrance to a temple. What was that about worshiping a golden calf?

Seen ouside (yes, there was no roof or further walls here). I would love to go to one of these guys, but I'm pretty sure they wouldn't know what to do with my hair

There are lots of shops that just specialize in stacking things. Like cardboard boxes . . .

or oil(?) canisters . . . .

or bangles!

Cloth and shoe merchants specialize in color and bling.

Mango vendors, from old to young (though I've seen older and younger)

Other than the spoons and, I think, rolling pins, I couldn't figure out what a single thing in this wood shop was for.

And this, just cause. I wish I'd gone down that alley . . .

All's well that ends well

So my roommate tells me:

He has a friend (a French guy, who we'll call Frenchie) who is engaged to a lovely Indian lady (who we'll call Indianette). Indianette lives in an apartment above an older Indian women (who we'll call Heinous Bitch) and her three teenage/early 20s sons (who we'll call Villians). One of the Villians makes a pass at Indianette and is rejected. Next thing you know, Heinous Bitch is telling the entire apartment complex that Indianette is an easy woman, probably a prostitute, who has tempted her innocent sons into a pornography addiction (I swear, you can't make this shit up). Word gets round the housing complex and Indianette begins to suffer increased harassment from the young gentlemen of the area--not the least being the Villians. The whole thing escalates for months until Indianette's neighborhood is legitimately hostile (and probably not so safe) for her anymore.

One day Frenchie is walking Indianette home when he witnesses one of the Villians harassing her. An altercation ensues, the police get involved, Frenchie gets taken to the local jail and beaten up by the cops. (If there is one thing I've learned about Indian jails its that you DO NOT want to be in one).

Indianette's father happens to be friends with the highest ranking policeman  in the area (hereinafter, "Top Cop") who goes to the local jail and releases Frenchie. Top Cop then, in front of Frenchie, proceeds to beat the living daylights out of the cops who arrested him. The story comes out: Heinous Bitch and the Villians had bribed the lower level cops to take Frenchie to jail and toss him around a bit. Upon hearing the story, Top Cop then goes to the housing complex and beats up the Villains. He warns them also to stop harassing Indianette.

So, Frenchie released from jail, the Villians and corrupted cops beaten up, Indianette free from further targeted harassment (well, provided all of the other guys in the neighborhood stop harassing her too, I guess). All's well that ends well, right?

Yup! And as my roommate triumphantly concluded his story, the whole thing--getting Top Cop involved and having him release Frenchie and beat up the offenders and warn the hood to stop harrassing Indianette--only cost Indianette's father 2000 Euros!

A "breath" massage

Last Saturday I went to a spa to get a massage. The spa I went to was in a ritzy area of town and fairly upscale--you know, the kind of place where they've put some delicate-looking flower bowl under the massage table so when you're face-down in the doughnut thingy you have something pleasant to look at. There was gentle music playing, the air was sweetly spiced and I got offered ice-cold glasses of water flavored with fresh lime before and after my treatment.

Basically, what I'm trying to impress on all of you is that this was a very nice, above-board kind of place.

About halfway through the massage, when I'd flipped onto my back, my masseuse--a young Asian woman with limited English--was just in the middle of a vigorous face massage when she asked me if I wanted a "breath" massage. Since I was just getting over a cold and had been sniffing throughout the treatment, I assumed she was offering to to help clear out my sinuses by the targeted rubbing of that forehead area between your eyes that gets clogged. (Don't laugh people, it's a thing. I really have gotten nasal-clearing face massages before). So I said yes.

Of course, she wasn't really asking if I wanted a breath massage.

The next thing I know my modesty sheet had been flipped out, my entire upper half had been oiled up, and my lovely masseuse was giving me quite a vigorous rub-down. Once I got over my surprise I have to admit that the entire experience was, in fact, quite clinical and not at all sketchy--but you can imagine it took me a moment or two to decide whether I was or was not being molested, albeit with my consent. And then it took me another moment or two to decide if this was actually an "extra" service that I would be expected to tip heavily for. (I decided not, though I did tip her well).

After my "breath" massage my masseuse then proceeded to rub my belly, yes like a dog. Which was, nice, I guess. But, having now enjoyed the full "breath" massage experience, here's my review: very meh. I mean, its perfectly pleasant, but until I get as many knots on my front as I have on my back I think I'll skip the "breath" massage next time its offered.

Epilogue:  after I left the spa I told the story of my "breath" massage to my roommates. My British roommate was like "Oh yup, that's totally a thing here. Rumor has it that lonely Indian housewives request young male masseuses just for the experience . . . ."

Scenes from the spice market

The spice market in old Delhi is apparently Asia's largest wholesale spice market. (I also stumbled across Asia's largest electronic market the other day--apparently there are many "Asia's largest ______ markets" in Delhi. As I'm feeling a bit lazy to blog today, I present to you the below: Scenes from Delhi's spice market.

Name that fruit!

Today's game: name that fruit!

No, seriously though--does anyone know what fruit this is? I can't figure it out, but I think it's got to be a melon of some kind.

An Indian Birthday

Yesterday was my 32nd birthday. Now, having a birthday in a foreign country can be a bit of a daunting thing since the close friends and family who I would usually celebrate with are far, far away but I fortunately cracked the code to having a great abroad birthday 11 years ago when I turned 21 in Spain.

At the time my 20-year old self was a bit bummed at the thought of spending my 21st birthday alone, but then I had a total break-through epiphany bolt of lighting; I wasn't going to spent my 21st birthday alone, I was going to spend it with myself! And who knows better how to spoil me, indulge me, and buy me the perfect present than me? No one, that's who! I am in fact, the person best placed in the WHOLE WORLD to show myself a good time because I know exactly what I like to do. So, on my 21st birthday I ate nothing but cheese, cured meats and chocolate all day, bought myself something slinky and sparkly and took myself out dancing (with a few of my party people). It was a great birthday, and ever since then I've given myself license to spoil myself rotten on foreign birthdays (OK, and on domestic birthdays now too).

So, this is what I did last Saturday. At 7:30am my body woke me up and was like, "Let's go to yoga." As most people who know my sleeping in habits will attest, that is actually a really WEIRD thing for my body to do, but I figured I should just go with it (maybe my 32 year old self actually likes waking up early?) So body and I went to yoga class, and then relaxed in a cafe with a cappuccino and a copy of Indian Vogue while I waited for my local spa to open. Then I took myself for a massage, a body polish treatment, some foot reflexology and some steam-rooming (total cost, USD $30) before heading home to find this awaiting for me.

My roommates had bought me flowers, a card, a gift certificate to a (even classier) nearby spa, and, having noted my deep love for the fruit, a carton full of premium A-grade most delicious mangos! Yay!

I spent the rest of the afternoon eating, shopping, reading trashy fantasy novels, and chatting with my boyfriend (who, as per usual, also surprised me with some wonderful presents. And a picture of him about to assassinate a jar of my favorite popcorn kernels as a threat of what might happen if I didn't continue to have a good birthday). 

And then, onto my party! I had basically decided to just buy some liquor, order in some biryani, bring up the house speakers and invite everyone I know in Delhi to come hang out with me on my roof deck (because, you know, otherwise what's the point of having a roof deck?)   I was, of course, a bit worried that no one would show up since I don't know that many folks here, but there was actually a great turn-out--I think about 30 people ended up partying the night away with me, way past my bedtime.

And the best part, people brought me presents! Flowers and a mango cake (homemade) and alcohol and handicrafts and girly lotions and stuff. 

So, all in all it was a pretty great birthday. Here's hoping the year ahead lives up to its promise!

Ommmmmmmm!

So, I’ve taken up yoga.

I know, I know, I can pretty much feel the rolling of your collective eyeballs from here. The headline practically writes itself: White Girl Goes to India to Work in Human Rights, Comes Back with New  Found Appreciation for Ancient Spiritual Practice and Paneer.  But, just hear me out, OK?

I like to exercise. More than that, I need to exercise if I have any hope of burning up the energy madly coursing through my perky veins. When I don’t exercise I feel sluggish, dopish and yes, I’ll just say it, fat. (And friends, let me tell you the massive amounts of samosas I consume on a weekly basis here ain’t helping none with that whole “I feel fat” bit). With the little free time I had in NYC I would play soccer, go to dance class and, if things got really desperate, force myself to jog.

Here in Delhi I have managed to find a soccer team, which was a wonderful and unexpected addition to my life. But, quite frankly, all of the hip-hop/jazz/ballet dance studios here seem like amateur crap (and no, I’m not interested in learning traditional Indian classical dance which is beautiful but seems to the uninitiated me to be largely about graceful hand positions and balancing large fragile things on your head). And, the congested, polluted streets, where the cars, autos, rickshaws, carts, cows, horses, stray dogs and other Wild Things roam, are not an option for jogging. Plus, you know, it’s over 100 degrees out there!

There are actually plenty of gyms around, but as the monthly fee is quite expensive by Indian standards, membership is seen as a status symbol. I’ve been told by friends with gym memberships that Indian women tend to dress up and make up before hitting the treadmills and that the beefcake men spend lots of time oogling the lady-fare. So, basically it’s like a city full of Equinoxes. No thanks. (Also, there is actually very few things in life I hate more than being on a treadmill. I guess I hate going to the dentist more. And I hate work all-nighters more too. But that’s pretty much it).

So, what’s an exercise crazed girl to do? Well, as I always say, when in Rome exercise as the Romans do. And I’m in India, so that means yoga.

Logistically, yoga actually makes a lot of sense for me. There is a lovely little studio a 5 minute walk from my house which offers 8am classes; perfect timing for a girl whose expected to be in the office around 10am. And I have to say, it’s also quite nice to be able to get off the dusty, cranky streets of Delhi into a little oasis of silence of calm.

And you know what else? Yoga is like, really hard. Everyone around me is all doing these crazy arm-stands and twisty things whereas I’m sweating profusely just trying to hold the downward dog position for 8 breaths. I do feel like I’m getting a pretty good work out. And I feel like these totally unnatural stretches that the teacher makes me do are actually working out some kinks in muscles I didn’t know I had.

But you know what the best part is? At the end of every class we get to just lie on the mat and sleep for 10 minutes. Amazeballs!

I know what you’re all thinking right now: “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” And maybe that’s true, as I’d still pass up a good yoga class, even with the nap session built in, for a mediocre hip-hop class in half a heartbeat.  But I’ll tell you one thing, surely and honestly: yoga sure beats jogging!

In case I die tomorrow

I don't want to take this secret with me to the grave. The BEST samosas, lassis and jalebis (Indian fried dough) in the WHOLE WORLD can be found at Kadimi's (pictured below).

Hindustan Ambassador

I see these cars everywhere. Quite a throw-back, no?

Q&A

Question: What is my favorite thing, other than eating, to do in Delhi?

Answer: Shopping and window shopping. I like the colors.