Goodbye readers, goodbye India!

Guys, I know--I just sort of disappeared on you for the past two months with nary a word. I'm sorry, I do feel really bad about that. Of course, I have a bazillion excuses; I was at home for three weeks, I was busy preparing for a barrage of job interviews; I've been running around like crazy trying to prepare my move back. But, in fact, there is no justification for a disappearing act. Sorry-so-sorry!

But, the fact of the matter is that I have accepted a job back in the States and will shortly be heading home(ish. Not quite "home", but close enough). I'm tremendously excited to be moving back to the land of sidewalks and hamburgers, though expect to miss the confusion, color and chaos that envigorated my life here on a daily basis.

The point is, the time has just about come to say goodbye to Delhi, and to this blog. I hope you have all enjoyed reading about my time here as much as I've enjoyed writing about it. And, to see this blog off properly, let me close with a list of ten things I've learned to love about this crazy place.

1. Smooth, cold temple floors in the summer heat
2.  Monkeys banging against closed windows close enough for me to observe them
3. That moment when you get in an auto-rickshaw and the driver automatically turns on the meter
4. Wearing a sari and feeling so elegant
5. The carpe diem mentality of so many Indians
6. Gol gappa
7. The full embrace of the chaos, and the ability to detect patterns in the madness
8. Bright clothing in a dusty landscape
9. The peculiar meshing of ancient customs with modern ways of life
10. Endless, ripe, perfect mangos

 

The Stop and Stare

I have never been to a country where the Stop and Stare move is as ubiquitous as India. This is a close cousin, of course, to the Stop and Assist move, but...not quite the same. What do I mean by the Stop and Stare move? Well, any time there has been an accident, an injury or a bizarre and negative happening masses of passerbys will stop what they're doing, crowd the scene and bear witness.

Now, in the USA we are no strangers to the Stop and Stare move. In fact, this probably explains about 95% of all traffic jams which occur around the scene of an accident--passing motorists slow down to view the grisly scene. (And, I even fear that some poorly-mannered folk in the USA are developing a new move, called the Stop and Take and Selfie in Front of an Accident to be Later Shared on Facebook move). Indeed, to a certain extent I think it's in human nature* to Stop and Stare; we are curious beings, after all. But here in India, it has been taken to a new level.

Evidence #1: a few weeks ago I was playing in a soccer tournament where a girl on the another team has her nose broken. The entirety of her team, and most members on other teams, circled the wounded girl closely, literally hovering above her and pressing in inches away from  the sobbing, blood-splattered player. There was one person next to her, trying to help. The other 30 were just . . . watching.

Evidence #2: Last Thursday, as I was going to work in an autorickshaw, two cars got into a minor fender bender in front of me. (Really minor--in fact, I'm not even sure the two cars made contact. It's possible the driver of the second car was just really upset that the first car had stopped so suddenly in front of him.) One of the drivers got out of his car to yell at the other driver.  What did my autowallah do? He parked his auto in the middle of the road, about 5 feet away from the screaming action, so he could Stop and Stare. I was like "Hey Mr. Autowallah, I need to get to work so, can we not do this?" He ignored me, so involved in the Stop and Stare was he. It wasn't until I threatened to get out of the auto and not pay him that the driver turned the car back on. I mean, come on!

I have no theories as to why the Stop and Stare is so commonplace  in India. So, if anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

*Actually, this isn't in New Yorkers' nature. I've never seen a New Yorker pull a Stop and Stare. We, on the other hand, have perfected (possibly even invented) the I Don't Even Notice or Care about this Amazing/Crazy/Ridiculous/Unbelievable Thing Going On Right in Front of Me Because I Gots to Keep It Moving move.

Seen in Varanasi

What can I say, the man just likes to show off for the ladies. I was suitably impressed

Seen in Delhi

In Delhi, family is everything.

Actually, this ad is almost identical to about half of the personals in the daily papers.

Karmically dammed

I have a heavy karmic debt stemming from a past life. My current life will be filled with hardship, but I’m a survivor. I’m also very stubborn and very loyal. I am attracted to the number 4, but because this number carries its own karmic baggage, I’d be well-advised to stay away from people, places and things baring this number.

At least so says a friend of mine, who is an active believer in the power of astrology and numerology. Where did he get the above personality description? Well, it stems from the fact that I was born on May 17. May means that I’m a Taurus, the earth sign whose defining characteristics are intractability and loyalty. 1 + 7 = 8, and persons who were born on days adding up to 8 are karmically dammed. Well, maybe not dammed per se, but apparently we have some pretty epic shit to make up for in a past life. “Like, you may have killed someone in a past life,” says my friend.

Not all birthdates are so tainted. Another friend who was born on the 1^st of the month is proclaimed to be a natural leader. Those born on dates that add up to 4 do have some karmic payoffs to make, but by and large can sail through life unconcerned with past murders.
 
I asked my friend if there was any good news associated with my birth date. He says, “Oh sure. See that #1 over there? Yeah, maybe she’s a born leader but when the going gets tough she might not make it through. You, on the other hand, are like the energizer bunny. You just keep trekking!”

I pointed out to my friend that, actually, my life so far has not really be filled with hardships. Born to a loving and supportive family, constantly surrounded by amazing friends, healthy and remarkably good-looking. Why, some might even say I’ve lived quite a charmed existence.

My friend scratched his head, “What was building number where you grew up?”

 I answer, “239.”

 
My friend does the math: 2 + 3 + 9 = 14. Then, 1+ 4 = 5. He says, “So you grew up in a 5 building. Very clever of your parents to keep you away from any number 8. No wonder you’ve had a nice childhood. Just be sure to stay away from living in any 8-marked place going forward.”

Yep, will do.

I mean, how cute am I in Indian threads? (And jewels)?

Guys, I don't do this often--but look how cute my new Indian clothing is!

First, my new Nehru vest, bought at India's famous khadi store.  (Khadi just means a kind of homespun cloth that Gandhi made the center of his anti-colonial "Buy Indian" campaign. This vest is actually made out of wool, but came from store selling only Indian locally-made products. Anyway, Nehru vests are very in this year--actually every year. All of the Indian power players wear them.

Next up, my first piece of real Indian jewelry! By which I mean, it's big, very shiny, and can be worn absolutely nowhere except maybe a wedding with a rhinestone studded sari. But seriously, Indian's love this kind of jewelry--my colleagues at work were so impressed with my good taste!

And the best part? The enameling on the back means it's shiny from every direction!

Of course, this wouldn’t be an Indian fashion blog post if I didn’t include one picture of me rocking the kurta pajama look. Here it is, in action, at the office.

And finally, gorgeous, hand-embroidered shawls which probably took three generations of women in a Kashmiri family 2 weeks to complete but can be had for the price of like, 10 minutes of a first year big law attorney's hourly billable rate!

Aren't they gorgeous? I bought two. And see below for a detail on the hand embroidery.

One can say alotta things about India, but one must also say this: this country has the best shopping in the world!

Summer is coming

Summer is coming.

They say it as if they were Paul Revere warning of the advent of the British.

 Summer is coming, and it’s coming soon.

 Yes, I remember summer in Delhi. Steaming hot, sticky wet, dripping smells of ripe body odor and roasting garbage on the pavement. The city slows down, the daytime streets cleared of anyone who can afford not to be out and about. Languishing forms drape over every surface—rickshaw cyclists curled up in their carriage, ice-cream vendors asleep over their refrigerated wares, shoe-shiners passed out over their tools. We sleep to conserve energy and to sweat a little less. But even that rarely works.

Summer is coming, and it’s coming for us all.

Those of us with air conditioners spend our days inside, backs pressed up against the vents with ice-packs stored in the fridge—hoping against hope that these frozen sacks of peas will get us through the next power cut. Then, the power cuts and we lie naked on the stone floors with frozen peas piled on our chests, foreheads and stomachs. The coolness of the floor helps…for a little while. But we pray to every air-conditioning god there is to turn the power back on. There are no atheists in a power cut.

Bathrooms and kitchens aren’t air-conditioned. So, we try to pee less. We eat only those foods which can be prepared hastily, and then retreat back into our air conditioned sanctuaries.

At work, I sit around with my colleagues and argue about who has it worst:

“The power cuts in my neighborhood are so frequent.”

“I have no air-conditioning in my living room.”

“I have no air-conditioning in my bedroom.”

“I have no air-conditioning in my house!”

She wins. Those without air-conditioning always have it the worst.  But there are those even worse off—the poor unfortunate souls living in apartments or slums even without fans. Those living under a tin-roof which radiates heat. Those living under a tarp which radiates everything. Those living without any shelter at all. And those poor, darling children who sell knickknacks to motorists at traffic lights all day in the blazing sun, without shade and without shoes on the burning pavement. Summer is coming for them too.

Summer is coming for the food of Delhi, which will no longer be safe to eat unless prepared seconds before you eat it.

Summer is coming for the justice of Delhi, as the court house shuts down in June on account of heat.

Who will escape? There are those, few—oh, lucky few!—with private power generators and air-conditioned cars. The rich businessmen, the well-connected diplomats, the powerful politicians. But even these blessed folk will still be changing their sweat-stained shirts after each dash from house to car, from car to office.

The only ones who truly escape are those who leave the city.

Today the heat is forecasted to reach 97 degrees Fahrenheit, and it’s not even April yet.

Truly and truly, summer is coming.

Girl crush

Readers, meet Kali—the Hindu goddess of destruction and purity.

Hinduism is a notoriously difficult religion to understand partially because it involves so many gods, each of whom seems to have a bazillion different incarnations and avatars, and partially because it is a religion quite tolerant of being practiced in a diversity of ways by the millions (billions?) of its devotees.  (Sometimes it feels like every Indian has his or her own form of practice.) For now I’ve stuck with learning about the individual gods as they come to my attention in the museums, temples and stories. Last spring I was a big fan of Ganesha, the elephant headed god, who my Hindu colleagues tell me is a “good starter god.” Then my interest shifted to the goddess Saraswati, who presides over the realms of knowledge and arts, when my visit to Calcutta coincided with her festival there (celebrated, apparently, by lots of dancing in front of pop-up Saraswati shrines—she’s also a goddess of dance).

However, when I came across the above picture of Kali during my recent trip to Varanasi and was told the story of her full-throttle bad-assery, my allegiance one again shifted. Kali is a no-holds barred, kick ass and completely crazy kinda chick.  Please note, for example, her blood-stained machete, her necklace of decapitated heads and her skirt of severed hands. And, of course, the 80's rockstar tongue--always out, ready to give anyone a good tongue-smackdown (if the machete doesn't do the trick). That guy beneath her feet? Yeah, that's her husband Shiva--the god of destruction himself!

Kali's origin story, as I’ve been told it, is as follows:

There was an evil demon that was running around earth doing bad demony things everywhere. The people of the world complained, and Kali (an incarnation of Parvati, the wife of Shiva) came down to do battle with the demon. She chopped off its head but, annoying demon-style, in every place that a drop of demon blood hit the earth a new demon sprung up—thus creating an army of demons. Kali freaked out, turned black, stuck out her tongue, and was overtaken by extreme blood lust. She started killing everything that had any bit of sin in it, demons and people alike. She strung together decapitated heads to make herself a necklace and chopped off hands to make herself a (actually very tasteful) A-line skirt.

It was probably around the time that she started prancing around in her severed-hand skirt that someone decided it was time to wake-up her husband. Shiva looked at the situation and was basically like “Well, she’s right, you know. You are all sinners.”  But, he ultimately decided that the decapitated head jewelry was probably not the best look for his missus so he very craftily reduced himself in size until he was just as big as the other sinners Kali was stamping on. Low and behold Kali, in her bloodlust, didn’t notice her husband in the crowd and stepped on him.  Naturally, stepping on one’s husband in a fit of bloodlust is not very nice, and so Kali realized that she herself had just become a sinner. Well, this realization—and that fact that she is actually standing on her husband, who might be kinda ticked at her in the morning—calms her down a bit. 

But, just a bit.

 

That’s Kali’s story. I’m not sure what draws me to it right now, actually, since I'm not usually a big fan of destruction and severed body parts. (Note though, Kali only destroys evil things--so still a heroic figure). I think I just like the fact that in the middle of India—this country where the submissiveness and timidity of a woman are considered paradigm virtues—there also exists this powerful kung fu goddess who is regularly pictured just kicking the shit out of everything she encounters. So, yeah...as of late I've got a bit of a Kali girl crush.

Texts from my phone

"My autowallah appears to be hunchbacked and wearing a shirt covered in blood. Also, he's singing."

"Why is the dog painted blue?"

"Big drama at the office today--the cabinet next to Nithya's desk is possessed, so we had to leave the building."

"Guys, did I leave my pollution mask at your house yesterday?"

In response to a text "Whatcha doing?" "Waiting for the autowallah to finish peeing so we can go. Looks like he's finishing up." 

"Hey roomies, can you pls check to see if it's raining inside my room again? Thx!"

"That asshole monkey is back."

Ornithology, or Why I Should Sleep In on a Sunday.

Last Sunday my friend invited me to come with her crew to a bird sanctuary just south of Delhi to go bird watching. Now, I've never been bird watching before and I know that this bird sanctuary is a world-renowned ornithology center--according to Wikipedia it gets over 100,000 visitors a year and has even been designated a World Heritage Site. I enjoy sitting on my balcony with a cup of tea and watching the birds flit around the tree outside, so I thought: Sure, yeah. I could be a bird-watcher. This could be fun!  So, without really thinking the matter through, I agreed. 

 

Let this be a lesson to me: spontaneous decisions are best made after doing the substantial research. Actually, spontaneity is highly overrated. For example, here are some bits of research I probably should have done before agreeing to go to the bird sanctuary:

(1) What does "just south of Delhi" actually mean in terms of driving time?  

Answer: 9 hour round trip.

 

(2) What is the best time to view birds? 

Answer: early in the morning, so considering how "just south of Delhi" the sanctuary is, it's best to leave the city around 5am.This is true even if you don't get to bed until 1am.

 

(3) What are the average Delhi driver's favorite tunes to listen to while driving? 

Answer. Bollywood inspired techno. Loud, loud, Bollywood inspired techno.

 

(4) Where are the best/any restaurants around the bird sanctuary?  

Answer: Really, there are none. But who needs food?

 

(5) What is the weather likely to be like on Sunday? 

Answer: Unseasonable monsoon rains.

Ok, ok, perhaps I'm painting too dire a picture. After all, having only gotten 3 hours of sleep the night before I did manage to doze off a bit during the initial drive to the sanctuary and we got one, lovely, precious hour of premium bird watching before the monsoon struck and just ruined everything. And you know what I learned in the hour? I actually really do like bird watching, especially when accompanied by a knowledgeable guide with binoculars, in a place just teeming with gorgeous birds (and pythons, sambas, mongooses--which we also saw in that hour). In fact, I dare say that if we had gotten say, 4 hours of bird-watching in I might have even considered that well-worth the 9 hour round trip.

But, alas, the monsoon rains care for no one. All too soon we were soaked, cold, clambering back into the car, and driving back towards Delhi. Le sigh and lesson learned. Sometimes, the early bird catches no worm.

Healthy?

I really can't tell if India has been remarkably good or remarkably bad for my health. I'm clearly either the healthiest I've ever been or the least healthy I've ever been and I swing daily between thinking I'm in peak physical fitness or knocking on death's door.

On the healthy side of things my personal habits have become annoyingly, sublimely good. I wake up every day before work and either do yoga or high intensity training. I've replaced my sugary breakfast cereals with some healthy homemade granola and mashed banana and yes, I've even replaced my beloved chai with green tea, which I now drink twice a day. For lunch I usually eat a small vegetable and whole grain-based meal and my afternoon snack consists of another banana, an orange and a big glass of fresh pomegranate juice from the only juicewallah in India that I'm feel hygienically confident in. Dinner is usually the brown rice and stewed veggie that my maid serves up every day. 

Sounds pretty good, right? You're all thinking "OMG, Kate. When did you get so effing annoying in your eating and working out habits?" Well, don't hate on me yet, y'all, because you'll soon understand that I have been forced into a life of relentless healthy habits due to the horrid underlying determinants of health all pushing me towards an early grave.

I'm living in the most polluted city on earth where commentators joked(?) that President Obama's short trip here in January may have reduced his life expectancy by 6 hours. I have no air filters in my house and spent about an hour a day in an open air vehicle just inhaling all of the luscious exhaust India's clogged roads have to offer. I get sick pretty reliably every 6 weeks or so--not majorly sick, but a bit of a common cold which is becoming a bit too common for my liking. I am covered for about 18 hours a day in what I assume must be highly toxic anti-mosquito lotion (dengue fever don't play around, y'all).

And, I think my hair is falling out. Actually, I'm pretty sure it is--but fortunately I have so much hair that it doesn't make so much of a difference...yet. My expat friends have all reported that they're all slowly balding too, I've also read at least one non-fiction book where the Delhi-transplant's hair also falls out and the shelves are pharmacies here are stocked with "Anti Hair Fall" shampoo. So, I think I'm in pretty good company, really. Yes, as it turns out, Delhi is a city full of slowly balding men and women.

 

But, I'm pretty sure that I read somewhere that green tea has miraculous curing properties--which must include hair regrowth, right? So, maybe I'll just up my green tea game to three cups a day, and we'll call this whole health thing a wash.

The Calcutta flower market

 

A few weeks ago I went to Calcutta for the weekend because, well because there are just certain names that evoke romance, exoticism and intrigue and for me, Calcutta is one of those places.  I'm not quite sure why "Calcutta" rings in my ears the way it does--maybe it's the association with Mother Theresa and her crusade against poverty, maybe its that line from the musical Rent: "This is Calcutta, Bohemia is dead!" Or maybe, it's just the pleasing alliterative ticketytack as the word rolls of my tongue. Cal. Cut. Ta. (Go on, try saying it aloud. I'll wait. Nice, isn't it?)

 

 

Anyway, point being is that about a month ago I packed a weekend bag and escaped into this evocative-sounding city with a friend and a well-charged camera. I haven't yet had a chance to put my Calcutta pictures up, except for a few in a posting below (though, keep your eyes peeled for a facebook album coming to a computer near you soon!)  Truthfully, I doubt I'll be able to describe all of my Calcutta adventures for you guys in detail, but I did want to introduce you all to the explosion of color, noise, activity, and odors that is the Calcutta flower market--which was my favorite part of the city. 

 

 

Actually, I think most Indian cities probably have similarly bustling flower markets--flowers are BIG business here since religious worshipers are encouraged to make floral offerings and shrines and temples; anyone trying to make a good impression with their hotel/restaurant/other business will indubitably deck it out with the auspicious marigold flowers; and many women daily wear jasmines in their hair. (In fact, many of the street children who haunt the traffic light near my work sell loops of jasmine for ladies' hair. Usually, though, they take one look at the crazy mop on top of my head and walk on). However, at least in Delhi, the flower wholesale market takes place on the outskirts of the city (and very early in the morning), so it's not the easiest place to view as a tourist. The Calcutta flower market, however, is smack dab in the middle of the city and apparently goes on with strength and ferocity throughout the day.

I encountered a few surprises as I wandered the crazy mayhem of the market. The first is that flower selling appears to be a largely male business (though, I did find a few female vendors, who are pictured below). I'm not sure why this should surprise me since I rarely see female vendors of anything in India, but I guess I had assumed that the sale of florals might be considered more feminine work. But nope, clearly, in India it's a man's world--everywhere. (And actually, considering the weight in flowers that I saw certain vendors carrying on their head, I guess it makes some sense that, at least the flower transporters should be male).

 

The second surprise was how well-presented these flowers were even at the wholesale market--beautiful (and long) strands of strung-together blossoms were being sold everywhere. Since flowers don't grow in convenient beaded-together ropes this must mean that the vendors (or more likely, their wives) do substantial presentation work even before the market opens. I can only imagine that stringing together yards and yards of flowers must be a tiring and time-consuming task, and I now have this mental image of flower vendors sitting up late at night surrounded by heaps of vegetation, sewing together flowers upon flowers upon flowers.

 

 

 

The third surprise was how few tourists there were to witness this remarkable spectacle. (Actually, I think my friend and I were the only tourists around!) So, let me just say it here: folks, if you ever make it to Calcutta, go to the flower market!

So, I've been back in Delhi for about 36 hours now...

And already the following has occurred:

My colleague reports having seen a sword fight just outside the office. More like a sword attack, actually, since only one member of the "fight" happened to be carrying a piece. (And, of course, by piece, I mean old-school, larger-than-life, medieval style weaponry). Apparently, Mr. Sword Slasher was ticked off that Mr. Unarmed dared to interfere in a "domestic matter". Mr. Unarmed retreated soon after being slashed ("A mere flesh wound," reports my colleague), whereupon the women of the neighborhood began to verbally berate Mr. Sword Slasher. It doesn't sound like the police ever got involved because, TII (which stands for, This Is India).

After a pristine year of eating whatever foods of questionable hygienic standards I wanted, I have finally been food poisoned. It was bad--I was throwing up every half hour almost on the dot for 6 hours. And the shame of it all is that I hadn't eaten anything for the previous breakfast or dinner  that I hadn't cooked myself.  Somehow I did this to myself!!! Clearly, my stomach can handle anything the mean streets of India or Sri Lanka can throw at it...but not my own cooking. I may never cook again, but will subsist on greasy, buggy street foods for the reminder of my time here--just to be safe.

I have new roommates! Sadly, my former British roommate ended up leaving India permanently in quite a sudden manner--literally, I got a text from him en route to the airport saying that he wasn't coming back to India (for very valid reasons, mind you)--so my German roommate and I had been looking for someone new to move in. Fortunately, some friends of ours were looking for a room, so a lovely Indian-German couple has moved in. (I must say, I'm particularly happy to be living with an Indian guy who can now explain to me what all of those randos who ring the doorbell on a Sunday morning, but don't speak English, want.)

It's been an eventful day and a half. Let's see what else March has in store . . .

And once more, vacation/hiatus time.

Hey folks, I'm heading to Sri Lanka and then Kerala tomorrow for a two week vacation with my fella. We will be visiting ancient temples, beaching, exploring forgotten cities, going on wildlife safaris, visiting tea plantations, hiking massive gorges, boating down the backwaters, attending dance shows, riding elephants, and eating lots and lots and lots of food. I will not be blogging.

See y'all in March!

Men at work in Calcutta

If there's one thing you see all over the place in India, it's men working. (And sometimes women working, but more often than not the gender ratio in public spaces is crazily skewed like 60:1. But more on that in another post).

In any case, here are some of the interesting jobs I saw while on a long weekend trip to Calcutta....

[This man's job? He's a professional cheese-sitter. Yes, that's what he's doing here--sitting on a block of paneer, squeezing out the water. If this job were available for brie I'd be all over it.]

 [At the flower market, these are the guys who bring flowers to and from the wholesale sellers. It looks like really tough labor.]

[The toughest work, I think,is that of the rickshaw puller. These guys are a throw-back to colonial times and have been banned everywhere else in the country (which has instead bicycle rickshaws) but Calcutta. Actually, they're technically banned in Calcutta too, but nobody seems pay that any attention--rickshaw pullers are everywhere. These guys are supposed to run while pulling along two (inevitably fat) riders for pennies, just pennies. (And need I mention that every rickshaw puller I saw was underweight and looked quite old, just like this fellow?) Apparently they're most used in the monsoon season when the streets are flooded waist height--these guys slosh through the water so their passengers don't have to. Everytime I would pass one of these guys with an empty cart he would bang on the seat and try to give me a ride, but I just...couldn't. Which makes me feel bad too--perhaps the only thing worse than a rickshaw puller running along with two fat cats in the seat is a rickshaw puller with an empty cart. Please, government of India/Calcutta--find better work for these men.]

[A snack seller, in his store nook]

 

 [A slightly more upscale snack seller in his store nook. Still not enough room to stand up in, though-but the snacks were tasty!]

 [This guy is a coal breaker, I think. I'm actually not totally sure what he's doing with the coal, but during the 5 minutes I was watching him he was sort of hunched over it, inhaling full smoke plumes (so unhealthy, poor guy), jabbing it with a stick. This was the one moment he looked up and smiled.]

 [A meat vendor at the local market. His table was his shop]

 [This guy sells hair.  I don't think it's human (at least it smelled very animal-y) but I'm not sure what it was]

[And finally, a woman! This lady ran a chowmein-making store. I had a bit--it was quite tasty]

This is what it feels like to be in a cycle rickshaw

With commentary by me.

Seen in Calcutta

Man, Monkey, Truck. Do you think the driver knows he has a hitchhiker?

Kate gets a snack

"Kate, the sweet potato guy is by the temple."

Bang! My tea mug slams down as I burst from my chair. The sweet potato man is back! And within easy walking distance! No matter that I've just finished lunch and am absolutely not hungry. No matter that I have much work to do before I leave for the day. The sweet potato man is here!

In two quick swoops I have my wallet in hand and have descended upon my sweet-potato-partner-in-crime's desk.

"Apurba, the sweet potato guy is by the temple!"

Apurba is being called into our boss's office. She looks at me with eyes of hunger and longing. "The sweet potato guy!" She says, "Can you please get me some?"

Of course I can, but no time to delay. I charge down the stairs to the laughter of my colleagues behind me. "Kate," one calls out, "he's not going anywhere. It's the Tuesday night market."

I know they're probably right, but my heart won't let me risk it. The street sweet potato, roasted, then tossed with salt, masala seasoning and lime juice is my favorite Delhi street food. But the season for sweet potatoes is almost over . . . I've gone out every day for the past week in search of any sweet potato vendor but have come up empty handed. (Though, to the market neighborhood just out of walking distance from my office, one still see like, 3 or 4 of those guys on every block. Honestly, some neighborhoods get all the luck!).

I emerge outside, turn left past the street chaiwallah, past the public urinals,  past the corner store where I get my daily diet cokes and past the guy selling dumplings of questionable hygiene. Within these 30 seconds no less than three rickshaw cyclists pull up next to me and pound their back seats, indicating availability. I turn them all down, no need for a rickshaw when the sweet potato guy is just by the temple!

And finally, there he is! With his beautiful display of sweet potatoes roasting on coals, surrounded by a ring of limes and some weird red berries. He looks at me, and I'm afraid he'll sense my desperation and raise his potato prices. So, with bored eye I glance quickly at his display, pretend to consider my dumpling options, then nonchalantly raise up two fingers and wiggle my head.

"Two please."

He takes off, peeling, slicing, dicing, mixing and pouring. Within 45 seconds he's poured me two delicious bowls of savory sweet potato (though I worry that he may have put in too much lime juice). I hand him a crisp 50 rupee note; he hands me back 10 rupees change. Excellent! Charged the right price without any haggling! Clearly, my sweet potato guardian angel is watching out for me today.

Back to the office, carefully cradling my starchy gifts in each hand. Poor Apurba is still in with the boss, so she's going to miss out on the steaming hot deliciousness--though I'm sure it will still be good cold. I leave her present on her desk.

I open my sweet potato packet and the aroma waters my mouth.  I waste no time, but dive in, stuffing each sweet-salty chunk into my mouth with the toothpicks cleverly provided.

Ummmmmmmmmmm

Every day is a good day when the sweet potato man comes around.     

Delhi Elections, part II

Ok, I need to correct a factual error in my previous post: clearly BJP, despite being the ruling party of India, is not the most popular political party in Delhi. As it turns out from the election results, which were released today, BJP is more like that unpopular kid who somehow snuck into the cool kid's house party because today, in a massive coup, 67 out of the 70 possible city parliamentary seats (sort of like our state senates, I guess) went to the newcomer AAP (Aim Aadmi Party).  As one of my friend's put it, the entirety of the Delhi elected BJP block can now show up to official functions driving one Tata Nano car.

AAP really is the new kid on the block--having formed in just 2013(?) it's not yet a national political party. But the fact that it has totally swept Delhi elections in just its infancy does speak well for its national prospects--presuming, of course, that  Arvind Kejriwal, the new Delhi chief minister (read: governor) and his 67 parliamentarians make good on their platform of anti-corruption and women's safety. Delhi, as the capital city, looms large in the minds of most Indians so, to almost quote Frank Sinatra, if AAP can make it here, they can make it anywhere.

Poor Modi. Not one full year in office and his party is already getting thrashed by the new kid.* As one of my colleagues pointed out, this could really be seen by a (Delhi) referendum on him because, as you guys can see from the picture in my last post, BJP almost entirely ran based on his image. Most Indians I've spoke to seem not too critical of Modi though, so maybe that's reading a bit much into it.

 Anyway, here's hoping AAP really can bring about the change they've campaigned on. Who wouldn't want a less corrupt and safer city?


* Actually, the real losers of the day were the Congress party, which is the other major national party. The Congress party has been in power for the last 15 years, I think, and has basically descended into being a family run business--the family, of course, being that of Indira Gandhi. Everyone I've spoken to seems to agree that the Congress party is hopelessly corrupt and inefficient--so good riddance.

Delhi Elections

 [The front page of all four major newspapers of India yesterday, taken over by BJP political advertising]

It's election season again here in Delhi--in fact the municipal elections are being held today. What has this meant for our glorious heroine over the past few days? Not much, really--just some additional headaches and enforced sobriety.

Let me explain. For the past few weeks local campaigning has throttled into high gear. I'm neither a voter nor a Hindi reader so I have been fairly out of the loop though it has been impossible to miss the uptick in political billboards and advertisements on the roads, in the metro and in the newspaper. There has also certainly been a noticeable amount of political campaigners roaming the street who mercifully ignore me; you can tell who they are because they are adorned in the colors and paraphernalia of their candidate--most prominent amongst by far these have been the BJP guys. BJP is the current ruling party--Prime Minister Modi is BJP--and it's the most popular political party in Delhi.

I really don't mind the groups of campaigners wandering around my neighborhood, even if they do wear the ugliest hats I've seen in a while (sort of like the triangle chef's hat in BJP's orange and green stripes). In fact, I kinda dig how grassroots democracy seems to be around here. (Of course, you do hear ugly tales of local politicians buying/beating votes out of vulnerable populations, which is ... not good). But, from a strictly selfish point of view, what I really dislike about election season are those goddam loudspeakers.

Aaaaargh! The loudspeakers! Attached to cars, autos, lampposts, pretty much anything else that moves or is stationary. Blaring loud, shrill, angry-sounding, cranky political messages in Hindi over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. It's really too much. Even my  afternoon jaunt to my local fruit juice walla, previously my moment of restful chi during the workday, has become a cacophony of political screeches--some idiot has gone and tied a loudspeaker to the fruit stand! Honestly, it's probably worse for folks who can understand the Hindi message but I just... aaaaargh! (Even my cubicle--deep in the windowless guts of my office--provides little relief. Every time a mobile loudspeaker goes by I am reminded of how thin the walls are).

And I can't even dampen my headaches in alcohol because for the three days prior to the elections themselves Delhi goes dry; no liquor sales anywhere. I mean, I do think it's a good idea not to drinking and voting but sometimes a girl just needs a gin and tonic to drown out the cacophony, you know?

Ah democracy. The worst form of political governance except for all other forms.

The Sunday Book Market

Ever wonder what happens to your old text books, dime novels, study guides, and worn-out classics after you’re done with them? Perhaps donated them to a school book fair, dropped them off at Housing Works or sold them back to Barnes and Nobles? Well, friends, I think I’ve found the answer.

They end up on the streets of Delhi’s Sunday afternoon book market in the old city. A friend who is an avid reader brought me here last Sunday and I was amazed to see blocks and blocks of book-sellers hawking the books of yesteryear (and, to be fair, a couple of new releases as well, carefully displayed in plastic wrapping). Each bookseller seemed to have his own specialty but I was surprised to see just how many old text-books and study guides were on offer; it felt like these were the bulk of the books being sold. I have no idea if a person looking for a specific text book would be able to find it, but I’m pretty sure if you could find a text book on any given subject you were interested in: organic chemistry, US federal law, basic algebra; early modern European history, SAT guides, etc.

There was also a healthy offering of drug store romance novels with pec-a-licious Fabio adorning the cover, not to mention an generous assortment of self-help books, cook books, and, of course, a whole slew of books in Hindi. Not to be outdone, there were also several hawkers with carefully-curated collections of novels and literally classics. I myself pounced on a beat-up copy of Holy Cow (a book about an expat struggling in India that I’d been wanting to read) for only $1.50 while my friend picked up a slightly-charred copy of The Little Prince (the bottom left corner was burned away, but the book itself was perfectly legible) for only $0.50. She also engaged in a fierce bout of bargaining with one vendor for 10 titles she wanted to buy, but ultimately walked away when the vendor refused to lower his price more than $4 per book. (For that price, she says, she can buy the books new.)

One other little fun bit I noticed about the book market—at some places they even sold books by weight! (I bet those vendors don’t do much trade in law texts, though—damned heavy things.)

 [What a bargain! Best-sellers for only Rs. 200 per kilo!]