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 . . .