Life lately

June 24, 2008

I'm gradually carving out routine in my life here in Sadashivanagar.

In the morning, I pad barefoot into the kitchen, where I pour my milk and granola to the glow of a bare orange bulb from the adjoining puja room--the Hindu equivalent of a prayer closet.

I ask what it means to worship the god of destruction. Maya tells me it's about practicing detachment.

At 7:00 a.m., I stroll out our front gate, past the manicured botanical park where women in saris and sneakers walk laps around the shrubbery.

My favorite is the man who stands stock still in the middle of the park, vigorously pumping both arms up and down over his head. I know there's a culture of dynamic stretching here--but I can't suppress a giggle at the intensity on his face. Or the spontaneous wish that Jared was here to laugh with me.

I stand on the street corner to wait for Kumar, the rickshaw driver who promised yesterday to pick me up again today.

It's 7:09 a.m., and still no Kumar. My chest starts to tighten. He's not coming. And the thought of starting over--flagging a driver during rush hour traffic, negotiating the price of a 45-minute commute, explaining my destination in a neighborhood devoid of cognizable landmarks--seems almost overwhelming.

Then I hear a voice behind me: “Madam!”

I turn to see Kumar jogging down the street to meet me. His rickshaw is parked on the next corner over, where he's been waiting for me all this time.

My heart swells with gratitude for the explicit answer to a childish prayer--a sentence half-flung to the heavens, then fulfilled through a man who doesn't even know my name.

I clamber into the back seat and wrap up for the ride, mostly because of my hair.

The curls have perversely adapted to the informality of life in the developing world. Freed from the taming influences of car commutes and air conditioning, they unfurl to full width and breadth on a daily basis, which frustrates me to no end.

It's not pure vanity, I swear. I've gradually resigned myself to the constant sheen on my forehead, courtesy of the Indian spices that trigger beads of sweat at every meal. (Attractive, I know.) I've even contemplated dispensing with makeup for the summer, because no one else here seems to wear it.

But I cannot, will not lose the Battle of the 80's Hair.

To that end, I've taken to stuffing a dupatta in my book bag and wrapping my head and shoulders before every rickshaw ride.

In my mind, I'm rocking the scarf and sunglasses old Hollywood style. But judging by glimpses in the rearview mirror, I look more practicing Muslim than vintage Audrey. Oh well.

So that's my morning routine. After work, I flag another rickshaw driver and experiment with more pronunciations to explain my way home.

Sadahivanagar. SadashiVANagar. SaDASHiv Nagar.

Recognition dawns in his eyes. Ohh. Why didn't you say so?

So far, my best attempt at a Kannada accent involves tacking another syllable to all of my directions: "Straight-ah. Right-ah. Left-ah." And somehow that makes my American English more readily understood.

When I'm back at the house, we make dinner. Well, Nadia makes dinner, and I wash the dishes, since I'm still completely out of my culinary element in a Hindu kitchen.

What exactly does one cook without meat or eggs?

Pasta's out, since I can't compete with Nadia's impromptu tomato sauces. And baking isn't an option, because there are no ovens here. I'm contemplating an attempt at vegetarian Tex-Mex, but other suggestions are appreciated.

Afterwards, we sit in the living room, chatting about work and scribbling in our journals and watching Indian reality TV. (Our favorite is a highly entertaining Indian equivalent of So You Think You Can Dance?.)

By 11:00 p.m., I'm curled up in bed, ready to read and write and fall asleep, so I can start it all again tomorrow.

All about rickshaws

June 23, 2008

I've declared war on the rickshaw drivers. Yes, war.

But first, a bit of background for that (admittedly uncharitable) sentiment:

The auto rickshaw introduced me to Bangalore in the first place.

I loved the sensory assault of the rickshaw experience: the wind whipping my hair as we sputtered into high gear, the spasm of panic as we swerved and merged and played chicken down the center stripe.
And the honking--oh, the honking. Sometimes I think it's a necessary safety habit. And sometimes I think it's just a reflex run wild.

A typical truck warning: PLEASE SOUND HORN PLEASE. Which strikes me as both comical and utterly superfluous.

Dude, everyone sounds the horn here.

The rickshaw itself is a 3-wheeled yellow buggy with all the horsepower of a go-cart and the bellow of a John Deere.

(Check out the plush interior. I'm convinced that Pimp my Rickshaw would be the next hit show on MTVIndia.)

So the auto rickshaw is my primary mode of transportation for the summer. But it's also a mode of immersion in the city, a way to skim entire neighborhoods and still be close enough to touch the commuter stuck next to me in traffic and wave to the schoolgirl perched on a curb.

That part of the rickshaw ride has yet to lose its charm. Even when I tire of breathing the rush hour fumes and tasting the grit in my teeth, I'm still breathing and tasting and becoming part of this place.

##

So much for my rickshaw vignette.

Despite the thrill of the transit experience, the ugly logistics remain:

I'm a white girl with a wad of Rs. 100 bills in her wallet and an address scribbled in a notebook. Even if I know where I'm going, I don't know how to get there, and I probably can't pronounce the destination. I speak only American English--not Kannada, Hindi, Tamil, or Telugu, and not the Indian incarnation of a language that vaguely resembles my own.

To complicate matters further, the meager bargaining skills I learned in Chinese street markets are completely useless here. If I refuse an exorbitant price, there is no counteroffer. The driver shakes his head and keeps driving.

Which is preferable, I suppose, to the less scrupulous drivers who scroll the rickshaw meter to jack up the price. Or the ones who claim we've arrived, but leave me standing on an unfamiliar street corner, wishing fervently for street signs and city grids.

All that brings me back to today, when I was standing on a curb in 5:00 p.m. traffic, negotiating with driver after driver, eyes welling up with exhaust and exhaustion, praying for someone to just take me home.

##

Now I'm back, sitting in the garden swing, smacking the occasional mosquito, and rereading letters that make me happy.

Tomorrow is another day, and today I'm especially grateful for the grace evident in that.

I know I'm learning in the little things: how to turn on light switches and negotiate shower knobs and cross the street to get home.

But I'm learning big things too: that prayer here is frequent and fervent and utterly specific. That purpose and passion are bestowed, not self-generated. That He goes before me, even here, even now.

Salwars and skin

June 22, 2008

I sacrificed my Sunday afternoon nap for a shopping trip, mostly because I'm eager to shed my image as the scantily-clad American girl.

Bare backs and bellies--regardless of shape--are considered quite tasteful and appropriate here. Bare shoulders or collarbones, on the other hand, are deemed borderline indecent.

It's funny how quickly I imbibe those cultural sensibilities: I saw a group of European tourists trooping down a sidewalk in hiking boots and cargo shorts earlier in the weekend, and I found myself gawking at their collection of bare shins and exposed kneecaps.

Um, you can't wear that here.

Hence, the shopping trip. I spent four hours wriggling into salwars in sweaty dressing rooms--and quickly realizing that I needed help to get out again.

(You try pulling off a fitted knee-length dress with no zipper. There was squirming involved.)

Picking the ones to try on was a task in itself. I see beautiful textiles on other women on a daily basis. In fact, the prevalence of rich, striking, even gawdy color is my favorite aspect of Indian fashion.

But in a corner shop with racks and racks of kurtas and kurtis and salwars and churidars, I get overwhelmed. I don't have enough of an eye for it, to tell what complements my skin tone...

...and what makes me look like a Broadway costume or a picnic blanket.

Fortunately, I had enough sense to recruit Hannah, who has acquired a developed sense of Indian style (and an enviable fluency in Indian English) in her five years of living in Bangalore.

I pick up one kurta.

She grimaces: "Put it down."

I meekly obey, hanging it back on the rack.

I pick up another.

"Ohh, that's adorable."

I smile and nod and add it to the pile draped over my arm.

Of course, I can't much tell the difference. But she doesn't need to know that.

As it turns out, Hannah is usually right. By the end of the afternoon, I have four salwars that I think are quite pretty.

But shopping wears me out, and I come home ready to collapse. Week two starts tomorrow.

At the flower market in Gandhi Bazaar, in a salwar I picked out all by myself.

The spoils of my first shopping trip.

Mahamastakabhisheka (and other words I can't pronounce)

June 21, 2008

I spent my first Saturday in India lurching and honking across the state of Karnataka on a 15-hour bus tour of historic religious sites in the area.

First stop: Sravanabelgola, the site of a Jain statue and a climb that reminded me very much of this one.

Six hundred plus steps to the top: my Saturday morning workout.

Who needs a Stairmaster when you've got a mountain of steps?

The only catch: no shoes allowed.

On the way up, trudging barefoot on stone steps felt like a mild exfoliant. Until the stone soaked up the Indian sun, and then I was hopping between scraps of shade to get down.

Of course, if you prefer not to hike, you can always pay for a dholi and four men to jostle you all the way to the top.

Elephant detail.

Blessings at the feet of Gomateshvara, a 59-foot-high statue that vaguely resembles Buddha. Except standing. And naked.

Legend has it that Gomateshvara was an Indian prince with a feud against his older brother over their inheritance. In the midst of one fight, the enraged Gomateshvara was on the verge of slamming his brother to the ground--when he stopped. In a moment of clarity, he resolved to reject the world of jealousy and violence and embrace a life of solitude and detachment.

So he set his brother back on the ground, and stood still. So still that the snakes coiled around his ankles and tree roots grew around his legs. And there he stands, still locked in meditation...

Ok, so I actually learned all that in my travel guide, where I also found the longest word I've ever seen: Mahamastakabhisheka. Now say that three times fast.

It's the name of the ceremony ever 12 years where Jain priests bathe Gomateshvara in milk and ghee. Five bucks says I'll figure out a way to drop that one in cocktail party conversation before I graduate.

Before we reached Sravanabelgola, Nadia and I struck up conversation with Anupam, the landscape engineer from Delhi who sat next to us on the bus. We introduced ourselves as law students working for NGOs this summer (a line that is rapidly becoming the stock explanation for my presence here). Anupam was visiting his brother in Bangalore and touring the temple architecture in Karnataka, and he readily adopted the role of our informal tour guide.

Standing at the foot of Gomateshvara, Anumpam was expounding on the beauty of Jain asceticism as a tool for attaining detachment from the world and distance from suffering.

I had to ask. But what about the suffering of others? Surely there's a difference between serenity and apathy?

Anupam hesitated, then dryly replied: "That's where the NGOs come in."

Mmm...coconut. Too bad I had more fun playing with the shell than slurping down the cloudy liquid inside.

Stop two: Belur, a paradigmatic Hoysala Hindu temple, and the most intricate piece of architecture I'd ever seen.

The entire temple exterior was covered in stone figures: ornamented elephants, voluptuous goddesses, entire stories in bas-relief.

This particular temple was Vaishnavite, so the larger statues were all representations of Vishnu.

Admittedly, the Hindu concept of deity still confuses me. (I'm reminded of Dr. Olasky's analogy in Religions Next Door. Hinduism, he says, is a jellyfish religion: it's impossible to pin down.)

As Anupam explained the three main Hindu deities, Brahman is the creator, Shiva is the destroyer, and Vishnu is the preserver.

Standing there, puzzling over the painstaking detail in yet another Vishnu icon, I couldn't help but think: there he is. Quite well preserved.

Group shot with Anupam and Eric, our other bus friend.

Nadia and me--the Canadian and the Texan, taking India by storm.

Before a fall

June 19, 2008

Just this morning, I was thinking (rather smugly, in retrospect) how well I was adapting to the minor discomforts of Bangalorean life.

Of course, it was rather inconvenient to wake up, flip the living room light switch, and hear only the empty click of another unreported blackout.

But I was willing to shrug and resign myself to wearing yet another semi-wadded button-down. (My working rationale is that I can't be held responsible for the wrinkles if I can't turn on the iron.) If sporadic electricity is a daily reality in much of the developing world, then surely I could accept the same conditions for only a summer with relative serenity.

Or so I thought.

Until today, when I'm typing frantically, writing my first real legal assignment on my first real (and imminent) deadline. I'd almost finished a draft--when the screen buzzes and goes black.

No warning, no backup, no autosave.

Ack. My veneer of composure cracks wide open, and I'm suddenly fighting the urge to scream about the futility in losing hours of work and the stupidity of wasting good prose.

Then I remember my affected nonchalance only hours beforehand, and I have to smirk at the irony.

So I sit down, power up, and start over.

Platitudes

"We, who have not experienced poverty and hunger, want and destitution, talk platitudinously of freedom and liberty, but these words have no meaning for a person who has not even a square meal per day, hardly a roof over his head, and scarcely one piece of cloth to cover his shame."

--Supreme Court Justice P.N. Bhagwati, Neeraja Chaudhary v. State of Madhya Pradesh

Breathing in

You smell Mumbai before you get there.

At least according to the burly British man who sat next to me on the flight from Amsterdam and saw fit to warn me as we circled Indian air space.

And he's right: the smells are vivid. ("Drainage Ditch Road" deserves the name, to put it mildly.)

But so are the colors.

And the clothes.

And the cultures.

So I'm getting used to gulping down the pungent ambiance of Bangalore--if only to keep one of my five senses from spoiling the other four.

Day One

June 17, 2008

Snapshots:

● Remembering that water pressure and electricity are luxuries of the developed world, not necessities for daily life. "Shower" is perhaps an overly generous word for the drizzle I used to scrub 9,848 miles of airline travel out of my hair. A half hour later, I arrived at the office, just in time for a scheduled power blackout that lasted the rest of the work day. But I was clean and I was here, and little else seemed to matter.

● Learning to ball rice and curry with my fingers (right hand only, as the left is reserved for more unsavory purposes), then flick the ball into my mouth with my thumb. So far, I’m better at the balling than the flicking.

● Plunging into the Bonded Labour Act, as I start to get my legal bearings.

● Forgetting to drink my morning chai before it grows a whole milk skin on top.

● Strolling home from work to find two stray cows calmly chewing cud in the afternoon shade on our block.

● Realizing how thoroughly ridiculous my feet look, trudging down a dirt road in a post-wedding pedicure--the physical vestige of a world very far from this one.

● Napping, glorious napping.

● Gawking at the vivid pulse of this city in my first auto rickshaw ride.

● Admiring the garden swing and the oversized jackfruit tree in front of my home for the summer.

I love the first day in a new country, when I wake up without knowing where I am, when everything is still surreal and delightfully disorienting.

Our regional director (the man who conducted our culture shock training) would say that’s the honeymoon stage talking.

So be it. I’m on a honeymoon with India.

India!

I’ve been in the country for more than two weeks, but am only just arrived in the land of broadband. It’s good to be back.

As a self-professed gmail junkie, I have thoroughly deplored my recent brush with internet deprivation. (How hard can it be to find a functioning wireless router in the Silicon Valley of South Asia? Trust me. Hard.)

But as my partial (and involuntary) fast draws to a close, I’m also belatedly grateful for it. For the excuse to carry a journal and scribble bits of detail everywhere I go. For the imperative to write, and write quickly, before the novel becomes normal and the technicolor begins to fade.

Now begins the mammoth task of debriefing the last 17 days of my life. What follows are reflections excerpted from my journal, no longer in real time, but still discrete moments in my introduction to India.

One picture for now, mostly to prove to my grandparents that I'm still alive:



See?

Look what I made

My first solo chocolate pie.

Plus fried okra. I was pretty proud of myself.

Just for grandma

Because I keep promising...