Winter Break, part 3 of ?

After one day in Pushkar, which was plenty, I was supposed to take an 8 am bus to Jodhpur, a city within the state of Rajasthan.  Supposed to.  Turns out it might have been faster to “push” a “kar” to Jodhpur than to take a bus.  Hehe.  I’m sorry, I’ll try make that my first and last bad pun this time around.

Here’s the story.

After dinner, I checked with the Milk Man employees to make sure they would be up at 7 so I could check out.  My plan was to quickly scarf down some breakfast before footing it to the station at 7:30.  I don’t know why I continually harbor the hope that people here will do what they say they will do, though; my optimism, continually squashed, still springs eternal. 

For a visual demonstration of this depressingly repetitive process, click here and watch 1:20-2:05.  Pigs are my favorite animals, which makes this clip especially appropriate.  It isn’t as cute in real life, though.

Contrary to promises suggesting otherwise, the restaurant/lobby area of the Milk Man was still dark at 7:15 and I literally trampled over a sleeping body when I entered.  I sadly skipped breakfast, my most favorite meal of the day, because I was afraid it would make me miss my bus.  An ironic supposition, in retrospect.

It was only a 10-minute walk to the bus station.  The man at the ticket/info counter said that the bus would come at 8:30.  Immediately disappointed by my unnecessary loss of breakfast, I retired myself to a bench for a long and anxious wait.  I remained alert, scanning the incoming buses and trying to grasp any methodical pattern to arrival and departure… but if there was one, it eluded me.  When 8 am rolled around, I began actively asking the bus drivers if they were going to Jodhpur; my ticket did say 8, after all. 

An older man at the train station seemed to take a particular interest in me, either because I was plaguing his oddly tranquil hangout or because he felt pity for my odd and uncomfortable hang-up.  At one point he got my attention—“Ma’am!”—and motioned me to a bus headed to Jaipur.  That’s right.  There were a million and a half buses going to Jaipur, I was going to Jodhpur, and my accent probably made the two indistinguishable.  A cruel linguistic trick.  When the man understood my actual destination, he said he would let me know when my bus arrived. 

Torn between trust and experience, I continued to confront bus drivers up until 9:00.  No luck.  Again, the man approached me and said he would “take care of it,” so I sat back in exasperated surrender.  Then, at 9:15ish, there was a sudden influx of passengers, including a group of youngish guys who spoke good English.  Our conversation went something like this:

“Where are you going?”

“Jodhpur.”

“When?”

“An hour ago.”

“You need to ask the bus drivers where they’re going or they’ll leave without you.”

“Tried that.”

“Sometimes the bus comes at 7:45.”

“I was here at 7:40.”

Yet, sure enough, the guy behind the info desk told me that I had missed my bus, but, “No problem, no worries,” another would be coming at 10:30.  I shot daggers (an ineffective trend, it seems) at the man who was supposed to “take care of it” and show me my bus.  So, beginning at 10, I approached every single bus I saw.  Even if it said “Ajmer bus” on the side, I did not make the assumption that is was actually going to nearby Ajmer.  By this point, my introversion had completely dissipated.  I was no longer shy about approaching the drivers.  I was no longer embarrassed by my lack of Hindi.  I felt like dancing in the middle of the bus stop to draw attention to myself and my predicament.  I debated whether stripping down and writing “JODHPUR,” in cow blood, across my finer points would help things along a little.  In other words, I was ready to go.

And then… success!

The name “Jodhpur” had never sounded sweeter (or more distinctive, for that matter).  The bus was not crowded, but I still headed to the back to celebrate in relative solitude.  After about 10 minutes, the bus driver’s sidekick came around and collected money from all new boarders.  I flashed my ticket and pointed to my paid total with a grin.  Luckily, the guy didn’t make a stink about it being the wrong bus or the wrong time, which would have been a big, fineable deal in the U.S.  It’s funny, the U.S. takes advantage of people, just as in India… but at least it’s more systematic in the States!  I guess it helps that I’ve lived in the system for so long, too.

Just like in Ghana and Ecuador, there are hawkers that come aboard the buses when they make brief stops.  A boy came onto my bus with some grossly over-fried puris, attempted to sell them to me for Rs. 10 apiece, and cleverly converted my rejection into an invitation to sit, stare, and take multiple point-blank pictures with his cell phone.  Awkward. 

“Awkward” pretty much sums up how I felt walking around the streets of Jodhpur, once I got there.  I did like Jodhpur more than Pushkar, though.  There were tons of tourist stalls, but also everyday stalls with vegetables and textiles that were obviously patronized by Jodhpur locals.  I was lured into a variety of spice stalls on my first trek into the main Clock Tower area of town, each of them claiming that I should just “take a look” and that there would be “no pressure” to buy anything.  And yet, an atmosphere of uncomfortable expectation always hung in the air.  I think this is the skill I need to develop most while in India, standing my ground and not becoming intoxicated by this sense of expectation.  Developing a  “yeah, I know there’s a line of people behind me, an auto rickshaw honking for me to move, and a crippling language barrier, but I’m going to stand her until I get what I want” resistance to pressure.  A self-centeredness derived from necessity.

But that’s not completely realistic… there would never be an actual line of people behind me.

Clock Tower

 

Apparently, while there are many spice shops sprinkled around Jodhpur, there is only one original.  And, now that its “founding father” is dead, it has been (refreshingly) taken over by his daughters.  Their business card is hilarious, though; a Clock Tower area map is on the back, with X’s marking out the “imposter” shops.  Are they imposters simply because they, too, sell spices?  In America, we call that healthy, consumer-friendly competition.  One particularly entrepreneurial woman, Rheka, has embraced this competitive spirit; her “Spice Paradise” has risen like a phoenix from the ashes of many a failed spice shop because she offers a cooking class alongside all of her spices.  It’s genius, really… try out the product before you shell out the cash!

I stopped by early in the day and signed up for a 5 pm lesson.  But at 5, the doors were chained shut.  I loitered for a while, then knocked and stuck my face up to the glass like a kindergartener on a field trip to an aquarium.  Obviously, Rheka was not ready to start the lesson.  She said she needed to clean, which appeared to be overwhelmingly true, but I also found out later that her husband still needed to get ingredients from the market.  After ten minutes of waiting on the couch in her back room, I was joined by a group of four Australian college students.  They were on Christmas break and were randomly traveling to Nepal and India.  Meeting these girls (Annabelle, Hannah, Silka, and whatsherface) was exactly what I had in mind for this trip—bonding with temporary friends from places around the world. 

When class started out with the basic masala chai, I was a bit concerned—that stuff is for kiddos!  Also, Rheka seemed scattered and was helping other customers instead of us.  The whole scheme seemed generally sterile and businesslike.  I’m not sure at what point that all changed.  Perhaps it was when I noticed her great-aunt sleeping on a cushion in the corner of the room.  Perhaps it was when her children brought out Christmas trees they had decorated for school and sang—seemingly straight from the Germanic heart of northwest Ohio—"The Merry Christmas Polka".  Or perhaps it was when Rheka told us about her sister-in-law’s jealous rage, which led to an armed robbery in front of Rheka’s children. 

Makhania Lassis

Rheka, husband, Aussies, one daughter

Making chappati

Smelling chappati

 

I knew, deep down, that this was a business venture for Rheka and her husband, plain and simple.  They’d dealt with enough foreigners that they knew how to tug at our heartstrings and play us like fiddles.  Their sob stories had been practiced and perfected, to be sure, but my Western sensibilities simply could not be kept at bay.  It’s interesting—I became very aware of my weaknesses in Jodhpur and could tell when I’d been “hooked,” but only just after, so I could lucidly (and helplessly) watched myself fall into traps.  Traveling with others would be helpful in this respect. 

At the end of the night, I left with a full belly, a full memory card, and full of ideas on how to improve my cooking skills.  I learned how to make veg biryani, raita, shahi paneer, dal, makhania lassis, carrot halva, rotis, parathas, and naan.  The problem is, for most of these recipes, you need her special mixes, or “masalas.”  So I left with a couple of those, too.  By the time I arrived back at my guesthouse—Rheka’s husband was nice enough to drive me there on his motorbike—it was a little bit after 10.  The class was supposed to end at 9, but we were simply having too much fun together!  When I went to open the door of the guest house, I panicked a bit when I found it locked.  But within a few seconds, an employee surfaced and let me in, informing me that curfew was 10 pm.  You’d think they’d inform me of a curfew prior to me breaking it.  But then, you’d be thinking wrong.

View of the "Blue City" from Hillview

 

One good thing about Hillview (because overall, I wasn’t impressed) was its proximity to Mehrangarh Fort.  One good thing about Mehrangarh Fort was the Flying Fox zipline tour.  Although, I have to admit I didn’t feel very foxy in the harness.

Smiling, but experiencing crotchal discomfort

 

Ziplining was fun.  However, ziplining in a cloud forest (twice!… once with a fellow student teacher and once with my sister) tainted the experience a bit.  Ecuadorian rainforest will always trump the beauty of any manmade edifice, but that’s not poor Mehrangarh’s fault.

A delightfully suggestive blast from the past

 

I spent the rest of the day meandering around the old fort, which was probably my favorite of all the forts in Rajasthan I visited. 

Mehrangarh during the day

Mehrangarh at night

 

The gist of Jodhpur:

1) Even if you get fort-weary in Rajasthan, which is easy to do, don’t skip out on Mehrangarh.

2) Never buy a cup of tea there.  Ever.  Act semi-interested as you walk by a spice shop and you will have tea practically thrown at you.  And not just regular chai--something with saffron and other cool stuff.

3) You can buy vanilla pods here.  I was originally quoted Rs. 60/pod, but when I said 4 for 200, the guy immediately acquiesced.  What?!  Bartering is no fun until someone has either lost all sense of dignity or sustained a flesh wound.  See how much lower you can get. 

Winter Break, part 2 of ?

Because I began recounting my travel experiences in a rather negative manner, I’m going to skip past the description of my short stop in Delhi and move right into the good stuff—arriving in Pushkar!

I won’t mention that I’m never going to book a bus ride on MakeMyTrip.com ever again.  I won’t mention that walking around the streets of Delhi while sporting a backpack transforms one into a walking piece of foreign flypaper.  I won’t mention that, in order to simply locate my bus’s departure zone, I was haphazardly tossed around the city like a hot (tempered) potato, though I tried my best to be a sweet one.  And I won’t mention how I ultimately found it… “but,” says angel-on-shoulder, “what happens if one of your readers is ever put in this exact same situation?”  Okay, okay, I’ll tell you… but only because it’s my civic responsibility.

Here are very specific directions to the bus that supposedly leaves from the very specific location of “khanna mkt opp st ste”:

Creeper McGee (on first bus)à”German” bakeryà metroà Khanna Market (NOT Khan Market) in the daylightà loiter outside of a metro station for hoursà Khanna Market at nightàother end of Khanna Market (NO bus)à inside car of two strange menà St. Stephen’s hospitalà inside car of same strange menà surprisingly informative vegetable stallà vegetable stall producing (unsurprisingly) contradictory informationà closed travel officeà open travel officeà back of motorbikeà random alleywayà bus.

I won’t mention that the bus was freezing and I had no feeling in my toes for the duration of the 12-hour trip.  However, those little piggies did have the whole sleeper berth all to themselves! 

Oinks of approval.

 

Pushkar was, quite literally, a breath of fresh air after my brief exposure to Delhi’s stifling pollution.  It provided a navigable, low-key environment that encouraged relatively peaceful wandering—a much-needed transition into the world of solo travel.  From the outset, I realized that one of the joys of adventuring alone was being entitled to the freedom of direct decision.  Rather than trying to meekly appease the majority, I was able to be dictatorial without being demeaning.  I have the tendency to be quite indecisive, so, while somewhat uncomfortable at first, I quickly embraced my new “wearer-of-the-pants” role out of necessity.  My first official decision was to stay at Milk Man Guesthouse, and the decision-making process was quintessentially me.   When I initially went to check out the place, I saw a woman taking an amazing-looking breakfast up to her room, which led to:

really wanting the breakfastà being impressed that the place had curtainsàactually liking the curtainsà asking my friends for their opinions on the breakfast and the curtainsà oh, wait, I’m aloneà decision made.

Yeah, I’m also the kind of girl who aligns Super Bowl allegiances with cute mascots and uniform color combos (because lord knows the Browns will never get there).

In the fall, Pushkar hosts an impressive annual camel fair.  Understandably, prices skyrocket during this time and visitors have to be willing to roll out sleeping bags wherever there’s space.  But when I visited, it was only Rs. 100 per night ($2) for a spot in the dorm-style, communal sleeping space.  Because I’m fairly introverted, I thought that forcing myself to choose this shared room would be better than wallowing in private hermitage.   But then I ended up being the only traveler in a room with 10 beds, and I was secretly relieved that I didn’t have to socialize—although, I did randomly meet a group of Woodstalkers (j/k, j/k) 
on a rooftop restaurant! 

I spent a lot of time on rooftop restaurants during the break.  They’re wonderful places for people-watching, scenery-basking, and journal-writing… which leads me to share a semi-related excerpt taken from my personal journal.  I think I’ll do this often in my Winter Break series of posts.  Writing is time consuming, and I had oh-so-much more of it then:

People’s reactions to me are so weird.  The child laborer they call the waiter just asked what country I’m from.  I hesitate every time I answer this question, because it seems so unnatural to say that I’m from America; I’m American, yes, but I’m from the United States.  But regardless, when I told this boy I was from America, he got a big grin and confessed it was his favorite country.  It’s probably just part of his go-to foreign shtick, but I really do think the USA produces a good batch of people.  Probably because we’re sickeningly sweetly friendly, like a chocolate chip cookie.  Soft. Ooey-gooey.   I think that people from some other Western countries are more like scones—also delicious, but more, shall we say, appropriately sweet for everyday dining.  I say this in a completely general and stereotypical way, because I would classify myself as being relatively scone-like, but perhaps not… it seems that people here can smell my inner sweetness from a mile away, like the scent of a freshly-baked  cookie!  I’m sure the longer I stay here and the more I venture outside the oven that is Mussoorie, the more stale I will smell.  Almost like the stronger I get, the weaker the aroma gets?  God, I love extended metaphors.  I leave Pushkar with many a bite taken out of me… yeah, I’m not even gonna try and stop…

At this point, I go on to basically explain why you should run far, far away from anyone who calls himself a Brahmin priest.   And this time, I really won’t mention the details!

Pushkar pointers:

1) Definitely only stay there a day or two, unless you want to visit literally hundreds of temples or you just love buying random shit (like stamps being made at the side of the road… guilty).

2) If you have the luxury to go during camel time, it's probaby worth coughing up (or spitting up, get it?) the cash. 

the Milk Man

 

because food tastes better when cross-legged on a cushion 

outside of the Brahma Temple

a slightly different rooftop view

 

Winter Break, part 1 of ?

Friday was International Women’s Day.

Prior to morning assembly, I didn’t know that such a day even existed… but I guess there’s a day devoted to everything, including “International Day of Awesomeness,” which just so happens to be today!  You’d think they could just omit the obvious redundancy and make yesterday “International Awesomeness of Women Day.”  Who’s with me?

I know at least one person who would probably not be on board—the same grown, educated man I personally overheard complaining that Women’s Day is irrelevant “because women already have their rights, especially Western women.”  This Western woman’s blood was immediately brought to boiling, a visceral reaction caused by the insensitive statement itself as well as by the recent memories it resurfaced.  During winter break, despite my supposed plethora of rights, I still managed to be quite wronged, quite often.

For example, I spent the very first night of my winter travels—the night of December 15—on a bus ride from Dehradun to Delhi.   While waiting for the bus, alone, I was chatted up by an Indian man who was also headed to Delhi.  He was friendly and nice, performing the usual recitation of every Western country that he had ever visited and apologizing on behalf of his fellow countrymen for treating foreign women like Caucasian catnip.  The friendliness took a questionable turn, though, when the man decided that, because the bus I was taking was somehow “better” than his, he would exchange his ticket for a seat on mine. 

But not just any seat. 

We ended up sharing a tiny sleeper berth that slapped us together like a PB&J sandwich, Saran-wrapped away from the rest of the passengers by both a curtain and a sliding glass door.  He was definitely the peanut butter in this situation, clinging to curves I wasn’t even aware I had, whereas I was desperately trying to keep my jelly free from his sticky, creepy grasp.  (<that link is for you, Lindsay)

Even though I pleadingly stared down the (Hindi-speaking) bus driver when he patrolled the aisle before departure, he didn’t come to my rescue by finagling with the seating arrangement.  I was, however, comforted by eye contact I made with an older Indian woman, also traveling solo, in the adjacent sleeper.  I can’t adequately describe the look she gave me, but it seemed to acknowledge my predicament and assure me that she was there, if needed. 

Still, I didn’t sleep.

The night passed by at a snail’s pace and I spent it swatting away stray hands, focusing on flattening myself against a window dripping with condensation.  The claustrophobic tension, tinged by the ever-present possibility of physical danger, caused a scream to rise and congeal in the back of my throat; had this experienced occurred later in my trip, I realize I probably would have (and in this case, should have) let it loose.  But it wasn’t until I returned to the city on Christmas Day that I discovered that this had happened the night of December 16, less than 24 hours after having arrived “safely” in Delhi:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Delhi_gang_rape_case

I know that most sane men would definitely feel sad after reading that article.  Probably angry, confused… perhaps even ashamed by simple association with the offending gender.  But does it make sense that when I, as a woman, finally absorbed this news that was splattered across televisions in the New Delhi airport, I, too, was flooded with an initial sense of guilt?  I felt guilty for having considered myself so very violated on my bus ride to Delhi, when this woman’s ride within the same city resulted in her death.  What right do I have to complain about my poor treatment, which is pathetically dwarfed in comparison to hers?  Shouldn’t I be focused on the bigger picture, on the acts against women that result in actual, visible damage?

These are questions that sprout from the deeply-rooted, harmful attitudes of people like my overheard, unnamed informant, who made a supposed concession by saying that women who are seriously wronged, like the one raped in Delhi, “can have their Women’s Day.”  So, women are only entitled to respect after they are horrifically, violently abused?  We should only be celebrated and valued after we are murdered?  The push behind International Women’s Day is not to repent for crimes already committed against women, but rather to pave the way for a future that is freer of such crime, harassment, and prejudice.  It’s easy enough to obtain legal rights on paper, but changing deeply-embedded cultural beliefs and practices is a much bigger challenge… and it’s useless to think about these cultural tendencies in terms of “Western” and “non-Western” when boundaries are continually blurred by globalization.  Woodstock strives to help students forge roles within a world that is the sum of its individual parts; the thoughts and behavior of each country, each city, and each person contributes to the well-being of the entire communal sphere.

My fragmented experiences as a single woman traversing the globe have led me to view gender discrimination as a sort of similarly fragmented mosaic; the “big picture” is certainly important and leaves the greatest aesthetic impact, but this picture is comprised of smaller, seemingly insignificant shards of sexist acts… whistling, staring, “accidental” touching, general condescension.  Larger crimes against women rightly overshadow these smaller, seemingly insignificant wrongdoings, but women have every right—even a special responsibility—to draw attention to and express disgust toward the everyday occurrences that build up like dryer lint before resulting in some sort of violent (and preventable) explosion. 

I think my feeling of guilt about the rape in Delhi is a powerful indicator that an International Women’s Day is still valid, relevant, and needed, and will continue to be as long as X-chromosomes are viewed as scarlet letters.

I promise to step down from my soapbox for my next post: Winter Break, part 2 of ?…
 

Food for Thought

One of the things I miss the most about the United States is the ability to eat food without fear.  I miss the days when I could hop in my car at 3 AM, head off to my friendly neighborhood Kroger Marketplace, and return home a mere fifteen minutes later with virtually any type of produce in my possession—in season or not.  Then I could eat it, immediately.  Without even washing it, because I’m a rebel like that.

As ridiculous as this scenario sounds, it’s not an imaginary one.  In the U.S., I really loved to cook.  I have never claimed to be particularly skilled at cooking, but it was always an enjoyable way to relax and unwind after school.  However, since moving to India, that love has simmered down to the level of a disappointing duty.  Not because of the unavailable ingredients.  Not because of the inaccessibility of ingredients.  Not because of the limited counterspace, lack of dishwasher, or microwave-sized “oven.”  But rather, because I know that every bite of prepared food I take is potentially poisonous.  I often question why I go through the time-consuming hassle of cooking a meal when I know there’s a 50/50 chance that it will just result in a weeklong diet of bananas and crackers.

I admit that a 50/50 chance is an exaggeration, but I can safely say that I have had impromptu, late-night, stomach-flipping dates with my bathroom wastebasket at the rate of about once a month since I’ve been here.  I’m no mathematician, but that’s probably more puke production in half a year than I’ve managed to muster throughout the rest of my entire life.  And it's not something that I'm proud of.

I was lucky not to have any health issues during my two-month-long winter vacation, but sure enough, less than a week back in Mussoorie and I am already dancing the intestinal jitterbug.  But let’s rewind, back to the end of September, when I experienced my first bout of illness.  It was a couple of days before “quarter break,” a weeklong vacation between the first and second quarters of school.  Feeling sick right before/during vacation is an obvious bummer, but most vacations aren’t as epic as climbing to a height of 14500 ft. in the Himalaya.  But, long story short, I hastily procured antibiotics and was fortunately able to still go on the trip, along with 10 students and 3 fellow staff members. 

I think that the trek was a key factor contributing to my blogging hiatus.  I knew it needed to be featured, but how?  How could a page of text accurately convey a week of unprecedented outdoor adventure?  As I sit here four months (!!) later, I realize that time does not aid in the blogging process.  So instead of poorly and incompletely rehashing the entire experience, I will let you reconstruct it for yourself via 1) some photos, and 2) my contribution to the “group journal” that was floating among the trekkers during that week.  I already converted this puppy into a lesson for my 7^th graders and a devotional speech for the 10^th graders (and it was also quoted in the Hanifl Center’s write-up about the trip, which you can read here), but I’ll share it here on Julindia as well.  Because when you stumble across a somewhat transcendental idea in India, it would be un-American not to whore it out to the masses.

The next time you hear from me (which will be soon), I will start to recap my winter vacation rather than tryto fill in all of the gaping holes of my online chronicle.  We’ll just call November “the lost month” and forge ahead.

October 1, 2012

Every year, my family vacations at Lake George, New York; every year, we climb a mountain.  When I was 8 or 9, we climbed Pilot Knob.  My father had not ventured up this particular peak since he was a child himself, and the trail had become worn and weathered over the years.  At first glance, we originally deemed it impassable and almost turned back, but then my uncle noticed a small pile of rocks perched atop a nearby boulder. 

“This,” he said with a smirk, “was not created by nature.”

I specifically remember being moved that people I didn’t know, and would never knowingly meet, would put so much time and effort into marking the trail for future travelers.  I swelled with such a feeling of comradery for these unseen friends, and my brother and sister and I instinctively began adding stones to the piles like we were playing an endless game of Jenga.  The towers eventually guided us all the way to the mountain’s summit, where we chowed down on my family’s traditional mountaintop grub:  grapefruit.

Today, about 15 years and half a world away from my experience on Pilot Knob, I saw these manmade markers once again… not in the Adirondacks, but in the Himalayas.  Once again, those feelings of comradery and “oneness” came rushing back.  This sense of unity that I assumed would be dulled by the process of aging was actually heightened by the scope and setting of the trek to Darwa Pass.  And this time, it came with an epiphany.

“This,” I thought with a smirk, “was created entirely by nature.”

Human nature.  Those seemingly simplistic piles, I feel, are actually symbolic of the selflessness of humanity.  Once our basic needs are met, we are conditioned to care about and provide for the well-being of others—not just those we know and love, but also those we would love to know, and even those we love without knowing!  Apart from the rock piles, I have seen human compassion manifest itself in the actions and reactions of my fellow trekkers.  From taping up one hiker’s broken boots, to divvying up the weighty contents of another hiker’s pack, to cooking for each other and sharing our beloved stashes of gorp and chocolate, we have proven that humans are ready and willing to think and act beyond the boundaries of family, nation, and even religion.  I am as inspired by this realization as I am by the breathtaking landscape that is currently surrounding me.

 

I Am Everyday People

In my last entry, I talked about the awesomeness of the “two-mouse house” and how I enjoy living with a friend.  However, I did not mention the plethora of visitors that grace the door of Suncliffe on a weekly basis.  These visitors include, but are not limited to:

 

-COOLIES (men whose job it is to tote items… groceries, washing machines, you name it... up the mountainside and deliver it to weaklings like myself)

-BREADMAN (he makes bread)

-VEGGIE BOYS (they sell vegetables)

-THE DHOBI (he washes clothing)

-SEEMA (she gives massages)

 

Each of these visitors is an essential part of my life in India… except for the dhobi, since I now have a washing machine.  So I shall start with him.

Washing machines are a luxury in India.  This is good news for dhobis, who make a living by collecting people’s clothing and cleaning it themselves.  Before Laura moved in, I was using the same dhobi as my neighbors, who speak Hindi and were able to come up with an arrangement for me:  Rs. 400 a month—approximately $8—for the washing, ironing, and folding of all my laundry.  He collected my clothes from my house on Saturday and dropped them back off when he was finished… sometimes within a few days, or, because I hired him during monsoon season, sometimes not until the following Saturday. 

The finished laundry was always wrapped in a white sheet, so it looked like I got a weekly visit from the stork.  And, just like a baby, the clothing inside usually smelled a little… questionable.  I don’t know exactly what the dhobi’s washing/drying procedures were, and in case I ever have to go without a washer/dryer again while I’m here, I prefer to remain ignorant.

I have two doors leading into my apartment.  The first door is unlocked during the day, but the second one is always locked when I’m gone.  This came in handy when I had a dhobi, because he could leave the finished clothing in the entryway whether I was at home or not.  One time, though, I was home when he made the delivery. 

Except he didn’t ring the doorbell, as he usually did, to let me know he was there.

Instead, he just walked in and left my clothing in the living room.  I must have been in the kitchen during this process.  When I entered the kitchen, there was no bag of clothing; when I left the kitchen, I immediately noticed the foreign item.  I felt like I was in a scary movie… but in a scene just near the beginning, when a mysterious object appears out of nowhere and the lead actor is mildly concerned but doesn’t want to overreact.  You know, the type of scene where the camera would be down where the clothing sack was, aimed up toward my bewildered, yet stoic, face. 

Like that character in a scary movie, I saw the clothing and then went about my normal daily business.  After all, this wasn’t the first time I had entertained a quasi-intruder.

Enter: Breadman.  Literally.

Breadman and I have a complicated relationship.  It’s one that started out quite enthusiastically.  I was immediately smitten with Breadman when he came to my door—like a true gentleman—and tantalized me with the promise of a weekly loaf of whole wheat bread.  The man of my dreams!  I put in my order and looked forward to the next week with the giddiness of a schoolgirl.  A schoolgirl who really likes whole wheat bread.  But then, when our “first date” came, it was… just okay.  I guess you could say that the bread didn’t rise to my expectations.  I’m sorry, that was a crumby joke.  Hahaha.  Hehe.  Hm. K

So now, I still buy the bread because I don’t want to be a heartbreaker, especially when the bread is edible and the supply is reliable.  When he says he’s going to come on Monday morning, he always comes… but the goods aren't always delivered to my liking.

And that’s as far as I’m going to take that analogy.

I very seriously considered a Breadman breakup when, one morning, I didn’t feel like answering the door.  When I first moved here, the doorbell rang about ten times a day because various ayahs (housekeepers) around the area were keen to pounce on fresh staff members.  I didn’t feel like dealing with such shenanigans this particular morning because I was grumpy and not appropriately dressed, so I ignored the bell as I got ready for school.  Except, the bell didn’t stop ringing.  I became vaguely annoyed and considered opening the door to stop the madness, but I felt that would encourage the behavior.  Plus, the bell had already been rung so many times that I wouldn’t be able to open up without providing some kind of awkward explanation.  So I continued to pretend I was not home.  I was upstairs getting changed, when suddenly…

I heard the door open.

Remember earlier, when I said I had two sets of doors and that both are usually unlocked when I’m at home?  Someone had obviously broken past the first barrier.  I was back in that scary movie, but this time toward the middle of it, when the lead actor is definitely aware that she is being stalked by something undesirable.  Then I heard someone yelling, “Hello!  Hello?”

Breadman.

I was not about to drag my half-naked body down the stairs to buy some half-decent bread from a man who had already halfway entered my apartment.  So instead, I remained sandwiched (teehee) between amusement and terror as I heard the second set of doors open and someone come inside. 

“Hello!  Hello?!”

I was somewhat amused by the blatant disregard for personal boundaries, but also terrified by the possibility of sneezing or otherwise being caught… ironically, in my own apartment.  But he didn’t loaf around (bahaha) for long, and I was able to remain incognito.  I finished dressing, went downstairs, and found this:

 

So, to reiterate my main point, Breadman and I have a complicated relationship, full of ups and downs and breaking and entering.  Let’s just say that we are star-crossed.  Or hot-crossed… get it?

I might come back and explain the veggie boys and coolies in a later post, but I seema to be worn out from all of those puns… get it?

Maybe not that last one.  I spoke of Seema in an earlier post, in which I wrote all about my first awkward and painful massage.  I need to make a clarification about that post, in order to restore Seema’s professional reputation and my own blogging integrity.  Because there was some confusion, I want to make it clear that it was my twisted ankle that caused the pain, not Seema’s massage itself.  If I had not been temporarily handicapped at the time, the massage wouldn’t have hurt at all. 

It still would have been awkward.

But, since that post, I have become really comfortable with this whole massaging business.  Maybe a little too comfortable; I get a massage every Tuesday night!  I appropriately prepared myself for the first massage—shower, shaved legs, the whole shebang—but since then, I have decided that I should not have to work so hard to enjoy something that is meant to be relaxing.

And I haven’t looked back since:

Don't act like you're not impressed...

 

When it became apparent that the little stalks on my legs were growing into a full-fledged forest, I apologized to Seema.  In response, she pulled up her own pant leg and showed me her hairy legs, with a smile.  “Me too, ma’am.”

Have I mentioned how much I like Seema? 

A few weeks ago, I was cooking dinner right before she came over. I bought an Indian cookbook and tried my hand at rajma (kidney bean) curry.  I was quite proud of myself—it didn’t taste half bad!  When Seema arrived, she was attracted to the smells emanating from the kitchen, and I proudly announced that I had tried an Indian dish.  The minute I said it, I regretted it.  I knew that she would ask to taste it, and I knew that she would hate it.  It’s like on Top Chef Australia, where I recently watched the competitors make traditional dishes for Italian taste testers who used fancy and deliberately confusing words like “toothy” to describe their pasta.  Attempting to cook ethnic dishes and pass them off as authentic never works.  And, because America doesn’t really have a food culture to call its own, I won’t ever get a chance to be that snobby. 

 

Unless you shamelessly count McDonald’s as America’s most important culinary contribution to the world, in which case…

 I like India’s McDonald’s better.  Vegetarian sandwich options!  Hmm.  Point disproven.

 

As expected, Seema took a sip of my curry broth and made a face like she had just sipped the blood of a 4-year-old boy.  Then she managed a polite half-smile, as if to say, “Well, at least I wasn’t related to him?”  I was somewhat discurryaged.  But superwoman Seema, who wears many hats throughout the day, immediately put on her chef cap and started rummaging through the fridge, scouring the shelves.  After a flurry of chopping and pouring and stirring, Seema looked pleased with the resulting concoction and left it to pressure cook during the massage.  Afterward, I had one of the best meals of my life; she completely resurrected my curry when I didn’t even realize it needed to be saved.  I don’t understand the trickery that is Indian cooking.  I only know that my taste buds approve.

I was honored to be formally invited to a dinner at Seema’s house on Saturday night, along with Melanie/Chris, Kelly, and Amy.  Her husband was out participating in a religious ceremony of some sort, but I got to meet her three adorable children (ages 10, 8, and 6) and see where she lived.  It was a very humbling experience.  Though her husband is employed through Woodstock and she has some impressive entrepreneurial skills, all 5 family members sleep in the same small room—the only room aside from the kitchen area.  It makes me wonder about the living arrangements of so many Indians who don’t have such lucrative employment.

It was a fantastic night.  The food was delicious.  Amy (who grew up here and returned as Academic Dean) served as translator.  Seema showed us her wedding pictures.  Then, her daughter started showing us her older brother’s baby pictures.  When asked where her pictures were, it appeared she didn’t have many.  I took out my camera and took a few photos, which she seemed to like, but what she loved was when I gave her the camera to take her own photos!  I’ve been meaning to find a place in the bazaar to develop pictures, and now I have extra impetus to search out such an establishment.

 

I also need to print out a copy of this photo, as per the merchant’s request:

Blog post to follow!

A two-mouse house

When the Dalai Lama visited last month, he told a story about two sick mice.  One was given treatment in isolation, while the other was treated in the company of fellow mice.  As you could probably guess, the mouse that was socialized throughout the duration of its illness recovered faster and more fully than the other mouse.  His Holiness used this anecdote to illustrate the importance of friendship and social support, especially during difficult patches when one might be somewhat reluctant to seek out the help of others.  Being around people is a comfort, even if they can’t fully relate to your situation, and even if you don’t verbally communicate.

 

I almost laughed when I heard this story, for two reasons:  1) This “scientific study” was in absolutely no way cited, and no one but the freaking Dalai Lama could get away with that kind of randomness, and 2) The story totally reminded me of my dog at home.  My parents’ dog, I should really say.

My parents’ dog, Sophie, is a little bitch.

Because I blog with the utmost grace and integrity, I obviously mean that in the literal, scientific, “female dog” way, definitely not in the cruder, “I’m going to bite your face off if you get too close,” way.  Definitely not.  Sophie is a unique dog in the sense that she likes to be around people, but she doesn’t like to be with people.  She will follow you around the house, sit at the very edge of the couch you’re sitting on, and even initiate a round of fetch… but she won’t get close enough for you to actually take the toy.  And so, the traditional, relaxing game of “fetch” quickly turns into a more tiring and frustrating game that I like to call, “come here, you little bitch, and let me play with you.” 

Sophie is not a normal dog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, why am I talking about mice and bitchy dogs?  Like Sophie, I’m a bit antisocial.  I do try my best not to bite people on a regular basis, but I understand her need for space.  I also completely agree with the D.L. about the necessity and healing power of companionship.  I lived in a single apartment for the past two years in Kentucky and, while I loved the apartment itself, I wasn’t a huge fan of the solitude.  So, I was excited to hear, over the summer, that I would be living with another female staff member during my two years in India… until I got here, and realized that said female staff member did not end up signing a contract with the school.  I haven’t written at all about my housing here in India, mostly because it’s been in a weird state of flux.  I was unsure if someone else was going to be hired, and if that potential new hire would be a single female, and if that potential new single female hire would end up moving in.  Difficult to make a house a home when you aren’t sure about its occupancy.  But guess what?

I now have a housemate!

Laura moved in a few weeks ago.  I sat with Laura on the initial flight to India, from Chicago to New Delhi.  Had I known, prior to arriving, that I would be living with someone around my parents’ age, I probably wouldn’t have been too enthused, and she would have felt equally hesitant about living with a 24-year-old.  And yet, it works out quite well!  She moved mainly because my house, "Suncliffe," is way better than her old one… newer, less moldy, nicer view, on a generator, etc.  An all-around upgrade.  (I've seen "Suncliffe" spelled both with the "e" at the end and without, but I choose to use the "e" because I'm classy like that.)  I think she’s a lot happier here, and I know I’m a lot happier with her here.  Having someone to talk to and laugh with and just sit by is so comforting… as is the thought that, if a monkey should happen to break through my skylight and mercilessly feast upon my flesh, she will probably find my dead body before it becomes unidentifiable. 

Oh, so comforting.

But not all monkeys are evil.  Take this langur, for example:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s not leashed because he’s particularly dangerous; he’s leashed because he’s Woodstock’s secret weapon.  A heroic traitor to his own species, he chases off the pesky rhesus monkeys and keeps them from preying on students, staff, and snackage.  I shall call him:  Supermonkey.  Except, that’s really lame and cliché.  Supermankey?  Luke Cageless?  Banandiana Jones?

Regardless, in morning assembly a few weeks ago, the students planned a “game” that involved this guy.  They called up a representative from each grade, and then a man walked in with the leashed beast.  In response to a sea of confused/amused faces, they announced, “Langur chicken!”  Yes.  The extraordinarily well-thought-out plan was to see how close the class reps could get to the monkey before they got too scared.  Or, you know, before they lost an appendage.  I just sat there in astonishment.  I have witnessed some utter craziness since my arrival here, but this had to be a joke.  Right?  Right??  It was not a joke, but it was also not carried through.  The principal stepped in immediately and put an end to the ridiculousness, like a Superman saving the Supermankey.

I, myself, have a newly-acquired superpower of sorts.  A little something I like to call cable television.

It’s a convenient byproduct of Laura’s move.  We were an appliance match made in heaven; I had a microwave/oven and food processor, and she had a washer, dryer, and television.  So basically, our house is awesome.  You can see a segment of the awesomeness below, and additional awesomeness will be posted and elaborated upon at a later date. 

 

 

Now all we need is a dog.  Preferably one that can play fetch...