India: scientific approach to a mystery

Mumbai: first stop Santa-Crus

2006-12-01T23:10:00.000+05:30

Santa-Crus where Bea lives appeared to be slightly to the north from the legendary Bandra, both being in the north of the Greater Mumbai area. The flat was located in the same building with a bank on the ground floor, so gates getting closed by night and a guard at those.

Once I entered the apartment I got astonished - it looked like a proper flat! This one was not provided by AIESEC and probably that was why.. Bea was sharing it with the two other girls all working for NGOs. The spacious living room had got a gorgeous bureau with a big round mirror and two oval ones on each side and with lots of drawers accommodating mysterious girly possessions. A TV, sofas with covers, some paintings on the walls, an antique round vase on the floor, a small table with an issue of “Good household” on it and a thick book with a photo collection. All those details make up for a notion of a proper room, a one that has been habituated and somewhat taken care of. The living room was continuing into a dining room with a big round table and another massive oldish cupboard. The latter with its encrusted doors looked like a perfect place for the girls’ accessories and small things – all those stones, chains, beads and glitter looked great in the combination with the massiveness of the cupboard. And the pictures of the Swedish Royal family fixed on it organically fitted the piece of furniture.

The kitchen was characterized by Bea as microscopic and it was. So was the bathroom too. Yet, they also had the laundry room housing a washing machine (a real one, with no manual intervention!), drying stand and lots of clothes with all sort of destinies… The girls’ bedroom was spacious enough for three people.

Not only was it great to be in a proper flat inhibited by the people like yourself after quite a travel; but also I was happy to know there are ways of existence alternative to those that we, AIESEC trainees in Delhi, know about.

Welcome to Mumbai

2006-11-30T01:15:00.000+05:30

I arrived at about 11 pm, two hours later than the scheduled time. The last hour on the train was pretty anxious as my Bangladeshi sojourners have also never been to Mumbai; vast mass of the lights would appear outside clearly signifying a major city and one of the men would exclaim, “Acha! This is Mumbai?!” Yet the station that would follow would be called X junction.. The majority of the passengers loaded off at Daddar and only a few reached the final CST.

I was supposed to stay at Bea’s, a friend of Kate working for an NGO in Mumbai. Actually, Kate herself as per the initial plan was going to come to Mumbai the day after and lots of fun could be shared by the three of us. Yet, evil police and Kate's campaign that was about to culminate in a protest by India Gate did not make it happen: I was leaving for Goa on the night Kate was flying to Mumbai.

I called Bea’s mobile and she appeared to be out downtown, so she suggested I come to the Gateway of India where she would pick me up so we could go to her’s together. I walked off the railway station and immediately sensed humidity that made me realize how much south I moved. Strangely enough, I found a typical by-railway type area outside: the exit brought me to a rather deserted street with incredibly clean, smooth and even shining in the moonlight road. Then I saw a gothic building that looked like a Boll so inappropriate it seemed in an Indian town. Newish looking buses were one of the first impressions too. After a few enquires that did not lead anywhere due to the lack of the shared medium language (on my side, assumingly English). However, I found two nice gentlemen who got me a dark-green taxi with a yellow stripe, asked the driver to bring me to the Gateway of India and told me not to pay more than 20 Rs. In a moment I was delivered to the place.

How should it feel to find yourself by the Gateway of India overlooking Arabian sea next to the grand Taj Hotel – right upon your arrival in Mumbai. It did not take long to be found and identified by Bea (in the meanwhile, I experienced some minor attacks by the hawkers and “Cheap hotel, mam” chap who got discouraged and puzzled when I explained, “I am staying here” and pointed at the Taj. Bea, a dressed up girl with long light red hair, came up, exchanged her purse for my backpack and walked me somewhere. In a few moments I found myself at an incredibly private party in an astonishingly posh bar. Bea introduced me to a couple of friends, including the Bday guy roaming around with a glass and a thick cigar who immediately promised me that “it would only get better”. And it did: I got some red wine served in a huge pot-bellied wine glass, I was sipping in to Katie Melua bizarrely singing “Lilac wine”, I was chit-chatting with the newly introduced people and they were shouting through the loud music, “Welcome to Mumbai”! I without shower for a week (fever in Kalimpong and then 2 days on the train) in my stinky cottons was around all those dressed-up people in this way-too-nice place in the very heart of Mumbai – this looked like the biggest prank ever to me.

We were gloriously driving to Bea’s in the old fashioned dark green puffed taxi… along the Marine drive (else called Queen’s necklace by the virtue of being curve-shaped motorway in the dark demarked with the twinkling lights). To your scenic drive we were discussing Delhi vs Mumbai, the girls were singing Sinatra’s “New York” changing NY for Bombei and I thought there must be a camera somewhere and we are filmed for a new Bollywood fairytale.

Kolkata II: again a set of unrelated impressions….

2006-11-29T23:23:00.000+05:30

My second visit to the town was “same same but different”. Again: one train station, trip to the other, ferry and fish curry, tea in a clay pot for 2 Rs, morning rush of the starting a new day city.

It took my bus from Sealdah to Howra a while before it moved from the railway bus pit: sandwiched between the multidirectional flow of people and vehicles, it froze in the flow of thinnest I ever saw men carrying gigantic baskets topped with bananas and pineapples loaded in right here from a small-scale wholesaler.

We passed a shop where a musician from a wedding orchestra was putting on his bright-yellow jacket akin to a funny solder’s attire and on the fence dividing the opposite directions on the road a line of the similar jackets was hanging as a Christmas paper garland made by a schoolboy. I spotted a tiny open window leading to an empty hollow flat in the 3-4 storey building.

The waiting room for ladies at the old railway complex of Howra was deserted: wooden benches and cupboards with big mirrors made it look like a clock room in a female gymnasium. I was so glad to change back to my short-sleeve cotton kurta, cotton pants and plastic flip-flops.. when already walking on the street I felt so great that so few clothes was needed to keep me warm and so close my feet were to the ground . I could not wish any better weather after all…

I headed off to the famous Kolkatian flower market at Jagarnath Ghat to find out a totally different concept of flower selling from the one you find elsewhere in the world. Mostly, flowers here are used for devotional purposes and even when gifted to people – tend to be arranged in the sophisticated compositions. At the wholesale Jagarnath Ghat you can buy long fat snakes of marigold garlands, baskets of roses, piles of huge palm leaves and clearly more.

The bus I stopped on a flyover and a conductor who helped me in the already moving buss grabbing my waist, no sexual harassment this time though ;o)

I realized how much it matters here to be a local: as a foreigner you are in a double disadvantage here – as a non-Indian and as a non-Bengali. If some community can pride themselves on acting smart, it is Bengali. At the market they may quote 5-6 times the price for you (unspeakable in many other however touristic parts of India) and if a local enquires the price from the same chap the latter would make sure he quotes for him in Bengali (while for the rest of the communication they can use mixture of English, Hindi and Bengali, so you can make it) so that you are left wondering.. Another thing is that as a tourist you would never figure out all those run-by-day amazing food stalls unless you bother to walk around, or rather walk to the smell.

Before leaving Sudder Street, this backpackers’ area, I stopped by a lassi shop. I had a small chat with the lassi man while he was making the shake. Among the rest, I told him I was on the way to the train station, he asked when my train would depart and told me I was too early. I said you could never be sure here and it is better to provide for the contingencies. He said indifferently (I am not kidding), “What to do!”- the phrase many of my Indian co-survivors and myself jokingly used when facing peculiarities of the Indian life - and the most astonishing part was he meant it…

Leaving Sikkim

2006-11-29T17:59:00.000+05:30

We made it back on time – the guy kept his word. I found a jeep ready to head off for Gangtok with only a back seat free. I tried to play a capricious madam and announced I would get sick if I take the back seat. The driver promised I would be there alone, so I can be comfortable. I generously agreed somewhat knowing that, as any other promises people give her, it was just an instant way to calm you down. Indeed, on the way we picked up some more people. Yet, the driver, a Tibetan man, was a sweetheart to me: he shared a clementine with me at one of the stops where among the rest he had his vegetable shopping done, and at the next stop he treated me to a sweet roll. After all, I was very ashamed of my behavior.

I got to share the journey with a Punjabi man residing in Silliguri who was very talkative and with good English, so after he got to know I had been in India for some time, he stopped his lecturing about the country and we had a meaningful discussion when I had a chance to present my views. Precious experiences with sojourners that I treasure: when I am not just an exotic creature who, wow, takes Indian food (is it not spicy for you?) and looks decent in salwar-kameez, but primary a human being. The other sojourners were a Bengali family- parents and a young couple – that was entertaining me with the yet more peculiarities of a joint family. In particular, it was amusing to watch them bargaining for clemetines, ending with a dozen each and then discussing the price for the same in Kolkata, respective price differential and more…

Needless to say, before-the-sunset views were eventually stunning and one more time I had a chance to appreciate the magnificent beauty of Sikkim…

Once at NJP I walked in to a joint, one of the of numerous eateries lined up vis-à-vis the railway station: I was desperate for some chavel and subzi. I enquired about the menu and the chap there announced he was a menu himself. I asked for chavel and subzi, enjoyed my food, and then paid 20 instead of persistently asked 30: all three totally astonished men at the dhaba took turns in shaking my hands. Tata, guys.

Changu lake

2006-11-28T22:44:00.000+05:30

…….. I did not want to write this post until I started….. Give me a topic, I’ll do a page…….

As my strange fever in Kalimpong held me back from my ambitious plans for Sikkim, the stakes once I arrived there were incredibly high: for whatever I wanted to do in this fairytale land I had 2 days: I had an important train to catch from NJP to Kolkata and then to make it to an super-important train from Kolkata to Mumbai. As much as I hate booking transportation in advance I had to due to the high season: even 10 days beforehand I got my ticket to Mumbai with much difficulty and using a small lie. In fact, getting tickets on a short notice in India is not a big deal if you are a tourist: in most of the instances you can apply for the Tourist Quota and you normally get it. Yet, those being in India longer than 6 months are not considered to be tourists any longer and therefore are not eligible for the Quota. Logic is there, but why do you try to charge me sky-highed entry fee to the historical monuments that foreign tourists are to pay? Consistency is never there in India.

Anyway, Gangtok, however nice, does not offer much to do and see. Sallies like going to the awe-aspiring Pemayangtse monastery looked too optimistic in the given timeframe. So, we took half an hour drive to Rumtek monastery which was a great experience I must say.

Yet, no trip is good without risky plans and some thrill. So, Nele and I agreed that however much we had already liked our journey we needed a concluding sally that would possibly become a gem of our North-East adventure. As humble as that our plan was. Quite a good candidate for the role was Changu lake, a beautiful place at 3700 meters up in Himalaya. The difficulty was that as a foreigner you need one more permit (on the top of the one you got to enter Sikkim) to go there and it takes at least a day to get it issued. Moreover, as a foreigner you can go only accompanied by a guide. Therefore, any travel agency in Gangtok offers this trip (including the permit) for a small remuneration (“Just this much pounds”, as one smart chap put it). So, getting permit ready, having it reasonably priced for two of us and most importantly – getting back on time so I jump into a jeep to NJP (no taxi, no taxi, baysab, I’ll go by shared jeep) and make it to the train on time. After roaming around the town we collected three and a half scenarios of the same little trip from various tour operators and it was up to our gut instincts to decide on which one to bet. We opted for Sikkim Holidays – a bunch of young guys who organize trekking and tours in Sikkim – and I am so glad me met them.

Next day we walked up so early that could not find any hotel serving breakfast. We walked in a dhaba and to the joy of all the guests there we had some aloo-puri and chai with sweets. On the agreed time our guide showed up with all the permits ready and the cab at the door. We headed off up in the mountains. I thought it was the most cloudy day in Gangtok and after some time we could see nothing but a grey mass all over – up, down, behind, to the left and to the right. I hoped for the best and expected the worse – what a misery it would be to arrive to 3700 meters all covered by fog. Me and Nele were both silent and is if frozen in the anticipation – we were driving higher up. At some point I saw a hole in the foggy mass around us and exclaimed, gradually the mass turned from grey to white and the sun appeared to be just somewhere nearby. Soon we stopped for tea: military camps all over did not look ominous and almost merged with the brown and orange hills. I was sipping warm tea, munching frozen (even better!) cashew nut Good Day biscuits, looking at the neighboring hill – all blue with black leafless trees touched by white rime and knowing the decision to come here was all right.

It took 40 more minutes to the lake and we found it in its best – sunlight being generously poured out on its surface, colorful prayer flags flutterring in the sun rays and the snow on the hills around dazzling cheerfully. Our guides hurried us up, “Quick, lets go for a hike while the sun is there”. I never knew how disastrous my shape has been in India until this little climb… how many of those I used to do and here right after the start I could feel strong beats in my temples…Half an hour of suffering was fully rewarded on the top of the hill – we took lots of pictures at the official 4000 meters – personal record for both Nele and me by far – and could not take our eyes off the snow-covered mountains spreading all directions without limits and…. we were at par with those formidable heights. We were facing Tibet and in the valley down along the shores of a narrow river was the border. Strong wind brought the clouds back, gradually hiding the sun; when we got back to the lake we found it grey and dull. I do not know whom we shall thank – the luck, the timing, our adventurous spirit, our guides or mountain gods, but I would bow to them all. These few hours high in the mountains with the clearest possible sky were the greatest reward for us after the ten days of omnipresent fog.

Gangtok youngsters

2006-11-28T20:53:00.000+05:30

In Gangtok I got surprised by the number of young people around. In comparison with Darjeeling and Kalimpong, full of pupils and elderly people, Gangtok was a truly youthful town. Westernized aspirations of the new generation no-how restricted by the traditional considerations (as elsewhere in India) were sufficiently fulfilled by the affordable clothes brought from so-closeby China. Jeans, sweatshirts, sneakers, ballerina shoes, boots, fancy bags were all wearable essentials for the youngsters. And there was a notable difference between the sort of clothes people wore here and the cheap quazi-Western clothes that at times you find in India when girls and boys wear these T-shirts with the print phrases bizarrely constructed of the Latin letters the Chinese designer happened to know and the jeans made of what some people think jeans fabric is. I could not help myself and pulled Nele into a shop where I jokingly tried a pair of clearly fake DKNY jeans and having discovered an amazing fit that no Levi’s would ever give me I bought them for 580 Rs (roughly 10 Euro)

Particularly, I got amazed by the young guys (all below 25 y.o.) who worked at the hostel where we were staying (very much recommended by the guidebook, yet a bit disappointing – at least off-season – Modern Central Lodge on Tiben Road). They all had this cool Western clothes (well, Chinese version of it, but so what?) and by the Delhi standard it automatically described them as upper middle, upper class (western equals rich, a rule of thumb in India). Yet here in the North East it works differently: they themselves were doing all sort of work in the hostel – cleaning, cooking, doing dishes, wiping floors, waitressing etc. The notion of a cooking man made me cry in principle. First, when he announced it was him who cooked here I thought it was a sort of bravado people demonstrate here at times (e.g., all those shop-keepers who claim they themselves make the stuff (by the way, standard for many shops) they sell). Yet, later I got to chat with him and he told me how he had been working as a porter and a cook in Darjeeling, Gangtok, Nepal etc. I cried second time when later I was eating Sikkemese soup he cooked – so yum it was… The other guys of this lot were those working in the travel agency we tied up with for our trip to Tsomgso lake. Again, the very guy who we were discussing the deal with and a friend of him were our guide and driver respectively. I was totally impressed with these chaps so concerned about being cool yet not avoiding any sort of work.

Gangtok

2006-11-27T20:32:00.000+05:30

Gangtok welcomed me with a dopy feeling of spring after a long-long winter. Still a bit sick, wearing a scarf and a hat, I put on my huge sun-glasses and let the sun pour out its tender kisses on my face.

Gangtok welcomed me with its light-colored buildings looking like big flat rectangular chocolate bars with the huge blocks of windows dividing them into segments.

Gangtok welcomed me with greetings of the French couple that I met in Kalimpong – they told me Nele was still in town. I found the girl shortly – guessed the place she was staying at. We met as old friends – it felt as if we shared months not just a week of traveling.

Drive to Gangtok

2006-11-26T16:45:00.000+05:30

The night before I decided - I would leave tomorrow. I woke up at six, walked down to the motor stand. The sun was smiling softly and gradually filling in the town street by street. Bakeries took the dough out from kneading trough for the new-day bread and pastry; boys started their first cricket match; shopkeepers were opening their shops. Here daylight is short-lived and therefore precious, so it is utilized at most – people have to be early birds. I bought my ticket to Gangtok, got back to the hotel for breakfast, paid my bills and left.

The drive (described as “scenic” in my guidebook – at the end of the day I hate it as much as I find it helpful.. these guidebooks and the expectations they created based on at times very dubious accounts) was actually very good. The vision was still limited: it seemed there was a light smoky blue chiffon curtain in front of the nearby hill, one more curtain in front of the next one and one more layer would add the further it goes - totally hiding the remote hills. The road went along the sunlit jungle on the slopes of the caramel-colored hills and the emerald, at times turning snow-white rash river. The state of Sikkim, as again I read in this time an official brochure, prides itself on 4500 species of flowering plants, 515 species of orchids, 36 species of rhododendron 23 species of bamboo. And even without such a detailed insight you can make out that the diversity of the flora in the area is mind-boggling.

The border with Sikkim was demarked with a colorful gate painted similar to those of Buddhist monasteries. While I was looking through the window and admiring the river, they checked my permit issued in Kolkata (as a foreigner you need to apply for a permit to enter Sikkim – being surrounded by Nepal, Butan and Tibet it is a restricted-access area), put my name in their rosters and let me in. Welcoming Sikkim border, lush greenery, colorful houses along the road and beautiful sunshine made me believe it was an ultimate spring.

I was traveling with a small girl and her grandfather. The girl was about 10 years old and looked like a typical Asian girl of her age: slanting eyes, perfect porcelain skin, short straight black hair fixed with a bright hair-slide, pink jacket and pink ballerina shoes, jeans and dark blue scarf from her school uniform – with its ends pulled back – an exemplary of sweetness and female beauty in its infancy. The sweetness and the beauty yet appeared to be an utter nightmare. She was shooting questions one after another with a horribly serious look and I felt like I was through an elaborate interview at the immigration office while applying for the Indian citizenship. She herself reported that while she attended her school in Kalimpong her parents stayed in Gangtok and she was visiting them now. Once we started off I asked her to close the window so to avoid the way too refreshing wind and she just would not cooperate. I had to explain her I just recovered from the fever and I do not fancy a relapse. So, I had to close the window myself, yet she would resist and even once I managed to close it she would find a reason to open it – clearly she had to throw (as any kid here learns from his/her parents) an empty package of chips, pakotas and candies (nutrition of the angels cannot be overlooked) all of which this little one had consumed over a short while. I am sure that the parents who get to see her only for holidays and poojas admire this little perfection… And I was thinking of the phenomenon of “little king” psychology in the Asian families towards their only kid. My troubled mind…..

Kalimpong meets

2006-11-24T18:00:00.000+05:30

FC

That morning when came to the dining room for breakfast I found Nele chatting with a man, clearly a French one. In a very striking detail he was explaining how to make it to this and that gompa (monastery) around and why one or another destination was worth it. Nele briefed me that he comes to India every year. He was talking with the excitement of a keen traveler and the knowledge of a mature one. A few minutes later a couple came down and joined us – they appeared to be French too. He switched to French, they three engaged in a conversation. Even with my non-existent knowledge of the language I could make out the thread of the discussion. Again, he was passionately taking about the places to see up north as the couple was heading there; it was not their first time in India either, so they talked about the changes India had undergone. I am not sure if it was the language that allows such expressiveness, culture that favors one or the more mature age that changes the perspective of the observations…. however the conversation they had was so different from what you can imagine in an international backpackers environment. Instead of close-to-indifferent “oh, it was nice, ya, it was nice…” they were like “Oh my God, it was so great, so amazing, you should go there!” I enjoyed so much to listen to the people so emotionally involved with their traveling and so passionately sharing about their experiences – and the French made it sound so great, so refined…

Tea one

We were walking around the complicated network of the tiny passages between the houses densely covering the hill – finding women outside sorting out rice for the next meal, washing clothes or kitchen utensils. Almost at the main upper road we got a call from a young man standing on the balcony of a big house. He was inviting us to come up so we could enjoy the views from the balcony. We accepted the invitation so easily without thinking twice – a liberty totally unthinkable in any other region of India. But the great views we had a very nice chat with him and his friend: Nele and me were happy to ask the questions we had accumulated from the extensive observations around and they had answers ready for many of those. One boy appeared to be a Tibetan descendant and the other one was Nepali – they were childhood friends living in Kalimpong for ages. We were treated to some impressively tasty black tea with ginger and invited inside. We got to meet a sister of the Nepali guy: she was a self-taught painter. This is how a got a painting of a beautiful Nepali girl.

Tea two

In the evening we stopped by a dhaba for some tea and sweets. We got approached by a guy who looked like a major annoyance in the beginning, I should admit. Yet, word by word, he turned out to be a good fun. We kept chatting and having tea on the house.

He explained us the reason for his excitement.

-We in India like foreigners.
-Why?
-When we see you people we feel happy?
-Oh, why is that?
-See, you come here and see how we live. We cannot come to your country and see your culture. So, when we see you people here we feel happy.

And he did – we talked about him, his brother leaving in the States, us etc. He tried to guess wherefrom we were coming (he said Nele was from Russia, she protested – I burst in laugh, “Who would believe you girl, I even can say “Da, khorosho”), so we talked about Russia, Belgium and Spain (Nele is Belgian, but she is living in Barcelona).

After all he was giving us advices as of what to do in Kalimpong and Nele took out her Lonely Planet to check out. He took the book and started going through it.

-Acha, where do you get this book? - murmuring the names of the places put in bold in the chapter “Kalimpong” he was so astonished that his town is here, in this fat book called “India”, and even a map with some small details is given too.

We parted ways like ultimate friends

-If any problem in Kalimpong, come here and I’ll help you.

No one took any money from us for the tea and the sweets we came for.

Kalimpong specials

2006-11-24T11:58:00.000+05:30

Our guest house in Kalimpong was also up the hill (generally, I think this is where good places tend to locate). Deki Lodge was one more family run guest house with a few rooms in wide price range of rooms, beautiful garden, yummy food and a very helpful family.

We made it to Kalimpong on Wednesday as I wanted to see the Haat, the local market where villagers come and sell their fruits, vegetables, spices, nuts, herbs and anything else they grow or make. We got to see brown-and-dark green balls which when open resembled unripe avocado, short fat bananas of cream color inside (called butter banana), reddish long massive bent carrots, long and thin aubergines.. and lots of things I had no idea about.

The list of the discovered peculiarities was extended the day after: when we were visiting the monasteries we discovered a ground where long thin and slightly curly tubes of rice noodles were hanging on the parallel ropes and drying. Nearby the same monastery a window we were looking in got opened and a smiling man invited us to come in. He was operating an interesting wooden press akin to a mincing machine: the man was putting some red elastic substance in it, and then was pressing a long leverage with his whole body so that long thick vermicelli was coming out. A lady was taking the vermicelli, stretching them on the table and cutting them into equally long pieces. The smell at the workshop was so familiar, yet I could not make out what it was. Next day, studying the content of the shelves in some shop I realized those were incense sticks made of sandal wood.

On a sick leave in Kalimpong

2006-11-24T05:56:00.000+05:30

Kalimpong was a perfect place to be sick at: a little charming town surrounded by the hills, where snow never covers its banana and palm trees and the beautiful gardens with flowers; where brightly painted houses are belted with pot chrysanthemums; where people are mixture of Nepali and Tibetan descendants, willingly reciprocating the eye-contact, openly smiling, never intruding and showing all their respect to you (when they give something – they give it with the right hand supported by the left one a bit above the wrist from below); where any shop sells most essential – prayer flags and white scarves for offerings, similar looking packs of noodles and incense sticks; where you get the yummiest veg momos (unless you care for beef ones which are found without any difficulty here) for one rupee each along with hot bullion; where you dine in shop run by a woman and her daughters – around the shelves stuffed with the jars of pickles – cherry-like small Nepali mirchi (chili) and sophisticated mosaics of different roots.

…. So I fell sick. After the cold Darjeeling I felt a bit feverish, but did not take any pill, yet took shower that morning… I ended up with the temperature of 39.2 C which I had no idea how to fight… I could feel every single part of my body that I never knew to exist before. I felt like an old and hopelessly wretched vehicle. Needless to say, the misery was ultimate as my Sikkim plans had to be altered and the initial ambitions were to be cut down. All in all, I felt like dying and somehow I was. The owner of our guest house, a short anxious man, got very worried about me and started getting my rice porridge, tea, hot water, soups etc in the room. It took me a while to realize that even from a local pharmacy I can get a pill with the same composition as the one that my mom gives me in such cases, as I did not take that one in my emergency kit. The pill was found and did wonders – the fever was gone overnight, I took the next day for recovering and then headed off to Sikkim.

Darjeeling tea

2006-11-22T18:49:00.000+05:30

What we could not miss in Darjeeling - with the fog or not - was its tea plantations. 84 gardens around the town produce one fourth of the country's tea output and Darjeeling tea prides itself in the premium quality. Tea bushes 40-50 sm high with dense and hard branches seem to grow just like that on the slopes.

So we visited Happy Tea Estate, renown not only for its tea, but also for the guided tours for the interested visitors. Quiet and deserted off-season, the place was not totally empty: a short smiling lady with the dark reddish curly hair greeted us and announced that we had got a super opportunity to learn how the good tea is grown, processed and made ready to indulge. A young Nepali boy took us around. The size of the plantation was hard to estimate: already the path we took down to the estate went along the slopes all covered by the tea bushes which continued to the right and to the left and down too... The old factory complex (arguably, from the British times), the firs with enormously high and straight stems and the tea bushes all around - all covered by fog - looked like a movie still ....

During the brief guided tour we got to know which part of the plant is picked up (3 upper leaves along with the flower added for the natural sweetness), how long the leaves are left for drying (24-48 hours), how labour is organized (women pick up the leaves and men work at the factory itself), when the best tea (1st flush) is picked (mid March-May). The people from the factory claimed that the equipment and the production process are still the ones from the British and that is what makes the tea from the Happy Valley so unique and sought after...

After the tour we were back to the lady who invited us to her house and declared her intention to make some tea for us - of course of the best tea leaves with a super-puper name "super fine tippy golden flowery orange picko one"! The father of the lady used to be in the tea business, so has been she. Originally from Nepal, she came to Darjeeling a few decades back and since that she had been working at the Happy Tea Estate. According to her she was 65 years old, yet she did not look older than 50. I asked her jokingly if the tea was the secret of her youthful look. She replied that longevity and well-being here in Darjeeling are naturally ensured by walking on the hills as a daily exercise... Plus she had been playing football for the female team of her garden (!) and even though she felt she may be quiting soon her team-mates did not want to let her go. "I am not very good, but I have got confidence", explained she. So she made us some tea: she put a handful of the tea-leaves in a pot of boiling water and after 2 seconds she poured the tea through a sieve... The tea is ready! I had no expectations indeed as at the different points of time I got to try some premium teas, yet the golden-orange in color drink we had without sugar, a "magic tea" as the lady called it, was a divine nectar indeed. Its very rich, very refreshing taste re-invented the notion of tea for me, who got so much into chai here in India. Without much doubts I got two pack of the tea leaves. Over the tea we spoke in lenghs about a fate of a Nepali woman in Darjeeling, her family, children, the developments that happened both back in Nepal and here in India over decades.. And she made us a second cup: just by pouring hot boiled water through the once used leaves. This time the taste of the magic tea was different, yet still great!..

Darjeeling: all in fog

2006-11-22T13:40:00.000+05:30

The gentle slopes of Darjeeling appeared to be rather tough at times (and tell me what is not with a backpack getting heavier and heavier with every new station). The guesthouse (Tower View) we picked from the wide selection in the both guidebooks was up the hill: a very basic, yet a very nice place run by a Tibetan family. The reception area also serving as a dining room for the guests and behind the bar – as a kitchen to the hosts- was the oasis of warmth, hot meals, cozy Tibetan bread and enormously big pots of tea. Here would young travelers from all over get together and exchange impressions, plans and recommendations as for prospective traveling…

Once we checked in, I took a very brief and just warm enough shower and quickly ran back to my room... With a great pleasure I picked up waterproof pants, jacket and the trekking shoes that all had been sadly staying idle in my closet for ages and with such an anticipation were put in my backpack this time. So happy I was to pack myself in all this winter-time attire.

How shall I say... it was not awfully cold... But a change after the soaked in the summer India, fog all over the place... n....ya... coming winter made their presence felt. The water was so cold that you wouldn't even be able to rinse your soapy hands properly. Everything you take out of the backpack and leave in a room for even a short while becomes cold and as if wet from inside... You would actually wonder how to brush your teeth as water in your bottle burns your teeth too. In such conditions, warm clothing is essential: you feel packed, protected, like inside a nest... irrespective to any major and minor weather changes.

All covered by the fog Darjeeling looked magnetically attractive: old British buildings and the spirit reminded me of Shimla... well, in a way Darjeeling is the Shimla of the North-East and it used to be the summer capital for the Bengali government. Despite might-have-happened sunrise at the Tiger Hill and the stunning views of the world's 3rd largest mountain Kangchenjunga... which all were canceled by the fog... I was celebrating the fog - it left for us much more to discover and gave a beautiful experience with a little bit of mystery attached... There was a particular style in that: combination of the old buildings and somewhat old-fashioned spirit and the trendy people... Resembling Copenhagen....

Despite the weather I found that young people particularly stylish in Darjeeling. In fact, the town showed the kind of style totally unknown in the rest of India. Pupils proudly wear their classy uniforms - cherry or dark blue jackets and skirts for girls and sleeveless jackets and trousers for boys. The girls look so beautifully girly in their white knee-highs and black ballerina shoes with a stripe and the boys look so trendy with their cheked Burberry-style scarves wrapped around their necks and prudently polished black leather shoes. Any overcoat tends to be worn unbuttoned so not to hide the nicest part of the attire.

A bit older young people do not give up the notion of style either... Teenage girls do look like their Norwegian counterparts (another region where young people tend to dress up irrespective to the climate): converse shoes or ballerina shoes, jeans, waist-long jackets. Trench coats are also popular even with those opting for the traditional wear: they make sure that's nice high-heeled sandals are there along with the bags and trench-coats.. Astonishing!!!

People were extremely nice in Darjeeling: they really notice you and are very interested in you, yet they let you be and rarely initiate a contact with you unless welcomed. I found it a completely new experience here in India to smile to virtually anyone passing by: a slowly walking elderly man, a young lady looking after a shop, a red-cheek school girl revising her notes on the way to school in the morning, a young boy dressed-to-kill.... and they all - young and old, men and women - do smile back with a very open sincere smile... The emotional exchange was so rewarding for me that I just felt like wandering those streets for ever - giving away a bit of my cheerful mood and getting some back.

From NJP to Darjeeling

2006-11-22T06:25:00.000+05:30

I woke up surprised… a gray day was looking at me through the window of the train… the first day without a sun for a long time… since I have arrived in India actually… NJP was as dull as the day and I rushed to the jeep stand to get a vehicle that would bring me further up to Darjeeling.

The jeep accommodated 10 people, including an American family of 3 with a girl speaking decent Hindi, a Belgium girl Nele who has become my travel partner for the North-East hill venture, a man singing religious hymns the whole way long, a big Muslim man in while kurta, green turban and a Nokia smart phone, a man who was getting sick at the curvy roads now and then, two anonymous persons and me…

The journey took us first to Silliguri, as unspectacular as NJP, but the tea plantations around it was where I first in my life saw the green neat bushes of tea. I also tried to identify the common pattern in the appearances of people living in this area and got even more confused: so many looked similar to Tibetans or Nepalis, a few had a typical Bengali face, while the rest looked like neither of those… The border areas are always interesting to visit to see how the neighboring nationalities mix….

Soon we started ascending along a winding road laid on the lush green slopes making up for a landscape completely different from that of the Western Himalaya… It may be right to visit a botanical garden to eventually find out the names of all those plants and trees found in abundance here…. Massive branches of some wild-growing cereal of a human height, the burdocks of gigantic banana leaves, firs twined round with the lianas and the bamboo trees, to name just a few I could identify... Yet for a bulk impression what mattered was that the slopes were as if dressed in a thick coat of the lush vegetation…. And the fog…this kind that does not come in the round wreaths of mist, but rather soaks out from above in layers.. it was covering the remote hills, the tops of the closeby ones and was gradually hiding the valley we left behind us. We were entering this kingdom of the numerous hills covered by the terraced tea gardens and the forests - at times deciduous at times coniferous one. The deeper we were moving the closer we could feel the embrace of the omni-present fog. Whenever you lean over the window of the jeep and look down the edge of the slope you virtually dive into the masses of fog and nothing beyond this....

Now and then we were passing small settlements with the little houses cheerfully painted in blue and green - as high as a person's height - belted with the pots of the beautiful flowers... Women were still wearing salwar-kameze, yet warmed with sweaters and pullovers..yet in many instances wearing flip-flops.. doing dishes outside the houses with the freezing-cold water - just like that...

About big cities: inspired by Kolkata

2006-11-21T23:40:00.000+05:30

I am fascinated and invariably attracted by big cities. Every time I find myself in one I feel like embracing it all… not physically, but rather metaphorically – soak as much of its spirit as I can… And it never seems enough as the spirit often appears immense. People rushing each for his or her own matter; cars, buses, trucks and other vehicles competing for a place on the lane; lit up shops, noisy markets… vibrant life… lived by many in many ways, yet all happening according to some common logic… This is how I felt in Kolkata… the same feeling overtakes me every time I am in Moscow… Even Oslo after a cozy little Bergen looked that way… Strangely… Delhi I see differently though: in the described sense it is not a big city for me. I know its ins and outs and many of them store certain memories related to the people or moments… As this guy Pablo who lives in Barcelona himself said (I wonder if he himself remembers he did), “We make big cities smaller” as we delimit our habitat by the places we tend to hang out, work or live in…. that way I would always remain fascinated and invariably attracted by big yet-unexplored cities….

Kolkata - impressions (2)

2006-11-21T17:51:00.000+05:30

A market…

Despite my passion for documenting things even I did not dare to take pictures.. partly remembering the episode with the villagers at the Pushkar camel fair… partly realizing that I simply do not have any right to..

By pure chance while looking for some yummy Bengali sweets to grab before I go….I walked into this market hidden in the depths of the stalls by Sealdah train station…I thought I have seen markets of this lot – with all sorts of spices, cereals, dhal and more sold loose from the shops looking like shabby treasuries and where you feel the joy of realization as of where things are coming from. This market was different, though…It was not merely a market place, but rather a habitat, one shall say… I saw a stable full of the tops of cauliflower and the peels of the onion and garlic…. I saw a man grounding cardamom, another one squeezing fresh juices and a barber working right nearby…And all the crucial life activities are carried out at the same spot alongside each other. The market was full of the tiny cubicles of shops looking more like closets where space was enough to accommodate the goods for exhibition and sale and the salesman himself sitting with his legs folded… the trade is carried out outside the shops too – dramatically looking characters with the torn and worn out clothes are sitting on the ground among the buckets with vegetables they are selling…

Overall Kolkata stands out in the crowd of the other cities I have seen in India by the virtue of being so developed and so underdeveloped at the same time. Major retail brands would share their venues with the cheap Chinese-born clothes dumped for nuts nearby; modern metro co-exists side by side with the hand-pulled rickshaws; expensive colonial-style eateries compete with the street-stalls. Well… as everywhere in India, one might say… Yet not…Cities, or at least localities in those, can be clearly positioned on the continuum “cheap-expensive”, or “poor-rich”. Kolkata does not bother to segregate either…. So you carefully walk on Park Street by night so not to step on someone sleeping on the ground… and around the same area you see a bare-bum baby sitting on the pavement and then nod your head when she approaches you with her hand stretched… And you pay 3 rs for a cup of tea served to you sitting behind the wheel of your Maruti Swift… I kind of liked my four-rupees bills in this town, yet realization that the reason for them is the outrageous poverty so many people live in here… bothers…

Kolkata: unsystemized impressions

2006-11-21T13:55:00.000+05:30

I was beforehand scared by the scale of the city that I would not be able to handle…so huge it would be.. yet, it appeared much more welcoming and smaller than I pictured it…

Haora train station looked very busy with the flow of its daily routines… too busy to bother you… a very rare quality for a train station… I took a 4-Rs ferry crowded with the people starting a new day: during a short journey a one-legged man did his crawl asking for money, a few shoe-polishing men in doti were roaming around with their wooden boxes akin to the huge irons, tapping their wooded brushes against the boxes and searching for a pair of dusty shoes to polish. The ferry brought me to a very nice locality nearby the Stock Exchange. Once done with my tickets I consulted a policeman in a white uniform manually regulating the traffic and took a 4-rupee bus to Sealdah, the train station wherefore I was to catch my night train. The bus was quite short, had wooden seats with little carvings on the backs, the strips of wood on the floors; a conduction with a little leather bag that could be sold for a decent amount of… not rupees, dollars! at an antique auction; and very polite gentlemen who would give you your legitimate lady seat without you having to ask for it and who would not try to squeeze in the gap between you and the next sitting passenger (while the gap may be sufficient for 2 men from the North). Once done with my luggage I took another bus to Park Street, a very pleasant locality. Later on I tried the metro (again for four rupees) that looks like the brand-new one in Delhi would probably look in a decade below the line: not sterile, but still well-maintained ad habitable.

I checked out the New Market that prides itself on an enormous variety of goods from a needle to an elephant… and I got indeed amazed by the density of the shops housed by the famous red building and the diversity of the range they offer… Moreover, the whole area around Esplanade consisting of shops and street stalls and the rush around made a shocking impression on me. I got this picture of Kolkatians pursuing a hobby of obtaining things – going out to the markets, interacting, bargaining and getting things… One episode I observed was rather descriptive of that. At a non-food market a huge jeep was leaving the parking lot. Bizarrely enough, a man with two cauliflowers appeared nearby and started reaching with those to a woman sitting in the car, “Gobi, gobi! Bis ke do!... Ok, pandra, pandra rupea!”… What a spirit!...

I checked out Maidan, “possibly the largest urban park in the world” according to my guidebook. As my companion, the guy I met during my tea dispute (the chai-man wanted to charge me 5 Rs instead of usual 2-3 for a cup of tea and the guy paid both my tea and his on this clearly inflated rate – not very reasonable, but very male – this was how we met)…anyway, as he explained the park was pretty much exploited by the couples. Well, no surprise – this was the main usage of the parks in Delhi too. Yet, when I looked around I realized a critical difference between two metropolises. In Delhi the couples were represented by shameful girls in salwar-kameez and their more Westernized (in terms of clothes) boyfriends who would seat next to each other holding hands at some remote spot of a park. Here in Kolkata the couples would express their emotions more explicitly even when walking together (!) on the streets… So the parks are saved for even tenderer hugging with the full usages of the open areas, bushes, shady places and umbrellas.

Kolkata: Gastronomical capital of India

2006-11-21T11:31:00.000+05:30

Peacefully waiting on the queue to possibly get a foreigner’s quota ticket for the train to Mumbai. I owe my peace to the most gorgeous thali that I just had for breakfast: rice, dhal, subzi, French fries and fish curry served on a banana leaf. Had it at the street nearby the Stock Exchange.. at a stall where the cooking is happening right in front of you… The much anticipated fish was divine: figuring it out with my hands, smacking my lips and slightly grunting in perfect bliss along with a few other breakfasting people sitting by my side. The pleasure was as expensive as 20 Rs (and still, I think it was too much to pay ;o)… and I could not wish any better breakfast in Kolkata. Forget fruit-salads and paranthas…

Yes, it took me some courage to stop by a stall like that…. The first one of this lot I saw nearby the train-station where rice cost 2,5 Rs and dhal cost 0,5 Rs… It was also the price that made me hesitate.. Actually, I have been having food from road-side places and dubious dhabas for long. Once I remember I found myself having tea and sweets side by side with auto-wallas and for a moment I got struck, “Is it your standard these days, my dear?”. True, I did not mind almost any place as far as vegetable meal would be concerned, yet with meat and fish I thought I should be more choosy…. Yet, in Kolkata the scope of the road-side business is mind-blowing … Neither it is secluded to the poor neighborhood and tacky railways station markets, not it equals to the low standard. I saw all sort of people having food from there…. In particular, such eateries tend to flourish nearby colleges and busy office-areas in the daytime.

As food is not secluded to the kitchens and restaurants so sweets are not a prerogative of the bakeries as they are elsewhere in India. Sweets are also available there – on the food stalls: in the plastic boxes or small trays. 2 Rs for a small juicy pancake of rasmalai that has little resemblance of the yellow idli-looking smooth round cake… and 3 Rs for a piece of an eternal burfi… Served on a tiny banana leaf plate, always on demand and hence finishing off quickly…

Following this pattern “food for everyone at any time of the day” tea is available in the similar fashion. Just like Italians who have to go for espresso en-route somewhere several times a day...irrespective….. Kolkatians would make sure they have their tea…It is cooked fresh for you anywhere… Tea-wallahs appear out of nothing and per need. So you get to see a lady with a cattle and a pile of tiny plastic cups and small clay pots… pouring out a cup for a gentleman nearby his jeep at the parking lot… or you would see some man with a cattle in a middle of a crown of some starving citizens….

As if everything is crying, “Come and indulge”…

Bengali miracle

2006-11-21T06:55:00.000+05:30

I woke up on my upper berth and sat down. The first thing I saw was a little Bengali angel of 4-5 years old in a light-green fleece kangaroo sweatshirt and a small flower- patterned pink fleece blanket covering her legs. Her head was like a dandelion with her short dark curls looking weightless. She had this mat nicely brown skin and the eyes of Buddha. She was practicing a poem with her granddad and this respectable gentleman reminded me of someone else who would soon take up the role of a granddad.. The scene was one of the cutest I have ever seen.

Once I got down from the berth I met the whole family coming back from the holidays in Puri: both grands, mother from whom the girl got her cute face, father whom the girl was really fond of and an aunty… I was observing a vivid picture of the joint family traveling with 6 people and 14 bags.. I recalled how Piyali often says, “In Kolkata we live in a joint family” and the statement sounds so self-explanatory… Sharing of a house with no-one-knows-how-many-rooms and a huge dining table, crucial decisions and sweets after meals, holiday plans and ideas about the prospects of the youngest grandson… And division of labor authority domains and domestic routines.. This one on the train was amusing to watch… Beautificating themselves in the morning ladies in the bright and glittering salwar-kameez. Silent yet having her say grandmother in a cotton saree and carefully warped in a woolen shawl, with a big red bindi on her forehead, her hair in a big bun and the golden ear-rings shaped as inverted drops.. The granddad wearing a kurta and pants of fine white cotton and glasses in the golden frame.. not burdened with any other tasks but playing with his granddaughter or chatting with a younger co-journer.. Father in a long black kurta with extensive embroidery… sleeping long and then playing with the little girl sitting on his lap. And the girl, the joy of the whole family, who is perfectly aware of that.. She is demanding misti (sweet), persistently shaking the box where she knows they are carrying sweets from Puri… the grandma surrenders, opens the box and the whole family shares a few pieces. Great fun to watch, dubious fun to be a part of… Maybe as a little girl….

Why West Bengal?

2006-11-21T02:31:00.000+05:30

Well... it was conveniently on the way from Orissa to Sikkim. Hm... There was much more to that indeed. From the day one in India I have been fancying the idea of visiting Kolkata, this cultural capital (and once - political) of the country, this crowded and congested place, this home of outrageous poverty too - all co-existing side by side. Then I got to work with two Bengali girls... and in particular Piyali, this little Bengali beauty, an exemplary of the ultimate sweetness was feeding me with the tales about Kolkata and she did a great job bringing the concept of Bengali people as a nation in its own right home to me. It was with her I went to watch "Bong connection" (bong is a slang word for Bengali)... with her and with many hundreds of Delhu-based Bengalies and I totally fell in love with this witty people... people who are so passionate about food and are hep to cooking fish well and makw excellent sweets. A bit... not really snobbish, but well aware of their profound intellectual heritage and their long tradition of the international exposure and priding themselves on it... Those people.. with high cheek-bones, healthy cheeks, mat nicely brown skin, deeply set eyes and the long upper eyelids making them look as the eyes of Buddha... And.... how much more reasons does anyone need?

Puri beach

2006-11-20T20:41:00.000+05:30

The beach in Puri was a dessert sort of a destination I had in mind. Clearly realizing that the beach would have nothing to do with a typical concept of a beach people would have outside Indian I was still fairly excited about seeing some sea, walking on the sand and indulging seafood.

Due to my small temple crawl I made it to the beach right before the sunset. The embankment was stuffed with hotels, holidaying Indian families (Kolkatians in particular tend to come here), state emporiums, restaurants and food stalls. The beach itself was crowded with people just lazing around, walking, bravely playing with the waves or safely watching the brave ones; vendors who offer a camel ride, sweets and snacks, statues of Lord Jagannath again, pearls, shells, and tea cooked right on the sand - none of those minding the intense-pink disk of the sun sinking in the horizontal layers of the clouds in the distance.

While waiting for my tea I engaged in the conversation with a girl seating nearby. She invited me to join her. This is how I met these guys from Bhubaneswar who altogether work as software engineers in Infosys. They come to Puri every now and then to chill. Looking at them playing with the waves I recalled the merry bunch from Hyderabad with whom we actually did the same in Vizag in February - just driving around, having ice-cream and lassi, getting soaked wet while playing with the waves, loading in the cars, shifting the drivers, singing and dancing, while driving along the beach - so young, so so careless, so powerful, so full of thirst for life.

I parted ways with the bunch this time though to check out some machi-walas - fishermen selling fish on the shore... While looking for some I came across something I had never seen in my life before - a night market at the beach with the small stalls lit up by neons: selling all sorts of pearls (good quality, mam) jewelery, shells of any shape and size, some cheap textiles...and so on to cater to multiple interests of the holidaying people. Still keeping my seafood plan on I could not help checking out the market and ended up with some this time real (easy to tell, they are just heavy) pearls. Right after I found my machi-walas and got to eat expensive and disappointing deep fried prawns which were followed by a dirt cheap yam fish... Check out this victorious face of mine... ya come and live with aloo parathas and see for yourself shortly after.. Textiles shopping at the emporiums where I went wild again and some milk sweets Orissa is good at made it so complete that as saturated with pleasures as ever I was getting back to my hotel in Bhubaneswar...

Orissan countryside

2006-11-20T19:19:00.000+05:30

As you move to Bhubaneswar from the border with West Bengal in the north you realize that the reality on this side of the planet exists of nothing more that endless paddy fields curiously patched into the small green, yellow and light-brown pieces. Palm trees, some short and some tiny-little, as opposed to exaggeratedly gigantic ones in Delhi, can be seen standing alone, in doubles, triples and lining up in the disciplined lines.

At times a house on an oasis of lush vegetation and blossoming trees arises from the green-n-yellow void. A house like one would picture when thinking of a typical rural area: made of mud, square or round in its foundation, with discordantly arranged red tiles or brown-n-grey dry grass set in a few dense layers. Now and then a water reservoir, or an artificial pond accumulating water for all sort of usage, can be seen in the fields - again surrounded by dense vegetation.

Yet then.. rock formations appear... signifying another possible form of existence. Covered with a thin green layer of vegetation but red inside, they look like masses of hardened carrot halwa fairly figured out by a scoop.

Rocks are followed by more fields... Fields are followed by the river valleys bridged by newish-looking solid metal constructions. Now the bridges are stretching over mostly dry river beds covered by not-completely-dry-after-the-monsoon yellow sand. Taking advantage of the timing major construction work is going on at the bridges which spans are besieged by workers akin to monkeys hanging there and operating their simple tools.

You get a glimpse of the rural life as well... You see men working in the fields (!!) - for a change from the North - guiding buffaloes that pull the plough. They wear vest-tops and doties - a piece of cloth wrapped around your waist - some are knee-long some just cover heaps and look like diapers.

It occurred to me how different living this life is from drawing your conclusions from whatever you can see through the train window. I imagined being a small boy with short and straight unruly hair... wearing just shorts and playing war in the fields, running away from the village and hiding in the high grass, hassling dragonflies, catching all sorts of worms and proudly bringing a few home. I imagined being a school girls wearing a light-blue blouse, dark-blue skirt with folds, two neat plaits tied with a narrow red ribbon and carrying a heavy rectangular backpack through the shady path framed by the palm-trees, then along the pond and then an odd hour and a half across the fields... I was thinking about the hazardous work and the basic lifestyles.. Joana asked the other day, "Are they happy?" In their ways.. despite all.. why not? ....

Driving from Bhubaneswar to the coastal areas of Orissa gives you yet a different picture. You move from one village to another, all covered in the lush vegetation - all in bright green color of over-bursting strength. You get to see the carriages for buffaloes on the backyards.. You get to see the man sitting in their wooden cubicles along the road - one-serves-all-the-purposes shop and preparing a pan. You get to see a boy walking among the palm trees along a pond... You get to see a woman carrying a bunch of banana leaves sized as she herself. You feel it is so wild, so unreal, however - clearly taking place there - outside the window.

and then... the ultimate reward appears.. On the way from Konark to Puri the sea emerges!.. Unannounced... Bay of Bengal.. With the first sight of the white crests of the waves, the greenish-blue infinity of the sea and the light-yellow clean sand... you feel relieved and very happy inside as if you got rid of something that had been bothering you for long.. as if you got your freedom back...

Anything might come later - small branchy firs managing to grow on the sandy ground, a bizarre kind of short but very spread out tree resembling a mythical octopus with leaves on its limps, shady forests with tall trees standing like pillars holding the sky... - it passes on on the same wave still lasting after the glimpse of the sea.

Spying on Orissan temples-2

2006-11-19T18:09:00.000+05:30

Visiting ancient temples in Bhubaneswar felt like an orientation exercise when you, weaponed with a map and a compass, navigate the town and try to locate the object in question. Yet, even if you succeed, there is no guarantee you are allowed in. So, the major temple I nearly walked in without knowing cannot be visited by non-Hindus. Yet, you are allowed to take pictures from a platform and then hassled for donation. Not everyone is equal in front of god, by any money bizarrely go for his sake....

The temples appeared preserved to a varying degree - some being just a mass of bare bricks, some with untouched by time and people fine carvings; some in sort of use attended by half-naked priests, some without a deity and therefore serving as a purely touristic attraction; some well-attended and surrounded by the beautiful gardens, some abandoned at the backyard of an odd house; yet all are still visited the Indian families invariably removing their shoes at the doorstep of even empty temples and very sought after by the few in number tourists coming to Bhubaneswar. The latter, supposedly urban city (capital of Orissa) but still looking rurally relaxed with all its palm trees, men wearing doti and riding rusting bikes.. strangely incorporates the temples, disperced around the city, in the modern landscape and lifestyle.

The Sun Temple in Konark, one of world's wonders, according to Mark Twain and a piece of World Heritage, according to a sign nearby, celebrates the God of Sun and dates back to the 13th century. Its massive construction (only the porch is preserved and it rises to 39 m, the main tower used to be 60 m high) is built in the shape of a war chariot with 12 huge wheels sculptured on either side of the temple.

Yet, my visit to the Sun Temple was not particularly fortunate. A 10-minute discussion and demonstration of the relevant documents at the ticket counter did not win me a 10-rupee Indian ticket. The authorities to appeal to were not there either. I walked around the temple, taking pictures and examining the possibilities for jumping down to the temple ground. At some point the wall seemed lower (a bit more than my height) and I jumped. But was quickly spotted by 3 non-cooperative type elderly men who immediately gave me up to a watchman. I explained the matter to the chap and retold him the dialogue at the counter, trying to appeal to his pity (I am paying 100 rs for my hotel, so how on earth can I afford to pay 250 Rs for a monument). He asked what sort of certification I have got at hand. I gave him my pass... He walked me out of the gate and left socializing with women construction workers outside... Olga, Olga... 1 year in India spent in vain... Quick response and X-rupee note between the pages of the pass could have been the proof of my residence status... Expelled back to Russia!

As for Jagannath temple in Puri I knew beforehand I could not go in as a non-Hindu. Yet, I was attracted by the chance to see Puri beach and be closer to the funny trinity. So, I went... It was written in my guidebook that I can spy on the temple from a nearby library. An hour of rambling among the stalls with prasad, sweets, strings, figures of Lord Jagannath in any size and form of execution, socializing with people also waiting for the library to open (this is how I got to know that Russians are very much known here due to their particular interest in the mineral resources that Orissa is rich in... as if we do not have enough of ours... and an elderly man asked me if my father was an engineer... he-he... who was not at those times? ;o) and... eventually... pam-pam.. 10 Rs of donation bought me the access to the roof of the library.The library was a decent masterpiece itself with its old British wooden book-cases.. dusty and untouched for ages.. and two old men reading newspapers at the spacious reading room. The view over the temple did not gave any insights, but a couple of ok pictures. I was not satisfied. The elderly man I made friends with told me that I can see the statues in the Water Temple, so where I headed. 25 people got around me trying to find out the truth about the Water Temple and one of them brought me there. The trinity was there indeed, about 1.2 - 1.5 m high, but clearly no pictures... I mean - the statues are fun for me, but hei, they are deities in principle... No wonder those non-Hindus are not allowed inside... What a disrespect! Even the young handsome half-naked priest behaving too freely for his role was of no help here... On the way to this one I spotted a small sanctuary guarded by an old women in a worn-out white cotton saree without a blouse or a petticoat. Her appearance and asthmatic breathing was horrifying. My small donation yet bought me some minutes with the sweet trinity (so...carefully cherished... just like babies at the altar... you must see them...) and an eventual picture.

Spying on Orrisan temples – 1

2006-11-19T13:21:00.000+05:30

Being a national heritage and in some instances – a still functioning sanctuary – open for public, Orrisan temples did appeared and would always remain a mystery to me. I have seen a number of those 500 temples left from the original 7000 in Bhubaneswar, the grand Sun Temple in Konark and a magnet-for-pilgrims Jagannath temple in Puri. Yet I did not get a chance to fully experience any of them.

What is an Orrisan temple like? Imagine a long hanging marigold garland…This is a main tower (deul) of an Orissan temple – as tall, as terry due to its extensive and incredibly fine carvings on the outer walls, as segmented – both horizontally and vertically – reflecting a very composite structure of the construction. A shorter rectangular-in-its-basement building in front of the tower is a porch (jagamohana). Later temples also have a dancing hall (hota mandir) and a hall of offerings (bhoga mandir). Yet, personally, I find carvings more fascinating than the geometry of the temple complex as such. Depicting gods and scenes from the epics, the carvings are astonishing in their precision and artistic contribution. One can walk rounds and rounds while discovering tine and huge figures of pot-bellied women with bare perfectly round balls of breasts, unbelievably small waist and curvy heaps covered by garlands and other decorations; intricate compositions of flowers and animals; gods with their vehicles and symbols; and impressive scenes from the immortal epics.

To be continued…

Why I decided to go to Orissa?

2006-11-18T12:37:00.001+05:30

I picked up this not particularly conventional destination relying on my gut instincts rather than for any well-justified reason. I got inspired by the most amazing round-eyed wooden statues of Puri trinity (Lord Jagannat), first discovered by Olivier and MC and ever since coming on my way in one form or another – carved on wood or stone, made of brass, painted, woven – in the rooms of craft museums, palaces and state emporiums. Then I found colorfully painted wooden figures of animals from Orissa which I was generously gifting back home. And eventually I got to see Orissi classical dance with its fascinating concept, sophisticated choreography and the dancers looking like the carved statues on the walls of the ancient temples. Lord Jagannat, wooden animals and dance maybe a dubious momentum for traveling, yet it was more than enough to book my tickets without thinking.

Leaving Delhi in the confused state of mind

2006-11-17T19:20:00.000+05:30

I eventually got up at 5.17 am… 13 minutes before I was supposed to leave the house and head off to the train station so to catch the train to the city which name I still cannot pronounce well… Bhubaneswar, the capital of Orissa…. I still felt that meeting the deadline was realistic. I washed my face, rammed whatever I needed in my backpack, threw whatever I did not need for that time to the upper shelf of my former wardrobe, kissed sleepy Claudia, woke up Joana and Bozo as one of them really managed to lock the door so that my key would not work, exchanged hugs with Tensin, my Tibetan monk friend who came to stay with me the day before and got a yellow string with a nodded mantra tied on my wrist and rushed downstairs...uf... On the way I realized that my previously thought as indispensable sweatshirt was still lying on the beanbag where I left it. I shouted, “Tenzin, Tenzin!” and asked him to throw it from the balcony. What he did…. Yet, the sweatshirt never reached the ground.. having been stuck among the wires at the level of the second floor. After the two seconds of shock … realizing my miserable inability to seize the desired object that was within my sight but clearly out of any reach….I waived to Tenzin, asked to take care of it in the morning and started walking towards the market..

The detachment exercise was not over with it yet.. Already in the auto it occurred to me that I forgot my charger along with the second set of the batteries for the camera in the plug in the living room… Poorly imagining the practicalities related to the absence of such crucial items… I was thinking about the possible substitutes, opportunity costs and…. Realized thinking was in vain… I got an amazing chance to practice detachment… So that to make Tenzin a bit more proud of me ;o)…..

Left for traveling

2006-11-02T21:43:00.000+05:30

ok... i cannot promise anything, but at least the intention is there… I hope to post as I go, so hopefully you people will be regularly fed with new tales on my tour ;o) let us see….

The coming 1,5 weeks I am in Rajastan, the land of Maharajahs, proud kings and princesses, fortresses and palaces, camels and snake-charmers…. Uaa….. Enough of the tourist pamphletism...

The packing lasted for a week and resulted in a zipped and locked suitcase with 20 kgs and a stuffed upper compartment of my cupboard – to be posted, to be used, to be…. The farewell dinner resulted in the major hangover the day after and the praise of the dishes I spent on hours and hardly tried. The night before leaving was nicely spent in TC with the a few of the dearest of the remaining..

The bus journey to Jaipur started in a miserable way… I was trying to hide the sentiments between the lines of Norwegian Wood, the book by Murakami that I clearly picked up for its title. Yet…oh, my luck, the reading went so that every passage was strangely resounding in my heart, appealing to the odd memories and twists relevant for various periods of my life… I went on and on crying…. This was grieving for whatever has not happened however much I was devastated with whatever did happen. I could not explain any reason for my tears, yet I realized the reason was the abundance of reasons… I cried for everything and nothing in particular. True, I tend to arrange my trips in such a way that it is always a major bye to something or somebody, so the journey becomes a virtually cathartic experience when I first have to cry out all the tension… before I finally get occupied with the impressions, concerns and routines of the new destination.

Done or not?

2006-10-24T17:17:00.000+05:30

There are days when I open my wardrobe with anticipation: I dig in and pull out my favorite biggest ever black patiala pants, hip-long light green kurta with low V-neck and black little top to wear under. I match it with golden metal ear-rings with little bells that ring whenever I move my head, with a black velvet bag decorated with golden embroidery, fish scales-like beeds and a ribbon instead of clasp and golden sandals – what can make you happier than being able to wear these cuties without doubts in November. My Indian-Western mix-n-match outfit deliberately thought through gives me amazing confidence and I step out of the house in the incredible mood. I easily convince an auto-walla to go on my price after the second try. I am on the way to meet a friend or a few of them; I am texting some other people on the way and get messages back. I am sticking my head out of the auto just to get a feel of the huge motorway, wind, sun, rush of the vehicles and people around – and the ultimate love to the country that saturates every pore of my body.

There are days when I dig in the piles of clothes all over the room and put on my favorite shabby pants that I have been wearing for at least a week now. I get a random comfy top. I do not have any interest in picking a pair of earrings as there is nothing to match them with anyway. I fasten my walking sandals, put my bag of rough cotton across the shoulder and step out of the house in the total indifference to the life happening out there. I am deep in my thoughts even when constantly challenged to interact with the outside world. I am maneuvering between dangerously-close passing by men and vehicle without a sign of concert. In fact, these days I go outside only if there is a burning need, such as visiting an Internet café ;o). But that no need seems urgent – I am so reluctant to engage in any interaction that I would prefer to survive on the food stock available in the house, rather than bothering myself with any shopping however minor. I am thinking my past and future or at times not thinking at all – anything but present is on my mind. I am watching my old pictures and strangely longing for the places I am yet anchor at one day. I am carefully protecting my mental peace that can be established only if I know if I am not in this country – my mind can be anywhere and as far as I do not go outside or get to see people I can be happily convinced in that. My phone is silent the whole day and even I have no will whatsoever to bother it with calls or messages to anyone. I feel done – work-relationship-anyhow-wise. I open my wardrobe and look around – this I’ll post, this I’ll give away, this I’ll wear, this I’ll carry home. I am mentally packing.

Yet to the questions as for when I am leaving I still give ambiguous answers. I do not mind explaining things when I am sorted in every detail. When I am not – I rather prefer making sense for myself than for the others if I am to choose. And I am to choose these days. Sorry, people…

Post-Diwali mood: longing for family

2006-10-22T17:55:00.000+05:30

Poonam’s place is one of the greatest houses I have ever been too. Its greatness is in the feeling of completeness that saturates each and every part of the house - being it an interior detail or the people inhabiting it. Here comes the perfect understanding of Russian concept - “house like a full cup” (they live in plenty) – that signifies harmony and happiness in the physical habitat and emotional relationships in the family. In the “house like a full cup” you can sense the peaceful co-existence and self-sufficiency of the people living there and they space they altogether create and use.

On the first place, the notion of a separate house makes the difference on its own right. A house with a small garden and a cozy door-yard, creates the feeling of space and independence that is unthinkable for an apartment in a block of flats where your habitat is limited by the ceiling, floor and walls of your neighbors from all sides. Moreover, a house that you can just walk in from the ground floor looks incredibly open, hospitable and relaxed.

A fairly spacious living room welcomes you once you enter Poonam’s house: the room is organized in concentric rectangles – the outer frame is made up by the cupboards hosting souvenirs, crafts, photographs, vases; the mid rectangular is organized with sofas and chairs that are set along the sides of the beautiful carpet, the inner rectangular in the middle of the room. A transparent curtain separates this room from the other living room, a smaller one with the intimate atmosphere created by the soft lights and small sofas cozily set around the small table. That room further flows into dining room and open-plan kitchen and leads to the bedrooms, bathrooms and other-purpose rooms. The very number of rooms in the house creates the notion of abundance - abundance of space for each and every family member and any guests happened to drop by, abundance of ideas as each room is finished in its distinctive style and abundance of stories that the house has got to tell. The decorations – vases, lights, candles, paintings, pictures, statues, souvenirs - brought from all over by the family members or gifted by the friends – silently speak volumes about the family. They shows the long history that the family has got, show how firm the family bonds are if they have been maintained for so long, show how the family is connected to the outside world, how it explores around and show the efforts invested in creating and nurturing its space, its home - shelter or fortress or open house depending on the occasion….

How, how, how – to create such an atmosphere and to maintain it? Every time I come to this house I find a few bouquets of fresh flowers decorating the rooms. The flowers look like a sign of continuous care over the house that is meant to look beautiful and welcoming.
How come you’ve got so many fresh flowers in the house? – I asked once.
I just got them this morning, - she explained.
Indeed, as easy as that: if you want your house to look taken care of - take good care of it. Indeed, Poonam as may other women in India resorts to the services of various domestic helpers (gardener, sweeper, cleaner, cook etc) yet it comes down to her agency as for whether, what and how. Everything in the house is under her deliberate supervision and the caring eye.

Poonam would always be an exemplary of an excellent host for me. She invites you to come over whenever she sees you and she means it. She gives you space yet makes sure you are provided with anything needed.

“Hi Olga!” – after hugs and kisses and taking seats the questions comes “What drink can I offer you? Vodka-juice, rum-coke? Baccardi-lemonade?” – she smiles perfectly remembering that last time I opted for the latter. Everything in the house follows the routine yet without any sign of being imposed. Poonam opens her impressive bar and keeps fixing the drinks throughout the night. She makes sure the conversations flow, empty glasses get refilled and snacks get passed around. She feeds the conversations with her stories: oh, she can knowledgeably talk about any topic and would definitely have a point of view to present.

On Diwali she suggested we follow the tradition and play cards to welcome prosperity in the new year. She was encouraging and maintaining the spirit of everyone and made sure everyone was involved. When discussing how high the stakes we should go for and when her father-in-law said, “1 rupee a bill”, she played up “Papa, at least 2 rupees” not for the sake of the deal but to raise the competitive spirit - it is clear from the beginning no money would be involved. She explained the rules, we played an open round and only when everyone understood the rules we could start. It is the rule of thumb in this house – no one can be left out. Poonam was passing comments on the course of the game – teasing gamblers, cheering unlucky fellows, praising the winners and jokingly bluffing herself. “Lovely!”- and she applauses. “What a game!” and she discusses the combinations that just won.

The conversation and the game are followed by the meal with explanations about the preparation tricks and cooking as such. After that sweets are served and accompanied with discussions of dining out places and cuisines of various parts of India. Then we move back to the big living room where coffee and liquors - the ultimate luxury to indulge – are served to round up the evening.

Poonam exactly knows how to treat her guests. I wonder if there is any situation she would not know how to go about. And what is more important - she is true to herself and the same irrespective to the people around – the ones she’s known for ages or for just a few days – her maid, in-laws, daughters, dog, adopted Kate, Kate’s parents and orphaned me.

Poonam and Lalit have 2 beautiful daughters, Meghna and Sanjana and a cute fluffy dog Pixi – all those people and creatures comprise the family and its space. Lalit is a captain of a merchant ship and at least half a year he is away. But even when he is not at home he manages to make his presence and care felt. Understandably, it costs tears and many painful moments for the family not to have him and his support around. Yet, gestures like a gorgeous bouquet of red roses and cake he sent to his wife and daughters for Diwali and his calls when the phone is passed from one person to another still make it complete.

…..

Every time I leave Poonam’s house as much inspired as melancholic. I get ultimately convinced that only having a family makes one’s life complete and the ability to set up and nurish one is the only true check of your worth…

Ben

2006-10-19T17:53:00.000+05:30

On Thursday I got a text from Karo: “I am coming back. Are you at home in 1,5 hours? Is there a place for me and a friend in the flat?”

Thinking that once upon a time we would have to get some extra mattresses to be able to host people even when we are full: by far this issue is left for the resourcefulness of the generous hosts… I texted back: “Come! I’ll be here if you need me. I can offer a beanbag and my mattress for you two”. She replied, “I love you! ;o)”. “Come, come, girl!”

This is how I got to know Ben, the guy who Karo met on her trip to Varanasi. A medical student in UK he came to work for a hospital in Assam. He was briefly traveling after that and now came to Delhi to take flight back home in a few days.

The thing came up when he asked if he could download his pictures on my computer so to burn CDs later. That night he joined us for the dance festival and at some point headed to the stage where he kept taking pictures with his digital camera looking way more sophisticated than both ours – with better lenses and greater zoom. So, I was particularly anxious to check out his pictures from tonight show.

So we were downloading those along with his shots from Varanasi and on the way were watching my snaps that randomly pop up on my laptop in the screen-saving mode. Ben showed appreciation for quite a few shots I took and I was happy to tell the stories behind those. The conversation brought the memories about the times when I was excited about the new horizons my digital camera had brought into my life. I was exploring the settings, experimenting with exposure, making those solo sallies in the mountains, woods and town of Bergen, all around my home town in Russia and the wide avenues in the hospitable Moscow and then later in the streets and lanes of Delhi. I derived particular fulfillment from the artistic or just aesthetic shots I managed to take and I was glad to hear wows during the multiple demonstrations of my shots to the family and friends. Later on I found out how rewarding the sharing on the larger scale can be: I joined trekeath, treklens and photosight where I could view and comment all sorts of works by all sorts of keen photographers; where I could upload mine too and hope for some interest and feedback on those. However, soon after leaving Norway I discovered that another passion of mine is craving to come out and get exposure. I started writing my journal and then this blog. Initially, I believed in the possibility of the intimate dialog of text and image. I felt images are too bare to tell a story unless accompanied by an account. So, along with those lines I made my blog on the last trip in Norway and I think even later I had a couple of decent samples of the concept . Yet, more and more text was taking over and photography and story telling took separate paths in my life. I am still endlessly clicking to treasure the memories of moments, people and places. Yet, I feel that to share on the same I can do much better when resorting to text. I just do not have enough patience to master the technicalities of photography: every time I would sit down with a book I would get bored too soon to memorize anything. So, technical excellence is beyond my reach then. And if I cannot get close to what I think is perfect why to venture at all. Moreover, I realized that rather than calibrating the exposure I enjoy playing with the words. Here I have got patience for continuously fine-tuning my sentences, exploring my vocabulary and pushing the limits of my narrative skills. This was my part of the story to tell Ben about.

We started the slide show with his shots. I got struck by the abundance and quality of portraits he had taken. Portraits are my unfulfilled dream, as I do not think you can really fulfill it when the camera with 3-fold zoom. A better camera with a decent zoom – that would do, I thought. I started questioning about the specific portraits and Ben started narrating his stories. He was explaining how he interacts with people whose portraits he takes. “Once they see you with a camera pointed at them, they start smiling, yet if you haven’t adjusted your settings properly from the first go and keep trying, they lose their interest soon and you may never catch the same face”, shares he. “This one was not cooperating at all”, says Ben while we go through a dozen of shots of a potentially very interesting character in yet very unappealing postures. “These guys played volleyball with a plastic bag and I ended up joining them – it is so easy to take pictures of the people once you get to spend some time with them”. And he shows me a bunch of pictures with openly smiling guys who seem to joke and tease each other. “And with beggars”, continues he, “you can just give them ten rupees and take infinite number of pictures. Yet, I do not think all the pictures should be taken for money”. I was wondering how close I could get to such sort of interaction – being a woman in this country (again, gender-sensitive me, what to do people?). I was recalling the portraits that Juan Mi took in the markets of Jaipur – smiling men happy to be photographed and maybe make friends with a white man. And I was so frustrated with mine taken in the same town – puzzled and suspicious faces came out on my snaps clearly saying “what is this one doing here?” Ben and me were going through the hundreds of his snaps – people of all sorts, yet majority being children and enders. Faces of old people looked particularly striking with every wrinkle holding a story to tell. “I used to treasure those portraits, but now when I’ve got thousands of them they hardly have the same value for me”, confessed Ben to my great astonishment. “I really envy your portraits however much you yourself undervalue them”. At the end of the day, it is far more than just a decent camera with a zoom: those portraits are owed to Ben’s ability to immediately build and masterly capture human interaction. Thank you so much for sharing and inspiration!!!

Festival of Indian classical dance

2006-10-17T16:34:00.001+05:30

Purana Qila has become the mantra I have been reciting in front of rickshaw-drivers every night these days as the old fort has been hosting Ananya, a festival of Indian classical dance, “brought to you” by Ministry of Tourism and Culture and Delhi Tourism. Similarly to the concept of Qutub Festival, the event was held at the site of a heritage monument (Purana Qila) so to facilitate a dialogue between various cultural forms, this time being dance and architecture.

I remember how I was running late on the first night and the shuttle bus brought me inside the gate of the fort. A brief ride on a windowless vehicle did not give any comprehensive ideas about the appearance of the spread-out fort complex sunk in the quiet dark. Yet, it was a perfectly sensual experience. Fresh breeze was stroking my hair and calming all my senses. We were approaching a wide path framed by the tall palm trees, artificially lit and hence looking as giant street lights. At the end of the path I could see only a two-headed minaret - the improvised concert hall and the stage were yet hidden.

I was walking along the dark path towards the reinforcing sounds of harmonium with slight touches of tabla accompanied by the rustle the palm trees and could not imagine how divine the performance so beautifully foreplayed can be. The lights of small Diwali lamps hanging on the wall of strings were luring me in. After passing the lamps I climbed the steps – and stood still in front of the gorgeous stage on which incredibly feminine figures of dancers akin to beautiful ancient statues were gracefully moving. Ancient ruins and ancients dance were taking to each other.

One of four styles of Indian classical dance was featured every night by the prominent dancers of India. Each style originated and has been honed in a distinctive area of the country and therefore differs in its concepts, steps and dresses.

Odissi comes from the state of Orissa and is believed to be one of the oldest surviving dances in the world: ancient temples in Orissa depict the scenes of the dance. And nowadays the dancers in the glowing draping of their yellow sarees with red borders, wrapped between their legs to allow the composite choreography look just like those graceful statues when stay motionless without any sign of hard breadth after the intense performance. Non-action seems to be as important in this dance as action. The composite choreography of the dance is based on the three pillars - head, bust and torso – which slow flowing movements, strikingly synchronized for the whole group, are used to express specific moods and emotions. Yet, when the dancers freeze for ever-lasting seconds in the completely motion-less state they still can resort to the facial expressions, another key element in this style. The dance looks like a sacred ritual devoted to Lord Krishna and the movements are truly saturated with of love and devotion.

Kathak used to be performed at the courts of the kings and therefore meant to be entertaining: dance and music were used by the minstrels, or storytellers (kathakaar), to dramatize the lyrics of the heroic tales and legends. The dancers’ dresses look like those on the Mughal miniature paintings: women wear legengas with churudar pants under and men wear long achkan with salwar pants (kathak is the only style of Indian classical dance where dancers can be males too). The dance is woven of swift turns, graceful movements of hands and precise footwork. Flaps of the shining sink suits swing following the multiple turns of the bodies and create the distinctive pattern of this spectacular dance. The movements of hands act as a delicate finishing of this royal entertainment where everything ought to be perfect. The rhythmic footwork is an important feature of the dance that is performed straight-legs and the ankle belts are used to the full capacity here: following the rhythm, anticipating the rhythm and creating the rhythm is in the full agency of the dancers.

Mohiniattam dance originated from the southern state of Kerala. Mohini according to the Hindu mythology is a beautiful woman who attracts people instantly and who was an enchantress, thus it is a dance of enchantresses. Yet, the dance also signifies transformation of Lord Vishnu into a female form and the concept of male and female as one. The dance narrates the legends about Krishna and his beloved Radha and in this capacity stands very close to drama. The slow movements of the dance show the anticipation of Krishna, love and devotion for him and joy when he is around. Dancers are attired in white sarees with red borders, specialty of Kerala, with their palues arranged as a fan under their waist. A woman in purple saree blouse is clearly playing Lord Krishna, traditionally depicted with blue body.

Bharatanatym, dance from Tamil Nadu, appeared to me as a combination of the previous three. Sophisticated synchronized choreography of Odissi, heavy emphasis of hand moments from Kathak, narrative nature of Mohiniattam – are descriptive for Bharatanatym. In this style the body is visualized as if made up of triangles, one above and one below the torso – women always dance bend-kneed – and the geometric perfection of each dancer’s figure and the compositions they merge in set up the dynamics of the dance. Poems on the hero-heroine theme are a special feature of this style and the choreography conveys unconditional devotion on the part of the performer.

All the featured dance forms in Indian classical dance (even Kathak originally) emerged and were nourished as temple dances. And even now when dance is popularized the devotional part seems to go hand in hand with its aesthetic value. The stage where the dance is performed is considered a sacred area to step on which people are ought to remove their shoes. Some even touch the floor with their palm and then put the palm on their forehead – a ritually invariably performed before entering a temple. It is fascinating to realize that a place can just become sacred by the virtue of hosting a sacred activity. Generously hospitable Purana Qila got its blessings from the bell-heeled bare feet of the dancers.

Diwali around the corner

2006-10-16T17:09:00.000+05:30

The festive mood of Diwali takes over the markets and shopping centers, houses and offices, streets and lanes of the city. To get a flavor of what matters here as much as Christmas does in Europe we headed to a couple of Diwali bazaars in Delhi.

Diwali bazaar in Blind School is one of the most famous in town. It seems that originally the Blind Relief Association arranged the bazaar to sell the candles along with some other items made by its wards for the charity of the establishment.

Yet, while the good-value candles still attract people, these days Blind School rents out the majority of the stalls to the external vendors. In fact, the bazaar is also renowned as the market for rich Delhi wives, which is certainly true.

Really pleasant, hassle-and-extra-attention-free atmosphere and upmarket stalls seem like a great place for women wearing sophisticated kurtas and jeans (the combination is a profound trademark of (upper-) middle class Indian women), bags with the logos of Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Channel and delicate perfumes.

They come accompanied at times by their husbands or teenage children or more often with the girlfriends in a Western manner; they wander around, amass bags and boxes and then load those into their cars looking like the lorry of Santa Claus. And the potential for amassing things is really great at Diwali Bazaar. Hardly anything that can cater to the picky tastes of the shoppers looking for presents and new dresses is missing here: clothes, traditional and western, readymades and dress materials, fancy bags, jewelry and jewelry boxes, exclusive chocolate,

pickles and pan,

natural cosmetics, handmade paper, worship items – lamps, garlands, statues of gods,

paintings, mirrors, bed linen and cushion covers, rugs and plats – artificial and live. Obligatory snack stall serving anything from kulchas to pasta salad is also there. I realized I have not seen much of the sort of things I have found in bazaar - the result of too much roaming around cheap markets and deliberate avoidance of posh shopping malls. For me personally, one Diwali bazaar a year would do.

Later in the night we headed to another sort of arrangement – this time Diwali Mela in Sundar Nagar. Many localities have this sort of festivities around Diwali, yet Sundar Nagar attracts crowds from all over Delhi due to its vast scale.

Mela (fair) is essentially a community celebration with trade stalls,

entertainment, music, side-show and obviously food arrangements.

I realized that some events are worth visiting just for the sake of their mass character. Call it Soviet gigantomania but I love huge parades, big markets, massive open-air concerts and festivities that pack the venue itself and 10 kilometers around it on each side. Call it Soviet collectivism but I enjoy it when you see the anxious anticipation on the faces of the people queuing to get in such an arrangement, excitement of grown-ups which it not any less than that of their small children, joy of being around people on the special day or its eve and sharing your joy with them. This is how I felt at the Mela that night. We tried it all - spectacular food stalls with elaborate selection,

all sorts of goodies sold for Diwali presents and requisites, awful dance performance by some local talents (I guess my standard had soared since the dance festival (LINK), massive swinging boat that made my heart sink every time we were free-falling from the upper extreme of the swings’ trajectory and breakdance that started swiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinging right after disappointed me asked, “Where is the thrill?” and Karan replied, “And here it comes”. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Pre-Diwali weekend fuss

2006-10-15T17:07:00.000+05:30

The overwhelmingly happening weekend could have left me in a very confused state of mind if I were to think. Yet, as I do not do so, my state of mind can be comfortably described as tired. Indeed, festival of Indian classical dance, more and more time spent with the flatmates and masses of other people on the scene and behind it, Diwali bazaar and Mela, dance contest of the street and working kids. Kate - who is far in the North-East with her parents these days, Claudia - this impressively wholesome independent woman who is managing to give me both loads of personal space and amazing company, Karo - who has returned after her last traveling session to leave the country next Sunday and with whom we are re-inventing our relationship in the new settings of our old flat, Karan – with reasonability and patience of a mature men and pranks of a small boy, and Ben - who generously shared his awesome photographs and experiences and whom we happily hosted during his last days in India - they all could be definitely called the people of the weekend. Again, my (un)ability to prioritize is challenged – on what to post first?

Cult of tea

2006-10-10T16:13:00.000+05:30

I pour purified water out in a big bowl that we have got in the kitchen. I let it boil and in the meanwhile I peel a big juicy apple and a small clove of fresh ginger and chop both. Once the water get boiled I throw the fine pieces of apple and ginger along with a stick of cinnamon in the water and quickly cover the bowl. The flat mates get together at the low seats and the beanbag spread around the low red table and I let the water boil on the low fire. The conversation slowly advances and Claudia helps me with cups, sugar and spoons. I cover the bowl with two towels, put one more underneath and bring it on the table. We start discussing the practicalities of the communal life in the flat and I let the drink steam for some time. Once the major tension is released in the talks, I slightly open the bowl and we all inhale the smell given away by the boiled apple, ginger and cinnamon. I pouring out the light colored drink to the bright cups and each of us seasons it with sugar and freshly squeezed lime juice. We indulge our tea to the melody of unhurried chat.

This treat followed the one the other day offered to all of us by Claudia, who is a keen devotee of ginger-lemon tea, wholesome bread, yoga and many other ways she uses to cherish her life energy. The treat was followed by the one prepared by Reima, who has been coming up with most adventurous ways ever to treat his cold. This time he prepared a mix of grated ginger, some mysterious grass – watch out - and Himalaya honey that he himself had with a drop of the Old Monk – for good health. We helped him with the drink so to ensure good karma, health and energy for the whole flat.

Two mornings

2006-10-09T18:14:00.000+05:30

I woke up in the large living room of Lajpat Nagar trainee house about quarter past eight and following the recently developed routine was wondering if I can stay in bed a bit longer. The doubts got quickly clarified by Roel who came in the living room with a package of bread and a toaster and Norman who came to plug in the iron. I got up to find only Kirsten sleeping and the rest were already out or on their way to. I could feel the silent and carefully suppressed, yet evident, spirit of the fight for the scarce water resources, queue for the shower and your space in the apartment of eight people. I got suddenly happy that neither had I to rush for work, nor to take shower, nor to wonder about disappeared bananas. I took a bus ride home feeling as serene as one can be in a morning rush hour when you can witness it but do not have to participate. I came to the flat about half past nine to find most of my flatmates still at home. Reima was indulging his morning coffee and readings. Claudia was doing some stretching to the sounds of Tibetan matras filling in the flat. I quickly chopped my fruit salad, exchanged weekend updates with Claudia and joined the guys for breakfast. The notion of calm and peace prevailing in the flat did not delay people who left for work soon. I was struck by the two different mornings I have just seen.

Weekend = weekdays

2006-10-08T18:07:00.000+05:30

This weekend came as a puzzle for me. With all the freedom to command my time to my own taste, I have recently adopted a new lifestyle. My mornings have become a bit late: I am hardly urged to wake up about 7 -7. 30 am as I used to. Yet, I get up early enough to see my flatmates for breakfast. Then during the day I am reading on the topic of my prospective doctorate research and writing posts for my blog. Also, by the virtue of staying home I tend to engage in one or another domestic routine in the breaks between studies and writing. The whole last week every single day I was doing one sort of laundry or another - there is nothing as easy as amassing dirty clothes India. Cleaning is also a sad necessity in the flat of six people as the dust tends to accumulate at an impressive speed and never-removed outdoor shoes along with open windows and doors hardly help here too. So, maybe I am more urged than my flatmates to fight any of the listed as I get exposed to that most of the day. However hard, I am trying though to cool down my conscious that may turn me into a non-paid domestic worker instead of a freelance writer as I’d rather fancy being. Anyway, since my major aspirations and duties get fulfilled during the day I have got a whole night which tends to happen out these days. Lots of the new trainees have come, so everyone is pretty keen on meeting, parting, dining out and exploring around. Bunch of the old friends is always there and has not become any less demanding in terms of the investments on both sides, so busy nights are ensured.

The lifestyle of the post-traveling time reminds me of that I had during a brief stay with Tikhon in Moscow Nov-Dec 2004 and my summer 2005 in Norway. In the first instance, I came to Moscow during the break between the classes and the exams at NHH: as an exemplary wife I saw off Tikhon for work in the morning (breakfast and ironing shirts included on the special days), during the day I was studying, doing some grocery shopping and whatever small things I had to fix and every night I was dressing up so we could go out in one way or another. Two weeks of leisure and illusive ‘marital’ happiness. The summer in Norway was all devoted to earning money to come to India, finishing my thesis and proving my ability to get reborn from the ashes. However monotonous the activities were the result was stunning in all the three instances. The social life was almost non-existent, though, in the empty-by-summer student dormitory, yet it started rocking just before I was leaving when in late August all the great new MIBs arrived. Well, in my present situation I am enjoying the best of both situations – being the master of my time, doing the things I really love engaging in, having social life and no relationship bonds.

Yet, the weekend challenge appeared as bewildering as unexpected. I really wondered how to distinguish all-at-my-disposal time of weekdays from all-at-my-disposal time of weekends. And differentiation felt desperately needed: it seems that when we break “normal” routines, e.g. as start working in the night or on weekends and having days for sleeping and weekdays off we find ourselves on a funny frame of reference. Different from that of the majority of people. And to define my comfortable (X,Y) location on it feels more important than explaining to the others that ‘life after work’ is possible.

Cinderella night

2006-10-05T19:35:00.000+05:30

It was thanks to the Amit's invitation to a fashion show, that night got filled with fascinating happening. I could not inspire anyone to keep a company, so I had to go on my own. On the first place, I totally grab any opportunity to see what my friends are doing, what constitutes their jobs, lives, expertise and aspirations. By doing so you can better understand the people you know and show your appreciation to them, which immensely contributes to the relationship. So I was happy to see Amit modeling in a show. Secondly, I am always trilled to attend an event of a new-to-me format and being on my own just reinforces my receptiveness, let me be more open to meeting new people and catching new ideas.

Fashion show at a 5* hotel is a certain occasion for dressing up which I indulged. The time when I had to dress up for a party at least once a week is left behind in Norway. So these days, when I mostly resort to shabby traditional or hiding-the-curves Western, dressing up is a luxurious opportunity for me. The fact that walking to the market where I could get an auto was seriously hampered by calls and whistles and that auto-walas initially overquoted price to the hotel by three times showed that I looked just right for the occasion.

The tranquil ambience of the reception lounge soaked in the semi-darkness was as relaxing as teasing for all your senses. People, first very few, were arriving and filling in the room with the smells of their perfumes, sparkles of their dresses, shine of their hair, sweetness of their greeting kisses and hugs. Gastronomic delights were served to keep people busy before the show started. I tasted the canapé with salmon, the most tender paneer ever, melting-on-your-tongue pork, very folk yet elegantly served little momos and the Italian ice-cream which appeared rather expensive than good. Whisky and vodka mixed with anything in any proportion were starting off the merry evening.

Almost before the show started, I spotted a group of guys, also AIESECers, whom I knew – yet, instead of usual 3 they were 4…and that fact determined the dynamics of my evening. The eyes that chill you down and sarcastic jokes that tease you on (I am really getting used to such jokes as a way of communication after having been lived with all these nice people from this amazing region), interest in you and in everyone around, confidence and sense of direction, agency and initiative… It took the first few seconds to realize I was in trouble, but the realization came too late: already then the process had become irreversible…

We saw the collection which appeared to be both male and female traditional ware, discussing the models rather than the clothes. Couple of drink and new friends did not divert us from the initial plan which was TC.

However hard it was to get in with one girl and six guys (I enjoyed the sex-ratio for one time sake, but for the couple entry places it is a huge inconvenience), we made it. I pitied that Roel and Kate could not come, but seeing Kanak after five long moths felt great. It was him that night who made TC look like in those old times when I first started going out there, it was him guarding me from a continuously trying Indian guy (something Western buddies would never pick up, I guess), it was just him and I was happy he was. As an absolute surprise, Daniela and Karan were also there: we could get enough of hugs with the girl who was traveling all this time and just arrived back to Delhi and the guy is just so much fun to see each time. Then, my new flat-mate also made it to TC and I took initiative to introduce everyone to everyone - kind of be at the origin of the relationships the development of which you would not get to witness. So, the fun of the night was shared by the whole marry bunch.

... I love these Cinderella nights when you prepare for a ball and end up with a thrill in your heart, happy and stupid thoughts in your head and anticipation of the next time you will get to see the eyes and hear the jokes. Tomorrow.

Burning the evil

2006-10-02T15:07:00.000+05:30

The last night of the celebrations for the greater glory of the Mother Goddess was marked with the burning of the evil spirit. Again, each locality had some figures of the spirit to burn right at hand, yet we decided to go for a mass happening. The area nearby Nehru stadium was identified as the probable place for such happening by impressively informed Kate and we headed there with a couple of new trainees. The flyover nearby the stadium was flooded with people walking towards the area or just taking their place on the flyover to watch the burning from there. We merged with the crowd heading to the scene and raising the clouds of dust on sand-like ground. Before the actual burning the performance of Ramayana (ancient Sanskrit epic) was developing on the stage

and enjoyed the undivided attention of thousands of people gathered at the place.

The scale of the event was mind-boggling: the deafening sounds of the show, crowds captivated by the performance and anxiously anticipating its climax, three huge figures of the evil spirits to be burnt in the culmination of nine-day celebrations.

Once again, we enjoyed the working principle of “Atithi Devo Bhavah'' which is easy to appeal to when dealing with educated people: a polite “Excuse me, sir. How can we?” won us a shortened queue and the best seats nearby the stage and the evil spirits. The latter were burnt with noticeable pleasure.

However scary it was to watch a huge object getting quickly burnt in front of your eyes (or, I wish videos were possible to share), you get thrilled by the felt warmth of the fire, by the proximity of the burning figures and by the realization that the evil is conquered and destroyed.

Musical night

2006-10-01T14:32:00.000+05:30

To keep the continuity of the festive activities we went to a concert on the third night. The concert concluded the Qutub Festival that Delhi Tourism held -for the youth of Delhi- The happening took place at the beautiful Qutub Complex welcoming the quest with a carpet-covered path framed with a snake made of Lego-style–red-bricks and shivering candles. The small scene demarked with long bamboo sticks looked like a tribal assembly spot and was prudently set so to have Qutub Minar right on the background. The low old walls and arched gates along with some tall bamboo constructions serving as lights to dilute the darkness of the night created a very atmospheric place for the sufi music that was to be played. That was my first time here when .I saw a band rather than an individual in the classical performance. When introduced they all came on the scene one by one – all in cream traditional costumes with golden embroidery – and got seated with their legs crossed. Two masters followed – the eldest was actually helped to get on the stage – so hard it was for him to walk. They all started tuning in their instruments and warming up their voices. Despite the presence of a very populous band on the stage the performance clearly looked as a one-man show, or that of the master. It was very interesting to observe how the issues of hierarchy came into play in the musical settings too. The master was clearly the oldest in the family and in the band, had more practice than anyone else and therefore was entitled the unquestionable respect. In the classical singing the songs often build up around just a few lines constantly repeated. So, the master was reciting those which were then picked up and sang by the junior master sitting on his right and then further supported and developed by the other instrument and voices. The master himself would rarely sing, yet he would enjoy the prerogative of the interaction with the audience. He would more often act as a narrator rather than a singer: he would recite the lines and elaborate on those, invariably causing the burst of applause, cries of approval and agreement. He would also take the liberty to interrupt others singing and recite some lines. Even when silent he would be gesticulating while listening to the song. He would tap on the shoulder of the younger singer sitting on his left when the latter sings a great piece. This all makes you realize that the master is the centre that the performance carries on around. Otherwise, putting aside anthropological observations of the social interaction, I can say that the music was beautiful. The sound was getting born from the initial dissonance coming out as a complete cacophony. The voices and the instruments then would merge at some point and the sound would get reinforced: it would grow and grow to find out its upper limit like a firework raising in the sky and then upon reaching it would open up to its most and would blossom in the ultimate celebration of its power.

So more unexpected after that was to face the second part of the concert which appeared to be popular music. Three great Bollywood voices were singing much and little known songs from various Hindi movies. And here one could get simply taken aback by the intergenerational dynamics in the audience. I would expect the younger part to endorse the major excitement, yet the older part of it gradually vanish from the scene so calmly blessed by the sufi sounds before and now with undue familiarity insulted by the Bollywood beats. Yet, the craziness appeared overarching: while young people filled in all the space between the stage and the seating and were enthusiastically waving their hands, dancing and clapping, the older part of the audience did not remain calm either. The whole audience was singing along, moving their heads and hands with even some grannies jumping up and dancing in the most culminating moments of the show. That’s the truly musical nation with unbeatable masti spirit!

Hymns to the Mother Goddess

2006-09-30T16:56:00.000+05:30

On the contract to the refined celebration the night before we decided to join the crowds storming Chattarpur, an area full of Hindu temples. A day before when refilling the water tank of the rooftop of our house I spotted the lights demarking domes of some temples in the Gurgaon direction and realized that Chattarpur must be a very happening and fascinating place to be at these days. So, the next night we were there to find out. The roads nearby were clattered with the stalls selling the attributes necessary for puja (religious ceremony)

and families walking towards the area from the main road. We joined the pilgrimage. Again, as opposed to the last night, we were clearly a token on this occasion: not-even- middle-class families were clearly unused to foreigners, so crowds around, excuse me mam and which country were ensured. While the whole area is full of temples

there were two major places of worship that night. One was an impressively illuminated statue of Hanuman

(with mostly men roaming around) – quite strange for the Mother Goddess celebrations but anyway… The other one was the main temple

looking as striking as formidable due to the insanely long queues of the believers craving to get in.

Without much hope, but rather out of the interest we asked a policeman where the queue starts. And … Mother Goddess was watching us, I bet.. he kindly brought us to the place where we could jump the queue. He entrusted us to a man who was watching some gate, who let us in and kept our shoes under his custody. That man entrusted us to a lady policeman who brought us further on where we could merge with the crowd already entering the temple. People in the queue were shouting verses praising the Goddess in the anxious anticipation to see her, bow to her and give her their donations.

There was only one way to go around the temple – following the one way passages and stopping by the chapels with the statues of the Goddess.

So we did and then reached a huge hall where professional singers were singing hymns for the greater glory of the Goddess and where people stopped by to listen, to clap and to sing along.

After we indulged the performance and the procession around the temple, we got back to pick up our shoes. Yet the doorkeeper strongly recommended us to visit the museum devoted to the Swami who established the temple. And once again a snowball started off – we were passed over from one person to another to avoid any queues. The temple looked even more striking after the visit but hardly any formidable.

Kate saved me that night

2006-09-29T15:30:00.000+05:30

The major outcome of my brief introduction to the states of Rajastan and Gujarat was the unconditioned love I got filled with for both. Colorful and festive by nature dots and waves of the tie-n-dye patters on the sarees and suits; rainbow-like patchworks and naughty mirrors on the biggest skirts I have ever seen; yummiest on earth, fool of discoveries and endlessly refilled thalis, people living in the 21st century yet deliberately preserving and nourishing the traditions of the past times. I have already started planning my proper meet with both states later this November. Yet, a chance did not let me miss them both for long.

These days Delhi is soaked in the celebrations devoted to the Mother Goddess, the festival known as Navratri in Gujarat and Durga Puja in West Bengal. There is a tent set up in each and every locality where people get together for food and dance every night. Temples are decorated with lights and the long lines of stalls with coconuts, prasad, read-and-golden clothes and garlands of marigold, roses, jasmine and banana leaves were stretching for hundred meters nearby big and small temples. That night Kate initiated a sally to the Garden of Five Senses where Dandiya Masti was happening. Well prepared by that time I dug in my closet and victoriously pulled a gorgeous skirt that Piyali gifted me after her trip to Gujarat. Even though there was no way to produce or obtain something like the proper gagra,

the thought that I would look somewhat appropriate in this skirt was very encouraging.

The venue of the festival was chosen perfectly. The Garden of Five Senses with lights, colors and visuals all demarking the zone of every sense looked like a fairytale ball room where we, humble Cinderellas, popped in that night.

People in festive gowns sparkling and shining in the night; tempting food with roti cooked in front of you on the mysterious tandoor; inviting music – all sorts of popular Hindi songs mixed with the beats characteristic for dandiya and garba; and couples, circles and crowds of people dancing with sticks made of wood (dandiya) or metal (garba). Inspired by the total craziness of the gathering we first shy and then gaining confidence joined one circle. A woman willingly showed us the steps which were not that difficult in fact – so much more was about following the rhythm, engaging your whole body and finding the ways to move its very part. The music was getting faster and faster and it was next to impossible to catch up with those who took steps right, clapped, masterly turned, waved hands, clapped and everything once again – the whole circle following the unified rhythm.

This was an amazing luck that later on that night we met Udit with his beautiful friend who appeared to be a professional dancer. The girl willingly showed us all sort of steps and we bravely tried all of them. The settings, the clothes we were wearing and the very spirit of the festival did not leave any doubts as of how appropriate it would be to try out that style of dancing. .And we did – with sticks, with our hands, with our whole bodies and soles. For the greater glory of the Mother Goddess and for our own sake.

We were gloriously leaving: with very festive music in the auto we carried on with dancing and playing sticks so lively that at some point the auto driver took his hands off the wheel and showed us amazing shoulder shaking.

Back

2006-09-28T14:47:00.001+05:30

The day was hard to start. Despite the doorbell that rang four times that morning. Despite all-working flatmates who bravely ventured into the new day and by the very fact of it were calling to my not-burdened-with-work conscious. Despite all the messages that came on my phone and the one that did not.

I just hugged my pillow tighter, turned away from the window side and squeezed my fluffy moose under my stomach. I was stubbornly refusing to accept the very fact of the sun shining outside and indifferently proclaiming a very certain beginning of the new day. I wondered how long I would be able to ignore the fact.

Half-conscious as I usually appear right upon awakening I could clearly realize the reason for the frustration. I literally sensed the vacuum that had been spreading around me and by now has taken its ultimate shape and reached its horribly overwhelming size. My traineeship that has finished, my sister who kept me busy after (and happily ignorant of the vacuum) and has left now…my this and that as weel this and that which is not mine any more… As much as aware of the fact that a thrilling full-fledged stuffing would come to fill in the vacuum as much I was in pain. I do not know which feeling overtakes after a burn – suffering because the old skin has gone or anticipating the new one to grow.

Trip with sister: Shimla

2006-09-19T17:16:00.000+05:30

Hot shower and realization that at least one full day can be devoted to this charming from the first sight town charged us with immense thirst for exploration. It was still early morning when we left our guesthouse and ventured to the town. The fog was not getting any thicker and we were little bit shivering from cold. A long descending street took us along the houses densely covering the hills and as if built on each other.

Having rested from the rush of yesterday and fresh after a quite night the streets started filling in with pupils of all ages: smallest ones accompanied by their parents and older ones walking in couples, triples and small groups.

Another category of people rushing somewhere through the fog were smartly dressed bureaucrats and bank clerks: a number of important state government agencies and financial institutions not at least provide jobs in the area. Otherwise, small and big groups of men were not heading anywhere and but carrying out their duty on the Mall – hanging out, gossiping and stuff.

The continuously condensing fog, the school girls in the uniforms not even closely reminding traditional salwar-kameez, smartly dressed men rushing to work through the grey morning, old European architecture around

- all clearly pointed that the former summer capital of British was proudly cherishing the British heritage and had carefully integrated its features in its everyday life.

Tuned in for a nice breakfast, we found an amazing café where stuffed paranthas, samosas and tea are cooked right in front of you and the mouth-watering sweets and namkeen are faced on large trays to appeal to your aesthetics and appetite. The men working there were extremely (not too, mind you) sweet to us and I totally fell in love with the place.

Here we found quite a few men in warm sleeveless jackets, suits and with briefcases indulging a cup of tea and a morning newspaper before heading to work. Among those we spotted a (British - ? ;o)) couple ceremoniously breakfasting with their paranthas, dahi and tea – with all the necessary plates, saucers, spoons, forks and knifes being involved in this almost religious-in-its-significance rite.

Later we walked down to the tiny railways station to get tickets for Himmalaya Queen that would take us through the narrow gauge down to Kalka and then back to Delhi tomorrow.

Here, from the station we could see the town still wrapped in the fog.

Yet, once the tickets were figured out we headed up and took a walk to the Observatory Hill that hosts the Indian Institute of Advanced Science these days. The sky cleared

and we could enjoy the sun rays filtering in the wet green crowns of the trees shading our path.

The Institute is located in a beautiful castle and hosts guest researchers pursuing advanced degrees in social science. The grand interiors with sophisticated wood carvings, spacious hall with that looks and feels like a dome, chandeliers brought from Belgium, ballroom that serves as a library now, wide wooded staircase leading to the study rooms framing the upper floor - all lure you to come over for a guest research project one day ;o)

Once back to the Mall we had a chance to have a proper look around the town that the fog was hiding before. Shimla appeared to me like a twin brother of Trondheim (city in the Northern Norway) and Ulyanovsk (my home town in Russia). The latter I visited a year ago – also at one cold and just starting off autumn morning – and got in love about the very town built on the hills, its old buildings, winding streets meant for walking or cycling rather than for cars, the atmosphere of the busy, but not rushy morning when people make it to work or University, my morning invigorative coffee and muffin from Narvessen, and Trondheim men who impressed me with the classy manners – wearing black trench coat and black polished leather shoes and cycling. As for the similarities with my hometown – in Shimla I found almost exact copies of some historical buildings in our downtown (Dom Goncharova, Dom Ofitserov).

Yet, Shimla remains nothing but eclectic with its old British building, Hindu temples, narrow lanes, street-staircases a-la Stockholm and busy markets.

Wandering around further and popping in the small lanes gave us a vivid picture of the local life. I derive particular thrill from figuring out and observing how various things are actually made. We found a small lane hosting tailors’ shops where you can watch them at work.

I eventually found a place where sweets are cooked and saw people pouring out curded milk in ridiculously huge bowls and putting them on fire.

The discoveries continued at the local market

Where we smelled all sorts of spices.

stood frozen in front of the stall with home-made pickles

were tempted to get vegetables just for the sake of it

I found it particularly cool that it was very hard to find packaged dahi (yogurt) in Shimla – they normally sell this sour curd loose. For all these little discoveries I loved Shimla that brings you to the origins in a way. People there do not live in the world of the ready made consumption, having no idea of what food items are made of and what it takes to stitch a shirt. And their life does not hide inside the house, but rebelliously flows out through the open doors, windows and hearts.

To a tender whisper of the night that gradually enveloped the hill station

we were sipping freshly made coffee at the Indian coffee house. Not even being British we found our piece of nostalgia in Shimla. The coffee house was run in the best traditions of a Soviet restaurant somewhere in Yalta (sea resort) – with a menu board made of golden letters showing the stability of the range and ridiculously low prices, walls painted with an oil paint, scarce lighting, solid tables with worn-out and a bit scratched covers, massive chairs of artificial leather, dishes that had being used for ages with no single item replaced however damaged unless clearly broken and waiters dressed in a white-strangely-military informs. We both cried out of tender emotions

Trip with sister: Journey to Shimla

2006-09-19T05:10:00.000+05:30

The government bus stand in Amritsar appeared to be a high-tech brand new bus terminal (shame upon ISBT in Delhi) with undeservedly few people using its services at that hour. There we found out that the earliest direct bus to Shimla departs tomorrow morning, which was too late considering our busy program. Yet, we were also told that 24-hour bus service runs from Chandighar to Shimla, so we could first make it to Chandighar and then change to our final destination. Seriously doubting the trustworthiness of the statements regarding 24-hour bus from Chandighar, we still opted to take the word of the two respectable Sikhs at the ticket counter. We were through with Amritsar for sure and wanted to leave immediately.

Initially, all-men bus with four women including us two did not look like a safe place to be. No place looked safe to us after all. With the big backpack placed under out seats and chained, long kurta to cover the money belt, both cameras deep in the backpack we were prepared to face whatever the bus ride would bring. However, for one time sake the government bus brought us to Chandighar almost in time and with no hassle.

At Chandighar we were dropped at a dark and desert platform of the bus terminal where transit travelers were sleeping on the floor, few available benches and ticket counters mysteriously comfortably and not falling from the latter. Luckily, I was well familiar with Chandighar bus terminal, so the scenes spotted by far did not imply the lost hope, but rather meant we had to search for the right platform that we soon identified in the dark. That one appeared full of busses to Manali, Dharamsala… and a deluxe coach to Shimla was waiting to bring us to the place in 5 hours for 130 Rs each only. Still, not quite believing in this happy coincidence, amazingly reasonable pricing of deluxe and the absence of need of dubious overnight at Chandighar, we loaded ourselves in an almost empty bus.

We were sinking in the softness of the high seats, enjoying abundance of space and luxuriously closed windows with a small fan installed above each of them. Later there came just one circumstance that saddened the luxurious settings (there had to be one, undoubtedly): the cheerful Hindi music that our driver was playing all night long. I definitely preferred him awake and in a good mood, so I was imagining those were sounds of a lullaby.

I slept rather comfortably that was no surprise after trips by regular government busses and staying at Lajpat. About six o'clock in the morning I woke up after sister's "It is already Shimla", a suddenly started rush in the bus and cries outside. Even in the bus you could sense early dawn enveloped in the cold and fog outside. I was sleeping with the contact lenses on and as usually in such cases it took me a while to open my eyes and make sure both do see. What happened next was the most appropriate thing providing the rush around. While I was ribbing my eyes and blinking I got both contacts out. Coordinated actions of my sister and me were immediately undertaken to handle the emergency: we quickly found the container somewhere in the backpack and I socked both lenses in the solution that was already there. So, for some time I had to orientate myself around while being half-blind.

With the morning uncertainty descriptive for interstate bus trips – wondering if you find all your stuff as you left it - we checked all the items we had: two backpacks, two cameras inside, two bottles of water, a plastic bag with hopelessly smashed bananas and my sunglasses pinned to the back of the front seat and now carefully picked up by my sister. Yet, one of her flip-flops appeared missing. Not surprising at all considering the winding road that we were driving through and that had shaken the content of the bus many times. The rush heated up by the driver and the porters falsely anticipating two white money sacks to get out of the bus was accompanying and seriously reinforcing the search. The missing khaki flip-flop was eventually discovered by a cooperative gentlemen sitting in front of us.

Strangely wrapped in all the available scarves, stalls and jumpers we got off the bus directly into the grey, cool and foggy morning. We found ourselves nearby wooden benches where freshly printed The Tribune was re-packed in smaller piles and distributed further. And this is where we got caught in the circle of porters and taxi drivers. In my awkward gown, half-blind, I had to perform a small ritual in front of the crowd: I came a bit forward on this improvised stage, put my palms together in front of my chest, bowed twice and said "Thank you". The three fourths of the crowd vanished, yet its remaining part represented by a man in his early fifties and his twenty-year old companion turned to be thank-you-proof. The older one who was wearing a thick shawl, rolled and crossed over his shoulder and fixed on his waist on the other side was really persistent; the hotel they mentioned was on the list in my Footprints, so we surrendered. The walk started. It was only later we got to know for sure that many roads in Shimla are sealed for vehicles and strictly pedestrian, but for that time we had to take the word of our guide that climbing the endless steps was the only way to get to the hotel. The fog, old-fashion distribution of The Tribune, old houses decayed due to humidity, outdated architectural shapes – everything was pointing out at the fact we had traveled by the time machine and were delivered in the 20s of the 20 th century. The British past became evident once we saw the Mall, church, library and more. Yet, monkeys around hungrily sucking pieces of waste in abundance available around and rare already awake men in long kurtas, pants and sleeveless woolen jacket were clearly refuting the very thought of being in somewhere Europe.

Wandering around narrow passages and tiny lanes brought us up to Woodland, supposingly the hotel of our choice. Climbing some steps to get to the reception seemed impossible to ask for after all the climbing we had done on our way yet absolutely necessary if we wanted to get a room.

The reception appeared to be a dark spacious room with a reception desk, sofa and a big table – all the furniture was made of solid dark brown wood. Our guide shook out of slumber sleeping on the sofa receptionist, a man in a worn-out vest and dark shirts, both revealing enough of his hairy chest and legs. In the morning discontent, he picked up some keys and invited us to follow him upstairs.

The first room he showed us was good but obviously expensive. Whereas I had discussed the range of Rs 150 with the porter, the room came up to Rs 350. Getting used to be introduced to the expensive options before proceeding to the viable ones, I confidently said that Rs 200 is the upper limit of what I could pay. The receptionist was scolding the porter and the latter was smooth-talking him. Room for Rs 200 was obviously possible. "Ok, 220, 20 is a tax", hastily exclaimed our half-dressed hotelier trying to sound as offended as he could. "But I'll give you another room". The other room looked a bit worse, but still decent, so we had a deal. I went downstairs to check in and pay. Soon after I got back we heard a knock on the door. Our smiling porter was humbly asking about the poster' box. "For tea, mam". "Thank you, baisab, thank you". My response was reciprocated in an unexpectedly peaceful manner, "Ok mam, ok". His friend downstairs had already fairly tipped him.

Trip with sister: Town of Amritsar

2006-09-18T23:52:00.000+05:30

Amritsar was rich in scenes and images akin to those that you find on black-and-white photos from early 1900-s that now are getting dusty in the achieves of a small-town-museum. Women in traditional clothes and men in turbans. A pharmacy with wooden closets survived from the times of the British rule, where a tall and lean pharmacist in small stiff glasses rations powders, wraps them in light brown paper and gives them, along with the prescriptions, to the customers patiently sitting and waiting for him. Narrow streets with small dusty shops where spices are stocked in huge sacks and sold loose by old men in turbans. Masses of velo-rickshaws, these more old-fashioned vehicles than autos, look way more appropriate in the settings and appear to be a good option for getting around in the town not particular famous for its distances.

However, we were not really keen on exploring the city despite attractive shopping opportunities, a chance to get a free overnight stay at the dormitory of the Temple and a pity that 17 hour trip was undertaken just for the sake of just 2,5 hours in the Temple. What held us back was the mere absence of any possibility to comfortably get around. A crowd would emerge around us in no time and would just follow us. I somehow knew about the situation in Punjab: about the low the status of women, about the horrifying child sex ratio attributed to the wide spread practice of female foeticide , about men who take liberty to establish their masculinity in the ways often humiliating for women. You will find lots of such Punjabi “specialties” in Delhi too. Yet, being there, experiencing it first-hand was a different thing. When you walk through hi-s (mam, sweetie, girl, sexy…), attempts to brush against you, to glue to you, endless stairs - it feels like escaping. Actually, this is what our leave from the town was like – running away without looking back.

Only at the end when we were leaving the city we could eventually take it easy: our velo-rickshaw was cleaving on a busy motorway towards the bus terminal: we were laughing, smiling back and waving to the whistling, commenting, singing, crying “Hei sweetie” and simply staring men passing by on their bikes, cars and whatever vehicles. Along with the lights illuminating night city this all contributed to the festive atmosphere that came into town right upon out arrival. They were celebrating. We preferred to refrain from joining them.

In my guidebook Amritsar is described as “pleasantly friendly and noticeably free of persistent hawkers and rickshaw wallahs”. This make me absolutely convinced in the necessity of gender mainstreaming in travel writing. Full of sticky, annoying, desperate men – this is what this North-Indian town is.

Trip with sister: The Golden Temple

2006-09-18T22:31:00.000+05:30

At about three o'clock in the afternoon we arrived to the all-open-to-sun town of Amritsar. The train station looked surprisingly sleepy and lazy and even intruding auto-wallas did not persist and just let us go when we decided to walk away from the station to get a vehicle in yet more relaxed settings. An old man in dazzling white kurta and pants confidently walked towards us and offered his rickshaw. I was so taken aback by the stunning whiteness of his outfit, well-trained accent and great English that showed the learning capabilities impressive for his age - we just surrendered. He brought us to the Golden Temple, on the way feeding us with tales about the town and probing the ground for selling us accommodation services. The latter we politely rejected, got off in front of the entrance to the temple complex, paid and partied with your guide.

The temple is considered to be the most sacred place for Sikhs largely inhabiting the State of Punjab. We stored our luggage, removed our shoes, covered our heads, symbolically washed our feet in the shallow basin at the gates and climbed the steps. What I saw through the beautifully arched gates made me immediately discount all the miseries experienced throughout the journey to the place as the temple was astonishingly beautiful. The Golden Temple looked like a gorgeous boat anchored in the middle of a small harbor: the temple is indeed positioned in the middle of a pool surrounded by galleries and passages of white marble.

One could clearly sense the devotion of the pilgrims drawn from closeby and far away. The singing was coming from the temple, resonating with the water in the pool, filling in the entire complex and staying there, in this well isolated from the mundane reality place. People were sending their prayers upon entry and queuing for a purifying bath.

We joined the pilgrims moving clockwise through the galleries of the complex.

The walk around enriched us with an array of impressions. We saw Sikhs with pompous turbans and sabres who appeared as reminders of the martial past of the community.

We visited the kitchen of the temple that is said to feed up to 10,000 people a day with 3,000 at a sitting.

As the other parts of the temple it is run on a voluntary basis and offer meals free of charge. It was particularly interesting to watch and interact with people peeling and cutting vegetables for the meals to be cooked.

We saw people relaxing at a small tranquil garden nearby the kitchen.

We saw red fish dancing in the waters of the pool.

The anticipation was building up as we were approaching the bridge that would bring us to the Harmandir itself.

Dozens of ceiling fans were not enough to cool down the tension of the worshipers queuing on the causeway. At the door people rushed to give their offerings in return for sweets. Once allowed inside we got terrified by the abundance of incredibly rich decorations inside: marble walls were covered with the mirrorwork, gold leaf and the floral designs in semiprecious stones. It is on the ground floor where the Holy Book is kept under a jewel encrusted canopy and where singers and musicians are reciting devotional verses from the Book - from the dawn to the sunset. Two floors of the temple along with its rooftop seemed to rest not on its solid basement, but on the continuous flow of the prayers and music reinforced by the dynamics of moving queue of the devotees.

If just felt like dissolve in the serenity of the temple's courtyard

and merge with the pre-sunset reflection of the Harmandir.

The temple complex safely sheltered us from the troubles and concerns of the trip ahead. And as if anticipating those we were postponing the leave.

Trip with sister: Attention

2006-09-18T17:48:00.000+05:30

Her first day of traveling outside Delhi was marked with nothing but growing frustration. The latter was building up with every new turn in the plot since the last night: bribing at the train station, 2,5 hour train delay, our 9-hour as per schedule and turning 17-hour as per reality train journey, hot day in the train with hardly exciting agricultural landscapes of Punjab outside the window. The trip seemed endless after all and the destination looked simply out of reach. One station was coming after another and according to the map we were still hours and hours away from Amritsar.

After all, I wondered what transformation her image of India largely derived from the old Hindi movies in abundance shown in Russia, my rather affectionate than critical (or the other way round?) blog and the beautiful skirts I brought for her last time must have been undergoing after experiencing the country first-hand.

On the top of everything, we clearly were the foreigners of the train. At the short stops people were getting out on the platform to stretch their muscles, wander around and stare at us yet making it look as if they could not care less. At some point of time a lady traveling by the same car asked me a traditional set of questions and I without looking around I could sense how many people were listening to my answers. She was representing the curiosity of the whole car when questioning me.

In terms of the male attention, it was not simply overwhelming, but also puzzling in a certain sense. They would all look, would try to come close, would seat in your compartment so just to stare at and discuss you on your face. Yet, nothing of the listed is considered here as shameless as a direct contact with a single woman that they all were deliberately refraining from. There was a well-dressed man traveling in the same compartment with us. At some station I asked him which station we had just passed and he simply ignored my question leaving an answer up to a guy who was able reply only in Hindi. The man gave a surprised face and commented back in Hindi too. I remarked with a smile, that yes, the train was terribly delayed. That one opted not to react to my comments at all and preferred to proceed with the discussion in Hindi on the same with the young man. Later on I spotted a book “Think big” in his suitcase and a copy of some contract in English he was carefully studying. Apparently, language was not an issue. Something else was.

We were getting hungry and bananas were getting ridiculously expensive, so I decided to introduce my sister to dhal-roti from some station’s food stall. I got dhal in s small deep banana-leaf plate, covered with a piece of newspaper and six chapattis piled on it, put the meal on a berth and sent my sister to wash her hands. Once she got back, I picked up our plastic box with a soap bar and headed to the wash-stand in the tambour. I opened the box, put it on the borders of the metal sink and started soaping my hands and rinsing them.

The train was slowly starting off, we had already left the shady platform and a glimpse of the sun quickly penetrated the tambour. Next after the warm hug of the sun I felt a touch on my bum – this sort of touch someone gives you when passing by and brushing against you. Someone plucked his courage and decided to establish a closer contact. Immediately I felt a burst of resentment coming up to my throat and making me unbearably electrified. Every cell of my body got filled with the mixture of horror and anger. I darted off and ran after him. After turning behind a corner I faced his back and he started running away once realized I was following. We were already in the other car and it was sort of hard to run away in the train knowing that at some point you would have to stop. He was still ahead and I realized I had to catch him somehow. So, I stretched out my hand, reached out to the collar of his polo T-shirt and hang on it. I heard the sound of still firm stitches tearing away. He did not stop running: effectively, I hang on his collar and he was pulling me forward – we passed one empty compartment after another until I seized a handle at the next one with my right hand and shifted my weight on the right side of my body. I was strongly hanging on his collar in the ultimate affect still hanging on his collar with my left hand. He turned his head and I saw his getting red eyes full of genuine resentment. I recognized his face – he was traveling by the same train and probably had been keeping an eye on me for a long time promenading on the platform during the short stops. He started shouting in Hindi – I think something like “What are you doing, mad woman?” I was mad indeed: I was yelling at the limit of my capacity: you never do it, baisab! You have mother and sister? What if someone does it to them? How come, you do not have a shame! And so on .. The impudent man continued shouting back. However few people were traveling in the compartment they all gathered attracted by the noise. Eventually, after letting my anger out, I let him go and he jumped off the still moving slow train. I was totally shocked by the accident itself, him running away, him being sincerely pissed off with my reaction. I got back to the tambour and was washing my hands again, and the tears were generously watering my chin and cheeks. I just could not handle the injustice of the whole situation: the stupid little man threatening my security and personal comfort, making me feel miserable as a woman, taking advantage of and reinforcing my vulnerability. I knew all the empowerment mantras I was supposed to chant, yet my thinking followed just the opposite path: what on earth did I do to provoke? How come that after staying so long in the country, after going miles to respect and comply with its cultural norms, I still enjoyed the image of easy-going white girl who can be taken advantage of just like that.. My tears went on and on and only then I noticed dark blood on the thumb where I used to where a ring. Now my thumb was decorated with an intensively bleeding wound that replaced the ring. I had no idea as of how that could happen. The man who traveled with us was also in the tambour, probably attracted by the cries. He saw me crying and just turned away.

I got back to your compartment full of young Sikh guys all silent for a while. My worried sister saw me in the crying, bleeding and overall disastrous state and got even more worried. I followed a man, who brushed against me, I explained briefly. We extracted out first-aid kit from the depths of the backpack and treated the wound. I said, ok, lets have food and we started. She looked like she hated this dhal and roti - the very essence of the country, the country itself and horrified by the notion that I had been staying here for so long. I was tearing roti, drawing dhal and seasoning it with my tears which I could not help and felt hardly different from what she did.

Trip with sister: Getting on the train

2006-09-17T19:45:00.000+05:30

We walked down to the platform just to find it packed. People standing, sitting on the scarce benches and on the less scarce ground, sleeping right here on a spread cloth, wandering around, munching biscuits, masterly draw dhal from tiny banana-leave plates, sipping water from big plastic containers carried from home, chatting, reading, staring, - waiting for the train seemed such an secondary activity in the abundance of many others to engage in. We walked back and forth to find out that no one knew for sure where our car would stop, so we took some place to anchor our backpack. Once we did the range of the activities at the platform got enriched by one more – watching two white girls. Beggars, guys who were happy just to stand nearby and stare, well-dressed men sitting aside, shuttling porters and food vendors made our waiting merrier. Yet, by the amount of time we had been waiting and by the lack of the developments on the platform we concluded it was time to ask. That was how I got to know the train was delayed by 2,5 hours. I bet those selling us the ticket knew. Rather fatalistic I explained to my horrified sister, ‘that is how it is’, we put some plastic bags on the steps leading to the platform and got seated. I was writing my diary and now and then asking people about the delay status. Not all of them very able to understand, some men were so horrified by being directly approached by a single white women that did not show any knowledge of English which they obviously had otherwise. Yet, more or less all people around got aware of what train we had to take. Among the surreality and the nonsense we encountered that night there was a Sikh man who was waiting for the same train and who clearly explained us the situation. When the train came and the whole platform invited us two to get on, he even gave us his business card and invited over should we be in Ludiana (Punjab) one day. I sincerely thanked him.

The second sleeper first time experienced by us both did not look welcoming especially in the night when all cats tend to be grey, as we say in Russia. Honestly, I did not expect it to be half-empty and half-full of men only. I did not think the car would be so populated with the insects and little animals either. Yet for me all these circumstances were really minor in comparison with what constituted the real challenge. My sister climbed to the upper birth and did not find it particularly clean. He tried two types of hygienic tissues to improve the situation, but neither did the job. In fact, the birth was so dirty that any fresh tissue was getting black after a single swipe… however many fresh tissues you would use… and I totally forgot about the bed sheets. On the top of it my sister saw an insect that she thought was a louse. After fighting a lizard and bravely entering Lajpat Nagar kitchen late nights I was hardly impressed with the train. Yet, I had no idea what to do with her who had to travel India by the lowest standard because her sister could not afford a better one. She looked frustrated and about-to freak-out. I hugged her and confidently proclaimed that the insects were not louse, that she never saw them, so how could she know… and anyway she will fall asleep now and will be fine in the morning. I was happy that in India I had learned to invent arguments on the way and sound somewhat convincing when having serious doubts myself.

Trip with sister: The bribe

2006-09-17T19:17:00.000+05:30

My application got rejected and I got pointed at the other hall where, as I got told later, I could still purchase a standing ticket. Hm…Spotted by an observant man, I was walked to the next hall. He pointed at the longest queue and cheered me with the fact that there I could get a standing ticket for the train that leaves in 40 minutes. Hm..

Baisab, the queue is too long and I need to get a sleeper. A berth, you understand?
He points at the sign ‘International Tourist Office’.
It is closed, baisab.
Yes, closed, madam.
So, how can I get the ticket? A sleeper ticket?
A young men takes over – You go with me.
Where?
To the office.
Where is it?
Close, very close.

He walks ahead, clearing the way from people and vehicles. We are obviously on the way to some tourist agency. I keep questioning him, yet realizing it is pointless – he would say “yes” to anything for now.

I need a sleeper ticket to Amritsar. Will I get it?
Yes, mam, any ticket.
I need to catch the soonest train – will I get that one?
Yes, mam….

The agency turns out to be just across the road from the station and its quite decent and welcoming appearance gives us a hope, however little… Two chairs and a glass of water appear out of nothing. The man sitting at the table to whom we got entrusted gets a sheet of paper and starts his unhurried questioning. Although the guy who brought us, has already briefly explained the matter, the man starts with the options which he knows do not suit me, so that just to emphasize the value of the options that do.

Where do you want to go, mam?
Amritsar
When, tomorrow?
(still patiently) Now, baisab! when is the next train?
Golden Temple Express has just left and the next one is at 8.40 pm.
Ok, I need that one.
He requests to show our passports and starts writing down our names.
Russia, mam?
Russia, Russia.
(already worrying about the physical appearance of the ticket obtained in such a dubious way) Baisab, I need a proper ticket, will I get that one?
(absolutely positive) Yes, mam, you will get a ticket.

His colleague is dialling a number (I can hear “Northern Railways welcomes you” and then the sound of hold) and is asking me on the way

Mam, a/c?
Baisab, sleeper.
2nd a/c?
Sle-e-eper. Cheapest possible way, baisab.
Mam, a/c is good…
..But expensive, nights are cold, why do we need an a/c baisab?

Not at all inspired by my answers and realising that the prospective deal is not that close as he thought he replies (still, not having engaged in any conversation with ‘Northern Railways’ that is keeping him on hold).

Then, no seat, mam.
(pressing for creative thinking) Baisab, I need 2 sleepers for tonight train to Amritsar – how can I get those. You know how to help me, so please, do.
(as if it occurred to him just now, in fact just a worse-margin option for him) You can take bus. Sleeper bus with a/c…
(bringing him on the track) Baisab…
Mam, listen, bus with a/c costs 1200..
Baisab, no! I need the cheapest option, do not offer me a/c.
Ok, non a/c bus is 450. I leaves at 9 pm and I will get you an auto that would bring you to the bus stand.

Realizing that the whole bus matter may become even more dubious that the train one especially for the price that was not possible to double-check, I say no and the enthusiasm of the baisab entirely vanishes.

We leave the agency laughing at the sort of the initiation we, total novels in the Indian railways s matters, had to go through.

Back to the current booking hall we find an enlarged queue to the second sleeper counter. I ask my sister to take her queue and me myself start wandering along the other less busy counters while keeping an eye on the yet empty window with the sign ‘Supervisor’. I am not yet sure what I am up to – try to beg or try to bribe. Anyway, just these two scenarios seems to make leaving Delhi tonight possible at all.

The clarity does not make us wait. I am approached by a man acting as if passing by, yet have been carefully observing me for quite some time.

Where are you going, mam?
To Amritsar
You need to go to the ticket counter 30.

Going through the non-viable option is a good trick extensively practiced by many of those. Ok, let us play this.

Long queue baisab and I need to leave now.
You can go there and get a standing ticket.
I need a berth, a place to sleep, that is the thing. How do I get a ticket?
Well…

A small talk, necessarily preceding the matter was played well by both sides: here we have established that I cam clearly willing to get a ticket by any mean and that he can sell me one – by one mean or another.

Well… if you want to get a ticket from the black market…
(as unconcerned as if some metaphysical concept is discussed) Ya, but how baisab?
Well, I can ask for it if you are willing to pay 300-400 extra for each ticket.
(realizing the deal is close, yet some effort is still to be taken) Oh, baisab, but I go by the cheapest fare, my ticket is Rs 350. How on earth can I afford paying double?
But you know, mam, it is undertable money – I have to pay undertable to this and that one.
Yes, baisab, this much I understand, but what can I do?
Yes, mam, you have to pay extra.
Well, I am willing to pay extra. But how can I pay that much? Baisab, when you see a rich tourist, you can ask for that much. But when you see such a poor one who travels by the cheapest fare, how can you say such things?
How much are you willing to pay?
Baisab, 100 Rs extra for each ticket – that much only.
Ok. I will go and ask.

I am secretly celebrating the start of the process, yet worrying as of how it would go. He gets back in a moment.

1000 Rs for both tickets.
850, baisab.
Mam…undertable money, cheaper not possible.
(I was wondering for how long I would be able to carry on and would not run out of arguments) Baisab, I do not have more – 850 is a good price.
Ok, 950.
Baisab, 900 and chalo.
Mam, 950 only, I have already made a concession
Baisab, I have made a concession up from 850, so you make a small one and we both are good. 900.
Ok, I will go and ask.

He leaves and I feel relieved – we both know the price is fair and the ritual of bargaining was properly carried out. He comes back in a moment with the final yes. Very well familiar with the routines he picks up my application form for the names and the journey details. He leaves, I am wandering around, my sister is still in the hardly moving queue. He comes back and brings me to an empty counter, yet a bit aloof from it and points at it.

Now the ticket would be made. I will first pay my money and only then charge you. Just relax and cool down. No need to stay in the queue. He means my sister.
(showing some local expertise) Paka-paka, baisab?
One hundred twenty five per cent, madam-ji.

I am calling my sister, and we are standing off the queue talking to a friend of our baisab: which country, mam, India and Russia are like brothers, and how long in India and where all going.

Very shortly our baisab is gloriously back: a pink manual ticket with a proper stamp of Northern Railways is in his hands. He reads some suspicion in our eyes and goes through the ticket to explain the journey details. He walks us (joined by the young man, the one who brought us to the agency first – the market appeared a monopoly, actually) to the departure schedule to confirm the platform number and gives me 100 Rs.

(smiling) You are well prepared, baisab. I give him 1000 Rs.

We are walking to the platform still not very sure about the nature of the ticket, yet majorily relieved that we have got one and happy in the ignorance as of what awaits us later this night.

Trip with sister: Queuing for a train ticket

2006-09-17T19:08:00.000+05:30

And even though we, hopelessly tourist with a huge backpack, never managed to get apples for 30 Rs a kilo, the bargaining with auto-wallas went smoothly in an unexampled way. Knowing how drastically a life of a white foreigner changes in India once you put a backpack on your shoulders I anticipated a long argument with rickshaw-drivers. Yet, going down to a fair 60 Rs from the initially quoted 70 Rs (hei, do they remember me at the market?) was not difficult, so we victoriously got in the auto and headed to the New Delhi Railway Station. Still being on the positive wave, we tended to perceive the rush of the railway station as rather festive than tiring. However, once we found out that the international tourist office gets closed at 2 pm on Sunday and now we are to take a general queue to get the tickets, the whole outlook of the situation has changed over a moment.

After a brief enquiry we found out which counter to queue for – second sleeper in the current booking was easy to identify by the longest (for the obvious reason) line. After taking my turn in the all-male line I got a chance to revisit the concept of defending your queue, something I read about before I even came to India and something that really stuck in my mind as extremely relevant knowledge.

The man right after me was perfectly aware of the fact that I was before him. And he nodded every time I drew his attention to this circumstance. Despite the verbal agreement was there the non-verbal resistance proved strong. Whenever the queue was to move further, he made sure he moved quicker than I did, so to glue to the man in front of me quicker than I even realized the necessity of doing so. At some point of time a man approached me and said, ‘Take your turn’, pointing out at the fact that I just had my foot in the queue and the rest of me was outside. By Indian standards, I was jumping the queue and not bothering to take my turn. ‘I made sure I have taken, baisab’. The man behind admonished, “Maintain your queue”. I stroke back, ‘You immensely help me do so.

Yes, I was not able to follow the concept of ‘let us stick to each other’ in this all male queue. I thought once again that even the very queuing culture in this country reinforces exclusion of women from anyhow agentic behaviour. I realized there was a point... a good point, actually… in having a big backpack on my shoulders so to ensure no one glues to my back and whatever follows it. Being a token felt as clear as it could. Leaving aside stares and roaming around me, the very fact of being the only women in the line of 50-60 people is horrifying on its own right once realized. When I already could rather hear than see what was going on an the back of the line I got to hear a huge buzz caused by a few woman trying to appeal to the concept of ladies lines and on that plea jump the queue. I would not like to encounter the anger and the aggressive verbal attack of the all-male crowd that the women bravely faced.

Being observant always pays in India – the principle proved once more time after I found out that people are holding some paper forms. A question to the man in front lead to the form being obtained and filled in for me – a luxury of unselfish help that you, almost unlearnt to trust people, encounter in India now and then. The form appeared to be an application for ticket reservation, quite a vital attribute for getting the ticket.

As the queue was getting closer to the counter, it was turning into a crowd multiplied by the people humbly standing nearby and then all of a sudden merging the queue and the people standing on both sides and claiming they were told to wait. Here, almost at the counter I could grasp the alchemy of the current booking. Two men in the shining golden framed small rectangular glasses, golden watch and golden seal-ring both deep into the thick and huge registers with thin paper sheets and were writing off pink manual tickets at a speed ignorant of the rush in front of the counter.

Trip with sister - Delhi

2006-09-17T15:31:00.000+05:30

The beginning of the trip was simply glorious. Being conquerors of time and space in our own eyes we just ignored the fact that every new day served as a reminder of the countdown that started right after her plane landed in Delhi…

2 weeks, just 2 weeks in the incredible India… how much can one see, how much can one do within the time bravely stolen from work and studies in the beginning of the academic year and at the days the boss-s wife was about to deliver and generously allocated to the traveling in India.

According to our program that was tabled for discussion and approved just to be re-negotiated every new day, we were to leave Delhi that had established its reputation of hectic early Sunday morning and to head to the refreshing hill stations. Yet, whatever got masterly squeezed in the first one and a half days made us reconsider our intentions. The introduction and the farewell lunch with my colleagues;

charming garden around Qutub Minar; enormous by the conception and the execution polished-marble Akshardam; insane amount of forced bargaining with auto-wallas which gets a particularly dubious venture for two western-dressed white girls; all curious trainees wanting to meet her at the farewell for Markus and the farewell as such; pompous yet akin to baking oven these days Rajpat, as close as you could get to the Soviet monumental construction style;

shiny Delhi metro with the security of an airport; eclectic CP with Levi’s store and women with covered heads selling colorful Rajastani patchworks on the floor of the CP passages; pathetic McDonald-s, McDonald-s, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pizza Hut stormed by young people in jeans; state emporiums full of goodies;

her first experience with an Indian canteen and South-Indian fast food; hard core bargaining at Sarojini for brands-for-peanuts and inevitably leaving it with a huge bag and no idea as of what that one contains;

very nice gathering at my host family’s that though deserved our better rested minds to be fully enjoyed.

And here we went: reached home at one am with headaches which I had never known about and with bus to Shimla scheduled early morning. I felt there was no way to reconcile with the idea of hardly three hours of sleep, packing in a rush and running away from my beloved flat that I had never left it for more that four consequent days. I realized that much I could not and I should not (for my own sanity) handle. So we gloriously took it easy the next day: greedily grabbing as much sleep as one could take and even some more in reserve; then unpacking the shopping bags from yesterdays, trying out and discussing the items which were bought almost in bulks; doing laundry and express-drying on the roof; pressure-cooking dhal and having food - all those non-really-sexy-for-short-term-travelers-in-India activities were gracefully carried out without a rush, yet with an end in mind – we had to leave no later than the same night.

Long bye

2006-09-14T09:56:00.000+05:30

This is my last week at work. Already on Monday I delivered three reports which took all my energy – both mental and physical - and were happily finalized on the weekend. For a long time I haven’t felt so light-hearted as I did when the warm pages filled with the neat graphs, tables and sense-making text were coming out of the printer.

I am very impressed with myself – usually my byes are very quick with finishing unfinished right before leaving and leaving in a rush. Farewell party with 30+ people around and unpacked suitcase in the middle of the room staffed with things and me shuttling back and forth from one to another. That is yet to be faced in a few months, so we’ll see how much wiser I’ll get by that time. For now I am just leaving my work.

So, I am taking my time to finalize everything at the office in a proper way. Minor corrections to the report, cleaning up my documents, sharing and saving a copy for myself. Discussing how my certification should be written and when I can come back to deliver a presentation on gender Russia. In the meanwhile I am doing a preliminary search as per my ideas about my glorious prospects, planning the two-week trip with my sister who is arriving in a few days and chatting with Kate – increasingly about future (no that we talked less about it before, but now for a whole number of reasons all this talks have acquired particular significance).

And every day after work I am heading home with huge determination. This week has not yet given me any chance to realize how many people had left. Or this is me myself not letting myself to find out. I am ignoring the reality just staying at home. And the latter is badly needed as the least transient thing I have got here as a place which is certainly mine and where these days I can enjoy unlimited privacy (yet coming at the cost of the increased rent).

These days I feel really happy as I seem totally decided as for my priorities and the concrete plans. I feel grateful to myself for indulging this chance to explore my true aspirations and taking the right steps on the path of their pursuit – I totally relate it to my stay in India, the work I have being doing, the people I got to work with and me having absorbed as much of it as I could so I can select the best suiting me path.

Yet, I realize that somewhere in my un-conscious I am suppressing a sort of confusion. The confusion, actually, is very well grounded: once again I feel done with something (my work here) and anticipate starting so many things anew. Leaving the well-known path of the familiar routines and venturing into a journey with the paths not known yet.

Short-term-wise…. I am also very excited about my sister coming down to India as once again the occasion is lending an opportunity to re-think our relations with her and my relations with the place in a new context. I find that sharing the place you truly love with a very dear person is one of the greatest joys in life and I am very happy that my sister was the one who gave me this chance. I know that today for both of us it is unreal to think that she can be somewhere around, but so much more mind-blowing it is to think that already tomorrow it would become true.

I am as full of plans as undecided about my life here in India in the remaining three months. I have got some preparation to make for the further, some projects to venture in with Kate, do all the writing on earth I want and travel-travel-travel – to saturate myself with all various flavors of the country - sandy-beach-bikini Goa, blessed-with-greenery Kerala, exotic Tamil Nadu, metros of Mumbai, Hyderabad and Chennai, culture-abundant mother town of Piyali – Calcutta and who know what else.

But before all that I am taking my time to say bye to the life I had before – it truly deserved a long and thoughtful bye.

The cleaning lady

2006-09-13T11:54:00.000+05:30

She rings the doorbell and then is patiently sitting on the steps in front of our door till I come out wrapped-in-a-rush in something resembling a piece of clothes and open the door for her. She leaves her chapels on the ground floor and comes barefoot. She is very short and shrunk; with dried up hands, burnt-sugar-color skin and the golden rings in her pierced nose and ears. She wears a saree put on in a “I am too old and I do not care” way with the always non-matching blouse, once very white but now doubting that fact with its very being. With a characteristic gesture from behind of her head now and then she adjusts the palu that covers her entangled hair, still impressively dark yet half-half mixed with gray strands.

She produces the most innocent smile in the world looking up at me. She replies to my namaste and I rush back to the shower. I try to keep our interaction to minimum so not to piss my day from the early morning. Some months back when six of us staying in the flat realized we were too ambitious about keeping our floors reasonably tidy DIY-style and we decided to get a cleaning lady I thought I could work on her.

From the experience with the cleaning lady at Lajpat Nagar I knew that the price for having your floors clean might come out too high. That lady at Lajpat had too much of an agenda: she came mostly in the morning when everyone was asleep so she could enjoy the increased degrees of freedom when getting around the house. She could come any time as she pleased and she perfectly knew that if she came just before the last of us was about to leave for work – she had to strike with her brush a few times, get to hear her - “Bus, bus didi, I am leaving!” – and feel done for the day. And I really did not know what to appreciate more – the days when I would get waken up by the horribly trembling dishes and the sounds of pouring water at the kitchen or the days when I would come home and find all my suitcase-household exactly the way I left it and not re-arranged to her taste. Later on when I moved out I got to hear about the instances the of her chatting with a friend over a cup of coffee at our living room as discovered by Markus one fine morning; being suspected in depriving Anya from some extra thousands rupees; throwing away Thomas’ airplane ticket; watching Roel sweetly wheezing in his sleep; wearing Stephanie’s flip-flops while cleaning every day and who knows what after all. And the cleaning lady is still there, by the way, because… how to explain that… If you ask people living here they might say she has not done anything awfully major …You know when u miss some bucks and you are not sure where you lost them how much empathy can you expect from your flat mates are how much are they are going to be motivated to do something about it? … Settling the issues in-house is not an option either, as the there is a circumstance seriously hampering the communication with the cleaning lady: the fact that she does not speak any English, persistently tries to make herself clear in Hindi and acts as if she has no clue what you mean when you operate with self-evident gestures and signs. And then the bargaining power is on her side, because you have a poor clue on how to get another one that would do a better job and … how to this and that… She knows it all, this sly woman, and therefore she acts as she pleases…..

So, I felt that there might be some potential in working on the new one we got in Malvia Nagar – slowly but surely I will make sure she knows how we want it and she’ll be doing it the right way. I remember the piece of advise by an Indian guy in the begging of my stay, “”Do not treat your cleaning lady nicely, otherwise she would sit on your neck and let her legs down”, as we say in Russia.

The lady seemed way more decent that the one at Lajpat. She came more or less every morning except weekends which we asked her to skip. She looked really humble and did not give any of those chicky looks the young one in Lajpat used to. Karo was practicing Hindi with her and treating her to some fruits now and then.

The only problem I had with the cleaning lady – I wanted her not only to clean but also to make stuff actually clean. This was the major stumbling block in our relations. Following her routine, she would go around the house with a long pile-short handle brush and then she would wipe the floor. However, if you do the floor in the whole apartment without washing the mop a single time then making stuff clean appears at least cumbersome, if possible at all. At least those of us who woke up early knew she came and was working, the rest just wondered later when looking at the floor – has the cleaning lady been here today?

The best stress-free technique in dealing with a cleaning lady is to let her be. Instead, I was watching whatever she was doing. That way I got to know she sweeps whatever got dropped on the floor – business cards, rechargeable batteries, pictures; that she pours out the dirty water she used for washing the mop directly on the dirty dishes carelessly left by us in the sink; that she that and this. I was inexorable with her.

Didi!
She, then sitting on the floor and sweeping, would stop and look up me.
Come, come here! - I would ask her to get back with an inviting gesture.
She would give me a blank look: what do you want from an old woman?
Come, come, didi!
She would come up
See, what is this? - I would point at a bunch of hair mysteriously glued to the marble floor. - What is this? Is it how you clean? Please, clean it again!
I never doubted she would not get a word of what I would say, but I am very convinced she would invariably get the spirit of my speech. So, pouring reproaching words on her were my strategy to show that I care to check her work and there is no easy escape.

At times she was really trying to argue with me
Didi, come and clean the whole room again. The floor is terribly dirty.
A-la-la-la-la-la-la. - She would chatter back.
Come, come.
A-la-la-la-la-la-la. - She would say something again.
Di-di! Co-o-o-o-ome! I would firmly answer and the poor one had no other options by obeying.

I was trying to teach her to clean up the doors and the net on my window - really clean and not to smash the mop against either as they do it here, to wash the mop a few times while she is cleaning, to properly squeeze the mop. Yet all in all, the floors did not get much cleaner. Persistency and commitment of all was a prerequisite to make it work. If you scold the cleaning lady, but someone else would just smile, it is hard to keep her working. So, I got tired of spending some of my precious morning time on her. I just let her be…

Have you seen my big towel? Karo looked concerned with the missing thing.
No, why?
My big white towel with blue stripes? It was drying on the balcony and it is not there any more.
Karo never saw her towel again. But who knows what can happen to a towel and why.

Some months later Ioana spent an hour choosing chapels, bought a very sweet pair, but got to wear them a few times. The chapels with a red flower mysteriously disappeared from the flat.

A few days ago, one fine morning I was getting ready to leave and by chance spotted 4 bananas on the table - no more no less. The cleaning lady came, cleaned and left. Back to the kitchen later I found 3 bananas on the table. I knocked Claudia’s room to ask about the bananas but she was not sure about the quantity. For some reason we moved to the girls’ room and… the place on the floor taken by a pair of Danny’s chapels which I spotted there earlier that morning was empty. She took them!! I Later on I realized that the same fate befell the T-shirt that used to belong to Kasia and then to Ioana and that morning was lying on the stool at the living room. The lady really had an eye on the abandoned stuff and she really seemed to get a clue that people left. I got freaked out by the very thought that one fine day I may not find something I used to have or that I would even never notice that I am missing something. On the way down I stopped by the neighbor’s living downstairs who got us in touch with the cleaning lady.

God morning, mam! Very sorry to bother you so early! I just wonder if our cleaning lady does your flat too?
No? She looked confused.
Well, you know… we are missing a pair of chapels from this morning and they were there before she came.
So, I wonder if you can communicate that to her if you get to see her around
Oh, but she is not that kind. She had been working in the locality for a long period of time. - The mam looked suspicions and was confidently this-and-thating. – Did you have them close to the door? Could the sweeper get in?
No mam, they were in the most remote room and the sweeper never gets in. So, you could tell her, please… - and I left.

I felt my whole day was pissed because of that miserable woman who made me feel insecure in my own house. I shared the story with many that day I guess, so I happily forgot about the incident by the time I got back home. When feeling the keys in the dark I could see a black spot on the floor in front of the door. I opened the door, switched on the light and saw a pair of chapels put on a red plastic bag lying there. Even if we might get back the T-shirt, the towel, the other chapels and whatever else just by claiming it, what can we do now to keep the floor clean and the flat safe?

Becoming an Indian beauty: waxing

2006-09-05T09:26:00.000+05:30

Tying a saree, putting on mehindi, taking your measure and stitching a salwar suit at a tailor are a few of those sacraments one has to indulge in order to understand what it feels like to be a women in India. For the similar considerations, waxing at a beauty parlour added on the agenda. My enthusiasm got fuelled by the observations and talks with Indian girls with a comprehensive lecture by Puiyali having the major impact. Another triggering factor was the end of my epilator and growing annoyance with the everyday shaving. Yet the determination reached its summit after Stephanie told me about her recent visit to a parlour and astonishingly cheap, yet good services she got there.

However even with saturated determination it took two weeks before I made it to the parlour. I had to grow some hair before, obviously. Two weeks of long sleeves and pants seemed like ages. I truly appreciated my single status thanks to which I could really afford the luxury of letting my hair grow. One fine day, I realized the time has come. Briefed by Piyali about the location of the place, I was making it through the slush of rainy Munirka. Just as I thought, the major landmark – Central Bank, according to Piyali – did not exist, but I had learnt not to take world literally, have not I? So, at some point I found a building that could go for a Central bank and right then I saw the sign of the parlour. Well done!

A North-eastern girl was looking at me with interest.

You do waxing?
She nodded
I want to do legs, half arms and underarms.
“Chpok”, the sound of the waxed heater marked the beginning of the ceremony.

She gave me a skirt-like gown to change in and showed me into a tiny paled room with a high ottoman taking all the space there. In a moment I was sitting in a soft chair in front of a huge mirror at the main room with my arms spread. The two ladies started practicing their witchcraft on me. Powder puffs were generously covering my arms with talc and small clouds of the powder tickled my nose. The girls were proceeding very swiftly. They both scooped warmed-up wax with none-sharp metal sort-of-knifes and started spreading it on my arms as honey on a pancake. The next thing I knew they put stripes of rough cotton on my skin, smoothened them and then sharply tore them off removing both the wax and my hair. I did not even have time to feel shock as they were doing both hands simultaneously and right after one stripe would be torn off from one hand and I would try to take my time for relief, I’d realize the stripe from the other hand got torn off. My problem was not about the pain as such, as it did not really hurt. Yet, I felt like I am getting one tiny electro-shock after another with the intervals so small that not sufficient for recovery. The tension in my whole body was growing without any chance for relief.

The real pain started when we proceeded to the underarms. Another visitor came, so one girl luckily engaged with that one – otherwise I would die with them doing my both underarms at the same time. More than 10 years of everyday shaving played the role – now the hair grows think and rough. The girl did a few stripes, but hair defied her efforts. This time I could really feel the pain. I did not know any more what it was - wax getting hotter and hotter or my irritated skin that was clearly indicating that even touching is better avoided– both feelings merged into one and made me terminate the process.

Let’s do the legs, I said.
The girl raised her eyebrows.
You don’t want the underarms?
No, not now, probably I’d better shave them, I murmured.
She smiled a bit indulgently and invited me into the paled room.

I lay down on the ottoman and tried to relax. One girl was spearing the wax, the other one was doing the stripes. After underarms nothing could really hurt, but the situation with arms repeated – the girls were working really swiftly, so I strained all my muscles to handle the little shocks coming with every torn off stripe. The girls were severely fighting my hair without leaving them a second chance – they were really determined to spare me everyday shaving challenges. Yet, their stripes touched the places which are now doomed to waxing forever – I did not really think of bum as a core area to apply hair-removing techniques, yet the girls hold a somewhat different opinion.

Quite empowered by the notion of the smooth legs for at least a week ahead, I thought – what the hell!

Let’s finish the underarms!

With the end in mind it was easier to handle the pain. So, despite it still took some extra efforts of the girl, the underarms were done in some time.

I put on clothes, paid and left – still in a shock. My whole body still was so strained that even after a few hours I could not get relieved. Yet, the pleasure of watching your hair-free skin still after 4 days is indescribable.

Come again, the girl said.
I do not think anyone who tried waxing once would not.

A new round of obituaries: Olivier

2006-09-03T10:51:00.000+05:30

Olivier’s farewell was akin to an Indian wedding: it included all sorts of activities and lasted for a number of days. One night we had a quiet balcony gathering of good old buddies with conversations over beer. Later Lajpat witnessed a loud and massive party with old and new people all getting nicely drunk together. The farewell concluded with a quiet dinner, of a somewhat limited - in terms of the number of invitees - edition nature.

I would say, Olivier just appeared in Lajpat Nagar one day and one day later he disappeared. As gracefully as he usually acts and as light-hearted as he tends to seem. He hardly had less of culture shock and other critical experiences than anyone else here India, but he always made an impression of a person who is in peace with himself and the world around (which happened to be represented by India only those days) and who has an ability to face this life with an outstanding dignity. Well… we all develop our ways to make it through here in India. I think for Olivier it was his amazing sense of humour that he tastefully used without appearing neither arrogant nor superficial in expressing his attitudes. Olivier’s refined and very tactful irony made him a great companion and friend to share time in India. And people loved to share time with him. Yet, he was a lucky one who had a chance to go through the Indian experience with a very dear person – his Jaipur based and later moved to Delhi charming girlfriend and him made up for a very harmonious couple – a one to adore and envy.

……

Some 10 of us were waiting for him outside the gate to say final goodbye before he would get in the taxi to the airport. He walked down the staircase, looked around and said an elegant “hm” that has clearly been his trademark serving as a universal expression of confusion, surprise, disagreement, and thinking. He could not be more him than with this “hm” at that moment and this made all of us burst into laugh despite otherwise rather dramatic settings. After a hugging-kissing session, he got into a yellow-green taxi with a cherry-turban Sikh driver. With a straight back and a marigold garland on his neck Olivier was smiling after tears and waiving to us from the car. He could hardly look more accomplished in India than that.

Different perspective on weather

2006-09-02T09:56:00.000+05:30

A few weeks back some declared the end of monsoon and the news was hardly a cheerful one. I knew as a matter of fact that rains in Delhi are anything but impressive, yet a hope to witness some total-freshening showers was long cherished.

That night I woke up because of the continuous sound of the shower outside and wet coldness that was percolating on the room through the fine net on the window. My bed positioned vis-à-vis the window was wet on the bottom and I could feel small drops falling on my legs. It got up to close the window from inside – first time ever in Mavia Nagar. I cosily warped up myself in the thick bed sheet and felt asleep totally happy with the fact I can cover myself in the night from now on.

In the morning we found the floor in the room minorly flooded, so were the streets. The little palm tree on the balcony, so generously watered overnight, happily fluffed up its even greener now branches.

I left the house to merge with the post-rain day. The wet and gloomy morning looked incomplete. The clouds promised to pour as if they did not meet the targets with 3 showers yesterday and god-knows-what-was-going-on in the night. The gloomy day yet looked very festive – you could sense the joy of people, wet-from-inside buildings, grass and ground - everything was celebrating. “What a sexy weather”, they say here in Delhi and I think the wordings perfectly explains the attitude.

Blessed with ice-cream, coffee and great people

2006-09-01T10:49:00.000+05:30

Melted-till-the-perfect-consistence vanilla ice-cream and slowly clouding your mind, yet sharp aroma of freshly made coffee luxuriously available at the house are perfect accompaniments for smoothly flowing talks we are having on the spacious balcony of Lajpat Nagar. The more of either you get – the more it feels indulging creamy treat, aromatic coffee and time with really great people who has become so dear within a short time span.

One more time Lajpat had gone through a major clearance both stuff- and people-wise, so it felt really refreshed, settled and calm. Olivier had got back from his trip around India and everyone was totally happy to spend some time with him before he flies home. Newly formed 911 team - Markus, Roel and Stephanie - got back from Françoise, and nervously smoking, told us about the weird case. The discussion on work culture in India that I had planned for that night, that seemed a bit awkward to carry out in such settings after all and that eventually took place and turned really insightful. So much you can do with great people irrespective to the circumstances.

Zero-sum game

2006-08-30T17:59:00.000+05:30

In the morning I’ve learnt that I can travel by bus even when all-western dressed and high-healed; firmly say “Piche, piche, baisab” to the dirty men standing way too close behind me and watch him immediately vanishing from the scene; claim my 5 rupees back from an auto-wala whom I requested to go for 30, who quoted 35 back, with whom I went anyway and whom I did not intend to pay more than 30. It’s a zero-sum logic that I have learnt throughout my daily routines on the streets of Delhi: there is not harm in using my elbows, being persistent and firm if not rude, talking and looking haughtily if talking and looking at all, walking away if someone does not agree on your terms – no harm for me, and about the rest I do not care as much as they do not care a button for me.

So sad, zero-sum principle does not work in relationship with dear people where you cannot protect your comfort, your space, your very being with the same level of confidence that you apply to the situations with people you do not know. As there is something to care for – the comfort, the space, the very being of the other person - and your relationship with him or her. Something precious to care for and something irreplaceable to lose… how can you elbow if you can hurt, how can you be rude if someone would suffer, how can you perk away after your terms were not accepted if you cannot be sure you’ll hear a hail back.

Water

2006-08-29T09:38:00.000+05:30

Last night Ioana solemnly announced that our water pump had got fixed and from now on we do not need to steal overflowing water from the neighbours’ tank. I commented that 6 moths of precarious water supply were enough for me to start considering 3 litters of water for a complete shower and opportunity to flash the toilet a luxurious state of affairs. Just this Sunday I spend an hour fetching water from the neighbours’ tank to do the laundry amassed for 1 month. I never thought the sense of accomplishment can be so primitively grounded.

Utpal tells me I am destined to stay in India and his arguments are difficult to oppose: I look good in saree, I am tough enough to go by bus, I am good in bargaining auto-wallas, I like the food, I’ve got a good profile for a good job, and there are quite a few Indian men who I can choose my husband from. Well… reasonable… But putting aside clothes, food and an Indian husband – if I’ve learnt to survive at margins without virtually any water – I can do anything!!!!

Translation to Russian

2006-08-28T17:07:00.000+05:30

It happened at an awkwardly appropriate moment. Exactly when discussing the abundance of professional choices with Klaus I encountered one more direction to enlarge my collection. Through the mailing list of Delhi trainees I got to know about an urgent translation into Russian to be done by the day after and within next 10 minutes I got the job. And as often happens to me what appears as a pass-by love for the others come into my life to shake its fundamentals.

Next fine morning an a/c cab came to pick me up and deliver to CII’s office in Gurgaon. I was not the rush of a bus or the desperation of getting an auto which non–presence made me realize the difference, but rather my hair that has got in the habit of being curled by the sultry air outside, sweat-prone bus situation or the wind swift and reckless as an Indian motorcyclist. I was looking at my reflection at the height-long mirror at the bathroom of the office and realizing that my straight-today hair share the confusion.

The CII office is located in the very business heart of the city as befits such an institution: the surroundings consist of formidable glass-and-concrete buildings of futuristic shapes with well-recognizable names of international and national grands haughtily inscribed on them. Well-maintained flowerbeds and neat shrubbery are framing the pathway to the doors of the sanctuary. After passing a number of security posts we entered a seemingly endless room with numerous boxes separated by partitions – full of looking alike in their emptiness desks, chairs, computers, and piles of folders. Saturday appeared to be a day off.

The huge clean and well-isolated windows of the office overlooked a seemingly dust-and-nose free area around. The tables at the box I was sitting at were full of books on sexy business topics and glossy business magazines which money-smelling pages have not yet profaned by the fingerprints and a marker’s traces. By the very air in the office one could sense the spirit of tangibility and hard-core achievements. A sudden burst of nostalgia stroke me as I recalled the time spent at Nestle and PointPassat, my much anticipated and then so easily abandoned bright corporate future.

The day passed by like one moment: I was getting home by night, again in an a/c cab –still playing a role of a corporate employee. The one-day assignment made me feel miserable as much as happy: how else is anyone who just earned 1,5 month salary within one day supposed to feel? Everything about business domain that I again encountered that Saturday: language and working style, sort of objectives and activities - appeared so familiar and comfortable to get back to. Shall I, a lost sheep, get back indeed? Yet, as I am realizing now the lure appeared to be very misleading. The new wave of the identity crisis was very short-lived... I remember, when I was discussing my tentative ideas on the master thesis with Paul Gooderham he expressed his position very nicely, yet very clearly, “You know, I would be rather interested in reading your thesis, rather than writing it with you”. So, I can say that I’d rather remain a reader or a user of economic and business reports, than author those. Yet, the paid translation now and then can be discussed separately ;o)

Thrown in socializing

2006-08-23T15:33:00.000+05:30

I noticed a theme that cuts across many of my writings be them diary entries I used to make at the age of 12 and the posts I am uploading here. The theme can be titled “Dilemma of private and social”. Wherever I stay I live with a mixed notion of transition and permanence that makes me balance between having a full-fledged life so to say at spot, staying in touch with the previous lives and yet taking small steps to ensure next life is an option too. Social-wise, it means I have to ration myself between people present at various locations including the current one. Moreover, it happens so that in addition to my core activities (studies or job) I tend to pursue many other aspirations that assume solo performance. I write, I make photography sallies, I read on various issues of interest. Therefore, I face the moments of self-isolation when I feel I have got so much to think and write about and then moments when socializing gets so intense that I hardly have any time for myself. These two spells come in turns, else they would hardly manage to co-exist peacefully in my life.

The recent social burst was very much anticipated. The other day I finished a major piece of writing for the project at CSR and therefore vacated my mind from the troubling thoughts on the impact that globalization of international trade had on women (trust me, if you soak in the topic… I mean properly soak… for half a month you’ll have very little mental space for anything else). Anyway with the unburdened mind I headed to Dharamsala that appeared to be an amazingly social traveling experience. Once back to Delhi, it was turn of some more social events to occur.

One good thing has recently happened to our flat: it got densely populated. And as often happens with places of this kind you get to socialize with people whether you want or not. On a regular basis. So, I am getting very fond of small talks on big issues with my Romanian roommate Ioana whose background from social anthropology ensures the flow of puzzling questions and interesting comments.

The social weekend started on Friday with a party at Kalkaji trainee-house. Hugging Kate after four long days of no-see was very much needed. A portion of tender hugs and kisses from Juan-Mi filled in started-bothering-me gap of physical intimacy with men, yet made me a little bit more hated be Helena (sorry, I did not mean to). Also, I meet Piush who looked great, but not particularly recognizable with his bristle. Along with the mutual interest that makes you go high because of the very fact of talking to each other we expressed mutual regret about losing the contact of each other after the great salsa improvisation at Tapas and the amazing jam session with Carol and Kanak on our roof. This time Piush was all excited about his soon departure to Paris where he would be studying music. Austrian Stephanie and him had a little conversation in French and Piush became the first Indian speaking French I got to hear.

On Saturday there was a major outing to Calypso with a bunch of excited trainees. The clubbing was not bad, but the true landmark of the night was the desert session at 5* Grand Hotel at 3 o’clock in the morning that for me looked like a frisky alternative to the traditional for such cases paranthas at some roadside dhaba. Ladies attended: Danny, Karo and me. Gents attended: Karan, one of those who make me admire Indian men as such, his friend and Amit, who updates us on the recent and upcoming parties in Indian fashion community (looking at his height and appearance one easily makes out why – he is a model). The guys again made me adore the concept of Indian masculinity. I realized, in fact, that it has been a while without outings with Indian guys and I’ve been missing all those really small yet very powerful details. For instance, quite many of them sound way more masculine when they switch to Hindi …. and oh my God, let me just listen to those and gradually melt – not much more I need. After a night ride through the desert Delhi, we got off the car and filled in the quiet all-marble and spacious lobby of the hotel with the sounds of our heals. At the restaurant we picked up gorgeous deserts (for 100 Rs. each only) that we all shared. I opted for a cup of cappuccino: 90 Rs (against 35-40 bucks at a very good coffee-shop in Delhi) is not a high price for such an ambience. We all seemed at ease with the place. Amit asked for water for all, but not too cold with the intonations appropriate when you order a main course from the 5* menu. Karan did not hesitate to request more of the particular cake available at the midnight buffet. We all did not think twice before using all the cutlery available on the table and wiping our all—in-chocolate-fingers with snow-white napkins. Were leaving the place with a terrific sense of fulfillment. Got to bed at about 5 am to wake up in some hours.

On Sunday morning Ioana and me visited Lajpat Nagar to perform there a long neglected yet before traditional breakfast ritual. Well-planned shopping trip – eggs, butter, bread, yogurt, milk, tea bags, fruits. Team-work at the kitchen, nice few hours in the company of Roel and 10 beautiful ladies were as rewarding as they used to be. For the rest of Sunday I had much of unspent shopping aspirations. So, after might-have-been shopping at CP, depressing visit to the deserted on Sundays Khan market Ioana and me voted for vibrant Sarojini – and the choice proved right, as usual. First, I got two pairs of shoes – incredibly comfy walking sandals that took about an hour to select and fairytale high-heal sandals with pale golden small straps that I fell for from the first sight. Second, the tour continued in the pursuit of funky skirts and two gorgeous samples were obtained – one in white with hand made embroidery in Ukrainian style and one in a marsh-colored velvet. Third, very-much-dreamt-about-since-Dharamsala metal earrings with Tibetan motives were found– one pair shaped like prayer wheels in Tibetan temples and the other one being tiny version of prayer wheel shaped as a stick. On the top Ioana got attracted by the plants sold at the market and that is how Malvia Nagar got enriched by a palm tree and some other plant that are now waiting its turn to be planted in huge pot and get dusty on the balcony as all the decent pot-plants in India do.

After all this it hardly felt like going anywhere but home, yet Roel had initiated a dinner at the yummy Chinese place in Defense colony and to miss that would equal to pass for not only unsocial, but also indifferent. Iona said, “Let’s go” and we did. And did not regret after. Sometime you just have to let people bring you to places and make you socialize if you are blind enough not to see the need yourself. After all, how much of you life can be devoted to the thoughts on the fates of women affected by globalization?!

Anonymous lines

2006-08-18T15:34:00.000+05:30

My lines get born as a relief from a pain. The pain caused by the thoughts busily following me, making me think them, making me write them down, making me make sense of them. It is when I cannot tolerate my anxiously paining mind any more I open a blank word-document and my finger tips start dancing on the keyboard.

And how should I feel when knowing that another batch of carefully composed lines seasoned with a couple of my teardrops and blessed by my frowning eyebrows comes into this world – anonymous? On the name of what can anyone do that to me? How on earth can I do that to myself?

So devastated and done I feel after writing a piece on gender and international trade, so inspired I am by the mountainous and peaceful air of Dharamsala .. that there is no way to produce a piece on WTO now….. One more anonymous piece on a very exciting, yet irrelevant to the self-fulfilment issue..

Delhi welcomes...

2006-08-17T12:04:00.000+05:30

I think that a painful attachment has developed between me and the city I am living in. Absolute love gradually grew into the painful attachment as we have been getting too much of each other. Being together became as hurting as inevitable. And today the city was as if taking revenge on me for my 5-day mind-blowing adultery with Dharamsala. On the way to the office I got stuck in the most massive (1,5 hours) traffic jam I have ever had in Delhi. “Welcome, sweetheart!”, - I could hear the voice of my mocking and wounded lover in the peal of the horns.

Dharamsala 2: Food and conversations

2006-08-14T09:28:00.000+05:30

This time trip to Dharamsala was marked with conversations and chats over elaborate meals and short tea drop-ins. Freshly made-with-lots-of-care-and-concern food at the Tibetan eateries firmly conquered our hearts and we ventured in exploring the specialties and places in McLeod Ganj.

A morning glass of hot ginger lemon tea warmed up throat and ensured stamina sufficient to cope with any amount of the rainfall to come. Omelets and pancakes, such Western treats in principle, however not only fitted into the concept of cozy Tibetan food, but also had a special charm when served in the typically Tibetan cafes looking akin to simple dining rooms in very basic houses. Brown bread or white flat cakes have been purchased from a bakery that consisted of nothing but walls, breads and an aristocratic lady in an elegant dark-blue dress. Bread was carefully packed and taken away to share during the day.

The break between the happenings of the first and the second half of the day had to accommodate talks about the experiences amassed by far and food intake to further sustain the flow of the experiences. A café with green painted walls, two Hindu waiters and a Tibetan lady as a boss was our favorite as it allowed both – lengthy discussions and yummy food. Our lunch sessions were held there until we found another place – a second-floor café with an odd stone staircase without peril, without menu, yet with the most spectacular cooking process at the kitchen involving at least 7 people, rows of bowls with raised in cones spices, plates with fresh noodles and chopped tomatoes and resulting in the greatest (and cheapest) food in town. Before-noon happening was typically discussed over a gigantic plate with all-sort-stuffed momos and chowmein served with sticks.

Cafes on the roof-terraces were strongly preferred for the evening meals as giving sufficient space and perspective on the day passed. Funny-shaped steamed bread (thimo) shared by the whole table let us frame the discussion of the major impressions encountered by far. Further evening conversations were fired up by the soup with squire noodles (thanthuk). Mint tea and butter tea concluding the dinners were bringing the ultimate peace in our stomachs and hearts, helped us better understand and digest the peculiarities of Tibetan culture and largely influenced the content of the dreams for the coming night.

Dharamsala 2: I am a tourist!!!

2006-08-13T10:41:00.000+05:30

Weekend travelling brings a feeling of an absolute liberation. Liberation in many senses. From work responsibilities and daily routines, from sticking to people and places you know… But even more importantly for the case of living in a foreign country, weekend travelling liberates you from the necessity to strive for the identity of the local, the necessity that your whole expatriate life is revolving around otherwise. There is a indescribable pleasure in associating with the crowd of tourists besieging a hottest destination. This simple act becomes a denial or a rebellion for you: “That’s what I am – A FOREIGNER in this country, a foreigner like many who come for some time and do not bother to comply with the rules defining social dynamics here”… However illusive the thought is, let me indulge it in the few coming days.

I carry my camera and do not hesitate to take pictures of the strangers sitting right next to me. I wear a carefree top on the thin shoulder-straps and walk by the countryside road without much concern for the stares and comments. Without thinking twice I am asking for the directions to a tourist sight: I do not know where it is – I have just arrived. I am discussing the peculiarities of Indian culture in a bus full of (Indian) people. I go easy on two rupees that I am getting ripped off for anytime I am getting some chai from a dhaba. I am shopping for beautiful presents at a government shop and take the word of the shopkeeper that he cannot give me any discount. I am spending half of my monthly food expenditures on the crafts made by mentally handicapped children and I do not regret a single peso.

Please, please, please, let me feel rich, clueless, and strange in this country.
Please, please, please, let me feel like a tourist.
Please, please, please…
…this is so rare I get a chance to.

Dharamsala 2: Road-trip. Movie script for sale.

2006-08-12T12:34:00.000+05:30

I do not like Hollywood comedies about unlucky fellows: as if threading beads the scriptwriter comes up with one accident after another to make us unnecessarily pity the hero (heroine) who is put through such a hassle. I remember the last one – “Just my luck” (2006): the girl comes home to find out that her flat is flooded and invaded by the rescuers; a smiling man gives her a small carton box with some of her saved belongings and the bottom of the box drops when she receives it; later when sheltering at her friend’s, she looks in a mirror and finds a pimple, she is trying to squeeze it out and she breaks the mirror; hair dryer sucks in her hair, the plug goes off, the short circuit destroys the bathroom; and the next day the girl shows up at a date with a band on her eye. All because of the weird imagination of the scriptwriter who is desperately trying to impress us!

Yet, even in real life now and then you feel THE SCRIPTWRITER gets too creative.

The night before the trip to Dharamsala a cheerful a cappella of the ringtone I assigned to Kate’s number on my phone announced that the girl had got something to tell me. My friend has recently been desperate to finish some work in order to travel light-hearted – she planned to see her friend in Mumbai on the long weekend. Yet, it so happened so that once the trip had been decided upon Kate got to know that her friend was emergently hospitalized. Moreover, for a few days in a row Kate had been struggling with the computers at CSR: none of them wanted to save pages of her work that she had to retype every single day. The night Kate thought she would say bye to her miseries and just jump in the train to Mumbai she called me to tell that all the trains to Mumbai got cancelled due to the flood in Gujrat and if in the morning of the day after she did not have better luck, she would join us for Dharamsala. “If you are not scared of my luck,” she shouted with laugher. We were not, so she came along.

Next day we both left the office a bit earlier to make it to the bus station on time. Yet, all the last-minute preparations, extra packing and bye-bye to the colleagues delayed us by some half and hour. We rushed to the motorway to get an auto. Needless to say, it took a while to realize we would not get one on “good price” and therefore should agree on the approximation of the same. A Sikh driver was picked among the rest for no reason. Actually, by a huge mistake as it appeared very soon. He already turned to the gas station when both Kate and me yielded, “No gas!” The driver got taken aback by our determination and immediately got back on the highway. It cost us another wrong turn and a lasting debate about the shortest way to get to CP to actually get on the right track. Yet, even following the right track didn’t bring satisfaction as soon we stopped: a tyre got flat and we got frustrated. While Kate was clarifying with the driver how long it would take to change the tyre, I was waiving down in the desperation that was sensed by the auto-walas who stopped and quoted sky-high prices for a very short ride. Our Sikh driver was very efficient and the tyre got fixed surprisingly quickly to relieve our strained-to-the-limit nerves.

Very soon we unloaded at the Central Secretariat metro station to take an underground shortcut instead of making it through the congested Central Delhi and hectic Old City. Security system in Delhi metro is a small-scale version of that at an airport: when entering a station you go through the security gate and then big bags get checked. However, before I used to pass all the cordons without even stopping, yet this time I rather heedlessly forgot about the recent terror threats in London and stringent security measures all over. Both Kate and me had really huge backpacks. Checking those would take time that we did not practically had being so delayed by our auto-adventures. I already passed a policeman when I get to hear a loud and hard, “Mam”. Kate was behind; I did not want to look back and hoped she would pass through without a hassle. I rushed to the turnstile and already passed it when another policeman blocked my way. “Please, show your bag”. I saw Kate behind, stopped by a policeman too and opening her backpack. She was equality irritated, but way more polite than me. Indignant and red-hot, I blurted out “I do not have time, I am missing my train”. Yet, the matter looked pretty hopeless. The policeman repeated hard that he intended to inspect my bag. To ultimately convince me in the seriousness of the intentions, a Sikh guard with a rifle came up pointing his weapon at me. Humiliated and ultimately helpless, annoyed and angry, feeling tiny-little and deprived of any rights, I replied they could open my backpack and see for themselves, but I would not take it off from my shoulders… Providing the backpack was pretty tall they opened it and felt it only on the top. And that annoyed me even more. Why all this lip-service to the greater security, why to rattle the sabre in front of taken aback civilians if you do not even intend or do not have sufficient means to carry out a proper check??!! Soon we cached a train to ISBT: modern ambiance and a/c comfort of the metro cooled us down, giving a small break between our miseries.

Once at ISBT, a moment of truth came: by running between three ticket counters, two busses departing to Dharamsala and five of them on the platforms nearby trying to identify the one we would take, assaulting of the ticket counter for the tickets - we eventually got to meet all the trainees who happened to be coming to Dharamsala for that long weekend... Uf!!! In the bus… Quite troubled by my rebellious mind I shouted to Kate, “Let’s take the seats behind the driver”. I had an idea that actually they wrote numbers of the seats on the tickets, but I suggested we tried our chances. Best seats in the bus where you can stretch your legs were worth the try. The rest of our sojourners appeared to be more respectful to the rules and took the seats as assigned at the ticket counter.

When the bus got almost full two young men came up to us. One of them asked with a challenge:

“What are your seats’ numbers? Show me your tickets!”
“Show me yours! Are you a conductor?”
“These are not your seats!”
“Are these yours?”
“Yes, they are ours. We’ll talk to conductor”

And he showed me a 500-ruppies bill with “5” and “6” written on it. Astonished by the very concept, I exclaimed, “Is that how you get your seats?!” Immediately I felt like shrinking so that less of me had to face this unfair world. “This is a bribe!”, I loudly whispered to Kate. If they were determined to execute their plan then Kate and me would get pretty much screwed with fitting in the luggage now comfortably placed under our feet in the already packed space at the back of the bus. I suggested we stayed where we were and waited till the conductor came and then if the men dared to get the seats in the planned way we would kick up a fuss. I childishly put my chin on Kate’s shoulder, knitted my eye-brows, threw out my lower lip and sad almost crying, “I wanna go home”… Kate raised her eye-brows, “You want to stay in Delhi?” I came to my senses. Of course not… But, how miserable it is to know that you are alone in your misery, you are there to stand for yourself… Taking the seats different from assigned is not such an uncommon practice and not a cheeky prank by any means. In India you learn to make yourself comfortable and increase your utility if a chance comes. Because if you do not someone else would use the chance at your expense – and seat on your knees, step on your foot, get your auto, take your seat in the bus, take your turn in the queue…

The conductor came up soon and shook my shoulder with undue familiarity.
“Show me your tickets”
I did.
“Go and take your seats”
“I will when the one who has the tickets for this ones shows up. In that case we’ll surely vacate the seats”
He took our tickets and went to the back to check the rest of our batch. Kate and me were left to tremble. In a few minutes he got back, gave me the tickets and left. Me and Kate exchanged glances and smiled.. Worked out!...

The fresh breeze mixed with the Delhi dirt had a definite calming effect, but proved misleading. After a few hours of the discussion on international terrorism we had with Kate the bus stopped in some urban yet without much signs of human presence area. A flat tyre accident repated - this time at the larger scale. Gradually most of the passengers flew off the bus. We were effectively left wondering as for what exactly had happened and how long it would take to repair it. Eight of us were standing on the road, looking at the funky-painted trucks slowing down and looking at us and at the bus and passing by. After three hours (three hours!) of such a routine the bus started off. We loaded, get into our seats and soon fell asleep.

As it often happens during overnight bus journeys I was waking up now and then and at one of those awakenings I realized we stopped again. The picture that I saw out of the window deserved being painted with oil on a huge canvas and exhibited in the National Museum. About 30-40 policemen in sand-colored uniform, with read and black turbans (a! we are in Punjab) with wooden sticks and wattled shields were alertly roaming around the area lightened by the headlight of the vehicles. The traffic got blocked from both sides and the sojourner sitting on my left-hand side commented that someone threw stones on a bus. We could see the bus with the broken front window on the roadside. The situation of alertness and confusion did not last long – our bus started off and for ten minutes we were passing by numerous trucks, busses, cars and other vehicles in the reverse row until we saw a turned upside down burnt frame of a jeep on the middle of the road. Silent mode and open mouths…

The morning was long as the bus got delayed by some two hours. We were driving on the hills. Some were trying to sleep while dangling from one side to another and others were freezing before every turn at the serpentine. We almost felt happy to have it all behind and be about to reach Dharamsala. 10 minutes away from the bus station steam started belching from the panel nearby the driver and light-green liquid started flooding the bus. The steam made it hardly possible to breath and see and we had to urgently evacuate our bags and ourselves from the disaster… Walking towards the bus station, indulging the silence an clearness of the air…we thought it was great we got so flat tire-security checks-uncertainty-and-disaster-proof and eventually made it… Irrespective... The end.

Bergen tribute

2006-08-11T16:16:00.000+05:30

Very briefly spoke to Ira last night. Discussed how far away, close-to-irrelevant and therefore - unreal the places you are not at may appear. A few months back, when shifted to a new room, I made sure I shifted my picture wall too – some 100 odd pictures from all periods of my life remind me of places, people and events that seemed to constitute the only possible reality for me at some point of time. Now when the notion of space has got far too expended, it is those pictures that make me believe I lived some other lives before this one.

Is that possible to combine lives? Is it worth bringing a bit of past in your present and maybe – in your future? I closed my eyes tight and the images came with ease. From long time back or long time ahead?

…..smoke a pipe in the roof with the view on the endless fjord…..

…..peel a huge tender-rose salmon, marinade it with herbs and let your guests anticipate by inhaling divine aroma from the stove…..

…..listen to the whispers of trolls hiding in the darkness of Fjellveien…..

…..join the crowd of summerly dressed people lazing around at Bryggen…..

…..indulge the hugest ever existing cup of capuchino in the smallest ever existing coffee shop Det Lille Kaffe Kompaniet…..

…..stop your car by a strawberry field and buy a small basket of sweet-from-inside berries…..

…..find a quite beach, sit on the wooden plank fixed on the stone, dangle your legs almost tiptoeing the water, close your eyes and let the caressing afternoon sun give you millions of tender kisses…..

…..look into the deep blue eyes of a blond man and freeze in the slight cool of his gaze…..

…..have a nap on the top of a mounted after an exhausting hike up…..

….. find out that the place you live at is nothing but a thin lace of fjords and mountains when your plane looses height…..

…..regret that you cannot revisit these impressions, yet dream that in some time you revisit the place - with two pairs of eyes and two hearts.

Rakhi Day

2006-08-09T10:33:00.000+05:30

Even an unaware and clueless outsider could have noticed the fuss going around these days. Namkeen and sweet shops make extensive outside stands decorated with draped curtains and ribbons. The stands offer an abundance of boxed chocolates, exclusive cookies and other types of packaged sweets. The rest of the shops, irrespective to their profile otherwise, also put outside stands where one finds an array of dominantly red colored threads with all sort of fancy nods, beeds, flowers and more. And people… people are virtually rushing those places.

The occasion for the arrangements appeared to be Raksha Bandhan, celebrated every year on 'Shravan Purnima' (Full Moon Day of the Hindu month of Shravan). On the holy day of Rakhi sisters tie a sacred piece of thread (Known as Rakhi or 'Raksha-Sutra') on the wrist of their brothers and they feed each other with sweets. Essentially, Rakhi is the day when brothers and sisters get an opportunity to express their tender love and feelings towards each other.

It really takes to be here in India where you get captivated by the excitement of the preparations for the holiday, masses of the rakhi and sweets stands, pudjas (prayers and offerings) performed at the tiny and huge temples …. to regret you do not have a family here and you cannot be a part of this important festival….. Who said so?

Last night I was arriving to Malvia Nagar and in fact had to go to the internet café. Yet.. once approaching the market swarming with people

the bus got stuck on the congested road and I jumped off in the realization I cannot miss this festive madness. I bought a few rakhies.. and then some more… and some more… keeping in mind all my male friends and even close female ones…. After a short hesitation I entered Moti, where people were fighting for sweets: in the bakery they removed the cash counter, totally changed the facing, and put packing to a separate counter so to streamline the process of selling sweets which people were getting in bulks these days.

The morning of Rakhi day was blessed by the pure light blue sky and sunshine. I put on my new kurta (good Hindu habit of getting new clothes for the occasions ;o), tied the bands and gave sweets to all my five flatmates (all girls) half of whom I had to brutally wake up for that. I left house to find the empty streets frozen in the anticipation, in this very special way so typical for the days of family festivals. On the way to work every now and then my auto got overtaken by motorbikes with women in glittering festive salwar suits and sarees sitting on the back. Obviously, heading to their brothers’ houses. And I impatiently anticipate seeing the boys tonight - rakhi, sweets and my sisterly love are made ready for them ;o)

Women's day

2006-08-08T15:08:00.000+05:30

Piyali softly entered the room where Kate and me are sitting. When fed up with the tensed silence of the room upstairs she comes down to visit us: to chat about some heartening issues, to open the upper drawing of my desk and find there a precious pack of cashewnut cookies or at times to slightly reproach me for hardly showing my face upstairs. Piyali gave Kate a pink sheet of paper with text on both sides. The leaflet was devoted to the three-day political rally for 33% reservation for women in the Parliament. The other day Kate, at present writing a paper on political participation, mentioned to me that she would like to go to the demonstration at one of these days. My immediate response was a sort of indifference: not a single time I joined any social protect act and all in all has been skeptical towards such initiatives. Yet, Kate and Piyali started excitedly tell, vying with each other, how demonstrating has been an integral part of their student live once they both studied social sciences. Kate enthusiastically recalled how she used to join demonstrations in London now and then. Piyali explained that there is hardly any issue in the national and international politics that goes unnoticed by social activists in JNU and they go demonstrating for Israel, and later for Palestine, and then for Iraq and then against it. Shaken by the girls’ stories, my curiosity outweighed my skepticisms and I promised Kate to join.

The next day we left soon after lunch, therefore we had to explain to virtually everyone where we were leaving to and why. That was the third and the last day of the rally and therefore it had already got a decent coverage on the news channels. Therefore, people in the office knew. Yet, our willingness to go encountered different degrees of surprise. Hello!.. Is not that a gender institution we are working at? Is not the issue that our organization (personified in the director) has picked on and being lobbying for?

The whole way to the place Kate and me were discussing what it takes to work for a cause and actually support it, how to combine working for cause and making career, much hope is left for the development sector, etc. But the rest, I recalled how couple of months ago at a national convention of women NGOs we all raised our hands when a speaker proclaimed, “We’ve been demanding for 33% reservation for so long but our voice has not been heard. Enough! In the coming monsoon session of the parliament we all have to go to seat in front of the parliament and demand for 50% reservation” The whole conference room of a 5-star hotel got filled with the hands raised in the striking unity. Where are those women now? Where is the speaker? The question remains: what is more important - to make it happen and be there when it does or that it happens at all – no matter how and by whose agency…

It took us a while to find the place – we were misled by the anticipated scope of the gathering. Rather naively I thought that demonstration happens nearby the parliament indeed. Yet, all the forms of social protest in Delhi are doomed to be manifested at Jantra Mantra, a specially allocated venue. How convenient in fact: without being formally forbidden the constitutional right of freedom of association is effectively restricted. Imagine how powerful the image of women sitting in front of the very parliament and demonstrating could have been! Yet, we are left with a picture of women demonstrating in some quiet street in the city centre. Some 20 meters of fenced pavement with about 60-70 women sitting cross-legged on the podium and a handful of men staying aloof. Posters, agitating speeches and songs …

At pause as for how to approach the gathering we walked in the fenced area. Kate suggested we asked if we could sit with them. Women on the periphery of the crowd willingly agreed. We removed our shoes and took a seat at the podium. We looked around at the stands with pictures and information on the previous gathering on the same issue, at the women in the middle of the crowd singing agitation songs, at the women immediately around us who were also looking at us with a lot of interest. It did not take long to get approached by a lady who appeared to be the Secretary of the organization initiated the demonstration. She was very nice to answer all the questions that Kate had. (Later on just like that we met the General Secretary of the same organization who was also present at the venue). We got to know that women from different state rotate every day. Today in particular, these were women from Maharashtra and Assam who came. After some time the lady left us, excusing herself for some duties. Some men distributed cookies and tea among the delegates – small India routines that are invariably present in any settings. While waiting for our tea we got met a few women Maharashtra: a tiny old lady that was really keen on making contacts with us, a younger one who was constantly laughing, another one who was rather silently staring at us than participating. I had a good time observing how Kate was struggling with her non-existent Hindi vocabulary.

This is not to say mine exist, but rather I reconciled with the fact I do not get a word neither able to convey any a bit earlier. A habit of compassionate listening came after long practice of communicating with people speaking languages I have just a little clue about. Yet, two of us managed to establish some sort of rapport with the women and communication somehow carried on. We took some pictures, women wrote their names in Hindi and their postal address in Kate’s notepad.

We gave our address too, promising to send the pictures. We took a leave. The granny walked us to the entrance. Almost on the way she introduced us to the lady who appeared to be General Secretary of the organization. She carried herself in a profoundly regal fashion. But still she was nice enough to exchange couple of words w us. “Ram-ram” - “bye-bye” and we left the venue.

he next destination of the night was IHC. From the masses of the captivating events the centre announces we picked one - a series of held conversations with women writers, "Words of Women". This month event was timed to the launch of the book by Maya Sharma. The lady is a feminist and an activist in the Indian Women's Movement. Being a lesbian herself she wrote a book “Loving women. Being lesbian in unprivileged India”. That much we knew when we entered a lobby of a cozy size and ambience nearby Casurina auditorium. The lobby was already fairly filled with people greeting each other, hugging, updating each other on the recent news, and helping themselves at the tea buffet. After all, the community associated with any sort of women cause is a small one – you ultimately get to meet with the same people at every new event. Even I spotted a girl I saw twice at the CSR arrangements. The notion of the small community got just reinforced when this morning Kate was sharing that she was struck by an article on political reservation she just came across and that talking to the author would not be such a bad idea. The lady in question, the author of the article, Nivedita Menon happened to facilitate the talk with Maya Sharma that evening. We could hardly believe the coincidence. After the introduction given by the excited publisher and editor, we got to see the author. Maya Sharma appeared to be a humble gray-haired elderly lady in a salwar-kameez. An appearance that one would hardly relate to the media-created prototype of a lesbian. Insightfully enough, Sharma was more confident with the written word than the spoken one. The language of her book is just beautiful which I can say after reading it. She actually confessed she dreamed the book could be done in Hindi and that the way the text is organized is partly a result of her thinking in Hindi and only then putting it down in English. Again, an amazing coincidence.. as just before the talk Kate and me were discussing the special flavor writings by non-native speakers have. Also, when answering the questions Sharma was largely using the material of her book hardly giving any information beyond that as if saying, as Lev Tolstoy did once about his “The war and the peace”, that to explain what the book is about she should write it again. Yet, from the scrappy comments in the conversation and later from the book itself as I read it I realized that the discussion of female homosexuality has relevance for virtually every women as it refers to the topic of control over your sexuality and freedom to express it, an issue of vital importance in India (as far as this is the country question) where many women, for instance, simply do not have control over their bodies, they cannot freely decide when to give birth, to whom give birth and how frequently. Placing the discussion of same sex relationship, as Sharma does, in the context of working women (this is what “unprivileged India” in the title of the book stands for) the author encourages us to rethink alternative sexuality as a urban westernized phenomenon with a huge political statement for a natural identity women from any strata may have. I guess the fact that people were nearly fighting to buy the book after the presentation just confirms that topics touched are relevant and intriguing for many.

Got home and found it full of girls – but the 6 of us leaving there we had 2 visitors. Discussed demonstration, lesbianism, gender relations in India... Perfect women’s day – no men seemingly needed.. Yet, think if none existed what happens to the concept of gender and what would fuel our discussions, creative outputs and lives?!

The lizard

2006-08-04T10:30:00.000+05:30

Tribute to “The Pigeion” by Patrick Süskind

That night I got home pretty late. Girls were out, I had quite a day and the only wish cherished for the time being was to put my head on the pillow and escape from this vain world of which I had enough for that day. I walked in the bathroom and for some hard-to-explain reason glanced on the ceiling. I spotted a pair of eyes looking at me from there. I yelled!.... I found myself face-to-face with a big frustration of my life – a lizard, about 20 centimeters long. Without lengthy explanations I would just say: I am panicly afraid of reptiles and particularly disguised by snakes. Therefore, while lizards are not at the extreme end on the continuum of my fears, yet they hit some critical point way beyond my tolerance threshold. If I really stick to the facts though, I had already seen quite a few lizards that stay up on the walls of the buildings and at times get inside. Yet, they tended to be small and the meets occurred at the places that I could easily leave without being unnecessarily throwing up. This time a lizard invaded my habitat!!! I got ultimately scared, irritated and…numb. When I realized I cannot simply ignore the creature and I have to initiate some sort of interaction to eventfully scare it away, tears came to my eyes. For a minute I visualized myself as a focal point of the all-universe sufferings: the moment you feel that all the miseries of the world got accumulated in you, in poor, helpless you…and you actually feel like indulging in this misery… I ran away from the bathroom and locked the door so that the creature did not escape to my room – then chances of the peaceful sleep would be pretty much illusive.

My mobile rang. It was Rahul, whose “Hi dear, how have you been” got reciprocated with my panic, “Oh, my God, I’ve got a big lizard in my bathroom”. Hi did something that does not belittle his merits as a friend, yet something that was completely inappropriate for the occasion. He burst into laugh. “You are scared of a lizard… Ha-ha-ha..” Instead of the moral support I needed most I got to face a moral challenge which I already had. I just carried on with the explanations how much I am scared of the creature and that I do not know what to do. He was calling from the office and obviously had just some minutes to chat. That’s been a while since we had heard from each other last time and now with my lizard troubles I was clearly wasting his time. He kept laughing, teasing me and I could hear annoyance in his laugher. “I called you at last and you are so preoccupied with the lizard, stupid girl”. He tried to give me some suggestions and behaved just like any men - solution oriented. “Scare it away!” If only I could… He hanged up soon.

I was standing in the middle of my room completely clueless and scared. I could not, totally could not even look at the lizard and its anguine motions. I got into tears. How would I scare it away? And I have to, I have to… Me, poor me, again and again have to handle the situations I would not even need to bother about be I with someone else around. Why there is no someone else around? There are people I know, good buddies, close friends and relatives – all in the varying proximity or actually distance. Yet, no one here with me at the moment when I need this one most. How many more times in my life would I have to go through hurdles myself, getting unnecessarily strong? How much stronger does one have to become so to live happy? Would I still need someone around once I get that strong?…………………

What I really respect myself for is that despite the tears session is almost compulsory, right after I wipe away the last salty drop on my face the action plan is ready and I can mobilize myself.

I opened the door, walked in the bathroom and locked the door. I looked around and could not find the invader. Disappeared? Too good to be true! I glanced on the walls again and saw it down on the wall, almost on the floor – and I yelled again! Stay up on the wall, you miserable thing! It crawled up. I seized a mop and started splashing it on the walls with the cries of a warrior. I hoped to scare the lizard away with the sounds and the danger of being splashed…However, the latter was not intended by any means. The creature was way too big to be killed without me having serious remorse later. Responding to my actions, the lizard started feverishly fussing back and forth hoping to escape. I was getting more and more annoyed with this stupid animal that could not comprehend the commonality of our goals. It just had to leave. It was not safe for it to stay at the place where a mad woman swings a mop in the air and yells. It was not safe for my mental heath to carry on that way either. Yet, the lizard was running back and forth, back and forth without an end in mind. I was getting more and more frustrated and therefore – more and more desperate. At some point I lost any hope when the lizard sneaked behind the gazer as if thinking it might be a good compromise for us. Yet, I was determined to win. I carried on with both mop and my voice and… at some point of time the lizard sneaked out of the ventilation window. I locked the window. Had to tight it with a rope in fact, as the window did not close properly. I could not leave a chance for any prospective visiting creature to get in. I breathed out in the clear realization – done!... I was standing in the middle of my bathroom and tried to comprehend the fact that I had just scared away one of my major fears.

Gender awareness or paranoia

2006-08-03T09:41:00.000+05:30

The other day I was discussing institution of marriage with in-a-dangerously-bridal age Piyali. She shared that after studying social sciences it is virtually impossible to be a wife. “In the family you are not supposed to question, but it is exactly the latter what you learn as a social science student”. I just laughed back and secretly felt glad I would not have to marry in the country where questioning is always perceived as challenging. Yet, later on I raised the issue with Kate and she totally supported Piyali’s stand… Is the concern so universal that equally endorsed in Europe and South Asia?!

Undoubtedly, what we study and what we work in constitutes a major frame of reference for us. Imagine a group of people from diverse walks of life chilling out at a cafe. A one into marketing would think of how professionally the café’s brand is positioned; an economist would come up with tentative estimates of the joint’s profitability; a doctor would name all those diseases one can get by eating from such a place; an engineer would by all means pay attention to the way ventilation system works. Clearly, we all get preoccupied with the concepts we learn through our studies or profession and we tend to apply those to the life situations that we come across.

Then think for a minute…. You are a girl studying social sciences or working with gender issues. Day by day you are learning that society functions to maintain the existing power relations that, as far as gender is concerned, are such that males have been historically dominating the areas related to control over any sort of resources (being it land, money, or social recognition). Find it out for yourself: it is women who take over domestic work that is unpaid and undervalued and it is men who go for paid employment outside their houses; it is women who would be seen sewing clothes and cooking, yet it is men who are well-recognized designers and chefs; it is women who are wanted employees at call centers by the virtue of being considerate and service oriented, yet it is men who take over managerial positions at the same organizations. The trend is clear: women are doomed to the activities meant for in-house consumption and related to the low status, yet men essentially being involved in the same domains tend to take over the tasks related with status, social recognition, and financial success. You also learn that all mentioned universally holds thought varying in manifestations as per specific society. You learnings naturally get empirical support with every article you read, with every discussion you have with colleagues, with every news you get to hear, with every observation of social interactions you get exposed to, with every story your friends tell you …. and…. what is ultimately scary… with your own experience that you are doomed to encounter. Because you are a woman. Virtues circle.

I’ve been into the field of women’s rights for just half a year, but I easily identify all the major deprivations I come across as a women: this is me being harassed by a sexist joke, this is me not being heard, this is me being getting non-equivocal comments on the sustainability of my career plans, this is... Yet, I reckon, the most frustrating is to find out such attitudes in the personal relationship…

I shiver when I picture myself doing dishes while him watching TV (that is how gendered division of labor (or leisure?) is in Russia, for example)…. I have no hassles with doing dishes… I actually find it very stress-reliving. But I am also aware of what the actual situation looks like: regardless the fact you have a nice dual-career family (meaning you both have ambitious career plans) it is you women who is expected to take over domestic chores…. And me, smart, educated, financially independent working women who has a right to choose her partner would feel amazing sense of sisterhood with a backward women from a small village in Bihar married off at the age of 17 with her present full-fledged universe made of kitchen utilities and wishes of her spouse.

How fare is that? Him being fine with having a nice life, you expected to marry and give birth….. Him going for a career and you adjusting your lifestyle to his aspirations….. You love this man anyway, no?! Don’t be stubborn, baby! He decides something for himself and he thinks it would work for both of you. He would definitely ask what ice cream you want, but then he forgets to ask you where on this earth you would like to put down your roots. Hi is not particularly a devil and you are not exactly a saint. That is not the point.
But why do you so often feel victimized on the plea of being vulnerable, being flexible … being women…. Maybe very independent when it comes to your career yet…very submissive and support-seeking with your partner. What if it actually feels divine to find in your partner a shelter protecting you from the aftertaste of lost and won fights in this violent world outside? What if you actually do not mind him dominating and taking decisions for you both? What is that: endorsing gender stereotypes or just being genuine? And what if at some other point of time you can lend your support to him, let him be weak, take decisions for you both? Is he getting less man after? Do you love him less?

We so often talk about gender sensitization for men, yet how much has been done for sensitizing women. How much gender sensitive are we? Gender is not only women – keep repeating we and still fall in the same trap: we blame men. How come that we women are so often brought up with the inferiority complex, rather than with the notion of differences instead. Is it gender inequality or differences actually? If it is only differences we talk about in the personal relationship how come it amounts for the marked social inequality in the broader context?! The whole feministic discourse and activism e.g. related to political participation (hello, Kate ;o) – is it a women’s propensity to articulate sentiments and indulge lengthy discussions? And the ignorance of the mainstream (=male dominated) political discourse to the feminists’ standpoints? Just male tendency not to pay attention to the details or them consciously ignoring the same?

My ramblings seem to be akin to the “third-year-disease” that medical students tend to come across when after amassing a certain amount of knowledge they are able to detect in themselves symptoms of almost any existing disease. Apparently, this is nothing but a transitional stage that is followed by adjustment once you develop some sort of self-preservation mechanism … and then… this is also something they say about doctors… your threshold of tolerance gets so much that it turns in cynicism ….I hope that never happens in my case...

...

2006-08-02T14:58:00.000+05:30

I find it amusing that at the point of time when I have got most to say, when a couple of half-started half-finished posts are pending, when I actually write a lot (yet for work), my blog remains untouched already for days.

The summer I like

2006-07-31T09:53:00.000+05:30

The weekend in Delhi felt like a good summer in Russia. We opened both balconies in our flat and the rooms got filled with the sunlight and tender warmth of the summer air. Fresh breeze was fingering curtains and all of a sudden life has became possible to live without hiding from the heat.

Just as at home the greenery looked freshened up by the recent rains and the pure blue sky was richly seasoned with fluffy clouds (instead of those looking like a dript out white of an egg by chance cracked in the boiling water).

I was walking in Sarojini Nagar, this lovely neighbourhood sodden by the calm of the summer afternoon: my fluttering skirt, carefree dragging of my flip-flops and light-minded swings of the small bag in my hands made me summerish happy.

Why I love India

2006-07-27T10:22:00.000+05:30

The other day Roel and me discussed our trips home. It us from us that folks back home got to hear about India as we know it. Cowds of people who just would not let you be, insane traffic with participants varying from painted tracks to cows, dust, burning sun or pouring rain, bargaining as a daily routine, diet rich in hydrocarbonates and so lacking proteins, sticky men and humble women (for me and Roel respectively). I find it interesting that both Dutch and Russian people reacted similarly, “I do not understand why you are staying there for so long then”…. Well, let me try to explain…

In fact, I love India because only here I can

wear then most colourful clothes with funky colour combinations and know that accessories for my green-and-pink salwar kameez are always available at the market

wear simple sarees and look gorgeous

get a new skirt at the export rejected Sarojini market every week with no harm to my wallet

pick up ten guy in 1 night out and proudly reject them all

eat masala dosa, paneer parantha, lamb cooked by Mr. Jayaraj and byriany by Kanpana-ji, snack with yummiest chats; indulge sweet julab jamun, ladoo and doda; drink butter milk, badam milk, sweet lassi and CHAI!

along with the whole country cry and deliver special prayers for a five-year old Haryana boy who fell in a hole who were trapped in a 60-feet deep tube well pit for nearly 50 hours and then got happily rescued

singing along a fiery song in a language you do not know and dance in a way you never could before

drive on the reverse raw

get fed by my colleagues if the lunch I ordered gets delayed

get a bus ride for 2 Rupees (equals to 0.0427788 USD or 0.0336207 EUR)

be around people even when alone

be considered beautiful just because of the colour of my skin;

jump queues and undertake any other acts of rampant impudence for the same reason

bargain down from any price

go for souvenir shopping every weekend and every time get something new

tell a person “Acha, yaa… we should catch up some time” and not really mean it

be 1 or 2 hours late for any family or friends meet and people would tell you “Not a problem”

cross a busy road at the place where I find it convenient

after a great outing drive a jeep full of nicely drunk people (not excluding the driver), as a crowd get to a dhaba for soft -warm paranthas and feel happy

Self-cleaning brain

2006-07-26T10:05:00.000+05:30

I feel pain not being able to escape from the blockage of the rudiments of my not-more-valid life concepts, when a piling for a yet-to-be-built new life has hardly started either. The latest days in the office were spent in the meaningless for the external observer activities that made perfect sense to me. Surfing web, taking notes, readings, conversations with Kate, mailing friends – all to provide as many inputs to my inflamed mind as possible, to let them mingle, sharpen, refine and boil down to some decent outcome. I could not tolerate this mental process happening absolutely irrespective to my will and participation. And it looked like that night I would be pouring out the tons of my concerns on the one who has patiently carried out a mission of my mental ambulance for long by now.

Yet, before that I had to visit a police station and then a Hutch shop in Anzal Plaza to restore my lost sim-card. Lost sense of time and direction coupled with shopping gravitation made me stay in Anzal Plaza a bit longer. I was assessing how Benetton’s collections here in India are different from those in Europe. I was checking out designers’ wear (both western and ethnic) that costs about 10 times more expensive that that with more humble labels. I found out that I had lost everything that now-on-sale Lee and Levi’s jeans are supposed to accentuate. I was digging in Tatra Tshirt Shop and ended up with two very funky printed t-shirts touching emotions of anyone who stayed in India at least for some time.

Back to Mavia Nagar I stopped by the newly open, but already hopeless I-Way Internet café (as the other one I normally use is closed on Tuesdays). Half of the brand new headphones do not work and my request to install skype makes five of baysabs in the café put their minds together and take up this challenge. I think they just like to do it for me and delete it every time to do it for me next time I come. This time the café is packed anyways. Klaus got lucky – he would not hear my complaints that tend to rock in the amount and complexity the later in the night it gets…

At home cleaning and laundry helped me to let my mind be and I hardly noticed I had any at that time ;o) Simply went to bed… and woke up with no burdening thoughts. In fact, self-cleaning function of my brain exists…

In the epicentre of life

2006-07-24T10:34:00.000+05:30

As talented as I can be I dropped my mobile in the toilet on the Aeroflot airplane. I did not even feel like landing not mentioning living this life any longer. What for, if you do not get a chance to receive all those welcome calls and messages from the friends who are so happy to receive you back in India?!

Yet, quite contrary to my thoughts, the life did not become less social. Mail, office phone and Kate around were just helpful in getting in touch with people. Otherwise some have been amazing reaching me in a number of ways that made me cry.

Even more astonishing, the latest weekend gloriously proved that even being out of touch you can still be in the epicentre of life. 4 terrific movies at the Osian’s Festival of Asian Cinema, two yummiest lunches at best joints with Piyali, hanging out in the environment of JNU and then DU, driving around North-West Delhi with a friend, mobile phone shopping, visiting a my first in India hypermarket from the backstage, and a tea with a friend’s family. Uf……. ;o)

Saturday night I dropped home in between of two arrangements. Some minutes of calm and peace were totally devoted to the indulging the quickly chopped fruit salad on my balcony and observing the packed neighbourhood of Malvia Nagar. The sky was full of small moving spots - kits sailed by the boys on the nearby roots. The houses got warm yellow and pink in colour surely anticipating the sunset. The doors and windows were kept open in a very laid-back manner that one can notice only in summer nights. People got on the balconies lazing themselves, chatting with the neighbours and just looking at the people and vehicles passing down on the street. Even when on your own in India you would never feel left out by the flow of life. Quite the opposite is the case, in fact – you feel exactly in its epicentre.

Kolkata: unsystemized impressions

2006-07-21T13:55:00.000+05:30

End of summer

2006-07-20T10:22:00.000+05:30

Tales about unbearable Indian summer are akin to those about severe Russian winter. Both sound ominously convincing and both prove to be a serious exaggeration. In fact, if you are to survive either you should simply come before it starts. You will obviously suffer the oppressive humidity of monsoon in India, its cold winter nights or burning summer heat with desert streets by day should you come right for that. Otherwise, however much horrified by the anticipation of the hard times you hardly notice when they come.

Hot summer so prematurely started in April seemed never-ending until one day I opened the tap and realized I cannot manage without a boiler any longer – the running water was unpleasantly cold. In principle, you continue sweating in monsoon – for a different reason, though – it is not hot, but very humid. So, you hardly notice how drastically the temperature fell down. And if not cold tap water – I would hardly realise the end of summer.

Monsoon as a daily challenge

2006-07-19T11:44:00.000+05:30

9:30. Not foreseeing any hurdle I left home. Rain started dripping bashfully.
9:45. Got in my first bus. Saw people outside opening their umbrellas
9:57 Walked to my second bus stand. Regretted about the minutes so untalentedly spent on drying my hair after washing this morning.
9:10 Did not notice how I walked my third bus stand as I was deeply in my thoughts about prospective umbrella shopping that night.
9:13 Realized my luck to be in a bus. It started pouring outside.
9:21 Got sweaty on the way, so decided for a second shower. Bravely got off under the pouring rain.
9:24 Realized I would love to run and play under a warm rain indeed. If only I had a chance to change later.
9:26 Reached office soaking wet. Greeting our secretary and gardener totally taken aback by my appearance.
9:28 Went to the toilet, closed it, undressed, washed the clothes to remove drops of mud,
squeezed water out of it, put the clothes on. Realized ironing in the morning was waste of time too. Looked in the mirror and found out I already look less miserable.
9:40 Went to see Piyali who said, “Uuuuuu…Sexy!” instead of “Hi”. Sanghita suggested next time it rains I wear white.
9:47 Switched on a ceiling fan to streamline the drying process and logged in my computer .
11:34 Realized I am totally dry. Why to worry about umbrella anyways?

Sleep-walker

2006-07-18T16:31:00.000+05:30

All of a sudden I freeze. I haven not realized what happened first – the monotonous humming of the ceiling fan was gone or the room got soaked in the darkness. I have got annoyed by the unexpected developments, rather then scary and finish my laundry first. After all, you do not need to see clothes to wash it. Sense of touch worked well. Once done I am groping for my way to the kitchen. My palms are feeling the shelves for a matchbox. It takes some moments of irritation to find one and light a candle carefully kept at hand by those who wisely anticipated the circumstances. The look on the door insensitively trembles when I open it – as if it does not know everyone in the house is asleep. I walk down the winding stairs with caution: the least I want is to blow out the candle with the air streams created by my sharp motions. The candle highlights the walls with peeled off pieces of plaster here and there which I took for lizards the night before when I climbed the steps in the dark. I reach the ground floor and get closer to the central panel where all the electricity switches are located. I open our box just to find out the expected – once again it is off. I put it on. It just goes off whenever the electricity load is too heavy. Yet, how can it be heavy at times and not heavy otherwise?! Very rhetorical question. I’d better wonder how many more times I’ll have to repeat this sleep-walker's feat tonight.

Loving Russia

2006-07-14T16:18:00.000+05:30

Summer is most definitely the best time of the year to visit Russia. Come in summer and you will fall in love with the wide avenues and long blocks of flats on both sides.

All those are proudly standing with the background made of endless pure light-blue sky decorated with fluffy as if carefully blenched clouds. This very image evokes the notion of people happily living in socialism in a single country (otdelno vzyatoi strane) as this is how Russian (at that time – Soviet) cities were planned.

Yet, pompous new residential buildings and construction sites of shopping malls

bring you home in realization that the country while carrying its inherited Soviet outfit cannot wait to dress up in a Western style, or, to be more precise, what is understands to be a Western style.

You will fall in love with the nature that comes in the mind-blowing variety. Enjoying the nature does not necessarily bring you outside the cities. At this time of the year fresh greenery invades even urban settlements and truly reins there.

Similarly, you do not need to travel far to find wide gracious rivers,

quiet and humble looking lakes, colorful meadows,

enormous green and golden fields with rows of birch trees along the highways, coniferous forests with bushes of wild raspberry and scarlet drops of wild strawberry.

Early mornings and late nights are best to enjoy the rich aromas and sounds of the fresh air filled in with the smell of mushrooms, berries and blossoming flowers, cries and songs of the forest birds and animals.

You will love Russian people and the way they enjoy summers. In fact, in summer people tend to have more spare time than usually: they sneak out the office a bit earlier to get to a beach, to join a group of friends for a summer ride, to go to their house in the countryside, to treat themselves to a pint of cold beer at an open-air café. Work is removed from the list of priorities for this period of time: everyone accepts the idea that nothing can really get done during summer months so why to bother….You feel a festival in the air!.. In Russia people celebrate summer with the every day of it. People take their cars, load those with food, family members and friends and go to the nature. In every city and town you can easily reach a decent forest and a river’s bank, which get densely packed these days. People swim and sunbath, they play badminton, beach volleyball and cards, they fish and cook the simplest, yet the yummiest I know fish soup on fire, they share huge meals with grilled marinaded meet, drink bear, wine and vodka, they sleep and lazy around.

Around those picnic/BBQ destinations you’ll see masses of bodies in bikinis: irrespective to the physical shape people get undressed wishing to feel closer to nature and get blessed by sun.

For longer outings people go to the countryside where many of Russians have small houses and kitchen gardens,

so to enjoy creamy fresh milk, next-to-orange egg yolks and therefore - excellent gradma's pies,

to relax in the calm and the silence of the village life, to live simple life with basic facilities, to inhale the fresh air where food shared outside tastes better,

wine and volka pour easier, and one gets either restless weeding the beds or lazing around and catching up with the so-hard-to-get-in-the-cities rest in the shades of branchy orchards and again – to undress, to sunbath, to swim!..

No doubt, you will go crazy about Russian girls.

Only those living in the countries with long winters can truly appreciate summer. Dreams of revealing their juicy amenities were cherished by the girls wrapped in fur coats and hats during never-ending cold months. So, now she wears a transparent blouse, or if not a transparent blouse, then a spaghetti top, and if not a spaghetti top, then a deep décolleté. And mini-skirts or tiny shorts, showing the fruits of hard work in a solarium or a first mover advantage of an early beach-goer. Open tops and mini-skirts are combined with high heels, bright make-up and romantic hairstyles, which creates a highly festive atmosphere on the streets. Did not long cold winters filled in with the anticipation buy the right to expose as much of their bodies as they can? At least, this is very appreciated by the sun that does not burn but tenderly petting bare skin and by men who cannot believe their luck these days?!

Come, come, come - Russia in summer is a best tourist package with “all inclusive” by nature!

Flying home

2006-06-30T15:53:00.000+05:30

The drive to Indira Ghandi International Airport was such as I could never picture it. I remember this thought on the back of my mind when Anya and Linda have left. I was convinced: I’d be so miserable when I take a plane home. If only I knew at that time how the misery feels like.

I recall different people taking plane home – all under different circumstances and with different feelings. I remember French Helene who caught hepatitis all of a sudden and was immediately sent home for the treatment and soonest recovery. I was wondering how it feels to leave one day without any chance to do more just because the circumstances say so. I remember Roel who got a chance to visit his family in Holland in the middle of his traineeship – his boss was taking him to the business trip in Europe. I envied this one so much for this free-of-charge opportunity to spend some time with his family and friends there, to see his country and its people - to breath in its air, to taste its food.

Strangely enough as it seems now, it was him, Roel, who the weekend before requested me to join him for souvenir shopping and this is how I myself actually got some gifts to bring home, otherwise I’ve been postponing getting those on the plea that my flight home is so far away.

The other day I was actually planning what to ship home on the first occasion and the latter turned to be the prospective visit of my sister in August. I actually organized my stuff in the closet accordingly.

…………………

That Thursday I was giving the final touch to the research proposal we were to submit on Monday when I got a call from mom. I did not pick it up as I did not want interruption at that point… Yet, she gave me one more call, one more and another one. I shivered, as I started realizing why she was calling. The realization made me want to postpone the talk as long as I could… I texted her requesting to get in touch later. With her reply the conversation became inevitable. She messaged back, “Ded umer” (Granddad has died)…Immediately taken over by the chaotic dance of thoughts and feelings I began to shake in voiceless sobbing, the one that makes you feel at the ultimate edge when you want to burst into particles as there is no way to stand the pain becoming physical any longer. Me not yet believing, being horrified to see my grieving relatives, yet definitely urged to be with them determined dynamics of the day. Finishing the proposal, arranging for the ticket, having numerous phone talks with friends and direct line with my sister, last minute gift shopping, packing, painful getting taxi, ultimate despair that at such a moment I am again on my own to handle the hurdles and the pain of the moment …. and eventually me sitting on the board of Aeroflot plane at 4.30 am, still not quite believing I’ll touch the ground of the motherland in some odd 7 hours.

Meeting women

2006-06-29T10:27:00.000+05:30

The other day when I was getting a next batch of admonitions regarding hanging out with bad guys from my friend Tenzin, a Buddhist monk. I replied laughing, “I just realized that your words had an impact: there are not only no bad guys around, there are none! Who would take care of me then?”

I am recalling my first months in India when I was blossoming in the loads of attention, my wishes anticipated and fulfilled in the form of coffee-sallies, night rides, crazy outings, ice-creams and dinners, and more… Yet, soon you realize the intentions of all those nice people go way further than those of friends. If one is to learn to say “No” India is the right country to practice. Being a nice girl, yet saying “No” to anything that does not make you feel comfortable is hard, but achievable.

Last night this and many other insights were shared over a cosy dinner at Lajpat. Markus and Roel were the only guys in the 11-people crowd and we, girls, just went on and on sharing our experience with Indian guys. I realized that being in a community of mature and self-confident women can be as rewarding as receiving fluttering attention from men. It is all about the balance.

Long-awaited monsoon comes!

2006-06-27T13:08:00.000+05:30

The weekend started in the anticipation of 50 C heat assured by the weather forecast. What proved true is that we sweated a lot. Not because of the heat, though. On Saturday the reddened pancake of the sun was licked off by sudden blasts. The relief was immediate, yet short-lived. The heat disseminated by the stolen sun was soon replaced by the humidity of the seemingly synthetic air. Sweating has become a part of being: you do not even need to move around or be exposed to the heat to start sweating – you just do irrespective.

Two sweaty days betokened the monsoon. The insights on what it takes to go through one started coming. Dry and frizzy hear, skin ever glittering with sweat – very sexy, yet so unpractical… Make up hardly makes any sense and dressing up is ruled out as an option.
Just last night I made this comment that monsoon is a perfect excuse to give up about your look ;o) And already today I had an opportunity to prove it.

I was waken up in the morning by the call from Janet. A glance at the watch brought it up as clear as a noon: overslept. Looking outside the window gave a certain clue on why. It was all dull grey as opposed to bright yellow as usual and it was raining cuts and dogs. Without thinking twice I put on my waterproof jacket, crappy pants, flip-flops, took a change and headed into the rain. In fact, the rain was not that heavy once I got outside, yet falling drops appeared to be juts a part (a very insignificant one) of the hurdle. The real trouble was caused by all those drops that had already fallen and now formed small lakes and rivers on the streets. The 5 minutes walk from my house to the market resulted in my pants being all soaking wet. Flip-flops are not the best shoes for river crossing really: with their help you virtually draw water and poor it on yourself. Yet, I was really happy to baptize my waterproof jacket here in India: once it is not that hot it’s a way more viable option than an umbrella.

The bus ride was fun - changing three busses, observing how people manage in different ways, breathing in all the freshness of the after-rain air, driving through the highways full of water and laughing at the splashes made by bus and sufficient to give a good shower to the careless pedestrians. Yet, I was so relived to reach office, change and indulge a cup of hot milk tea.

Weekends are made for shopping

2006-06-26T13:14:00.000+05:30

I love shopping. I derive my happiness through ay sort of it: window-shopping, shopping for presents, shopping with friends, shopping alone, last minute shopping, grocery shopping, clothes shopping, shopping when I do not need anything and shopping for highly-wanted items. Every shopping sally is a small-scale expedition to an unknown land with an unpredictable outcome. A challenge to your imagination, a chance to try out new roles. Simply a good way to spend your time – alone or with your friends. Here in India one more exciting dimension adds to the excitement of shopping – bargaining.

I felt sort of appreciated in my shopping passion when Roe asked me to join him for the presents shopping. This lucky one got a chance to combine use and pleasure, as we say in Russia: he is going on a business trip to Holland and would get some time to spend with his family. Therefore, a strong need for presents.

State Emporiums at CP and Janpath were as touritic as good. A huge rose-tree elephant was the major proud of Roel, yet my heart melted in front of funky colourful wooden statues from Orissa. Yet, it is so good to get stuff from local markets and shops that tourists would never bother to check out: so beloved Lajpat Nagar Market was the last destination of the day. Efficiency of Roel and him knowing what he wants coupled with my knowledge of the places and energy to meet clearly set shopping targets were extremely fruitful. 9-15 pm, market is getting closed; we are in a velo-rickshaw where we can hardly fit dozens of the bags full of goodies, driving home.

Demonstrating the purchases to the inhabitants of Lajpat Nagar trainee-house, having dinner and some drinks, watching DaVinci Code on DVD. It is interesting how my visits to Lajpat Nagar have become so ritualised and full of those little always-rewarding routines. Following one of those, next morning I got up and headed outside to get some fruits from the vendors who roam around the area at that hour. I really like Lajpat for this casual morning shopping you can do at once. Breakfast gets ready, people get awake and six of us are sharing a Sunday morning meal at the big table in the leaving room. The girls decided for shopping inspired by our last night experience and so we go to Sabhyata where we spend some hours selecting kurtas and picking up matching salwars and dupattas. Way home was not short either as we made it through the stalls of junk jewellery that one can hardly pass cool-heated. Once at home Roel is presenting his newly purchased business outfit, girls are trying the salwar suits they just bought…Shopping insanity is getting viral… me and Kate discussing how to put an end to this pleasant, yet very devastating for the pocket hobby of getting things… Sighing, complaining about the weak-will and greediness – and trying clothes, and discussing matches and getting inspired for more.

Qualitative and quantitative

2006-06-24T10:16:00.000+05:30

Last week at work was mainly devoted to learning about and making my own attempts to put sociologic observations, at times lengthy, at times contradicting themselves, and always – hopelessly qualitative, into econometric form, elegant and quantitative to the bone.

Apparently, the competency of the organization I am working for is a social research: social implications of the issue, stakeholders involved, their stands and interactions, – all interlinked and analyzed in an elaborate qualitative manner. I am not sure the agency that commissioned the study in question was aware of this (yet, the point was clearly made in the proposal we submitted). Yet, an interesting turn in the project occurred when after revising the 5th version of the questionnaires we got the methodological guidelines from the funding agency which basically questioned the whole approach to the study as discussed initially. They wanted us not simply to have it more quantitative, but in fact – have it according to an economic model we are supposed to derive from god-knows-there. I do not question the descriptive value of mathematic modeling in social processes, yet I question the whole approach when social scientists are expected to come up with a formula. Wrong place to inquire, is it not?

So, the whole mental capacity of the department (which just shrank twice last week with two people being on leave) was mobilized for the study of the existing models that might be relevant for the project in question. I spent a week on learning about various indices of economic and human development as well as gender empowerment. The major stand emerged. It is thrilling to think that the fruits of the complex development process can be captured by some sort of statistical indicators, weighted and represented as a number or as a rank in case of the cross-country comparison. Yet, when applying any sort of mathematic formula to describe social reality and making hundreds of assumptions to fit at times indescribable social phenomenon into a set of indices how socially valuable the outcome of the exercise can be. I’ve got two examples to illustrate the point.

Awkward example: In particular, my boss got to know about so called gender equilibrium model and downloaded respective readings. The article with a host of mathematical formulae had a very horrifying appearance and hardly invited to reading. I recalled similar animals I had to tame during my supply chain management course at NHH. At that time I learn that you can most probably grasp the essence of such an article from the abstract, or at worst from the introduction and conclusion of the same. Unless you are able to appreciate the mathematical effort of the authors, in which case you have to go through the whole piece… So, I applied the same wisdom to the article on gender equilibrium model. In fact, I invited Kate to share the pleasure of going through such a dignified distinctive piece of writing – together with her it was easier to face the experience. So, I started with the abstract….

We study a general equilibrium model with endogenous human capital formation in which ex ante identical groups may be treated asymmetrically in equilibrium. The interaction between an informational externality and general equilibrium effects creates incentives for groups to specialize.

Fairly impressed, I proceeded to the summary

The dominant group is better off in equilibria with discrimination, which we view as an appealing property since this can rationalize why active measures are taken to institutionalize discrimination.

So, essentially 30-page piece of pathetic writing and hard-core mathematical exercise established something that has been comprising common knowledge of social science for decades: gender discrimination persists as it is beneficial for the dominant (male) group of the society. I wonder why the authors so genuinely interested in the issue have never bother to check the immense treasuries of social science literature on the same, as becomes evident from their bibliography.

Elegant example: The other day I was going through a study by the Ministry of Economic Development in New Zealand, which was benchmarking economic development of the country against its counterparts in OECD. The comparison was made along with eights groups of indicators describing various components of economic progress. No weights were given to any of the parameters to arrive to any sort of ultimate ranking, yet a prudent analysis of each parameter and its component was done instead. I was amazed at times by the elegant solutions drawn to quantify some of the parameters. For example, level of development of financial market was described in terms of the volume of the stock market, size of the banking system and the dynamics of the interest rate; innovation and technology was assessed through a number of parameters including technology adoption, quantified as amount of broadband subscribers. I thought of it as a very nice (and justified) way to carry out a comprehensive analysis of at times very “soft” indicators and grasp the whole picture without simply assigning values to its various parts.

Dilemma of quantitative versus qualitative, economics versus social science is ever-persisting. By no means I wish to establish superiority of either, but rather to note that both are bounded to be used within their limits. So, assigning a numerical value to a social phenomena., while being a thrilling mental exercise, should be socially worthwhile. Yet, social scientists should not be scared by impressive mathematical formulas and abundance of numbers as they can read those capitalizing on their expertise. Moreover, exactly by the virtue of the limitations of both - quantitative and qualitative, economics and social science – they are doomed to interact and mutually enrich instead of keeping the respectful distance and giving arrogant looks to each other. The point was nicely illustrated at one occasion.

On Thursday I got to attend a seminar on Unorganized Sector in India. It was absolutely eye opening to observe a purely economic discussion – the realization came: I got quite unused to this sort of disputes. A bunch of labor economists were discussing the jobless growth and low labor elasticity to the growth of GDP in India, different yet converging situations in both organized and unorganized sector in terms of job insecurity. The language of statistics and the discussion on very much methodological issues made me realize my economic origins. Being a business student, yet sufficiently exposed to the economics in its various manifestations I am supposed to think and elaborate along with the similar lines. Yet, I do not… In course of the whole discussion I could not get rid of the idea that social dimension is outrageously missing in the dispute, yet I could not point out in what way. My hesitations were clarified by a professor from Department of Sociology, JNU, who chaired the session on the vulnerability of the workers in unorganized sector. He started with the confession that as a student of a social science he was initially afraid to miss out at the economic discussion. Yet, he had understood everything brought up so far and he said the in fact by applying the perspective of the social science one can deepen the present discussion. And then he said the words.. those I’ve been so desperately looking for but could not easily find by the virtue of me still being a novel in the area of social science. He pointed out that vulnerability had been discussed at the seminar as a somewhat personal characteristic. Yet, vulnerability is embedded in specific social identities one associates with. People are not vulnerable as individuals, but rather as part of social groups – e.g, ethnic minorities, scheduled cast, and women – which are prone to vulnerability. This is by looking at the power relations in the society one can understand why vulnerability is an inherent societal phenomenon maintained by the dominant group of the society. Despite the seemingly pathetic wording the implications are straight-forward: it is by understanding what pulls workers in unorganized labor one can address their vulnerability and eventually make a difference.

The other day I was explaining to Kate the concert that prof. Kaufman and myself are going to coin in the prospective article. The concept is a basic one, yet strangely absent in the management and psychological literature. Kate replied that for her as coming from social anthropology the concept is pretty straightforward. This is such a pitiful, yet typical pitfall of science when there is very little interaction between various subject domains and what has been established long time back in one just starts coming up in another. I feel very happy with the very thought that my economic and business education gets so enriched with the interest in physiology and sociology and interaction with people from the respective fields. Establishing interdisciplinary linkages, cross-checking the concepts and working out the vocabulary that could be shared by scholars from different domains – as an exciting arena. And I could not wished anything else, as anything else is already farsightedly included.

Professional milestone

2006-06-20T17:13:00.000+05:30

AIESEC in Delhi University (the organization that handles my traineeship on the part of India) has launched a PBOX (Project-Based-On-Exchange) for the development sector. The idea was to realize a number of development traineeships around the same time to make the trainees arrive almost simultaneously so that to facilitate their interaction within a small yet vibrant community. Basically, PBOX brings a number of trainees together to discuss the issues they work on at their NGOs and to exchange ideas – both formally (at the learning events) and informally (at various cultural sallies).

This Monday the first learning event of the development PBOX was combined with the meeting of AIESEC’s local committee. A director of ActionAid in India was invited to talk about the causes he is involved with. The other half of the event was given to Kate and myself to present s few issues that we work on at CSR. In fact, Kate, since joining CSR has been talking about gender sensitizing programs for youth enrolled in higher education institutions. As she rightly observed middle and upper class has been left out by any sort of the development initiatives on the plea that those have capacity to manage in life – being it educational, mental, or financial base. Yet, when it comes to such instances as violence against women, the statistic convincingly shows that the phenomenon cuts across all the social strata and neither level of education nor financial wealth alter the dominant views on the subordinate role of women in the society. Therefore, gender sensitization is essential for any social group. With these considerations in mind Kate has been talking to people, including AIESEC itself and people there suggested the first learning event of PBOX become a trial forum for her aspirations. She invited me to venture into that together.

We spent a weekend on the presentation. The powerpoint slides hardly took a couple of hours, whereas in-depth discussions on gender issues seasoned with juicy mangos in between were impossible to abstain from. Inspired by a blend of personal, academic and work-related interests, two girls, British and Russian ones, staying in India and working for a women’s NGO with the respective backgrounds of social anthropology and international business studies obviously had a lot to discuss and they did. Overarching patriarchal framework in India and globally; westernized lifestyles co-existing with patriarchy; participation of women in political decision making and economic arena; experience of female vs. male trainees in India; being a Western girl in India; being a woman in India; premarital sexual relations in various cultural contexts; arranged marriages; catcalls on the streets - whatever was learned before, experienced by far and worked on up till now. Any time span did not seem enough to cut the arguments short and to present the dry residuum of the discussion. Two rehearsals hardly helped – being as concise as we could (we figured out we just cannot) we still were not sufficiently brief.

At the learning event itself we got to know there was just half an hour at our disposal – implying we had to twice cut the presentation that, we thought, we had already cut to the bone. Yet, all of a sudden a wave of determination brought us to the microphone and made us start. Immediately we got into the flow and literally panted out the presentation. Finished exactly in half an hour. Got curious questions, involved comments and encouraging feedback from the AIESECers.

Yet, only on the way home I realized what happened… After a half a year in the development sector with CSR I got the first chance to present the issues I’ve been exposed to, was reading about, was writing on, got aware at the trainings, seminars, conferences, during the talks with colleagues. I got to present them independently – meaning with Kate, yet without careful supervision and censorship of the grands. I have just figured out actually, have figured out just now, that I am able to take a stand on the issues that I had a rough idea about just some tine back. Now I can talk about them confidently, develop arguments backed up with statistics, address and question audience. The participant observation I am running in India on day-to-day basis has been fruitful: major insights are rightly captured, it seems. An AIESEC girl when giving a feedback on the presentation pointed with agitation that the issues we touched upon are a part of everyday life of any Indian girl.

I would never think of a half an hour presentation to 25 students as an important milestone in my personal and professional development, but it turned out to be. What was meant as a message to other people appeared to be a message to myself: my passion for the subject has naturally developed into expertise which in turn brings nothing else but tremendous professional and not at least personal self-confidence.

World Cup fever

2006-06-20T10:50:00.000+05:30

Needless to say, trainee community goes crazy about WorldCup these days. Kate wrapped in a white flag with a red cross cheering the laid-back English team; Roel, all dressed in orange heading to the Dutch embassy to watch the match; Nicole saying “Worldcup is starting next week. I am so excited” when I meet her on the street and asked how she was doing; Karoline and Daniela carefully planning where to go every night to watch the match. And all of them…… asking if I want to join, if I saw the match last night, if I this and if I that….. And….. Whatever the questions are the answer is a ready-made one. No….I could not care less and however many times I tried (link to playing football and table), however many times people did their bit to accustom me to soccer, I still do not see anything but men kicking the ball on the field. How exciting can that be?.....

This was my small contribution to the overall excitement.

Yes, I am opportunistic: I would cheer any team that gives away such funky crowns ;o)

Insightful laundry

2006-06-18T10:38:00.000+05:30

A landmark of the weekend was the never-ending laundry. Washing my clothes appeared to be an extremely insightful activity. Only when I emptied the basket with the dirty clothes I realized how much stuff I’ve actually managed to amass during this short 5 months here. Hardly surprising the fact remains: kurtas coming in every pallet, color combination and form are so tempting and actually obtainable. And my sallies to Sarojini for the export rejected are direct treat to the trouble-free check in. People, come and help to ship the goodies! ;o)

Refreshing

2006-06-17T10:21:00.000+05:30

A short shower on Friday was followed by a very pleasant night when I hardly needed a fan. Cool water running from the tap in the morning gave a hope and the noon temperature performed up to the expectations: I was sitting at the living room of my host family with both doors leading to the terrace open and enjoying the view of the green shady park. Open doors in noon is an unspeakable luxury at this time of the year, so even more pleasant it was to indulge this unexpected escapade of the weather.

After the hectic morning devoted to laundry and cleaning I was heading to my host family for lunch. On the way I experienced my first road accident. As appeared those happen all of a sudden with you knowing only post-factum. So more shocking the thought is… The auto I was in stopped at some crossing and I was tossed little forward as usually happens when auto-wallas break all of a sudden, which they often do. Yet, I realized that the matter was more serious this time: that I heard and actually felt the crash from behind. The auto-walla stopped, stepped out of the vehicle and went to examine the back … I looked back and saw a car right behind us… A minor, but crash...

The lunch at the host family was as usual yummi, yet unusually spicy. I have not been to my host family’s for about 2 months and in course of that time have managed to get unused to the level of spiciness so typical for South-Indian food. After the lunch was chatting with Nivanthee, which is always easy-going and insightful. She’s got this amazing gift of explaining things as they generally are, without overwhelming you with her personal stand, yet definitely taking one.

Fulfilled with food and conversations I headed to Lajpat trainee house where I found Markus and Kate both affected by the cleaning syndrome, so typical of Saturday morning. The guys basically decided to use the unique situation at the house: as Corina and Thomas have just left and Sarah has just arrived, the opportunity to carry out the major clearance of the house naturally came. Lajpat has a reputation of an open-door house, so stuff, guests and tenants virtually appear and disappear without hosts knowing. In the very spirit of AIESEC who proclaims “It’s up to you!” Markus and Kate thought that all it takes is effort of some. So, these two spend the morning trashing everything that did not fit the suitcases of all those left and that was generously donated to the house. The effort made the place unrecognizably clean and spacious. We were sitting with the guys, and sipping creamy chai and I felt so grandmotherish when sharing my memories on how this house was when I moved in.

The whole afternoon was spent in an intense discussion between me and Kate preparing a presentation for a workshop on gender issues for AIESEC LC on Monday. In the evening when Roel and Sarah got back from work a consensus on going out emerged. Spontaneous is good, thought we. Yet, for me the dressing up part remained the most exciting of it. Me with the stuff all borrowed from Kate, Sarah and store-rooms of Lajpat – was captivated by the curiosity of a small girl delving into her mother’s closet. Hyatt Regent Hotel where we got later depressed us in many ways. Guys got upset with the top-heavy prices on beer. Girls were not pleased with the abundance of old Western men and young Indian ones with searching looks. Yet, I have to say that both Sarahs, Kate and Roel are the people which you can hand in to for a good spirit –fun was there. However, the place got shut down at 12-30 and the house party at Lajpat, initially suggested, appeared the viable option for the night to go on. I did not join … and as a revenge they went to see the sunrise at India gate without me second time. My revenge was the morning I had next day and they did not ;o)

Back to life

2006-06-12T13:18:00.000+05:30

Wishing no more than sleeping off the heat and waking up somewhere in October, I was so reluctant to leave out my soaked scarf and meet some people. Yet, once I did the surprises came.
On Sunday I was to meet with a girlfriend of a friend – the meet up was much anticipated by both of us for different reasons. On my part, I was happy to spend some time with Indian GIRLS as I hardly get a chance to. I should do it more often and then I would probably get a somewhat wider prospective on Indian people as such, put aside men-only perspective. In fact I have to rethink my exalted post on Indian males as friends .. It appears that once you are a guest in this country it would not be only men taking care of you. “Atithi Devo Bhava” cuts cross gender. Girls can be very protective and caring when it comes to taking you out, depending on the person, of course. In many instances, you’d feel small and … guarded. Taking care of your transportation, paying the bills, giving cautions in this and that and hardly letting you raise your finger is not a male prerogative here. See, these are not only Indian men can be terrific friends as I stated earlier. Indian women can be too… It’s just that for a foreign girl it is way easier to get to know the former than the latter.

Udita and her friend took me along for some shopping at GK-1, this upscale (or at times – simply overpriced) market. It is there my ideas of a traditional wearing of saree were challenged once I got exposed to the young girls' aspirations - open holt-blouses and fish petticoat. We roamed around masses of counterfeit Diesel pants and Morgan tops and piles of unbranded, yet at least H&M level priced stuff. This is what GK-1 is about. However skeptical I was about the place I had nice time shopping and dining with girls. Not everyone who loves GK-1 is pathetic after all, forget your stupid pre-conceptions…

The next day I got capable of my own shopping undertakings. The location was picked without any doubts: I go for Sarojini, Sarojini and Sarojini once more. Long live export-rejected clothes!!! Janet, my Korean-Canadian flatmate came along and again the occasion favored changing my views, or preconceptions that take over with such an ease. And after all I pride myself on being open-minded… imagine those who do not then.... This twenty-year-old girl who seemed totally outspaced during the first days actually found her way around. For instance, through the local church she got into Korean community now lending immense support to her. Having figured out that the NGO she is working for cannot offer her something rewarding, she immediately found the second one to volunteer for. Managing fairly well, to put it short.

The next batch of insights came during the shopping at Sarojini itself. As determined by the occasion I got into my fight-your-deal mood and the outcome was not in coming. For some 450 backs ($ 10) I got 3 beautiful skirts, 3 shirts and 2 tops, so did Janet. I realized there is a whole big difference for me between getting around with Indian people and being my own/with some trainees. It’s very often you would hear Indians saying that the safest way to avoid cheating and get good deals for foreigners is to stick with Indian friends. For me it does not work; moreover, it works quite the opposite. Whenever I am with Indian people who, as noted above, tend to be very protective, I feel very tourist, very helpless, clueless and taken care of – this would be hard to bargain for me to the full capacity just because my self-confidence just would not be there. And, according to my observations, Indian people may not go to extremes as far as the bargaining is concerned. Yet, once alone I feel I am out there on my own and unless I adopt kick-them-all attitude I am in trouble with impudent rikshaw-wallah, fruit vendors, traffic and… people on the streets….So, I do – kick them all on full power. The feeling even re-enforces once I am with other trainees as I feel the responsibility to take care of those and they all know as a tough bargainer….

Yet, after sufficient amount of kicks exercised it felt simply divine to relax at Mocha cafe and sip my cold freshly squeezed lemonade. That night I planed to meet with a few people and for one time sake I decided to bring them all together. Not really a fan of mixing friends I gave it a try. And whatever apprehensions I had everyone appeared to be very cool and people mixed well. Amit, a good friend of many trainees, a tall and good-looking guy, and a model on the top was flattered with he attention of four girls. Girls were curios how I got to meet this hot one ;o) But even more amusing it was to realizes that all the four girls were trainees for NGO – first time in India I got to be in an “NGO gang”. We were sharing experiences of taking busses, being hassled on the streets and working for a social cause. The girls came to India just some time back. I realized that meeting newcomers helps you revise your own experience and challenge the things you’ve already started taken for granted. It was so funny, to get questioned by Lynn, this very observant and equally good in wording her observations Malaysian girls who stays in the States. She was asking, “Do you guys say yes in Indian way?”... “Do you drink water without touching the neck of the bottle?” I had no option but to nod in a tilting motion from right to left This is how I express my agreement these days.

Indian summer: relapse

2006-06-11T13:06:00.000+05:30

The more hopes and aspirations you save for the weekend these days the more disappointing it would turn out. The recent disaster of May heat repeated itself in the guise of June heat, yet the essence changed very little. I woke up on Sunday around 9 am just to realize my room had been already well warmed up by the bastard- sun that wakes up well before me anyway. The ceiling fan in my room was still trying hard, as if we both did not know it was a Sisyphean toil: kicking hot air does not help – the air remains hot.
Yet, my stamina was sufficient for some food intake and even for reading a couple of texts that required a serious cognitive effort. However, by Sunday morning the solid part of my enthusiasm was gone and the energy left was hardly sufficient for the breakfast. After which I slept off… Trying to keep my time at least a bit useful and meaningful I wrapped myself in a soaking wet huge scarf and opened a book. Idly sliding on the pages I was huddling up as the feeling of the wet scarf spread out on my body was hardly comfortable; but soon I got annoyed as the scaft dried so quickly that I had to interrupt my reading and to soak the scarf in close-to-boiling tap water again and again. Yet, both the wet scarf as a manual fan, as referred by Janet, my flatmate, and the reading as the most active way to fill in my leisure time – were those two things I could afford for then…

Manali trip: Walk to Solang valley

2006-05-29T09:32:00.000+05:30

The initial plan was two-days trekking, but the hard reality came out shortly: three of us were not be able to afford the services of the qualified guides (1200-1500 Rs per day per person, with all the food, luggage and transportation – when applicable - arranged). So, we opted for simply doing a walk per day on our own. The major trek was that to Solang valley (14km): this one is recommended by Footprints and was offered by both guides we had a word with. Without any extra challenge for your stamina you can follow a well-developed trail that goes along the bank of Beas River and leads you through 3 villages: Goshal, Shanag and Buruwa.

The very beginning of the trek (Old Manali, right from Manulsu bridge) gives you a promising perspective on magnificent snow-covered peak, so seemingly close and so obviously remote.

By the steeps on the left you can study various rocks in their rich varieties and forms. On the right, across the river you get an overview of Vashish village. The trek is mostly flat and the sun is nicely warm, yet bright and we are not burdened with two-day provision as initially planed – what else to wish?

The first village comes soon and we climb down carefully stocked and covered with metal nets piles of stones and get right to a backyard of some house. The houses are built very close to each other and there is hardly any fences separating one from another. Mostly houses are two-storey and made of stone with wooden terrace encircling the building on the level of on the second floor.

It is very quiet around and you hardly notice any people outside. Whatever you see in the village is in the state of outstanding order and cleanness: being it a sleek cow, carefully stocked brushwood or contentiously groomed paths.

And the bushes of roses here and there just reinforce the feeling of the ultimate neat arrangement.

You get a feeling that things get done by invisible forces in this village. Unless you get quiet and watch. Then you notice women looking through wheat (picture by Roel)

Women weaving (picture by Roel)

Old women sitting and talking

It takes just a couple of minutes to cross the village and we find ourselves in a small wheat field, the smallest one ever seen by me, a Russian used to the views of endless fields of collective farms.

Further one we come across some women washing clothes in a stream (picture by Roel)

And a woman pasturing goats shows us a path through a swampy piece of land. Before we reach Shanag, the next village, we cross through numerous, but very small fields: potatoes, wheat, peas, again peas, potatoes wheat and peas again. The scarce land in the hills is carefully used for the essential food of the region – aloo, chapatti and dalh. There are many women working on the peas’ fields and while we stop for pictures they throw a couple of bean-pods for us with a laugh. That’s been a long time I haven’t had fresh green peas. After all, right before Shanag starts we come across a field with cannabis. Obviously, someone have to provide those down the hill in Manali. Believe or not, it was me pointing it out for Roel, assumingly a Dutch guy. We in Russia see in growing randomly as a weed on the streets, yet Dutch people are more familiar with its dry form.

In Shanag the major insight about the division of labor comes. After having seen armies of women working on the fields and weaving, the questions was hanging in the air. What about the men? Here we go: the men are found sitting altogether in some joint and peacefully talking. Very typical of a North-Indian village.

Shanag follows by a small bridge across the river and a very dramatic view over the mountains.

Once reached Buruwa, the last village in the program, the realization comes that village is not village. Isolated Goshal with its wooded houses hardly resembles well-connected, building up with fancy jeeps parked nearby Buruwa.

For little longer we follow dirt road until we reach a motorway. From that point we start wondering about further directions and the distance to Solang valley. During the two subsequent hours the answer we have been getting from any randomly picked up local “4 kilometers”. And when after a while we spotted the sign

We have got the point then: you do not ask about distance in this country. Similarly, as “5 minutes” comes as a standard reply to any questions regarding the time (How long does it take? When is Mr. A back?) “4 kilometers” works as a universal reply for any distance-related questions.

Little later we come across another road sign that explains a good deal of the national philosophy regarding the issue.

Yet, walking along the road has become an unforgettable experience as we really have grasped the essence of the place: snow shoes, fur coats and ski-kind of overalls are on offer for rent at the numerous joints along the way. And the newly opened for us view have suggested some clues on why.

As we are getting closer and closer the scenery becomes more and more spectacular. Slender trees aiming at the sky…. Free-standing and proud ones…. I have really got the meaning of the lines by Lermontov at that point. In the wild north a pine-tree stands lonely…….

Yet the destination appears to be more than disappointing. Overcrowded by Indian families, the area is really polluted due to immense presence of donkeys that carry people up the hill.

So to just discover an unspectacular open space (a valley?) where some funny people do what they call paragliding and the rest are socializing at one of a few plastic dhabas.

Seriously, if not a great walk, - NEVER!

On the way back to Manali we take bus (10 Rs) and find ourselves in may-voiced crowd of pupils (13-16 y.o.) from Gujrat coming back from a school trip. Roel gets immediately booked by the teen girls whereas I am getting boys’ attention. With laughter and jokes in the bus waddling on the meandering road within some 15-20 minutes we reach back.

Manali trip: accomodation

2006-05-28T15:30:00.000+05:30

The place we stayed at during these three blessed days in Manali deserves a hymn.

Charmed by the laziness of summer-resort-looking Old Manali; inspired by the rumbling, yet somehow pacifying river; inhaling fresh mountain-bread, richly warned up by the sun, but not boiling – air; fulfilled with a yummy brunch eaten at River Music café gorgeously located nearby the river (right next to Manulsu bridge)… we headed to find an accommodation. Invariably relying on Lonely Planet and Footprints we picked up a couple of names from the lowest price range – and armed with no expectations – walked to those. Despite the high season has started it did not take us long to find a free room. The one happened to be in Apple View, a small two-storey house located little up the hill and well hidden in the apple orchards.

The room appeared to be just perfect – fairly spacious with a 2-peson bed and a small appendix with another bed – which suited us, 2 girls and 1 guy traveling together. Yet, soon we realized that we have got way more than just a nice room.

Now and then those found accommodation in one of the 9 rooms at Apple View come out for a chat to engage in, for a book to read, for view to the mountain peaks in the distance to admire.

The two shady terraces and beautiful garden with apple trees and rose bushes make you forget any other destinations in town you have been planning to visit…

Pop in Apple View in the morning – and you would be charmed by the relaxed spirit the place is filled in with: a few guests are still indulging breakfast, a girl is taking pictures of the beautiful roses in the garden,

a lucky one is lying down in the hammock with a book,

the host and his family once having made sure all the guests are give food and directions for a new adventures day…are relaxing over a cup of tea and cookies…

The person who keeps the guesthouse is one of the most hospitable, yet, not intrusive hoteliers I saw in India. He is there for you to give a cup of hot chai before you go to bed, to serve you a freshly made pancakes and omelet for breakfast and to provide you with a very simple, yet tasty veg lunch – in both Indian (chapatti, dalh, rice, vegetables) and Western (pasta, soup) fashion. He is there to tell you about worthwhile places to go, best ways to get there, good prices to pay. Very humble, yet open and willing to meet people.

And, at last, one may wonder how on earth such a fairytale comes almost for free – in terms of both hassle and money. For the two comfortable nights along with two yummy breakfasts and one lunch each of us paid 300 Rs (6.5 USD). Highly recommend to all.

Manali – first impressions and the truth

2006-05-27T14:15:00.000+05:30

The bus brings you to the very heart of New Manali, or Model Town. The area around the government buss stand is stuffed with cafes and namkeen shops with appetizing samosas for 10 Rs and warm gulab jamun reveling in sweet syrup (20 Rs in the places facing the main road and 12 Rs in the places in the neighbor quiet street); with pretentious hotels and simple-minded guesthouses; with shops selling Kullu hats and Kullu shawls – echos of the very market that is located a bit further; with tourist agencies whose offers ranges from one day treks nearby Manali to three-week routs to Lekh; with walking to and fro vendors of basically useless, but nice things such a stapler sold under the name “Madam, look, sewing machine”; with huge and small private and public vehicles arriving and departing and competing for the space on the road; and with people – masses of people – selling, buying, coming, leaving, wandering, walking…

A brief consultation with Lonely Planet and Footprints beforehand gave us idea that by all the means we should get out of New Manali, this expensive, soul-less McDonalds-for-tourists. The guidebooks and the guts did not let us down: Old Manali we headed to right upon arrival (10 minutes by auto rickshaw, 30 Rs) appeared to be a piece of heaven.

Old Manali is located up the hill and also has a clearly touristic character. Yet, the sort of tourists is different there. New Manali appears as a destination for Indian families who get out of the heat for a weekend and therefore are really under time pressure to enjoy what the hills of Manali (altitude 1, 926 m) have got to offer. Yet, Old Manali is a definite destination for laid-back Westerns looking for the religious enlightment, mental balance, or thrill. Loose cotton clothes, shabby bags, wooden beads, dreads, a freshly rolled joint to share – this is how one identifies those in the search. Internet cafes, Tibetan eateries showing movies with Johnny Depp, tourist shops with Indian souvenirs and clothes – those are the places where much of the happening comes into life with the blessings of Bob Marley. And the very fact those places are mushrooming indicates that the locals know their customer. It is for the sake of her, for the customer, Old Manali appears as a place of budget quite and isolated bungalows and guesthouses where Westerners eagerly stay and easier find the divine so sought after. Rough, yet plunging you to peace Beas River also contributes to the very tranquil spirit of Old Manali.

One of the town’s landmarks is the Tibetan Quarter and Buddhist Monastery built by Tibetan refugees. Without extensive experience with Buddist temples I can still claim they are very inviting and not-obliging, to put it this way. One can just walk in and feel free to pray, bow (as traditional Buddhists do) or simply wander around. In the center of the temple one finds a statue of Buddha with half-shut eyes.

The paintings on the walls picture the motives similar to those of Christianity – crucifixion, fight between good and evil)…yet the impression this cartoon-style paintings (as opposed to naturalistic once in Christian churches) is so different.

Picture by Roel

The colorful attire of the temple makes it impossible to engage in any painful thoughts.

After all, I think of Buddism as a light-hearted religion of happiness. What else but that one can read from the smiles through the narrow lids of Tibetans.

Picture by Roel

There are a few villages nearby Manali very worth a visit. Dhungri village is famous for its 16-century Hindu temple (Hadimba Devi Temple) that resembles nothing but a typical Scandinavian stave kirke. Its decorations with horns of animals and wooden carvings of plants and animals just reinforce its Viking-style look.

The place is a major point for the pilgrimage of Indian families. This fact seems to be well commercialized by the entrepreneur-minded locals. Right beside the temple it one can take pictures on a yak, a typical inhabitant of hill stations (yak agrees to pose for 10 Rs). Tender-hearted grannies also come up with white and fluffy rabbits to supplement the picture.

The image of a guy proudly sitting on a yak is obviously a wanna-do thing that is much on demand. Yet, how cool is that to supplement the image with a tender rabbit in the masculine arms of the rider?!

I do not know why Roel zaprotestovat to the grannies with the rabbits….

Another village nearby Manali is Vashisht, a growing destination for budget tourists as you can see by the amount of the latter and the expanding infrastructure of the village.

Also, Vashish hosts hot springs of mysterious origin, serving as a magnet for those believing in the healing qualities of the springs or just willing to bath in hot water.

A beautiful waterfall is in the walking distance from Vashisht village: 40 minutes walk through the village, graceful coniferous forest and some climbing up the green grass covered hill at the end lead you to a very rewarding destination.