Chance

This country is starting to feel outrageously small. I thought it was home to 1/6th of the entire world.

Then how is it that I continually come across the same people and old friends?

Granted, most of us hop on trains and buses with the travel Bible in hand (Lonely Planet), and perhaps because of that we are making similar stops and taking similar routes, but the chances of repeated encounters still don't seem terribly high.

Like when I met a German man on a rocky bus ride from Udaipur to Jodhpur, then found him weeks later sitting next to me in one of McLeod Ganj's internet cafes.

Or sitting down for dinner in Jaipur, at a restaurant that made up in dosas what it lacked in promptness, next to a group of Dutch girls. Then, finding myself over a month later amongst new friends sipping Darjeeling tea over Darjeeling's hills at a table next to the same girls.

Or finding my Japanese friend, who I spent days and nights with in the mountains and deserts of Ladakh, only to hear her voice as I walked through the labyrinth that is Varanasi's streets where she sipped a lassi at one of Varanasi's famous lassi shops.

Or spending time with a lovely pair of Argentinian ladies on my first day of traveling the north, only to find them staying at the same hotel as me, in one of a million of Delhi's hotels, on my last day of traveling the North.

Or finding a familiar face from Dharamsala on the other end of the country in one of Cochin's restaurants, who then joined me for a morning of elephant bathing in Kodanad.

I sat at a Delhi chai stall on my last day in the north reflecting on the uncaniness of such run ins, only to have my train of thought interrupted by a Canadian friend that I haven't seen since I visited in Pune. Making me no longer upset about having to spend the night in Delhi, which I have before mentioned is not one of my favourite places, but happy for the coincidence.

And now as I have reached Munnar and spent almost an hour looking for a hotel with a vacant and affordable room, I found one that was very much under construction, but with decent rooms that sometimes have water.

For whatever reason, I decided to crack open the visitor's book in my room, which I never do, only to find it signed by all my Canadian friends who were living a few hours outside of Bombay.

One of my friends cleverly wrote his message in French saying that although the hotel manager was extremely kind, his kindness had perhaps extended too far to ladies who stayed there, and included a warning for single female travelers.

And when the hotel manager invited himself into my room, to sit on my bed, and repeatedly give me welcoming hugs (more than I would give to my own mother), I was thankful for the advice my friend managed to give from so far away.

Vitthal and his friend: Calcutta

Calcutta

Munnar's Embarassing Moment

I have the most humiliating predisposition to fainting, and usually at the most inopportune moments. It can be brought on by crowds, heat, fatigue, dehydration, or when I am completely thoughtless its because of all the above.

It has happened at concerts, on Cairo's streets, and in Canada Day's partying crowds amongst other unfortunate scene.

Drinking about 6 liters of water a day has probably been my saving grace up till now against the Indian climate. And although it briefly occurred to me this morning that it was a bad idea to have wandered out of the city without a water bottle in hand, I thought the 2 litres I had this morning would tie me over for a bit. Wrong.

It was highly recommended to me that I visit the tea museum before heading up to the tea plantations, so I made the stop. It was a terrific bore.

As soon as it started to get interesting with a talk from one of the factory workers, the dizziness came on. The giant metal tea leaf vats reached the length of the room, reaching up to our waist. The tourists were packed in in between and the smell of fresh tea leaves quickly transformed from pleasant to nauseating as it filled up the remaining gaps of the room. I focused on not vomiting on the tea.

This time sight was the first to go and as I felt around I tried to squeeze by the tourists next to me, who were obviously perturbed as I heard a faceless voice say, "You can't get out."

"I am very di--,"

I really don't think that I finished the sentence before waking up on the cement floor. My first thought was I cannot believe I just ruined that man's talk about tea, and the close second was I really wish they would stop throwing water in my face, but my body hadn't quite figured out how to use my mouth again.

Then, I heard the universal Indian remedy cried out from a pair of lungs: "Get chai!"

I was so emabarassed and felt terrible for being the cause of everyone being rushed out of that little tea factory. But this was slightly eased by the typical Indian hospitality of strangers who sat me by a window and served me water, chai, biscuts, and reassuring smiles.

I pulled my, now wet, hair out of my face and I thought there might be a fire in my brain.

The massive bump on my right temple told me that I must have smashed my head on one of those giant tea vats and because I blacked out before I fell I couldn't tell how hard I fell and was worried I may have gotten a concussion.

I vaguely remember walking back to my hotel, and couldn't believe I lost one of only a couple days I have in Munnar when I rolled over in bed and my ipod read 7:00 p.m. 

Varanasi

We sat at the top of the ghats having a calm conversation over the smell of burning bodies.

 I don't know if I could ever get used to it, but at Harishchandra Ghat it was Maru's job, and all the generations before him, to burn bodies.

We sat and watched the body burn.

This time it was Maru's grandson, perhaps two years younger than me, piling the wood onto the body of a woman wrapped in gold cloth. All the while, the men of the family sat to the right and would continue to watch for the three hours that it would take for her body to burn. Her son shaved his beard and head except for several strands at the crown to symbolize Hare Krishna. It was a part of the ritual.

I asked why none of the women in the family were present.

"Women cry too much. They're too emotional. This isn't a time to cry, because we believe in reincarnation.
Also because of the sati, but now of course its illegal."

The sati is an old tradition that required a woman to burn herself on a pyre at her husband's funeral. If she did not do it voluntarily, she was often pushed by her husband's family.

"Her hips will not burn, and a man's chest will not burn, so we will throw them into the Ganges for the fish to eat and that is the circle of life."

Her body was burning over the sandy section reserved for the middle class and to the left was the elevated, white, circular, stone reserved for the Brahmins.

"Some people don't need to be cremated because they are already pure: children, sadus (monks), pregnant woman, those who die from a snake bite (since snakes are a symbol for Shiva), and the leperous. They will be thrown into the Ganges attached to a heavy stone.

"We burn bodies all day, every day of the year. During the monsoon, the water rises too high, so we burn bodies in the temple," he pointed upwards, past about 30 meters of staircase.

Behind there I was told that there were hospices, where the old and sick, many of whom traveled hundreds of miles, waited to die in this holy city where Shiva laid his hands thousands of years ago.

It felt strange to sit in that area where death was so palpable, and a mere 50 feet away from where men and women bathed, washed their clothes, prayed, and drank the water that was home to so many bodies.

It was both beautiful and disarming, to be in a place where life and death were so inextricably intertwined.

This Is Not What Bridges Were Built For

He told me to walk like a penguin to the edge of the bridge, but with my ankles bound together and being weighed down by a sort of sand bag, it was a little harder than it looked. All of a sudden the rickety bridge felt like a wet, slippery, bad idea.

"Jump"

I got into the diving position as instructed and fell head first into the hot air of that Kathmandu afternoon. On both sides of the bridge were walls of trees sloping downwards to the rapids and massive boulders, with one in particular standing out. Painted by an unfortunate employee who must have balanced his way to the middle of the gushing river with a white paint bucket in hand, it read "Nepal Bungee".

I thought that if I opened my mouth my brain would slip out.

It was a 160m fall in less than 2 seconds, one of the world's highest jumps, and 100 meters higher than my last. As the rope streched out to its full length it sprung back only to send my flailing and spiraling back up. This is one of my favourite feelings.

As the jump began to lose its momentum, a long bamboo stick came into my preipharal vision. I continued to spiral, grabbed on, and was brought back down to earth, only to be sent on a 20 minute hike up hill, on jagged rocks, with a lingering head rush.

Once I got back up, I was awaited by employees busily trying to sell me videos, pictures, and tshirts, of a memory that was still fresh in my mind. I wasn't interested because it just seemed like more stuff to carry around, after I had made such an effort to lighten my pack, giving away all of my sweaters and shawls in apprehesion of the scorching south. And after even going to the lengths of ripping out the Varanasi section from the northern half of my crumbling Lonley Planet, since it is my last northern stop.

I had also just learned that in addition to the bungee, the resort provides the highest canyon swing in the world, and I learned what a canyon swing was.

Picture a bungee jump where the fall is horizontal rather than vertical with a 7 second free fall at 150 km/ hour. It was about the same price as the memorabilia, so the choice was clear. So after a sweaty walk back up to the bridge, I whipped out my credit card, which has become more and more irrelevant to any actual funds, and signed on for the canyon swing.

I had spent the morning and afternoon with other tourists interested in throwing themselves off a bridge. After signing a waiver that stated: "I understand that bungee jumping is nothing more than jumping off a bridge attached to an elastic. I also understand that we are in a remote area where there are very limited medical resources," we perhaps stupidly put our lives into the hands of strangers, who called us out one by one, and we became bound together by fear and excitement. They went in descending order of weight.

"64 kilograms"

"63..."

"62"

Her name was Louise and her face turned as red as her thick, bright, hair. She squeezed by everyone to the centre of that swaying bridge, where we were all packed together. I caught a glimpse of her right had as she raised it to slip by me: "62 B (bungee)"

The 20 or so of us stood around making conversation with new companions and silenty sympathizing with Louise who stood and shook at the edge of the bridge. After a couple of minutes, she backed up and slipped out of her harness. First bail.

"61" We look around at eachothers' hands in silence...

"60"

I double-checked my hand. Thought so. As I got my harness on, I wasn't uncomfortable about the jump so much as the man who wouldn't get his lense out of my face for the videos they wanted to sell us.

"Rudayana (I spelt my name for him 6 times, but he couldn't get it right) how do you feel jumping again?"

"More broke."

And as I grabbed onto the rope, my eyelids fluttered with the wind, the water rushed past, I could hear my own screams, their laughter, and I felt as light as my pockets.

Wildlife

"We call this the London Bridge, because we used English technology to build it," he made the joke with an expressionless face. I could tell he was joking when I looked down at my feet to see them standing on a few wood and bamboo logs, lined with bags of sand, and of course no hand rails.

I was in Chittwan, Nepal's oldest national park, with hopes of seeing crocodiles, the one-horned rhino, which is found only in India and Nepal, and like everyone else--I wanted more than anything to see a tiger, but was right to think it would never happen.

Unfortunately in trying to book a bus ticket to Chittwan, I got suckered into purchasing a tour package, and was told that there was no way of getting to Chittwan without the transportation provided by the package. Sounds unlikely, I know, but every agent stuck to that story, and I didn't want to ask my hotel manager about it, since with every conversation he would insist that I join him to a far away mountain lookout to watch the sunset and sunrise. I don't know how many combination of words I can use to explain that it is never going to happen.

I bought the package, also because it didn't sound half bad with activities including a jungle walk, canoeing, and an elephant safari, with a guide each day.

I had a guide for about two hours total over the period of three days.

"Canoeing" was misleading, as we sat on the river being paddled around by a local at the back of the boat, more in the style of a gondala. Complaints aside, we managed to see a few crocodiles at close distance and several gorgeous birds. One in particular looked oddly familiar, but I did not know where I could possibly have seen it.

"Do you know this bird?" my guide asked. "It's the Kingfisher."

A word I knew, but never associated with birds, but with friends who sat and laughed and drank away the stars late into the night. Kingfisher is India's biggest beer company.

After our short "canoe" ride," my guide and I set off for the jungle walk.

"This is fresh rhino print," he pointed at the round impression in the ground with the three points for toes.

I couldn't really say that I trusted my guide, as he didn't really appear to be a professional so much as a bored man barely out of his teens who recited a memorized script.

I looked for reassuring words: "I once heard that rhinos kill more people than any other animal."

He wasn't worried, and it was disconcerting when he pointed at his bamboo walking stick. Apparently my guide was properly armed to fight off  a rhino. Good. Great, really. I am so lucky.

He asks me what my favourite animal is, and in response to my answer he pauses and turns around. "But why? They are so dangerous. Just two weeks ago one of the villagers was killed by a wild elephant while she was picking grass."

Oh, good. I probably shouldn't worry about that either.

After about an hour and a half of canoeing and going on a jungle walk, he took me to the elephant breeding centre, where a baby elephant was born just a few days ago. It was pretty much as adorable as you would expect.

After our visit, which was finished by 9 a.m., since the program, for reasons beyond me, required me to wake up at dawn, my tour guide said we would return to the hotel for a rest. Was the morning really that straining?

Left to my own devices I wandered around the the village for a while, which was a refreshing shift from the city, and quite beautiful.

The afternoon held what I was most excited about going to Chittwan for: elephant safari. This entailed riding atop an elephant in search of animals, where we saw one horned rhinos, barking deer, peacocks, and monkeys.

The Most Memorable Hotel Yet

We met after two cities spat me out in a single morning and afternoon. My 6 am flight leaving Leh dragged me out of bed at 4:30, and an ice cold shower that I couldn't bring myself to take awaited me in that detatched bathroom whose concrete floor felt colder than Canadian mornings on my bare toes.

I piled on everything in my pack that wasn't a tank top or a t-shirt, and hopped into the taxi. The airport was the size of a resturaunt, but all that really mattered was that it had sufficient space for sleep as I kicked back after the announcement sounded that the flight was delayed.

It took only an hour in the sky to take me from that tiny Tibetan city with mud houses tucked away in the tranquil mountains, to Delhi's bustling bazaars, sweltering heat, and its insatiable appetite that will take every goddamn rupee you showed up with. As I was given the run around from tourist office to ticket booth, and was told I couldn't buy a ticket at such and such place because I wasn't an Indian, and I wasn't a tourist, and as the railway officers even began to scam me, I decided that Delhi seems to have more crooks per capita then any city I have ever been to in my life. I was furious and exhausted, and asked for a ticket that would go anywhere, and somehow it wasn't possible.

As a last resort I showed up to an airline agent office and asked to book a plane ticket for any city that would strike my interest and that would leave in the next few hours.
Calcutta it was.

A couple more hours in the sky, and an arduous 2 hour cab ride where the driver continued to pretend he was not lost. I fell asleep and dropped my cellphone on the pleather seat. The second Indian cell phone lost, the first was to Goa's midnight sands, or perhaps, by now, to the tide.

After two rainfalls in that same taxi, we finally reached your door. I use the term loosely. It was crammed and opened like a garage.

You seemed friendly enough, and other wanderers seemed to be enjoying your company--laughing over beers. I was sure you'd suit me for a couple of days. I didn't realize how unique your situation was, until I began to settle down for bed, on sheets that looked worn out enough that they may have come over with the British. Your air was filled with the laughter and buzzing of the seedy Stuart Lane, and you are no less seedy, with signs that request "no cocaine and no hiroine," and stories that rapidly passed from lips to ears about a murder that happened here just two months ago--already a legend.

I had to share my bed with Mr. Big, ironically named, one of many stray kittens from a hotel accross the street who were doing away with the problem. They were dirty, but I am glad you saved them.

Mr. Big, along with the draft of your windows, broken glass filled in with scraps of newspaper and old scarves, which brought in endless mosquitos, kept me up at night and left me staring at scrawled on walls left behind by tourists.

To shake off the sleep was your rusted shower. Two taps for ice cold.

Paragon Hotel, you are a shit hole, but for a couple of brilliant Calcutta days you were home.

Ladakh

Eyes closed: breathe breathe breathe. I try to forget the incessant beating in my head, the fact that after 8 years without a puffer I would kill a man for one, that my stomach is suddenly part of my esophagus, that I'm pretty close to sharing my two hour old breakfast with the mountains.

Car jerks back, makes one more climb, and I measure time by the Bollywood songs blasting on the stereo. Couple more tunes and the pressure starts to ease. We're finally descending the highest road in the world. My lungs feel familiar again. Step out the car, see the view, and think that was definitely worth the altitude sickness.

I almost glance around to look for the National Geographic photographer, because I have only seen such sights in print, and I imagine most people only get to see such views from their living room couches or their breakfast tables.

Oh look, some mountains. Pass the pepper.

Deep Breath--it's been a helluva year.

Learning About Tibet

Prayer flags catching the wind is the sound of McLeod Ganj.

I knew nothing--less than nothing about Tibet. So even just a week in McLeod Ganj, immersed in the culture of Tibetans,  forced to relocate by the danger that's swallowing their homes, was a real eye opener.

After making a new friend at the Dalai Lama's appearance at Tsuglagkhang temple, and chatting over lunch, I learned how criminally so many Tibetans have been treated. And that although the Tibetan community in McLeod Ganj is warm and ostensibly happy, its filled with homesickness and endless protest.


I asked my friend why his journey to Dharamsala (next town to McLeod Ganj) took so long, and before I finished posing the question, I realized the obvious answer.

"I came on foot."

Passed borders, military, and over the Himalayas that have claimed the limbs of so many Tibetans.

I casually asked him if he liked Dharamsala without first realizing that the question had far more nuances.

He quickly turned a sad, pensive face into a forced smile: "I have to."

What disturbs me most about the Chinese occupation of Tibet is not only the attempt to eradicate its people, but the complete destruction of its culture and religion. During the sieges of the 1950s, Chinese troops used holy Tibetan scriptures as shoe soles, and the present is no different as the Chinese military will continue to trample on Tibetan culture until it ceases to exist.

And if we allow it, are we not guilty bystanders?

Flying in Manali and Shimla's Fortunes

I heard that it had killed someone out here in Manali just a few years ago. That it became illegal shortly thereafter, but that the ban was lifted, and now pilots were apparently taking new precautions. I could see my mother shaking her head, and hear that ever familiar phrase from continents away:

"Rudayna, you're crazy."

I initially mistook the guy who was responsible for carrying the gear as we hiked up the mountain for the person who would be flying with me. He turned to me half dazed and asked, "do you have any marijuana?"

"If you're high, I will kill you."

We didn't talk much after that. We sat and waited for the winds for what seemed like forever and I hoped my Hindi speaking bus driver was waiting for me, because I couldn't understand what time he had asked me to return.

My flying partner patiently stood looking at the sky, while seemingly all the riders who had arrived after us were taking off. "Chello, chello!" I wasn't expecting more waiting after I got my helmet on and was all strapped in. It was getting unbareably anticlimactic.

"Wait," he said, "I want it to be safe for you." He stared at the gliders' chutes with such focus it was like he was guiding them with his eyes. Or, he was full of shit because that look was also reminiscent of one I wore all through high school math classes to coast by and pretend I understood slopes.

I was getting very impatient, and just moments after I complained the next pair to take off spent 2 seconds in the air before coming crashing down on the rocks. I hate when the world does that to me. Maybe that wasn't my high school math class expression. I was silent from then on.

He asked how much I weighed.

"I don't know. Maybe 130 pounds."

"In kilos?"

"Not sure. I guess that would be about 60."

"Nevermind, it doesn't really matter."

"Are you sure?!"

Helmet rolls down the mountain, my body is in an inescapable twist of cables, blood is caked on the mountain, and my face is so crushed it is just another boulder.

I'm snapped out of the image: "Chello," Ram finally yells. I am suppose to be running to propel the chute, but after three steps my feet can't reach the ground. Then, rock face, rock face, rock face, I cringe, and pretend I know how to steer, but I don't miss it before crushing my knee.

As we soared through the air, it took about 30 seconds to dawn on me that I didn't ask the most imporant question: How do we land?

"Just keep your legs up," he answered.

That didn't make much sense to me, so I decided to try running. But as we came closer to the ground, there wasn't time for anything at all, and with all of the speed of the wind at our backs, we came crashing down, and I broke Ram's fall. Maybe he asked for my weight to know if it could bare his.

"Yeah the wind is still no good," he said.


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From the gazebo by the hostel, I had a pretty good view of that city that was built into the mountains. The layers of the mountain, were like the layers of a cake---each with a different flavour. Below, I could see the trucks and cars circling their way up, and a few layers up, where I was, there were no cars allowed, and the city instilled strict bans on littering and public smoking. It seemed like an unbelievable Utopia in comparison to life just a few weeks before in Bombay, where it feels like you're constantly surrounded by a foot of garbage.

The houses were trickled up and down the mountain. Some looked pretty precarious, others were hugged by the hills, and some were so isolated and inaccessible they seemed like a bored architect's elaborate practical joke.

Like every quiet moment in India, it was quickly interrupted. This time, by an old man, who had a million things to tell me about life. Old people always have advice for you. I am not saying that you cannot learn from your elders because you certainly can, but to assume that with age comes wisdom without fail, is a fallacy. Some people seem as lost their first day as their 100 000th. And this man was sure that he knew everything that there is to life, and said "I know all of the secrets to happiness." He was handing out cliches as quickly and repeatedly as a man selling somosas on a mid-afternoon Bombay street corner. His name was Gajnesh--elephant of the rains. I wanted to tell him that the secret to my happiness was him leaving me the hell alone.

Though I will admit that he was right to suggest that I climb to Jakoo temple, Shimla's  highest point, early in the morning rather than in the middle of the afternnon, which is when I chose to go. Trailing behind me were two men about my age walking with more swagger than I thought a step could bare, but blasting Justin Beiber on their mobiles. It almost put as much extra speed in my step as the monkey who chased me with murder in his eyes.

I don't know if you could call him a palm reader, because he never looked at my hands.

"Your hands and feet are always cold. Your hemoglobin count is low, and so is your blood pressure."

What are you talking about?

"I just have really good insight on people. I teach people about life."

Well I recently went to the doctor and my blood pressure and hemoglobin count are fine. We're in the mountains, isn't everyone cold?

"You have two sisters and one brother."

Bang on. That's kind of scary.

"And in your parents' house, there is a guitar."

No.

"Are you sure?"

Quite.

"There was once a guitar."

Wrong again.

He paused, "but there is an instrument."

I have a keyboard.

"Yes! I thought so."

Impressive?

"I sense that you are impatient and lazy."

Harsh.

"You are very organized, and you have a great memory."

Double miss.

"You have difficulty saying what is on your mind, and you're much more analytical than emotional."

Massive third strike.

"When were you born?"

"March--"

"Yes, fish! I knew you were a pices."

It was like sitting before Jesus himself.

He began to show me postcards and letters people had sent him from all over the world, thanking him for his "guidance". It was strange the way he talked about cultures. He judged Germans by one German he met, and Americans by one America, etc.

He told me that he believes Westerners are arrogant and selfish. I asked him how he could talk about cultures he's never seen and countries he has never been to so confidently.

He asked me where I was from.

He then began to tell me all the names of the provinces, territories, and go through trivial encyclopedic facts.
He was mistaking memorization for knowledge, and I was extremely bored.

Far Cry From the Desert

Just as the brisk winds stole my sleep on the train, they kept me wide awake in the rickshaw and my thin scarf provided little comfort as we hobbled down the long streets from Chandigarh station. As I sipped my "Aeofina" bottle, I looked to my left and found the makeshift homes of garbage, wood planks, and clothing that are found on the outskirts of almost every city, but their dwellers' resourcefulness never fails to amaze me. The shops all looked alike for a while: white, one-story buildings with a sign that spanned the width and large, red, block letters. The first read "Liquor, wine, and beer," 50 feet later the next shop read the same, and the third shop read "Country Liquor, Wine, and Beer," and I wondered what the difference was.

We had yet to reach the central area of the city, but I could tell it would be a far cry from Rajasthan. Where the cities were built on top of deserts, where so many droughts could be found every year, where so many monsoons missed their mark, where farmers were forced into the city, where hands that were meant to toil the land tried to survive in a different world, but the gravel does not yield the fruits of the fields, and the same hands now reach out in poverty.

What I will remember most of Rajasthan is the beautiful works of silent hands.

I have spent hours in Jaipur's textile workshops, watching men patiently embroider wedding garments, and block printing, block printing, block printing textiles, so the colours seep in for life.

I have sat in Jaipur and Udaipur's jewellery workshops where owners proudly show me their designs or try to offer me yellow topaz for a killer price when it is nothing but citrine.

I visited painters' workshops of Jodhpur where paintings were stacked, covering every inch of the walls, piled in corners, building a maze for customer's feet, stacked under tables, and over tables, only leaving sufficient space for chai glasses.

I tried my hand at glass cutting in the workshops of Udaipur, attempting to perfectly cut pieces that would contribute to works of peacocks and flowers that mimicked works immortalized in the City Palace. With great determination my new friend aimed at becoming a "glass cutting dynamo." Though there was improvement, we had to agree that it was much harder than it looked. The men sat in a circle with great focus and cut quickly and effortlessly.

I was much less graceful as I focused on my diamond cutter and tried to find the balance between enough pressure and avoiding---"Shittt" glass shattered and the men smile, and patiently toss me another to try on. "The master glass cutter," as my friend aptly named him, shook his head at all of our pieces, too sharp, too small, cracked, and threw them in a pile. Too much pressure and I break the little glass table that I am carving on. I apologize profusely, beg to pay for it, and he laughs and tells me they can only be bought in Gujarat, and proceeds to carve on a rock. We bought them a box of sweets to say thanks, but my guilt did not subside.

---------

After waiting to check in to my hotel for 2 hours, being on a train for 19 hours, and being awake for a total of 30 hours, I learned that no hotels would accept me in Chandigarh because I had not registered when I came into the country. My understanding was that I only had to register if I was staying in the country 180 days+, but I'm here for 171 days or so.

The hotel manager would not budge after my pleading and my telling him that I have never had this problem and have stayed in countless hotels. He pointed behind him where he framed and hung a newspaper clipping about a hotel owner who failed to keep proper records and was arrested for it. It seemed excessive to frame it.

He told me I would not be able to find accommodations in the city without being registered and suggested that I go through the process at the tourism office:

"How long will it take?"

"A few hours."

"I'm over it. When is the next bus to Shimla?"

I decided to call the old man who kept me company on the train and rustled me out of my half sleep when we reached Chandigarh at 6 a.m. He invited me to have breakfast with his family, and I apologetically told him that I was in no shape to be company. If the sun isn't up, I shouldn't be either.

I called him and told him I was leaving the city and I think he thought I was a bit of a weirdo. I explained my situation and he offered I stay with him, but I told him I was set on going to Shimla. He asked me to come back to Chandigarh to stay with him and his family.

"From now on, I will think of you as my daughter and you should think of me as a father."

Kind old man, you don't even know my name.

Rajasthani Days and Nights

I spent the last couple of days in Pushkar with a couple of lovely Scots. The city is a labyrinth of bazaars, surrounding a serene and juxtaposing holy lake, with a ghat dedicated to Gandhi, Vishnu and other holy figures.

Here, we encountered the famous "pushy Pushkar priests," who claim that because they are Brahmins they can perform poojas and ask for a donation of whatever you like, but it actually turns out to be a hefty price. I thought we were in a holy place. I thought devotees and pilgrims sought to escape the materialism of daily life here--it is too bad that a few opportunists are misrepresenting the place to tourists who will walk away perhaps thinking that these are the priests of Hinduism.

Just outside of the lake, however, the bustling bazaar is home to numerous beautiful textiles and jewellery amongst other things. Unlike many other tourists I have met, I often quite enjoy bargaining. It sometimes feels like a game of chess, as you try to guess your opponent's next move, and maybe play a few tricks, such as pretending to walk out of the shop as though you are no longer interested.

You should continually smile, so as to not insult the shop owner, especially if you don't know a thing's worth and accidentally bid too low. You must be weary of being ripped off. And you should convincingly pretend that this thing that you want, whatever it is, is not something you are attached to, and is something you are sure you can find elsewhere. More often than not the owner's price is 2-3 times to what you should actually pay in the end.

Other times shopping is as random and unpredictable as throwing around a die:

"Ma'am, Rajasthan is famous for its textiles. I have many other qualities and colours that I would like to show you. Do you have any lovers?"

"Ummm...can we please stick to the pashminas?"

"Sorry, I just wanted to get to know you. I have that one in red too. So, do you want to marry a Canadian or an Indian man?"

Sir, I can assure you, I am only interested in your textiles.
---------

My days in Udaipur were filled with getting lost in the city's streets and random encounters and new friends--often the best parts of traveling.

Rajasthan is filled with ornate and stunning palaces, and while I do feel slightly ignorant to say it, they are starting to look the same to me. I'm not one to write off histories and lump them all together, but there can only be so much variation in a hall of weaponary, or the decked out bedroom of a long dead king.
As I was leaving Udaipur's city palace, I noticed my left sandal starting to lose its sole and took haven at the shoe fixing wala next to the palace. As I sat there, barefoot in the blazing sun a friend of the man restoring my sandals approached me offering chai.
I said thanks, but declined at the risk the chai would finish the job of melting me in that 40 degree heat. Without my sandals to walk away with, I was in Manoj's, as I later learned his name was, hands as he asked me the standard questions about where I am from and how I like Udaipur.

Manoj owns the stall next to the shoe wala, selling beautiful embroidered bags. He invited me to return in a couple of hours for a trip to Fateh Sagr, a popular hangout by the lake for locals, and a destination for tourists.

'Yeah, maybe,' I said, knowing that if I admitted that I did not want to join him he probably wouldn't let it go.

I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in on a service at the Jagdish Temple, a Vishnu temple, and wandering the bazaars. On my way back, my feet were guided by the shops that took my eyes' interest, and I may have gotten closer to the City Palace than I should have.

"Excuse me."

I heard of voice, but didn't see a recognizable face and assumed it was of another shop owner trying to get a tourist's attention.

 "Excuse me." Feet trailed behind me. It was Manoj.

Shit.

He asked me to take a seat by his stall while he packed up. He asked me about my family, and my thoughts on India while he told me his. He is a middle child, runs his stall on his own and is 22 years old. He was very kind, and it was quickly obvious that he wasn't pushy, creepy, and obnoxious like so many men who approached me and all other single, female travelers.

He was very eager to take me to the lake, and show me the beauty of a city that he took pride in. I knew the lake wasn't far and it took busy roads to get there, so we would never truly be alone. I figured what the hell, and hopped on the back of his motorcycle--which is quickly becoming one of my favourite ways to see the city.

The lake was only populated by locals by that time in the evening, which was a refreshing shift from the centre of the city where there were more tourists than locals. After grabbing a coffee on the road, we headed back to the city centre where we bumped into no other but the trusty shoe wala on his way home. He invited us over for dinner, and hoped on the motorbike--though his place was perhaps 500 meters away. There we sat in a single room, a modest household, amongst his mother, wife, sister-in-law, and his beautiful 15 month old son and three year old niece
.
As his wife went to grab something for dinner from the neighbour, amongst those tightly packed households, in what I am told by Manoj is a good neighbourhood and evenly populated by Muslims and Hindus who get along here harmoniously, word got out.
Suddenly the single room got a lot smaller, as nieces and cousins piled in curious about the foreign guest. They were sweet and friendly, but could not help giggling and whispering to each other as we dug into our masala rice.

I have noticed that, after being invited for meals in some of the most beautiful homes I have ever seen, to being fed meals in the heart of the slum, everyone in this country seems to serve a hell of a meal. The spices float in the air, and pump through their blood.

Jaipur, Someone Painted You Pink

"Do you like India?"
"love India"
"Then do me a favour?"
"What's that, Abdul?"
"Will you go to the Ganga?"
"Yes, in a few weeks."
"Drop your passport in the Ganga, and live in India."
I laughed. But I am starting to give it some thought.

---------------------------------------------------------

Abdul was driving me to Amber Fort, a palace that so many people from Jaipur have proudly told me holds Jaipur's beauty. He would stop every so often and turn around with a kind smile, "Can I tell you something?" Then, in his  broken English and endearing manner of pausing to search for the right words to tell me about the history that lay before us,  he tells me about the pink city. It dates back to the 18th century and was coloured pink by royalty to welcome English authorities. The names and dates slip through my fingers, I never had much of a hold on history.

On my first day in Jaipur it was also the first day of the Ganguar festival. Like so many festivals, it is celebrated nation wide, but most passionately in Jaipur. Camels, ox, and elephants are dressed, painted and ridden by men who were traditionally dressed and adorned. Thousands of people crowded around for the parade, and with moments before it began, I couldn't see a thing. I walked along the outside of the crowd searching for a crack. The crowds were stopped by a rope that provided a large space for the entrance around Tripolia Gate. I see a few French tourists standing amongst the Indian officers beyond the rope and think "Screw this," squeeze my way through and hop over.
Front and centre in front of the gate are men armed with video cameras, and DSLRs--clearly media.
Seeing my interest the French woman beside me warned me that I could not go over there, "Pour la television."
In my broken French, I immediately replied without thinking. "Oui, je suis avec la television."
As the parade started, I slipped  by the officers, and took my place amongst the press.  I still had my MiDDAy press card that I could perhaps whip out. Unfortunaltey it was a temporary card and while I looked groggy from the 18  hour train ride from Mumbai, I still couldn't  pull off being the 30 year old, strong jawed, cleanly shaven, Ankiet Chavan.
Starting the parade was a little man, drowning in his beard. Outrageously animated, he rode to the music on, I think a man pretending to be a pony, so decorated in richly coloured textiles, including a cover for his head,  that I could not be sure.
My face was plastered to my camera, and he took advantage of the opportunity.
With a part growl, part laugh, he came inches away from my face, and I jumped back and screamed. Thousands laughed at me.
Just another day in my life.

Left my laptop in Bombay, so unfortunately pictures will have to wait...

India Takes It

India took the cricket cup yesterday and you didn't have to be watching the match to know that. For the past couple of weeks, I have seen people dropping what they were doing on the streets to stand outside of various coffee shops and stores and watch the match. Out for a walk near my place,  I see 12 men standing outside of a closed hair salon. I don't have to get closer to know that the owner has left the television on.

This country is cricket crazy.

Yesterday the match was hours of tension. At Radio Club, we were all gathered around a large screen, and for a few hours I don't like Sri Lanka anymore. Since when do I care about watching sports? Maybe it was the DJ who inspired dancing at every goal. Maybe it was the fireworks in the background marking the 4 and 6 pointers towards the end of the game. Maybe it's the fact that I am truly feeling like I belong here.

[People love their fireworks and firecrackers out here. On my first night spent in India, the neighbours were celebrating a wedding, and firecrackers went all night. They sounded like gun shots. My roommate and I were freaking out. Dear God, please don't let me die my first night in India.]

The final few points came from an epic 6 pointer, and hundreds of bodies jumped out of their chairs. "This is a proud day, not only for the Indian team, but for all of India," said the British sports announcer at the match. Proud seems like an understatement. 

Passion and joy ran and drove through the streets: standing on motorcycles, through sun roofs and dangling out of passenger windows, with fists in the air, Indian flags on their backs and painted on their faces.

I get home near 1 a.m. I don't mind the extra 15 minutes it takes to flag down a cab. I quietly approach the gates to my building and the watchman steps out of the darkness. He doesn't speak English, and has barely said a word to me since I moved into the flat five weeks ago. He stops, has a beautiful smile on his face, and quietly says, "India."

Yes, India.

Pimp my Rick?

Rickshaws can be a metaphor for Mumbai. They're bumpy as hell, there is no seatbelt, the meters are outdated, but they are a lot more fun than other ways of traveling.

I definitely prefer it to being packed like sardines on the train (the train is of course much cheaper, and more practical for longer trips). Sometimes I meet really lovely people on the train, or at times, like yesterday, the ride is a little more uncomfortable. Standing, bodies pressed up against one another and all the smells that go along with that, I am close enough to see the lice (or something with life) in the woman's hair in front of me. I can't move away, but I crane my neck back hoping not to catch it (once again I look like the weirdo foreigner on the train).

Terrifying third grade flashbacks of Ms. Lee sending me home from school with lice are suddenly fresh in my mind. The hallways never seemed so big and intimidating.

Many of the men who operate rickshaws live in the slums, or ostensibly right in their rickshaws. On late nights walking home on Bandstand, I see rickshaws from the back that double as homes, feet dangling out of one end and a hand poking out the other side.

All the rickshaws have very differently decorated interiors, and I am not sure if they are purchased this way, or if they reflect the driver's personality--I hope it's the latter. Hoping in to a rick in Chembur I see the driver sitting on a a faux pink long hair cushion, and wonder if he has the sense of humour I imagine.

Without doors, ricks also present the prefect opportunity for street salesmen/women/children.
After giving shotty, simple directions in Hindi, my rickshaw driver looks back at me, suspicious:

"Bombay?"

"Nay, Canad--"

"CANADA!" Before I even got the word out there was a cute, boisterous little boy, with a huge smile, arms filled with fake flowers and and eyes filled with determination.

"Canada, yes Canada. Nice country. 40 rupees." He thrusts out his hand full of pretend flowers.

"Nay," I say. I smile because he is sweet and I feel bad, but he takes it as encouragement.

"Okay, Okay, 30 rupees," smile just as vibrant.

I say nothing.

"20 rupees.....okay, 10 rupees"'

Red light's green, and the rick starts to speed away.

Faux snake skin interior? I think so. This shot makes the rick seem a lot more spacious than it is.

Bejeweled pleather. Yesssss.

Life and Other Matters

You say I can take your photo and then you yell at me...CONFUSION

The waiting game

Oh hey little buddy

I don't know what you say, but you sure look pretty

Food on the Go--Literally

My foot was on fire from the exhaust. My thinning sandal provided little insulation, and the tops of my feet were being burned by the noon sun. I rode on the back of my friend's motorcycle to the train station to get back to Mumbai from Pune.

Just before we reach the train station we are stopped by an officer. My friend doesn't have the official papers to document the purchase of the motorbike and the officer says he must deliver a fine of 500 ruppees. This is how I discover that my Canadian friend has learned enough Marathi to get himself out of the situation. I catch a word here and there, and then they start throwing around numbers in Marathi. In a country where Corruption may as well have its own section in the newspaper, it becomes clear that they are negotiating a bribe. It happens on a daily basis.

I hear my Indian friends vent their frustration. When they are caught with pot, drinking on the street, or anything else, they know they are they are completely in the hands of the officers. Their price is the law.

There are a lot of smiles and handshakes, and they've settled on 150 ruppees. My friend knows that this is how things work and doesn't let it bother him, and I think the officers are happy to let him go, impressed with a white man's Marathi. I've heard that speaking Marathi rather than Hindi is the first step to winning over an officer.

I get to the train station and bolt to platform 6, learning that the train for Mumbai leaves in 15minutes. When I get on I find out that this train doesn't go to Mumbai, and the next train to Mumbai will arrive in three hours. Cringing at the idea of sitting at the station for that long, I decide to take this train, which will be a bit slower and will mean that I will have to transfer along the way. The train on the way back is considerably less crowded than on the way here, which is a relief.

On the way to Pune I traveled in a women's compartment that was packed to the brim. Four or five women sitting on a bench that was once upon a time designed for three. The remaining passengers lying down or sitting on the floor.

Many of the women begin to unload snacks. One of the looks at me and points, "Pune?". I nod.
She puts her hand to her mouth to ask why I wasn't eating. It's only a four hour train ride. I shake my head and smile to tell her that I am okay. She points to some of the food she has packed for herself, offering it to me. With Middle Eastern roots, I also come from a culture where feeding a person is a gesture to show that you care-it is a gesture of love.

I thank her, and say I am not hungry.

As soon as the train begins to slow down at the next stop, men begin to dart into the ladies' compartment with buckets, vats, and trays of food tied around their neck. They skillfully hop, step, and stretch over the ladies who are lying or sitting on the floor of the train--a maze to which their feet have grown accustomed.

One man walks outside of train, sure to visit every window:
"Varrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow. Varrrrrrrrra Pow."

He rolls his r's as he packs up two--kind of fried vegetarian burgers, but with that Indian kick that can never quite be mastered in the West. It's bread also looks like a burger bun, but it's a traditional Maharashtran bread called pow.

Recently, having breakfast at a friend's place her father offered me pow, which I have grown very used to. With a smile he said, "this is Pow, you would call this," his eyes widened "BR-EAD."

The man quickly packs up the two varapows in newspaper, and even more quickly drives his hand between the window bars.

Most street food is wrapped in paper, typically newspaper. Once when grabbing a bite, I saw someone next to me eating out of a document that read "CONFIDENTIAL" in bold letters. I couldn't help but smile. Just another testament to how nothing here is truly private.

The man passes the varapows to me, to pass on to others, while collecting his money--the window seat has never had such a down side. My nap was shattered by varapows.

As I was busy at my task another man sped by, "Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli. Idli." He called out in rapid succession, as he delivered these steamed rice patties with chutney.

A saleswoman could be heard on the other end of the compartment, "Paneeeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeer. Paneeeeeeeeer." She said it long and slow, with a nasal voice and completed the repertoire of sales at that stop.

All of them called out as though if these dishes had voices they would speak in their own peculiar way. If spices were personality, and character could be measured by the palette, I think there would need to be a million voices to speak Indian cuisine.

I quickly grew to love Indian food, but having spent many days at home, bucket at bedside, I have one question: Why can't Indian food love me?

Holi--Colours Still Stain the Streets

On Monday morning, the man who politely took my coffee order had finger nails stained with blue and orange.

"Is that everything, Ma'am?"

On the way over, I asked an older woman if I was correct in thinking that we were on Ambedkar Road (street signs are relatively rare). Yesterday's colours looked fresh in hair: pink and blue streaks. I looked down at my toes poking out of my sandals, and my nails were a stubborn red (even today). Luckily, I managed to get all the purple colour out of my teeth that day.

It was easy to see that morning who was celebrating Holi the day before. Also known as the festival of colour, Holi is the one day out of the year you can throw 'colour' (coloured powder or water), at your friends, and strangers and it will only lead to laughter.

I had been excited about this festival since before coming to India. Between breakfast and waiting for more friends to arrive, me and a couple of friends stood on the balcony, surveying the scene and attacking passerbys with colour. Once we started with the coloured water, many of them were inviting our attacks, jumping around below. The best was surprising the unexpecting, who were just strolling around. There is something hilarious about a serious, business looking type coloured like a fruit basket. Most entertaining was the stone faced watchman, who stood at the foot of the building, eyes watching out for tresspassers, from a face that was green and yellow.

Thinking I would have an upper hand, clearing the little ones by a couple of feet and longer legs, I didn't suspect how seriously they would prepare for the day. While my friends and I were throwing colour by hand, they were armed with water guns, linked to packs on their backs that seemingly had an endless supply.

When I first heard of Holi back home, I had read that it originated from a story about Lord Krishna. Krishna, it is said, had dark skin and was jealous of his lover, Radha's, light skin, so he decided to throw different colours at her.

Since, a friend of mine shared a story with me, which I have heard as a more common explanation, about a demon lord named  Hiranyakashyap. He demanded that everyone in his kingdom praise him, but to his surprise, his own son refused, and praised another god. Outraged, his father tried to kill him many times, but the son, Prahlad, was always saved by Lord Vishnu. Knowing that his daughter, Holika, had the power to enter fire unscathed, Hiranyakashyap told her to take Prahlad into her lap and into the fire. Prahlad continued to pray to the gods and was saved for his devotion; whereas, Holika did not know that she only had the power to enter a fire unscathed when she was by herself, and died.

Holi comes from the name Holika and is a celebration of good over evil. It is also a celebration of the victory of a devotee.

It's a really beautiful festival, and just another reason that I love India.

The Divide

In one of my photography classes a few months before leaving for India, we looked at a collection of photographs by Poulomi Basu (http://www.poulomibasu.com/boxers.html) of Muslim women training in boxing.

"Life, of course, must be difficult at times for a young, single, Muslim woman in India," my teacher said.

And though I will never face the struggles that many of these women do, I nervously smiled thinking that, to an extent, those are the shoes I will be putting myself in in the the coming months.

My religion hasn't come up many times here. Just the handful of times I have rejected a drink, or have been asked what my religion is. While I don't practice Islam as rigorously as I ought to, I always have and will recognize myself as being Muslim.

It has never made me feel like I belong to the same community as a handful of extremists who manipulate their religion to serve their own horrific ends. And while such negative perceptions seem to pervade the West more and more everyday, an age old conflict exists here between Muslims and Hindus.

Only on a few occasions have I seen its sentiments first hand. Once, talking to a lovely woman, that I have grown very fond of:

"You can never ever trust a Muslim," she said, as we sat on her couch.

Immediately, I responded, "Auntie (the respectful way to address an elder), I am Muslim."

"Not all fingers come from the same hand," she said. Then, it seemed like that was the end of the matter.

This morning, the maid pointed at the burning incense and an idol of Ganesha, asking me if I pray to him. I shook my head. She pointed at me, "Christian?"

"No, Muslim."

Her jaw dropped, she turned to the other maid and said something in Hindi. Then, the kitchen fell silent. Moments passed, and then we were back to laughing and playing with the baby.

In expressing to another friend that I am Muslim, after hearing his criticisms, he said his issue was only with Indian Muslims.

Had I heard such comments second hand, I may have felt victim. But, speaking to these friends first hand, I know that they are wonderful people. I have trouble, of course, reconciling such statements with that. I know that any such prejudice and generalizations are wrong, so I can say "you're wrong." Then what? I can't pretend to understand the circumstances they were raised in, the prejudice they may have faced, or the beliefs that have been passed down to them.

I will not suggest that this is a one-sided conflict. I expect many Muslims reciprocate with a distaste for Hindus, but I can only speak for what I have seen and know.

It's dangerous perhaps to touch on a conflict so vast through only a couple of instances, but once again, I can only speak of what I know. I record this not out of anger, but simply as all of my other posts: as a new experience that I will try to better understand through reflection.

My Hair

My hair has become something of an icebreaker. I have dark brown, ridiculously curly hair and in a country where the majority of women have gorgeous, jet black, straight hair, I often get comments or pointed at. Like today on the train, two women were pointing at me and whispering amongst themselves. 

One pipes up a little louder, "Is your hair natural?"

Suddenly they're asking me what I am doing in Mumbai, where I live, where I am from, and we're exchange names.

In another instance my hair played the role of bargaining chip. The kids, my students, were pleading with me, "Didi, please let me touch your hair."

"No, focus on your homework."

"After my homework can I touch your hair?"

"Uhh...sure." (You adorable weirdo)

And pens started blazing across pages.
"It's like magi," says one.

At the time, I had no idea what that meant, but after being called magi at college, and by a child while I was volunteering in the slum, I learned that magi is a dish of curly noodles.

I've heard it's pretty cheap and not very good, so hopefully the curls are all that we have in common.

Reality

Poverty, like in so many countries, is extremely palpable here. In the middle of the night, there are families lining the streets. Children and parents work doing whatever they can—selling freezer bags on the train or maybe flowers on the street. When I struggle with money it’s the choice between buying new clothes and saving up for the text books I need the next semester. I know I am lucky, but I suddenly feel spoiled.

In Mumbai I am most often approached by children for money, but I am always reluctant to give it.  I do not know where it will go, and I doubt whether they return home to their parents or if someone else is sending them out to panhandle.

This morning I was sitting on a patio, with a latte and a muffin, and the same little girl who followed me here is standing on the sidewalk bringing her hand to her mouth to show that she is hungry. I invite her on to the patio to have my muffin and suddenly all hell breaks loose.

“Ma’am this is not allowed” the barista says firmly.

“Why not, she’s having a muffin, and it is being paid for, doesn’t that make her a customer?”

“No Ma’am. This is not allowed. I will have to give her a paper plate.”

I understand that panhandlers may be a nuisance for business owners, but as far as I am concerned this is utter bullshit. The patio is practically empty, and the only other people present are a few businessmen who smile and wave at the little girl.

“I’ll pay for your stupid plate if she breaks it!”

He walks away, entirely annoyed. She eats the muffin in record time. Wiping up the plate and polishing off every crumb. She turns to me and says something in Hindi. I smile.

“Nay Hindi”

“Didi, thank you so much, before I was very hungry”

Every time I have given a child something they have never said anything, but have run off. The fact that she thanked me only made me feel guilty. How can I tell her that I did nothing, that the muffin cost me $1 CDN, and I didn’t even initially buy it for her? It meant food in her stomach and an easier morning, and to me it was only 40 rupees that I may not have noticed missing from my wallet.

I realize, of course, that I cannot feed a whole city’s hungry children, and have learned that when you feed one child, you are approached by ten others. (I have before left a fruit stand with a bunch of 6 bananas and returned home with none).

So listen, little one, I barely did anything for you. I hope someone who cares about you is keeping an eye on you.

Maids and Manners

One thing I will never get used to with living in many Eastern countries is how normal it is for everyone to have a maid.

I remember being in Cairo and in following my 10 year habit of struggling out of bed and into the shower, I would return to a room that was ostensibly never slept in. Half dazed from lingering sleep, I managed to feel caught off guard every morning. The novels that I would fall asleep in every night would be closed, and my page lost. I think I have read half of the pages of Anna Karenina twice.

I always felt guilty having someone clean up after me. Especially making my bed-- a habit that I never got into. [What is the point of losing moments of sleep to tidy something that will be in a mess again within 30 seconds of the next time you see it?]
Every morning when I leave my flat I am to give my key to my landlord’s maid, so that she can clean while I am out. I used to not bother, but the maids kept asking me about it. With language barriers I couldn’t explain that my place doesn’t get very messy, and I don’t mind cleaning it up. Perhaps this would be strange even if I could explain it in Hindi. Even those who are relatively poor have maids.

I have been told quite often that there is a job for everything here. I was at a friend’s place last night and at 10 p.m. a man rang the door bell to deliver freshly ironed clothes. Another time when I went over to a friend’s place to meet him, he told me the place was a mess because it was getting painted. It felt natural to me to offer to help.

“Sweetheart, you’re in India. Someone else is going to do it.”

In the morning when I am to drop off the key to my flat, the maids give me a cup of hot chai to chase that same lingering sleep away. If they’re not to busy, I like to try to get to know them, and play with Arnov—the cutest baby in the world.

We stand around the kitchen and a five minute conversation takes us an hour of miming, laughter and confusion.

“You married?”

“No”

“Why no? You want [points at baby]?

I laugh and get awkward.

The other maid mimes that she wants me to have a baby, so that she can come with me to Canada and be the nanny. She is an adorable, vivacious, little woman, and I almost consider it.

After much struggling, the maid who speaks a few words of English, Letha, tells me that the other maid, Sundeja, has two sons and no husband.

“No papa. Drama.”

Sundeja was clearly a little uncomfortable, and I could sympathize. With effort, I explain to her that I don’t have a father either, and know how it must be for her sons. I received the strangest response of my life to someone finding out that I don’t have a father.

“You no papa!” she beamed, excited for something that we had in common. I laughed.

They tell me, miming and laughing, that they will teach me how to cook, but they probably do not know that I will hold them to it.Hopefully I don’t return to Canada being as useless in the kitchen as when I left.

Temples

I don’t really know what to say when people ask me what I am doing in Mumbai. Am I a tourist? Am I a resident? Yes, I came as an exchange student, but classes have been out for over a month, and I’m still in this sublime world. I work, I have an apartment, I travel without a map. Can this small city girl call herself a resident of Mumbai?

No, I don’t have any papers that will attest to such residency, and yes I did have a return ticket when I landed here. So, I will leave the question unanswered, and today play ‘tourist’.

I haven’t done or photographed many touristy things. I love to visit temples, but there are no photos allowed—understandably. I started yesterday with a visit to the Hare Krishna Hare Rama temple in Juhu. Once I arrived, I learned the temple didn’t open for another two hours, so I wandered down to Juhu Beach for a little walk. Once defeated by the Indian sun, I found a restaurant next door to the temple. It was very busy, there was a waiting room, and people signed their names down and waited for a table. A lover of afternoon naps, I immediately noticed how comfortable the waiting room was, and with no intention of eating, signed my name down and claimed a comfy chair.
I wake up and its 3:45 p.m. The lights are off, and it is 15 minutes till temple opening (thanks internal clock!). I walked over to the temple, and asked a security guard if I could take a photograph. He asked a couple of his colleagues, then invited me to take the shot. Crouched on the pavement with camera in hand the same colleagues started yelling at me. Naturally, I pointed to the man who said I could take a photo and they started yelling at him. I slowly backed away from the loud Hindi whirlwind.

At 3:58, I am yelled at for approaching the tall black doors, which are ornate with gold, and strikingly contrast with the immaculate white of the rest of the building. At 4:00 we begin to trickle in. The interior is stunning, and roofless towards the back where a tree sprouts through.

The seminar begins with a monk who chants prayers and repeatedly invites the crowd to raise their arms and chant “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna”. He then poses a question, and everyone raises their hand.

An American man behind me asks, “What are they saying?”

The two Indian girls giggle, bring their focus back to the monk, and I too am reminded that I am an outsider. Behind the monk the wall is divided into three sections, draped by a bright orange curtains. Part way through the ceremony they pull away, and idols are present in each section. Presumably the idols are Krishna (where is Professor Salmond when you need him?).

Monks stand before the idols waving incense, presenting flowers, and commit other oblations in unison. Devotees begin to walk around the temple, and many take pause to lie face down on the ground--the kind of humility that is universal in religion. The walls are decorated with dioramas illustrating Krishna performing miracles in his many avatars.

Later in the day, I attended the Mumbadevi Temple, which along with the Hare Krishna Hare Rama temple is one of the most famous in the city. It is far smaller, and downtown, but the seminar is also beautiful. As it is in Crawford market, an area that sells everything and anything, the atmosphere upon exiting is less serene. Before I can say anything a man is saying a prayer, tying a string around my wrist and adorning my forehead with a bindi.

“200 rupees: I am a Brahmin”

Later, I had dinner with some friend’s on Marine Drive, where I found out that a few of them belong to the Hare Krishna Hare Rama temple, and invited me to various fairs and festivals. Excited! 

Refreshments on Juhu Beach

Colourful Corner of Crawford Market

Only picture I got of Hare Krishna Temple

The Queen's Necklace (Marine Drive)

Life on the Queen's Necklace