Monday Wins and Losses

Today is monday: loss

win: productive day at work today

win: non-disastrous haircut and the cleanest hair I've had in months

loss: said clean hair made it only 10 paces out of the salon and into the humidity

loss: managed to step in gum in such a way that it was somehow adhered to the inside of my sandal, under my heel, double loss: not even among the top 100 grosses things that have happened to me in Delhi

loss: realized I have forgotten how to spell sandal while texting the news to Anika (chapal zindabad!)

win: bizarrely clean heel when I got home

loss: got splashed with puddle water, read: raw sewage

loss: while lost in thought, planning this blog post, got spooked by teenaged boys

win: spooked same teenage boys by thinking their joke was way funnier than they did and proceeding to hysterically cackle in the street, I mean, they really got me good

win/loss: peanut butter for dinner

I admit it

So here in Delhi, and I'm going to go ahead and unflinchingly extend this generalization to all of India, there are some pretty fabulous sartorial choices, some hilariously heinous ones, and also some that are down right outdated. For example, the metro is usually filled with a rainbow of colors and enough patterns to make your head spin (or induce flashback hallucinations, really it's no wonder so many people vomit in the metro).

There is certainly an art to pairing Indian clothes. Matching is ideal, the idea of things "going" together is not a universally recognized concept, and no black and brown do not go together, yes your bag and shoes do have to match, and yes, three or more people at your office will tell you within 30 minutes of entering if you have done anything wrong. Even if you thought you were pretty stylin, and feeling kind of sassy that day. You will be knocked down some pegs, be warned.

For the most part I stay true to myself. I take considerate advantage of the new incorporation of legging into the "Indian clothes" category (as opposed to "Western clothes", by the way). However, in much the same way that I enjoy certain things that I am not allowed to do at home for example, eat with my hands, be visibly sweaty, take my shoes off in nice places, and push, I do admit to breaking certain rules. I wear pants under dresses: usually my baggy Indian ones. This is something that Anika does and it looks good, this is something I do, and I look like I forgot to shave my legs, which is usually true. Also, my legs rarely see the light of day, so I worry for the safety of people's retinas when I take them out to play.

The next thing I'll admit to is something that I am actually sort of embarrassed about. I have succumbed to one of the larger trends of the late 90s early 00s, a trend that is only eclipsed by the scrunchy in its uncoolness, the claw clip. Everyone wears them here and there's a reason. It's hot! They don't pull all your hair out! (hairfall is an epidemic in Delhi). It doesn't mess up your hair if you just want to put it up for a second, or keep the front from plastering to your face. That's my justification and I'm sticking to it. To be fair, I resisted for the better part of 5 months, and the hottest months as well. That has to count for something.

And the last thing I'll add: you know that feeling when you get up and all you want to do is put on something cosy, or stay in your pj's and the thought of tights or jeans makes you want to just kiel over (Dad, you know what I'm talking about, sometimes tights just don't cut it!). Well I basically just get to feel like I'm wearing PJs to work most days, so that makes most of the other rules worth following.

Love,
Violet

Je m'amuse my muse: The Metro

So what could bring me back from the proverbial dead to blog another day? Of course a highly amusing, uncomfortable metro ride! I mean, the metro really is a capsule of this city, especially the part of the city that I engage with. Here you can test out all your psychological theories about Dilliwalas (or Delhi-ites for my international readers).

Today on my way to work, I was truly punished for being early. You know when you say that you were packed like sardines, into a car, into an elevator. You. have. no. idea. In fact, I want you to think of me every time you use that phrase and laugh to yourself at how you are exaggerating. You know, the way all you people in the states do when someone says it's hot. Somewhere in your mind a cartoon version of me pops up, with a pool of sweat around her, you sigh and think "ok, it could be worse".

That's how bad this was. I honestly don't even think sardines have it this bad. I was wedged in among the women in the ladies car, with my backpack suspended about 10 inches away from me, lovingly cradled between the smalls of two women's backs, one chatting on the phone and the other audibly sighing and visibly sweating. That's the other thing! The body heat! Development is super into innovation these days. I want to propose some device that can generate electricity from the body heat trapped in these cars. I can't even really claim to experience the worst of it, since I have a full foot of head clearance at the top, but I could feel people radiating from the six or so points of contact I had. 

I want to write something romantic about the small of the women's back that I was permanently pressed against, since I could geometrically map it out and even sculpt it based on how intimately I got to know it over the course of our twenty hot, sweaty minutes together. I'm sure the other girl felt the same way about 60% of the surface area of my body. 

Despite the frustrations about everything when you are packed in so tightly, there are two really fun things that can result from this critical density. 1: eventually you can really just relax and let everyone support you, like a jellyfish, ebbing and flowing with the aanewala/jaanewala. 2: you can understand molecules. You know that lesson in chemistry when your teacher tells you everything is made out of particles bouncing against one another, and the difference between air and the chair you are sitting on  is how close together the little blips are packed. My mind was blown, and I just couldn't believe it. Actually and seriously, until today I had no practical understanding of this fact. I get it now. 

And the difference between when the doors are open and when they are closed? Liquid and solid:

Missed me?

Love, 

Violet

A bloglet

So, even though I haven't had time to post in a while, I have been keeping a list with all the little things I want to write about. One of them is a little thing that makes me giggle. In Delhi, there are a lot of Sikh's who keep their hair. As most you probably know, this means that they wear turbans. There is an extra accessory that they have in Delhi though, with I can only think to refer to as a beard cosy. Anyone who has contended with the elements in Delhi with long hair, can understand why it makes sense to cover it in transit. 

There are a multitude of different modes of transit, and each comes with its own very particular  set of dangers in terms of arriving at your destination intact. Motorbikes/scooters can be the bomb, your hair rippling in the wind, feeling the air rush into your face, simulating decent weather. But really, you are just acting as a giant net, with your hair lovingly filtering the air for the lucky person breathing behind you. Not only does this mode of travel result in a hair nest that someone in Delhi could and would make it home in and that is impossible to politely fix, it is also adorned with dust, bugs, all kinds of pollution, and tiny samples of each smell pocket you passed through. Metros are not without woe. I won't go into graphic detail, but yes, I have been puked on, in the morning, on the way to work. Autos have similar issues as motorbikes, with the added bonus of street children's tugging hands, and collateral splatter from auto-drivers spitting paan. And walking? Just add it all together, and splash some mud around your ankles. 

Now that you understand the dangers, you can see why there are many different styles of these cosies. A very common one is a strip of cloth that covers the beard and is tied in a knot on top of their heads. Having my brain, I don't register the many men for what they are, normal guys commuting to work, and trying to look presentable when they get there. I mean, obviously I know that's what's going on. But in my mind, I like to pretend that there are handfuls of guys walking around, scootering to work and riding the metro with comically old fashioned tooth aches. 

Love,

Violet

Mental collections

So one thing I have a habit of doing in India is keep mental collections of certain kinds of things. Sometimes they become a material collection: like my photos of funny sign names, a la Engrish. One collection that's in my head but certainly alive and well is of "american" things that Indians love and I have never heard of. Yesterday I encountered completely foreign beast dressed up in an American outfit: domino's pizza with boiled corn on top. Surprisingly delicious, like really good. Add some cayenne and salt and it would be love, cheesy cheesy love. The whole phenomenon of boiled corn here is something that I love. At movie theaters or malls you can get "American corn", which is corn off the cob, usually in a little cup. My favorite thing about that is the contrast to pop corn, which is clearly not American

Love,
Violet (who's as American as American corn)

Cheesecake

See that purple thing? Next to the tart with three balls on it? That's cheesecake in India. Now, not only do I love cheesecake, when I want cheesecake, nothing else will do. This is particularly distressing because here when you order said item from a menu, something is delivered to you that is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike cheesecake. That's not to say that it's bad. Theoretically. But it is bad, because I want cheesecake. Now, being a persistant person, I have a tendency to repeatedly try to order cheesecake, hoping that someone in the country has gotten this dessert item right. The experience pretty much always follows the same pattern:
- look at said cheesecake and assess it's dubious color and distinctly gelatin like texture
- take a reluctant bite, and be overwhelmed with disappointment and moderate disgust, the kind of disgust that only comes from thinking you are going to taste one thing and then tasting another, like zucchini disguised as cucumber
- take a break, sip my coffee, resolve not to ever try cheesecake in this country again
- feel bad about wasting said item
- take a second and then third slow reluctant bite
- realize that it's not all that bad, it just is pretty much entirely unlike cheesecake
- eat the whole thing, which is a decent but not great take on a jello creme pie
- be relatively disgusted with myself

Love,
Violet

My workout routine

So I have been going to the gym, really, I have. Between the paneer, butter parathas and ice cream it's necessary. But sometimes I just can't wake up in the morning to get it done. When that happens, I remind myself of my daily workout:

Strength training: on my daily commute I run up sixteen flights of stairs with a ten pound backpack (yay ancient laptop).

Resistance training: I fight through a sea of women at rush hour eight times, four times coming out of the train, and four going in (out is worse).

Cardio: crossing streets is a double shock to the heart, sprinting and stopping and a serious adrenaline rush (don't worry mom, I'm careful and NYC has prepared me well).

Stretching: using squat toilets (a porcelain hole in the ground) takes care of my legs while reaching for plates and other things for my co-workers and other things for other small comrades, gets my back and arms.

Needless to say, I'm always breaking a sweat. 4 of the liters I drink are just dedicated to the back sweat that gets sucked into my backpack.

Oh, and of course, there's the mandatory hour of dancing a day!

Love,
Violet

the best and the worst

I forgot to add two things about the metro! One thing will always make me angry, and get me muttering under my breath, and the other will make me giggle, sigh and generally turn my day around.

The first, which I have probably mentioned before, is getting regularly bumped into. Now this isn't ordinary metro jostling, which happens on a regular basis but can be tolerated. This is the: oh man, there's a white girl, maybe her physical consistency is different from the people I know, let me go knock into her, mentality. I honestly don't know if these guys (though sometimes ladies) are just so nervous while trying to touch me that they miscalculate distances, but regardless of the reasoning, I get unnecessarily shoulder smacked/body checked/almost bowled over on a semi-regular basis. That makes me mad.

The other is something that I really could never imagine happening in the states: watching people use an escalator for the first time. The mix of awe, fear and trepidation is positively adorable. The other day I was walking on the platform and saw a man so nervously and cautiously get on the escalator that he forgot his suitcase at the bottom. He was then as nervously and cautiously forced to run down the upward moving stairs to catch it. I walked toward him to pass him his bag, but he managed to grab it just as I got there. Turning back to get on the train, I caught a glimpse of his face, determined and experienced, stepping onto the escalator. 

Love,

Violet 

Delhi Days/Daze

So before I post about the mountains, I thought I would give a little snapshot of my daily commute in Delhi. There are a lot of things that can be super frustrating or really fun/funny depending on my mood, and let me tell you, early in the morning that is a highly volatile variable. The one thing that I love no matter how I feel is going through security, yup, security. And this is coming from a girl that hates airports for the very same reason. Why? Well after you put your bags in the x-ray conveyor belt thingy, the ladies go through a metal detector (that always goes off) and into a curtained off little box. While inside a lady cop waves you down with a wand and frisks your pocket area. I find this little pet very reassuring in the morning! Sometimes there's a little butt pat involved! It's just a little encouragement from a lady that's always a little more chipper because your a foreigner, and a love tap, sometimes even a push to send you on your way to start the day. That's how I start my commute.

The metro is by far my favorite thing about Delhi. It makes me feel super comfortable travelling in the city, and gives you these weird moments where you are so shocked that you are in India, but that leaves room for the realization: holy crap, I live in India. One thing that hasn't made it over here is the concept of let people get out first. Even when it's the last stop on the train, and everyone knows that everyone is coming out women push, out and in, and I mean push. Why? Because they want a seat. That much energy expended to sit. Conserve your energy and then stand! Anyhow, on the days when I am either a little pissy or feeling feisty, I admit that I throw an elbow out. I mean I am huge here, people should move. When I'm just giggly about the whole thing (sometimes Anika and I spend our 20 minute ride together cackling), I just ride the wave of women pushing. The air pocket that I get above everyone's heads really helps in those moments.

On the way home, I love looking out the window as the metro goes over the city. The sky at that time is always a beautiful dusty rose color. Even better are the signs you see along the way: PUKIE PIE DAY CARE and Hotel Arpit Palace, that my brain as well as autocorrect on my iphone change to the illustrious armpit palace (not an inappropriate name for the metro). And speaking of which, the most lovely feeling of all is coming home hot after a long day feeling slightly guilty about being stinky and having your BO get off at the next stop. LIFE WIN!

Love,
Violet

Backwater Boating

 So one of my days in Kerala, we went boating in search of somewhere to swim. When I first met the captain, he immediately started speaking to me in French. I managed for a little while but eventually gave up and switched to English. He said to me, "you don't speak French that often do you?" And I agreed that yes, it had been some time. While that's certainly true, I was really grappling with his accent. Malayalam sounds like a cross between Xena's war cry and change in a dryer. The tongue acrobatics that Malu's do are impressive and visible. So every other sentence I was hearing from this man, who's French was definitely better than mine was, "lelelulu lhelelulu maintenant".

The boat was a big dingy with plenty of room for the two drivers, and three passengers. On the way we stopped to pick up some delicious local food (photo 1). This consisted of fish fry, fish curry, tapioca mash and sting ray. All the dishes were great, and only made better by the fact that we were on a boat, and that eating with your hands is strongly encouraged (sorry mom, undoing years of training). To wash it down we had toddy, which is a slightly alcoholic fermented drink made out of coconut water ("cidre du coco", says our captain).

We went at least two hours down the backwaters in order to find a swimming hole because our qualifications were pretty specific. The water had to be shallow enough for Ammu, Vik's cousin, to be able to swim in, and deep enough for me to be able to swim in and empty, so that I wouldn't cause an incident in my bathing suit. Eventually we found a place that satisfied two out of three of our desires, and settled. It was perfect temperature, and got deep like a swimming pool. It was also a ferry crossing. Luckily after everyone in the tri-village area confirmed that yes, white people can swim, we were more or less left alone.

On our way back I dried off on the front of the boat. I could have been on the French rivierra, except that every time we went under a bridge, traffic literally stopped to peek at me. With my mild sunburn and moderate toddy buzz, it didn't bother me at all.

Love,
Violet

Kerala: the driving beach

So I just got back from Kerala last night. I had a lovely week staying with Vik's family in Mahe being stuffed with delicious South Indian food and fresh fruits. The first day of my trip was spent in bed, recovering from a small stomach bug that I had contracted on my way over from Delhi. In between my bathroom runs, I kept busy by reading and looking at a carton of old pictures that Vik's dad had taken in the 70s. The fashion, the mustaches and what americans would think of as closer to 50s technology kept me thoroughly entertained. By the second day, I had largely conquered the bug, so Vik and I took a tour of some of the nearby towns including the beach in these pictures.

Now this isn't just any beach, it's a driving beach. The sign said so and everything, with an arrow pointing to the entrance. What does that mean? It's like a drive through for the ocean (photo 1). Who wants to walk in the sand like a crazy person (photo 2)? Get your feed wet? Get sweaty (Kerala is very hot and muggy this time of year)? When you can just stay in your air conditioned car and soak in the scenery from there. One might even spot a crazy foreigner begging her lovely host to let her swim! Only if you have incredibly good look though, there aren't very many white people in this neck of the woods.

On the driving beach (where I insisted on walking), I found the shells of a local delicacy (last photo), I kind of shell fish that tastes similar to a cherry stone (for my cape cod followers). They are delicious, especially fried up with spicy seasoning, but the most incredible thing about them are the aqua color of the edge of the shell. I had truly never seen anything like it. In fact, this trip to Kerala had a lot in store for me in terms of weird flora and fauna. More on that later.

Love,
Violet

A cold when it's hot

So, I have been down with a cold for the last week or so. There is something particularly horrendous about having a cold when it's hot. And believe me it's hot. In Hindi, there isn't the poetic contrast of hot and cold, but they get the idea. In fact, since the seasons and food and medicines are largely based around the principles of heating and cooling, people are even more sympathetic to my predicament.

Unsurprisingly, my cold gets a lot of unsolicited (and solicited) advice. As much as it sucks, they tell me in very different words, you have to eat things that heat you up when you have a cold. I have been fed honey with cinnamon (delicious, but means that I can't drink water for half an hour afterward) and been compelled to put turmeric and black pepper on the banana I was about to enjoy for breakfast. I was denied cold water in favor of hot, and told to eat more onions (for regulating the body temperature). More than once a lovely maternal woman has heard me cough and sent me for a pen and paper so she can write down a whole new list of remedies.

The one suggestion that has surprisingly worked is a natural remedy called sualin. It's a compressed pill of spices that really quiets my cough. It has one annoying side effect though: it makes my mouth black.

So for the most part, I have been treating my cold by sleeping a lot, waking up, drinking hot water, sucking on sualins, and watching russell peters and say yes to the dress on youtube with a black mouth.

Feel free to comment with more suggestions, I'm thinking of starting a cold remedy blog.

Love,
Violet

Violet in Wonderland

So, it's been a little while. I can make excuses, but I'll just say that settling into a new city is hard work. I decided to get a little unchronological with my posts and write about a moment in Delhi that's perfectly illustrated by this photo. Those who have good spacial relations may remember that I am a fairly tall lady. In heels I am positively monstrous. This is multiplied in India, land of the tiny people and totally irregular architectural proportions. Let's just say I have smacked various parts of my body on about every surface available in this country. In one restaurant I went to, they didn't manage to make the ceiling to stair distance life size, but luckily they attached a pillow to the landing thingy over head. So they literally cushioned the blow. Anyhow, my bad pun isn't the story I wanted to tell.

The other day I was in the metro, heading just outside of Delhi for a second interview (yeah, that's right, I'm doing real things here, it's not all saffron and bhung lassis). As we get farther out from the city, I'm getting more and more attention from the people in my car (ladies only), and the next one, which is has an open connector tunnel, that looks like the middle of extra long city buses. So yeah, the train is getting into less western exposure land, and the men in the next car are staring. I get a little annoyed, but notice a whole gaggle of women about to get on at the next stop (amusingly they are all going to the german institute of noida, clutching their german language exercises in their hands). I relax thinking I'm going to get a little cover.

They all get on, and without any hyperbole, there is not a single person in the ladies car that is above shoulder height on me. So now, I'm in a crowded car, a blonde pin in a canopy of black. I do enjoy the different climate, air circulation, and moderate relief from BO up there, but needless to say I stand out even more. I glance at the men's look out point just in time to see a man lift a little boy above the Indian ladies to see me. At this point all I can do is giggle and salute.

Love,
Violet

Indian Coffee House

On Holi, after our first round of festivities, our first nap, and our first of many showers, Anika and I decided to go on a walk in search of some tea and snacks. We took a right out of the hostel and I immediately saw a sign for the Indian Coffee house. I was intrigued for many reasons, the most immediate was that Indian coffee in the north means one part nescafe instant coffee mixed with two parts hot milk and two parts sugar, served in a shot glass. So to see a whole place devoted to coffee, and one that seemed to be around before freeze drying technology certainly intrigued me. It intrigued Anika too, and stoked the flames of our appetites because where there is good coffee, there is almost definitely good South Indian food. We had banked on a little more exercise than crossing the street (although to be honest, that's more labor intensive and much more distance than one would imagine, think frogger, but maybe with a cow), so we forced ourselves to walk to the next intersection and loop around.

We emerged from the archway into a little courtyard (photo 2). Walking in the walls were green, and the waiters all wore white jackets and hats that were half neru and half soda fountain attendant. I was smitten. We had ice coffee (delicious and entirely unmilkshake-like), and were revived.

The next day, we made a half-hearted attempt to eat somewhere else before just deciding to go back. We had coffee (great) and an egg uttapam (usually a rice flour based thick bread thing, this one was made into a sort of bread omelette thing, also delicious). When I told my friend from Jaipur that we had been to this place, he said it was like the Cafe Kooba (our hang out spot for soda, beer, and hookah, back when I lived there), for his parents and his grandparents. He said that his father had probably taken his mother out on a date here. Anika and I weren't surprised because our second visit we ended up making friends with a whole bunch of older gentlemen, who got together there as their post retirement hang out spot. One of them was very excited to learn we were American. Pulling a list out of his pocket, he told us about the presidential coins he needed (we had never heard of them). He gave us his card, said we could stay with him anytime but reminded us to keep a look out for the 11th, and 13th presidents (the ones he was missing), and to kindly post them to him at the address written. Now I have officially broadcasted the hunt.

Love,
Violet

April Fool's Day in Delhi

Ok, so I'm delaying my photos of Udaipur another day in order to tell you this story. Yesterday was the first full day in my Delhi apartment. Anika is at work from 9 - 5:30, so I have become something of a housewife, taking care of the errands, doing the cooking, setting up our room and buying the necessities. Anyhow, I took a break from all this in the afternoon to have a coffee meeting (very interesting guy who started an NGO up in the hills). After we talked business for a while, we hung out for a while, chatting in Hindi, walking around. Eventually he decided he wanted to take me for chaat: something that can only be described as Indian fast food, or maybe as street food, anyhow. His friend came to meet us and we decided to play a prank on him in honor of April Fool's day.

So there are a couple of things you should know before I continue this story. One is that April Fool's day is not really a thing in India except that there are mass texts and people are aware of the jokes that google does etc. The second thing I should tell you is that this friend of my friend is a cop. That might not mean anything to the Americans, but the Indians I tell this story to visibly shudder at this declaration: "you played a trick on a cop". Etc etc.

We went over what to do. I suggested that we pretend I don't speak Hindi until he says something embarrassing and then trap him, but we decided that was too mean. Then we thought maybe we would convince him I was Indian. My friend suggested I try to convince him in Hindi that we had met before. In any case, I knew that the real shock/joke was going to be my Hindi speaking at all.

So we went with the last option. I went up to him and said in Hindi, "Rahul, it's been too long, how have you been, you don't remember me, etc etc". And he literally does a 90 head turn double take and says, "she speaks Hindi?" The funniest thing about the whole experience was that while eating etc, every time I would say something in Hindi (which was often, we were three people having a conversation), or made any reference to Indian culture, he was amusingly shocked all over again. The better April Fool's joke would have been if after all that I didn't speak Hindi, but it was super fun anyhow. And now I have a new friend! Who happens to be a great guy, an honest cop and runs the police station for the area that includes my neighborhood! And the chaat was the bomb...

Love,
Violet

Hurricane Sunita!

So Holi marks the beginning of summer, which should mean about three months of hot dry weather (oh joy). Yesterday though we started hearing murmurs from people about the rain coming (barish aa rahin hai, aaeygi). I didn't think anything of it. These are the same sort of people that refuse to serve me eggs in the summer because they heat me up. Then all of a sudden early today, the rain just started coming down in sheets. Anika and I had seen hail in Jaipur, so we weren't too shocked. We expected it to just come through and stop. But it hasn't. Luckily our apartment is on the first floor, because the water is already about knee height and has yet to let up at all.

People refuse to accept that the rains are a full three months early (there are global warming deniers here too), so they have names this storm Hurricane Sunita. We should continue to have power, but the phone lines are a little wonky already. I'll keep you posted on our safety etc.

Love,
Violet

Holi Photos, Batman!

So, this is the pretty "look I'm playing Holi picture" that you will see on most people's facebooks. This is when Holi is nice and friendly. You put color on one another and hug, and its sweet.  

This is what Holi really looks like, when you are sweaty, and people throw color in your eyes and dump it on your head. Don't get me wrong it's a ton of fun. But I thought I would properly show you before and after. More pictures tomorrow.

Love,

Violet

Udaipur

I'm still posting from my phone, but taking lots of pictures that I will post when I'm back in Delhi. In the meantime, here is a picture from the roof where Anika and I had coffee this afternoon.

Love,
Violet

Post holi Jaipur

More to follow when I am back in Delhi, but I wanted to give you a taste of holi here. This is a photo of the shirt I wore to play holi, post washing mind you. It was white before... Also it just poured here and then started to hail. In the summer. In Jaipur. Pea sized balls of ice. From the sky. So strange.

Love,
Violet

Holi Hai!

I've been waiting for a long time to play holi. Yesterday I was woken up by loud music and a blaring voice on a speaker system. He told me it was holi. After some confused tired stumbling, I went downstairs to investigate and found the "park ladies association" having their early holi party. I got some jelebi, being made in fresh connecting branches, I guy sitting and wordlessly squirting squiggled creations of sugary dough in the hot oil.

I refused too much more food, only had some curry and two chapatti. Afterwards I was brought to the dj booth and everyone was encouraged to come dance with their "American friend". The park ladies descended on me lending their auntie dance moves to some pretty gangster American tunes. After I was given some color, I went sent on the way.

I spent the rest of the day dodging water balloons coming from roof tops. Eventually my friend and I got our revenge, throwing balloons from his roof top and smearing people with color. What a satisfying sound the balloon makes when it splats on a 13 year old hooligan.

Love,
Violet

Ghooming Around Delhi

So I have been enjoying Delhi a lot the last few days, eating far too much, meeting people, and taking beautiful walks along the lush roads. The highlights have been visiting the Bangla sahib Gurudwara and eating first dinner there (pumpkin curry) and then today, a veg thali at the andrah pradesh cantine followed by a walk to a very beautiful old well that's in the middle of no where surrounded by modern high rises.

More Delhi tomorrow and then Rajasthan for holi!
Love,
Violet

End of Mumbai day, beginning of Delhi days

So as you may remember (see Dhobi Ghat post: http://violetinindia.blogspot.in/2013/03/dhobi-ghat-and-haji-ali.html), I left you getting ready for my night out after the Haji Ali. I headed back by train (rush hour packed ladies car, a lovely sight, with a slightly less lovely smell), ate an paratha (still my favorite), and started to get gussied up. I grabbed a rick to Bandra and met up with my friend. She and I took her car (with a driver, what a luxury), over the Worli sea link. The sight from the bridge at night is really breath taking. It gives you that "alright tonight's the night" feeling that a great song might. From there we went to blue frog, a hip music venue in South Bombay. Thanks to International Women's Day, there was no cover charge (that's feminism, right?). So what was playing tonight? Some sleepy raga? A fusion band? Techno? No! It was a Led Zeppelin tribute band! With a female lead! We rocked out to "led zep" tunes for a while. I knew most of the words to most of the songs, but seemed to be in the minority. There was one major exception though: the encore, Stairway to Heaven. About 30 Indian boys say along in heavily accented voices, while swooning and crying over how good of a song it is. I guess that's universal.

I also saw my first bollywood star! He's an oldy but a goody, because he's in the first Bollywood film I ever saw, that's still my favorite! Isn't that great luck?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azbrgGSZH4M
He's the actor that's not Sharukh Khan in this song.

After the show, I stayed over at my friend's place, so I didn't have to go back alone. After a lovely night's sleep I woke up in Bandra to fresh fruit and hard boiled eggs, hot coffee from an adorable chatty maid followed soon after. All I could think was, I could get used to this. Shucks, guess I'm going to have to get a job.

So that was Bombay. Now Delhi.

I have been meeting people in Delhi, and I have to say it is really growing on me. The first thing that I have neglected to point out is that it is home to one of my top five favorite people of all time, Gandhi! Just kidding, Anika. I look forward to Indian style unibrow chicken fights. Besides that there are a lot of smart people doing interesting things. This really is the hub for good work here. Some more highlights are: good food, I had a brownie the other day (don't judge) that would really put 99 percent of New York brownies to shame. The other thing is the history! You can walk around Delhi and it is modern and green, with lots of trees and flowers, and all of a sudden a ruin of an old Mughal fort just appears next to you, with a moat and everything! These sneaky beautiful places mean that I am going to have to carry my camera around for sure.

More Delhi later, and some pictures!
Love,
Violet

Delhi's Redemption

So, I still am not on my own computer (this means no photos), but I can offer you a few redeeming things about Delhi, and this is within 24 hours of arriving! It is walkable! Yes, the one major issue with Bombay is that there aren't any sidewalks in most of the city. In Delhi it is relatively easy to walk continuously for 15 minutes (see earlier post about Bombay) or even an hour and a half as I did yesterday. Additionally the Metro system is truly the bomb diggity, for lack of a better term.

In other news, I am being incredibly well fed. I met up with a friend of a friend who invited me to her family's house for dinner. Before we left she insisted on buying me a snack (chinese style nodles with a sweet milk drink). When we arrived at her house here was soda and chips. Then her mother brought daal and rice. I thought, perfect, some nice light home cooking... but about an hour later there was roti and potatoes and a different daal and a milk drink. And then yoghurt, and paratha, and the butter, man the butter. An inch cubed, after I insisted just a little. I think she could sense the weakness in my voice as I tried to resist. I would have gotten more too, if I didn't plead foreigner belly. It was delicious. All I kept thinking was, thank god I can walk here. Otherwise, I would have to be rolled from one location to another after not too long.

With that image....
Love,
Violet

Yeh Dilli Hai Mere Yaar

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcNTlyzHVV0&sns=em

Posting from my phone at the moment, so no long post (although I promise to continue my last one soon). I have just landed in Delhi. It hasn't captured my fancy like Mumbai did, but maybe this will be like an arranged marriage instead of a love marriage, I will come to love and depend on it over time. In any case, it's just like an arranged marriage at the moment: I'm stuck with this city for now, might as well try to like it. I'm looking forward to meeting up with friends and letting them convince me that this is a cool place. That being said I'm keeping an open mind, and despite all I've heard, I'm determined to have my own opinion about being here. So far it sort of feels like Delhi is to Mumbai what Chicago is to New York... I'll leave it at that.

Love,

Violet

Dhobi Ghat and the Haji Ali

The other day I was in serious photographer mode (that's what I call the mood I'm in when I'm actually willing to lug my camera plus my bag on to the rush hour trains). So I have lots of photos of the sights that I saw. Truthfully, I have actually been to both the places pictured above before, but I didn't have my fancy shmancy lens, and apparently I never blogged about them (oops, laziness mixed with having too much fun last year). So for all intents and purposes, this is brand new material (woot woot).

Alright down to business, the first five pictures are from Dhobi Ghat. It's a neighborhood in Mumbai where an astounding percentage of the city's laundry goes to get cleaned by hand. People wash the clothes in the basins in the middle, dry them on lines on the roof and live around the periphery. You can see this all happen from a bridge that extends from the Mahalaxmi stop on the train. After nerding out taking pictures with my stalker lens (yes, I have stopped to pause at the ethical implications), I convinced my hostel-mates to trek the 20 minutes to the Haji Ali. Now, I totally framed it in terms of the sight to see (and it is a sight, a mosque in the middle of the water), but I was at at least 60-40 interested in strawberry creme over taking pictures of the mosque.

The walk from Dhobi Ghat to the Haji Ali, was very interesting. I stopped to see the tail end of someone getting a tattoo on the street. The tattoo giver rubbed tumeric paste on it, while I asked how much it hurt. Continuing on, we passed the Mahalaxmi race course (horses!). Every so often along the way I asked directions. This is one habit I have developed in Bombay: continuously asking people which way to go. There are a couple reasons for this. It's a really common thing to do, especially on the road. Often people will just sort of point and make a fanning gesture with your hand. Normally one would think that means straight all the way, or just ahead, but I have learned from experience that it actually means keep going until you are sure you must of missed it and then ask again. Anyhow, one of the benefits, is that you often pick up people to chat to on the way. In this instance, I confirmed with three girls that the mosque was just around the corner. They said yes and that they were going there too, so we chatted along the way. From visiting a NGO, I had learned a lot about there age group, so we talked about their exams, where they were from and their worries about getting good grades. It was great Hindi practice!

Once at the mosque, I got a strawberry creme from the famous fruit stand in front of it (last photo and close up yesterday), and then continued down the long boardwalk to the mosque. We didn't particularly want to go inside so we only made it about half way down. The shops on the left side were interesting to look at but the spectacular variety of injured/sick/mutilated beggars made my strawberry creme do trapeze acts in my stomach. I had to get ready for my night anyhow.

More on that later.
Love,
Violet

Show and Tell

Today, I am all over the place planning my move to Delhi. So instead of telling you about my awesome day yesterday (I promise I'll do that tomorrow). I decided to do a little show and tell about some of the things that I have been talking about and not showing. The first photo I took from inside the train of the bandra stop. I have been completely loving using public transit. It's cheap and often faster, and once you really master it, it's just an incredible feeling of really knowing the city. I slap on my headphones, put on a playlist of Hindi jams and indie favorites, and squeeze myself between colorful sari-d women in the ladies car. 

Bandra has been featured in my blog before because it's one of my favorite neighborhoods. There are cool bars, restaurants and shopping. It's a low key cool place to walk and hang, and where you can find me most of the time.

The second photo is a common sight. Women (and a lot of men too) really like their colored contacts. In the swanky but not super swanky neighborhoods you see a lot of slightly alien looking green and blue eyes on otherwise super beautiful Indian babes. Who knows. Anyhow, this color obviously stood out to me. 

The third photo is kind of cheating because it's part of my day yesterday. Can you guess what it is? Strawberry creme! I was in the neighborhood, so I got another one! Still love it! (alright, it was a 15 minute walk, and I had to drag four people there by insisting it was just around the corner, but hey, if you burn the calories with the walk to and from it's like you didn't eat it at all right?).

So now you know a little more about what I see on a normal day.

Love,

Violet

My entourage

Last night, I was waiting for my friend Tim at a "lounge bar" near my hostel to have a beer. I walk in and I am the only person there (plenty of people in the restaurant portion though). I sit down on a plush couch and order a beer. Two attendants stand by the bar, ready at a moments notice in case I might change my mind and order a four-course meal. I glance at the tv's in front of me and 80s wrestle mania is playing. For a second I get lost in the paunchy bleach blonde men in speedos hug each other in multiple ways. A mosquito snaps me out of my tv zombie-dom and I realize there are now 4 attendants, glancing at each other waiting for me to order something else. They are chatting to each other about whether they should put music on for me or not. I swat at the mosquito and immediately one of the waiters gets what looks like an electric tennis racket in order to hunt the mosquitos. Of course, they were all around me. So for five minutes the waiter is waving the racket around me like it was a security check, I have my hands over my head, and he's being very careful not to electrocute me. Eventually he chases the mosquito to another part of the room. At this point there are between six and seven men waiting around me to help, with another two walking in and out just in case. Finally some other people start to arrive. They put on Rihanna and go back to work. Can't beat the service out here, man.

Love,
Violet

Bandra Overpass

The other day I met up with a friend at the Bandra train station. I had just come from a meeting, so I had a little time to kill. Extending from the train were these long overpasses, that lead to different parts of the neighborhood. I decided to walk from one end to the other of each of the paths. The height is perfect for my voyeuristic tendencies, the tunnel hovers just over the majority of the buildings (most are three story residential apartments. From that height I could inspect the laundry drying outside balconies, and see inside houses, but also over roofs. I wandered over the neighborhood, going all the way to one end and then doubling back until I could go in a different direction. One way, there was a large lake, another theoretically lead to the national library, although the path led to another outcropping of buildings that looked identical to every other group of buildings.

It was a great way to see the city. One day I'll go back with my real camera and stalker lens.

Love,
Violet

Lazy Saturday...

Yesterday, I embarked on the epic task of getting an Indian sim card. I put it off for too long, and have been using my american one far too much (thanks and sorry dad, again, just don't look at the bill, close your eyes and wave your wallet at it). There is a large, air conditioned vodaphone store that is a fifteen minute walk away from the hostel, so three of us went. A fifteen minute walk in India is a different animal than in New York. First of all, that amount of time could easily only get you around the corner, especially if you are timid about crossing the street and if you insist on taking pictures of everything you find cool or weird or funny (photo 2, Dad you should call that number, look at those stunning results), it can take close to an hour to walk the equivalent of three blocks. So yeah, it turns out that on saturday, the road to vodaphone turns into a huge bazaar. People spread out blankets with everything you could imagine, spices, jewelry, fruits, fruits next to rat poison, rat poison... and the vendors are constantly coming in and out pushing carts or loading their wares onto bikes, fighting with the normal traffic for space (photo 1). It made the walk a lot longer, but a lot more fun. It was one of the cooler sights that I have seen, and it was just the walk to the cell store! It made me feel especially accomplished as well.

At the store things were so organized, I actually couldn't navigate it. We got numbers from electric kiosks, and they called the numbers... in order. People waited for their numbers, and when they called the number on the piece of paper, you could talk to one of the tellers. Crazy right? I was about to throw an elbow and make my way to the front. Instead I squatted on the floor and waited.

After getting sim cards, we rewarded ourselves with lunch at a place that we found walking back. It was delicious! A great find. Unfortunately, the sim card isn't working yet, but otherwise I would say it was a pretty accomplished Saturday afternoon.

Love,
Violet

P.S. Another note on the miracle hair treatment, how is it possible that an illustration can't even make the before and after pictures look like the same person?

Poonam -- finally final Goa post

 Over the course of my trip in Goa, it was decided that my current Hindi name was unacceptable (Jamuna) and I should be rebranded Chandni (moonlight). These things happen. I am pretty content to be renamed every time I come to India, because I seem to be a different version of myself each trip anyhow. In most cases I'm just Wyerlet, and I'm just fine with that also. Well, in order to commemorate the experience, I decided to get it tattooed on me (just kidding, it's black henna, although there are plenty of people that do decided to randomly get tattooed here, a girl in the hostel came back from Goa with the batman sign "because batman is cool"). The best part of the experience was chatting with the lovely girl who drew it on me.

Her name is Poonam, she's 18 and Gujarati. It's hard to tell from the photo but she had the most lovely light brown eyes. At first she was shy, speaking in a Russian-ish accent in English (seriously this place is crazy colonized), but when she realized she could speak in Hindi, she loosened up, started joking and showed her true colors as a sort of mischievous, teasing little sister. She reminded me of someone I know at home, in that regard... While the henna was drying we started talking about Mumbai, and she said she was going to visit for the first time in a few weeks. Her excitement was electric, talking about the Bhel Puri she would eat at Juhu (after I confessed my love for it as well), and the shopping that she was going to do. After Mumbai, she had a couple days and then she was going to get married (!). She she showed me pictures of her engagement and her fiance. She seemed to be genuinely pleased to marry him despite the fact that he was sort of fat (her words, he didn't really seem big to me). Pulling up a picture of him on the computer, that she confessed she hated using, she pointed out his nose, saying she always tells him it looks like a samosa.

More people and places tomorrow.
Love,
Violet

Happy st patty's day!

I am having interweb troubles again, so I am writing a short message from my phone. Alas, no pictures until tonight (fingers crossed). I realized this morning that today was st Patrick's day, so I had someone pinch me. Luckily I have corrected my error and am sporting a lovely emerald green scarf. I think I may head to an expat party tonight with a friend, to check out the scene. I'm all suited up for it!

Love,
Violet
PS pinch some people for me

Some things about my Hindi

I will post something longer about the rest of Goa later (I'm back in Mumbai), but I thought in honor of my multi-hour travel extravaganza, I will talk a little bit about my frustrations with Hindi. So, I have been studying this language for a long time, an embarrassingly long time for the way that I talk. Yes, it's a hard language, and yes I understand about 96 percent of what is said, but opening my mouth is sort of a different story, and here's the problem:
- when my well meaning friends tell other people I speak Hindi, they immediately want me to "say something"... when you tell a kid to do that they say "something", what do I say? nothing, I immediately go mute. It's complete radio silence in my brain, no english, no hindi... occasionally one thing will pop into my mind. A whispered "merde" (shit in french)... so no practice ever comes from that.
- when I get flustered, tired, or overheated (read most of the time in India), my brain starts to cram all my thoughts together. It's hard enough to get coherent sentences out of my mouth in English when this happens, but translating into Hindi is like a sword fight between my tongue and my mind.
- my Hindi is too good. It's what they call shud Hindi. So when I finally get my sentences together, and I'm feeling good, people sometimes laugh at me. I'll say, "that's the word for x, isn't it?", and they'll say, "yes if you are in a melodramatic bollywood movie".
- last (for now) but certainly not least, even when my Hindi is working like a well oiled machine, and I am using slang, feeling good. I still largely do not know where I am going. So whether I'm in a cab or in a rickshaw, if they list of a lot of places, I still don't understand. But man, let me tell you, I can say, "I have no idea where the flip you are taking me" in the most shud Hindi ever, Brahmin priests would be proud.

Love,
Violet 

Beached Violet

What can I even write? Don't the pictures say it all? I got to spend yesterday by the beach, on the beach and in the water. The ocean is warm, but not too warm, and very very salty. The waves are perfect for splashing around in, but never scary. It's still a little strange for me to wear a bikini in India, I keep thinking the modesty police is going to come out and scold me, but there are certainly people here wearing much less.

The beach is expansive, in all directions, with shacks set up all along it. Each shack has it's own music (frequently the backstreet boys are competing with the techno next door), lounge chairs, and umbrellas. Children come by selling puffed rice snacks, and both the kids and the snacks are irresistible. It's often difficult to see such young girls and boys working. At night there are eight or nine year olds spitting and spinning fire, and it's sort of disgusting. I know how painful it can be, and to think of it as a compulsion as opposed to an obsessive hobby... it's just not that fun to watch. But the kids with the snacks are so clever, so funny, such savvy business people, it's a marvel to see and talk to them. Equally awe-inspring are the guys working at the beach that seem to know just enough of every language to get people to come sit, eat, drink and laugh with them. We made friends with the guy who was serving us, and he would chat with us in Hindi, until her had to run after some people walking across the beach, crooning to them in Russian to pick his shack over any of the other hundred. Of course, this ability didn't stop them from completely disbelieving my Hindi knowledge. No worries though, that look of surprise when I start to speak, is my favorite thing. Ok, back to the beach!

Love,
Violet