after another classic breakfast of idly and pongal and an early checkout, achieved only after some serious wrangling with the guy at the desk on the subject of improperly imposed luxury taxes, we caught our bus out of trichy. after a quiet and sleepy ride, we finally got in to madurai. the hotel was the cheapest yet, and simple, but with a view from the roof over into the meenakshi temple complex. we went wandering about madurai: poked our heads into unsigned offices and peeked around corners in search of the tourism office (never found), ate a miserable lunch (never trust l.p. guide food recs ugh somebody here so got paid off), sat about in our hotel room (so hot, what to do?).
finally, motivated by our early planned departure the next morning, we set out for the therumalai nayak palace, a ruin really, a twenty minute walk away. what was left tho left me wishing i could have seen the original, this one remaining hall such a huge impressive hulk, putting me in mind of an opera house or somesuch thing, great white pillars and grand archways and all done up in (what at least looked like) stucco work. tourists, mostly probably in madurai for the meenakshi temple, sat around on the stairs and milled about vaguely under the vaults...
we saw a museum dedicated to gandhi, off on the other side of the city. it was fine. it featured the blood stained loincloth gandhi had been wearing at the time of his assassination. and endless other memorabilia and pictures and informations that involved too much text and attention at that point of the day.
and round towards evening time we made it back to the temple. a similar sort of thing to ranganathaswamy temple in trichy, but that it was better preserved, smaller, and had some absolutely incredible stone carving. the best part was the room of a thousand pillars, which they called a museum and charged an entrance fee for. which was totally worth it, because it was lined with these pillars that were bursting out into life, what might have been simple ordinary supports of stone transformed into gods, mythical creatures, each one unique and elaborate and dynamic. we wandered among these, and finally out into the proper temple itself, amidst all the mess and movement of pujas going on, following the streams of people. across from the entrance to where the most holy of the shrines was (blocked to non-hindus), there was far below a tank dug and full of water, with a man-sized gold lotus ornamenting it. we walked around this, walked behind all the commotion into the lesser temples where a few straggling pilgrims also wandered, and then left, back to our hotel.
the next morning after a night of some rumbly tummy time among certain of our party, we collected ourselves as best we could and left madurai before the sun was full in the sky. i think we were ready for something different. no more of these dusty tamil nadu cities, and no more idly n pongal, at least for a little while. on to the cool of the hill station, the clean of the air, the calm of the forest. on, to kodaikanal.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
trichy n tanjore, 9-10 aug 07
departing pondicherry by bus we broke off from the coast for the first time and set off into inland tamil nadu. mostly empty, lots of agriculture, it seemed, tho few folk in evidence, also tons of highway construction and isolated engineering colleges springing out unexpected shiny and grand out of this grassland, that grazing ground... for a long time the landscape was flat, many dried-up riverbeds, dust flying into the open windows onto our faces and into our hair. but as we approached trichy there came up these sharp dramatic little hills covered in green, there came waters. and so crossing the river we came into trichy, set to winding down the whole long sprawl of it to its southernmost tip, where lay the bus station.
trichy was a buzzing little town, and as we rattled in covered in the dust of our travels we passed busy bazars and shopping streets aplenty, before turning into the bus stand way to one end of town, far from the action but close to the hotels. ashby’s hotel, so highly recommended on the basis of some kind of colonial charm (tho we saw nothing of it), felt mostly like a run-down motel, our room yellowing, our bathtub and showerhead malfunctioning, and a musty smell in the discolored curtains. outside on the terrace empty kingfisher bottles were idling on the cracked glass of the tables, and in the lobby a drunken scotsman solicited the hotel staff’s help in his search for some nameless fat french lady. behind the concierge’s desk was a padlocked iron door emblazoned in red with the word “BAR”.
well, there was at least the saving grace of the t.v. in the midst of this sad situation. schmabil, excited at the prospect of catching up on his precious hindi soaps, set right at it almost immediately upon arrival, begging me to not change the channel when i threatened with the remote. i sighed and sat down to my ginger milk tea, and we both rested ourselves an hour from the bumps and jumps and jolts of the ride inland. him with his quality television, me with my heavy dose (a full thermos!) of sugar and caffeine.
after which, stopping only to devour down a meal at a south indian place by the bus stand, we set in to see the sights of trichy. first stop was a dargah, in front of which we were caught in a rush of children who wanted their picture taken. only schmabil was actually allowed in, being a man, so i sat outside among the womenfolk and answered all the questions that the descendents of the man enshrined within asked of me. from where i sit it all looked glittering and gorgeous in green and gold.
from there we walked down to the lourdes cathedral, modeled after the famous one of france... inside the sexes were separated women to the left and men to the right; there were no pews but a bare floor where people sat cross-legged and said their prayers. i had never seen such a format in a church, so it was all unexpected to me. some kind of prayer tape was on repeat, rattling out in a cloud of static thru speakers, in tamil or in latin i couldn’t tell.
from there we climbed up the hill temple, thru cool rock tunnels past old carvings; no hindus allowed beyond a certain point so frustrated at our stolen and brief glimpses of gorgeous colors painted across the ceiling within and all kinds of sculptures, we went on, climbed to the top of the hill and looked out over the city, musty and dusty, lights shining orange thru the thick air as the sunset came on... we scrambled back down and hopped a bus and were back to ashby before we knew it. and after dinner watched tamil music videos into the night...
the next morning we set off to tanjore, with its world heritage site temple as well as a palace... and the temple was incredible. in the early morning light it shone warm, its unpainted red-gold sandstone basking, a lovely, rich color, so sweet in the sunlight. a huge nandi was front and center upon entering, while innumerable other nandis lined the outer enclosing wall. in the back were the hundred and eight lingams as well as some beautiful mural paintings of hindu religious images. the towers towered above us defying our camera lenses as we wandered around the neat and clean grounds.
happy we left and walked into the town proper to get to the palace, a confusing carved up incoherent thing, some four museums some random opened-up spaces one nice painted-up hall and numerous displays of silverware piles of coins unlabeled portraits junk old pottery headdresses all manner of randomness really. tho there were some rather nice statues, carvings, manuscripts... we left grateful to be done, a little confused and definitely overwhelmed by volume of objects, and the lack of organization/differentiation between what was worth displaying what wasn’t.
back in trichy we went to see one more attraction, a bit outside of the city. a temple complex called ranganathaswamy temple, and dedicated to the sleeping vishnu. huge, sprawling, all busy and all over the place, pujas going on here and there, some people resting against pillars, others wandering around... all these smaller temples within the larger complex, most not so incredible but fun to wander around. a couple of beautiful things, some old murals hidden away up some steep staircase including one lovely rendering of that sleeping vishnu, some impressive pillars carved into the shape of rearing horses supporting a pavilion where the real horses were really living...
afterwards we walked on back through the same series of grand gates thru which we had entered, a path lined by shops fruit juice stands restaurants all a mess of people and commerce. eventually got back to the bus station, bought loads of fresh fruit for dinner at a produce shop that left me impressed with its organization and proper appearance, comparisons quickly coming to mind with the tangle of vendors on a kolkata street, hemmed in by cracked concrete and exhaust fumes, nudged into the scene like an afterthought.
and so had a peaceful restful evening of guava and grapes sitting on our beds watching reruns of good old american sitcoms half-asleep after an exhausting day. early to bed, for it was on to madurai the next day.
trichy was a buzzing little town, and as we rattled in covered in the dust of our travels we passed busy bazars and shopping streets aplenty, before turning into the bus stand way to one end of town, far from the action but close to the hotels. ashby’s hotel, so highly recommended on the basis of some kind of colonial charm (tho we saw nothing of it), felt mostly like a run-down motel, our room yellowing, our bathtub and showerhead malfunctioning, and a musty smell in the discolored curtains. outside on the terrace empty kingfisher bottles were idling on the cracked glass of the tables, and in the lobby a drunken scotsman solicited the hotel staff’s help in his search for some nameless fat french lady. behind the concierge’s desk was a padlocked iron door emblazoned in red with the word “BAR”.
well, there was at least the saving grace of the t.v. in the midst of this sad situation. schmabil, excited at the prospect of catching up on his precious hindi soaps, set right at it almost immediately upon arrival, begging me to not change the channel when i threatened with the remote. i sighed and sat down to my ginger milk tea, and we both rested ourselves an hour from the bumps and jumps and jolts of the ride inland. him with his quality television, me with my heavy dose (a full thermos!) of sugar and caffeine.
after which, stopping only to devour down a meal at a south indian place by the bus stand, we set in to see the sights of trichy. first stop was a dargah, in front of which we were caught in a rush of children who wanted their picture taken. only schmabil was actually allowed in, being a man, so i sat outside among the womenfolk and answered all the questions that the descendents of the man enshrined within asked of me. from where i sit it all looked glittering and gorgeous in green and gold.
from there we walked down to the lourdes cathedral, modeled after the famous one of france... inside the sexes were separated women to the left and men to the right; there were no pews but a bare floor where people sat cross-legged and said their prayers. i had never seen such a format in a church, so it was all unexpected to me. some kind of prayer tape was on repeat, rattling out in a cloud of static thru speakers, in tamil or in latin i couldn’t tell.
from there we climbed up the hill temple, thru cool rock tunnels past old carvings; no hindus allowed beyond a certain point so frustrated at our stolen and brief glimpses of gorgeous colors painted across the ceiling within and all kinds of sculptures, we went on, climbed to the top of the hill and looked out over the city, musty and dusty, lights shining orange thru the thick air as the sunset came on... we scrambled back down and hopped a bus and were back to ashby before we knew it. and after dinner watched tamil music videos into the night...
the next morning we set off to tanjore, with its world heritage site temple as well as a palace... and the temple was incredible. in the early morning light it shone warm, its unpainted red-gold sandstone basking, a lovely, rich color, so sweet in the sunlight. a huge nandi was front and center upon entering, while innumerable other nandis lined the outer enclosing wall. in the back were the hundred and eight lingams as well as some beautiful mural paintings of hindu religious images. the towers towered above us defying our camera lenses as we wandered around the neat and clean grounds.
happy we left and walked into the town proper to get to the palace, a confusing carved up incoherent thing, some four museums some random opened-up spaces one nice painted-up hall and numerous displays of silverware piles of coins unlabeled portraits junk old pottery headdresses all manner of randomness really. tho there were some rather nice statues, carvings, manuscripts... we left grateful to be done, a little confused and definitely overwhelmed by volume of objects, and the lack of organization/differentiation between what was worth displaying what wasn’t.
back in trichy we went to see one more attraction, a bit outside of the city. a temple complex called ranganathaswamy temple, and dedicated to the sleeping vishnu. huge, sprawling, all busy and all over the place, pujas going on here and there, some people resting against pillars, others wandering around... all these smaller temples within the larger complex, most not so incredible but fun to wander around. a couple of beautiful things, some old murals hidden away up some steep staircase including one lovely rendering of that sleeping vishnu, some impressive pillars carved into the shape of rearing horses supporting a pavilion where the real horses were really living...
afterwards we walked on back through the same series of grand gates thru which we had entered, a path lined by shops fruit juice stands restaurants all a mess of people and commerce. eventually got back to the bus station, bought loads of fresh fruit for dinner at a produce shop that left me impressed with its organization and proper appearance, comparisons quickly coming to mind with the tangle of vendors on a kolkata street, hemmed in by cracked concrete and exhaust fumes, nudged into the scene like an afterthought.
and so had a peaceful restful evening of guava and grapes sitting on our beds watching reruns of good old american sitcoms half-asleep after an exhausting day. early to bed, for it was on to madurai the next day.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
pondicherry, 5-8 aug 07
pondicherry was i think just what we needed at that time, after a rough start in chennai and mahabalipuram. white town all cool and serene and painted up and down the streets in a clean white, broad avenues and beautiful houses, set on the sea. a place to just be, wander some pretty streets, see some pretty churches, hide away for a few hours in this cafe or that under the whirr of fans overlooking a courtyard strewn with potted plants, breathing. dawns fading into lazy mornings into sleepy noontimes into slow afternoons into soft sunsets...
true, not much to see exactly, a few churches simple n elegant, a rambly botanical gardens, the streets of white town, the seaside with its piles of stones boulders guarding against the rough sea, a scattering of hindu temples with their classic domes crowded with brightly-painted statues... but still, atmospheric and calming for a frazzled schmemma and schmabil...
our first night we spent in a place called the ajantha guest house, right out there by the sea and promenade. there we managed to create a bit of drama and disapproval, i think it is safe to say. first by giving the guy who carried our suitcase up the stairs a measly ten rupees (he gaped at us in disgust and marched out of the room in indignation), then by creating a scene with the manager, claiming we had a reservation there and a printout that showed rates for the room at half of what this guy was asking for, only to discover the online reservation thing had been a total hoax, the ajantha guest house that we had booked at was in fact called something completely different, no relation, not even nearby. after that embarrassment we tried to keep a low profile, and planned to get out of that place (a bit too costly for us anyway) soon’s we could. so the next morning after breakfast we got ourselves together, ready to set out for the ashram-affiliated guest house across town, on the canal that was the dividing line tween white town and everything else. porter dude again brought our luggage down the stairs and schmabil doubled his previous tip, pressing a twenty into the outstretched hand. in response this guy gave us the ugliest face and went over to the manager and waved the twenty in his face, shouting something in tamil before giving us one more angry backward glance and storming out.
what a relief to find our new accomodations, half the price, lovely, and with an elevator. no porter problems here. maybe lacking the terrace looking out on to the sea, but clean, large, airy. with a courtyard full of mostly potted but a few planted plants... rather like the mission back in kolkata.
the next few days floated by, sitting in satsanga restaurant drinking the best coffee i’d had in i don’t even know how long a year maybe just letting our minds wander sighing and talking tough to the cutest puppy who kept coming by and putting his pointy head soft against my leg and looking up hoping and so sweet, this puppy had his game down for sure, and i gave him a firm talking to, no human food for puppies! schmabil messed with the camera while i wrote and we both teared thru more than a couple crepes, more than one basket of brown bread... one afternoon into evening in a gorgeous hotel the dupleix sipping fruity champagne cocktails (and in schmabil’s case a cucumber martini, which at least he liked, weirdo) our planned brief stop for a drink turning into hours, talking about i don’t know what, the world, the future, lotsa nonsense there too, then moving into the courtyard to leaf thru old fashion/travel magazines and giggle, before again back into the dining room for a fancyschmancy dinner, all of this of course way beyond our means but after this it would be 20 rupee thalis and 7 rupee idlis all day and all night so we let ourselves be a little ridiculous... brick oven pizza n fresh lime sodas at au feu de bois cozy and rustic and especially so in the sudden downpour outside... tho was freaked out after a certain point that at most of these restaurants the bill was invariably given to me, what do they think, that schmabil was some kind of kept person? weirded weirded out.
but yes there were other things beside endless food and coffee and wine, and all of our walks, there was a sad little museum, some peeks into the aurobindo ashram, and then there was a trip out of town to a beach, our autowallah was mean and dropped us off at some random point at the seashore claiming it to be serenity beach and us having no proof either way we got out paid him and walked only to discover fishermen’s boats and nets, determined however to find a proper beach we walked on thru the scorching sand til we reached some small set-up, a sun-shelter and a clean-ish beach, peopled by some unexpected foreigners in bikinis along with a couple dudes in lungis. an interesting pairing of beachgoers. we sat there under the shelter with them reading, before schmabil decided it was time to play in the water, which was fun til it caught us unawares and soaked me up to my waist...
i shouldn’t skip tho the whole ashram thing, seeing as the aurobindo people are rumoured to own half of pondicherry and really were a subtle but ubiquitous presence. an order founded by a bengali former freedom fighter sri aurobindo and built largely by his chosen partner, a frenchwoman with a penchant for the most bizarre headresses to be worn over the end of her sari which she pulled over the top of her head, termed only ‘the mother’. pondicherry is the location of aurobindo ashram’s headquarters, as well as the place where sri aurobindo himself is buried. it is all pretty low-key, it seemed; we visited the ashram to eat one meal and it was just room after room and quiet folk overwhelmingly indian shoveling thru bowls of the blandest food, and at the sight of sri aurobindo’s burial it was also rather quiet, the faithful and the only interested alike silently passing through... maybe the main action of the ashram is at their city auroville some ten kilometers or something outside of pondicherry, where thousands of foreign ashramites along with thousands of native ones live together...
we did get a chance to attend some film screening that was supposed to give more information, be a set of short doucumentary films on the mother and the aurobindo ashram. half of the films seemed rather less strong on the informational side of things, and to amount ultimately to a kind of audio-visual puja. the first especially, fade-ins and fade-outs of flower upon flower, in fields, in solo close-ups, interspersed with images of the mother, music of her own composition playing in the background. in fact, this film was termed an ‘offering’. other films followed, a couple attempting to impart some amount of information perhaps but the sound track was so scratchy it was hopeless... the worst was the final in the series, which was a loop of the same exact footage of the mother giving blessings to the masses, five minutes long, shown four or five times in a row, it was moments like these when we wondered if one had to be on drugs to appreciate this (the films were after all done up in psychedelic colors and produced in the early 70s) or else truly be swept up in some devotional fervor, truly believing this lady (who seemed really a little crazy) was god (as she claimed to be, at moments).
altho the aurobindo thing was interesting, and i wished we could have gotten out there to auroville and all that, the overwhelming impression i was left taking with me of pondicherry was mostly that of the colonial city, not of some spiritual center. its cafes all charming and open and airy, all these cutesy-wutesy boutiques with their soaps and incense, blouses and scarves and broad-legged pants in light south indian cotton... all the eeriness and all the guilty pleasure of a city still half colonial, from what we saw.
we were surprised and somewhat weirded out in fact by the dominance of french folk, it felt almost as if in these old colonial ‘white town’ areas that most of the people on the street were non-indian, and in restaurants it was as if the empire had never ended, tables occupied by foreigners gregarious over glasses of wine or pots of good (praise the lord!) coffee, barely a brown face to be seen but for the occasional except of course for the servers, chefs, guards, etc. it really struck us in the boutiques of the town, they were all over... for instance the place casablanca, whose tagline was ‘the world is yours’ (eek!). it felt like some kind of ex-pat pottery barn cum anne taylor or somesuch thing, full of classy cunning home furnishings, here and there a touch of the indian, along with fine leather bags, designer jewelry, stylish clothing for the westerner finding his/herself in these tropical climes—an exquisite balance found in these wares between environmental conditions and cultural imperatives (of both cultures, the indian, to be modest, the french, to be stylish). this seemed to be a store for the ex-pat yearning perhaps here and there for the touch of the exotic, but basically not willing to compromise on anything fundamental to their sense of aesthetics and/or lifestyle. for their fine, manicured lives, all the luxury of india without any of the dirt, without the cheap stitching and fall-apart fabric.
an interesting place, and we stayed longer than i thought we would. but finally one day we decided it was time, to the relief of our bank accounts and consciences but with a bit of wistfulness in our hearts, at leaving the comfort and calm that we had found there. we had other cities to get to, trichy, tanjore, madurai, so we bundled up our things and set off for central tamil nadu.
true, not much to see exactly, a few churches simple n elegant, a rambly botanical gardens, the streets of white town, the seaside with its piles of stones boulders guarding against the rough sea, a scattering of hindu temples with their classic domes crowded with brightly-painted statues... but still, atmospheric and calming for a frazzled schmemma and schmabil...
our first night we spent in a place called the ajantha guest house, right out there by the sea and promenade. there we managed to create a bit of drama and disapproval, i think it is safe to say. first by giving the guy who carried our suitcase up the stairs a measly ten rupees (he gaped at us in disgust and marched out of the room in indignation), then by creating a scene with the manager, claiming we had a reservation there and a printout that showed rates for the room at half of what this guy was asking for, only to discover the online reservation thing had been a total hoax, the ajantha guest house that we had booked at was in fact called something completely different, no relation, not even nearby. after that embarrassment we tried to keep a low profile, and planned to get out of that place (a bit too costly for us anyway) soon’s we could. so the next morning after breakfast we got ourselves together, ready to set out for the ashram-affiliated guest house across town, on the canal that was the dividing line tween white town and everything else. porter dude again brought our luggage down the stairs and schmabil doubled his previous tip, pressing a twenty into the outstretched hand. in response this guy gave us the ugliest face and went over to the manager and waved the twenty in his face, shouting something in tamil before giving us one more angry backward glance and storming out.
what a relief to find our new accomodations, half the price, lovely, and with an elevator. no porter problems here. maybe lacking the terrace looking out on to the sea, but clean, large, airy. with a courtyard full of mostly potted but a few planted plants... rather like the mission back in kolkata.
the next few days floated by, sitting in satsanga restaurant drinking the best coffee i’d had in i don’t even know how long a year maybe just letting our minds wander sighing and talking tough to the cutest puppy who kept coming by and putting his pointy head soft against my leg and looking up hoping and so sweet, this puppy had his game down for sure, and i gave him a firm talking to, no human food for puppies! schmabil messed with the camera while i wrote and we both teared thru more than a couple crepes, more than one basket of brown bread... one afternoon into evening in a gorgeous hotel the dupleix sipping fruity champagne cocktails (and in schmabil’s case a cucumber martini, which at least he liked, weirdo) our planned brief stop for a drink turning into hours, talking about i don’t know what, the world, the future, lotsa nonsense there too, then moving into the courtyard to leaf thru old fashion/travel magazines and giggle, before again back into the dining room for a fancyschmancy dinner, all of this of course way beyond our means but after this it would be 20 rupee thalis and 7 rupee idlis all day and all night so we let ourselves be a little ridiculous... brick oven pizza n fresh lime sodas at au feu de bois cozy and rustic and especially so in the sudden downpour outside... tho was freaked out after a certain point that at most of these restaurants the bill was invariably given to me, what do they think, that schmabil was some kind of kept person? weirded weirded out.
but yes there were other things beside endless food and coffee and wine, and all of our walks, there was a sad little museum, some peeks into the aurobindo ashram, and then there was a trip out of town to a beach, our autowallah was mean and dropped us off at some random point at the seashore claiming it to be serenity beach and us having no proof either way we got out paid him and walked only to discover fishermen’s boats and nets, determined however to find a proper beach we walked on thru the scorching sand til we reached some small set-up, a sun-shelter and a clean-ish beach, peopled by some unexpected foreigners in bikinis along with a couple dudes in lungis. an interesting pairing of beachgoers. we sat there under the shelter with them reading, before schmabil decided it was time to play in the water, which was fun til it caught us unawares and soaked me up to my waist...
i shouldn’t skip tho the whole ashram thing, seeing as the aurobindo people are rumoured to own half of pondicherry and really were a subtle but ubiquitous presence. an order founded by a bengali former freedom fighter sri aurobindo and built largely by his chosen partner, a frenchwoman with a penchant for the most bizarre headresses to be worn over the end of her sari which she pulled over the top of her head, termed only ‘the mother’. pondicherry is the location of aurobindo ashram’s headquarters, as well as the place where sri aurobindo himself is buried. it is all pretty low-key, it seemed; we visited the ashram to eat one meal and it was just room after room and quiet folk overwhelmingly indian shoveling thru bowls of the blandest food, and at the sight of sri aurobindo’s burial it was also rather quiet, the faithful and the only interested alike silently passing through... maybe the main action of the ashram is at their city auroville some ten kilometers or something outside of pondicherry, where thousands of foreign ashramites along with thousands of native ones live together...
we did get a chance to attend some film screening that was supposed to give more information, be a set of short doucumentary films on the mother and the aurobindo ashram. half of the films seemed rather less strong on the informational side of things, and to amount ultimately to a kind of audio-visual puja. the first especially, fade-ins and fade-outs of flower upon flower, in fields, in solo close-ups, interspersed with images of the mother, music of her own composition playing in the background. in fact, this film was termed an ‘offering’. other films followed, a couple attempting to impart some amount of information perhaps but the sound track was so scratchy it was hopeless... the worst was the final in the series, which was a loop of the same exact footage of the mother giving blessings to the masses, five minutes long, shown four or five times in a row, it was moments like these when we wondered if one had to be on drugs to appreciate this (the films were after all done up in psychedelic colors and produced in the early 70s) or else truly be swept up in some devotional fervor, truly believing this lady (who seemed really a little crazy) was god (as she claimed to be, at moments).
altho the aurobindo thing was interesting, and i wished we could have gotten out there to auroville and all that, the overwhelming impression i was left taking with me of pondicherry was mostly that of the colonial city, not of some spiritual center. its cafes all charming and open and airy, all these cutesy-wutesy boutiques with their soaps and incense, blouses and scarves and broad-legged pants in light south indian cotton... all the eeriness and all the guilty pleasure of a city still half colonial, from what we saw.
we were surprised and somewhat weirded out in fact by the dominance of french folk, it felt almost as if in these old colonial ‘white town’ areas that most of the people on the street were non-indian, and in restaurants it was as if the empire had never ended, tables occupied by foreigners gregarious over glasses of wine or pots of good (praise the lord!) coffee, barely a brown face to be seen but for the occasional except of course for the servers, chefs, guards, etc. it really struck us in the boutiques of the town, they were all over... for instance the place casablanca, whose tagline was ‘the world is yours’ (eek!). it felt like some kind of ex-pat pottery barn cum anne taylor or somesuch thing, full of classy cunning home furnishings, here and there a touch of the indian, along with fine leather bags, designer jewelry, stylish clothing for the westerner finding his/herself in these tropical climes—an exquisite balance found in these wares between environmental conditions and cultural imperatives (of both cultures, the indian, to be modest, the french, to be stylish). this seemed to be a store for the ex-pat yearning perhaps here and there for the touch of the exotic, but basically not willing to compromise on anything fundamental to their sense of aesthetics and/or lifestyle. for their fine, manicured lives, all the luxury of india without any of the dirt, without the cheap stitching and fall-apart fabric.
an interesting place, and we stayed longer than i thought we would. but finally one day we decided it was time, to the relief of our bank accounts and consciences but with a bit of wistfulness in our hearts, at leaving the comfort and calm that we had found there. we had other cities to get to, trichy, tanjore, madurai, so we bundled up our things and set off for central tamil nadu.
Monday, September 17, 2007
out of delhi, up into the hills
i left delhi at daybreak, lurching out of my room with my excess baggage and trundling it all down onto the sidewalk and out of the complex, a bulging bag under either arm and my suitcase trailing grumbly unhappily behind me. it was all still half dark so i didn’t even notice pascal-ma’am out there on the bench until i was almost right on top of her.
caught off guard i open up with an awkward and confused, ‘oh, hello, i didn’t see you! good morning.’ to which she gives me such a look, and, cutting to the chase, says, ‘where are you going?’ feeling a little criminal, caught in the act, although i had totally cleared leaving today with her the evening before, i say simply, tho a little embarassed, ‘dehra dun.’ she nods, thoughtfully, her brow slightly furrowed, perhaps trying to figure out how dehra dun might fit into my whole kathak back-story. then she starts, ‘well...’ taking an awkward pause of looking, before she culminates with the classic indian (unless americans say this all the time and i have been missing it?) all-purpose expression of good wishes, ‘best of luck.’ she gives a matronly nod of her head, and i am dismissed.
i had always been nervous of pascal-ma’am, always looking, watching, sometimes there being a little half smile there at what really you don’t know, but mostly some unreadable blank. her coming out like this to see me off, or at least to watch me as i lugged all this weight on past her, wobbly and all, caught me by surprise. this display of that kind of feeling of maternal responsibility to her charges. it left me almost getting prematurely nostalgic and sad at parting this working women’s hostel.
then i called back to myself the memories of all the sloppy platters of dal and potatoes day after day, the big slippery cockroaches hidden in corners, the bread and butter breakfasts. thus cutting my nostalgia to size, i gave one last smile and a ‘thank you so much!’ over my shoulder, and was outta there.
outside of the gate on a big empty bhagwan das road there was not an auto in sight, and only the distant sound of long-haul trucks and maybe a few buses with the blueline out perhaps for an early killing. i was about to start cursing myself for not calling a cab and thinking an auto could be managed, when out of the distance appeared the light of a single vehicle, coming towards me from the blackness of mandi house. i squinted and scrunched my eyes to look into the glare, and to my excitement there it was, an empty auto prowling the empty streets. i stopped it, laughed at the bloated price offered me, told the auto-walla what price it was going to be (no argument, tho i imagine not so much from his intimidation so much as my just wanting to get out of there and so giving him a totally generous/fair price) and with his help piled all my junk in. and we were off. we flew past men asleep in their autos, autos in line for gas, a few other vehicles but mostly the streets were empty and before i knew it we had reached new delhi station. seeing my wheeled luggage most of the coolies kept silent and curled their lips as i went by. another lost job.
i was way early, i watched a couple other shatabdis come and go before mine came, the 6 50 to dehra dun. with a little help from the guy sitting next to me, solicited in my baby hindi, i got my suitcase aloft and sat down proud in my aisle seat. it was an uneventful ride for the most part, altho there was the issue of the cockroaches. i had noticed a couple coming in but thought it only cuz back there were the cooking areas. but then i saw them in the coach itself. first crawling up the walls, then crawling up some man’s chair and then quite suddenly right in front of me upon my newspaper. the rest of the ride, all six hours of it, i spent either peeking around to make sure none had come to crawl on me or else telling myself pointedly not to look, focus on newspaper, focus on music playing in my headphones, focus on scenery flying by outside. i had never seen roaches on trains before, the numbers of them were so confusing, especially considering these shatabdis are expensive and at least supposedly of a higher class, fully air-conditioned as they are with free meals free newspapers and free water... but anyway. you did not find me touching my lunch that is for sure.
at length we arrived in dehra dun, and successfully i made it out, and down the congested path to the government-operated taxi stand. just as i was loading myself into my ambassador of choice, i saw standing right there another foreigner girl, and as our eyes met we asked the simultaneous question that came to mind: landour? i told her to pile in to, much more simple than me cuz she came lightly luggaged only. suzanne from holland, here for a month, with a week doing the hindi study thing in landour. our driver was mercifully safe and conservative, honked at always by those behind him who would rather have him making dashing passes of other vehicles around sharp turns into the blind beyond.
it only took an hour to get to landour, curling up around the hills, bouncing down the narrow cobble-y streets. my guest house is at the bottom end of landour, called northern store. except that its actual name seems to be terrace cottage guest house, at least on all official documents. i am sure they have all the good reasons. it is a family home with i think only four rooms available, tho i am the only guest at the moment. the room is big, homey i suppose, with a cozy rug over the poured concrete floor an enormous bed a lounge-y chair for reading, a fireplace, a painting of a couple of terrier dogs and a cute little paper indian flag by the door. there is a door to a room with a broken sink hanging off of the wall, and a tap for running water and a bucket, as well as some old abandoned furniture and a full length free-standing mirror. out the door from there around the corner is the toilet, kind of an outhouse really, and then a huge tub of water with a baby bucket to make use of (no flush, just water thrown into it afterwards). this tub is so old and rusted and the whole thing so rough hewn and ramshackle that it really does give that funny feeling of some other century... when they delivered to me my first morning a hand-formed metal bucket of boiling water with which to take my bath it reminded of some scene from the little house series.
so mostly the place seems nice, a little musty (a fact the proprieter denied when i asked when someone would be in to do some dusting, but proven by my resurgent asthma since i have been spending time in this room) but cozy. i was surprised to find a dead mouse in the room with the watertap, in one of the abandoned cupboards there, but the fact that there was nothing live, and it seemed nothing had been there to munch on the creature’s remains somehow made me feel better about the whole thing.
after this i went to see the layout of landour, and most importantly, to figure out where the school was and find myself a meal. it was a serious steep climb for twenty minutes fore i reached char dukan (‘four shops’) but reach i did, and sat down for some food. then i wandered some more uphill, found the school, and sat for a while out by it, looking down the steep incline at the mist breathing in curls and swirls all slow between the tall and slender trees that shot up from seemingly impossible footholds on the hillside.
finally after some time i started to get chilly, and decided it was time to go back down to my little home. i descended again thru the layers of mist past the drama of the trees and sudden steep slope, my path curling down it safely to my place. where after dinner i curled up in my comfy chair by the (nonfunctional) fireplace to read myself into sleepiness...
caught off guard i open up with an awkward and confused, ‘oh, hello, i didn’t see you! good morning.’ to which she gives me such a look, and, cutting to the chase, says, ‘where are you going?’ feeling a little criminal, caught in the act, although i had totally cleared leaving today with her the evening before, i say simply, tho a little embarassed, ‘dehra dun.’ she nods, thoughtfully, her brow slightly furrowed, perhaps trying to figure out how dehra dun might fit into my whole kathak back-story. then she starts, ‘well...’ taking an awkward pause of looking, before she culminates with the classic indian (unless americans say this all the time and i have been missing it?) all-purpose expression of good wishes, ‘best of luck.’ she gives a matronly nod of her head, and i am dismissed.
i had always been nervous of pascal-ma’am, always looking, watching, sometimes there being a little half smile there at what really you don’t know, but mostly some unreadable blank. her coming out like this to see me off, or at least to watch me as i lugged all this weight on past her, wobbly and all, caught me by surprise. this display of that kind of feeling of maternal responsibility to her charges. it left me almost getting prematurely nostalgic and sad at parting this working women’s hostel.
then i called back to myself the memories of all the sloppy platters of dal and potatoes day after day, the big slippery cockroaches hidden in corners, the bread and butter breakfasts. thus cutting my nostalgia to size, i gave one last smile and a ‘thank you so much!’ over my shoulder, and was outta there.
outside of the gate on a big empty bhagwan das road there was not an auto in sight, and only the distant sound of long-haul trucks and maybe a few buses with the blueline out perhaps for an early killing. i was about to start cursing myself for not calling a cab and thinking an auto could be managed, when out of the distance appeared the light of a single vehicle, coming towards me from the blackness of mandi house. i squinted and scrunched my eyes to look into the glare, and to my excitement there it was, an empty auto prowling the empty streets. i stopped it, laughed at the bloated price offered me, told the auto-walla what price it was going to be (no argument, tho i imagine not so much from his intimidation so much as my just wanting to get out of there and so giving him a totally generous/fair price) and with his help piled all my junk in. and we were off. we flew past men asleep in their autos, autos in line for gas, a few other vehicles but mostly the streets were empty and before i knew it we had reached new delhi station. seeing my wheeled luggage most of the coolies kept silent and curled their lips as i went by. another lost job.
i was way early, i watched a couple other shatabdis come and go before mine came, the 6 50 to dehra dun. with a little help from the guy sitting next to me, solicited in my baby hindi, i got my suitcase aloft and sat down proud in my aisle seat. it was an uneventful ride for the most part, altho there was the issue of the cockroaches. i had noticed a couple coming in but thought it only cuz back there were the cooking areas. but then i saw them in the coach itself. first crawling up the walls, then crawling up some man’s chair and then quite suddenly right in front of me upon my newspaper. the rest of the ride, all six hours of it, i spent either peeking around to make sure none had come to crawl on me or else telling myself pointedly not to look, focus on newspaper, focus on music playing in my headphones, focus on scenery flying by outside. i had never seen roaches on trains before, the numbers of them were so confusing, especially considering these shatabdis are expensive and at least supposedly of a higher class, fully air-conditioned as they are with free meals free newspapers and free water... but anyway. you did not find me touching my lunch that is for sure.
at length we arrived in dehra dun, and successfully i made it out, and down the congested path to the government-operated taxi stand. just as i was loading myself into my ambassador of choice, i saw standing right there another foreigner girl, and as our eyes met we asked the simultaneous question that came to mind: landour? i told her to pile in to, much more simple than me cuz she came lightly luggaged only. suzanne from holland, here for a month, with a week doing the hindi study thing in landour. our driver was mercifully safe and conservative, honked at always by those behind him who would rather have him making dashing passes of other vehicles around sharp turns into the blind beyond.
it only took an hour to get to landour, curling up around the hills, bouncing down the narrow cobble-y streets. my guest house is at the bottom end of landour, called northern store. except that its actual name seems to be terrace cottage guest house, at least on all official documents. i am sure they have all the good reasons. it is a family home with i think only four rooms available, tho i am the only guest at the moment. the room is big, homey i suppose, with a cozy rug over the poured concrete floor an enormous bed a lounge-y chair for reading, a fireplace, a painting of a couple of terrier dogs and a cute little paper indian flag by the door. there is a door to a room with a broken sink hanging off of the wall, and a tap for running water and a bucket, as well as some old abandoned furniture and a full length free-standing mirror. out the door from there around the corner is the toilet, kind of an outhouse really, and then a huge tub of water with a baby bucket to make use of (no flush, just water thrown into it afterwards). this tub is so old and rusted and the whole thing so rough hewn and ramshackle that it really does give that funny feeling of some other century... when they delivered to me my first morning a hand-formed metal bucket of boiling water with which to take my bath it reminded of some scene from the little house series.
so mostly the place seems nice, a little musty (a fact the proprieter denied when i asked when someone would be in to do some dusting, but proven by my resurgent asthma since i have been spending time in this room) but cozy. i was surprised to find a dead mouse in the room with the watertap, in one of the abandoned cupboards there, but the fact that there was nothing live, and it seemed nothing had been there to munch on the creature’s remains somehow made me feel better about the whole thing.
after this i went to see the layout of landour, and most importantly, to figure out where the school was and find myself a meal. it was a serious steep climb for twenty minutes fore i reached char dukan (‘four shops’) but reach i did, and sat down for some food. then i wandered some more uphill, found the school, and sat for a while out by it, looking down the steep incline at the mist breathing in curls and swirls all slow between the tall and slender trees that shot up from seemingly impossible footholds on the hillside.
finally after some time i started to get chilly, and decided it was time to go back down to my little home. i descended again thru the layers of mist past the drama of the trees and sudden steep slope, my path curling down it safely to my place. where after dinner i curled up in my comfy chair by the (nonfunctional) fireplace to read myself into sleepiness...
Friday, September 14, 2007
evening, a.i.w.c. working women's hostel
the lightning of an approaching shower begins to spark and scatter thru the pink-orange sky. in this dusky darkening day warden-ma’am pascal ma’am is sitting out on the bench in front of the houses taking in the air, as the wind sweeps the fallen deep pink flowers before it out from under their tree on to the asphalt in front of me. three girls in knee-length dresses, age ten tops, are jumping up and down before pascal-ma’am and singing a folk song, dancing off-beat off-coordination arms everywhere and feet shaky as pascal-ma’am nods on and a grey tabby cat lets out a yawn from where he sits lazily in his corner under the tree.
i settle my things back into my room with a thud, i make an attempt to neaten up, fail, sit back down at my desk to study, trying to bend my mind into some kind of compliance, to push myself thru these pages of mein versus meine, mujhe, mere, lists of verbs tenses and constructions. my brain i think to myself has been cooked by a long day under the sun, it is no use, i will have to face the tutor’s wrath (and even worse, my own shame) tomorrow. just as i go to lay my copy down i hear a rustle followed by a roar followed by the running of water.
i go to my window. all people have vanished, the pink the orange has vanished into black, rain is coming down in the near-darkness, and the grey tabby is hiding mournfully under the benches. the flowers are being swept away into the gutters. scorching day has settled into rainy night. i stand outside and breath in and out, i stick my hands out from under the shelter i have taken to feel the rain. and then (good girl) i go inside wash my face and go to open up my book again. gaya, gayi, gaye, gayin, khaya, khayi, khaye, khayin, piya, piyi... the rain pattering away outside.
i settle my things back into my room with a thud, i make an attempt to neaten up, fail, sit back down at my desk to study, trying to bend my mind into some kind of compliance, to push myself thru these pages of mein versus meine, mujhe, mere, lists of verbs tenses and constructions. my brain i think to myself has been cooked by a long day under the sun, it is no use, i will have to face the tutor’s wrath (and even worse, my own shame) tomorrow. just as i go to lay my copy down i hear a rustle followed by a roar followed by the running of water.
i go to my window. all people have vanished, the pink the orange has vanished into black, rain is coming down in the near-darkness, and the grey tabby is hiding mournfully under the benches. the flowers are being swept away into the gutters. scorching day has settled into rainy night. i stand outside and breath in and out, i stick my hands out from under the shelter i have taken to feel the rain. and then (good girl) i go inside wash my face and go to open up my book again. gaya, gayi, gaye, gayin, khaya, khayi, khaye, khayin, piya, piyi... the rain pattering away outside.
wandering among the tombs
i set out early, but already the scorch of the sun was setting in. i walked down these almost empty new delhi avenues, towards humayun’s tomb, the stream of traffic on my right, the blank high walls surrounding various very important (or so it seemed) offices and institutes of various kinds on my left. my map said it would be simple, a straight shot down zakir hussain marg, but somewhere in the middle of that i got lost in the maze below some gargantuan flyover, a tangle of roads going off in so many directions i became dizzy... a few trial and error turns and much frustration and suspicious speculating on (angrily) why this city is made for cars not people later, i made it.
humayun’s tomb, isa khan’s tomb, barber’s tomb, a whole mess of mausoleums. humayun’s tomb itself is set in the midst of recently restored gardens, grass and trees set out on a kind of grid run thru by narrow marble-lined passageways of running water punctuated by pools and fountains. raised on a platform in the center of these gardens, humayun’s tomb rises up all majestic and grand, clothed in pink and white marble. climbing up the steep stairs into it, i circled the outside, peering in thru its many jalis (stone-carved screens) til i got to the opening. inside it was simple and spare, a huge space, still grand of course but with few details, empty of any kind of fancy decorations... in the middle stood the cenotaph itself. and in the many side-rooms, more of them, cenotaph after cenotaph, appearing mostly in clusters, lined up, with inscriptions in arabic (unless it was urdu or persian?) calligraphy
i wandered from there to the other tombs in the compound, more cenotaphs, more jalis, variations on style of domes, shape, decoration... none comparable to humayun’s tomb in striking-ness. really, most of the other ones were crumbling apart. of the whole complex, i think it is the external view of humayun’s tomb that is the best part...
i left, crossing the street and with a turn, following the signpost, found myself thrown into the sudden congestion and crowding of these back lanes full of butchers bread-friers and really i am not sure what else, was trying to avoid stepping into some pools of goat blood running to onto the sidewalk and avoid the eyes of the people all around me and looking. after stopping to ask one paan-walla i find the lane leading to hazrat nizamuddin aulia dargah, the shrine and burial site of the renowned sufi saint nizam-ud-din. other famous individuals are also buried there, or in the immediate vicinity, among them mirza ghalib and amir khusro. the attention of sellers of various prayer paraphernalia is almost too much to bear, so i rush along the narrow lane leading into the dargah at a heated pace, past all the “hello ma’ams” and “please, pleases”...
thru a jalis i try to look into amir khusro’s tomb, i see only a bunch of men in pale-toned salwar kameez sitting beside some kind of entrance, on the white marble floor. i move on to the shrine itself, glittering and rainbow and gorgeous (no photos allowed), a trio of qawwals sitting out front below a colorful canopy singing their songs, amidst a small group of men mostly, around the sides of the shrine were crowds of women, not allowed into the interior (only men, please) praying as best as they could at the distance... i would have liked to stay longer, but the attention of too many eyes made me feel too awkward and out-of-place so after a brief circle of the shrine itself, and a moment of listening to the music, i left, out past all the beseeching voices of the flower and sweet sellers, back out to the main road. next stop, lodi gardens.
i think really lodi gardens was the first thing that really got me interested in delhi, the first time i came here. my first day in delhi, after a lunch at the cafeteria at habitat center with another fulbrighter, i was left with an empty afternoon to occupy. having been confined only to my defense colony hotel room for the last day i was hungry to see something, anything... and lodi gardens was right down the road. i didn’t know what i was expecting, but the sight of these peaceful open spaces with well-groomed grass, palm trees, and unexplained old ruins scattered about the grounds was a revelation to an eye used to the uninspired gardens and parks of kolkata, with their tacky shrubbery and kangaroos waste bins. this time i came armed with a map and a book, telling me where and what these crumbling old tombs were. washed out by the forces of nature and the passage of time, thick with bird droppings, these tombs felt their age... some beautiful stone-carving, some odd tiles left here and there, pigeons perched on ledges and flying above you circling below the dome...
after this, home, water, a ten minute nap. then, wireless cafe, lunch with molly and another fulbrighter from the good old days in kolkata. and then four more hours of addiction... two pots of coffee, two booked plane tickets, numerous emails and newspaper articles and innumerable checkings of facebook later i packed up my computer and caught the first rickshaw home, at the very onset of sunset.
humayun’s tomb, isa khan’s tomb, barber’s tomb, a whole mess of mausoleums. humayun’s tomb itself is set in the midst of recently restored gardens, grass and trees set out on a kind of grid run thru by narrow marble-lined passageways of running water punctuated by pools and fountains. raised on a platform in the center of these gardens, humayun’s tomb rises up all majestic and grand, clothed in pink and white marble. climbing up the steep stairs into it, i circled the outside, peering in thru its many jalis (stone-carved screens) til i got to the opening. inside it was simple and spare, a huge space, still grand of course but with few details, empty of any kind of fancy decorations... in the middle stood the cenotaph itself. and in the many side-rooms, more of them, cenotaph after cenotaph, appearing mostly in clusters, lined up, with inscriptions in arabic (unless it was urdu or persian?) calligraphy
i wandered from there to the other tombs in the compound, more cenotaphs, more jalis, variations on style of domes, shape, decoration... none comparable to humayun’s tomb in striking-ness. really, most of the other ones were crumbling apart. of the whole complex, i think it is the external view of humayun’s tomb that is the best part...
i left, crossing the street and with a turn, following the signpost, found myself thrown into the sudden congestion and crowding of these back lanes full of butchers bread-friers and really i am not sure what else, was trying to avoid stepping into some pools of goat blood running to onto the sidewalk and avoid the eyes of the people all around me and looking. after stopping to ask one paan-walla i find the lane leading to hazrat nizamuddin aulia dargah, the shrine and burial site of the renowned sufi saint nizam-ud-din. other famous individuals are also buried there, or in the immediate vicinity, among them mirza ghalib and amir khusro. the attention of sellers of various prayer paraphernalia is almost too much to bear, so i rush along the narrow lane leading into the dargah at a heated pace, past all the “hello ma’ams” and “please, pleases”...
thru a jalis i try to look into amir khusro’s tomb, i see only a bunch of men in pale-toned salwar kameez sitting beside some kind of entrance, on the white marble floor. i move on to the shrine itself, glittering and rainbow and gorgeous (no photos allowed), a trio of qawwals sitting out front below a colorful canopy singing their songs, amidst a small group of men mostly, around the sides of the shrine were crowds of women, not allowed into the interior (only men, please) praying as best as they could at the distance... i would have liked to stay longer, but the attention of too many eyes made me feel too awkward and out-of-place so after a brief circle of the shrine itself, and a moment of listening to the music, i left, out past all the beseeching voices of the flower and sweet sellers, back out to the main road. next stop, lodi gardens.
i think really lodi gardens was the first thing that really got me interested in delhi, the first time i came here. my first day in delhi, after a lunch at the cafeteria at habitat center with another fulbrighter, i was left with an empty afternoon to occupy. having been confined only to my defense colony hotel room for the last day i was hungry to see something, anything... and lodi gardens was right down the road. i didn’t know what i was expecting, but the sight of these peaceful open spaces with well-groomed grass, palm trees, and unexplained old ruins scattered about the grounds was a revelation to an eye used to the uninspired gardens and parks of kolkata, with their tacky shrubbery and kangaroos waste bins. this time i came armed with a map and a book, telling me where and what these crumbling old tombs were. washed out by the forces of nature and the passage of time, thick with bird droppings, these tombs felt their age... some beautiful stone-carving, some odd tiles left here and there, pigeons perched on ledges and flying above you circling below the dome...
after this, home, water, a ten minute nap. then, wireless cafe, lunch with molly and another fulbrighter from the good old days in kolkata. and then four more hours of addiction... two pots of coffee, two booked plane tickets, numerous emails and newspaper articles and innumerable checkings of facebook later i packed up my computer and caught the first rickshaw home, at the very onset of sunset.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
dilli days dilli daze
my days have been floating by, wandering around ancient ruins, breezing round the curves of new delhi streets in autos, brief forays into the alleyways up by chandni chowk looking for the remains of shahjahanabad amidst the warehouses and small-time businesses, milling around malls and other shopping strips in front of restaurants like t.g.i.f. bennigan’s ruby tuesdays etc shops like levi’s united colors of benetton reebok marks and spencer’s etc in a cloud of confusion at all this familiar foreign-ness all at once, sitting around in cafes with wireless in a disturbing state of excitement drinking away pots of tea as i rediscover the lures of internet addiction, spending over my budget on the all-too-numerous all-too-tempting fancy schmancy restaurants that seem to call to me from every corner...
napping away scorching afternoons in my cave (aka sad little room in a working woman’s hostel)... going mad from another meal of dal and potatos same’s they served the day before and every day before that... nervous under the gaze of our ever-watching warden pascal-ma’am who i thinked liked me until i appeared outside in something sleeveless,.... checking the corners for giant cockroaches like the waddling one i saw in that other room they tried to move me into last week...
only a few days left here before i run off up into the hills for a month of study for real, hindi/urdu up in landour. two weeks in delhi, n i still can’t figure out what to make of it. all the open space in south delhi, and the alienation of this elitist weird bubble, all the cram and crunch of north, all these far reaching enclaves and colonies, all this (exciting) ancient and (usually not so much exciting except sometimes hmm in a i-have-not-been-home-in-a-year-and-really-need-it kind of way) new, it all feels funny somehow. it is leaving me curious to know more, but yeah, hmm. i have a feeling that in the end i would not be comfortable or happy with all the segregation of rich and poor, all the posh-ness and hip-ness and gated-ness of the world populated by the privileged on one side and then the rest on the other, and neither place feeling really like it has a place for me...
but then, two weeks is nothing. to know a city? i will have to come back i think, if only to get to know it good n proper. you listening, schmabil?
napping away scorching afternoons in my cave (aka sad little room in a working woman’s hostel)... going mad from another meal of dal and potatos same’s they served the day before and every day before that... nervous under the gaze of our ever-watching warden pascal-ma’am who i thinked liked me until i appeared outside in something sleeveless,
only a few days left here before i run off up into the hills for a month of study for real, hindi/urdu up in landour. two weeks in delhi, n i still can’t figure out what to make of it. all the open space in south delhi, and the alienation of this elitist weird bubble, all the cram and crunch of north, all these far reaching enclaves and colonies, all this (exciting) ancient and (usually not so much exciting except sometimes hmm in a i-have-not-been-home-in-a-year-and-really-need-it kind of way) new, it all feels funny somehow. it is leaving me curious to know more, but yeah, hmm. i have a feeling that in the end i would not be comfortable or happy with all the segregation of rich and poor, all the posh-ness and hip-ness and gated-ness of the world populated by the privileged on one side and then the rest on the other, and neither place feeling really like it has a place for me...
but then, two weeks is nothing. to know a city? i will have to come back i think, if only to get to know it good n proper. you listening, schmabil?
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