Stranger in a Strange Land

The Long Goodbye

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 16 Feb 2011 06:32:00 +0000

This is my last post from India.

This week has been a series of long, painful goodbyes to neighbors, friends, and places I've grown to love. It seems, with each final break, the moment I turn my back and walk away, a little piece of my heart breaks free from my body and remains behind.

This morning, as I fed the street dogs that live across the street--Scratchy and Gimpy--I found myself wiping away a stray tear or two. "I wish I could bring you with me," I whispered as they nuzzled my hands.

I found myself smiling sadly as I posed with, and then bought vegetables I didn't need from, my vegetable lady Vena.

I drank in the cacophonous colors of Rattan Pol--the vivid reds, purples, blues, and greens that don't exist at home--and relished the sounds, smells, and bodies that crowded the narrow streets.

I joked, for one last time, with Karsen-bhai, pretending that his scandalous jokes were, in fact, scandalous.

Last night, as we watched TV with the Shahs--the family across the hall that we've grown close to--I found myself mentally storing the sound of Lav, Bhoomi, and Parita's laughter.

I have been, truly, transformed by this experience. I feel, as I write these words, gratitude and sadness well up inside my chest. I am reluctant to leave this place; I fear I may never return.

And yet, a part of me knows I will. This place is home, now. These people and places belong to me now, and I to them.

Tina's Top Ten Holiday Highlights: Part I

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 10:46:00 +0000

Greetings and Salutations!

Steve, the Kid, and I recently returned from a little holiday to southern India--specifically Tamil Nadu and Kerela (see map below for specific details). Neither Steve nor I traveled south in previous trips, and we were traveling during the "high season," so we figured that Tamil Nadu would be a little less... crowded than Kerela or other parts of India. We made a list of things we each wanted from a vacation: Steve wanted to see a number of the important temples of the south, the Kid wanted to go to the beach, and I wanted to spend a night on a houseboat. With this vague plan in mind, we charted a course across Tamil Nadu and ultimately into Kerela (if you scroll down, there is a list of places we visited):

View India Holiday 2011 in a full screen map

As with most vacations (and especially those in which groups of people travel together), there was a bit of stress, some truly awful hotels, and a few meltdowns. However, the fun moments far outweighed the stressful. Over the course of the next week or so, I'm going to countdown my Top Ten Holiday Highlights. Today I give you:

10. Miscellany (aka the items that I enjoyed in part, but not necessarily the whole): The Chennai State Museum, Kailashnath Temple in Kanchipuram, ceiling painings in the Shivanataraj Temple (Chidambaram), the Nagaraja Temple in Alleppey, and the tiled floor of the synagogue in Kochin.

Watching Steve in the State Museum was like watching a kid on Christmas; camera clicking left and right, exclamations of excitement and wonder, and enthusiastically explaining the attributes of various statues, some of which he's only seen in the glossy pages of textbooks.

Krishna from the Vijayanagar Period

We made an error when visiting Kanchipuram: we went to the Ekambareshwara Temple first. Now, let it be known that this particular temple is very attractive for a new temple. However, all three of us agreed that the much older (as in 1300-1400 years old) Kailashnath Temple was way cooler. Unfortunately, by the time we got to it, it was just about dark. Fortunately, a nice guide with a "torch" (aka flashlight) showed us around. It was well worth it for the paintings inside the meditation chambers.

Now, the Shiva Nataraj (the Dancing Shiva)Temple at Chidambaram was...not my favorite. I refer to it as "the Poo Temple" for the simple fact that there was more poo laying about than I was comfortable with. Let me make one thing clear: there is a LOT of poo in India. One must, on any given day, dodge various consistencies of animal feces on the street or sidewalk and it is not uncommon to see a small child popping a squat on the side of the road. Simply put, everyone poos in India. However, one does not expect to encounter large turds in places of worship. Large turds that I, personally, am not convinced were not adult human in nature. An initial sighting of a pile of the aforementioned poo set the mood for the whole temple. That being said, the ceiling paintings, which we were *technically* not allowed to take pictures of (and which we ceased doing once we were informed of such) were pretty awesome.

Shiva Nataraj (aka Dancing Shiva)

I was not permitted to photograph the last two items, the Nagaraja Temple outside of Alleppey and the tiled floor of the Jewish Synagogue in Kochin. They appealed to me because of their uniqueness.

The Nagaraja Temple contained over 30,000 naga (sometimes snakes, other times half-snake, half-human creatures) images and is presided over by an elderly priestess... something that Steve has only heard of in Nepal. The temple seemed to abound with contradictions: many snakes in India are poisonous, for example, yet the temple is where childless couples go to pray for fertility. In nearly every enclave there were little stone "houses" with holes--my hypothesis is that these are places meant to encourage snakes to stick around the forest areas. For more information, see here and here.

The Jewish Synagogue in Kochin represents a branch of Jewish history dating back to the expulsion of the Jews from Palestine in 70 AD. They came to Kerela and were granted the right to create and maintain a Jewish principality within what is now modern-day Kochin. They became an integral part of the merchant and trade class of India for approximately seven centuries (~11th century to ~17th century). Now, mostly due to migration to Israel,there are only six Jewish families left in Kochin. The synagogue is unique in the fact that it's floor is comprised of hand painted white and blue Chinese tiles, no two alike, from the mid-1700s. More information here and here.

Modhera Sun Temple (WARNING! Picture heavy!)

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 13:45:00 +0000

Well, it's been a long time since I've posted. I've been busy applying to PhD programs (both Literature as well as Literature and Creative Writing), getting ready for my cousin, and planning for the holidays. As a result, there isn't much to report--Steve continues to work on his research (it's going mostly well), I became a first time auntie (shout out to my nephew--can't wait to meet you!), and life continues in the A-Bad. It's gotten "cold" here--high of 84 in the middle of the day, low of 50 at night--I know, poor us! However, 50 is now cold enough that it warrants layers and socks and shoes... which makes us SO SCREWED when we get home. **Sigh** And I already hated winter!

In the meantime (and as a sort of... obscene gesture at winter) we went to Patan for some manuscripts. Along the way we stopped at the Modhera Sun Temple--one of three such temples (of consequence) left in India. The temple was built in 1026 AD by the Solankis (the dynasty that Steve studies) in honor of Lord Surya, the Hindu Sun God, from whom they claim divine lineage. The temple was sacked twice (first by Mahmud Ghazni, an Afghani ruler who raided temples to collect money to fund his war in Afghanistan/Iran) and later partially destroyed by Allauddin Khilji, a Turk; he raided the temple during his conquest of Gujarat and subsequently destroyed the Solanki line and worship at the Sun Temple. The temple is in remarkably good shape despite how weathered some of the sandstone is; here, take a look:

Sun Temple proper is positioned in such a way that during the equinoxes, the sun would shine into the temple and directly onto a statue of Lord Surya.

Tank for bathing and royal weddings in front of temple. There are a total of 108 shrines around the perimeter of the tank

Vishnu sleeping on Shesha (the snake) prior to creating the world

Sun Temple Meeting Hall--dance hall, marriage hall, hall where the Solanki's held court, etc.

The stones were cut and placed next to each other, joined by a thick wood pin.

Shiva, Lord of the Dance


When a demon took over Hell, Heaven, and Earth, Vishnu appeared before him as a dwarf. He said, "give me as much land as I can cover in three strides." The demon granted his wish and Vishnu promptly turned into a giant and with three strides, he covered Hell, Heaven, and Earth. This depicts his third stride from Earth to Heaven.

Loving the pot belly!

Steve doin' his thang...

Steve droppin' some knowledge on the Kid...

A rare depiction of Brahmani (a female depiction of Brahma) with three heads

Sex Ed Kama Sutra style...

Popular myth says that this particular pillar was shattered by the mighty sword of an invader. More likely, there was an iron deposit that worked its way out and then was forcibly removed.

Boo-yah! Amazonian archer to the rescue!

Monkey see, monkey do!

Even medieval women enjoyed their pedis and manis!

One of the goddesses--Saraswati or Lakshmi?

Door guardians

Where there's guano, there's... BATS!

Snakes on a Column!

The Boy and I standing in what would have been one of the original gateways to the temple

Me & the Kid

Crazy eyed Ganesh

Happy Diwali!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 20:09:00 +0000

Ah... Diwali. The festival of lights...and the sharp ratta-tat-tat of "bombs" exploding.

All kidding aside, Diwali is my favorite Indian holiday. It's like the 4th of July and Christmas had a baby... a big, fireworks and sweet laden baby.

This particular holiday marks the return of Rama and Sita after fourteen years of exile and the defeat of Ravana (as in Evil Demon King Ravana). Lights, particularly these little clay pots called "diyas," play a big part in the celebrations. In mythology, Rama's people were so happy for his return that they lit Rama's way with these little diyas and set off firecrackers in celebration. Nowadays, people set off firecrackers and fireworks of all calibers, buy new clothes, and go visiting with sweets in hand.

It's fabulous.

Here's proof.


Diya

Fountain!

Whirlygig!

More fountain action!

Sparklers!

The roof-top crew... we set off BIIIIG fireworks!

And... for your entertainment... a video. (I'm sorry it's sideways...)

The Mother lode...

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 18:32:00 +0000

$18 worth of BANG!
(That's 20 sparklers, 10 "snakes," and 36 fireworks. Boo-yah.)

Happy Halloween!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 16:08:00 +0000

I love Halloween.

Love.

When we were children, my mother helped us make the most extravagant and exquisite costumes. I don't ever remember wearing store bought costumes--we always had to use our imagination and whatever stuff we had laying around. One year, for example, my sister went as a giant spider. Most of the legs were attached by strings so when she moved an arm, ALL the legs moved. It was fantastic.

Steve worked really hard to make Halloween happen for me this year. He bought a pumpkin from Veena-bhen (our vegetable lady) and spent well over an hour carving it. He even METICULOUSLY picked the goo off the pumpkin seeds so I could roast them because he knows how much I love roasted pumpkin seeds.

Later, he'll suffer though Rocky Horror Picture Show.

We spent all last night and most of today making decorations for the smattering of kids that showed up to trick-or-treat. The kids came, ate/pocketed THIRTY-TWO Halloween-sized candy bars, drank about two liters of soda, watched Thriller (howling and hooting at the appropriate moments), and then left.

It was fabulous.

Now, we're watching horror movies under a ceiling full of dancing bats and ghosts.

Happy Halloween, y'all.

Be my Frankenstein!

Necessity is the mother of invention--construction paper held together with floss! I'm a Halloween MacGuyver!

Tissue and floss...

Upside down pumpkin man--his bottom was too round. He was a big, BIG hit with our visitors.

Glue wasn't quite dry on this one when we hung it...

ah-OOOOO! Werewolves of A-bad!

And the piece de resistance... Steve's the master of the art of collage. (It took him BOTH DAYS to make this... because he's that meticulous. Seriously, look at the ghosts' faces, the grass, the witch and cat, the MUMMY).

Ah... the crew!

Happy Halloweenie!

Happy 141st, Gandhiji!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 08:36:00 +0000

In addition to being Gandhi's 141st birthday (October 2nd), this year also marked the 75th anniversary of Gandhi's Salt March. For those of you not as versed in Indian history, Gandhi devised the Salt March as a peaceful protest against the British Raj's unfair Salt Tax (instituted in 1882). In essence, what the Salt Tax did was outlaw not only the production and sale of salt by non-British entities, but made it unlawful for workers to freely collect their own salt from the marshes peppered along the Indian coastal line. Essentially, the British created a monopoly from which only they benefited.

In response, Gandhi first wrote a letter to the British Viceroy informing him of his intent to protest:

If my letter makes no appeal to your heart, on the eleventh day of this month I shall proceed with such co-workers of the Ashram as I can take, to disregard the provisions of the Salt Laws. I regard this tax to be the most iniquitous of all from the poor man's standpoint. As the Independence movement is essentially for the poorest in the land, the beginning will be made with this evil.

The Viceroy responded, informing Gandhi that Britian's stance on the tax remained firm.
And so, on March 12, 1930 Gandhi and a number of his followers gathered at his ashram (men only as he felt that including women would not elicit the same--hopefully--violent response from law-enforcement) began the 23-day march from his ashram on the west bank of the Sabarmati River in Ahmedabad to the coast. Upon reaching their destination, Dandi, Gandhi gave a speech and then did something that would inspire a nation.

He bent, perhaps ran his hands over the rich earth, fingers searching before plucking a small lump of salt from the ground. With this simple gesture, Gandhi broke British law.

His fellow protesters followed suit, and, over the course of the next month, nearly each and every one of them--including Gandhiji himself--were arrested and thrown in prison.

But the damage was done. The Salt March encouraged the people to protest, and protest they did. Some ended in violence when peaceful marchers, refusing to respond to threats of violence, were clubbed to death by armed policemen. Others were peaceful boycotts. Either way, a number of British salt mills and shops were forced to close and the seed of revolution was planted in the people's minds and hearts.

I was thinking of this on Wednesday when Steve and I visited the Hutheesing Center on CEPT's campus. The gallery is hosting an exhibit called "Mahatma: The Youthful Perspective", a series of full size/nearly full-sized images of Gandhi created by artist Debanjan Roy. The artist modeled each of the statues after a pre-existing image of Gandhi and attempted to capture the spirit of Bapu (meaning "father"; the name that Gandhi's friends and associates affectionately called him) as well as that of modern 21st century India. The artist describes his exhibit thus:

Now, here's the thing. I'm not overly fond of symbolic art (and I'm even less fond of artist's "notes" that feel the need to explain the symbolism of their installation--I have eyes, I can see, and I'm pretty educated so I like to draw my own conclusions, thank you very much). However, I do like thought provoking art. This exhibit was a little bit of both. Take a look:


Bapu with iPod

Bapu and Me


It doesn't show well, but the artist--the "me" in the title--is sharing his iPod with Gandhiji

I don't remember the title of this one, but we called it Bapu the Hipster

A close-up of Bapu's Pug

Bapu with Goats (this one is probably the most iconic-like representation of Gandhiji in the whole collection)

Bapu on the Moon


Bapu on the Phone

Bapu and Soldiers (It might be hard to see, but the two soldiers have the same name tag, Debanjan Roy)

Bapu with Laptop

Absence of Bapu (this one was, perhaps, the most symbolic of all the pieces)

The "See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil" monkeys are above the gate at Gandhi's ashram

When people visualize Gandhi, I would hazard the first image that comes to mind is that of a thin, frail-looking, blad-headed old man wrapped in a white cloth, wire rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. This image is also highly representative of the way people intellectualize Gandhi's teachings--truth and nonviolence. Here is an unassuming man--he is not muscular, and thus non-threatening (in the physical sense)--who desires discourse over violence, intellect over brute force.

Despite Gandhi's renunciation of worldly goods in pursuit of these two principles, it is important to emphasize that Gandhi's simplified life was NOT a rebuke of modern life or modern things. In fact, Gandhi was a big proponent of using the trappings of modern life--and especially modern techniques of communication--to emphasize and relay his teachings. It is Roy's depiction of Gandhi interacting with our modern technologies--the cell phone, the iPod, the laptop--that is perhaps the most indicative of Gandhi's appreciation of science and technology. It is, therefore, not difficult to imagine Bapu updating his status on Facebook, rallying his followers on Twitter, or creating podcasts of his latest speeches.

But it is also important to recognize that Gandhi would have instructed us to not become the sum of our things. We are not our Facebook pages or our Twitter handles; we are living, breathing, vibrant people. Furthermore, he would encourage us to disengage from the technologies--log off the computer, remove the iPod buds from our ears--and engage with the world outside our technological cocoon.

I've often wondered what Gandhi would think of how his image and teachings are used. I often think, especially here in India, that he would be sad at how easily his name and image are grossly contorted by individuals and groups who aren't living Gandhian principles. However, I couldn't help but think that if Gandhi were able to see Debanjan Roy's statues, with their mixture of playfulness and seriousness melding to create a message not unlike that that Gandhi preached, Bapu would be pleased.

And By the Way...

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 10:03:00 +0000

If getting here weren't enough of a... challenge I give you THE UNIDENTIFIED AND MYSTERIOUS (but most likely poison ivy) RASH

doom doom, doom doom, doom doom, doooooommmm

Inside the elbow pit...

On the upper hip...

Left forearm....

Close-up of left forearm...

Right forearm (dunno if you can see it, but there's a... carter in the middle of this one)

Gross, I know. And, as an added bonus, SUPER ITCHY. Like, wake up in the middle of the night to find myself scratching... myself. *Sigh*

Thank you India...

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 09:47:00 +0000

Well... I made it. I think I'm *mostly* caught up on my sleep... mostly. I think I'd be more caught up on my sleep if India would, you know, not dump and then shovel gravel RIGHT. OUT. SIDE. my window at 3:30 in the morning. But hey, after hell I went through to GET here, who am I to complain...

About that.

See this?

This states my flight from Mumbai to Ahmedabad as CONFIRMED. In fact, I even double checked with the booking agency (Airfare.com) SOLELY because an agent previously called me to inform me that my original flight was canceled (permanently) and they had re-booked me on a 5 a.m. flight.

See this?

This is the print-out that Air India gave me after I waited for... oh, two hours in line AFTER waiting for about an hour in line to check-in.

Here's the skinny.

I get in line. Per usual, and because I have THE worst luck, I pick the wrong line. I manage to choose the line in which the check-in guy is slower than molasses on a cold day. To top that off, Indian's fail to queue properly--as in Indian's budge A LOT. So after much jostling, finger tapping, and jaw clenching, I FINALLY get to the front of the line. The guy asks me to spell my name--which is CLEARLY printed on the top of the ticket--like five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. He asks me to spell my name another three or five times. Tappity, tappity, tap. Then he tells me to step to the side so he can take care of the people behind me.

I kid you not, folks, at this juncture, that is ALL the "customer service" I received. No explanation, no "Go see this person at this counter," nothing. Nada. Zip, zilch, zero.

So I wait. Patiently at first. I figured, hey, he's Indian and his English kinda sucks so maybe he just wants to clear up the line a little bit so he can properly process me. And I've still got plenty of time--three hours of time in fact.

And then, as it becomes clear that he's doing his level best to avoid eye contact with me and he has NO intention of telling the people in line that they need to step over to the other queue, I grow impatient. I start heaving my bag about, I start tapping my foot. I clear my throat loudly. I move myself closer to the counter--well in front of the "Wait here for your turn" yellow line--so as to make myself a proper roadblock, and thus a major inconvenience to all other passengers trying to exit the queue in an orderly fashion. I figure, hey, he's GOTTA notice me at this point.

Nope. All I receive is a "Please continue to wait, madam," which serves to only piss me off.

"For how much longer, sir? I've already been here an hour," I say loudly, and somewhat angrily.

At this juncture, the gentleman motions me forward, asks me another five or six times what my name is and tappity, tappity, taps on his keyboard. I'm feeling a little better about now, kinda like it's all going to work out and this is just one of those "India things" (like monkeys in the kitchen, or families of six riding on scooters) but no. It's actually a a booking fail. As it turns out, I'm not listed on the passenger manifest.

Panic washes over me, white-hot anger on it's heels. The man at the ticket counter motions me to step aside, yet again, and I explode. I yell--no, lets be honest, I shrill--at him that he needs to help me and he needs to help me NOW. He attempts to say, "Please wait," one more time and I throw a royal hissy fit. I demand that he remove himself from behind the counter and take me to someone that can help me. Miraculously, he does.

He leads me over to Air India's last-minute ticket counter. He disappears, with my e-ticket in hand, into an office. I am feeling hopeful. In a few moments, I tell myself, I'll have a ticket and be on my way.

Oh, silly, silly Tina.

What I do have in my hand at the end of this little jaunt is a piece of paper that confirms 100% that my ticket was canceled.

I am flummoxed. Completely and totally flummoxed. And this whole process has taken two hours, leaving me only one hour to figure out if I even have a seat on a plane, go through security (no easy feat in India), and board a plane.

While I'm standing there sputtering, feeling the heat of a frustrated crying jag rushing up my neck and into my face. I am desperate to maintain some semblance of composure.

I fail miserably.

Mr. Ticket Man hands me off to a very harried woman who proceeds to tell me, repeatedly, that my ticket is canceled and a host of other things, that honestly, I don't hear because I'm in the process of losing it. Loudly. In public.

I scream at her. I demand she fix it. RIGHT. NOW. I cry.

She tells me to calm myself, which makes me cry harder. Then, out of sheer frustration, she says "I cannot help you if you are not calm. You must go speak to Continental," and waggles her hand ambiguously in the direction of The Larger Airport.

I storm off, bawling my eyes out and muttering like a mad woman. I have no idea where the Continental ticket counter is (later, I find out it's on another floor).

Long story short: I wander back to the Air India ticket counter, and seek the help of this woman. Her English is better than Mr. Ticket Man, and she seemed authoritative. After gritting my teeth at her admonishment--"Are you calm, now? I cannot help you if you are not calm"--she takes my ticket and does her best.

I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. I watch as the minutes tick off the clock--12:30 a.m., 12:35 a.m., 12:45 a.m. I approach her once again, and she informs me that my ticket was NOT issued to Air India as stated on the e-ticket, but rather through Kingfisher. Her man was "on it"--it being an attempt to wrest my 1:05 a.m. ticket from Kingfisher and put me on the 1:30 a.m. Air India flight.

12:50. 12:55...

Suddenly a man rushes up to the woman and hands her a piece of paper. She motions me forward, hands the paper to another guy, and tells me THEY'RE HOLDING THE PLANE FOR ME. The ticket is printed (it's now 1:05) and I am rushed off to security. Miraculously, they let me jump the line. I'm frisked, my carry-on is scanned, and I practically throw myself down the stairs in an effort to get to my gate.

The irony of this situation? After safely boarding the plane, our take-off is delayed for another hour and a half.

Hey, hey! We're the Monkeys! People say we monkey around!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 15:48:00 +0000

The monkeys have invaded.

No longer do the hairy little beasts remain content to sit in the tree outside our kitchen balcony. Oh no.

They come inside.

Yesterday while Steve was at work, I opened up all the windows and porch doors and cranked the ceiling fans in an effort to maximize air movement. I set up camp in the dinning room on the table. It's cooler, I can sit directly under a fan, and I can spread out. However, the location of the table does not allow full visual of the rest of the apartment--I cannot see the living room (it's behind me) and I cannot see into the kitchen.

Now hang in there with me just a little bit longer.

It has been windy as of late. Cyclone Phet has been busy blowing up the coast, causing some major damage along the way. The worst Ahmedabad saw, however, was some big winds--the kind that blow leaves from trees and cause mild dust storms--and rains (glorious, glorious rains!). So, when I heard a crash and a rustle, I thought nothing of it really. I was in the midst of a serious bout of writing genius and couldn't be bothered.

And then I heard it again, a sound like someone riffling through a drawer of loose silverware.
Curious, I pushed my chair back and craned my head as far as my neck allowed.

I saw this:

Just in case you can't recognize it, that thing on the floor, as well as IN THE MONKEY'S HAND is a much coveted mango.

And if you're curious, my initial reaction was this:

Now mind you, these pictures were taken after about three minutes of staring at the monkey staring at me. Once, someone warned me not to smile (show your teeth) at monkeys, which, the last time I was in India, proved to be good advice. Long story short--a friend with a toothsome grin accidentally smiled a momma monkey, who calmly put her baby down, climbed down the tree, and charged us. We ran inside a store and were held hostage for what felt like an eternity by a monkey screaming and banging on the window.

So this time, with roughly fifteen feet between me and the monkey, and knowing how rapidly monkeys can move when so inclined, I was not about to make any sudden moves. I weighed my options and did the only thing logical.

I called Steve. The conversation went something like thus:

Steve: Hello love!

Tina (calmly, barely above a whisper, while staring at the monkey): There's a monkey in the kitchen. What do I do.

Steve: What?

Tina: There's a monkey in the kitchen and he's eating our mangos

Steve: Hold on, there's a WHAT in our kitchen eating our what?

Tina (louder, a bit panicked): There's a f**king monkey in our kitchen eating our mangoes!

Steve: Hold on.

*Click* (the sound of the phone hanging up.)

Insert annoying doorbell music, probably "She'll be Coming Around the Mountain when She Comes" or "Batlle Hymn of the Republic" or possibly "Amazing Grace." (Our doorbell plays over thirty different songs. Mostly Civil War era or there abouts.)

At this point, I'm swearing under my breath and trying to decide if its really a wise idea to answer the doorbell when a monkey is sitting practically IN my house. I answer the doorbell, figuring at the very least I can employ the help of whomever is unfortunate enough to choose that moment to try to sell me something. (No joke, we've had people selling toothbrushes and razors ring the doorbell. They wander off after they realize I don't speak a lick of Gujarati beyond "khiskoli" or "matsya bhavan"--the words for "squirrel" and "fish palace (aquarium) respectively). It's Steve.

Steve's official view of monkeys is "They're cool but I neither want to pet one or have one as a pet." He once had a pervy monkey that watched him sleep. Every day for a week. Suffice to say, Steve only likes them from a distance.

I should also preface the shenanigans that ensued by saying we weren't wholly unaware that monkeys are... home invasion artists. The family we briefly stayed with had this fruit basked with a net covering. The covering had a hole in it about big enough for a child to fit it's hand through. I assumed that a child did, indeed, make such a hole. Nope. Not the case. A monkey came IN THE HOUSE, and helped himself to whatever was inside the fruit basket, ate, and left.

Monkeys don't make good house guests.

I start babbling like an idiot about the monkey in the kitchen. We're both staring at the monkey. Which is unphased by my escalating (read: verge of shrieking) voice, or Steve's threats to bean the bastard with the big plastic jar of granola. Instead, it does this:

Oh hey, look at that! An individually wrapped mango just for me!

Nom, nom, nom!

Mangos are sticky!

See that orange smudge on the right hand side of the picture? The little turd looked at his hand, decided it was too sticky to deal with, FLUNG MANGO GOO off his hand and then wiped it on the porch wall. Repeatedly.

And oh yeah, he brought a friend.

And the friend wants in...

Rest of the story goes something like this.

First the juvenile monkey showed up. He sat on the window sill and looked longingly into our kitchen.

Then Big Momma showed up. There are no pictures of Big Momma cause, well, she was big and scary. When she sauntered INTO the kitchen--as in PAST the door and into the kitchen proper--Steve shoved me out of the house, grabbed whatever valuables were close by (the computer, the one unmasticated mango Steve managed to rescue, and our bags. I should mention, I was now standing outside my apartment in flip-flops and pajamas.

Steve decides to see if the chokidar, a sort of building doorman, can do anything about the trio of monkeys on our porch. According to Steve (you'll really have to have him tell you the story when we're state-side again), the conversation went a little something like this.

Steve, arriving downstairs to see him dead asleep on a rope-bed, pauses for a second to catch his breath and collect himself, stands over him for a beat until he wakes up.
"Eh, sir?"
"Hunh?" he says, lifting up his head a bit and blinking through the sleep in his eyes.
"Tran vandaro amara rasoda-maa che." [There are three monkeys in our kitchen.]
"Vandaro?" [Monkeys, eh?]
"Hahn. Tran... Rasoda-maa... Hav-ey." [Yeah. Three of 'em... In the kitchen... Right now.]
"Jati rahega." [Wait for 'em to leave.]
"Shu!?" [What!?]
"Jati rahega," and puts his head back down.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. I couldn't take it. Standing listening to things bang around in the kitchen was KILLING me. So I tip-toe back inside (feet still in flip-flops just in case I have to sprint the other way) and squat down in an attempt to see underneath the curtain that separates the kitchen and dining room. I see little feet move back and forth, and then disappear, followed by the slap of monkey feet on our counter-top.

I can't take it. I manage to wait until Steve comes back before swishing the curtain back. By this time, we're back down to two monkeys. One of which, decides its had enough of mango, comes in the kitchen, rifles through our basket of potatoes, onions, and beets. He picks up two potatoes, cradles them in the crook of his arm and re-assumes his position on the balcony.

Don't worry, monkeys share. He proceeds to take a bite out of one potato, throw it to the ground, smack his smaller friend on the shoulder and point at the potato. Little monkey jumps to the ground, examines the potato and discovers the tub of peanuts Big Momma snagged. He tried biting the top off, bats the tub around for a bit.

Just so you know, we're actively rooting for the monkey at this point. We openly groan when the little guy has the tab in his little paw--all he has to do is give it a yank and it'll pop right off--but then turns the whole tub over and bits and the bottom again. See for yourself:

Shortly after that, we decide no more monkeys inside. Steve makes a mad dash for the door, flings it shut and blots it.

The rest of these pictures are taken from the inside looking out. Yes, the cheeky monkey held us hostage in our apartment. The little guy was VERY interested in the fact I was taking pictures--he stared at me a little too intently--while the other one could have cared less. He had a potato to eat.

Are you lookin' at me? Are YOU lookin' at ME?

Look at all the Pretties! (Picture Heavy!)

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 02 Jun 2010 12:15:00 +0000

Yesterday I went to a friend of a friend's house in Old Ahmedabad (my favorite part of the city when its not busy rioting) to get mehndi (the reddish-brown temporary tattoos applied to the hands and feet of women in India, parts of the Middle East, and Africa).

Henna is a muddy paste made from the leaves of a henna plant (which, research tells me, is a member of the Loosestrife family--you know, that tall purple flower that grows in ditches at home). Some sources say that henna has been used for cosmetic and medicinal purposes for over 5,000 years. My favorite story I uncovered claimed that people used to create big puddles of henna to stick their feet and hands in it. Someone along the way discovered that henna actually acted as a cooling agent both during the application as well as long after. So people would get together, create a henna mud puddle and wallow in it. Pretty soon some inventive woman discovered that a small bit of henna, say a dot in the middle of her palm, served the same purpose. And then she added more and more dots until she had a pattern. And thus, the act of mehndi as a decoration was born. For a more complete, albeit brief, history, see here. For a more complete history, if the spirit moves you, poke around here. Traditionally (read: in the past) tools similar to what the Egyptians would have used to apply khol to their eyes were used to paint henna on hand--something long and thin and probably made out of bone or ivory. Today, people buy henna in these pre-packaged cone-shaped packages and it vaguely resembles dark swampy green frosting. Simply snip a tiny hole in tip of the cone, apply a minimal amount of pressure and away you go!

I'm certain different designs represent different thoughts, sentiments, or beliefs, but I don't pretend to know what those are. Mostly, from what I can tell, "for fun" henna consists of paisley shapes, random swirls, and flower looking things. More importantly, its bonding time. I made two new friends during this whole process--Mini and Mahi--who both vied for first rights to invite Steve and I to their respective family homes and now have an open invitation to visit us whenever they'd like to "learn" English. Neither girl really needs to do, they just need practice in speaking.

These girls are a bit of an inspiration, actually, especially in light of recent events in Ahmedabad (which, admittedly, may have rattled me more than they rattled Ahmedabadites proper) and over all (anti) religious sentiments within Gujarat and India. Mini is Hindu, Mahi Muslim. These two groups do not... riots, some very violent and bloody, occurred because of hatred of one group towards the other. Recently, a comparatively small riot took place in Old City Ahmedabad, just across the bridge from where Steve and I live. A Hindu wedding procession marched past a Muslim mosque during prayer hour. The noise of the procession (which is deafening) offended the people praying. Riot ensued--one man was killed (he was dragged off his scooter and his throat slit), homes and businesses bombarded with shrapnel, and a number of people hurt. The police were able to shut down an operation that was going to use Moltov cocktails. It went on for about a week and then petered out.

Mini and Mahi, however, are two girls (they're about 22 and 19 respectively) who are as close as sisters. Mini doesn't need an invitation into Mahi's house, as evidenced by the way she let herself in. She treats Mahi's little sister and brother as she would her own, good naturedly joking with the brother, braiding the sister's hair. As Mahi henna-ed my hands, the two sat and chatted about boys, school, and other such things girls giggle about. Mini fed Mahi noodles and water as she worked on my hands and arms. They're both optimists, and both dream of going traveling to the U.S.--which is why they want to learn English. Its clear they have an affection that isn't bound by religion or culture.

I liked them instantly. And by the end of the day, I felt as though they included me, at least a little, in their circle.

But now for the mehndi.

The whole process took over two hours. At first, it looked like this:

Half-way done! Now all I had to do was wait 4-8 hours , take off the henna (which was no easy task) not wash my hands for the night (henna remains "active", sinking into and staining your skin until you wash off the plant oils), and viola!

Palms up...

Palms down...

The Post in Which I Whine (yeah, I know big surprise...)

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 26 May 2010 12:56:00 +0000

Sometimes, India gets me down.

It could be the heat (well over 100°F and on its way to 120°F), from which there is no relief. People, 43 to date in Ahmedabad alone, die in this heat. I've spent entire weeks inside the one (barely) air-conditioned room in our apartment with no desire to leave my cool cocoon for food, TV, or even interaction with other people. Sure, I make the occasional made dash from the bedroom to the kitchen--which is only one room over--for water (gotta stay hydrated!) but aside from that, I barely move from the bed, which is situated in front of the air-conditioner. Seriously, the air a mere foot away from the bed is a hot, steamy, and unpleasant 92°F in comparison to the balmy84.6°F of the area directly in front of the dinosaur of an air-conditioner (this is me attempting to not complain *too* loudly as the air-conditioner was free...)

Or it could be the newspaper, The Times of India (with the Ahmedabad Mirror insert). As of late, I am convinced that one, if not both, of these papers are actually rag mag's in sheep's clothing. That is to say, they report on stories in the most salacious of manners. A typical day's paper includes, among others, stories of rape, stories of murder, stories about planes crash landing. TWO such stories have graced the paper lately. The first is some-what of a scandal as a novice, non-licensed pilot crash landed a plane (the engine when kafutz). It was initially reported that her instructor, per regulations was on board, but the Ahmedabad Mirror sensed something fishy, which it turns out was a good gut feeling as the another novice pilot, not the instructor, was on board. They ran grainy cell phone pictures prove it! In the second story, a plane carrying 120 passengers over-shot the runway and went up in flames killing everyone but eight people who managed to crawl out. Which brings me to another aspect of the paper that creeps me out: showing pictures of dead bodies. I'm not talking covered or in body bags, but broken and bloody. Bird's eye views of suicide jumpers, vehicle crash victims, soldiers shot dead by Moaist rebels. Men, women, children.

Added to the stories of murder and mayhem, are these odd nationalistic ego-pumping stories. Today, for example, The Ahmedadbad Mirror reported that Gujarat is "among 'best prepared' to counter terror." This is ironic, and not at all funny, considering as far as I can tell some of the worst acts of terror within India originated in Gujarat and may or may not have been encouraged by high-up officials (see here, here, and here). In a similar (and perhaps less frightening manner) India in general is all about the ego-pumping. For example, rather than report on the magic of science in the latest and greatest "discovery" (I"m talking about how scientists created life), the front page article Time of India ran was all about the three "Indian" scientists that were on this team. These scientists, by the way, were as Indian as I am German, which is to say that once upon a time, some where in my illustrious bloodline there is some dude (or dudette) who was for-God's-honest, off the boat German. And lets not forget to mention the newly elected British and Trinidad and Tobago prime ministers (both women) who are "Indian" as well. On the one hand, I get it. I get wanting to not only be proud of your country, but to connect one's self to global communities. But...

While that is the tip of the "How India Annoys Tina" iceberg (don't even get me started on Cricket, and movie theaters), there are still many things I love about this country. I love that Ahmedabad, for example, rushed to the rescue of over-heated and dying bats. That a small group of people were kind enough to provide construction workers (who, apparently, aren't unionized and do not get a break during the day) and street dwellers with water during this seemingly endless heatwave. That this woman believes in the gift of life.

Most of all, I love that it is MANGO SEASON!

(4-5 kilos--that's 8-10 lbs--of Alphonso mango-y goodness for $6.81. Boo-yah!)

And in celebration of all that is mango, I give you THE MANGO SONG!

The Mango Song... (it's 5 minutes long, you really only need to listen to about 2 mintues, or two choruses)

A Quickie...

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Wed, 05 May 2010 11:40:00 +0000

Ack! Egads! Its been a MONTH since my last update. Here's the low down on what's been going down.

Its hot... like over 100F hot these days. As a result, the library Steve is doing research in has shifted to summer hours. Poor Steve now has to get up at 7 a.m. to make it to the library by 8 a.m. as it closes at 1 p.m. Though I think he's beginning to suspect that they'd let him stay longer if he wanted. Me, I try to get up at get things like shopping and house work done by Noon as our apartment starts to feel like the inside of a slow-cooker around 11 a.m. So far, I've been mildly successful as the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere of the bedroom is a sweet, sweet siren.
Aunt Sarah and Cousin Courtney never made it to India for Spring Break thanks to the stupid, unpronounceable Icelandic volcano. Steve and I found the strength to soldier on, however, and visited Goa (northern part of southern India) which is heavily influenced by Christianity and dirty hippies and Jaipur (where I lived with my host family the last time I was here). Pictures posted on the blog if you'd like to see our brave efforts to soldier through.
I recently published a piece in Fringe Magazine. Read it here. I'm researching a new book idea that involves the Chinese in the old west. Its a bit more along the "speculative" fiction vein BUT isn't hardcore sci-fi.
We recently saw The Hurt Locker and How to Train Your Dragon. Both were excellent and receive 4 out of 5 stars from me.

Other than that, not much to report from this front. A "for real" blog post will be up by Sunday! Pictures of Goa/Jaipur trip should be up and functioning now.

What's It to YOU?

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 10:19:00 +0000

We've been here for about three months now and things have become routine (which is not to be confused with boring). As such, I've hit a bit of a wall (creatively) of things to blog about (I mean really, who wants to read about how many times we went grocery shopping in one week, or view yet another picture of a cow). Therefore, I'd like to start something new.

I'd like to open this blog up to questions and things you, dear readers, would like to read about. Whether its technical stuff such as:

How do we get from place to place?
Where do we do our shopping?
What exactly does an Indian bathroom look like and how does it function? (What? You know you wanted to ask!)

Or if its something more "thought" worthy such as:

What do you think about the "women's quota" in Indian Parliment?
How do you negotiate being a first-worlder in a third world country?
What's up with dowry deaths?

I'd be more than willing (happy even!) to answer your questions in (hopefully) thoughtful blog posts. And hey, if you'd like pictures of something (or more pictures in general) let me know and I'll rove about the city with the camera at your pleasure! Leave a comment to this post, or contact me via email or facebook.

Hope to hear from you soon!

Yes but did you...?

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 18:09:00 +0000

Recently (a couple weeks ago) I was sick--like fever and bad bowels sick. This illness passed in a couple of days, but as it ran its course it forced me (and Steve) to miss a "play-date" with Karsenbhai (the librarian at the LD, where Steve is studying). This play-date was a rescheduling of a previous play-date in which Karsenbhai's wife was going to teach us how to make gajar halwa (a delightful dessert made out of carrots). Needless to say, Steve had to explain to Karsenbhai why we weren't able to come, a conversation that involved (from what I understand) an detailed conversation about the state of my bowels.

Today, I revisited the LD for the first time since this illness and ran into Karesonbhai. The conversation went thus:

Me: Namaste Karsenbhai, have you seen Steve?
Karsenbhai: You did not feel well. Did you have the diarrhea?
Me: I had a fever and an upset stomach. I'm fine now.
Karsenbhai: Yes, but did you have the diarrhea?
Me: Oh, well, I didn't feel well for a few days, but I'm better now.
Karsenbhai: (a little more insistently) Did you have the diarrhea?
Me: (sighing, because I desperately hate discussing "these kinds of things" with friends and family let alone the crazytastic librarian at the LD) Yes, Karsenbhai, I had the diarrhea, but I'm better now. Do you know where Steve is?
Karsenbhai: Accha (good). It must have been the heat.

At which point, Karsenbhai turned back to the books he was preparing to shelve and summarily dismissed me. Now, normally I would chalk this type of conversation to Indian curiosity. And I've had this conversation before; however, earlier conversations of this type are more... discreet. There's usually a miming motion (an air rubbing of the tummy) and more colorful phrasing such as "loose bowels" or "soft stomach." Nobody outright names the ailment--it is, literally and figuratively, a dirty word.

However, Karsenbhai is crazy. As in bat poop crazy. The man laughs at nothing in particular, and frequently. He makes jokes that even Indians don't find funny. He asks incredibly personal questions and, in turn, imparts incredibly personal information regarding him or his wife (the first time we were asked to his house to learn how to make gajar halwa, he canceled because it was his wife's "lady time"--which I know because he felt free to not only tell us this, but to explain why, during the "lady time," she could not be in the kitchen). I suspect this is because he inhabits the basement of the LD (where the library is located) and inhales moth-ball fumes with such frequency that it has affected his mental state.

That being said, his intense interest in the consistency of the matter expelled from my body has nothing to do with rudeness, lewdness, or crudeness. Rather, its how one bat poop crazy librarian shows his concern for a friend. Which, when you look at it like that (and I choose to look at it like that), its kinda sweet.

Doctor Visit Redux

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 14:43:00 +0000

Went back to the doctor's office today. My ear had improved somewhat, but not enough, so he made me lay down on this table that looked like a scary dentist chair. He then proceeded to stick a "little vacuum" reminiscent of the sucker thing they stick in your mouth at the dentists into my ear. After some soft whooshing sounds, I all the sudden felt a small tug in the inside of my ear and then a thud! The doctor pulled the vacuum out of my ear, wiped it on a piece of cotton and proceeded to show me a black piece of what I assume was wax that was slightly (and I mean only slightly) smaller than a pencil eraser. Did I mention it was black?

Now I'm taking more drops (the same turpentine drops as before) and two pills a day for the next ten days to clear up a little redness on my ear drum.

Best part of this whole endeavor: it only cost $13.

Sick... sort of.

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 22 Mar 2010 19:05:00 +0000

A nagging ear-ache (more of a squish and an itchy sensations, really) necessitated a trip to the ENT (Ear Nose Throat doctor) today. This, of course, comes after a day of, shall we say, less then comfortable adventures of the intestinal nature. Suffice to say, I have a tender stomach and... lets just leave it at that.

The doctor's visit was very much unlike the last time I visited a doctor in India. That particular visit, I was essentially called a dirty American (this from a doctor in a country where people bathe in buckets full of water that potentially comes from water sources infected with all sorts of fun and nasty bugs), had a boil on my bottom painfully lanced and cleansed, and received shots--twice a day, one in the left arm in the morning, one in the right in the evening. This time, the doctor asked some questions, peeked in my ear with that triangular light instrument, put a tuning fork on various parts of my skull, etc. Pretty standard. He then informed me that I had wax on my right ear drum (I was just thankful it was wax and not a bug--I'd been having some anxiety that the squishy sound and itchy feeling might be produced by a bug tunneling about in my ear canal--thank you Grandpa for THAT nightmare!) and that I should take some drops four times a day and come back to see him next Monday. Fabulous--except for the drops part. I hate drops.

So after not paying (apparently we do that next time?) off to the pharmacist we went, purchased the drops (a whopping 42 Rs--about $1. Not even, about $0.95). This is what he gave me:

So you're going, "okay, looks pretty standard." Turn the box over to see....

Take a look at the THIRD ingredient. That's right, folks, it's TURPENTINE... as in "used to thin and/or remove paint" turpentine (okay--in all reality, probably not, but still...).

I better have the cleanest ears every after this ("this" being drops 4 times a day, for the next week).

It's Getting Hot in Here!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 10:56:00 +0000

This week, Ahmedabad experienced a little pre-summer heatwave. It went a little something like this:

Monday, March 15th--high of 37ºC
Tuesday, March 16th--high of 38ºC
Wednesday, March 17th--high of 38ºC
Thursday, March 18th--high of 40ºC
Friday, March 19th--high of 41ºC
Saturday, March 20th--high of 41ºC

The formula to convert Celsius to Fahrenheit is as follows: ºF=(ºC+32)*9/5

You tell ME how hot it got in here! Perhaps, as incentive to participate, if you get ALL the correct answers, I'll send you a little prize (just leave your answers in the comments).

I would also like to add, Steve and I did NOT turn on the air-conditioner ONCE during this heatwave (which is still going strong, and supposed to last until Monday or Tuesday). That makes us troopers. And yes, I would like some sort of prize for my trooper-ness.

What's My Favorite Animal?

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 12:58:00 +0000

If you guessed ELEPHANT you guessed right! This beauty was right outside our flat this morning. People would give him (or her?) money and he (or she) would hand it up to his mahout.

Karma or Cottage Industry?

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 12:47:00 +0000

I've noticed a fascinating trend as reported in the one newspaper we receive (The Times of India): the number of foreign families that employ (literally) Indian women as surrogate mothers. On a near weekly basis, the paper runs stories about single mothers, same-sex couples, couples from France or Germany (where surrogacy is outlawed), and couples from America who come to India to procure a baby. Surrogacy is a lengthy procedure that includes a screening process (for the woman who will carry the baby), courses of hormones, implantation, pregnancy, and delivery--and it is not without risks.

While the newspapers paint this as a joyous occasion for all parties involved--childless individuals receive at least one (often times more due to fertility drugs) and the women who bear these children are often quoted as saying that they are pleased that they can bring happiness to others. Yet, what is rarely talked about, and perhaps the most problematic element in this scenario, is the monetary compensation these native women receive for carrying a foreigner's child/children.

It is cheap to buy a baby here. This statement does not imply triteness, judgment, or ill-will towards those who come to India to add to or start their family--especially when so many of these stories are about individuals who, for some reason or another, are unable to have children of their own. Like Keri Armstrong (profiled in a The Times of India article on March 15th), who suffers from a genetic condition that forced her to undergo tubal ligation at 23. Her surrogate, according to the article, bore the children for Keri and her husband so that she would have enough money for a surgery that would prevent her own 17-year old daughter from going blind. Many of these reports are as equally touching, and highlight the how this situation is mutually beneficial (both parties "win" in the end), yet they fail to fully address the financial implications of a such a "deal." The fact remains that foreigners come to India for surrogates because it is unregulated (at this time, India has no laws governing the practice of surrogacy) and cheap--dirt cheap. It costs somewhere between $5000-$10,000* to produce a baby. Most of that money does NOT go to the women who carry the baby; the doctors who implant the embryo take a larger cut for his or her self. But what is more fascinating is how this phenomenon has grown into a full-blown industry.

According to Abigail Rabinowitz, a Fulbright recipient conducting research in this specific area, women are now recruiting other women into this enterprise. During the course of her research, she encountered a grandmother who was pressuring her 21-year old granddaughter (a married woman with children) to become a surrogate. The reason: the 21-year old's husband was a deadbeat husband and father who had left his wife and children. Rather than become a burden to her family, as often happens to women whose husbands leave, the grandmother saw surrogacy as a viable way for her granddaughter to support herself. And this is not the only story: Rabinowitz's research is rife with sisters recruiting sisters, aunts recruiting nieces, neighbors recruiting neighbors. Her research also shows women returning to clinics to become surrogates for the second, third, or fourth time. Some of these women, realizing the value of the "goods" they're selling have started to ask for more money the second, third, or fourth go-around. Other women, if they "age out" of surrogacy, may push relatives into the "biz" just to receive a finders fee.

In all fairness, it is easy to sit here, on this privileged throne that is first-world feminist, and criticize this practice. It is easy to pass judgment, to equate surrogacy (on some levels) to prostitution--after all, are not both cases of women selling their bodies for profit? I have also never wanted a child, never been told I can't have a child, or been denied the possibility of having a child. I have never been option-less, I have never been poor. I have never been faced with the powerlessness of being a woman with family obligations and no way to fulfill those obligations. I have never been told that my gender limits what options I have available to me in all that I do, say, think, and desire.

I do not begrudge these Indian women for choosing the venue, perhaps the only venue available to them as underprivileged, under-educated, seemingly powerless women (Rabinowitz reports that many of the surrogates she interviewed were women who either had abusive husbands, husbands who were unable to work, or had been abandoned by their husbands). In some ways, I can see how this situation may actually be empowering for a woman with little to no resources at her disposal. Nor do I condemn the foreign couples who come to India hoping to fill a void in their families. Rather, I puzzle over the long-term implications and ramifications of this industry, for no other word can be used to describe what is occurring. I puzzle and I hope that the professed joy surrogates and new parents alike remains free from corruption and perversion.

*These are rough estimates based on articles read in the newspaper as well as vague recollections of numbers stated by Abigail Rabinowitz at the Fulbright Conference. In no way do they represent a 100% actual "fact" but rather stand as a close enough approximation of the truth. In other words, you get the picture, right?

Picture Pages, Picture Pages (WARNING: PICTURE HEAVY)

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 16:23:00 +0000

In lieu of a "serious" blog post, I give you pictures (cause really, who doesn't like visuals?)! While attending the Fulbright conference in Udaipur, we rented a car for a day trip to the Ranakpur Jain Temple (the Jains are the group that Steve studies, more (basic) information may be found here or feel free to contact Steve). This temple, in comparison to others built in/around the same time (late 14th to early 15th Century--it took about 63 years to complete most of the structure, some parts of the temple remain unfinished merely roughed out sketches of where carvings should go in the white marble pillars and ceilings), is unique in its construction. Most Hindu/Jain temples of this period are dark in the inside, as they are built as fully enclosed structures (four walls and a roof). However, Ranakpur temple is built in three tiers with each tier carved in such a way as to let in as much light as possible. The great Moghul emporer Akbar was so entranced by the beauty of the temple, he made an edict, which is set in stone outside the temple, that no one should ever destroy this marvel of architecture. More recently, the Jain temple at Ranakpur was voted as one of the top 77 "New Marvels of the World" in a competition sponsored by National Geographic.

Detail of one of the (many) ceiling pendants. That's all hand carved folks... all hand carved.

Detail of the top of one of the over 400 columns that support the multi-tiered temple.

Detail of ceiling

This image of the Jina Parshvanath is the most famous image from this particular temple. The figures standing to the immediate left and right of the Jina are a man and a woman (possible significance=patrons?). The figures to the extreme left and right of the Jina are naga (snake) attendants. The nagas are a race of subterranean semi-divine beings who are worshiped widely in India and present in many different Indian texts. The umbrella structure over the Jina and these other figures is actually a 1,000 headed (be my guest, count them if you want!) cobra. If you look closely within the twisty parts (which are actually continuously entwined naga tails), there are more naga ladies sprinkled throughout.

A (very) small representation of the number, style, and construction of pillars within the temple

Detail at the bottom of a door

Finished ceiling and...

Unfinished ceiling.

Ceiling of a different variety

Detail of outside of temple

The carvings are quite marvelous--they go back into the corners (as you an see here) and are actually carved in the round (meaning they're carved ALL the way around the figure)

A god and goddess all decked out, and a snake in a box (not a real snake...)

A temple pujari (pujaris are ritual officiants--they help maintain the temple, make sure all the necessary items for worship are stocked/on hand, and perform rituals if no laypeople are present to do so).

Indra, King of the Gods. Indra is the ideal male devotee; Indra was the first to bathe the Jina post-birth, thus establishing the model for lay ritual.

Brahma (often called the Creator God; ironically, the Jains do not believe the world was created but rather it always existed so Brahma's inclusion on one of the pillars of this temple is interesting.)

I call this "You hurt my toe, now I kill you!" (note the sword this lovely lady is holding in her hand...)

The following images are Steve's favorite portion of the temple. These round disks (carved out of a very thick, heavy piece of marble) are representations of Nandishvara (the mythical continent at the edge of the universe). There 52 Jain temples (represented by the "houses") which only the gods may make pilgrimage. The cone shaped thing in the middle of the circle is representative of continents and oceans of our portion of the universe. The very center of that cone is Mount Meru, or the axis point around which the entire universe spins. The trees are wish-fulfilling trees.

Here's some perspective just how tall these columns are... this picture ends about 2/3 of the way up the column. These columns, however, are not one solid piece of marble. Rather, they are sections, individual carved, and then placed on top of each other. The craftsmanship is so fine, however, that you can barely detect where one piece of marble is laid atop the other.

A portion of a column. I believe this image is supposed to represent a lotus flower.

This is my favorite column (no two columns are alike, supposedly. There are far too many to, in 3-5 hours, to ascertain whether or not this statement is true). The pictures that follow are close-up details of the figures (from top to bottom they are: a devotee, a kirtimukha (a figure that wards off evil), an elephant, a horse, a goose, and a lion)

This column was unique (as far as I could tell) as it was the only column in the entire temple that included a single elephant head vs. a complementary elephant figure on the opposite side of the column.

Detail of ceiling--note that these guys are half man, half bird. Also note, their tails (those squiggly things behind them) appear to come out of their bellybuttons... Steve is kerflummoxed.

Dude and Naga Ladies--sort of reminiscent of the Jina, his umbrella of cobra heads, and many, many Naga ladies...

And finally, Steve and I pose for the obligatory touristy picture in front of the temple:

I took over one hundred pictures of the Jain temple at Ranakpur--so many in fact, I killed my camera battery and was unable to take photos of the two lesser (in size alone!) Jain temples and one Surya (Sun) temple at the complex (which is actually rather unfortunate as there were some interesting and unique elements present at/on these temples as well). Please visit my Photobucket slide show on the front page of my blog for a full complement of the pictures as well as a video of Steve explaining the elements of the famous and iconic circular Jinna image.

Baroda: Lakshmi Villas Palace

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Thu, 11 Mar 2010 17:36:00 +0000

Baroda, a.k.a. Vadodara, is a small city situated just south of Ahmedabad. The view from a rickshaw window produces sights not dissimilar to those of Ahmedabad. People, women mostly, bustle in and out of a number of shopping plazas and malls interspersed with other smaller shops selling everyday goods. An occasional cow meanders down the road, and dogs loll sleepily in what little shade vegetable vendors' carts provide. Cars whiz by, scooters honk at bicyclists and auto-rickshaws alike, pedestrians play real-life game of Frogger as they weave in and out of this cacophonous chaos.

And yet, there are things that make this small city stand apart from its larger counterpart. The streets appear more orderly; there seems to be a system beyond the suicidal inching of a vehicle's nose into the stream of traffic and honking like a mad man. Traffic moves at an acceptable pace and in an orderly manner. And, if sight is to be trusted, there even seems to be an adherence to the red, yellow, and green of traffic lights! Additionally, Baroda has rehabilitated its crumbling old havelis*, the former architectural grand dames of society housing, into a semblance of their former palatial beauty. Instead of the pampered children running through hallways, or ladies of the house taking tea by the courtyard fountain, these buildings now house banks, city offices, and museums. In comparison, a number of Ahmedabad's havelis sit neglected; beautiful and damaged pieces of history rotting right next to concrete rectangles and squares, modern monstrosities that pass as fashionable housing these days.

Lakshmi Vilas Palace, however, is a different kind of "home" that attests to the rich lifestyle of its former (and current) occupants: The Gaekwads, Gujarat's own royals**. Like any royal family, the Gaekwad's history is dotted with triumphs, tragedies, and scandals. They ruled from approximately the mid-1700s to 1947 when the India won its independence from the British (the Gaekwads relinquished their rule to the newly democratic India as they no longer had the support of their British allies who, for a fee, had let them continue to rule Baroda as an princely state during British colonization). The name remains "princely" in nature (and the family still inhabits a portion of the palace) but they hold no power.

Perhaps one of the more colorful members of this family is Maharani Sita Devi. Known as the Wallis Simpson of India, Sita Devi and the Maharajah cooked up a plan that would allow the married Sita Devi to wed the married Muslim king: Sita Devi, a Hindu, would convert to Islam and wed the king. This conversion and subsequent marriage, under law, would dissolve her first marriage. Second hurdle: circumnavigating the anti-bigamy law (a law backed by the British) that the Maharajah himself had signed into being. In love, haughty and wily royalty, whatever the reason, the king was able to successfully argue that as Maharajah of Baroda, he was above the law, as law was meant to govern the people and not the ruling class. And thus, a fairly common woman became the second living wife of a king (though the British elite refused to ever address her as "Maharani" or Your Highness). Sita Devi's story, however, is full of love and light and laughter--and a touch of scandal. As the reign of the Gaekwads came to an end, her husband set Sita Devi up in a lavish house in Monte Carlo. Ever so slowly, the Maharajah started to secretly "gift" his wife monies and jewels including the Baroda Pearls and the Star of the South. When the new government of Baroda discovered this, they attempted to regain some of these valuables, and were successful to a degree. However, the Maharajah was smart enough to sign a number of these jewels over to his wife (thus transferring their ownership) and the Maharani herself had a number of these items re-set into smaller pieces. Later, as the Maharani aged and her funds dwindled, she sold these pieces in secret auctions to help support herself.

These, and others, are the lives that unfolded withing the walls of Lakshmi Vilas Palace. The Palace itself was commissioned by Maharajah Sayajirao Gaekwad III and building commenced in/around 1880 and was completed in 1890 (this becomes an impressive span of time when you take into consideration the scope and magnitude of this particular project). The first architect who worked on this particular project committed suicide--he did not believe that he had created a building that, upon completion, would maintain its structural soundness. However, it is almost 100 years later, as seen in the pictures below, the structure is still strong.

One of the many fascinating aspects of this particular palace is its size--it is (arguably) the largest palace built in its time (the 19th Century) and is roughly four times the size of Buckingham Palace.The Lakshmi Vilas Palace is unique among the (many) palaces of India because of the way its architecture incorporates the European and the Asian--look closely at the picture above and note that there are three distinct sections to this palace. On the right, a domed shaped building reminiscent of Muslim mosque architecture, the center (with its tall "bell tower"--which the architect decided was a terrible idea as the bell would keep everyone awake, thus they replaced the bell with a lamp that is light when the Maharajah is home) Christian, and the far left Hindu. A closer look:

(The Muslim portion--this is where the royal family currently lives and structural resembles the zenana, or women's quarters of more famous Muslim palaces)

(The Christian-inspired bell tower)

(This section resembles a Hindu palace's sabha, or audience hall. Here is where the Maharajahs preformed portions of their public duties. This section also housed the ballroom, with its stain-glassed windows and mosaic tiled floor that took year and a half to hand-lay all of the tiles in intricate designs.)

The outside of the building as well as some of the interior spaces contain very intricate stone statues and carvings and Venetian mosaic tile art. All of this type of structure and art was created by imported Italian artisans. (For more detailed pictures, please see my Photobucket account--just click on the viewer on the bottom left of the front page of the blog).

I have a fondness for palaces and the history contained within their walls, and in that sense the audio portion of the tour didn't disappoint. Factiods that floated from the earbuds to my ears included snippets of the last Maharajah's recollections of his childhood (his father was strict and emphasized the importance of education and responsibility over wealth and privilege), the current Maharajah is pursuing a PhD with an emphasis on the role and use of ceremonial hats, and once upon a time the Maharajah's dipped their water-tempered steel swords (a process that produces a near-paper thin blade that one might not even feel pierce the skin) in poison. What is fascinating is who and what is included in the history of this palace as it is presented to and consumed by tourists. The Gaekwads as benevolent protectors ("gaekwad' actually translates loosely as "protector of the cows" as the region was originally populated by such people) and enlightened rules who encouraged and developed education and the arts; what is not narrated are the moments in which the Gaekwads may have acted as despots, or when they were less then benevolent. Nor are the "scandals" discussed (such as that of Sita Devi). There is a certain picture that the current royals wished depicted and maintained, damn the rest of history! If walls, these gloriously tiled and marble walls could talk, I would gladly listen for hours. Their story, their collective stony memory, must far surpass the anecdotal history of an audio guide.

*Haveli is a Persian word meaning "enclosed place" and is the word used in India (and Pakistan) to describe private mansions. Haveli architecture of India (and Pakistan) varies from region to region but typically are large, ornate structures built around at least one central courtyard. This courtyard may or may not contain a fountain. Some of the oldest havelis date back to the Mughal period.
**For a brief history of the Gaekwads, see this link.

Holy Cow! (No, literally, holy cow)...

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 18:04:00 +0000

Steve and I recently traveled with Audrey (another Fulbright-Hayes scholar and all-around delightful person) to Baroda. As it is late, any my body hurts from climbing well over 1000 stairs today (I lost count/stopped looking at the numbers around 1,040. However, this is nothing compared to the 10,000 steps at Girnar--a trip we're making later in our stay here). I realized I am no longer a spring chicken or something.

ANYWAYS... this post is a short and sweet update of some interesting sights from today's trip.

I give you...

A HOLY COW!

In general, cows are sacred here. More specifically, cows are considered manifestations of the Goddess of Wealth, Lakshmi. Pre-currency days, cows were themselves considered wealth/currency worth trade. So if you link the idea of "wealth" as being able to provide livelihood/sustenance vs. literal monetary value, the cow becomes this sort of sacred symbol of a provider. Connect the cow to the Goddess Lakshmi, combined THAT with the idea that all goddesses are one in the same, just different variations, and you've also got a physical representation of not only the Goddess Lakshmi, but all the goddess (who are, essentially, one in the same). Hence, the Holy Cow.

This pretty little Bessie was tied to the side of the pathway. The getup she's wearing is similar to what the figure of the Goddess in the temple wears--orange cloth (orange is an auspicious color, and this more orange-red color is goddess specific), flowers, and cowrie shells (cowrie shells are another form of ancient currency). Much like in the first picture, similar offerings are made to the Goddess as are the cow--flowers, rice, and money (if you look to the right in the picture, there is a small plate full of one and two rupee coins and to the left there is a large bowl of rice). Nothing is accidental or ornamental here, everything represents something very specific to the religion.

Incidentally, Steve's luck (or non-luck as it is--see this post) with the bovines continues. As he reached out to pat Holy Cow on the nose, she took a bit of umbrage to the gesture of familiarity and tossed her head sideways. It was a gentle toss, but a toss nontheless and one that if she were not secured to the ground could have tagged him squarely in the rib-cage (perhaps lower). Not to be deterred, and in an attempt to get a picture of Steve patting the Holy Cow, at my request Steve patted her again upon which she promptly urinated very close to his flip-flop shod feet.

"Holy cow!" indeed.

A Quickie

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 15:07:00 +0000

Not much new to report here.
Steve's colleague Audrey is here visiting for a few days; she's trying to get access to some manuscripts at the LD (the library Steve's been doing work at) and then we're all off to Baroda (Vadodara is an alternate, newer spelling) for a few days. From what I've read, is a pretty enlightened, modern city.

We continue we wage war on the pigeons; I suspect, on the sheer amount of pigeon turd on the balcony, they are winning. In a similar manner, it appears we are waging a battle against our domestic help, who cannot seem to show up in a timely manner or with some regularity. I know, I know, I know. Hold up a titch, you're saying. Domestic help?

Here's the short version of the story. We have a girl (some times a pair of girls) who come to our flat four days a week (Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday) to clean and do laundry. Nothing big, and definitely nothing I wouldn't do myself (and probably should do myself but...). I mean, she does dishes, and if you know me, you know how much I hate doing this particular chore!

So Mrs. Shah arranged for the chokidar's (a chokidar is a watchman of sorts, he monitors who gets in and out of the building) daughter for us. This girl/young lady is supposed to come four days a week. We originally requested that she come, as stated, every other week day and once on the weekend and either at or around 10 a.m. or after 6 p.m. We've repeated this desire a few times, she has acknowledged and even repeated our instruction. However, she continues to show up sometime around 2 p.m. in the afternoon. This wouldn't be a problem if I were okay with being a bored "housewife" chained to my flat and glued to the TV all day. But I am not--I like to get out, I like to go to the LD (Steve's "office"--the library) and work in its cool, mosquito free bowels. So sometimes she comes early, sometimes she doesn't. Sometimes, she doesn't show up at all.

This past weekend, we had plans to go to Karsan-bhai's (the librarian) house for dinner. The girls didn't show on Friday, so Steve, fed up, called early in the day. She indicated that she would be right up. So we waited... and waited... and waited. So Steve called a second time. And then a third. Finally, our girl showed up--about hour before we needed to leave--and Steve LOST it. He yelled, loudly and with wild gesticulations. While he fumed (and in his defense, rightfully so as we are paying this girl--handsomely I might add--to provide a service and in a timely manner)--she cleaned. She apologized afterward, pulling her ears in contrition, and agreed to show up today (Sunday) to clean prior to our guest getting here. I have never seen our place so spic and span.

So we wait. And hope that we have reached some kind of detente.

Picture Pages, Picture Pages!

noreply@blogger.com (Tina) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 18:18:00 +0000

Lacking something "substantial" to chatter about (something's in the works, I promise), here's a little some local "color" to tide you over (there's more where this came from, check out the picture slideshow at the bottom).

I give you COW WITH BIG HORNS and A HARD-WORKING CAMEL!!

Stupid cow kept meandering from side to side in the road. Steve had an... unfortunate encounter with a cow last time he was in India (something about a cow trying to eat his backpack so he bapped it on the nose (as many natives do when a cow is problematic) and rather than wandering off, the cow took umbrage to his assault and hoisted Steve into the air. Next time you see him, you should ask him about it cause he tells it much better) so we kept having to switch sides of the road cause lets face it, neither end of a cow is pleasant--one end has horns the other has, well you know (FEET, people FEET with which cows KICK! Geesh, get yer nasty minds outta the gutter). Needless to say, we amused the Indians, yet once again: a pair of whities literally dodging the horns of the bull (okay, heifer but whatever)...

This camel driver cracked me up. I took this picture when I was wandering out and about one day. The guy slowed his camel down (don't let their dopey faces fool you, camels can MOVE when they want!) so I could take the picture. Then, on my way back the other way (after picking up groceries) the same guy drove by and smiled and waved. And not the creepy smile and wave that some people give you around here, but a god's honest "ah, so nice to see you again!" smile and wave.