It's Not Exactly Easter Eggs...

At first glance, they look like they might be packets of candy.  They suddenly appeared in Chemist's shops last week, brightly-colored bags with cheerful designs on them, taped together in packets of four. When squeezed, they may leak a small amount of pink or purple or green powder - organic water-soluble dyes. It's not until you notice they are being sold with toy waterguns and water cannons, that their real purpose becomes clear.

India celebrates the festival of Holi this weekend.  Holi involves one of two things: either you stay indoors and hide, or you venture out and get painted.  Not gently painted, painted.  Handfuls of paint, water balloons of paint, water cannons of paint, buckets of paint.  This being India, there are no subtle colors in the palatte:  you will be turned red, or yellow, or lavender.  I am told that I may have coworkers reporting to work on Tuesday with streaks of bright green in their hair.  Actually, on Friday afternoon, a few gentlemen left the office in their trim button downs, bright pink. 


 Just think of how well pink would show up on a head of blonde hair.


 Just think of what a good target a head of blonde hair presents.


Update:  7 pm on Friday evening, and your correspondent is now purple.
Happy Holi!

Spot Lights

Picture this: the start of a busy workday, in the middle of a bustling office, editors calmly going about their business.  All of a sudden, the power goes out. Across the office, one after the other, laptops screech as they convert to battery mode.  Screech! Screech!Screech! Scree-eech! Lights flicker and are extinguished.  All that is visible is dimly illuminated by computer screens.

If you’re an American, your natural reaction is to look up, maybe even jump up, turn your head in all directions, grab at your bleeping laptop to make sure it’s not damaged, turn towards the door, and possibly even make a run for it if you’ve already had your coffee.

If you’re an American who’s been working in India for a few weeks, you may not even look up anymore.

The screeching never stops being funny, though.  It’s like a little laptop chorus. And don't worry - the lights come back on in a minute or two.




Update: As Fabulinus pointed out, the lights only come on because our building has a backup generator.  Across Noida, businesses and residents may actually be left in the dark ... A sobering thought.  (Thanks for the comment--I'm sorry I took it down because it had my real name in it and I'm keeping this blog private.  I appreciate hearing from you, though!)

A Quick Hinglish Lesson

The following are a list of important Hindi words and their most common usage:

Acha.  Means "OK".  Commonly used like this: "Acha acha acha acha acha."

Tiika.  Also means "OK".  Commonly used like this: "Tiika tiika tiika tiika tiika."

Kitne.  The most important word you'll need at an Indian bazaar.  Means "How much".  Easy for me to remember because it's pronounced like the last name of a certain ex-Detroit Lions quarterback.

Haa.  Means "Yes", although it's important to make the distinction between the American "Yes" and the Indian "Yes".  In America, "Yes" is used as an affirmative.  In India, "Yes" is commonly used to say "I hear you and I understand".  Just because someone says "Yes" does not mean that they agree with you.  "Yes" does not mean they think you're right.  "Yes" just acknowledges that you're speaking at all.

Certain Indian accents also add a bit of a nasal overtone to haa so that to the American ear it sounds a bit like a honk or "hnnn".  Perhaps a better comparison would be a question: “heeeeeh?”.  Other Indian accents draw the aa's very clearly.  In my diverse office full of Indian editors conducting business over the phone, an American hears half of the room asking "huh?", while the other half  is constantly, mirthlessly laughing.

Combine the Indian definition of "Yes" with the Indian head-wobble and you might appreciate why your correspondent occasionally hesitant in conversation.  The Indian head-wobble looks like this: ear to shoulder, ear to shoulder, ear to shoulder.  Wobble wobble wobble wobble wobble.  The Indian head-wobble is used to say, again, "I hear you and I understand".  My driver, JP, has a particularly vivid wobble.  The more strenuously that you agree, the more vigorous the wobble; unfortunately, the more vigorous the wobble, the more you seem to an American to be shaking your head no.

It leaves one baffled American, then, as I carry on an enjoyable conversation with a colleague only to have them shake their head and fake a laugh.  We all speak the same language, but it's funny how often we still need translation..

Not in My Backyard

Without comment or judgement:

India and Pakistan are neighbors.  Neighbors with a bit of a property dispute, to say the least.  As one example of how seriously they take the conflict, in this week's The Economist, someone (probably government-related) opened your correspondent's copy and stamped in a disclaimer:

When publishing the same article in The Hindustan Times, they change the map entirely so as to leave the disputed area out:

Things certainly look different when you're not an ocean away.

Trickle Down

My shower ran out of water this morning.
 
To be specific, my shower ran out of water just after I had lathered conditioner into my hair. Nothing feels as impotent as one standing under a dry faucet, turning the handle as far as it goes, and still getting—silence. Not having hot water is a reality I’ve learned to deal with. Not having any water is a whole new ballgame.

Last year, apparently, the monsoon failed in India. Three or four months of what should have been constant rain turned out to be only a mild trickle. What’s worse, from October to July India can expect very little additional rainfall. What looks dry now will only get worse as the mercury climbs (and it will—soon, and quickly).

Life on the farm tends to get romanticized in America. Wide-open spaces and the frontier and all that. Even in the heart of Nebraska, no one expects to find rudimentary housing without running water. Driving through the state of Rajasthan between Delhi and Keoladeo National Park, one can see huts made of water buffalo dung interspersed between fields of rice and sugarcane. Do people really live there? Probably. What do they do without the monsoon? We’re not in Kansas anymore.

Keoladeo itself paints an extreme picture of how strong the effects of drought can be.  What once looked like this:

... now looks a little ... well, sparse:

Thousands of cranes used to come to the marshlands of Keoladeo in their yearly migration from Siberia. Now, almost none can be found. Man-made “islands” are simply hills in the middle of dry scrubland. Water has to be pumped in to keep the birds that live there year-round from being completely deprived of a habitat.

This isn’t to say that life is dreadful everywhere in India; quite the contrary, my own water shortage was probably caused by a broken water pump. Still, even after only one month my expectations about basic needs have been drastically changed. When more people live on the margins of society, there is lesser margin for error. Rajasthan is just one example of how vulnerable life is to running out of room.

This morning I solved my own problem by pouring the remains of my water bottle on my head. If sudsy hair is the worst of it, I have a lot more to be thankful for.

Top of a Hill and Bottom of a Hole

Last weekend I took a daytrip to Neemrana, a fort-palace in Rajasthan.  Though quite a drive away, it was nice to get a day far away from the city.

Neemrana is a fort-palace from the 15th century which has been converted into an opulent hotel.  The first thing we did after arriving from our long journey was stop for a gigantic lunch buffet.  I've had some pretty amazing meals in India, but this one was easily the best so far.

Afterwards we explored the grounds and looked through the eleven stories of passageways, courtyards, verandas, and terraces.  It smelled heavenly from all the flowers, and we were surrounded constantly by the sights and sounds of exotic birds.

It was nice to go and get a different perspective on the ruins dotted all over India.  Instead of hushed, crumbling walls, this hotel was bustling and full of life.  It was interesting to think: this is probably not unlike it was when originally built and occupied by the Mughals.

On the way home, we took a tip from the locals and stopped by an 18th-century step well.  It wasn't on any maps or listed in any guidebooks, so imagine our surprise to come across this huge structure buried nine stories deep in the desert:

Of course, this being India, they didn't mind if you climbed right in!

Higher Education

"There is a humor," he says.

The round little professor had been patiently waiting for us when we breathlessly arrived from our harried journey across Delhi.  After being stuck in meetings in Noida, we had all but given up on making our four o'clock meeting, until he let us know he would be available until five.  We slung our laptop bags over our shoulders and hit the road, stewing in traffic until we reached his campus and were able to climb the three flights of stairs to his office.

He takes a moment to fish out his card, then sits back in his chair and says simply, "Tell." We discuss the new sales curriculum he's been developing, a chance for me to see how universities work from the inside out.  It's not until we're standing up to leave that he finally turns to me and asks, "You are from what office?"

When he learns I'm based in Boston, he smiles and says, "There is a humor..."

He goes on to tell a classic Harvard vs. MIT joke (although instead of MIT, he calls it "Massachusetts"): It seems that one of them is qualitative, one of them is quantitative.  A professor walks up to the 10-items-or-less aisle at a supermarket. The cashier asks, "Are you from Harvard or MIT?"  When the professor doesn't understand, she explains, "Are you from the school who can't read, or the school who can't see?"

 ----

On our way out of the meeting, my coworker makes a hurried detour to the elementary school next door to campus.  I'm unsure why, until I notice a small list posted on a stand just outside the front gate.  It's a list of students to be admitted to its preschool the following year.

We scan the paper together until I notice his last name.  "Your daughter?" I ask.  He grins mightily.

"Proud papa," I say.  "Yes," he agrees.  "Proud papa."

Some things are the same no matter where you go.

Development, Editing

On my drive from Noida to Gurgoan, I looked out the window and saw a beautiful concrete amphitheater with a statue placed in the center, still under its plastic tarp.  It seems like the entire city is under construction, from the Delhi Metro to the Commonwealth Games stadia.

Noida, where I work every day, has been compared to Canary Wharf circa several years ago.  Big, beautiful buildings are surrounded by muddy fields and construction sites.  The college next door from my office still has steel girders protruding from the roof, and I once looked out the window to see cows lolling in the adjacent empty lot.

Just think of what Canary Wharf looks like now.  That's the idea behind all of this development.  Shiny malls have sprung up on both sides of all major arteries, and more are on their way.  The landscape is daunting, but it's exciting too.  There are so many people here; there is so much potential.  Everywhere you look is evidence of work being done.

I felt the same way finishing my presentation and heading onto the highway for my first Indian sales call.  Through this trip I've gotten the opportunity to try all sorts of things I wouldn't have been able to back home.  I've been hooked onto a division just finding its legs--how rare that in a big company like ours that one would have the opportunity to plant the seed for something new.  A difficult author will seem like nothing compared to the challenges we face here.

It's a chance for personal development as well.  When I arrived, I was nervous to even explore my neighborhood.  Now I'm hailing "took-tooks" without a second thought, directing them all the way home.  I'm interested to see what I'm going to look like at the end of this journey--just like I'm interested to see what's beneath the tarpulin and what's being made of the ground.

Camelback

Oh my.  What a day.  I have certainly learned a lot -  not the least of which is the amount of work there is to do.

While I try to make sense of everything, please do content yourselves with the following video blog recorded from the back of a camel:

You Asked For It

One of the disadvantages of this assignment has been a slight ambiguity in the objectives I'm here to accomplish.  The educational group is starting a new custom publishing division, which dovetails nicely with what I do back home, but we've been floundering a bit in identifiying specific ways that I can contribute to the team.  One of the reasons for this is because their custom books are going to be almost entirely produced for the open market, not presold as ours are.  This means that we need to extend a million feelers for custom opportunities, but most of them will never materialize.  The publisher had refrained from assigning me any projects until one was solid enough to actually receive funding.

Last Thursday, the afternoon preceding a long holiday weekend, the CEO had me into his office for a chat to discuss my progress so far.  When I gave him a report on my current activities, he spent a moment in thought and then asked if there was anything further I'd like to do.  When I suggested that, yes, perhaps I could be more useful in helping to classify potential projects and how to complete them most efficiently, he nodded.  He suggested I make sales calls with the custom editors to understand what their approach was, and how it differed from the market back home.  He expressed interest in attending the presentation I had been preparing to explain our U.S. custom processes and procedures.

We have a saying in America that, "The squeaky wheel gets the grease."  The Indian equivalent is another traffic metaphor: They only see you if you honk.  As the CEO explained, things will probably not progress until I take the initiative to identify specific tasks I could be performing.  No one will know that I might be helpful checking manuscripts until I offer.  So, this morning, I went in to see my publisher, and I offered.

Immediately, my presentation was scheduled for the following day at 9:30 am, which because of traffic means I should leave my home an hour earlier than usual.  I had been working all weekend on my speech, so luckily I felt prepared enough to agree.

Before I had finished stapling my info packets, a custom editor dropped by my desk and arranged for me to join him right after my presentation on three institutional sales calls in Gurgoan, two hours away.  Essentially, I would take my bow, throw on my suitcoat, and hit the road to make only the second sales call in my career, and my first in India.

Don't you want me to prepare a bit first? I asked.

Nope--since I won't be doing any of the talking, I can just sit back, watch, and learn.

Isn't this being planned a little... quickly?

That's just the pace of business, though.  As the editor reminded me, it's probably best not to miss the opportunity.  Americans might move a bit more slowly, but we're in India now.  So I have two major events on the books tomorrow, and let's hope that I can hold it together through them both.  Learning experience, indeed.

Respect the Rickshaw

Forget land wars in Asia -- some blunders are even more classic.  Especially when it comes to dealing with rickshaw-wallahs in Delhi.

After working all afternoon, I needed to find something culturally instructive to do with my Sunday early-evening.  I had heard lovely things about the Lotus Temple at dusk, and I knew it wasn't far away, so I set out on a brief trip.

The rickshaw-wallah waiting at the end of the road gave me the boilerplate 100-rupee offer, which seems to be standard for everywhere in Delhi if you're blonde and asking nicely.  Sixty, I countered, although the gentleman was difficult to budge.  There's always this pantomime you have to go through when bartering - you'll say, "Sixty", and they'll say, "Yes, as you like, eighty, please, get in the cab."  You're usually not getting the price you're insisting on until you hear them repeat it back to you.  Sixty, I said.  Sixty. Sixty. Sixty. FINE.  SEVENTY.

He repeated SEVENTY in exasperation, so I hopped in. 

He stopped for a second to chat with another rickshaw-wallah and tell a few jokes.  They spoke Hindi, so all I could make out was, "Lotus temple", and "seventy", and laughter.  I thought nothing of it, though I knew I had committed classic blunder #1: probably overpaying for a rickshaw ride.  It wasn't worth arguing over ten rupees, though, so I figured I would let it go. We motored off to the Baha'i Temple in South Delhi.  

It's often compared to the Sydney Opera house for its architecture -- white 'leaves' envelope together to form a lotus-shaped dome.  Lights illuminate the bright white exterior at night.  We approached from the South while the Temple stood out majestically against the fading Delhi evening.

The rickshaw-wallah was a nice guy, asking the standard questions most tourists have heard a thousand times.  Which country? Do you like India? What do you do?  Before we were halfway there, the driver asked, "Do you want return?"  I have never had a rickshaw-wallah actually wait for me on a pickup - that's normally only done by taxi-drivers, with actual cars, and because you've arranged payment in advance.  I turned him down, so he shrugged and kept driving.

The drive ended up being longer than I thought--definitely a seventy-rupee ride, not sixty. I hadn't overpaid after all. I hopped out at the temple entrance, then took my gamble.  

"Change?" I asked, handing the rickshaw-wallah a 100-rupee note.  

"Twenty rupees," he responded, handing me that amount.  "Good price."  I knew better than to argue.  I had committed classic blunder #2: expecting to get change. Silly Yankee! I just laughed and shook my finger at him.  "Very sneaky," I scolded jokingly.  "You're very sneaky." And off to the temple.

Which, by the way, is classic blunder #3.  The Lotus Temple is closed on Sunday.

I hung out by the gate and got a few gorgeous photos of the outside, but resigned myself to see the interior another day.  When I turned around to find myself a ride home, there was the rickshaw-wallah grinning like an idiot.

"OK, want return now?"

"Closed!" I said, throwing up my hands.  "You're very sneaky!"

He laughed.  "Yes, closed on Sundays."

"Now you have to take me home for sixty," I said.

He laughed and repeated, "Sixty," and gestured for me to get in.

I made to slide in the door, then I stopped and put my hands on my hips.  "Will you have change for sixty?"

He cracked up, which I took as a yes, and he motored me home.  We went through the back roads this time so that I could get a good view of South Delhi gardens, markets, and temples.  For my trouble, he gave me what amounted to a guided mini-tour.  He dropped me right where he had found me and gave me exactly the change I was due, with an eyebrow wiggle to let me know that he wasn't really obliged.  I was a good sport; he was a good sport.  In all, the adventure only cost me about $2, and I could chalk it up to a good lesson in Delhi tourism.

Presented here without any context whatsoever...

... a dance off!

Recent Observations Lately Made Which Cause Me To Worry About My Return to America

- When getting into a cab, I decide in advance how much I'm going to pay.  At my destination, that's exactly what I spend.  Correction: When getting into a cab, the driver tells me how much I'm going to pay, then I tell the driver he's wrong, then I give him a figure less than half than what he's quoted me and that's how much I'm going to pay.

- I don't believe that cars in the street even exist until they honk.

- Today, my driver headed directly into oncoming traffic.  We faced down a slightly bigger Tata, but because there was a cycle rickshaw next to us we were able to complete our turn.  I turned to the American sitting next to me and said, "You know? Just now, that made perfect sense."

Krishna, Cameras, and Cows

Photos from Rishikesh are up here.

Rishikesh is the kind of town experienced differently depending on the mood you're in. Backpackers look towards the Himalayan trails beyond in an intrepid mood.  Stragglers with guitars try to channel the Beatles in a singing mood. Tourists heft their giant cameras in a sightseeing mood.  Yoga enthusiasts practice their down-dog in a meditative mood. Hindus visit the banks of the Ganges in a prayerful mood.   Some overzealous transplants seemed to be in an altered mood ... although the less said about them, the better.

We visited at the bare beginning of one of the largest festivals in the Hindu religion, Kumbh Mela, which takes place only every twelve years.  In the middle of the night, I could still hear the chanting from the neighboring ashrams.  Pilgrims were flocking to the neighboring town of Haridwar to bathe in the Ganges where it meets the Plain of Bengal around Har-ki-Pairi.  The crowds were intense then, so I can't even imagine what it will look like in two months when the festival is in full swing.

The thing about Rishikesh, though, is that the prayerful folk were continually being followed around by the sightseers, the tourists were being photographed by the locals, and the backpackers were being followed by monkeys and holy cows.

The scenery was unbeatable, and the company was grand.  I learned more than I expected to, but the best part...

MOOed.

For Every Occasion

We are in the heat of Indian wedding season. Most Indian weddings don't happen until at least one astrologer has been consulted to determine the most auspicious date and time.  In fact, "auspicious", is a term thrown around more than casually when it comes to weddings.  I can always tell whether or not a day is auspicious based on the wedding center around the corner from my apartment.  If I see tents going up or confetti on the ground - auspicious.  Sometimes I'll see wedding tents on my drive home from work - auspicious.

If that's the case I know I can expect little sleep that night.  The other day a wedding celebration kicked off at 1 a.m. with electronic Hindi music, a DJ on a loudspeaker, and drums drums drums drums.  Did I mention I have thin windows? No soundproofing? No earplugs? In fact, just as I was typing this, another wedding drum has just started up.  Quite literally.  Today is definitely auspicious.

It being mid-February, this is the most auspicious period in the most auspicious time of year. Since each couple is aiming for the same astrological arrangement, you often have to bounce from wedding to wedding to give everybody your blessings.  Indians seem to know that marriages, like most things in life, depend almost entirely on luck.

-----

It's a painful irony that I came back from a weekend in Rishikesh to discover a close friend had lost a family member in a car accident.  While I was dipping my feet in the Ganges, my friends had been gathering back home to show their support and love.  By the time I heard, I wouldn't have even been able to get to the airport before the wake began.

In the emails he sent out to tell us the news, my friend repeated the same advice: Hug your families. One of the last things I did before coming to India was to attend a good friend's wedding.  I appreciate now the distance I've traveled since, and how different it is to live and work somewhere rather than just vacation.

It's unfortunate that I'm unable to be with my family tonight, but it's a small consolation that new families are starting up right now all over Delhi.  I can't give my loved ones a hug, but I can wish them luck.  I'm wishing them luck tonight more than ever.

The Ganges, Rishikesh 6-2-10

Veg-Burger in Paradise

One of the best things about being a vegetarian in India is the rare confidence to walk into any restaurant and order anything on the menu without fear.

With a 5:30 am taxi pickup in the morning and because my hotel-mates are off at a wedding, I set off exploring and made some wonderful discoveries:

I discovered a lovely takeout restaurant around the corner, which introduced me to Masala Channa, tandoori roti, and kulcha; and then I discovered a sweets shop a few doors down from that which taught me the beauty of kheer; and then I found some lovely Indian ginger tea and sat down to watch a few old episodes of Lost.

I continued to make many more discoveries along the way: overeating, heartburn, Tums, indigestion, Tums, Tums ... Zantac ... None of which stops me from being one happy herbivore!

Do the Needful

Indian English speakers often use a delightful turn of phrase, to "do the needful".  To do the needful is to accomplish whatever needs to be accomplished, fulfill whatever task needs to be fulfilled.  Your correspondent unfailingly reads this phrase as though "the needful" were a euphemism. I think you'll agree that running into those words in formal business communications would put a smile on any American's face.

Now let me tell you about the process of obtaining a SIM card in India.  A SIM card, for those who don't know, is the chip you need to insert into a mobile phone handset for the phone to attach itself to a network and begin sending or receiving calls.  Apparently, these are a huge security issue, because in the past few days I have done the following:

First, I had a personal interview with a representative from the cell phone company.  He had to meet me in person so that I could fill out several forms.  Passport photos were attached to each one of these forms, along with a notarized letter from my company vouching for my current employment.

Then, several photocopies of my passport, my visa, and this verification letter were made and distributed to certain parties at my office and place of residence.  I had to ask these parties to be available for an "agent", who would stop by later in the week to collect the photocopies and again verify my employment and/or residence.  How many pictures of my passport are floating around right now?  Who is this agent?  Who knows.

The final straw came as I was sitting at work today, calmly checking a manuscript.  I received a phone call to my business landline from a gentleman who who began asking me very personal questions in a heavy accent.  What is my name? What is my father's name? What is my address?  Have I provided a copy of my passport and visa?  It took me a moment to realize that he was also from the phone company, further verifying my identity.  Thinking it was a sign that my cell phone service would soon be activated, I waited a few hours and then tried to make a call.  The best part is?  Still no signal.

It just leads me to ask: is this really needful?

Travel Update

It's taken me a while, but I've updated my flickr page to include photos of my trip to Humayan's Tomb and the Lodhi Gardens from last Sunday.


A few days later, I glimpsed Humayan's Tomb from the highway and was struck once again by its sheer size.  Built by his grieving widow from 1565-72, it sits within an expansive, landscaped garden in South Delhi.  I tried to get pictures of the intricate tile inlay, latticework, and carving, but it's really something that needs to be seen to be believed.

Baksheesh and Bazaars

Some concepts in America do not translate to Indian culture.  Trying explaining to an Indian colleague the idea of being a "locavore".  Socially responsible consumers in America are supposed to shop for food grown within a certain distance from their homes.  There is no such term in India, because there is no alternative.  This, for instance, is the local fruit store:

For the visitor, social responsibility in India must be approached differently than back home.  Without a strong welfare system and facing immense poverty, India has barely any safety net besides the voluntary exchange between individuals. The Hindi term baksheesh refers to the responsibility of richer persons to contribute to the poor through alms and tipping.  Street performers who succeed in drawing a crowd explicitly ask for baksheesh for their troubles.  Baksheesh is what you call the alms given to the distressing number of disabled beggars around Old Delhi.  Back home, we're taught not to give directly to the homeless, and instead to contribute to local shelters or organizations.  Lately, that rule has been very difficult to observe.

Then there's the dilemma between the needs of the vendor at a bazaar weighed against the handicrafts' dubious manufacturing origin.  Let's just say, I've been warned more than once. The boggling array of purses, scarves, tapestries, dresses, shalwaars, bracelets, et cetera ... Well, it must have come from somewhere. Under what conditions were they made? Who made them? Where did they come from? What does it say about me if I choose to buy?

I could always shop at FabIndia or the Crafts Museum, where there is a modicum more confidence about the source's credibility.  But then, where does my money go?  To the seamstress or to the shopkeeper?  To the artisan or to the businessman? Meanwhile, there's no good answer to the woman whose sole income comes from the shawls arrayed in front of her.

It's a struggle, plain and simple.  Sadly, one of the difficult byproducts of this trip has been to escalate my awareness of real, crushing poverty in a way that I don't think will ever leave me.  It's given a whole new meaning to the term "buy local".  Because, really ... what is the alternative?

Deja View

Driving from the visa registration office, I suddenly realized that the rickshaw next to me looked vaguely familiar.  It had "I Love You" written on the back - a decoration I had definitely seen before.  It occurred to me then that I had begun to recognize specific rickshaws.  My arrival is even more official now than the stamp on my passport.

---

In a related story, last Friday we hailed a rickshaw driven by a hunched old man with crazy blue eyes who tried to kill us by jumping in front of a whole cordon of motorbikes just as the light turned green.  Out of the thousands of hazards on the road, this guy was exceptionally bonkers.

Now, out of all the rickshaws in all of Delhi, how did we manage to flag the same guy to take us home today?