Your correspondent was fed a green chilli pickle today.
"Pickle" in India is very different from the Stateside variety. As a kid I used to buy a giant, juicy pickled cucumber every evening at summercamp, and manage to finish only about half before feeling stuffed. Indian pickle is more like what we call "relish", and it's made with a number of different ingredients (all of them pungent and/or "flavorful"). This morning, I had sour mango pickle for breakfast with my parantha. I will probably have ginger pickle with dinner. But green chilli pickle...?
"Try one!" I was urged as we sat down for lunch.
I glanced around the table and noticed a conspicuous absence of curd, or yogurt--India's dairy of choice--and grimaced. "I think I'd better not. I wouldn't have anything to cool off with."
Everyone smiled understandingly, and nodded. Yankee taste buds, after all. No match for Indian chillis.
A few minutes later, we were joined by another editor, who briskly helped himself to a pickle. (I should note that, in most cases, I will take a whole spoonful of pickle as part of my meal. This editor, no slouch when it comes to spice, took a single chilli, about half the size of my pinky, for himself.)
"Try one!" he urged, holding out the jar.
I repeated my curd excuse, but he gestured to the parantha on the table and motioned for his wife to spoon me some dal. "Just roll it up, like this, And take small bites."
Gamely encouraged, I did as I was told. My tastebuds survived, for the most part, but apparently the look on my face was such that several concerned editors practically catapulted over the table at me. "Do you want a Coke!?! Do you want water!?! More dal! Smaller bites! Smaller bites!!!"
ADVENTURE!
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Happy St Patrick's Day!
In honor of the patron saint of Ireland, your correspondent will now drive all of the snakes out of India.
... Oh. Oh dear.
On second thought, maybe I'll just wear green.
(PS - If you think this snake was big, imagine the size of the one we didn't see.)
... Oh. Oh dear.
On second thought, maybe I'll just wear green.
(PS - If you think this snake was big, imagine the size of the one we didn't see.)
A list of things which become suddenly dangerous when combined with Delhi's electricity delivery systems
- Refrigerator. You think your yogurt has been kept a continuous temperature. It has. It's been ninety degrees all afternoon.
- Automatic kettle. The kettle switching off does not mean the water has boiled. It could mean it's been zapped by a power surge at an inopportune moment. Your water isn't sanitary. Enjoy your Delhi-belly.
- Laptop charger. Imagine lying in bed one night, half-asleep, when you hear a small "pop" and see a flash of light. For one bleary moment, you think someone has taken a picture using one of those old-timey camera flashes. You then realize that you're in your hotel, alone, and that pop and flash had just come from your wall socket. From the plug leading to your laptop. You now have a ruined night's sleep, and a ruined hard drive.
- Alarm clock. If yours plugs into the wall, you will wake up to blinking 12:00 12:00 12:00 at least once a week. In this situation, check your watch: it will be invariably be half an hour after you were supposed to report to work. Enjoy the traffic.
- Mosquito zapper. Just when you thought it was safe to sleep in a t-shirt and shorts... now you're itchy and you've got malaria.
- Treadmill. Not only does the treadmill timer run a good thirty seconds slow, power shocks and surges mean that, sometimes, your runs go like this: run run run run run run run run run... run. ... ruuuunnn.... ruuu- RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN! run run run run. Ruuuuuuuu- RUN!
- Automatic kettle. The kettle switching off does not mean the water has boiled. It could mean it's been zapped by a power surge at an inopportune moment. Your water isn't sanitary. Enjoy your Delhi-belly.
- Laptop charger. Imagine lying in bed one night, half-asleep, when you hear a small "pop" and see a flash of light. For one bleary moment, you think someone has taken a picture using one of those old-timey camera flashes. You then realize that you're in your hotel, alone, and that pop and flash had just come from your wall socket. From the plug leading to your laptop. You now have a ruined night's sleep, and a ruined hard drive.
- Alarm clock. If yours plugs into the wall, you will wake up to blinking 12:00 12:00 12:00 at least once a week. In this situation, check your watch: it will be invariably be half an hour after you were supposed to report to work. Enjoy the traffic.
- Mosquito zapper. Just when you thought it was safe to sleep in a t-shirt and shorts... now you're itchy and you've got malaria.
- Treadmill. Not only does the treadmill timer run a good thirty seconds slow, power shocks and surges mean that, sometimes, your runs go like this: run run run run run run run run run... run. ... ruuuunnn.... ruuu- RUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN! run run run run. Ruuuuuuuu- RUN!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
New Mother Nature Taking Over
India switched seasons without me really even knowing about it. Apparently Holi is the weekend which initiates a sudden, dramatic rise in temperature, from innocuous seventy-five degree days to a light bake closer to ninety. The thing with the heat as of late is that it's not as muggy as I'm accustomed to, so even ninety-five degree days aren't particularly unpleasant. It's manageable if you can only stay out of the sun.
As I'm reminded, though, the temperature has only risen twenty degrees Fahrenheit these past few weeks. We have another ten or twelve degrees to go ... in Celsius.
Even while clambering for shade, I was startled today to hear someone talk about "summer". On your correspondent's personal calendar, summer isn't meant to start for another two or three months--in fact, long after I've returned home to Boston. We're both from the same hemisphere, so it's not a latitudinal thing. It's just that the months I would call "summer" are spent in India under the downpour of the monsoon. So, that warm part of the year, the nice time when everyone should be fanning themselves next to a tall drink of something cold - this is it.
It's a funny thing to think about, that different cultures have different calendars. Changing seasons are something you normally take for granted. Honestly, though, did I really expect Indians to have any concept of "Fall"? It's not like trees in Delhi would ever change color and lose their leaves. By the same token, what could I possibly know about monsoons? Best of all... you call that "winter"?
You know what they say: when in Rome. I've retired my jeans, invested in lots of loose-fitting linen, and have resigned myself to the incoming low simmer ... whether I'm ready for it or not.
As I'm reminded, though, the temperature has only risen twenty degrees Fahrenheit these past few weeks. We have another ten or twelve degrees to go ... in Celsius.
Even while clambering for shade, I was startled today to hear someone talk about "summer". On your correspondent's personal calendar, summer isn't meant to start for another two or three months--in fact, long after I've returned home to Boston. We're both from the same hemisphere, so it's not a latitudinal thing. It's just that the months I would call "summer" are spent in India under the downpour of the monsoon. So, that warm part of the year, the nice time when everyone should be fanning themselves next to a tall drink of something cold - this is it.
It's a funny thing to think about, that different cultures have different calendars. Changing seasons are something you normally take for granted. Honestly, though, did I really expect Indians to have any concept of "Fall"? It's not like trees in Delhi would ever change color and lose their leaves. By the same token, what could I possibly know about monsoons? Best of all... you call that "winter"?
You know what they say: when in Rome. I've retired my jeans, invested in lots of loose-fitting linen, and have resigned myself to the incoming low simmer ... whether I'm ready for it or not.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
It's a Jungle Out There
When I saw the first calf walking along the highway by its mother's side, a little part of me panicked. All of my Croswell, Michigan farmer-girl instincts kicked into high gear and I wanted to shelter that calf, wall it in, give it grain, and keep it safe from harm.
Here's the thing with animals in India: they are everywhere. Most of them, though, don't seem to belong to anybody. In fact, I'm not sure on the details, but I think cows in particular are not supposed to belong to anybody. Dogs, cats, cows, pigs, goats, peacocks, monkeys, and God knows how many others roam the streets as casually as squirrels do back home. After a while you get used to it.
The thing is, I was raised to raise animals. Back in the States, I worked on a farm throughout my childhood; my livestock come tagged and penned. If one of them gets a cut or a sore, it is soaked in epsom salts or coddled in a sick-stall or bathed in the middle of the night when the fever gets too high. I used to routinely trudge into the black-darkness every night to give this year's pair of petting calves a bottle, and yes I was patient when the damn things pushed me around they were so greedy for milk.
Watching the animals in my Indian neighborhood is a little like watching human society in minature. There are more of them here, population-wise, and they generally fend for themselves, and every so often you come across one with a gimpy paw or a bent talon and you know survival is just a little bit tougher for that animal today. It is a fact: life is cruel. Not much is going to change for that little guy until he either heals, learns to deal, or... well...
On the other hand, one episode sticks out in my mind. Visiting a stepwell in Rajasthan, I was thrilled to see a giant flock of parakeets flitting and zooming around, chirping up a racket. Our impromptu tour guide, an Indian gentleman named Rasul, explained that the birds stayed because someone gave them grain every morning and night. We consider them lucky, he said. If they were to go away it would be a bad sign.
Sure enough, discarded bits of seed littered the ground outside the stepwell. I see the same thing in random places across town--in parks, near shrines. Despite their huge numbers, the human poverty, despite everything: India's wild animals aren't always, well, left to the dogs.
That is, I think, a little comforting to know.
Here's the thing with animals in India: they are everywhere. Most of them, though, don't seem to belong to anybody. In fact, I'm not sure on the details, but I think cows in particular are not supposed to belong to anybody. Dogs, cats, cows, pigs, goats, peacocks, monkeys, and God knows how many others roam the streets as casually as squirrels do back home. After a while you get used to it.
The thing is, I was raised to raise animals. Back in the States, I worked on a farm throughout my childhood; my livestock come tagged and penned. If one of them gets a cut or a sore, it is soaked in epsom salts or coddled in a sick-stall or bathed in the middle of the night when the fever gets too high. I used to routinely trudge into the black-darkness every night to give this year's pair of petting calves a bottle, and yes I was patient when the damn things pushed me around they were so greedy for milk.
Watching the animals in my Indian neighborhood is a little like watching human society in minature. There are more of them here, population-wise, and they generally fend for themselves, and every so often you come across one with a gimpy paw or a bent talon and you know survival is just a little bit tougher for that animal today. It is a fact: life is cruel. Not much is going to change for that little guy until he either heals, learns to deal, or... well...
On the other hand, one episode sticks out in my mind. Visiting a stepwell in Rajasthan, I was thrilled to see a giant flock of parakeets flitting and zooming around, chirping up a racket. Our impromptu tour guide, an Indian gentleman named Rasul, explained that the birds stayed because someone gave them grain every morning and night. We consider them lucky, he said. If they were to go away it would be a bad sign.
Sure enough, discarded bits of seed littered the ground outside the stepwell. I see the same thing in random places across town--in parks, near shrines. Despite their huge numbers, the human poverty, despite everything: India's wild animals aren't always, well, left to the dogs.
That is, I think, a little comforting to know.
Observation of the Day
Going to an Indian bazaar is like shopping on ebay in person. Except that prices go incrementally down, not up.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Not a Statement I Make Lightly
Last weekend, I discovered my favorite ruins in the world: the Qutab Minar complex.
It's worth nothing that these photographs come from the oldest mosque in India, built in the 1100's. Note the mixture of the Hindu lotus flower winding behind the arabic letters in the last photo.
Phenomenal, right?
Flickr photos here.
It's worth nothing that these photographs come from the oldest mosque in India, built in the 1100's. Note the mixture of the Hindu lotus flower winding behind the arabic letters in the last photo.
Phenomenal, right?
Flickr photos here.
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