One Thousand Words

Somebody Please Explain This To Me

We spent last weekend on a campsite just outside the Himalayan hill station of Shimla. The scenery was fantastic, and it was a nice change from the hectic pace and heat of day-to-day Delhi.

Sharing our campsite was a group of three young men. They were friendly people, offering to give us a lift when they drove past us on our trek in from town. I saw nothing out of the ordinary about them; in fact they seemed the type I would be friends with back home. They parked their car not far from our lodging and disappeared from view, presumably enjoying the outdoors just like us.

Later that evening, we left our campsite for another walk up the road to watch the sun set over the mountains. As we passed their car, we discovered the boys had returned from their activities. And ... they were dancing.

Not just dancing. Grooving.

They barely paused to acknowledge us as we walked past, and in fact were not embarassed whatsoever about being caught mid-boogie. One of the men said hello, but that's about it. In a country where blondes are routinely asked to be photographed and where conversations with strangers are commonplace, it was almost a little disconcerting to feel so ignored. At the time, I figured they had just... wanted to dance.

We continued on to a two-storey platform in the woods which afforded a treetop view of Himalayan foothills. In the fading light, we sat in blissful silence soaking in the beauty of our surroundings. Until, of course, the sound of a Hindi pop song came drifting down the road, and the same car of three gentlemen hurtled to a stop below us.

We assumed the boys had come for the same vantage point as ourselves, and so prepared to share the view. It turns out, however, these boys were not interested in scenery. They opened their car doors, turned up their stereo, and ... continued to dance.

This went on for about five minutes. They danced to a song or two, then turned off their radio, got back into their car, and drove away.

We never saw them again.

Can someone give me an explanation for what on earth just happened?

A Pain in the Side

For the past few weeks, I’ve had a little visitor.  He’s very close to me and has come with me a long way at my side, but I’m starting to think it might be better if I make him dead.

No, I’m not talking about my American boyfriend, who is also in Delhi for a few weeks but who I like infinitely better.  The visitor I want dead is more of the single-celled variety, and I can’t even remember the first time we met.  We may have been together as long as I’ve been in India.  He has, however, caused me great distress, especially when my weekend plans involve overnight bus trips to Shimla on a Volvo Coach. 

The relationship isn’t really working out for me, and now I think it’s about time for it to end.

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There are all sorts of truisms when it comes to international travel: Don’t drink the water.  Don’t get into a land war in Asia. Wear sunscreen.  Don’t feed the monkeys.  It’s not until you actually have a monkey physically reaching his hands into your jacket pockets for a snack that you realize, this is real.  And there’s a reason that gentleman half a mile back was trying to sell you a monkey stick.

That’s the gist of the lesson imparted by the kindly doctor it took me all of $15 and a little whining to meet.  “Madame,” he said.  “You’re in a tropical country.”  I expected him to elaborate, but instead he gave me a genuine smile and made a list of foods to avoid from now on.  I had been diagnosed with a tropical country.  And salad.  Lesson learned.

I’ll feel better tomorrow, I’m sure, and there are always more lessons to be learned.  Like, for instance: Don’t step in any puddles if it hasn’t been raining.  That’s a whole other story, and probably a few more doctor’s visits, too.

Higher Learning

Recently, I've been working with one professor to map content for a forthcoming custom book. Wherever nothing matched I suggested he indicate as much with the usual acronym we use in the US for "Original Material".

I got back the grid and saw "OM" written all over it. Then, I realized: I'm in India. Back home, it's an acronym. To this prof, it's a word.

He probably thought I was a complete nutcase. Sigh.

Sweets for the sweet

After much research, Indian desserts have been placed into one of two categories:

1)       Delicious.

2)       Wet.

This weekend we made a stop at Halidram’s in Old Delhi for a paper dosa and dal.  (A paper dosa, for those who haven’t seen one, is longer than the size of an arm and hilarious to eat.  That’s a whole other post.)  Afterwards we postponed the 100-degree heat by browsing their exhaustive candy counter.  Your correspondent was put in charge of choosing the best cap to our meal, given my high level of experience.  The possibilities were virtually endless.

My personal favorite are the laddoo, little balls which (I think) are made from some sort of flour, sugar, butter, maybe milk, maybe nuts, and maybe other things.  I am certain that they taste exactly like biting into a big chunk of brown sugar.  A little gritty, sometimes a little gooey.  Not as gooey, though, as burfi, which is close to an unbaked granola bar: all sorts of bad-for-you ingredients just mooshed together.  Certain kinds of burfi are so rich they’re like fudge.  Halwa comes close to burfi, but it’s usually served warm. 

After much deliberation, I chose a few laddoo and we muched happily away.  Then, I turned to the desserts we didn’t choose.

First, I pointed out the gulab jamen.  From the outside, gulab jamun look very much like laddoo: little balls of dough.  They are, however, wet.  Eating a gulab jamun feels like eating a munchkin soaked in water.  Next to those were channa toast.  They look like bruschetta, but be careful!  Try to eat it with your fingers and you’ll have liquid sugar running down your arm before you can say “al dente”.  But it's most important to steer clear of the deceptive desserts, like the silver-wrapped fudgey ones whose underbellies hide a pool of syrup.  I should have known the first time I ordered one and was handed a spoon.  They are delicious on top, drippy on bottom.  The thought of it still makes me shudder.

There are rumors, however, of certain fancy restaurants who will serve gulab jamun doused in sherry, lit with a match.  It is my hypothesis that, truly, all wet desserts deserve to be set on fire.  I have to admit, though, a flaming wet donut may not be as bad as a cold wet donut.  Further research will be necessary ...

Notes from the Twilight Zone

It seems that since I haven't been signing on to my work email from my home server, I haven't been told I should change my password.  I can access my account here but have no administrative authority.  That prompt would have only reached me in the US. I went so long without changing my password, however, that the password expired.  Catch-22!

I can't get in anywhere.  Not Webmail, not Outlook, nothing.  I've been away from the States so long they think I've stopped working entirely.

So, I'm having one of the biggest learning experiences of my career and yet my personal data is listed as home, inactive.

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Meanwhile, my credit card company saw an action on my statement originating in Delhi and decided to, helpfully, panic.  "We have reason to believe," they said, "That sensitive information has been used by someone abroad.  Please forward any correspondence you may have received from any corporations in India."

According to their computers, my personal data has been ranging far and wide, overactive.

Where in the world am I?

In a Pickle

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!