The Rest House
The Daranghati Rest House appears suddenly and cinematically at the top of the hill. It's roof is rusted tin and its outer-walls a pale yellow. Shayam Lal, the chowkidaar, takes the keys out from his leather jacket, two sizes too big for his slight frame. We enter, not hoping for a Hilton but praying desperately for a clean bed and loo.
The rest house was built in 1914, though the small wood inscription says 1913 1914, no dash in between. It also says that the structure is 2x2, which could be a reference to the two bathrooms attached to the two rooms or to the two smaller rooms attached to the bigger ones. The Rest House has a kitchen, approximately the size that you would find in a good sized New Delhi apartment. Attached to the kitchen is a small dining room, overlooking the back of the house. The rest-house must have been comfortable, cozy and also pretty, until it fell into the hands of the Public Works Department, post-Independence. There are broad-sweeps of that architectural affliction native to India and specialized in by the goverment functionaries called, "Sarkaariyat". It seems like there were many enthusiastic upkeep projects that came and went like the winds in these parts- hasty and destructive. The wide balcony spans the width of the house and is framed by an iron grill that seems very seventies in its design. Now rusted orange circles with chipped white paint remain. It looks like there was also glass at some point shielding one from the cold , but not anymore. There are instead pelmets made of plywood with hooks for curtain-rods. Curtains, pelmets and iron grills were perhaps the first fast assault of sarkaariyat. Both rooms have working fire-places, a blessing after 5:00 P.M for most of the year, I am told by Shayam Lal. One of the the rooms is designated a living room and the other a bed-room. The floor boards are bare in the living-room. In the bed-room they are also broken. "There were carpets here in old days. All across the two rooms", says Shayam Lal with a flourish of his hands. The living room houses an incongruous mix of two standard issue cheap plastic chairs, a round plastic table and two beautiful lounging leather and wood chairs, the only remaining furniture from 1914. Shayam Lal, tells me that these were lying derelict and were restored recently with a re-inforced back made of "taat" or used gunny sacks. I ask him about the rest of the furniture. He says, it was all stolen one by one- some by the villagers, some by the sahabs. In the bedroom there are two rudimentary "takhats" joined together to make a double-bed. This is the only furniture here. "These beds you see", Shayam Lal says, "I got made two years ago. I spent my own money. Rs. 1500/- for both." "The PWD should have paid for it", I comment. "The officer sahab told me to get it made and said that he would reimburse me later. Then he got transferred to some other place. I went to the head office in Sarahan to ask for the payment...but you know how it is!". The broken floor boards have left gaping holes and mindless visitors have thrown trash in them. Some of the window panes are broken. "One time we had some students here. They broke a lot of the glass." I ask if he has reported this and asked for the windows to be fixed. Shayam Lal does not reply. I get my answer. The walls have smears. Places where achievements were noted, romances declared, anger at the world spitted out. Someone, I am guessing Shayam Lal, has painstakingly rubbed it off the walls.
The bathroom in comparison is sparkling clean. The white tiles on the floor and walls are again just plain white, not a design or detail to take it away from sarkariness. The faucets and shower head are new and shining. There is a brand new Crompton Greaves water heater mounted on the wall, some of its plastic wrapping still sticking to it. Something is amiss and I soon find out what. There is no running water in the rest-house. "Never has been", says Shayam Lal. "Not even when they put this geyser up on the wall?" I ask. "Never means never. This bathroom was renovated last year...or was it the year before?" Shayam Lal is trying to zone in on the date but its hard to keep track of days here in Daranghati, 12 kilometers from last village, Mashnoo (Population 990, said the board there). "It was a beautiful bathroom earlier." Shayam Lal continues, "Right here, a tub so big that an entire man could lie down in it". I could see it with my minds eye, the bath-tub, the sloping roof, the tiny back door with the glass window, the curtains, the view of the hills in the back. I am worried now about my time here though. I ask him what we should do for water while we are here. "There is a "chashma", a spring on the other side of this hillock, a little ways down. I can fetch you water from there. Luckily we got three feet of snow and some rain this year, so there's water in there. Its been getting less and less every year though." We come back into the bedroom. I look up at the high ceiling. Its beautiful. I guess neither the government workers nor juvenile delinquents could reach the ceiling. The wood is warm and shining. Perfectly preserved.
We go back into the kitchen (also tiled white with brand new water heater, sink and faucet). There are a few plates and a cardboard box of chilli powder lying there. Nothing else. Shayam Lal has met many curious people like me. "We had a gas cylinder and stove here, but people would use it indiscriminately, dirty up the kitchen and leave it all for me to clean. Also, once the cylinder finished, I would have to go back to Sarahan to file a requisition, then the gas agency asks for Rs. 50 extra to haul it up here. It was too much of a hassle, so now I cook up there in the hut on a wood chulha". We walk through the kitchen into the back of the house. This is also the servant's entrance. A little up on the hillock is Shayam Lal's kitchen and further off a few other bigger similar looking structures. "Who lives there?" I ask. "Those? Those are the old servant quarters and beyond them the stables for Gora Sahab's horses." No one lives there but the roofs have been changed from slates to tin. The walls are still made of slate-stone.
Our tour is done. Shayam Lal asks us if we have brought supplies. "I would be happy to make you dinner but I don't have anything right now." I tell him not to worry on account of us. We have bread, butter and Maggi noodles. He scoffs at me. "Maggi? Bread? You plan to eat that for the next few days? You call that 'khana'? Tonight you eat Maggi and tomorrow I will send a local guy with you. Drive down to the village on the other side and get some atta, chawal, daal and sabzi. I will make you real food."
The claws of Sarkariness haven't reached his heart. I am grateful.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Shayam Lal: Full Time Cook, Full Time Chowkidar
The evening we arrived here cold and tired from the long trip, the rest house looked like a piece of heaven. To be honest, anything with four walls and a roof would look appealing after the journey, the last long leg of which had us mostly white faced and chewing knuckles. A friend of a friend had loaned us his Maruti 800 and never a better vehicle was made for these hills, but more on that another time.
As we pulled up the drive way, a wiry oldish man stood up from his perch a little above on the hillock. I told Manu to confidently approach him and ask him to open a room for us. We did not have a reservation and I wasn’t going back down the road we came, even if it meant trying fake authoritative instructions and failing that shameless groveling at the man’s feet. The man, chowkidar of the rest house, was perhaps more used to phonies like me than I gave him credit for. He said he’s open the guest house but there was no food, so we’ll have to make arrangement for that. Fine by us. Quick introductions were made and Shayam Lal, the chowkidar brought a bunch of keys and asked us to follow him.
As we entered I thought I heard a baby cry. I asked if there was someone else staying there. “No” came a brisk reply. Again in a minute, there it was ,the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. By now we were inside the roofed structure and Shayam Lal was busy unlocking doors and opening windows. It looked like a small place and there was no one around. But then again, there it was- the baby. “Great” I thought," I’ve landed myself into one of those haunted rest houses on a secluded hill where I will most likely get killed before reel two of my life begins” I asked again, “Is there someone else here because I hear a baby crying”. Shayam Lal smiled, for the first time revealing his crooked yellow teeth and twinkling eyes. “It isn’t a baby…it’s a lamb”. He opened the door to the living room and there it was-A tiny black lamb, shivering, hiding under a plastic chair and calling out to its mother.
“I wasn’t expecting any guests and one of the village women left it here for me to watch. It is windy and cold outside so I brought him in here. She’ll be back soon to take it away. The women from the village go down hill every day these days to pluck mehandi leaves. Did you know the going rate for Mehandi these days is Rs.55 a kilo?”
“Really? I did not know that”, I said.
I would listen to many more stories and theories from Shayam Lal in the next few days.
--------------------------------------------------------
“India never really got its freedom” Shayam Lal declares one morning as he hands us steaming glasses of tea on the steps of the guest house.
“No?” I say rhetorically. I know this will be a long conversation so I turn the chair towards him. Shayam Lal tucks his tray under his arm and stands crossing his legs like his namesake God.
“For many years I worked at the rest house in Sarahan. It’s a bigger, better guest house than this one and that’s the one where the important people come. The Governors, Chief Ministers, Collectors. I was a cook. A cook with no training. All the cooks are supposed to go to the training centre in Mashobra but I never went. I learned everything on the job and no one ever found out that I wasn’t trained.” He smiled his impish smile.
“This one time the collector’s family came for a holiday. The day they arrived the collector’s Missus called me and asked me what all I could make so I told her anything you ask. She said she wanted Choley Bhaturey for breakfast and she wanted the cholas to be dark brown like in the hotels. I thought to myself, $#%&, how do I go about this? We don't get the kind of spices you people get in the plains. Anyways, I figured something out and next day when I served them breakfast, she was stunned! It was just as she expected. The Governer’s entourage had demands like Shahi Paneer, something I had never made. We would get calls from Shimla even before these big government officers arrived, telling us to make this and that, all new fangled stuff. When these groups arrived we were expected to be on our feet all the time. There were times when we would get no sleep. We’d work through the night and they would start asking for stuff again at dawn.
It was hell. I asked for a transfer to this place. My eyes had started watering all the time The smoke in the kitchen, the constant chopping of onions that’s what did it, I know. Even when I wasn’t cooking my eyes would water. When the man who came to drop me here asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay, I said yes and to this date I like being here more than the big rest house in Sarahan. I tell you the British, the white people, they are more considerate. I wish they had stayed.”
--------------------------------------------------
The evening we arrived here cold and tired from the long trip, the rest house looked like a piece of heaven. To be honest, anything with four walls and a roof would look appealing after the journey, the last long leg of which had us mostly white faced and chewing knuckles. A friend of a friend had loaned us his Maruti 800 and never a better vehicle was made for these hills, but more on that another time.
As we pulled up the drive way, a wiry oldish man stood up from his perch a little above on the hillock. I told Manu to confidently approach him and ask him to open a room for us. We did not have a reservation and I wasn’t going back down the road we came, even if it meant trying fake authoritative instructions and failing that shameless groveling at the man’s feet. The man, chowkidar of the rest house, was perhaps more used to phonies like me than I gave him credit for. He said he’s open the guest house but there was no food, so we’ll have to make arrangement for that. Fine by us. Quick introductions were made and Shayam Lal, the chowkidar brought a bunch of keys and asked us to follow him.
As we entered I thought I heard a baby cry. I asked if there was someone else staying there. “No” came a brisk reply. Again in a minute, there it was ,the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. By now we were inside the roofed structure and Shayam Lal was busy unlocking doors and opening windows. It looked like a small place and there was no one around. But then again, there it was- the baby. “Great” I thought," I’ve landed myself into one of those haunted rest houses on a secluded hill where I will most likely get killed before reel two of my life begins” I asked again, “Is there someone else here because I hear a baby crying”. Shayam Lal smiled, for the first time revealing his crooked yellow teeth and twinkling eyes. “It isn’t a baby…it’s a lamb”. He opened the door to the living room and there it was-A tiny black lamb, shivering, hiding under a plastic chair and calling out to its mother.
“I wasn’t expecting any guests and one of the village women left it here for me to watch. It is windy and cold outside so I brought him in here. She’ll be back soon to take it away. The women from the village go down hill every day these days to pluck mehandi leaves. Did you know the going rate for Mehandi these days is Rs.55 a kilo?”
“Really? I did not know that”, I said.
I would listen to many more stories and theories from Shayam Lal in the next few days.
“India never really got its freedom” Shayam Lal declares one morning as he hands us steaming glasses of tea on the steps of the guest house.
“No?” I say rhetorically. I know this will be a long conversation so I turn the chair towards him. Shayam Lal tucks his tray under his arm and stands crossing his legs like his namesake God.
“For many years I worked at the rest house in Sarahan. It’s a bigger, better guest house than this one and that’s the one where the important people come. The Governors, Chief Ministers, Collectors. I was a cook. A cook with no training. All the cooks are supposed to go to the training centre in Mashobra but I never went. I learned everything on the job and no one ever found out that I wasn’t trained.” He smiled his impish smile.
“This one time the collector’s family came for a holiday. The day they arrived the collector’s Missus called me and asked me what all I could make so I told her anything you ask. She said she wanted Choley Bhaturey for breakfast and she wanted the cholas to be dark brown like in the hotels. I thought to myself, $#%&, how do I go about this? We don't get the kind of spices you people get in the plains. Anyways, I figured something out and next day when I served them breakfast, she was stunned! It was just as she expected. The Governer’s entourage had demands like Shahi Paneer, something I had never made. We would get calls from Shimla even before these big government officers arrived, telling us to make this and that, all new fangled stuff. When these groups arrived we were expected to be on our feet all the time. There were times when we would get no sleep. We’d work through the night and they would start asking for stuff again at dawn.
It was hell. I asked for a transfer to this place. My eyes had started watering all the time The smoke in the kitchen, the constant chopping of onions that’s what did it, I know. Even when I wasn’t cooking my eyes would water. When the man who came to drop me here asked me if I was sure I wanted to stay, I said yes and to this date I like being here more than the big rest house in Sarahan. I tell you the British, the white people, they are more considerate. I wish they had stayed.”
--------------------------
Friday, May 14, 2010
Today We Had Our First Visitors
This place is 12 kilometers from the last "proper" village and there's another 10 kilometers to go on the other side before you find the next one. Usually it takes about three "fade-ins" and "fade-outs" of the sound of a vehicle before it actually pulls up in front of the rest house. Enough time to go in and change into better pants. There is an average of about two vehicles that come by, usually taxis ferrying local people to a temple which is about an hour's hike uphill from here.
Today we had our first city visitors.
We were sitting in the sun, thawing our bones out on the steps of the rest house when we heard the slow guttural sound of the vehicle, heaving itself up hill. Soon enough a big spiffy looking van drove past us and came to a halt a little further away. A few people got off, some got back in. A lot of commotion later the van came back to where we were sitting. One by one two women, a man and a couple of kids came out. By now, we realised we were behaving totally like the locals, staring unabashedly and making no attempt to smile or make conversation. In our defense, the new arrivals did not care to look towards us or smile either. The little girl with the big bag of Hippo chips found me interesting and we had a staring contest for a bit, then she skulked away to whisper in her mom's arms. The ladies went in to inspect the rest house, to which there isn’t much in terms of size so they returned in a few seconds and complained about the wind, which was on the cool side. Soon, they asked the driver to put on some music. "Ahun Ahun" played loud and clear into the distant mountains and came back as "Huan Haun". I am guessing it went all the way to Tibet/China border. There was animated discussion about food and since the chowkidar told them there was nothing to offer at the rest house, the man said there was enough Chundo and Thepla. Everyone got back in the van and ate inside. After they were done, the women stayed inside the van. While I was picking Tshirts off the bushes where I had put them out to dry, the man walked to Manu and started talking to him. He was livid that some ass at the Himachal Tourism office in Sarahan had sent them on a wild goose chase up such a terrible drive and now his over enthusiastic co-travelers had decided to go on a hike and left them here to wait. “How long is the trek anyways?” Manu told him it’s at least two hours, if they climb up to the temple and come back. Our new friend was seething with anger now. The topic moved to us. “How come we are planning to stay overnight?” He was horrified when we told him we had been here a while and planned to stay on for a couple of more days. Thankfully for him, his friends came back soon. They had decided to skip the trek and walked back after about half a kilometer. They were ready to leave but not before telling us that we should have gone to Igloo Resorts in Chitkul instead of this God forsaken place. I imagined myself in a resort type place- Hot bath, room service, multi-speciality cuisine…maybe even a spa.
My dream sequence did not last too long. Their big van left us in a cloud of black smoke. The sun had moved. It was time for us to move ourselves a little further down hill where meadows are as clean and green as a golf-course and the big white mountains further out are framed with lush green ones in the foreground. Our visitors forgot to say “bye” to us and we forgot to tell them to look up and walk around to see all this and more. Oh well!
PS: Came back from our walk to pick up a big empty bag of Hippo chips, a yellow bag and assorted wet tissues littered in our sitting area.
This place is 12 kilometers from the last "proper" village and there's another 10 kilometers to go on the other side before you find the next one. Usually it takes about three "fade-ins" and "fade-outs" of the sound of a vehicle before it actually pulls up in front of the rest house. Enough time to go in and change into better pants. There is an average of about two vehicles that come by, usually taxis ferrying local people to a temple which is about an hour's hike uphill from here.
Today we had our first city visitors.
We were sitting in the sun, thawing our bones out on the steps of the rest house when we heard the slow guttural sound of the vehicle, heaving itself up hill. Soon enough a big spiffy looking van drove past us and came to a halt a little further away. A few people got off, some got back in. A lot of commotion later the van came back to where we were sitting. One by one two women, a man and a couple of kids came out. By now, we realised we were behaving totally like the locals, staring unabashedly and making no attempt to smile or make conversation. In our defense, the new arrivals did not care to look towards us or smile either. The little girl with the big bag of Hippo chips found me interesting and we had a staring contest for a bit, then she skulked away to whisper in her mom's arms. The ladies went in to inspect the rest house, to which there isn’t much in terms of size so they returned in a few seconds and complained about the wind, which was on the cool side. Soon, they asked the driver to put on some music. "Ahun Ahun" played loud and clear into the distant mountains and came back as "Huan Haun". I am guessing it went all the way to Tibet/China border. There was animated discussion about food and since the chowkidar told them there was nothing to offer at the rest house, the man said there was enough Chundo and Thepla. Everyone got back in the van and ate inside. After they were done, the women stayed inside the van. While I was picking Tshirts off the bushes where I had put them out to dry, the man walked to Manu and started talking to him. He was livid that some ass at the Himachal Tourism office in Sarahan had sent them on a wild goose chase up such a terrible drive and now his over enthusiastic co-travelers had decided to go on a hike and left them here to wait. “How long is the trek anyways?” Manu told him it’s at least two hours, if they climb up to the temple and come back. Our new friend was seething with anger now. The topic moved to us. “How come we are planning to stay overnight?” He was horrified when we told him we had been here a while and planned to stay on for a couple of more days. Thankfully for him, his friends came back soon. They had decided to skip the trek and walked back after about half a kilometer. They were ready to leave but not before telling us that we should have gone to Igloo Resorts in Chitkul instead of this God forsaken place. I imagined myself in a resort type place- Hot bath, room service, multi-speciality cuisine…maybe even a spa.
My dream sequence did not last too long. Their big van left us in a cloud of black smoke. The sun had moved. It was time for us to move ourselves a little further down hill where meadows are as clean and green as a golf-course and the big white mountains further out are framed with lush green ones in the foreground. Our visitors forgot to say “bye” to us and we forgot to tell them to look up and walk around to see all this and more. Oh well!
PS: Came back from our walk to pick up a big empty bag of Hippo chips, a yellow bag and assorted wet tissues littered in our sitting area.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Mommy Knows Best
"Oh but he is just a musalman,a punjabi, a maddu."
she spat.
"And they are like that. All of them.
There. its final then."
Parsed all identities into bite sized pieces,
"Understand?"
so sitting in her lap he watched her
and learned.
"And that my child is how we do it,
see its easy
Chew their looks with your eyes to tell apart
us from them."
"Waste no time asking questions
shaking hands"
she pushed his hair back from his face
"Dog eat Dog."
"The road to success is tough
and crowded
So dont stop and ask or think or nudge
just walk over"
She turned his face to her and looked squarely
eye to eye
"I know whats best for you, my child
Would'nt I?"
"Oh but he is just a musalman,a punjabi, a maddu."
she spat.
"And they are like that. All of them.
There. its final then."
Parsed all identities into bite sized pieces,
"Understand?"
so sitting in her lap he watched her
and learned.
"And that my child is how we do it,
see its easy
Chew their looks with your eyes to tell apart
us from them."
"Waste no time asking questions
shaking hands"
she pushed his hair back from his face
"Dog eat Dog."
"The road to success is tough
and crowded
So dont stop and ask or think or nudge
just walk over"
She turned his face to her and looked squarely
eye to eye
"I know whats best for you, my child
Would'nt I?"
Saturday, January 17, 2009
I need to wake up earlier. By the time I am up, the kid next door is already watching cartoons. I know this because my bathroom forms a diagonal to the neighbors balcony and their balcony is off of their living room. As I brush my teeth to the sound of Mr. Squarepants, I know I should get up earlier. That would be one way to get more done in the day.
By the time I am back from the gym and taking a shower, the kids are still watching TV and their mom is threatening to wallop them for not finishing their lunch. The kids sound belligerent. Their mom sounds whiny. I am too tired.
By the time I am back from the gym and taking a shower, the kids are still watching TV and their mom is threatening to wallop them for not finishing their lunch. The kids sound belligerent. Their mom sounds whiny. I am too tired.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Christmas in India has changed rather India has changed and it reflects in everything this time of the year. Street vendors sell red caps with faux fur linings at intersections, Father Christmas masks that look deceptively like Santa Singh are everywhere. Right next to my local vegetable seller an enterprising young man is selling chinese made fake Xmas trees and he seems to be doing brisk business. The local Indian shop/restaurant that sells the usual array of Bengali sweets and suchlike has set up extra tables near the counter with fruitcakes, plum cakes and an assortment of "western sweets".
Young Indian parents, who as kids had read storybooks with Santa Claus, stocking, and snow can now provide for their little angels at least the first two, if not the last.
All those songs they sung mindlessly at their English Medium Schools extolling the virtues of
"being good for goodness sake", all that waiting for gifts that never arrived and all the
meetings with the mysterious bearded stranger who never visited- its all going to be fixed and taken care of now for their precious little ones.
We went out for what we thought would be a quiet weekend dinner in Connought Place but the restaurant had been taken over by revelers from an office party. After dinner we walked around CP and at 10:00 clock at night it was bursting at its seams with people, the shops were still open, people...entire families...walked around weighed down partly with shopping bags and partly with excessive calories. Street vendors hawked noisy knick knacks to distracted kids, others sold "ethnic jewellery" ( most of it made in China) to young girls. Parking lots were full and there was as much "parking rage" as you would find on any normal working day!
In a country where the majority Hindu middle class is often taken over by fervent religious sentimentalism often bordering on fundamentalism, Christmas is not being seen in any way as a religious festival. It in fact has that distilled secular quality that is typical of shop-till-you drop American consumerism this time of the year.
Young Indian parents, who as kids had read storybooks with Santa Claus, stocking, and snow can now provide for their little angels at least the first two, if not the last.
All those songs they sung mindlessly at their English Medium Schools extolling the virtues of
"being good for goodness sake", all that waiting for gifts that never arrived and all the
meetings with the mysterious bearded stranger who never visited- its all going to be fixed and taken care of now for their precious little ones.
We went out for what we thought would be a quiet weekend dinner in Connought Place but the restaurant had been taken over by revelers from an office party. After dinner we walked around CP and at 10:00 clock at night it was bursting at its seams with people, the shops were still open, people...entire families...walked around weighed down partly with shopping bags and partly with excessive calories. Street vendors hawked noisy knick knacks to distracted kids, others sold "ethnic jewellery" ( most of it made in China) to young girls. Parking lots were full and there was as much "parking rage" as you would find on any normal working day!
In a country where the majority Hindu middle class is often taken over by fervent religious sentimentalism often bordering on fundamentalism, Christmas is not being seen in any way as a religious festival. It in fact has that distilled secular quality that is typical of shop-till-you drop American consumerism this time of the year.
Monday, September 29, 2008
You may think I had given up and disappeared...not so. I am here, only things around me moved so fast, they left me dizzy and disoriented. Here's a quick recap of all thats happened in the past few months since I arrived in India-
1 wedding in the family
1 skirmish with the land mafia
1 house renovation
1 surgery of a loved one
1 launch of a new business
1 divorce in the family
To call it a whirlwind is to assume it is over. It is a regular, undeterred, unrelenting onslaught- more emotional and psychological than physical. It also surprises me that I have been able to withstand it all...so far,so good!
1 wedding in the family
1 skirmish with the land mafia
1 house renovation
1 surgery of a loved one
1 launch of a new business
1 divorce in the family
To call it a whirlwind is to assume it is over. It is a regular, undeterred, unrelenting onslaught- more emotional and psychological than physical. It also surprises me that I have been able to withstand it all...so far,so good!
Saturday, July 12, 2008
John Lennon said and I paraphrase: Life is what happens to you while you are making other plans. Thats what happened. The PLAN was to get to India and quickly settle down, relax and resume work. None of this happened. In true Bollywood tradition, we had a wedding in the family, a skirmish with the land mafia and our business plan got delayed. We were frustrated, then enthused, then nervous, then resolute and now finally stoic.
Hola! It has been a real long time since I blogged here. India has me both by the throat and by the heart.
I hate the traffic and the blatant disrespect for the fellow travelers. I hate the noise and smoke and dust (there I said it! ) and I hate the fact that none of this is likely to change anytime soon. Despite all this I love that I can now catch the metro train in Delhi and get anywhere in a half hour- max!, that people actually stand in a que and buy tickets, I love that I can hear birds and the vegetable seller and the children laughing as they get off the school bus , all sweaty and dirty. I love that I can never go anywhere in Delhi without going past a monument or building that is at least 200 years old, if not more. I love that there is so much life around (that cliche- the breathing, pulsating mass...open the window and its right there!)
I am finally doing something concrete with my time- Getting our flat renovated so that we can move in. Read about those travails and adventures at
http://throwitonthewall.blogspot.com/
I hate the traffic and the blatant disrespect for the fellow travelers. I hate the noise and smoke and dust (there I said it! ) and I hate the fact that none of this is likely to change anytime soon. Despite all this I love that I can now catch the metro train in Delhi and get anywhere in a half hour- max!, that people actually stand in a que and buy tickets, I love that I can hear birds and the vegetable seller and the children laughing as they get off the school bus , all sweaty and dirty. I love that I can never go anywhere in Delhi without going past a monument or building that is at least 200 years old, if not more. I love that there is so much life around (that cliche- the breathing, pulsating mass...open the window and its right there!)
I am finally doing something concrete with my time- Getting our flat renovated so that we can move in. Read about those travails and adventures at
http://throwitonthewall.blogspot.com/
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The ads and services section in the newspaper is like a fruit laden tree. Just reach out for what you want. And currency notes in people's pockets have given a certain buoyancy that was unheard of ten years ago. I have been seeing ads for "Movers and Packers" in the papers almost everyday. It is not just that businesses and services like "moving" did not exist ten years ago...its that people simply did not move that much! A generation ago if you got the much coveted Government Job, you were golden. You got health-care, a house and pension. Now, for a vast number of people (though still perhaps not the majority), the world and world-view has grown to geographically embrace itself and the world . For those that grew up in Indore or Patiala or any of the many "Tier 2 cities"( Newspaper's classification, not mine!) , it is obvious that one would move to metros like Delhi or Bangalore after graduating from school or college and get a job in the any of the many new private businesses/industries. A cousin who works for the government at a fairly good position wants to move into the private sector too. The reasons he states are many- opportunity to grow, less red-tape and better pay are a few. He says he works six days a week, in a far from glamorous office, using a software that is bug-ridden,slow and barely useful. His bosses and colleagues are bribe mongers and he sticks out like a sore thumb. Yet, with a wife, a kid and another one "planned soon" along with the fact that once he quits the government job he will not be able to join back ( Government jobs are usually competitive and have an age limit) makes him postpone his decision until the "next year". This is a kid who is bright and intelligent and the government of India, the largest employer, has no place for him. The only reason he is staying on is that old promise of stability. How long will he hold out to pressures around him and the aspirations within him.
The government's employee today is a frustrated bystander while corrupt politicians continue to give themselves pay hikes and perks. The Armed forces are reporting record number of voluntary early retirements and shortage of officers. A country needs its armed forces to defend its borders and keep its people safe but what happens when in the not too distant future the only people who will join the army will do so not out of any sense of patriotism or pride but because it was their only option. Will we then have an army of mercenaries?
Bangalore has a brand spanking new airport which was built by a private company. The roads leading to it though are nowhere near complete- that was the part the state government had to take care of. I guess you could still fly into and out of Bangalore but you may never get to leave the airport. This is the absurd reality of most infrastructural projects that the government undertakes in India today.
With so many people moving into the city, there has been a spurt in new housing developments in satellite towns. Private builders promise "24 hours electricity back up" in their high rises. That's because there isn't enough electricity even for the existing number of houses, let alone the gazilion that are coming up. So the private builders will run petrol powered generators to provide electricity for the high rises and also use the aforementioned generated electricity to suck the water up from the ground below, because there's no water supply either. So then we will burn gas/petrol to get water & electricity. Sort of like Mary Antoinette's fool proof solution- we can eat our cakes, since we will certainly not have any bread to eat!
Can a country really run on private businesses and its shining markets alone? The reality is that all private businesses need infrastructural support for them to function efficiently and for long.
Are these symptoms growing pains or a diseased core that will ultimately eat its way outwards until we remember these couple of decades as the brief flicker of hope that died sooner than it was born? Perhaps it is for the economists of the present and historians of the future to tell us.
The government's employee today is a frustrated bystander while corrupt politicians continue to give themselves pay hikes and perks. The Armed forces are reporting record number of voluntary early retirements and shortage of officers. A country needs its armed forces to defend its borders and keep its people safe but what happens when in the not too distant future the only people who will join the army will do so not out of any sense of patriotism or pride but because it was their only option. Will we then have an army of mercenaries?
Bangalore has a brand spanking new airport which was built by a private company. The roads leading to it though are nowhere near complete- that was the part the state government had to take care of. I guess you could still fly into and out of Bangalore but you may never get to leave the airport. This is the absurd reality of most infrastructural projects that the government undertakes in India today.
With so many people moving into the city, there has been a spurt in new housing developments in satellite towns. Private builders promise "24 hours electricity back up" in their high rises. That's because there isn't enough electricity even for the existing number of houses, let alone the gazilion that are coming up. So the private builders will run petrol powered generators to provide electricity for the high rises and also use the aforementioned generated electricity to suck the water up from the ground below, because there's no water supply either. So then we will burn gas/petrol to get water & electricity. Sort of like Mary Antoinette's fool proof solution- we can eat our cakes, since we will certainly not have any bread to eat!
Can a country really run on private businesses and its shining markets alone? The reality is that all private businesses need infrastructural support for them to function efficiently and for long.
Are these symptoms growing pains or a diseased core that will ultimately eat its way outwards until we remember these couple of decades as the brief flicker of hope that died sooner than it was born? Perhaps it is for the economists of the present and historians of the future to tell us.
Articles about the "new" India, the one that is shining, the one that is at the cusp of becoming the next super-power , the one that has shown jaw-dropping rise in economic growth, have become a regular feature in magazines and newspapers across the world. (In the Indian newspapers, it often borders on gloating). A recent article stated that the current middle class in India is equal to the total population of the United States. This, quiet obviously is not the result of the super rich sharing their bounty with their less fortunate brethren, as the mighty socialist phase of post-independence era promised us would happen. The reasons are many but not surely the generosity of the "haves". I am not an economist...in fact never studied economics in school either. What I can share is what I see around me. Sometimes that is the "shining" youthful side of India and at other times the less than perfect,old hurting, aching bones that is India.
Friday, April 18, 2008
"I am not comparingggg!!!". I could scream from the top of a mountain, till the cows come back home from city streets but no one listens. One of the crosses one bears for coming back /returning home to/moving back (whatever you want to call it) to India is that there is no way you can say anything even remotely critical of India. Family, friends even complete strangers all band together and give that collective look of disapproval - the one that instantly makes you feel like the pompous NRI/the ugly American or God forbid! the ones who forgot their roots! In smaller towns, you can't visit someone without them passing a quick and snide one about your not drinking tap water. My friends ,not in NY, Not in SFO...but in New Delhi and Mumbai buy mineral water to drink for God's sake!! The Indian bottled water industry is estimated at about Rs. 10 billion and is growing at the rate of 40 percent ( statistics from a recent rediff article) But dare we the recent returnees buy bottled water. Its taken as a personal affront, an abandonment, a betrayal like none other.
Things don't stop at water. Everyone complains of traffic and pollution. We can't. People complain of how hot it is getting every year, we don't dare break a sweat. Even if we never ever ate at fly infested street side eateries even before we left the motherland, we have to give trial by fly if not fire to prove that our bellies and hearts remain Indian. M got bit by a poisonous bug and had to go to the doctor. The doc gave him a good dose of " you guys can't handle Indian bugs anymore" before giving him a medicine that surely is not being used only by the three NRIs in the region. Even as Delhi-ites eat golgappas only at places that declare "Only Mineral Water Used to make golgappas" , eyebrows arch and lips smirk when we order a bottle of water at a restaurant.
One can't worry about these things too much. It is a cross we carry, sometimes with humor and other times with some irritation. One thing is for sure, for any new people we meet- we will not let on that we ever lived abroad.
Things don't stop at water. Everyone complains of traffic and pollution. We can't. People complain of how hot it is getting every year, we don't dare break a sweat. Even if we never ever ate at fly infested street side eateries even before we left the motherland, we have to give trial by fly if not fire to prove that our bellies and hearts remain Indian. M got bit by a poisonous bug and had to go to the doctor. The doc gave him a good dose of " you guys can't handle Indian bugs anymore" before giving him a medicine that surely is not being used only by the three NRIs in the region. Even as Delhi-ites eat golgappas only at places that declare "Only Mineral Water Used to make golgappas" , eyebrows arch and lips smirk when we order a bottle of water at a restaurant.
One can't worry about these things too much. It is a cross we carry, sometimes with humor and other times with some irritation. One thing is for sure, for any new people we meet- we will not let on that we ever lived abroad.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Friends have been asking about my India experience so far. To that I chant the Hindu Advait Vedanta matra- Neti, Neti, Neti meaning “Neither this, Nor That”. There really is no one way to explain what India is or has become (even the past, present, future tense stand still here).
I get up every morning and along with chai (that mom makes) get the newspaper. At that moment I feel love and belonging like none else. As I read the paper the feelings get a little more complex. The newspaper reads like an absurdist tabloid. There is an article, two full pages long, about a conference held for and attended by the worlds leading luxury goods manufacturers who see India as their fastest growing market. Jostling for space is another article about farmers who are unable to pay off their loan and are forced to commit suicide. Sharing the same page is a news about record yield of strawberries and how India is to become the largest exporter of strawberries to Europe. There is an article in today's newspaper about the influence and power wielded by women politicians. Yesterday there was one about a woman in rural India who was accused to being a witch, tied to a tree and beaten up- all this on broadcast TV. A school teacher beat up a student with a stick and she died (parents say due to injuries, doctors say its unclear). Another article tells me that the government has announced plans to set up eight more IITs and seven more IIMs- those hallowed corridors of education that catapulted India into the world technology and business arena. When then does one begin to rejoice and when lament?
Even if one were to step out of the incongruous and confusing world of the newspaper on to the roads of Delhi, the contrasts are hard to miss. I am not even going to go to the absolute lawlessness of the roads (that is now a subject too blasé for discussion here). The new metro public transport system shines as truly a much needed and much awaited blessing. A sign that things are improving- slowly yet surely. Yet we get power cuts that last hours ( I dread the fast approaching summer), everyone buys mineral water because what comes out of the taps is undrinkable and every year everyone digs deeper and deeper to pump water from the ground. No one seems to care or talk about the time when there is nothing more to dig and what when you can't dig anyways because there will be no electricity to pump water with.
I went to a mall with a friend last week and I am sure I was very irritating company for all my surprise oohs and aahs. There isn't a creature comfort that you can't get. From designer clothes to Brookstone kind of stores that tell you what you may need and then sell it to you. It could be a mall anywhere in the US. The service was impeccable, even if a little amateurish. Most of the salespeople are young college or school graduates who still haven't developed the professionally polished calm and disassociated politeness of the salespeople of the west. They are so eager to please they stalk you through the aisles and don't rest till they have found what you are looking for (that you are having to move an inch to look for something on your own is an insult to their profession). At the restaurant where we ate the manager asked several times if the food was ok and did everything to accommodate our needs- something I don't remember ever happening in my past life in Delhi.
Yet most of my mom's needs are met within a km of where she lives and she finds little use for malls and grocery chains. A banana seller comes every morning, followed by a vegetable seller and a fruit seller. They all ring the door bell, bargain without much gusto- as if they just need to go through the motions to justify the sale they made. Last evening I went to the local grocer with mom. We have known him forever and a few days- since the time his dad ran the shop. After his father passed away he took over the family business. His mother helps in keeping things organized. People come and rattle off their list of requirements. The mother assigns tasks to a couple of helper boys who then bring whatever you asked for and put in a basket. The basket then goes to the son who with his brand new handy dandy computer calculates your bill for you. I had barely made it to the front of the shop when my mom reminded me to say “Namaste” to the grocer's mom (“she always asks after you”) Not only did the lady remember me but also every detail of my life. She inquired after me, my work, my life. All this while the rest of the people waited for their turn to rattle off their grocery needs. If this wasn't enough we realized that we were a few hundred rupees short (on account of my having made my mom buy a few “healthier” things). I was going to tell him that I could come by and pick up the stuff later but he raised his hand, palm facing me (a universal gesture for “ I shall hear none of that”) and made mom sign the back of the bill, then put it away on one of those little spears that hold loose papers. There was a thick wad there from other people who hadn't paid the guy yet. He did not take any money at all saying that he would rather clear it all later. How is that for a credit card? No APR either.
It is an India of many Indias- owned equally and unequivocally by the farmers -ones who commit suicide and ones that find the next big cash crop, by stores in malls that aim to make life easier for you the consumer to shop owners who are an an intrinsic part of your life, by politicians who are caught taking bribes and by those few that hold up the hope for sustainable development, by parents fighting to get their kids into high end private schools and by kids that shine despite their less than perfect circumstances. India is a promise and promises can go either ways. Until then India remains, at least for me, Neti, Neti,Neti.
I get up every morning and along with chai (that mom makes) get the newspaper. At that moment I feel love and belonging like none else. As I read the paper the feelings get a little more complex. The newspaper reads like an absurdist tabloid. There is an article, two full pages long, about a conference held for and attended by the worlds leading luxury goods manufacturers who see India as their fastest growing market. Jostling for space is another article about farmers who are unable to pay off their loan and are forced to commit suicide. Sharing the same page is a news about record yield of strawberries and how India is to become the largest exporter of strawberries to Europe. There is an article in today's newspaper about the influence and power wielded by women politicians. Yesterday there was one about a woman in rural India who was accused to being a witch, tied to a tree and beaten up- all this on broadcast TV. A school teacher beat up a student with a stick and she died (parents say due to injuries, doctors say its unclear). Another article tells me that the government has announced plans to set up eight more IITs and seven more IIMs- those hallowed corridors of education that catapulted India into the world technology and business arena. When then does one begin to rejoice and when lament?
Even if one were to step out of the incongruous and confusing world of the newspaper on to the roads of Delhi, the contrasts are hard to miss. I am not even going to go to the absolute lawlessness of the roads (that is now a subject too blasé for discussion here). The new metro public transport system shines as truly a much needed and much awaited blessing. A sign that things are improving- slowly yet surely. Yet we get power cuts that last hours ( I dread the fast approaching summer), everyone buys mineral water because what comes out of the taps is undrinkable and every year everyone digs deeper and deeper to pump water from the ground. No one seems to care or talk about the time when there is nothing more to dig and what when you can't dig anyways because there will be no electricity to pump water with.
I went to a mall with a friend last week and I am sure I was very irritating company for all my surprise oohs and aahs. There isn't a creature comfort that you can't get. From designer clothes to Brookstone kind of stores that tell you what you may need and then sell it to you. It could be a mall anywhere in the US. The service was impeccable, even if a little amateurish. Most of the salespeople are young college or school graduates who still haven't developed the professionally polished calm and disassociated politeness of the salespeople of the west. They are so eager to please they stalk you through the aisles and don't rest till they have found what you are looking for (that you are having to move an inch to look for something on your own is an insult to their profession). At the restaurant where we ate the manager asked several times if the food was ok and did everything to accommodate our needs- something I don't remember ever happening in my past life in Delhi.
Yet most of my mom's needs are met within a km of where she lives and she finds little use for malls and grocery chains. A banana seller comes every morning, followed by a vegetable seller and a fruit seller. They all ring the door bell, bargain without much gusto- as if they just need to go through the motions to justify the sale they made. Last evening I went to the local grocer with mom. We have known him forever and a few days- since the time his dad ran the shop. After his father passed away he took over the family business. His mother helps in keeping things organized. People come and rattle off their list of requirements. The mother assigns tasks to a couple of helper boys who then bring whatever you asked for and put in a basket. The basket then goes to the son who with his brand new handy dandy computer calculates your bill for you. I had barely made it to the front of the shop when my mom reminded me to say “Namaste” to the grocer's mom (“she always asks after you”) Not only did the lady remember me but also every detail of my life. She inquired after me, my work, my life. All this while the rest of the people waited for their turn to rattle off their grocery needs. If this wasn't enough we realized that we were a few hundred rupees short (on account of my having made my mom buy a few “healthier” things). I was going to tell him that I could come by and pick up the stuff later but he raised his hand, palm facing me (a universal gesture for “ I shall hear none of that”) and made mom sign the back of the bill, then put it away on one of those little spears that hold loose papers. There was a thick wad there from other people who hadn't paid the guy yet. He did not take any money at all saying that he would rather clear it all later. How is that for a credit card? No APR either.
It is an India of many Indias- owned equally and unequivocally by the farmers -ones who commit suicide and ones that find the next big cash crop, by stores in malls that aim to make life easier for you the consumer to shop owners who are an an intrinsic part of your life, by politicians who are caught taking bribes and by those few that hold up the hope for sustainable development, by parents fighting to get their kids into high end private schools and by kids that shine despite their less than perfect circumstances. India is a promise and promises can go either ways. Until then India remains, at least for me, Neti, Neti,Neti.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
So much time has lapsed between my last post and this one and so much has happened. The roadtrip was great. We made it to Boston, MA, stayed there for a few days and then drove back to NJ to catch a flight to India- so technically we covered the width of the continent and then some! It was absolutely fantastic at that level. The chains- of restaurants, motels, gas stations. The unflinching appearance of rest areas along the highways.The very things that were a comfort factor also make the country somewhat homogeneous. This gets thrown up in contrast (not in comparison) as I return now from Goa. An hour and a flight from New Delhi and it may as well have been a different country- food, language, religion, architecture. But I am getting ahead of myself. With the lack of internet access for the last part of the road trip I did not get a chance to update the blog regularly.
After Austin, we drove through Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia,West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut and finally arrived in Massachusetts. We stayed in Memphis, TN and Roaneke, TN and finally in Westborough MA.
Without going into too many details (which might yet show up in my future blogs) here are some top award winners.
Starting with the important first...
The poshest Restrooms- TN
Most fun- Austin TX (of course having friends in Austin, bends it in its favor)
Larget expanse of nothingness, mile after mile after mile- TX
Funniest state sign ("Dont Mess with Texas" having lost some of its luster)- Virginia
"Buckle Up Virginia- Its a law we can live with"
Most promise of fun- Memphis
It would have been more fun if we had stayed there overnight and been able to to go to listen to some live music and also if we could get all our friends there.
After Austin, we drove through Arkansas, Tennessee, Virginia,West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut and finally arrived in Massachusetts. We stayed in Memphis, TN and Roaneke, TN and finally in Westborough MA.
Without going into too many details (which might yet show up in my future blogs) here are some top award winners.
Starting with the important first...
The poshest Restrooms- TN
Most fun- Austin TX (of course having friends in Austin, bends it in its favor)
Larget expanse of nothingness, mile after mile after mile- TX
Funniest state sign ("Dont Mess with Texas" having lost some of its luster)- Virginia
"Buckle Up Virginia- Its a law we can live with"
Most promise of fun- Memphis
It would have been more fun if we had stayed there overnight and been able to to go to listen to some live music and also if we could get all our friends there.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Hola from Austin! We are taking a break in Austin. We both are spending quality time with our respective college friends. After a rather heavy lunch of piles of tortilla chips, fajitas and a wonderfully moist tres leches cake, my friend is comatose next to me. I have promised to make chai and wake her up. We totally reverted back to college days with trying on clothes in a store, eating, shopping, talking about life, plans, families etc etc.
On our several road trips back and forth between California and Texas, we always took I-40. We rather liked it, with its stunning views, quaint roadside shops and abundance of rest areas. The streach of I -10 between Arizona and Texas has been rather bland in comparison. The landscape did not change much. El Paso was very interesting. It was a bit bizarre to see Mexico-right there! The shanty slums across the street were Mexico. I couldn't help but wonder what goes through their minds as they watch the freeways and across the freeways the malls, the stores the comsumer glut.
Yesterday we stayed at Demings, New Mexico. A small one street town and that one street was called Motel Drive. We stayed in a Gujarti owned Best Western, with its "barely there" amneties and "could have been better" standards of cleanliness. Could have stayed at the one across the street that declared " American Owned and Operated"...I guess the Potels will have to wisen up if they want to keep business.
After leaving Chandler Arizona we took a short detour to see wild flowers in a national park. Beautiful yellow poppies and purple flowers whose names I forget at this moment growing wild and abundant amidst cactuses that were two stories high!
Tonight we plan to eat yet another heavy mexican dinner, sleep well, do our laundry at the friends place and head out again. We have been travelling eastwards on I-10 mostly all this while, now we will head north to our final destination, New York.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Greetings from Phoenix!
We left LA dusty and stormy, a beautiful sunset in the rear view mirror. A sign board tells us that we are traveling "at sea level". We stayed with college friends catching up on old times planning to meet soon in the future. They have been very busy with two kids-one a toddler and the other a six month old. In our friend's words he has been so busy he thought "No Country for Old Men" was a documentary on the future of social security...seriously.
On a more general note, the beautiful long stretches of freeways are a constant source of amazement to us. That someone had the foresight to build freeways that wide, that strong...those beautiful webs of interchanges that we see flying past in the moon roof. Then of course the ultimate - the kohl dark freeways of Phoenix, so smooth it feels like one is slipping over a slab of melting butter.
We stayed last night with our friends from Nepal and woke up to the beautiful smells and sounds of prayers. Our friend's father is visiting from Nepal. Their little daughter is peeping from the other side of the door , too shy to come and talk. She speaks no Hindi and little English and I can barely understand Nepali. She is asking her mother why I have a white computer (Mac) while they have a black one (Dell) and which one is better- Ah the big question that many have fought over!
Stay tuned!
We left LA dusty and stormy, a beautiful sunset in the rear view mirror. A sign board tells us that we are traveling "at sea level". We stayed with college friends catching up on old times planning to meet soon in the future. They have been very busy with two kids-one a toddler and the other a six month old. In our friend's words he has been so busy he thought "No Country for Old Men" was a documentary on the future of social security...seriously.
On a more general note, the beautiful long stretches of freeways are a constant source of amazement to us. That someone had the foresight to build freeways that wide, that strong...those beautiful webs of interchanges that we see flying past in the moon roof. Then of course the ultimate - the kohl dark freeways of Phoenix, so smooth it feels like one is slipping over a slab of melting butter.
We stayed last night with our friends from Nepal and woke up to the beautiful smells and sounds of prayers. Our friend's father is visiting from Nepal. Their little daughter is peeping from the other side of the door , too shy to come and talk. She speaks no Hindi and little English and I can barely understand Nepali. She is asking her mother why I have a white computer (Mac) while they have a black one (Dell) and which one is better- Ah the big question that many have fought over!
Stay tuned!
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