Saturday, December 2 Packing, Shrikhandes

I spent the morning packing, rearranging, packing, and more rearranging. I managed to get everything into three bags, leaving one suitcase exclusively for my three suits I have being made as we speak. It took so much work to pack and fit everything in my bags. I like to refer to my bags as pieces of art. I feel like they will explode when I try to open them. Good luck if customs tries to go through them, which they will because one has flasks and lots of liquids including Ganges water and toiletries. They are both 72 pounds, and the limit is 70 pounds for British airways, so hopefully they won’t make a fuss. I went to Palika Bazaar to get some dress shoes, a coffee-table picture book on India, and belts. Then I ate lunch and got a Civil Lines taxi to take me to the Shrikhande’s house in Chanakyapuri. They are really nice to let me store my stuff in their house during my trip to the South. I spent the rest of the day at their house, doing work on my computer, running errands in Khan Market, and eating dinner with them. It was really nice of them.

Friday, December 1 Chandni Chowk, Jami Masjid, Palika Bazaar

Today I woke up early and went to the study center to take care of some work/Facebook. Then I went to Chandni Chowk to try the famous Parantha-Walla, a favorite of Nehru’s. It was actually not impressive. They give you a thali that you eat with thin parantha, deep-fried in ghee. I like non-greasy thick paratha. Then I walked through Chandni Chowk’s winding bazaars, to Jami Masjid, meaning ‘Friday Mosque’. Friday is the holy day for Muslims, and they are supposed to all come to mosque to pray. Jami Masjid is supposed to be closed to non-Muslims, but I was able to walk in without them even saying anything. It was a spectacle. Thousands of people were gathered in the courtyard for 1 o’clock worship. There were rows upon rows of men uniformly dressed in white kurta and matching round kofia. The small number of women in veils and chadors were relegated to the vacant back of the mosque, from where I took pictures and watched as the immense crowd prostrated, bowed, and stood facing west towards Mecca, as the loudspeaker sang, “Allah, Akbar, Allah”. After ten minutes or so, everyone filed out of the three entry gates and walked down the huge stairs back to their daily lives in Chandni Chowk. I did some shopping in Meena Bazaar, meaning “Womens’ Bazaar”, and got a burqa for a rainy day when someone needs to wear black to cover their entire bodies, instead of a miniskirt and spaghetti-strap dress that is basically the uniform in the US. After shopping for a while, I went to the spice bazaar near Fatehpuri Mosque, at the end of Chandni Chowk. Every shop had bags of colorful spices, nuts, masala, and dried fruits. I got some saffron and an assortment of other masala, which would make good gifts for culinary enthusiasts. After that, I walked through the hectic bazaar, which seemed like it was in a time warp hundred years ago, with cows, wheel porters, monkeys, bicycle rickshaws, beggars, and tons of traffic. I ate some food at Haldiram’s, which was busy as usual. Then I took a bicycle rickshaw to Chawari Bazaar in back of Jami Masjid. Being the paper district of Delhi, I looked around for some nice stationery. They had cheap-looking Hindu greeting cards, beautiful Urdu calligraphic cards, and modern and classy-looking handmade paper cards. I ended up getting a simple red set with Ganesh on the front. It looks really nice and like it would be used as a menu in a sleek restaurant. I walked back through the maze of delapidated streets to the Metro Station, and met up with Luke at Palika Bazaar. We shopped for pirated DVD’s forever. They wouldn’t budge, and we had to go to several places. Apparently because of Sealing in Delhi, they’ve shut down most of the DVD shops, and now we had to go into a sketchy shop behind a closed garage door. They kept asking if we wanted porn, and we kept saying “No”, until I decided it would be funny to give as gifts, so we started walking up to stores asking for, “Porn only”. I got a bunch of good Hindi and English movies, including Friends, Jaws, Naked Gun, Indiana Jones, and American Pie. Apparently I’m a good bargainer; all it takes is for you to just be mean and in a hurry, realizing that you buy each thing at the very next shop, if the shop owner tries to cheat you. I went with Luke to get his tailored suit, and asked about tuxedos, which the guy said could be made in three days, for $100, so he took my measurements and I’m officially getting a tux….baller. We ate at Big Chill in Khan Market, which was good. Once we left, it was a big chill outside. Delhi is freezing cold at nights, and it was too cold to even take a rickshaw home, so we caught a taxi, whose rapid-fire meter we just stared at for the entire ride. We hurried to get inside the house, but since it has marble floors and no heating, it was just as cold inside. So, what’s the logical answer? Start a fire. And we have an abundance of perfect firewood: Landour Language School Hindi textbooks. I finally burned mine, which was thoroughly satisfying, considering I hate Mussoorie and that book. Apparently in Seattle, the high was 27 degrees, so I should shut up.

Thursday, November 30 Last Day of DU, Last Day in Jains House

Today is November 30, meaning it’s the last day of November, and in the Jain’s house. Actually we were supposed to stay for December, but we’re basically just not going to tell them, and move out today without their knowing, since they've cheated us so many times. It’s also the last day at Delhi University. So, it’s a really happy occasion for both reasons. I took the Metro for the final time, and waited to get my paper bound. I walked into the Political Science building, and the security guard came up to me, and handed me a receipt, for the call I made a week ago when I refused to pay Rs 409 for a 12-minute call. It had transposed and missing digits, and was crap. He’s obviously getting a commission from the phone booth man if I pay. Too bad he ain’t getting any of my money. Kelsey and I were the only ones there, and we had to make small-talk with Veena Kukreja (who still uses Hindi words when talking to us in English) for 15 minutes about Delhi weather, etc. She said my Kashmir paper looked good, and the 30-page length must have overshadowed the fact that it even though it didn’t include any mention of the Kargil War, the most significant recent development in the dispute, and a huge cause of tension for the current peace process. Ro, Puran, and I darted past the crooked security guards and got some DU t-shirts before going to Shanta Verma’s class for the last time. Once again, we all doodled. We handed her our papers, and got out of there. We walked the halls for the last time, and it felt like the last day of school in high school. We took a rickshaw back to the Metro, and of course ate Fiesta for lunch, where I had my usual Corporate Thali. After that, we packed all our stuff and left their room a war zone, with trash and clothes everywhere. I had to leave a bunch of my clothes (it’s okay, I only paid like 60 cents a shirt and $3 for jeans). We called taxis, and they picked us up and we all moved our stuff downstairs. There’s no way I won’t exceed the weight limit on the plane. Plus, I have the maximum number of bags allowed. It’s going to be fun. The only person left in our house now is Nikhil, so if the Jains try charging us for anything, he’ll have to pay and rightfully so, since he cheated all of us out of $20 each. But more importantly, I never have to see Nikhil again! I never got to tell him off, though. We rode to Luke, Shawn, Sudev, and Amber’s house across from the Vidhan Sabha Metro Station. Their house is really nice and has marble floors, nice bathrooms, and a really socially-conducive setup. We had to leave immediately for South Delhi, where we saw Dhoom 2, the newest Bollywood blockbuster. It had extremely catchy tunes and all of us immediately downloaded the songs. Other than that, I didn’t really understand the plot, and didn’t really like it besides the fact that there were beautiful girls. The movie was totally risqué by Indian standards; the main characters actually kissed, and the crowd went wild, cheering and whistling. After the movie, we went to Connaught Place to eat, and they wanted Pizza Hut, but I’m on my mission to get sick of Indian food by December 20, so I ate at Khana Unlimited.

Wednesday, November 29 Hindi Final, Paharganj, Packing, Taj Hotel Thalis

I got a haircut and head massage at the little hole-in-the-wall barber shop. For the head massage, they used olive oil in my hair, so I had to take a shower and shampoo my hair twice. I realize I look like Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber, oh well. The Hindi final was today. Since I’m taking the class ‘Pass/No Pass’, I just need a C in order to pass. According to the unintuitive but awesome grading scale, “80+ is an A, 50-79 is a B, and below 50 is a C”. So, basically, in order to pass, I need a “Below 50”, aka I don’t even need one point on this final. The oral part (one-on-one) with Geeta-Ji was simply pathetic. I couldn’t even answer the question “Will you come back to India?” by a simple “Yes” or “No”. I didn’t know any of the vocab words she tested us on, and I believe I even said the sentence, “Somewhere you go, love I want”. She said, in response, “Tyler, you do better in home assignments”. As for the written portion, all the translations and comprehension answers were a group effort, and exactly the same on all of our tests, since everyone cheated. My composition, talking about my time in India, was pathetic. It was so bad I was too lazy to even write the minimum amount of sentences required. I actually have ceased to care at all. Plus, I don’t even want six more Hindi units, so I don’t really mind if I fail. I said goodbye to Geeta-Ji, who is actually a really good teacher. I can now perfectly imitate her voice, so I can do the whole Dinker/Geeta-Ji family now, it’s great. After Hindi, I went online to print 70 pages worth of papers, and to e-mail Goldman, telling him that Shanta Verma may have some grudge against me that might earn me a bad grade. I went to Paharganj in order to buy luggage. I ended up walking down the hectic crowded small alleys, lined with cheap luggage shops. I bought a carry-on for Rs 250 from a shop with tons of cheap suitcases and mice scurrying across the floor. Paharganj is ghetto, to say the least. It is the center for backpackers in Delhi, rich across from New Delhi Railway Station. Locals have contempt for the area because it’s grimy, dingy, overcrowded, dilapidated, and dirty, and used to be the center for drug-dealers. I wonder why white tourists have set up camp here. Walking back to the Metro Station, you have to walk on an overpass over the tracks. I saw a sad sight; a white ox was pulling a huge cart overloaded with dozens of boxes and people sitting on them. On the upgrade, the ox just couldn’t walk anymore, and was straining to take another step, beginning to shake. I almost expected him to just catapult upwards because the cart was so overloaded. The driver kept whacking him with a bamboo stick and sticking him up the ass. So much for cows being holy. Apparently, though, oxen and buffaloes aren’t cows, and are therefore used for milk production, as work animals, and eaten by non-Hindus. I came back home and packed all my stuff. My souvenirs take up two enormous bags, my carry-on was clothes-only because of the UK’s ridiculously-strict security specifications, and I still had garbage bags full of stuff. I also plan to buy more souvenirs. I moved my mountain of luggage into Ro and Puran’s room, safe from Nikhil’s thievery. This effectively ended my stay in my room, leaving Nikhil with his own empty room. I took a picture of him pathetically sitting alone on his bed, without even my side’s mattress. There has been and hopefully never will be any exchange of words since Monday. He does call the US every day and talks to them for hours, if he’s in fact on the phone at all. He’s absolutely starved for human interaction because now absolutely everyone refuses to speak to him. We’re not going to tell the Jains we’re moving out, because we don’t have time for their house drama anymore, so we’re thinking we’re just going to stealthily all jet out tomorrow. The whole house (that now means, “Everyone excluding Nikhil”) went out to dinner at the Taj Hotel, the nicest hotel in Delhi, and probably in India. It was beautiful, with gold and white marble and really bourgeois people. We went downstairs to the elegant Haveli Restaurant, where we, in our fleece and jeans, were sitting among’s India’s finest. We all ordered thalis, which had beautiful silver platters. It was more a feast for the eyes than a feast for the stomach, thouh. The dining experience was horrible. You are forced to be boring and quiet, the food was bland and cold, I had to get up and ask multiple times for (included) refills on food, they dropped a water glass on Ro, the entertainment was a creepy guy with bugeyes in a loincloth and gold wings dancing to interpretive dance music, and it cost $25 a meal. It sucked; I’d rather have eaten at Fiesta. I have Five-star hotels. The service is awful, and the crowd is hopelessly spoiled, rich, and pathetic. What’s even the point of coming to India if you’re going to completely seal yourself inside a bourgeois bubble? The only way I’d stay in these hotels is if it was free for me, or maybe on my honeymoon or something. I felt sick afterwards, too. Alix left for her flight without saying “Goodbye”. Tonight is the last night in the Jain household. I spent it sleeping on a bare mattress and suitcases in a different room than my own. Ro and Puran worked the entire night on their papers. Ro only had like five pages left, but Puran just finished one paper, and still had 15 pages of the other to write, at the point when I went to bed.

Tuesday, November 28 Gwalior in Madhya Pradesh

I woke up with mosquito bites all over, and had to catch a rickshaw in the freezing pitch black morning. I barely reached New Delhi Station in time for my 6:15 train, which, of course, is never late and on the furthest platform. It literally departed two minutes after I frantically hopped in one of the compartments. It was a three-hour ride to Gwalior in northern Madhya Pradesh, which cost a whopping Rs 500 a ticket. It was a super-fast Shatabdi, all AC Chair Car train, and they serve food and tea on board. It was really new, comfortable, and luxurious. Of the 100 seats in my cabin, about 95 were foreigners. I hate tourists, just in time for the massive influx of white people into India. They just make prices skyrocket, get in the way of my photographs, and occupy rooms in hotels. There were a bunch of Germans, and then after Agra, they got off and were replaced by Russians. The ride was really nice; views including slumdwellers pooping on the railroad tracks, a smoggy sunrise, and villagers all huddled around small fires for warmth. I got to Gwalior at 10, and collected some brochures before eating the heaviest thali in history. I got a rickshaw through the dead city. The weather was a perfect 80 degrees and not a cloud was in the sky. But then, to get to Gwalior Fort (the one and only attraction of the city), I had to hike up a 30-minute hill to the gates. I stopped at a small museum with carvings excavated from sites from around Madhya Pradesh. The views from the top of the fort were superb, overlooking the small cubist city of Gwalior. The fort was beautiful. It had curving minarets with walls inlaid with bright blue shiny lapiz lazuli and carved into intricate patterns. I bought Indian-price tickets and went inside another small museum and the fort building. The fort had a bunch of small rooms, and winding dark alleys whose ceilings were completely covered with squeaking bats, so I decided to just look from outside. I spent a long time walking along the wall surrounding the fort, perched on a rocky hill. I watched some cows for a long time swatting flies, and then I watched from above as life unfolded below. Kids chased each other around laughing, women were making dung balls and laying them to dry on rooftops, and men tended their goatherds. The hawkers were annoying; I was called a Japanese, an Englishman, and Italian, and Harry Potter. I walked down the paths leading God-knows-where. The fort encloses such a large space that there is a museum, open space, three water ponds, a police station, a market, multiple schools, and four temples. I washed my hands and feet, covered my head and went to the Gurudwara, which was sad in comparison to the huge bustling complexes of the Punjabi towns. There were also some small Hindu shrines and temples. I descended the path out of the fort. On the way, huge naked Jain figures were carved out of the rocky hills. I took a rickshaw across town to the Jai Vilas Pallace, half of which is the Maharaja’s residence, and the other half is now converted into a museum. I tried getting in for the student rate, but apparently it’s only for “Indian” students, so I made a huge fuss, but still had to pay Rs 200. The museum was actually pretty cool. Its main attraction are the extravagant rooms, done up like they must have looked like during the British Raj, with swimming pools, palanquins, mirrors everywhere, gold-leaf ceilings, carved walnut walls, and enormous crystal chandeliers. Outside the estate, women in colorful saris picked weeds in the garden, their bangles clinking like keys. I was exhausted, and rode back to the train station. I decided to try some fresh pan, a popular concoction of fennel, tobacco, spices, guthka, and butter, all mixed and wrapped in a soft, wet betel leaf. All the men in India love this stuff (well, probably actually because it’s addictive), and that’s why all of their teeth are stained, and why they’re always spitting brown crap out that splats all over the road and walls, making it all brown. The pan was actually really good; it tasted like a mix of fresh fruit and candy. It was awkward eating it and having to spit it out all over the road. Not like it matters, everyone spits wherever, without even thinking twice. There was no tingly feeling like with chewing tobacco, but I didn’t really keep the pan in my mouth for that long. I decided to get some pan in sealed packs (sold by everyone on the street in long strips) to give as gifts, basically to people who like chewing tobacco. I waited at the train station, and a group of college guys circled around me, asking questions and giggling to each other, and hitting the guys that asked stupid questions. I wish people got hit in class back in the US for asking stupid questions. I took the train home to Delhi, which was, again, full of tourists, and had a good meal. I took the last Metro home and hung out in Ro and Puran’s room, while they frantically did their papers, which they have procrastinated on and not completed for four months.

Monday, November 27 Calling Out A Crazy Man

I woke up and worked on my paper, before going to lunch at Fiesta with Tara, Snehal, and Puran, and then the second-to-last Hindi class I’ll ever have to take. It’s like dead week back at home; well, actually, it is dead week back home. After class, I went with Alix to Tanzeb the tailor, for my rough fitting. It was a little tight, and if I’m actually skinnier now, I’m going to need it to be a little looser. After that, we took a rickshaw through the dark wide streets of New Delhi to the Andhra Pradesh Bhawan, for dinner. It was unlimited South Indian thali, and probably the best South Indian I’ve ever had. We came back to the house to find out that the electricity bill was only Rs 625, compared with Rs 1500 last month (which we weren’t even here for half of). Since he lied to all of us and said he wasn’t here, but obviously was for the bill to be so high last month, we were pissed. For this, we confronted Nikhil, which is why we generated a document called “Nikhil Mathur we caught you”, and posted it on the desktop of all the computers in the study center. Everyone thought we were really mean, but they obviously have no idea. Considering I have to hide all my important papers and sleep with my clothes and money belt on, I don’t really feel bad calling him out. We all grabbed one of Puran’s flutes and turned on the video camera, and entered my room to corner him. We confronted him, and brought up all these things, and he just sat there, saying, “You have a human right to think what you want, but I don’t see anything wrong with my actions”. Ro told him he’s a bigot, psycho, and liar, which was absolutely hilarious, and true. When arguing about the meter, he replied, “You should have checked the all the wires for the Jain’s meter”. Yeah, we checked EVERY wire, Nikhil. He didn’t deny any of our accusations, he just basically shrugged, which obviously means all the accusations are true. I actually must entertain the idea that he’s so psycho that he might actually think that he’s completely right and everyone else is crazy. I (since this whole time we’ve been on speaking terms) just pretended to act really hurt and offended. He told us to leave the room, but I just awkwardly stayed there and didn’t say anything. Then I moved my mattress and possessions of value into Ro and Puran’s room so that I won’t have to sleep next to him (who knows what he’ll do when I’m unconscious?). We all watched the video again, which was hilarious.

Sunday, November 26 Papers, Don

Today I woke up after getting maybe two hours of sleep, and worked on my Economic Liberalization paper. At about 12, Ro and Puran woke up, and we walked hung over to Fiesta in the cool sunny weather. It was exactly like every Sunday at Santa Barbara; wake up hung-over at 12, go to brunch with friends, and talk about last night, laughing about everything you remember, trying to remember what happened during everyone’s blackouts, and then doing homework. I went to internet in CP, and then to PVR Cinemas and watched Don, the new hit Bollywood film. It has Shahrukh and Priyanka, who are India’s hottest actors, and it has top songs, and non-stop action. I was entertained for the entire three hours. It’s the best Hindi masala film I’ve seen so far. Afterwards, I ate at Sarawana Bhavan and bought the poster that was on the Dev Dar wall in Mussoorie; just to use as like a dartboard or something. Then I worked on my paper some more.

Saturday, November 25 Chandigarh, Anandpur Sahib, Climax Nightclub

I woke up early and jetted from the Gurudwara, taking a freezing rickshaw ride, local bus, and Himachal Pradesh transport bus, to Anandpur Sahib, the last town of the plains in Punjab before starting to ascend the Himalayan foothills. It was just really cold and unenjoyable, and the scenery was just more plains. These plains were clearly fertile, as nowhere was there simply open dirt spaces; every inch of space was under cultivation or had just been harvested. That’s why Punjab is the breadbasket of India. I got to Anandpur Sahib, a pilgrimage site for Sikhs, but for no one else, as everyone wanted to talk to me. In other places in India, they will stare and whisper; in Punjab they all rush to talk to me, as Punjabis are very warm people, and are interested in the West. Anandpur Sahib was a pretty big town, and on the way, a big bubbly white arch welcomed you to the Sikh holy city. I walked through the clean town past rows upon rows of Sikh temple gift shops. There was a museum, filled with oil paintings of Sikh gurus all being martyred, heads cut off, bodies being boiled, and being poked with spikes. I wonder why they are a martial people. I walked up to the Gurudwara, which towered over the rest of the town. The green Himalayas were visible in the background past the white cubist town and vast light-blue sky. I covered my head and took off my shoes, to go walk around the Gurudwara, with was a white marble building with huge open verandas, with devotees praying to the Guru Granth Sahib inside. There was also the characteristic guest house and dining hall attached. A bunch of guys came up and started talking to me, and this older man actually personally knows my professor, Shanta Verma. Goodie points. I took a bus back to Chandigarh, where I ate lunch, before taking a comfortable Haryana roadways bus back to Delhi. Five hours later, I got home, took a shower, and went out with Mariel, Kim, Alix, Ro, Puran, Tara, and Snehal (basically our whole house except for Nikhil….and we like it like that). We piled into a cab and drove to South Delhi to Delhi’s (supposedly) hottest nightclub, Climax. On the way, we were drinking really bad vodka, a lot of which Puran dropped and spilled all over my pants. I took my first sip of alcohol in four months! When we got to the club, the line was extremely long, but we did the Indian thing and pushed right to the front. We paid (it was $20 per person) and went inside. The $20 includes drink coupons, which Tara for some unknown reason, tore up and threw in the air on the dance floor, never to be seen again. I got a $25 (with coupons it was only $5) pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea, which was amazing. But I didn’t really get that drunk. I had a really good time dancing to weird techno and popular Hindi and Bhangra hits. The ambiance was really good; high energy and very affluent and beautiful people. I don’t ever see this side of India; the top 1% of the population, who can afford to spend $30 a night, going out and drinking, just like in the West. The girls were all wearing jeans, stilettos, and party tops. They were all hot, materialistic, and put-together. Guys were buff and all wore their finest jeans and party shirts. English was exclusively spoken, and you would have no idea you were in India; these people dress, talk, and look like NRIs. There were also some white tourists. Nevertheless, it was a huge sausage-fest, the ratio being probably 70/30, and girls were only accompanied by men, they weren’t there alone. It was surreal. They made us clear the dance floor, so these Belgian bikers could do tricks, which included accidentally falling down the stairs. We sat outside drunkenly eating, which was fun. Then we waited for a cab home, which grossly overcharged us, but considering we were wasted and it was 45 degrees, we didn’t care at all. We got home and Puran was flopping like a fish, on and off the couch. Ro and I sat there just watching and cracking up, and Nikhil came out to see what was going on. We pretended like he wasn’t even there, haha. It was a fun night, and now I know what it’s like clubbing in one of India’s finest nightclubs, among the cream of the crop.

Friday, November 24 Chandigarh

It was dark when I took the Metro to the bus station at Kashmere Gate. The five-hour ride to Chandigarh was cold and foggy. Plus, I have a cold, for the first time in India. It was along the main road (Grand Trunk Road, or National Highway 1) so modern resorts and roadside dhabas lined the straightaway. Alongside us were many cars driving with luggage marked “LHR”, clearly NRI’s coming back home to Punjab from the UK or US, probably arriving at 5am in Delhi, just like my flight here. As we crossed the Haryana border into Punjab, you could immediately tell you had entered the Punjab. Men exclusively wore turbans, I recognized all the names on shops from friends back home; Malhotra, Gil, Deep, Dhillon, Singh, Grewal, Kumar, Pawan, and all the cars had the Sikh sword emblem on them. The fertile fields of Punjab gave way to Chandigarh. Chandigarh is a Union Territory under federal jurisdiction, but is the capital of Punjab and Haryana. It is India’s cleanest, greenest, and richest city. It’s also the country’s first planned city, built by architect Le Corbusier in the 1950s. It was clear that the city was planned; all streets are broad and intersect at right angles, never ending or turning. There is an abundance of money, space, trees, garbage cans, banks, English, modern concrete buildings, and nice cars. I saw no cows, litter, or beggars. I felt like I was in the United States. Chandigarh’s grid-like design is extremely functional, simple, and efficient. However, it’s confusing as hell because all the streets and blocks look identical. We got to the bus station around noon and I went across the street to eat a thali, which I expected to be good considering it’s Punjab, but it was absolutely horrible, so I had to go to another restaurant which was also disappointing. I hung out in Sector 17 (of the forty city blocks, but it sounds like a Star Trek ship or a penal code), the main block in the city. There is a huge mall there called, well, The Mall, with large expanses of open pavement for pedstrians and for Sikh drivers to park their beloved automobiles. Upscale shops and eateries surrounded the courtyards, and it seems people in Punjab, and Chandigarh especially, are mostly well-off. I caught a double-decker city sightseeing bus. On the way I met a Sikh NRI (born in Canada, wears a turban and long beard) named Gurpreet, and we ended up talking and hanging out the whole time. It’s actually really funny because he knows kitchen Punjabi, but I know Hindi better than him, and even though he’s first-generation and has been to India multiple times, I know more about India, and he was taking my travel advice. Weird! We went to a museum, which was okay. Then we visited the recently-innaugurated Indian war memorial, basically a copy of the Vietnam memorial, with the names of all the soldiers who died fighting for India. The interesting part was that 75% of the surnames were ‘Singh’, and 90% of the regiments were in Kashmir. After that we went to the Fantasy Rock Garden by artist Nek Chand. Tons of Punjabi schoolboys in skullcaps with little buns on top were goofing around. The rock garden had an intricate series of maze-like passageways leading to waterfalls, little rooms, and fields of creepy-looking figurines. It would have made a good Doom level. The whole garden was made of recycled trash and natural elements. Statues were made of bangles, walls made of concrete and ceramic toilets, and sculptures made of old electrical wires. It was all modern and really experimental, but it was cool he was inspired by waste material and utilized it to create something beautiful. It reminded me of Gaudi’s Park Guell in Barcelona. There was a big open square at the end, with rides, carnival games, food, camel rides, swings, and a Bhangra dance stage that a huge group of dorky college students were enjoying. The bus next took us to Sukhna Lake, which was a lakefront on a man-made lake with paddleboats, food, and shopping. You could sense the cosmopolitancy and affluence, and modernization of this city, as people jogged in Spandex, talked on their cell phones in English, and cuddled. The last stop was the rose garden, which was an open grass field with, well, roses, and windy paths with weird-looking garbage cans and park benches. It got dark and really cold, so Gurpreet and I went to coffee and dinner at Sagar Ratna, a high-quality North Indian restaurant chain. Then we walked around and looked at this creepy street fair with Disney-type characters that kept following the hot girls. Then we went to a Gurudwara, with music playing in the background. Anyone can stay in a Gurudwara, the Sikhs want to accept all people. He let me crash in his room for the night. It was a pretty nice room, with a double bed and communal bathrooms. He had me write a page in his journal, so I gave him some travel tips, and then this one guy came in and asked Gurpreet to send in a copy of his passport to Canadian immigration. Despite it being freezing, it was okay.

Thursday, November 23 Crazy Phone Booth Man, Thanksgiving,

It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m in Delhi. There was class at DU, and I went early to get my paper on Kashmir all bound. Thanks to Amy, we now all have to bind ours, which is basically the biggest act of sycophancy possible. I made a 12-minute call at an STD booth, and was taking out my wallet to pay. The guy didn’t give me a printout; instead he just arbitrarily pressed buttons on the machine, and the amount kept changing. The number finally stopped on Rs 409 ($9), for my 12-minute call. That would mean it costs 34 Rupees a minute. From a booth it usually costs 6 Rs a minute, and from a cell phone, 5. What is this, the airplane? I laughed and told him to tell the correct price, and he said 409 was right. I started to get really annoyed after he wouldn’t budge. I told him to give me a printout with my number and 409 Rs on it, which he couldn’t produce. I handed him 100 Rs (a fair, if not higher price), and started walking away. He yelled at me to pay him, and I made a big scene outside the booth, but he still wouldn’t budge. I ran away and went to class. On the way, he was in a rickshaw grabbing my arm, and I luckily got away. I went to class, and sat there for a while Veena Kukreja was lecturing. Then I saw him outside the door, looking at me from the hallway. I motioned that I was paying attention in class (really I was doodling a maze). He stayed for a good hour (300 Rs is worth it for him), and unfortunately he left by the time I was out of class. I was so ready to give him a piece of my mind, and I would have made a huge scene in front of all the students. After that, I had to sneak by security because they were in on it, too, and obviously would have gotten a cut if I actually was stupid enough to pay. I came home and worked on my other paper for Shanta Verma’s class (meaning editing the grammatical mistakes in the paper that Indian outsourced labor produced). I went shopping at Chandni Chowk, and got a really nice silk golden kurta pyjama and matching red and gold turban, all for $10. Don’t ask when I’m going to wear it, but it’s the attire for a nice Indian occasion, like a wedding. I bought a ton of perfumes and incense gift packages in the small alleyways. Chandni Chowk seems like it’s in a time-warp; bicycle rickshaws jostle with pedestrians, people pushing wheeled carts, and cows, down tiny winding alleyways lined with jewelry, perfume, and handicraft shops. After that, I went to the study center, and was bussed, along with everyone else, to Thanksgiving dinner at the Goldman residence in South Delhi. People were drunk, dancing in the back of the bus, and Alan peed on the seat. It’s actually really inappropriate to be drinking. They have a really nice house, and of course, servants. They had a tandoor outside, which actually just looks like a big oil barrel filled with concrete, with charcoal at the bottom. It’s really hot in the tandoor, hence the chicken, fish, and paneer being thoroughly cooked within five minutes. The food was amazing; a catered dinner of Indian foods; paneer, dal, roti, naan, kebabs, salad, gulab jamun, khir, and best of all….cranberry sauce! It was really kind of awkward because no one talks to each other, but it was fun. They bussed us all back, and a bunch of people went out clubbing, and we had to tell the drivers a nearby hotel to Connaught Place. Of course, Nikhil, from the back of the bus shouts, “The Imperial!”

Wednesday, November 22 Tanzeb the Tailor

Alix and I got home early in the morning, and then I slept a while before eating at Fiesta and then Hindi class. Then Alix and I went to Khan Market. Khan Market, in South Delhi, is an upscale shopping center, with nice boutiques and restaurants. The shoppers were all of New Delhi’s finest. We crossed the street and went down a narrow road, with chickens and children running around. In a delipidated apartment complex, we saw a small door with the sign “Tanzeb Tailors”. We walked in and went down some stairs to the tiny tailor shop. Reams of suit fabrics lined the walls, along with frames of letters sent by ambassadors and dignitaries from Italy, Kuwait, the UK, and Denmark. I had found out about this place from a New York Times article, and it was supposed to be really good. A short Muslim man with big glasses and a furry hat stood at the table, measuring fabric and scribbling notes in Urdu in an overstuffed book, filled with his projects. Alix got some stuff made, and I picked out some nice fabrics for him to make me two suits with; one in navy and one in gray. He measured me with a tape, and asked what I wanted the suit to look like. I actually know nothing about suits because I have never worn one, and don’t shop for them. He told me the price; $200 for each. I wanted to get a tux, but it would cost $400. It took a lot of bargaining to get it to $200, which is really expensive for Indian prices, but is on par with US suit prices, but for a custom-made, personally-tailored wool/cashmere suit it’s dirt cheap. Plus, businessmen from Europe and the Middle East fly to Delhi specifically so they can get a suit made by Tanzeb, so I’m assuming he’ll do a good job. I paid $200 up front, and then left happy. Alix and I met Ro at Saravana Bhavan, which was of course, amazing.

Tuesday, November 21 Amritsar in Punjab

I took a private overnight bus last night with Alix, from Delhi to Amritsar. Miraculously, we got to Amritsar before 7, and were immediately pounced upon by bicycle rickshaw drivers. It’s so cold outside, and everyone is wearing heaven wool shawls. I had to borrow Alix’s, which was warm. I’m finally in Punjab for the first time! Punjab originally contained a major area north and west of Delhi. Unfortunately, Partition and the separation of Hindi-speaking Haryana caused it to become significantly smaller. However, Punjab is nonetheless the North Indian heartland. Most South Asians living in the diaspora are Punjabi (Most Indian-Americans I know are Punjabis), “Indian” (tandoori, fried, curried) food is usually Punjabi food, energetic Bhangra music and dancing is known the world over, Punjab is the breadbasket of India since the Green Revolution in agriculture and enjoys a higher standard of living than elsewhere in India, and the stereotypical Indian is a Punjabi (a large pot-bellied Sikh in a cotton turban with a huge beard). Amritsar is the center of the Sikh religion. The city was founded by the Fourth Sikh guru, Ram Das, in 1577. The rickshaw plopped us right in front of the park commemorating the carnage at Jallianwala Bagh. Unrest in 1919 was caused in response to the Rowlatt Act, which gave Britain power to imprison Indians without trial. Indians were peacefully protesting at Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar. British General Dyer quelled the rebellion by commanding his troops to open fire, killing 800 people and wounding 1,500. This injustice fueled many Indians to participate in Gandhi’s “Quit India” program. Today, the site is a memorial, with nice gardens. We were walking through, and saw a bunch of guys doing yoga on the grass, and they called us over. They wanted to show us a move, and all spread out their arms and yelled in-synch, like ogres, it was hilarious. Then we walked over to the statue commemorating the massacre. It was the biggest phallic symbol ever, with a huge spire pointing to the sky, with two round bulges at the base; there was nothing non-phallic about it. We walked around and saw an eternal flame, plus some original bullet holes. Then we around the market; most of the Sikh gift and souvenir shops, and restaurants were closed. The shops were all the same; they had swords, daggers, pictures of the nine Sikh gurus and the Golden Temple, bracelets and bangles, head coverings and shawls, and necklaces. The restaurants were only serving Kulcha, a Punjabi breakfast, which is a paratha with various curries. We went to the famous Golden Temple, the only reason people come to Amritsar. We got to the Golden Temple, the holiest shrine for Sikhs. The Golden Temple is a huge complex where everyone is welcome. We had to take off our shoes and wash our feet in the “cleansing water”, which sucked because it was freezing outside, and I had an open cut on my toe. Outside the temple was a huge white onion-domed gateway guarded by two heavily-bearded Sikhs in blue and saffron uniforms and turbans, with spears and swords. Before going in the temple, everyone prostrated on the ground, hands clasped and chanting in Punjabi, a bubbly version of Hindi. The interior of the temple was an all-marble walkway for viewing the golden sanctum, surrounded by a still lake. The temple itself wasa shimmering intricate building, covered in gold plating; it was beautiful. The bathing pool, surrounding it, provides holy water to drink, water to bathe in, and toreflect the stunning building. There was a long gated walkway to the temple sanctum, which accomodated a huge line of Sikh devotees, Hindu holidaymakers, and Western tourists to see the Sikh holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib. The book itself is significant because the tenth Sikh guru, Guru Gobind Singh, transferred all the teachings of the Sikh religion, into the holy book. Therefore, it is treated as the eleventh Sikh guru, as a person that needs to eat, hear music and be worshipped, and put to sleep every night. Inside the actual building, devotees sat and prostrated towards the priest, an old breaded turban-clad man with thick black horn-rimmed glasses. He fanned the book with a huge horsehair brush, the holiest book for the Sikhs. The book itself was oversized, about four feet wide when opened. The interior of the building was lavishly embellished with semi-precious inlaid stones, white marble, gold plating, and chandeliers. After exiting the temple and traversing the marble causeway, everyone was given really good sweets for free. The surrounding walkway was completely made of white marble. It was here that everyone walked around to view the temple. Sikh men in their underwear submersed in the water, put their daggers in front of their turbans, faced the temple, and prayed. The Gurus’ graves also lined the walkway, to which devotees bowed and prayed. I feel like we were in the North Pole; Santa Claus was everywhere. Sikh men all have heavy beards and colorful turbans, worn generally with Western clothes, and all wear a gold or silver bracelet on their right wrist. The boys all have premature facial hair stubble, and wear skullcaps with circular buns for their long hair. The women all wear salwar-kameez, the light dupatta covering their heads. It’s one culture in modern society where the men continue to dress in their traditional style, and women’s dress looks more or less Western. Although Delhi is heavily Punjabi-dominated, this is 100%, thanks to Partition. Everyone had really light skin, hair everywhere, and were huge. Punjabis really are the only substantially-built Indians. It was really cool to see so many Punjabis, all dressed in their traditional style. Around the temple perimeter were a ton of free guest rooms for pilgrims, and anyone else in need of a room. Outside the temple was also a huge dancing hall. Rows upon rows of seated individuals sat chopping and peeling vegetables, while others ate dal and roti. Metal plates clanged loudly as Sikhs and non-Sikhs alike washed and dried them in huge rows. The thought is, even god needs to eat, so do all humans. The Golden Temple was always open, and open to all for worship, accomodation, and eating, for free. Since everything is free, and because of the strong Punjabi work ethic, there were no beggars anywhere. All gurudwaras have four entrances, symbolizing the openness to all in the religion. This is fundamentally-opposed to both Hinduism and Islam. Hinduism demands donations, and has a caste system, where it portrays low castes as dirty and not suited to worship, sleep with higher castes, or cook or eat with higher castes. Islam, also, excludes half of its followers, women, from coming to the mosque to worship. Sikhism is open because of its inception, and the fact that it has come under so much attack. It was created by the “Gentle Guru”, Guru Nanak, who was a Hindu raised in a Muslim community, and rejected the idea of superstition and exclusivity in religion. The religion wanted to help all and promote peace. However, after massacres and the beheading of the ninth guru by the Mughal Aurangzeb, the Sikhs felt it necessary to become martial in order to protect their religion. As a result, their animal is the lion, and many serve in the armed forces. After seeing this acceptance, I began to admire Sikhism a lot. After seeing the temple, we walked around town, which was completely dead and locked up until 10. We made some bus reservations, and then took a bicycle rickshaw with a Sikh driver, to a huge restaurant for Punjabi thalis. Punjabi food is the tastiest in India, and most “Indian” restaurants in the US are Punjabi. Needless to say, the food was outstanding; buttery fluffy parathas, rich dal makhani, spicy aloo gobi, thick curd, crispy papad, soft paneer, and fresh salad. We got bored and decided to take a bus to the Pakistani border. Compared to other cities in India, Punjabi cities are cleaner, newer, and nicer thanks to heavy foreign investment and remittances. The bus let us off at Attari, the last town in Inida, before the contentrious Pakistan border. We had to take a bike rickshaw to the actual border, past a line of dozens of trucks full of onions waiting for the border to open up. At the end of a road was a small gate, with another long road and some old buildings and trees. Surprisingly, there was absolutely no security, and we opened the unlocked gate ourselves and walked over to the immigration office. We handed the Indian officer our passports, and he filled out a bunch of papers and gave us a stamp. However, he then realized we didn’t have a Pakistani visa, so we couldn’t get in. We had a ton of time, and there was nothing around but farms. After a lot of explaining, Alix drove a bicycle rickshaw around with me and the driver in back, to some dirt road, where we got off and walked through a bunch of tall Eucalyptus trees, bright-yellow mustard fields, and harvested dirt fields. The weather was just like California’s Central Valley; cold in the winter, hot in the summer, with large differences between daytime and nightime temperatures. Right now, it was a perfect 75 degrees. We saw a motorized tractor rumbling down the road, and we flagged him down, and rode with the driver and his friend, down the dusty dirt road towards a small village. The village was a typical North Indian rural village; surrounded by rice paddies and wheat fields, water buffalo pens in the backyards, drying mounds of dung stuck all over the walls, old men playing cards in the shade, children playing, and women washing. Everyone stared and giggled when we passed. Everyone was really friendly, and we were invited to tea at least five times. We took some pictures of some apprehensive villagers, and caught a bus back to the border. I was able to pedal a bicycle rickshaw to the border. It was not hard, but I could see if you did this all day every day, with poor nutrition and sleep, it would be backbreaking. The owner of a covered restaurant forcibly grabbed my arm, trying to get me to sit down, and wouldn’t let go, so we sat at a table without buying anything, until a massive crowd formed outside the border gate. We had to wait for the gates to open, and once they did, people poured out and sprinted a kilometer down the open road to the border gates. We had to all go through security checks, before getting to the bleachers. It was like a stadium, where you could sit on the Indian side of the border, face-to face with Pakistan’s bleachers, which were wood and under construction, and half the size. The border itself was a gate with an insignia of the Ashokan pillar. On either side, running for hundreds of miles, was a black fence with impenetrable barbed wire on top. You could kind of see into the Pakistan side, and it looked like an Iraqi war zone, with beat up earth-toned buildings, and sand and dust everywhere. The crowd was tiny, compared to India’s. The Pakistanis all clapped; I would, too, if I was living in a military dictatorship. All the people had their heads covered, and men sat with men, women with women. The Indian guards wore turbans and nice uniforms, and marched up and down, while patriotic songs played in the background, everyone singing along. There was chanting like cheerleaders, and everyone stood up and yelled “Long live Bharat”. People from the stands got to run with the Indian flag, up and down the road. The border ceremony started at sunset, and it was the biggest display of machismo and nationalism ever. The guards marched back and forth. Then the gates were flung open, so that the guards from their respective countries came face-to-face. They twirled their guns, and each lowered their countrys’ flag, being careful not to raise it higher than the other. It’s weird that no one polices that line; it’s no one’s jurisdiction. And it’s completely arbitrary. After the ceremony, everyone slowly walked back to their country. On the way, a sign read: “Welcome to Punjab”, and directly on the other side of the road, written in four different languages was a sign saying: “Welcome to India, the largest democracy in the world”. Take that, Pakistan. We took the bus back to Amritsar, where we went and saw the Golden Temple lit up in the moonlight, which was absolutely stunning. It’s on-par with the Taj Mahal, which also looks different at different parts of the day. I went and bought five turbans for Rs 200 each; one saffron, navy, blue, purple, and pink. I just need to learn how to tie them; I’m sure they have instructions online somewhere. We had a really hearty Punjabi thali for dinner, and went back to Delhi via charter bus.

Sunday, November 19 Fairs, Crafts Museum, Big Chill

I spent the morning wandering around Delhi. The biggest trade fair in the world is going on in Delhi, the Indian International Trade Fair, and so I bought a ticket and rode the bus down to Pragati Maidan to check it out. It was hell on earth. The site is a huge exhibition ground, with like 10 gates. I had to walk about two blocks, and every street was jam-packed with cars, people, and policemen. As I neared the gate, I had to follow some people, walk past a bunch of people going the other way. I felt like a rag doll. Without fail, every person’s shoulder hit mine. In the US, that is not acceptable, and people would get extremely irritated and take it as a sign of aggression. Here, no one even notices, except for me. In front of the gate, it was a loud busy mess. There were probably about 50,000 people lined up in a mob outside, waiting to get in. That settled that, and I decided it’s not worth fighting people to get in, so I walked around to the Crafts Museum instead. The entire way was shoulder-to-shoulder people; I’d say there were probably 200,000 people…only outside the grounds! It was a spectacle I’ve never seen before; it’s like half of Delhi was here. I guess I walked the wrong way, and a policeman smacked me in the arm, with his stick. I hate this place. After getting pissed off and yelling at him, I proceeded to the Crafts Museum, which was an oasis of peace and quiet. It had a bunch of really intricate handlooms on display, as well as a bunch of carvings. These guys were lifting up the glass on some brassware exhibit, and all of a sudden I heard a loud ‘crash’. I looked over, and they had dropped the glass on the brassware, breaking the pieces. So much for the priceless art. The museum was horribly labeled, so you kind of had to guess at which pieces were from where. Being here since June, I actually know my fabrics quite well, for India is known for them. I did some shopping at the little stalls of the Crafts Museum. I took a rickshaw, because the buses weren’t allowed to stop at Pragmati Maidan, to the US Embassy school, for the American Women’s Association Mela Fair, on the invitation of Holly Shrikhande. When I got into the place, it was just like a fair in the states, such as Summer Celebration, Folklife Festival, or a company picnic. They had really expensive American food, some Indian man singing the Eagles, and a lot of white people shopping at really overpriced stalls along the perimeter of the grassy area. It was like I was in America. I got some gifts, and asked where Holly was, but she apparently wasn’t there, so I bounced. It was really weird seeing so many big, white Americans again, which is going to make going home even more shocking. The people in that place were so rich they all had private cars and chauffers. They looked baffled when I asked the way, so I could walk my ass to the public bus stop. I had lunch at Saravana Bhavan, which, again, was outstanding. Then I came home and started writing my outsourced paper on Kashmir. It was horrendous. It took a really long time. I went with Ro, Alix, and Snehal, to upscale Khan Market for the first time. We ate at Big Chill, an Italian-American diner, which felt like Pagliacchi’s or Red Robin. It was really good, and had great desserts (hence my eating a main course and three desserts). I came back and worked endlessly on my paper again.

Saturday, November 18 Shekhawati Region in Rajasthan

I woke up and took a long walk, in order to explore the Shekhawati region’s heartland, by foot. This region is stereotypical Rajasthan, where camels outnumber cars, and women in colorful saris contrast to the earth-toned lifeless desert. This area was once a trade route between the Arabian Sea and the Gangetic plains. The Marwari merchants amassed a lot of wealth during the British Raj, and moved to the coasts and Jodhpur. They built large estates and havelis (mansions) for their families back home. The havelis were really huge and the facades intricate. Dirt paths led to each house, and the mansions themselves were surrounded by well-maintained large plantation fields, mostly just plowed red dry dirt at this time of the year. I wanted to see a lot of colors against the barren landscape, and I felt like I was on an Indian-person safari, on the lookout for beautiful Rajasthani women carrying buckets on their heads, and men talking or tending their herds. The walk was pleasant, with nice weather. But it was too early, and cold, to see many people or stunning scenery. The only people out were dressed in huge brown wool shawls carrying pails of water, on their way to and from going to the bathroom. Walking through all these little towns, I could tell these people rarely see tourists or foreigners. All stopped what they were doing, to look and whisper about me. I felt kind of awkward. I spent some time in a tiny town at the confluence of four sand and dirt paths winding through the dry rolling hills. I had tea with a group of village men, and I had to use my Hindi to communicate about myself. It was probably about 65 degrees, and I was perfect in my t-shirt, while these men were all huddled around a fire and bundled in heavy woolen shawls to keep warm. I kept walking, past a few schools, past some rickshaws and shared Jeeps, and a factory where people were excavating clay, forming them into bricks, and leaving them out to dry to use for building. I finally reached the main road at noon, and realized I had been walking for six hours in my sandals, without eating any food or water. I took a Jeep back to Nawalgarh and then took a bus to Dunlod, where I caught another Jeep. I demanded to sit on the top of the Jeep, which is fun and something I’m not going to be able to do again for a long time. A group of Indian boys all laughed at me, and talked to me while I struggled just to open my eyes in the vortex of sandy wind. I took a bus all the way back to Delhi from Jhunjhunu, Shekhawati’s largest city. This trip to Shekhawati wasn’t full of bad luck. It just wasn’t filled with any good luck. The pictures weren’t all that great, and it was pretty much boring and a bust. However, I was glad to have only seen two tourists (inside AC cabs) the whole time. Getting back to Delhi took a good seven hours, and a lot of waiting around in traffic in southern Haryana. I really like Haryana because it’s close to Delhi, 90% rural, 75% Hindu, and has good transportation systems. It’s a richer area, despite the squatter settlements near road construction sites. Driving through south Delhi is like transporting yourself to London or Paris; designer boutiques abound, their glitzy clean lights and English signs dot the night cityscape. I was delirious I was so hungry, and I had a ton of food at Khana Unlimited, which was glorious.

Friday, November 17 Shekhawati Region in Rajasthan

I caught the first Metro of the morning to Central Secretariat, where I walked on Rajpath mall, past white tourists, homeless people sleeping on the grass, and joggers in Spandex wheezing from the horrible pollution. I took a 270 Rs charter bus from India Gate to Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan. It took forever (aka 8 hours), since there was a lot of traffic and construction on the highway, which, when completed will be an enormous 10-lane superhighway. I got to Jaipur, which was surrounded by desert, scraggly dry hills, and slums. I quickly transferred buses to a rickety overcrowded public bus to the Shekhawati region. It’s funny because I really don’t care where I go, I just want to see that region as a whole because the guidebooks say it has some of the finest undiscovered scenery in the subcontinent. The ride there was boring because it was dark. It took three hours to get to a main town, Nawalgarh. I missed the stop because I don’t know what the stop’s supposed to look like. Everyone was looking at me and laughing. The only English-speakers were three girls, who were on their way to an Engineering college. I got off the bus and walked with them, but when we got close to the college I wasn’t allowed to be seen talking to them because it’s so conservative. I ended up talking to a group of guys, who I told I had no place in particular to go. People in India just don’t understand the concept of wanderlust, and they kept saying, “So you want to go to Nawalgarh, right?”. It was useless, so they finally got tired and left me in the dark, at the junction of a railway line and two main roads, with some small tea stalls on either side. There were maybe 20 people around, none of whom spoke English, and barely spoke Hindi. And all 20 were looking at me, puzzled. It was pretty awkward. I walked around aimlessly in the dust, until some guys started talking to me in Hindi. They took me to the private boarding school, where I was surrounded by a group of uniformed boys from age 12-18. They all wanted to speak to me in their limited English, and I entertained their questions, as they giggled and whispered to each other. Then a guy took me to dinner at a roadside dhaba, but it was just me eating, some oily dal fry and cold sabzi. Then he took me on his motorcycle to the bus stop, where I caught a bus to Nawalgarh (even though I had no compulsion to stay there in the first place). I got out of the bus and stayed in Mitu Dharamsala, a guest house in a Hindu temple, where pilgrims and other visitors (supposed to be only for Indians) can stay. The room was simply a room with a bed, but I was tired.

Thursday, November 16 Republicans Lose Congress

Last week was a glorious time in American politics. The 2006 elections were held, and I didn’t get to vote because I’m overseas. But Thank God I didn’t even need to because, as it turns out, the Democrats have won control of the House and Senate for the first time in 12 years. In effect, this leaves President George W Bush virtually powerless for his last two years as president. Now he’s nothing but a useless lame duck. It’s funny reading the papers in India about the elections; they have such a negative bias towards Bush, as does every country on earth minus Israel. I’m overjoyed and relieved that America finally has regained some sense, and now I’m not as embarassed to tell people I’m an American (because people overseas all somehow know about this pivotal election, compared to Americans who still think ‘Iraq’ is a tasty lamb dish).

Wednesday, November 15 Hungry, Karim's Hotel

I woke up and did some errands. Then I went to lunch at Khana Unlimited after fasting for 48 hours. Why I do these fasts? I have an eating disorder. No, but seriously, it’s because people here have so little that I should be compassionate to what they’re feeling. No, but seriously, it’s because I’m really sick, and by not eating all the stuff in my system will get flushed out a lot faster this way. (By the way, only the last reason is true). So at Khana Unlimited I pretty much put them out of business I ate so much. After that, I attended Hindi, which was mind-numbing. Then I went online, etc, and went with Alix to dinner at Karim’s Hotel near Jami Masjid. Karim’s has been a Delhi Institution since 1913, and it is rated as having the best North Indian food [in the world]. This is because the chef is descended from the cook of the Mughal court. It didn’t disappoint. All it has is basically meat, rice, and roti. I got chicken tikka and chicken rumali rolls, both of which were superb. They melted in my mouth, and were greasy, buttery, and spicy. It’s easily the best tandoori food I’ve ever had. The naan was also outstanding; it was virtually weightless, tasted like a biscuit, and was soft, chewy, and buttery. After the meal, we got khir for dessert, which was chilled and tasted amazing after all that heavy meaty food. It was a mouth orgasm, but a stomach beating.

Tuesday, November 14 Kolkata, Museum, Victoria Memorial, Shopping

I woke up and had a fun time on the toilet. I walked down busy Chowringhee Street, teeming with a pack of Christian students, European tourists, streetdwellers, annoying street hawkers, taxis, and even a herd of goats. I descended into the Pride of Kolkata, the underground Metro. It is the first Metro in India, built in 1984 and covers the major areas of the city even though it’s only one line. It’s not as immaculate or modernized as the Delhi Metro, but it has TVs on the platform, and it’s not as dirty or old as the New York City subway. The trains don’t have AC, and are really crowded so I had to stand amongst the rest of the young student and businessperson commuters. The train runs from Tollygunj to Dumdum, I thought that was kind of funny. I stopped off at Shyam Bazaar, on the outskirts north of the city. I was expecting it to be really impoverished and slummy considering all the negative things I’ve heard about the city. However, it wasn’t unpleasant at all. It was a bunch of four-story colonial buildings flanking narrow but clean streets. I walked a little further, where a bunch of small homes were located, but they weren’t really slummy. Shops, churches, and schools could be found at every corner. Everything was in English and Bengali. Whole families were outside, the men were out working, women were cooking and washing laundry, and naked children were playing. Men in plaid skirts were bathing in the well pumps, which were installed right in the middle of sidewalks. This city is a perfect example of how every aspect of life India occurs right on the streets. I could see how people not used to poverty would think this city is particularly bad, only because everything is public and visible, compared to Delhi, where the impoverished are spread out and harder to find. It’s more like Mumbai, without the massive squatter towns and vast dichotomy of wealth. I feel Kolkata is unfairly portrayed in the Western media. I took a human rickshaw back to the Metro Station, basically just to say I did. A poor 50-year old tiny man with a limp ran with the rickshaw, clanging a little hand bell with his finger. I was scared it was going to tip over, since it was on only two wheels. I can’t believe people actually patronize these; you can walk faster than these skinny malnourished guys, and it’s reducing humans to the level of animals. I visited the Indian Museum, which was fabulous. It had thousands of rocks and fossils, stuffed animals with real skins, paintings, sculptures, coins, cool exhibits on all the different ethnic groups making up diverse India, and a nice green courtyard. I walked through the sprawling Maidan, essentially a huge park in downtown Kolkata, containing enormous grass fields, the Birla Planetarium, old British Raj buildings, a race course, and the largest cricket stadium in India (capacity 95,000 and selling-out every match). It’s really pretty, and a nice oasis from the congested yellow and blue of cabs and buses of the concrete streets and buildings. I made my way over to the Victoria Memorial, and saved 240 Rs by getting the Indian fare. The main building is surrounded by sprawling beautiful gardens with grass, stone pathways, fountains, courting couples, picnicking families, and friends. It looks like someone took a French palace and put it in the middle of the second-largest city in India. The Memorial is a neoclassical white domed building built by the British to commemorate the crown choosing Calcutta as the capital of India. Besides being a symbol of domination and subordination, it was nevertheless full of foreign as well as Indian tourists. It housed a lot of amazing paintings by British artists, mostly with scenes of Indian landscapes and portraits of people. It would have been amazing to see India as the British did, before any Westernization or colonization. I had my palm read by a phony on the street, who predicted I would have good travels in December, and good luck in money in December/January. He said I should worship Durga and his prophecy would be realized. After that I did some shopping, and Kolkata, just in Chowringhee’s New Market and Streethawker’s Market, was some of the best shopping I’ve seen in India. Kolkata isn’t as expensive as Delhi or Mumbai, and has everything that these centres have. Believe it or not, I love West Bengal and Kolkata. Yes, it’s dirty and has extreme poverty. However, the weather (at least right now) is near perfect, it has every type of climate from the Himalayas to the Gangetic Plains to the brackish mangroves to teeming Kolkata, Bengal has some of the best food in the world, and it’s exactly what you’d picture India as, but most importantly, the Bengali people are the friendliest and most cultured I’ve met in India. And all of this made this trip one of the best I’ve taken in India. I got picked up in a cab for the airport, which took an hour and a half since the city was in gridlock. The city at night is fully awake, and within the narrow dark streets, life pulses on. It looks like New York City during the 1920’s, driving through at night, with small dilapidated buildings, small streets, and a sea of yellow taxis. The airport was alright, but freezing with AC. My flight was for Indigo Airlines, the cheapest airline in India. It was really comfortable. They had a brand-new plane, pretty flight attendants, new décor, but no food or beverage service, perks, or first-class. I got to Delhi at 1, and took a cab home. Everyone in Delhi looks like they’re preparing for a blizzard (it’s about 70 degrees), with their wool shawls, thick jackets, and cows in the street even wore blankets. I’m glad to get back to Delhi because I’m feeling pretty sick.

Monday, November 13 Sunderbans Tiger Reserve

I woke up on the enchanting misty river, which was indistinguishable from the gentle morning sky. After tea and a simple breakfast of fruit and egg bread, we cast off the anchor and put-putted our way through the watery mangroves of the Sunderbans. We stopped at the museum again and picked up a guide, which is required for entry into the tourist zone of the reserve. The guide was friendly and could spot the tiniest animals. We cruised the snaking waterways, void of any human life or interference. It was incredibly tranquil and stunning at the same time. We floated deeper and deeper into the mangrove forests, the streams getting smaller and smaller. I saw a bunch of tiny mudskippers, which looked like half-fish, half-reptile, like it was in an evolutionary stage. A few water monitor lizards awkwardly crawled on the gray mud. Beautiful bright blue birds and striking white cranes flew from tree to tree as we passed. We saw some spotted deer and monkeys, too. After that we stopped at another watch tower at Sonakhali and saw some deer, but no tigers. It’s a rare occurrence to see tigers, and the guide said this whole year he’s seen a tiger only six times. We stopped on a muddy bank for Bengali fish curry and salad lunch. Then I relaxed as we motored three hours back to Basanti Village to catch the bus back to Kolkata. I peed on the roadside, and a bunch of Muslim boys were watching me, giggling, because I was standing up rather than squatting, as the Muslims do, so that supposedly Allah won’t see them. The ride was three hours long, and stopped every 15 minutes. I got really nauseas and my stomach began to feel the consequences of drinking a cup of local water. On the way, the bus stopped because there was another bus on the road with a bunch of water in front, which had just hit and killed someone. Besides that, the views of the sunset over the watery shrimp farms was spectacular. We got into Kolkata and had to take a city bus to Esplanade, the main center of town. We walked through the bustling lit markets, and I checked into a hotel and spent the night in pain. Luckily the hotel was really nice and cost only 300 Rs (cheap for central Kolkata), and they gave me soap, a towel, and they had HBO. I watched the Goonies and Ray, which were utterly satisfying.

Sunday, November 12 Sunderbans Tiger Reserve Safari

I got up early to meet up with my safari to the Sunderbans Tiger Reserve. I took a cab to meet up with the travel agent, who I have been talking to a lot. She saw me off, and because I was the only one who booked a trip for these next two days, they had one of their employees ride with me on the bus and boats, so that I wouldn’t get lost or confused. Turns out they assigned me one of their new rookies, a Bengali 20-year old college student from Kolkata named Bunty. I ended up becoming really good friends with him, because we’re the same age and he’s a pretty funny guy, and he spoke good English. We first took a cab to the busy crowded Babu Ghat Bus station, and then caught a yellow-and-blue private bus to Basanti, a little town on the edge of the Sunderbans Reserve. It took an hour to get out of congested Kolkata, and we wound our way through tiny alleys, almost nicking old multi-story delapidated buildings on our way. We passed a few slums and the Chinatown. One of the signs said “Wang Chung Bar Cum Restaurant”. I don’t think the owner has been to America. The drive was really picturesque, and painted me a portrait of the real heart of Bengal. Small strips of land sat atop large canals. The land was under cultivation for growing rice, coconut trees, and cauliflour. The canals were fresh water ponds used for washing, cooking, drinking, and harvesting fish and shrimp. Skinny dark men in white shirts and plaid skirts carried produce on their heads, tilled soil, and cast their nets into the murky brown water. Houses with straw roofs and mud siding dotted the otherwise flat and endless fields and canals. Little grass shacks on bamboo stilts stood out from the water, used for fishing. Small towns with rickshaws, bicycles, and teeming amounts of small dark Bengalis and their small bamboo shops sprang up every now and then. We reached the small Muslim village of Basanti three hours later. We crept past the bustling vegetable market to the dock, which was basically a concrete stairway descending into the river. He talked in Bengali to a few people before we stepped aboard the glorious Shah Jahan Houseboat. It was a wooden boat painted blue and white, with a bowed bottom, an outhouse on the back, and an interior cabin. It was cozy; good, because I’m spending the next 24 hours here. It was really comfortable; not too hot and not too cold, it had a nice area to sit and eat, and the bow was great for lazing in the sun and watching life in the Sunderbans. The owner was a Muslim Bengali named Salah Auddin, with big round glasses and smile. There are still Muslims in Indian Bengal, and Hindus in Muslim Bangladesh, but not as many as before partition. West Bengal, the easternmost of the major states in India, contains the largest diversity of landscapes and peoples anywhere in India. The state, population 80 million, is comprised of the watery Gangetic plains and delta, the megalopolis of Kolkata, and the Himalayas including the hill station of Darjeeling. Bengal, on the other hand, is the land that forms the Mouths of the Ganges, and has a unique language, customs, and culture. The Mouths of the Ganges refers to the immense river delta made up of the mighty Ganges and Brahmaputra Rivers that flow from the Himalayas and eventually empty into the Bay of Bengal. Most of the delta is located in present-day Bangladesh, but Indian West Bengal also has a considerable portion. The Sunderbans refers to the specific national reserve set up to protect the unique environment. The Sunderbans is, in essence, a large conglomeration of low-lying islands forming the Ganges River delta. The brackish waterways have given rise to a huge mangrove forest, and if you count the adjacent Bangladesh side, forms the largest mangrove forest in the world. It supports a huge amount of biodiversity, and within the reserve, over 60 types of mangrove trees have been classified. It is home to wildlife such as mudskippers, wild boar, lizards, snakes, deer, and of course the infamous man-eating Royal Bengal Tiger. The mangroves are specially-adapted to the brackish canals, and are vital to the ecosystem, holding the loose mud together that forms the islands of this watery world. Because it is such a fragile ecosystem, it has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site, and the Indian government has split it up into three sections; one where the tourists can go, one where locals can forage and hunt, and the other where no humans are allowed. As we set off from the docks, we passed a lot of ferries carrying local Bengalis to and from work and other places. Boats made for 20 fit hundreds. We passed other long wooden bowed boats, on which were fishermen tying their nets, boys pouring buckets of water on the decks to clean their boats, and people taking the Sunday afternoon to just relax. Ten-foot tall dikes were all that separated these brackish waterways from homes and villages. At high tide, the water level reaches three feet from the top of the dikes, which is dangerously close. Many years, the Ganges will flood, reeking havoc on the people of these small fishing villages. Their lives bend to the will of nature, and many times, they are hurt. The thousands of canals that make up this land isolate and threaten them. Since these canals are brackish and have dangerous sharks and crocodiles, the local people can’t even use them, and must use boats to cross. They live hard, but also very simple lives, with few material possessions and a lack of infrastructure. Nevertheless, they are all friendly and smile and wave when we passed. We had some fresh fruit, followed by a home-cooked Bengali lunch on board. It included cucumbers, spicy runny potato, prawn, and fish curries, all served over long-grain rice. There were no utensils, so I had to eat with my hands, mixing the rice with the sauce with my fingers in circular motions, and then shoveling it into my mouth, devouring my hands. Bengalis don’t like bread, so every dish is exclusively complemented with rice. They do love fish, though, and West Bengal is the largest producer and consumer of fish in India. Brahmins, who are usually pure vegetarians, even eat fish. The food was great, and different from any other food I’ve had thus far in India. We stopped for an hour in the tiny fishing village of Gosaba. It had a main road with a little market and some little shops, including some guest houses for tourists traveling onwards to the Sunderbans. A man selling bright green coconuts sliced open the top with a machete and poked holes in the top, so I could drink the delicious coconut water. Further into the village, many freshwater ponds were constructed around little paths and mud huts. The fresh ponds are used for bathing, cooking, cleaning, and drinking, because the water in the canals is salty and useless. Walking through the town was like a time-warp, it was so rural and unmodernized, it’s exactly what I pictured India and Bangladesh to be. This is exactly what the entire country of Bangladesh is like, except Muslim, more rural, and more impoverished. But it’s the closest I’ll probably ever be to Bangladesh. I was taking some pictures, and a small Bengali man took me into his mud home to show me his sculptures of Jesus and Mother Mary. He showed me his small house, which had a small kitchen with some pots and built-in mud stove. The beds were little bamboo platforms with sheets and mosquito nets. The walls were made of wicker, the walls of brick and mud, and the roof of dried palm leaves. He showed me his chickens and church, and we took a bicycle rickshaw with a wood platform on the back to the boat. We pushed off, and headed out towards the Sunderbans as the sun set over the wide rivers that once flowed as the Ganges. The tide started to rise, bringing the water level right up to the vast root networks of the mangrove trees. The mangrove forests seemed to float atop the blue rivers that flowed in and out of them; it was beautiful, and unlike anything I’ve seen before. We got to Sajnekhali to the park entrance, with a big sign saying Welcome to Sunderban Tiger Reserve. We paid a bunch of fees, and had a look at the pens with alligators, sea turtles, and monkeys. The museum was really interesting. It featured lots of maps of the watery world of the Sunderbans Reserve. It had pictures of all the birds, monkeys, lizards, snakes, and of course, tiger. In the park, the tigers number about 250, and are being relentlessly protected despite the fact that they often attack humans and livestock. They had a whole exhibit about “living with tigers”, and showed pictures of Bengali honey-collectors and fishermen, wearing masks on the backs of their heads to protect against the predatory cat. They pray to a certain goddess for protection against tigers, and there was a shrine outside the museum, with an idol to this goddess. There was also a watch tower, with little pathways so you could sit atop and spot wildlife. After a while Salah Auddin anchored the boat at a spot in the center of the river. They set up lights on the deck, fueled by thermal power, and had swarms of bugs around them. Bunty and I talked for a long time about everything, and then we were served a really good egg and fish curry. Bunty made the mistake of giving me drinking water, which turned out to be unboiled local water. Great. Our beds were set up inside the cabin downstairs, on some boards. It was actually mildly comfortable and really cozy. There was absolutely no light pollution, and I could see the cloudy Milky Way and thousands of stars brilliantly. I can now say I slept on the Ganges River.

Saturday, November 11 Kolkata City Tour, Crazy Movie Theatres

11/11 today. My train reached Kolkata at 4:50, only 5 minutes late! Surprising! What was also surprising was that while I was sitting in a long row of seats at the train station for the sun to come out, an old hunch-backed woman came around begging. Not one and not a few, but EVERY person gave her at least a Rupee. I don’t get it, so when I asked them, they said it was good karma to help people out, and most times they want to help people who can’t make money and instead rely on begging as a means of survival, such as the sick, blind, handicapped, and lepers. Still, begging is frowned upon and illegal, but it has a long history in India and is legitimized by Hinduism. I had breakfast and was going to use the restroom at the station, but the line was 20 people long. So I just decided to walk to central Kolkata to find a hotel. I walked out of the enormous Howrah Station, past the muddy, disgusting bus station, weaving my way through dozens of light blue and yellow buses. You would think they’re municipal buses, but actually they’re part of a network of thousands of buses owned by a single private company. I walked to the west bank of the Hugli River, which is a branch off the mighty River Ganges, before it empties into the Bay of Bengal in a bout a million different places on an enormous delta that, along with the terminus of the mighty Brahmaputra River, composes the coastal region of Bengal, as well as the entire nation of Bangladesh. The banks of the Hugli were filled with Hindus and destitute Bengalis bathing in the polluted, green-gray, smelly, but nonetheless, holy, rivers o the Ganges. The exit of the train station puts you on the doorstep of the imposing Howrah Bridge, the trademark symbol and gateway to Kolkata from the industrial suburb of Howrah. It was originally built in 1943, has eight lanes of traffic, is 97 meters high, and 705 meters long, making it the third largest cantilever bridge in the world. It carries 57,000 vehicles and two million commuters per day, making it the busiest bridge in the world. Cars whizzed by skinny men in skirts carrying produce and bamboo on their heads. I heard a loud splat beside me, and assumed it was just birdpoop, so I was glad it missed me. Then I stepped closer and realized it was the mangled carcass of a rat. It's going to be a lovely day (and for about an hour after that I kept singing 'Lovely Day' in my head). Kolkata (formerly Calcutta) is the “City of Joy”. It originally consisted of three Bengali fishing villages (the name ‘Kolkata’ derives from ‘Kalikata’, one of these villages), purchased in 1698 by the British East India Company. The British made it their capital, and it grew to be the greatest colonial city in Asia, a major port city and center of commerce, industry, and culture. Like Mumbai, waves of migrants settled there hoping to make their fortunes. It remained the capital until 1912, when it was thought that the Bengalis were becoming too powerful (ironically) through British education, and eventually it became the centre for the Independence struggle. It remains the intellectual capital of India. While Mumbai is the financial centre, Delhi the administrative centre, and Bangalore the IT centre, Kokata is the cultural centre of India. It produces many plays, poems, dances, and films. It is also the capital of a very leftist progressive state, where the Communist party is in power. It exemplifies progressivity, creativity, and vibrance, and is the cradle of the Indian Renaissance. It can also boast that all the Nobel Laureates of India worked at Kolkata: Ronald Ross, Rabinath Tagore (the famous poet who wrote India’s national anthem), CV Raman, Mother Theresa, and Amartya Sen (famous economist, who actually teaches at Delhi University). Today Kolkata is the second-largest city in India, at 10.3 million people, and within the top 10 worldwide, and the hub of Eastern India. It is just like any other Indian city; a city of contrasts and juxtapositions. The intellectuals and politicians live stone’s throw away from massive slums, and some of the worst poverty in India. The media, of course, has portrayed Kolkata unfairly as the latter, a place synonymous with Mother Theresa’s missionary work helping to uplift millions of dispossessed people of the city. I stepped onto Kolkata proper soil at Armenian Ghat, with a huge colorful market with vendors upon vendors, and buyers upon buyers, and porters upon porters yelling and running around India’s largest flower market. I walked down the small streets through Bada Bazaar, a labyrinth of winding alleys enclosed with old colonial buildings at every turn. The streets were teeming with Kolkatans waking up, about to start their days. Many were sleeping on the sidewalks; whole families, old men and women, and dogs. Men were bathing with buckets on the sidewalk, while others carried fish on their heads and pushed carts with boxes and buckets. And I have seen so many rickshaws in my days in India; auto rickshaws, bicycle rickshaws, and now, for the first time, human rickshaws. These skinny guys in tanktops and skirts ran on foot, holding up bars connected to two-wheeler carriages with people sitting inside. Unreal. Bengalis in Kolkata seemed short and really skinny, because of the humid climate. They all have really bulgy dark eyes. In other words, they all look very Indian, or what I picture the quintessential Indian to look like. Actually, the whole scene was what I pictured India as a whole to look like; bamboo shacks with people carrying carts and drawing rickshaws, bathing and sleeping on the streets, and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. My previous conception of India was West Bengal, I guess. I walked down some larger boulevards through Kolkata’s downtown area, lined with banks and insurance companies. I walked around the town center, BBD Bagh, a square in the Central Business District with a man-made water tank/malarial breeding grounds. I caught the city tour from the adjacent West Bengal tourism office. The tour was actually really fun. We first drove through the narrow crowded streets of industrial Howrah across the river. We got to Belur Math, the international headquarters of the Ramkrishna Mission, which is a temple on the banks of the Hugli River, dedicated to religious untiy. It features Muslim domes, Hindu-style windows, and a crucifixial plan. It has a lot of little rooms with the old, skinny, bearded man’s picture, which a bunch of people were praying to. The site had a good view across the river. After that, we couldn’t get enough of Ramkrishna, so we went to the place where the old skinny bearded man Sri Ramkrishna, lived. It’s now a temple, called Dakshineswar Kali Temple, and is one of the most important Hindu pilgrimage sites in Kolkata. This is because Sri Ramkrishna attained enlightenment here. Because it’s Saturday, it was swarmed with devotees. Prasad-shops lined the entrance, hawkers and beggars on full prowl. The temple grounds consisted of a huge spired temple dedicated to the goddess Kali, and it features a black idol standing atop a blue Shiva and silver lotus. The lines were worse than at Disneyland. Thousands of Hindus in their finest Indian dress and holding offerings stood in massive snaking lines. Us tourists went in the non-devotee line, which still took a while and shoved me around like a beach ball. After that we headed over to the Sitambara Jain Temple in North Kolkata. It is built in a nice garden with fountains, ponds, and trees. The temple is beautifully-decorated and completely covered with ornate inlaid mirrors, stones, and glass. Jain temples are often the most intricate and visually appealing. Considering all the Jains I know are tremendously loaded, their temples should be the nicest. The bus drove us through the old colonial city of North Kolkata, with haphazard city planning and congested streets filled with rickshaws, buses, and taxis. The further south you go, the more modern it becomes, just like Delhi. The south featured brand-new boutiques, new apartment complexes, and wide avenues. We visited the Netaji Bhawan, which is the ancestral home of Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose, which has been converted into a museum, and has photographs, Netaji’s personal items, and other documents on the Independence struggle. Bose was a freedom fighter who started the Indian National Army, and fled India to do so. He traveled to Asia and Europe and met leaders like Hitler, Tojo, and Gandhi. The British reported he died in a plane crash in Taiwan, but no one believes that. I thought it was funny when we passed a market with new boutiques, and there was a “Bose” showroom in Kolkata. While in South Kolkata, we stopped at Kalighat, where during Kali Puja, idols of the goddess are bathed in the waters of the Hugli River. It’s a huge pilgrimage site, and it was a huge congregation of thousands of devotees, beggars, and pickpockets. I took off my sandals and stood in mob (not ‘line’) to get a view (darshan) of the Kali idol. It was so crowded, loud, and claustrophobic, so I was glad to get out of the stifling mob. Myth holds that what a specific demon was killed ages ago, he spilled all his blood, which would kill all humans when it hit the ground. Kali, the crazed bloodthirsty deity, swallowed all the demons’ blood to save humanity. So, people worship Kali for her destructive and protective qualities. How Hindus show this love is by giving offerings to the gods. The procession moved to the next area, which is where the offerings were given to the goddess. Basically, a man with a 2.5 foot-long machete stood in a big open stage area, swinging his sword, while a small squealing black goat was carried over by two men by the horns and hind legs. The two men stretched out the kicking goat’s body, and after a few backswings, the man with the machete swung the sword and in one blow, effortlessly chopped off the squealing goat’s head. The two holding the goat flew back in opposite directions, as the head was now severed from its body, blood spurting everywhere. The goat was convulsing, its body now twitching eerily in-synch with its detached head, whose yellow eyes were still open and blinking. The cut exposed its white bones and esophagus, as bright-red blood pumped out in regular rhythms and flowed down into the gutter. Devotees immediately rushed over to the scene, chanted, and kissed the bloody ground in respect to Kali, who has now hopefully been sacrificed. A priest quickly filleted the body and threw the goat’s intestines, but left the entire corpse to drain in the gutter. I couldn’t even speak after witnessing that spectacle. It was unreal; so vivid, so gruesome, so primal, and so fast. It was straight out of a movie, like what you’d see in some Orientalist depiction about India, like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I didn’t know Hindus actually still do live sacrifice, being so against killing and being vegetarian. Apparently Kali is a destroyer, so it’s different. Also, in Bengal, Brahmins are allowed to be non-veg, and sacrifices like this happen in West Bengal. I grabbed my shoes and ran out of the temple as fast as possible. Now I know why the two little boys on the tour stayed in the bus during this stop. My feet, I’m sure, are covered in goat blood and some awful disease (which is pretty impure for a place of worship of a religon that is obsessed with purity). Naturally, the next stop was lunch. I sat with the guide, a BK Ghosh, who was basically a well-read genius, really funny, and friendly. He gave me his number and address so that next time I’m in Kolkata (I can’t even count the number of times I’m in Kolkata) we can hang out. The lunch was good, but not Bengali. We next saw St. Paul’s Cathedral (by the way, what cathedral is not named “St. Paul’s”?). It was built in 1847 and was the first Episcopal church in Asia. It had a lot of pews facing a modern altar with statues, in front of beautiful stained-glass windows reaching up to the whitewashed ceiling above. It had a marble slab inscribed onto it how these three Englishmen were heroes who gave their lives by suppressing one of the Independence Struggle insurgencies, something I, and most Indians would say was a villainous act, but that the British Crown and people that write American 5th-grade American history books would commend. We drove through downtown’s towering buildings and huge green area known as the Maidan, housing many museums and monuments, mostly honoring the British Raj Era. We cruised down the “Poor Man’s Marine Drive”, the nice drive along the Hugli River. The modern Vidhyasagar suspension bridge, towered over the also mighty Ganges below. The last stop on the circuit was the Calcutta Gallery, a museum dedicated to the city and to West Bengal. It was really interactive, and had light-up dioramas, talking mannequins, and a 3-D movie. It featured the history of Kolkata, the recounting of battles, points of pride (namely, the Nobel Laureate connection, poets, singers, athletes, politicians, revolutionaries, artists, and intellectuals). After that I walked in Esplanade, the center of town. It was bustling, with tons of street vendors and other pedestrians. It was loud and chaotic as I walked down side roads in search of a hotel. Since Kolkata is expensive, I had to settle for a 450 Rs room, which was basically a really nice dorm room but half the size, and in the most delapidated building ever. Since Bengal is a huge film city, I decided to see a Bengali film, and the hotel clerk recommended the nearby cinema. Little did I know it was an Indian porno. But for a porno, it was horrible. The American previews from the 1970s were better than the feature presentation, a Tamil movie dubbed in Hindi. It had ugly girls and absolutely no nudity. The raunchiest it got was a possessed mullet man squeezing a girl’s stomach fat. The acting was, not surprisingly, horrible, and it culminated in a gross girl stabbing a crazy man who tried raping her. It was worse than spending the morning in class at DU. I want my two hours back. So I went over to the real cinema down the lit, crowded, and busy road. I saw Apna Sapna Money Money, which was really bad but had some good songs. But that experience was even worse than the previous movie, because I saw huge rats scurrying around the floor of the theatre. The rest of the night I had to watch everywhere I stepped, because there were so many little holes in the streets, and I am absolutely paranoid of seeing rats.

Friday, November 10 Pipli, Konark, Puri in Orissa

I woke up and it was raining. Great. But the weather here besides that is superb-75 in the morning, afternoon, and at night. Actually the weather said it was a high of 18 and a low of 17. I checked out and then walked around Bhubaneswar looking for breakfast, but the only thing open were little bamboo shacks with watery rice, a popular Odissi breakfast. For the second day in a row, I went to the Orissa Tourism Department Lodge and hopped on the 9:00 bus for more sightseeing. A man and his son my age were on both tours with me. I know they are Muslim because they didn’t go inside any Hindu temples, they speak Urdu, and their last name is Khan. The son said he’s majoring in English, but the Dad had to translate. The first stop was Pipli, a crafts centre famous for those useless hanging colorful mirror lanterns. I walked down a little side-street, and it was as if I had regressed 500 years. Coconut palms towered over small one-room mud, brick, and bamboo huts. Villagers were washing their clothes and bodies in a pond surrounded by rice paddies. Men wore cloth sarongs, and women wore saris. Everyone smiled as I passed by. The climate is wet, humid, and coastal, with tons of rural paddies, rivers, and lakes everywhere. It’s what I imagine Kerala looking like, on the southern tip of India. That there is no industry or major cities here does not change the fact that there are people everywhere; in every nook and cranny of Orissa. It’s really interesting and pretty driving through all these unspoilt (besides powerlines, paved roads, and Pepsi signs) little villages, paddies, and estuaries. Our next stop was Konark, home of the famous Sun Temple, a UNESCO World Heritage site. I managed to sneak in for the Indian price by being absolutely mute. The temple was amazing. Built in the 13th century, it was a victory monument signaling the defeat of the Muslims. Since then it has been destroyed by the Mughals and Portuguese. It was built as a chariot for the sun god Surya. The distinctive feature is the 24 stone cartwheels, representing hours of the day. They are all intricately-embellished with swirl patterns, wood-like designs, checkers, and mini-kama sutras. The temple has seven horses, representing the days of the week. It was just like Khajuraho, but bigger. On the lower levels, it was mostly men and women being wrapped up by snakes, musicians with drums, and gods. The upper levels around the spire were mostly erotic scenes, and really graphic, too, with all sorts of different kama sutra positions, multiple female partners, touching and holding things. The temple was guarded by stone lions (a Hindu symbol of power) atop elephants (a Buddhist symbol of wealth). Because Orissa is situated west of Bengal, east of the Deccan Plateau, south of the Gangetic North Indian heartland, and north of the Dravidian south, it reflects the influences and converging of all of these artistic, religious, linguistic, and social aspects. We stopped for a couple of minutes at a sparse but vast beach in Konark. Vendors selling souvenirs, film, snacks, and coconuts lined the sand. Small blue-gray waves crashed into the off-white sand. I dipped my feet into the water, the first time I have touched the waters of the Bay of Bengal (surrounded by India to the West, Bangladesh to the north, Myanmar to the east, and connects to the vast Indian Ocean in the south. The sand was fine-grained and the water was even warmer than the humid tropical air. We set off for the last (but definitely not least) stop on Orissa’s Golden Triangle circuit, Puri. The holy Hindu city of Puri attracts Indian tourists, foreigners for the beach, and Hindu pilgrims for its temples. The bus let us off at Rath Yatra Road, a huge boulevard that leads to the famous Jagganath Temple. This road is huge for one purpose and one purpose only; the Rath Yatra festival in June. The street is completely packed, and people carry huge floats of Lord Jagganath, his brother, and his sister, through the street from the Jagganath Temple to the Gundicha Mandir. Only Hindus are allowed into the temples (just recently open to women) because it was kept a secret and strictly controlled when the Muslims ruled the area and outlawed idol worship. So basically the rule is in place to keep out Muslims. You could easily change the previous sentence to be about airline security or Israel. Actually, though, the Jagganath Temple is open to Jains, Buddhists, and Sikhs. So I claimed I am a Buddhist. I have been saying this ever since I got to India because 1) I agree with many of the Buddha’s teachings, 2) I look like an Asian Buddhist, 3) I don’t like associating myself with the Christian world because of problems with Muslims and their missionary practices like the Australian missionaries burned in Orissa, 4) It’s an Indian religion closely related to Jainism, and derived in whole from Hinduism, 5) No one hates Buddhists. However, the security guards all said “Indian Buddhists only”. This makes absolutely no sense. Basically this temple is sexist, prejudice against other beliefs, and racist. Reason # 300 I’m not a Hindu. I wasn’t about to argue with the security guard with an assault rifle, so instead I paced around and watched the scene at the front gate. It was crazy and hectic. Hindus were everywhere. Women lined the street, selling prasad (rice, coconuts, milk, and incense), souvenirs (figurines of Lord Jagganath, who is a bug-eyed black or white short stubby figure, who would make a really good stereotypical Indian character in South Park), vegetarian food, and clothes. Men jostled for rickshaw passengers, tourists wanting souvenirs, and for people to give them money for begging. I had amassed a nice little crowd of hawkers around me as I was photographing beggars, lepers, street scenes, and devotees washing their mouths before worship. I walked back to the bus and talked to the driver, who was from Cuttack, Orissa’s previous capital 100 km up the road. I felt like we were both guys in prison, or black Americans during segregation, because he wasn’t allowed in the temple, either, since he’s a Muslim. Te told me a secret; he, along with a lot of other people in India (including Hindus) eat beef, they just buy it from Muslims and eat it in secret. Not hard to believe, because of how many cows there are here, or considering how good a nice, tender, juicy steak tastes. The last stop on the tour was the Puri Beach (aka the Orissa Tourism resort). I put my luggage at the desk and took a walk down the beach. The water was really warm and felt nice, as did the cushy gray sand. Puri Beach stretched for as far as the eye could see, as did the people. The beach in Puri is sacred, and the Jagganath Temple is a mere 500 meters away. In every Hindu holy city there is always a body of water. In Varanasi and Allahabad there is a river, in Bhubaneswar there is a tank, in Gangotri there is a glacial waterfall, in Pushkar there is a lake, and in Puri and Kanniyakumari there is an ocean. So far, Puri is my favorite Hindu holy place. I only saw three non-Indians. One was a white guy in a cotton lungi, head shaved, and had his forehead painted with a ‘V’, indicating he’s a Vaishnavite. Poser. The others were weird German people in dreadlocks and Punjabi suits. The beach went on for miles, and got more and more crowded near the Jagganath Temple. Vendors sold balloons, pearl necklaces, cotton candy, and horse/camel rides. It was mostly Indian families and boys playing in the water. I kept trying to take pictures, but naked guys kept obscuring the otherwise awesome view of the Bay of Bengal. Fishermen were hammering away fixing their boats and re-stringing their nets after the day at sea. Processions of holy people banging drums and carrying long sticks made their way up and down the beach. I walked up to the Jagganath Temple. The road was teeming with pilgrims and holiday-goers, eating and shopping. In order for foreigners to see the temple, you have to go across the street to the library and give a “donation” of 100 Rs. I climbed to the top, where the view was decent, but made extraordinary as a result of the beautiful pink-blue-orange sunset behind the huge towering temple. Like every other Hindu temple, it had a series of towers, each devoted to a certain Hindu deity, the central and largest being Lord Jagganath. After that I walked back to the hotel along the dark beach, and caught the overnight sleeper train to Howrah Station in Kolkata.