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.