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!”