Dilli Haat and the Bargaining Dilettant

Sarah is a shopping Goddess – I’m sure she has been added to the Hindu pantheon by now. Just look for the statue of a petite vivacious blonde deity carrying packs of scarves and bangles. I think she single-handedly brought the idea of discounts for buying-in-bulk to the markets of India by grabbing handfuls of figurines, showing them to the merchants and saying through an enormous smile: "I'm getting all of these, so I think you should give me a special price." Sarah is one of the ladies on the trip, the CEO of a non-profit fundraising company where she professionally persuades people to donate their money and feel good about it. She is one of those rare people who can make everyone fall in love with her without trying. These, incidentally, are great skills for bargaining.

I first saw her in action while trying out my own haggling skills at Dilli Haat, an open air market in the middle of Delhi. For my part, I fought hard for my silver bangles, eight scarves, silver cobra arm band (that I fully intend to wear, someday), and two anklets with matching necklaces for my little sisters. However, the fact that I failed to record the price paid in my travel journal suggests that I was too embarrassed to write down the hard numerical truth. I’m sure everyone who leaves Dilli Haat market fancies themselves a good bargainer. After all, the salesmen look so pained if you manage to haggle them down by a few rupees. But, I am pretty certain that we all got fleeced. Except, very possibly, for Sarah.

Sarah had the right perspective on haggling. She knew that she would get the tourist price, but I think she enjoyed the challenge of seeing how far she could whittle it down. In the end, it was all about whether she enjoyed her time and was happy with the price she paid.

Dilli Haat allows for maximum haggling enjoyment. The small entrance fee keeps out beggars and pickpockets, making the place disarmingly deserted. It’s a nice place to walk around; It’s what you picture India will be like before you get there.

Tourists like to test the bargaining waters at Dilli Haat and I saw a number of Europeans wandering around. European and Australian tourists in India all have this dust-covered, unwashed, tan-faced, chic look. They look worldly. They look like Lawrence of Arabia or Lara Croft. They look sexy. I was jealous. It’s enough to make a girl go out and buy khakis and a tight shirt, and then roll in the dirt (that seems to be the dress code).

After scarf number six, I tried to stop buying. But when I was beckoned by a scarf seller who was my age, cute, and spoke fluent English – I stopped trying.

He showed me scarves that were entirely hand-stitched, with stitching so fine that the design looked printed on them from only two feet away. He told me his own grandmother worked on one for eleven months, but they usually take nine months to complete. I also learned that he liked “Obama better than Boosh.” He was so much fun to talk to, and I could tell he was enjoying himself also. I told him where I was from, he told me about his family business making textiles and running the stall. What struck me most was how intelligent, articulate and confident he was, in a totally Westernized way. He reminded me a little of one of my cousins actually, something about his casual-cool.

But, when it was time for bargaining, I got down to business. He asked what I paid for the other scarves I bought, and I happily told him a price that was a few hundred rupees less than I actually paid. I sheepishly told him that I probably paid too much for them, silly tourist that I am. So he offered 300 rupees below the price I quoted. This may seem shady, it may look like lying, but believe me all is fair in haggling. Don’t worry, he still made a profit. It’s like gambling in Vegas: The house always wins, but it’s still a lot of fun.

*I found this excellent article on how to haggle - so if you want to know how to do it, click Here.

The flash dance, and being “followed”

October 17th, continued and finally finished

Buildings intended for tourists are built like mini-fortresses. You’d think they were embassies instead of hotels and restaurants. The barriers are necessary however, and getting out of the chaos of the streets is worth the lapse in egalitarianism.

For lunch, we went to a restaurant in the middle of a stone courtyard with benches and white chairs surrounded with tropical large-leafed plants. A walled garden. Our group was led down to a room with chairs set up facing a dance floor and the guide explained that we were being treated to a pre-lunch show of traditional dance. Pictures were Ok.

Three female dancers, young Asian women with beatific smiles, spun and waved their hands in graceful, yet aerobic, motions. Then a petite young man wearing a bright blue and gold costume walked onstage and set up three bicycle wheels and a silver tray. His smile was enormous and proud. He looked at us, smiling and exuding pride in his performance and the sheer joy of doing it. American Idol contestants could learn a lot from him on how to connect with an audience. His lively, dark, almond eyes connected with each of ours as he struck a pose and began spinning the silver tray on one finger. Then he picked up one of the bicycle wheels and began spinning that, resting it – still spinning rapidly – on his chin. He had to tilt his head back for this, and it was the only time during his act that he lost eye-contact with us.

Then it was back to spinning trays and wheels on each upturned palm, now and then on top of his head, and all the time he acted like he was having a blast. He was so in his element that the spinning appeared to take no concentration at all. It was effortless. His attention was on us, and my attention was completely given to him. Even now, I am half in love with him. And that is the effect every great performance should have.

Remember when the guide said “taking pictures is Ok”? In my opinion, using flash photography in a dark room aimed at a guy spinning a wheel on his chin is unappreciative, not to mention potentially dangerous. I can sympathize with the desire to capture the experience on film, but when your eye is stuck in a viewfinder, you can’t really appreciate, or be in, the moment. And performance art is about fully involving yourself in the moment, suspending disbelief and allowing yourself to be wrapped in someone else’s world of magic and amazement. You cannot do that with a camera stuck to your nose!

The cameras did make us laugh though – one woman recorded one of the dances on film and, during a brief break, played it back to make sure it worked. The woman in charge of playing and stopping the music records for the dancers was completely baffled by the sound. The poor woman thought her machine was broken until she saw the camera. I think she shook her head and laughed.

After a few more traditional dances with the three girls and young man in varying combinations, the dancers asked us to come up and try a dance with them, using sticks as percussion instruments. I am generally terrified of audience participation-type shows, and demurred when one of the girls motioned with a stick to come and join. Then the beautiful young man handed me two sticks, and I could deny him nothing.

So we all danced very clumsily next to our graceful hosts, completely embarrassed at first, then warming to the patterns and remembering how to play. We were all kindergartners again, following the leaders. And isn’t it fantastic that grownup women can do that? In a foreign country, aren’t all travelers much like children? Everything is new, exciting and unknown.

The afternoon finished with henna artists drawing swirls and flowers on our hands. The henna artists were dark young women in jewel-tone saris, with feet encrusted in black. They were accomplished artists, swirling and dotting organic designs like vines and flowers so quickly, as if it were nothing. We just had the on-the-go version, but henna designs can be very intricately detailed and are painted all over the palms and backs of the hands.

I’ve never played with henna before, so I was surprised that it comes in a thick dark brown paste squeezed out of a pointed tube. The paste dries to a crust on your hand and you let it flake off on its own. The stain is a light carnelian orange. You can use black tea bags to darken it, and lemon to make it last longer. I liked the effect so much that I asked for a henna kit for Christmas – I still need to try it out for myself; maybe with my two little sisters also. They love activities that involve mess.

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Later in the day, between lunch and dinner, Beth (our fearless leader) and I struck out to try to find internet. I still hadn’t been able to contact my anxious mother from India, so I wanted to reassure her that I was alive. With crusty henna still drying on my hands, we walked out the high prickly fence of our hotel-fortress and turned the corner. Beth had heard that there was an internet café nearby that cost a lot less than the ridiculous rates our hotel charged to use their computers (and I mean ridiculous by London standards, much less Delhi).

As we walked, Beth pointed to a man in front of us and said to me in a low voice “that man is following us.” You would think that in order to follow someone, you would have to be behind them. But the street men of Delhi have caught onto that expectation, and they follow in front of you. That way, if you choose to go into a shop, the man will have gotten there first and will happily tell the shopkeeper that he brought the foreigners in and deserves a “finder’s fee.” Beth, being an expert traveler and hailing originally from New Jersey, had no problem asserting herself in this situation. I mention that she is from New Jersey, because in my experience, women who come from NJ and NY are extremely nice, and just as extremely assertive. She yelled at the guy to stop following us and left no doubt that she was on to him. This didn’t deter him in the slightest, but at least he knew that we were aware of what was going on. I never would have noticed him if Beth hadn’t pointed him out. I think in that moment, I took a big stride towards being a better, smarter, more assertive traveler. I always try to be very aware of my surroundings, but this opened up my mind and my eyes to the unexpected. And in India, it’s all unexpected.

The Bahá'í Lotus Temple

October 17th 2009 afternoon continued

After the Qutb complex, we dodged the street sellers and filed back into the bus that took us through the weave of Delhi highways to the Bahá'í Lotus Temple. We walked the long brick path to the temple sharing what little we collectively knew about the Bahai faith. I will consult a higher authority on that now: Wikipedia.

In the Bahá'í Faith, religious history is seen to have unfolded through a series of divine messengers, each of whom established a religion that was suited to the needs of the time and the capacity of the people. These messengers have included Abraham, Buddha, Jesus, Muhammad and others.

Bahá'í notions of progressive religious revelation result in their accepting the validity of most of the world's religions, whose founders and central figures are seen as Manifestations of God. Religious history is interpreted as a series of dispensations, where each manifestation brings a somewhat broader and more advanced revelation, suited for the time and place in which it was expressed.

Humanity is understood to be in a process of collective evolution, and the need of the present time is for the gradual establishment of peace, justice and unity on a global scale.

I like the idea that the world is collectively evolving and that each religion is a reflection of what populations and civilizations needed in their times. I like that Bahais are accepting of different religions. But what I find very interesting about the Bahai faith is that almost all of its followers are highly educated and are also usually well-off. This has nothing to do with the story, but I thought a little background might be interesting.

Once we reach the steps of the temple in our bare feet, we are instructed in multiple languages to not speak once inside. No cameras, no talking, just peace, prayer and meditation. Everyone is welcome to visit the temple, and sit, pray, meditate, or just absorb the tranquility after the maddening streets of the city.

The temple is built in the shape of a lotus, a reminder that one can rise from humble beginnings. The lotus flower grows out of mud, the stalk rising above the muck to end in a perfect bloom. This is an especially poignant image in India.

As we are driven around Delhi, women, babies and children tap on the bus windows and ask for money. Many make the graceful motions of putting imaginary food to their lips, almost like a dance of hunger. We see people living their lives on streets and under overpasses, but the homeless people here are very different from the ones I’ve seen in the U.S.

The U.S. homeless are almost always insane, mentally handicapped, emotionally disturbed and/or have drug addictions. They are mentally incapable of working. But the women here are young and beautiful. They are just uneducated. Their society, religion and background, everyone they’ve ever met, have told them that this is their lot in life and that’s it. Beth says the caste system, now officially banned but still evident, is largely to blame for that paradigm.

The first thought a westerner might have is “why doesn’t someone just go out and tell them they can do better, find a job, educate themselves, stop having so many children?” Because surely, if these women were told this, they would try to improve their lives. But imagine that someone with all the conviction of a zealot told you that your paradigm was wrong, and that you had no hope of ever changing your life situation. Being an American, or westerner, you would look at that person as if he were crazy, or an idiot. Reaching for success is so ingrained in our culture, particularly the American culture, that this mentality of passive helplessness is inconceivable to us. But, that’s India. Or at least, that is one part of India.

The Qutb Complex

October 17th, 2009 afternoon

Everytime we drive around Delhi, it feels like the roadways were planned along the lines of a celtic knot. I think we went in circles nearly every time we left the hotel until the driver eventually found the gap in the loop. The drive from India Gate to the Qutb Complex was like that.

I only just learned the name of these ruins, and I was able to find them (as opposed to the bajillion other ruins around Delhi) because I remembered the pillar.

The pillar has an amazing story, which I will butcher without the help of Wikipedia. So before I start quoting more knowledgeable sources (Wiki), I’ll just say that it might be extraterrestrial. Seriously.

The scholars of Wiki write that the pillar may have been created as early as 912 BCE and stood at the center of a Jain temple complex of 27 temples. Stones from those temples were defaced – literally, faces were scratched out by the Muslim conquerors – and used to build the Qutb complex where the pillar still stands, unmoved. The 7 meter tall, 6 ton pillar is 98% wrought iron and has withstood corrosion for over 1,600 years without shelter. Archaeologists and metallurgists can’t explain it.

And, it was by this pillar that I found out the name of where we went minutes before I put up this post. In my travel journal, it is merely described as “red stone ruins” which do not do it justice. “Indiana Jones level of awesome” is a far better descriptor.

Our tour guide spouts numbers, they all spout numbers. Tour guides may as well be out of work accountants for all the numbers they know. I can’t remember any of them. What I remember are the pillars at the entrance to a large stone courtyard. These stone pillars were built out of stones reused from the Hindu and Jain temples that used to stand at the site before the Muslims came and were offended by depictions of people and foreign gods. They took the temples apart like kids with Lego castles and built their own places of worship and monuments to their own greatness. Maybe it gave them satisfaction to walk halls where conquered gods danced headless around them.

One can’t help but wonder what the carvings looked like when they were new.

The complex is huge with wide open spaces, crumbling walls, and stone steps to grassy lawns that have grown over what used to be there. Families from all over India come to see it. And a few adventurous Europeans. And us: a group of mostly middle-aged white American women. I quickly came to understand that ruins are a dime a dozen, but a bunch of white women – that’s what you want your picture taken next to if you’re a family from rural India.

After being hounded by beggars, taxi wallahs, and pushy salesmen, meeting people who wanted nothing more than a picture was a striking contrast. They were so nice, so entertained to see us. They thought we were great. If you ever want to know what it feels like to be a celebrity, just travel to India where you become the main attraction (no matter what World Heritage Site you’re standing in front of). I’m not saying this to be condescending in any way. It was just strange. And they were so nice about it. Our guide joked that pictures of us would be hanging in every one of their living rooms and they would invite people over to tell them about their new American friends. I still don’t know how to take that.

A funny story about the ruins: There is a giant red tower that reaches far above the highest point of the ruins. It’s called the Qutb Minar. Across a grassy courtyard from the Qutb Minar is a pile of red bricks that used to be a second tower. The story goes that a later conqueror wanted to build a tower taller than the Qutb Minar, right across from it. But when the second tower was almost completed, a massive earthquake leveled it. The Qutb Minar was completely undamaged. India is a humbling experience for everyone.

As our group was leaving, our guide for the past two days offered to take a group picture of us outside the gate to the ruin. He took all of our cameras and just when he was about to shoot the first picture, an Indian family jumped in with their small children, asking without a word of English, if they could take pictures of their kids posing with all of us white women. The mother pressed her baby girl into Susan’s arms (she’s a nurse and loves children). The baby was totally chill with this, like it happened all the time, and they snapped photos of us while our guide snapped photos of us and them. Eventually we all posed together having gained new extended family members. On the street it is easy to forget that a lot of Indian people are genuinely good, kind and not out to take advantage of foreigners. This random family thought it was so cool that we were there, and we thought it was so cool that they were there. So different and enjoying those differences so much.

 

India Gate

India, October 17th 2009 Morning

I don’t know which was worse: the traffic congestion on the streets of Delhi during the evening rush, or the rush of congestion that left me with three to four hours of sleep last night. The sheer adrenaline of travel is keeping me upright and cheerful however.

India Gate

Think of a simpler Arc de Triomphe – a giant white marble arch with INDIA GATE etched in large letters at the top. This is the first landmark I remember seeing in Delhi. It’s a war memorial commemorating 90,000 soldiers who fought for the British Empire in World War 1 and the Afghan wars. It is also the first place our large air-conditioned tour bus stopped to let us off for picture taking.

The monument was across the 4 lane street from us, in the middle of a grassy park. To get up close required a game of dodge the speeding Indian cars, running from one side to the center divider, and then running again to the sidewalk of the park. Stragglers faced death. Well, ok, not certain death, but no one dared to test the theory by walking slowly either.

Surrounding the monument were petite, dark, smiling men selling toys. Now, let me backtrack a little…

At UCLA, my Alma Mater, we had Bruin Walk: a path that lead from the dorm side of campus to the class side of campus. Lining and frequently blocking this path were people selling things, handing out coupons, advertisements, and manifestos, asking “excuse me, do you have a minute?” I hated this from the first second and vowed – yes, vowed – to never take a flyer. Ever. It requires discipline to not reach out and take something if it is thrust at you. This might seem silly, but training myself to ignore people who tried to pull my attention and sympathies was vital for India. Thank you LA, you have prepared me to fight off street vendors and beggars in third world countries.

Some of the other women on the trip were softer touches. It was not good. Here’s what happened:

We walked in a group to India Gate, taking pictures, being tourists. The toy salesmen (for lack of a better word – if anyone knows a better word for pesky street salesmen, please tell me because they’ll come up a lot in these posts) – anyways, the toy salesmen came at us like so many seagulls around a beach picnic. Middle aged tourists were their chapatis and ghee (read: bread and butter). Don’t make eye contact, utter quiet “no”s followed by louder, more assertive ones if necessary, they all know enough English to understand “no” and “how much,” though they only pay attention to the latter. They give up on me quickly, but as soon as one woman stops to look at their wares – and then buys a few small cheap plastic toys for the young children in her family, that’s when all the circling seagulls descend.

I’ll map the action in terms of distance from India Gate. Under the gate, the dozen men were displaying their toys, explaining how they worked, offering prices. Each man picked out a target and stuck to her. Twenty feet away from the gate, prices started fluctuating drastically. The women who bought toys under the gate suddenly found they paid three times as much as the current price. We thought the men would give up at the sidewalk of the street, but they braved the traffic to chase us all the way back to the bus, waving toys and tapping at the windows.

It’s one of those stories that you laugh at a few months after it happens, but in the moment, I was out of patience with my bewildered companions. “Ignore pretty much everyone” was ingrained in me from working in L.A. for two years—it’s the only thing you can do to protect yourself. But, treating people (even rude people) as if they don’t exist leaves me with a nasty feeling in the middle of my chest, like a piece of moldy bread is lodged under my sternum. It’s a necessary skill, but I wish it wasn’t.

Once in the bus, Beth and our guide for the day repeated their warnings not to interact with the street salesmen, this time to a group who paid rapt attention and affirmed the wisdom with nods of experience.

 I didn't get pictures of the men - they probably would have tried to charge me for them, but I did get these pictures of a family in the park and a woman employed in raking leaves.

Blogs delayed

The goal of daily posting has already gone by the wayside, and I fear it will continue in that wayward direction this month. I have a ton of writing to do - for pay - and that must take precedence over transcribing my travel journal. I will post as often as possible though, so keep checking back.

Meanwhile - I just found this quote today and I love it:

“Adventure is a path. Real adventure – self-determined, self-motivated, often risky – forces you to have firsthand encounters with the world. The world the way it is, not the way you imagine it. Your body will collide with the earth and you will bear witness. In this way you will be compelled to grapple with the limitless kindness and bottomless cruelty of humankind – and perhaps realize that you yourself are capable of both. This will change you. Nothing will ever again be black-and-white.” – Mark Jenkins

The Story of Yule - a fairly factual account

We interrupt the regularly scheduled travel blogs to bring you my annual Christmas story:

Many centuries ago, in a faraway, densely wooded land with picturesque rivers, lakes and corpse-filled peat bogs, the happy Celts sang, danced and sacrificed animals to celebrate the return of the Sun in late December. They lit giant fires, hung decorations on trees, laid out presents for the gods and made their little part of Europe pleasant and gay so the Sun would return from its celestial holiday to warm the frozen ground.

One day, a boat appeared on the horizon. This had happened before, so the native Celts knew what to expect: rape, pillage, and attractive blonde and blue-eyed babies. But this boat was different, less decorated. There was no fierce wooden dragon leading the way on the prow. Perhaps the Vikings were going through a modern, minimalist period of boat design, they thought.

Instead of the strapping, muscular, Arian eye-candy that usually jumped off the boats into the icy surf, two men in plain brown woolen robes slogged up the shore. They carried no weapons, so the Celts generously decided not to skewer them on the spot.

As to what went through the minds of the two robed and soggy men, it went something like this: I’m freezing cold and wet for God. Doing this for God. Hope I don’t lose a toe to frostbite, it would be really hard to wear sandals then. HOLY SHIT there is an army of buck-naked men wearing gold jewelry staring us down. I am not gay, dear God I am not gay.

Vikings had come before, rival tribes had come before, but what the fuck were these two guys doing, thought the Celtic chief. They weren’t undressed for war. They had no weapons. They wouldn’t last long. But, it was almost Yule, and the chief was in a good mood brought on by mead and mildly hallucinogenic wheat mold. He was inclined to be generous.

So the Christian missionaries came and stayed.

It has been said that both guests and fish begin to stink after three days, and the missionaries stayed a lot longer than that. Every year they tried to talk the Celts out of their pagan festivities.

They looked upon the wintry festival of the Sun's rebirth and were appalled at the wild behavior of the pagan partiers. The missionaries glared at the scantily clad men and women leaping around fires and toiling on richly detailed stone and metal decorations. Every year when the party was just getting started, the leader of the Christian missionaries would approach the Celtic chief and ask "wouldn't you rather honor one God instead of a whole bunch?” And every year the answer was, “Have some mead and sit down.”

The missionaries tried changing their tactics, “It's economical! You could cut down on your sacrifices and parties and institute a proper work ethic in your people. All this frolicking is not only bad for your eternal soul, but your finances too." Now, partially since the chief was stoned on ceremonial herbs, and partially because he only understood about half of what the foreign guys were telling him, he gave the missionary the old "smile and nod.”

The missionaries weren’t fooled, this wasn’t working. Hoping to feel the humble pride that comes from saving sinners from damnation, the missionaries tirelessly explained about their forgiving merciful God who condemned non-believers to eternal fiery torture and sent his own son to die at the cruel hands of Romans to pay for Man's whoopsey-daisy in The Beginning. The Celts could respect a God who held a grudge, demanded human sacrifice, and got mad easier than a PMSing priestess, but preferred worshipping their own gods who were more amenable to partying. Besides, the Christians advocated Peace on Earth, and playing drums loud enough to make the dirt vibrate and the walls of neighboring huts pulse did not fit the Christian ideal.

One early morning while the tribe members gathered logs and twigs of sacred trees to build a sacred fire around which to throw one helluva holiday bash, the younger missionary had an idea.

To the senior missionary he said, "Hey, we have a Son who was reborn, and that sounds pretty close to the Sun being reborn. Let's just pull the old switcheroo and tell the Celts that they can celebrate Jesus - the Son - in the middle of winter, and then they'll just be zealous believers instead of sinful party animals.”

The senior missionary thought this over, did some math on his fingers and replied: "But Jesus was born a few months ago, we can't have them celebrate his birthday now in the middle of winter... or can we?" A gleam caught in his eye, and a crafty smile played on his bearded lips.

He approached the semi-sober leader of the Celts and said "You know, it just occurred to me that our Savior, a very cool cat who promoted feasting, drinking and blood sacrifices, was born on exactly the same day as your pagan festival-- we even call him The Sun!"

The young missionary stood looking confused, "Don't you mean Son?"
The old missionary removed his elbow from the young man's ribs and continued as smoothly as a used cart salesman. “How about your Sun and our Son getting together? Instead of just worshipping the light ball in the sky, you can worship our guy and get an eternity of heaven in the bargain. There are lots of great parties in heaven." He winked at the younger missionary.

The leader of the Celts thoughtfully twirled the end of his long beard, picking out bits of the previous night's dinner at regular intervals. "Yes, well, that sounds all right. Can we still drink?"

"Oh yes, Jesus LOVED drinking. Did you know he made water into wine? And his last supper was quite the fete. He had all his pals over and they ate, drank, and toyed with the idea of cannibalism."

"Can we still sacrifice?'

"Hey, Jesus was a sacrifice, so we think he'd be for it."

"Can we still have the big tall tree with all the decorations and presents and have the young people make out under the mistletoe?"

"Uh... um... we don't think so,” the young missionary said, uncertainly. He was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with the whole idea.

"Oh, well then... I think I'll have so say noo..." Said the chief.

"But wait!“ the senior missionary exclaimed, “Jesus liked giving, didn't he? So we can keep those in, and er, he'll probably be ok with it." The cold sweat settled on the missionaries’ faces as they silently prayed that God wouldn't mind trees, decorations and presents too much.

And thus was "Christmas" born and has continued throughout the centuries under very shady and dishonest circumstances.

So Happy Yule to all and to all a Good Night!

Diwali in Delhi

We went to a Diwali party tonight that was set up for us by Beth’s contact in India, Sumitra. Sumitra runs Women on Wanderlust, a travel company specializing in women only tours around India and the world. Beth says a company like this couldn’t have existed in India ten years ago and it is proof of India’s progress. There is a rising middle class now in which wives and daughters have the money, leisure, and freedom to travel.

The Diwali party was held in the large front garden of an elegant white colonial building. There were clay oil lamps on the ground and white lights strung on every vertical surface. Large white pads – like California King sized futons – were on the ground to sit on once shoes were removed. Men in white kurtas carried silver trays with toothpicks and small bites of deliciously spiced chicken, fish, cheese, potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower. Undoubtedly the best hors d’oeuvres I’ve ever had. There was an open bar, so I decided to investigate Indian red wine. The other ladies liked it, but…happy grapes come from California.

A holy man performed a very long blessing ritual with incense, fire and marigold petals he threw in by the fistful. Then he tied red string around our wrists – the way this was explained to me is that the holy man blesses the string and the wearer makes a wish on it. Only when the wish comes true can the wearer remove the string. I could, however, be completely mistaken, so if there are any experts out there…I don’t want to hear it. I wished for good health for the trip, which failed utterly. That may have been due to user error.

On Diwali, gambling in honor of Lakshimi, the goddess of good fortune, ensures good luck and prosperity for the following year. Sumitra invited some teachers to help us learn an Indian card game called “Flash,” which is like poker with only 3 cards per hand. So there we were, a dozen women sitting on giant futons playing 3-card poker with highly entertained (and patient) teachers, using matchsticks for bets. I ran out of matchsticks embarrassingly fast. Give me Texas Hold’em any day. So there you have it – I went to India to drink and gamble.

Fireworks are a huge part of Diwali, and the young men at this party were quite literally having a blast. One would sink a firecracker into the lawn, run to get a lit match, run back to the firecracker, light the fuse and LEAP backwards to avoid getting hit by the explosion. Some of the guys handed out sparklers to the ladies. Others created a mine field of firecrackers at the gate to the yard and around the driveway, setting them off in such rapid succession that it sounded like machine gun fire. It doesn’t matter where in the world you are, boys will be fire hazards.

I sat down at a table on the lawn with Melany and the Australian woman and listened to their conversation on being happily single. The Australian woman, in her 60s and absolutely stunning with 9 grandchildren, has multiple boyfriends at any given time. She goes out to dances and political balls regularly and has to beat men off with a stick. “They all want to get married!” she complains. She never wants to be married again, loves her autonomy, and says “I’m the king!” Melany has a similar opinion: men are fun as long as you can send them back home when you’re sick of them. They both agree that they no longer have the patience to compromise or to be anything other than blunt. I can just picture these pitiful 60 year old men trailing after them like puppies, whining “but why wouldn’t you want to get married?” Because it’s too much damned work, and these gals have been there and done that. Melany and the Australian laughingly apologize for sharing this wisdom with an innocent 25 year old, but I explain that as a child of divorce, I can understand how a dog and a gardener can easily take the place of a husband. Even a dog is too much work for the Australian, she likes her freedom. But Melany agrees – she has a dog. I’m certainly getting different perspectives on dating on this trip. And none of it is very complimentary to men.

Don’t worry, I still like men. But then, I’m 25 and don’t know any better.

The Eve of Diwali

October 16th

It’s the night before Diwali and I can hear fireworks popping outside the window of my room at the fancy Park hotel in Connaught Circle. My roommate, Melany, and I met the rest of the group today – all very nice women, mostly in their 50s and 60s. Most work in or own successful businesses, many are single or divorced.

When I was telling friends in Oxford about my tour with women our mothers’ age, the general reaction was a good humored “that’ll be a story in itself!” But, as an only child raised in a primarily adult environment, it feels perfectly normal to me. And being among so many independent adventurous women is kind of empowering.

Earlier today we went to Humayun’s tomb – which was beautiful and exotic, exactly as you’d expect. A little history: it was built out of red sandstone in 1532 by a Mughal emperor’s wife (Mughal = Persian conqueror), and is the first “garden tomb” in India.

Then we went to a shrine: a labyrinth of marble-floored narrow alleyways. Beggars and sleeping children lined the walls. The little boys were quite cheeky. They greeted us with a chorus of cheerful “Hello!”s. When one of the women took out her camera, the nearest boy posed, arms outstretched with a giant grin. Cuteness like that well deserved a few rupees, but knowing that many of them are under the control of slum gangs, I was hesitant to interact with, much less finance them. Indians are strikingly beautiful people. Even the beggar women with their skinny babies are beautiful with delicate bone structure and large dark eyes. In India, more so than in any other place I’ve been, the best pictures are of people. Just take pictures of the people and you’ll come out with photographs worthy of National Geographic.

Before entering the shrine we had to take off our sandals and leave them at the entrance. Walking barefoot on hard floors dotted and smeared with wet excrement and stepping in it on the way to a sacred site is almost a microcosm of India as a whole. It’s a place of extremes.



I think I’ve come to India remarkably well prepared. I came with few expectations: I expected inconvenience and discomfort; I expected pushy salesmen; I expected beggars with infants pulling at me; I expected to get ripped off, regularly. If it takes an hour for the hotel clerks to check me in – it’s India. If we get the wrong kind of room every single check-in – it’s India. If it takes another hour just to pay for a purchase and another 30 minutes to get change (if you can get any at all) – it’s India. I say all of this because a few of the women on the trip haven’t quite attained the level of Zen required for this country. Though there are a number who are utterly uncomplaining – bless them. I figure, just accept that nothing is logical, nothing makes sense, and everything takes far longer than it should. Then enjoy the good parts.

Whenever I travel somewhere really cool or beautiful, I always think “I wish my boyfriend was here to see this.” But not in India. He would hate India. First, because walking around barefoot in shit would freak him out on a phobic level, but mostly because he would have no control here, over anything. You have to go with the flow or exist in a constant state of angst and irritation. My boyfriend is very logical and very stubborn. He has fixed notions on how things should be. You can’t do that here. You can’t bring those expectations here. You can’t come in thinking that if they made you King of India for a day, that you could sort the place out in a jiffy – and yet, as an American, or as a Westerner, it is so tempting to think just that.