Goodbye Hajipur…Hello Delhi!!!

I’m back in the big city and couldn’t be happier!! I love this town and the peace and tranquility afforded me by my 13 million neighbors—who use their horns much more sparingly than their neighbors to the east.

Ok, so it is true that I got out at the wrong exit of New Delhi train station metro stop (and I do mean wrong!), and was blind-sided by a fully laden bicycle going the wrong way on a very busy and scary to cross street. The good news is that traffic actually did come to a halt so that neither of us came to an untoward end. See what I mean? They really do care in Delhi!

In addition to reminding me that I DO need to look in all directions before crossing the street, my experience on the wrong side of the tracks provided me with a vista of the city I would have missed had I had the good sense to follow the crowd into the actual New Delhi train station. But you know me, I almost never follow the crowd. Once again I experienced the absolute kindness and friendliness of the people of Delhi. I am sad to admit that I have spent a great deal of my time in this fair city utterly and hopelessly lost, as well as unable to find a way to cross the six lane highways that regularly traverse this town. Even on the wrong side of the tracks, or rather my more usual experience, especially on the wrong side of the tracks, people find a way to communicate to me in the mix of Hindi and English that I too am picking up and set me on my merry way—almost always in the right direction.

Why do I love Delhi? Let me count the ways with some pictures of a brief journey that took me through the stone cutters quarters to the spice markets, the vegetable markets and beyond.

A walk through Hajipur

You’ve heard the noise, now see the sights!

A quick FYI, the BBC did an analysis of the region for those of you who want to know a little bit more about what it is to be the poorest state in India...

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-south-asia-11759959

And even more sights!

I like Hajipur. (Victor, you were right.)

Ward rounds at the hospital

MSF has a huge ward for kala azar patients in the central district hospital. The hospital tends to be the place people go when there is nowhere left to go. There were many patients, more than I expected, all serious and concerned about what they could do to make themselves better. Initially people tend to be shy and expect to be treated badly because they come primarily from the most marginalized castes in all of India. Kala azar is definitely a disease of the indigent. You can tell the patients who have been there for more than a few days. Not only do they appear to be significantly healthier than new comers, who are easily spotted on the ward, but they are also unafraid to ask questions about their treatments, which are administered intravenously through a drip, and they are quite comfortable fooling around with the dials on the drip to make it go slower or faster. The best thing, however, is that the medicine is a bright yellow, which means it’s got to be good for you AND is fun to look at! (See! I really am working…)

Welcome to Hajipur

Dante’s fifth circle of hell. The only reason that my brain automatically classified it at that level is because there are some imaginable levels left—not many, but some. Apparently the noise has died down since the end of some month long festival, but it remains quite constant and consistently loud modulating briefly down between the hours of two and five in the morning. The soundtrack consists of Bollywood’s greatest theme song hits with an overlay of the Koran sung and shared through powerful loudspeakers and a tinkling metallic sound of an ever present carnival that punctuates the rare moments of silence when both of the principals happen to be taking a breath simultaneously. That sums up the major detraction of the place. Given Hajipur’s proximity to the Ganges, odor could conceivably enter into the mix in a significant way. Mercifully, it does not, hence the rating of five not seven. I’ve learned that noise is legislated in most other Indian states.

That said, I have had my first glimpse of the mythical and immortal Ganges River! It’s huge! At least I think it is from what I could make out through the pollution haze. Have I mentioned that it is a tad polluted in this part of the world? I saw the Ganges far below as we wormed our way across the heavily trafficked yellow-fenced bridge between the capital of Bihar State, Patna, and the Hajipur side of the river. Bihar is the poorest state in India—and that’s saying something. However, the first thing I noticed, after the swarms of pedestrians, rickshaws, small, packed public transport buses, cars and trucks that endlessly deadlock the streets, is the defiance of the people against poverty through the insistent use of color and design.
Every rickshaw, no matter how battered, is painted with flowers or gods or lovers and has embroidered tapestry shelters under which the patrons may repose against the mid-day sun. The apparently mandatory words on the back of each and every truck ‘BLOW HORN’ (and they liberally follow this advice) are painted in many colors in everything identifiable style from art deco to Islamic design, each letter perfectly spaced between the iron supports that hold together the back doors of the identically designed Tata trucks that monopolize the roads. The people that line the sides of the roads and fill all vehicles are dressed in a riot of colors that makes Delhi look tame and that stand out brightly against the backdrop of lush green banana trees, palms and densely impenetrable green plants that fill in empty spaces along the road.

I LOVE Lajpat Nagar Market

Indian markets are not like other Asian markets. There are no quaint stalls under tents or open air structures. Rather the market place is filled with tiny shops, often several creative levels of shops that all have street visibility through the clever placement of steps and ceilings. That’s the structure, then there is the absolute eruption of goods flowing into the pedestrian pathways (one can hardly use the term sidewalk, but the various piles of rubble and occasionally spotted workmen suggest that maybe someday there will be sidewalks).

I arrived innocently enough to buy fabric for the trousers I’m having made by the exquisite Mr. Shiv (more later on this talented man—for now suffice it to say that I am having much more luck with my Indian tailor than I did with my Malawian tailor). That’s all I was going to buy. I keep telling myself that I’m saving myself for Rajasthan where there are items of such exquisite beauty at such an excellent price that I won’t be able to control myself (and I’ll be on holiday, which is always a sure indicator of the need to spend more money than intended). Apparently I’m in training for this loss of control when it comes to shopping. I bought SO MUCH stuff today. But the most agonized purchase (of course the most expensive) was a new pair of glasses frames. I tried on every pair in the shop and simply freaked out at the cost—until I did the math and realized that the cost was $30, for something that I would pay $300 at home. Is this the rationalization process for all spending sprees?

The best carrot ever

In spite of all evidence to the contrary, I am indeed working very hard here in India. Yesterday I finished the first draft of a detailed 45 page technical report. Quite honestly I’ve been working like a dog (though in a great deal of denial about this fact since there is so much I want to see and do here and it is still an adventure walking home every night!). Beginning on Thursday, once it came to my attention thanks to the elegant, curious visiting Australian, Sally, I began fantasizing about Verma’s. That would be my carrot. I would get some beauty treatment to restore my soul after countless hours slaving on my report. (On leishmainaisis—aka kala azar, an extremely debilitating vector borne neglected tropical disease that affects a billion poor people worldwide. Come on! You knew I was a do-gooder, a hedonistic do-gooder, but a do-gooder nonetheless.) Shortly after lunch on Friday, Sally dragged me to Verma’s Beauty Salon, established 1958, to make an appointment for after work. Not only was I going to get a beauty treatment, but I was going to insure that I had my work done in a timely fashion!

So inspired was I by this carrot, that I finished an hour early and paced the floor in anticipation of the Verma treat. Now I could have got a basic facial for the low, low price of 300 rupees (about US $6)—and I’m sure that would have been fine. But no, I decided to splurge a little and go whole hog. I got the Lotus Special Facial and Massage and for the next hour and a half I had various and sundry oils and unguents squirted on me or delivered by the breadknifeful by a very talented woman who I chose to believe was Verma herself. HEAVEN!! And all for $14. I’m pretty sure I’m going to become a regular at Verma’s.

Moghuls got it going on

At least they did at some time in the past. Delhi is absolutely littered with tombs of Very Important People who thought very highly of themselves. I do have to say that they built things made to last. It turns out that Delhi is really a convergence of seven cities linked together over time and now simply linked by sprawl. Each of the original seven cities, which started to really be cities about a thousand years ago, is commemorated either by a tomb complex (by far the more popular choice) or by a fort—there are two: the old one and the red one.

The red one (Lal Qila) is by far the more impressive one, but the old one (Purana Qila) has some serious charms not least of which is that it was originally built in the 12th or 13th century. It is a low prestige fort relatively speaking and pretty darn hard to find. Everyone and I mean everyone who is anyone was hanging out at the World Heritage site that is Humayun’s tomb (a name that does not come trippingly off my tongue, I’m not sure why). Yet a mere three or four of the some of the least pleasant kilometers I have ever walked in my life lies Purana Qila. Behind the zoo. Hidden. There were no westerners here, but there was a sprinkling of Indians, mostly couples seeking solitude (a rare grace in this town) and people with families who were either burned out by the zoo or realized that their emotional and mental stamina were simply not up to the task of stinky animals and hordes of people. No it is a very select group who comes to the Old Fort.

Because there are ramparts and ramparts always look down on something, they were irresistible and we had to climb them—right out on to a limb. Climbing is right! Like most everything else in Delhi this place is under refurbishment. The main focus of refurbishment is always the 100 or so meters that the typical tourist—foreign or Indian—is willing to walk. However, the sights and sounds below the ramparts were their own reward, though even high above the world, I am still the object of attention. Did I mention that I feel like a movie star here? Everyone takes my photo, with their phones, with a camera, usually quite blatantly. I suspect that I am prominently displayed in many Indian homes at this point and am simply known as ‘My friend, who is not from India.’

The photos are mostly of the Tomb (including the graffiti, which is everywhere, but I’m dying to know what wers means), the Barber’s Tomb (barber to Humayun—must have been one dynamite barber!), and a view from the ramparts.

Laksmi Temple World

I can’t believe it! Incredilbe !ndia and I’m two for two on dud temples. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in this part of the world. The first dud is beautiful in a carnivorous flower kind of way. It is the Lotus Temple. I thought it was Buddhist or possibly Hindu, but I was wrong on both counts. It is a Bahai temple (I know there’s supposed to be an apostrophe in there somewhere I’m just not sure where). First of all I have to admit that it’s pretty impressive if you’re into late 2oth century architecture. It’s this enormous white marble pointy structure that you know looks like a lotus because you have been prepared in many ways for it to be so. As we waited in line to enter the sacred structure, a woman who was mercifully downwind and difficult to hear was trying to convert everyone standing on line, in a low key manner, but still this was the first active recruitment effort I’ve experienced in a while. Although we were all sworn to silence the better to meditate, there was something uninviting and unsettling about the 1000 squeaking wooden chairs and the hundreds of people struggling to keep themselves and their children silent. I walked around the edges and was mighty surprised to see some fire and brimstone messaging—all in English—from the Bahai who promote interreligious tolerance. I was quickly ready to leave and walk the unkempt park grounds that surround the place—much more my style.

The very next day I went to try once again—my third try!—to visit Lakshmi at her temple. This is another one of those hard to get places in the middle of nowhere (an underlying theme in this town, which I continue to love anyway). After going through that bastion of colonial British architecture (Connaught Place--eewww), we finally figured out the right road to take. A few kilometers and twists and turns later, we found ourselves in front of a pink and white birthday cake appearing temple covered in swastikas. Hmm. Ok not REAL swastikas, ones that go in the opposite direction but for western eyes it’s all the same. Go through the procedure of the metal detector, a frisk if you look suspicious, check your shoes because you must be barefoot to enter a temple and join the crowd begging Lakshmi (goddess of wealth you will recall) for a change in life circumstances. The deities were of the slightly pink and slightly blue variety but not the elegant ones carved in older temples (alas this temple too is less than 20 years old). These representations reminded me of dolls offered as carnival game winnings. I think some very powerful Hindu lobby managed to get this place on the Delhi tourist map. Yet, when all hope was I lost, I happened to look out of the back of the temple—and a miracle appeared!!!

It is unclear whose brainchild Lakshmi Temple World is, but man it is good!!! The park of Lakshmi Temple is a somewhat abandoned theme-park, blue lined pools with fountains that have never functioned, the water dark and milky (perfect breeding ground for malarial mosquitoes—hey, I’m a public health professional!), surrounded by a garishly painted fiberglass menagerie. The Disney-esque cobra fountain was my personal favorite and of course the obligatory elephant and tiger, but the black bear and rhino were clearly the imaginings of someone who has only ever heard of these beasts as described by return far-away travelers. Another prized item in the park is the light-whirling electric fortune telling and weight measuring scales placed prominently, though randomly, throughout the park. My fortune told me that I am creative, energetic, generous and true in love (Genelia© Northern Scales Co, New Delhi fortune number 0223389).

The ladies only car

Have I mentioned that I LOVE the Delhi metro? It’s extensive and goes to so many places in this incredibly sprawling town (LA listen up!). But the best thing of all about the Delhi metro is the Ladies Only Car to be found at the head of every train going anywhere. I’d say that the ratio of metro users is about 200 men to every one woman, so having the ladies only car is an absolute blessing.

A typical scene at a busy metro station (ie, almost all of them), is men lined up single file in the well marked area where the metro cars will open. I have to confess that I was shocked at this initial orderliness given the chaotic and random nature of lines in pretty much every other context. (This is not the case in the Ladies Only Car section, which is generally roped off, has large pink flowery signs indicating that it is the ladies only section and is often monitored by scary women enforcers. We don’t line up because we all know that we’ll get a seat on the train.) I was impressed by the men’s lines—until I saw what happened the moment the train doors opened. The previously orderly line forms a wall pressing forward with great force because they face their equally aggressive enemy: those getting off the train. I have to admit that even the women tend to rush the opening doors without letting people get off the car first. This is something I will never understand, despite the fact that it happens pretty much everywhere in the world to a greater or lesser degree.

It is with guilty pleasure that I admit to gloating at the heaving mass of men that sometimes, through sheer numbers, spills into the Ladies only car, (there are no proper doors between the train cars, just a narrowing of the walls), that is until one of the enforcers comes along. Woe to the man who breaks that rule! There is one exception that allows the occasional man to enjoy the rarefied air of the Ladies Only Car. The enforcers do not expel the men who carry babies or very small children. If I was a man in Delhi, I would always look around for women with babies so that I could have access to this bastion of loveliness. However, I suspect that only a woman would think of this strategy and, therefore, there are very few men to be seen in my car.

The photograph is of my very charming but much frustrated teachers in the Ladies Only Car who agonized at their dolt of a student who had such amazing difficulty learning to count to five in Hindu. (I can so! Ecg, do, tir, char, pat…or something like that.)

The finest money can buy

There are three wine shops in Defence Colony where I live. This is the one with the largest and best selection.

Obama is here!

Yes, yes, I knew he was coming but I simply lost track of the time and all of a sudden he was here! I vowed to avoid all public spaces (actually was warned to do so by those in power), but again I forgot. Besides, I heard he had shut down Lal Qila and I’ve already been there. So sure I was surprised when I eventually found the Raj Path—the Delhi equivalent of the Champs Elysee, replete with its own Arc de Triomphe known as the India Gate. After one wrong turn out of the metro (and really that’s all it takes to become hopelessly lost in this town), which led me to a camp of itinerants with their very own cow tied to the tall wrought iron fence of the Indira Ghandi community arts center, and then a right turn, which did lead me to the remnants of British imperialism. My, was I surprised when I figured out that attached to each and every one of the army of lampposts was an Indian flag—and an American one. Obama was on his way! Even though I knew I was taking my life in my hands, I had to walk the Raj Path all the way to the end, where I had so much fun taking pictures of the people who were taking pictures of a pretty bland tribute to millions of Indian soldiers.

What I know about Diwali

Or what the shopkeeper’s mother told me. I was hanging around some swanky shop while Doris, the anthropologist, was haggling with the shopkeeper to get the price for a dancing Ganesha down. They were haggling in euros so I knew it wasn’t a shop for me. Anyway, the mother at her son’s behest was doing her best to get me interested in some stuff and I played along for a while (it took a really long time to reach the right price point) until it dawned on me that I had a font of information right in front of me! So I pounced.

As a huge fan of Ganesh (I don’t call him Ganesha, though that’s what they call him here) and with my rudimentary knowledge that he had something to do with the festival of lights, I asked her to tell me about Diwali. It turns out that Ganesh is not alone as the only celebrant. His pal Lakshmi, a goddess I’ve never heard of except tangentially because of the news reporter Lakshmi Singh, is pretty key in all of this. He is easy to identify, who can miss the elephant head on a slightly chubby but nonetheless appealing human form. It turns out that she’s easy to identify, too! In the hands of each of her two back arms she holds a lotus.

According to my shopkeeper’s mother, Ganesh is the protector against evil. After a little thought, she decided to put a more positive spin on it, thus he is the destroyer of obstacles. However, most of us know him simply as the god of good luck. Lakshmi’s talents are pretty straightforward. She is the goddess of wealth. The happy couple are seen everywhere these days, he more than she, but the classic ones I’ve seen have all been in temples that don’t allow photographs—or pretty much anything else. My favorite Hindu temple (so far) said that you had to check EVERYTHING—at your own risk. A sample of what was not allowed inside aside: cameras, knives, mobile phones, food (described in excruciating detail), pen, paper, books, pots, cooking utensils, etc (just to be comprehensive). Therefore, all of my photos are from makeshift shrines on the street.

But the real Diwali is about lighting hundreds of tiny oil lamps and candles and a 24 hour non-stop display of personal fireworks. I do confess to loving the enormous sparklers that everyone seems to have, though you have to be pretty strong to spell your name in sparkler over and over until all three feet of the sparkler goes out. I was absolutely delighted to discover on my trip to the National Museum (which REALLY needs a new curator if anyone is interested), a miniature oil painting from Rajasthan with a woman holding an identical sparkler—which was painted in 1660.