I can't believe three weeks have nearly elapsed since I last wrote.  I think this means life is so normal and routine here, that I feel I have nothing to write about.  Even terrorism has become a normality one lives with.  The terrifying incidents in Mumbai are met here with sadness, with acute awareness that our backyard here in Delhi could be next (again), but people resume their lives without much interruption.  We've already had one drill at school for just such an incident, and our school's security is already considerable: each gate locked and guarded, requiring identification badges.  Across the street the American Embassy has street barricades, video surveillance, armed guards behind sandbags on some corners.  The Chinese Embassy seems to have even higher security, the Australians and Canadians much less. Perhaps there is a direct correlation with the number or intensity of enemies. 

Anyway, we are fine, not fearful, just aware we could be very unlucky and be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  But we won't barricade ourselves into a sense of safety - neither do most Indians it would seem.  Life goes on normally these days.  I feel people in North America are just as concerned as people here, perhaps more so.  Indians have been dealing with such acts for a very long time.  

Craig is on a short journey to New England for his grandmother's funeral.  Mildred Clark died just 3 months short of her 100th birthday, and was an important part of Craig and his brother's childhood.  

Meanwhile, Evan and I have an opportunity to do a little exploring of old Delhi on our own, now that daytime temperatures are finally below 30.  I know Evan won't be enticed by ancient places of worship or mysterious, winding laneways of gem sellers and silvers

miths, so I suggest we go looking for fireworks.  We are dropped at the sprawling Jama Masjid, one of the world's largest mosques, with elegant turrets and filigree walls, with equally sprawling and squalid humanity living at its feet: open fires, filthy children, sellers of necessities rather than the just tourist wares,  the usual array of unemployed, loitering men.  

          A bicycle wallah approaches us and we hop on: he knows where to go - his smile is open and genuine. Fireworks first stop, but then Evan is drawn into a shop of deities and brass ware.  He buys a lock and key that he characterizes as having come straight out of Harry Potter.  The rickshaw driver continues now down a lane so narrow little sunlight can reach below. 

 On both sides are 'shops' some no larger than a metre wide.  The shopkeepers sit amidst their wares stacked on all sides and overhead.  Business isn't brisk except for the tea wallahs, who deliver small steaming cups in wire trays as if they were eggs. We pass dozens and dozens of silver and gold merchants, before turning down an even narrower lane called the wedding bazaar.  Here are all the wares one needs to decorate for the days of parties of a typical Indian wedding.  We find a costume shop, on first appearance just a small narrow shop whose ceiling threatens to be pulled down by the sequenced cloth and festooned props.  

A step marble stairwell leads to a whole cavernous collection of rooms with animal costumes in one room, masks of every description in another, costumes of characters from Indian tales.  The maze continues up another floor, more rooms stacked floor to ceiling, most with workers quietly sewing, taking stock, or just being there for no obvious reason, certainly not to dust or clean.  Evan and his friend Cameron find masks and hats of suitably obnoxious appearance, and when we depart, they both decide to wear them.  

This of course elicits an array of amusing responses from everyone we meet, much to the teens' satisfaction. 

We stop at a beautiful intimate temple of the Jain religion, a faith older than Buddhism and somewhat similar.  Every inch of its interior is painted in excacting detail, much with gold leaf.  As in Hindu temples, the saints are bathed each morning with milk and adorned with fresh flowers, annointed with sandalwood and oil.  The place was devoid of worshippers when we were there; the priest proudly pointed out the quality workmanship of their renovation efforts.  Even the teens were impressed.  Everyone we came in contact with had a kind smile for us.  From the very young schoolchildren piled 8 high on the bicycle rickshaw,  to the gossiping old men,  you can look people in the eye and feel comfortable, even trusting in their presence. I know the world sees terrible violence emanating from India these days, but we feel India's gentleness and security.

A few hours in old Delhi is plenty stimulus for one day.  We head directly home, glad of the quiet and solace. 

Gone to Goa

A two hour flight south brought us to Goa for a short vacation during Diwali.  The 'festival of lights' is a good time to leave Delhi as the air fills with smoke from days of fireworks, and the noise becomes unbearable. Goa on the other hand, was utterly peaceful.  Diwali is relatively low key in this predominantly Christian state.  Evan was one of the few enthusiasts who interrupted the serenity of this small bay when he discovered the only 'shop' in the village: it sold fireworks exclusively.  He was pleased when he realized he could buy enough explosives "to take out a small town" for less than 20 bucks.  We thought he was exaggerating until we stood on the beach, the eve of Diwali, humoring our boy when he lit the first 'firecracker'.  It exploded in a resounding boom and shot into the night sky at least 100 metres before blossoming into a Disney-like effect.  We had stumbled back and stood gaping at the power in the hands of our gleeful teen.  There was no team of certified fire marshalls, no police tape keeping the distance.  The show continued, with Craig and I braced for the inevitable lost eye, mangled hand, or worse.  We are relieved to report Evan still has all his digits.
One of  the highlights was getting into close proximity to an elephant.  We bathed her while she langourously laid in a shallow creek in a forest near a spice farm we were visiting.  Evan and Craig were unprepared for her dousing them. It was a nice way to interact with these incredible animals, much superior to the hokey elephant ride, although the forest was lovely - full of birds and butterflies.

Old Goa is a collection of 16th century churches and convents established by the Portuguese, who only left in 1962.  St Francis of Assissi's remains are honored here, in the silver tomb pictured.   What's most astounding is these grand buildings are isolated on a lonely, river bank, virtually abandoned  except by tourists.  I was expecting a town or even a city to be surrounding them.  Instead, forest. But their mission was accomplished.  Nearly everyone we met in Goa was Christian.

Our greatest pleasure was the sea.  Before breakfast, after breakfast, mid-morning, before lunch...etc we got into the foaming, warm water to float, body surf, swim, relax. The locals seemed to appreciate it too, though the ladies went in fully clothed in their lovely saris.  

The seafood was fine, the fresh air was fine, and the quiet, lazy days were therapeutic.  We three loved it and want to go back.