Downtown Old Delhi

This video is just my point-of-view from a bicycle rickshaw in Old Delhi. No monuments or beautiful scenery - just ordinary life passing by.

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. 

Leisure Life

Today we were walked down the street to the Canadian Embassy mela, a fair for craftspeople to display their wares.  I thought it was generous of Craig to come along on what was obviously a shopping trip, but he was curious about the embassy, wanted to check out their tennis courts and such. The weather is starting to cool, and is even breezy sometimes, so a brisk walk can leave you feeling refreshed instead of melted. We happened to run into one of the embassy employees, a Newfoundlander who, as it turns out, has been restoring old English built Enfields. Needles to say, Craig's interest was piqued.  He has been eyeing the bike since our arrival, scouring the internet, and asking anyone he can about them.  They are uniquely well suited to India: not that they are so reliable, but every village has a mechanic who can fix whatever goes wrong for under two dollars, not-a-word-of-exaggeration. They hardly go above 100km/hr, which given the road conditions is about par. Bernie recognized the signs of a guy missing his tools and old machines, and promised to put him in contact with the right people, eh? There may be a bike on the horizon.  

 
My Saturday morning history class is becoming a nice routine of visiting nearly empty monuments with ''the ladies".  We are a diverse lot, but enjoy each other immensely.  One thing we have in common:  the increasingly sophisticated architecture erected by 'great men' in their own honor we regard with appropriate appreciation, but where we discover the unnamed tombs of the wives, we pause in thoughtful reveries about what it must've been like, married to these guys.  We picnic now, more than taking notes.


Sagar, our landlord, continues to be our 'uncle', overseeing the affairs of our household, perhaps a little too carefully, but always with kindest intentions.  He recently invited us to visit the Indira Gandhi Memorial Museum, which was actually her home where she was shot in the back by her two Sikh bodyguards in 1984.  We are pictured in front of the garden pathway where the assassination occured. This incident set off a riotous revenge in the city, leaving more than 2500 Sikhs dead in the streets.  (These intermittent outbursts of intolerance punctuate long periods  of peaceful coexistence among the several religious groups throughout the centuries. But few days go by without some mention in the newspaper of how one group is being done wrong by the other in some corner of the country.) It's holiday time here, so the Sunday we chose to visit happened to be the day that south India emptied into tour buses to visit the capital, and the patriotic crowds swelled around us, carrying us through the museum like we were all segments of the same millipede,  warm and squishy, taking tiny but rapid steps in and around and through.  It was actually our first experience of 'crowded India' , as we've been quite judicious about entering such a fray.  It wasn't so unpleasant - people have such a ready sense of humor here.  I stepped on the toe of one withered gentleman who gestured  I should step on the other to achieve balance. 

About 10 km south of our apartment, as urban South Delhi starts petering off on the road to Agra (home of the Taj Mahal), rise these undulating walls of the ruined and forgotten city of Tuqhluqabad. Tuqhluq was one of those sultans who blinded the inheritor of that title in order to confiscate it himself, then was killed in turn by his own son for the same reason.  Delhi's history is peopled generously with these characters - they build their own tombs because they can't trust that their own sons will, and just because they can, they rebuild the 'capital' so they can name it for themselves. A generation later, this place too is abandoned, and from the mid-14th century til now, it has made great grazing grounds for a few goats and cows.   There are scores of ruins within the city limits that repeat this story.



The day we visited, a Saturday, there were less than ten other people there, and amongst these hardly history enthusiasts: a few youth dating away from prying eyes, and a couple of herders.  And the place was incredible: over 6 km of cobbled constructed walls on top of which you could gain an unobstructed 360 degree view.  The cavernous place pictured was the underground market, where according to Karin, our guide through Dehi's history, the harem ladies shopped for their gems and gold.  You can just make out the dark entrances on either side of the alley, where the small chambers are still wonderfully cool. 

In contrast to the utter neglect of poor Tuqhluk's abode, the tombs and gardens of the Lodi dynasty are gorgeously maintained.  This is in the heart of New Delhi, minutes from our home,  famous for being a place of serenity and excellent for making out.  Again,  this past Saturday, a workday for most Delhiwallahs, no lovers nor hardly even tourists were about.  Workers were scaling Muhamed Sayid's mid-15th century octagonal tomb on scaffolding of bamboo of seemingly questionable integrity, while the ladies in their richly colored saris carried crushed stones and water on their heads from across the grounds. 

We could scale them too: there are absolutely no signs telling you to 'watch your step', or 'off-limits', or 'Warning, the wall is crumbling and falling would mean certain death.'  

These buildings are approaching the beautiful proportions of the Taj Mahal, still 150 years away from construction. The Hindu influence is subtle: lotus and bells and column decoration. The filigree of Koranic verse on the interior dome ceilings and walls is gorgeously carved.  The splayed verandah of Sayid's tomb is a vision in the early morning light, when only the birds and a few joggers share the park. It's an oasis to come to regularly.

Festival time

Thich Nhat Hanh, the Vietnamese Zen master recently nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, gave a beautiful talk on mindful living, then led a group of about 300 of us on a peace walk during the 2nd annual International Day of Peace on Delhi's Shantipath (Peace way).  We silently walked from in front of the famously grandiose edifices of the British Raj, now India's legislature and seat of government, to the equally ostentatious India Gate, below. Dusk brought hoards of huge bats, as big as pigeons flying just as steadily and more purposefully towards the eaves of the government complex.  I kept looking

up at this astounding phenomena, thousands of big fat bats with bulging bellies with clearly profiled vampire silhouettes. We were attempting to follow the lesson of our esteemed leader and achieve a meditative state, so that we could conjure the spirit of peace and communicate it to the world.  So I tried to ignore what looked to have been a scene made to order by Dr. Evil to thwart our efforts. I've come to learn that they  are the greater short-nosed fruit bat, such a common sight that for the families out for a family picnic and kite flying, they didn't warrent a glance.  It was the peaceniks they found to be the phenomena.  

Last Thursday marked the beginning of holiday season here.

Dussehera involves the burning of giant effigies of Ravana, the evil king who absconded with Sita, the wife of the good king Ram.  Good triumphs over evil, and miraculously none of the little kids setting off fireworks lose a limb.  Even more impressively, the 30 foot high sculptures I saw being burned didn't topple into the crowd.  These parties happen all over, in every neighborhood.  Deepa, our housekeeper, invited Evan and I to attend her neighborhood party, and gratefully we were settled on top of a six story apartment building overlooking this scene.  Otherwise we would have been part of the throngs I was sure would be cremated when these paper mache and metal framed structures collapsed. From up there, in every direction I could see fireworks and effigies being burned.  My Indian co-workers twittered at my telling the tale of imminent danger the next day:"Nothing ever happens.  People always just have fun." I've gotten used to lax safety standards, and even appreciate that I'm no longer admonished to 'keep from children', and 'wait for traffic light', but really, you should have seen this.  Even Evan watched with bated breath

 to inevitable carnage when the fireworks went bad, or the little barefoot kid didn't get away in time, or the breeze blew a swath of burning paper into the crowd.  But my friends were right - there must have been thousands upon thousands of these revels all over India last night, and today's paper was utterly mute about incidental victims.  
  

Delhi's difference

I sent Evan out to buy himself some new shoes and he came back with two goldfish.  Harriet has been here for a year (from England), so knew where to tell her driver to go. Teens travel effortlessly all over the city, safely and comfortably in private cars and cabs.  Like anywhere, the shops are where they congregate.
Shopping in Delhi is a varied experience.  No big box store monotony here.  Step into the street and buy furniture, fresh flowers, and vegetables.  
Or have the tailor come by and measure you for a custom made suit.  Craig struck up a conversation with this guy over their common interest in motorcycles: the next thing, he has a beautifully tailored kashmir suit.  Now my favorite blouses are being copied in my choice of  fabric.  We've had a teak rocker made (see behind Craig). So far we've resisted many enticements: gem and precious metal craftsman abound, as do beautifully hand-stitched linens, silver kitchenware, and many other trinkets I don't need.  

The tailor, Shafiq, learned his craft from his father, and he from his, and so on as far back as he knows.  Although the caste system has been officially dismantled since Independence, family professions very often persist through the ages.  The 7 and 8 year old children I see picking through the American Embassy garbage are following in their parents' footsteps, still barefoot.

Godvindpuri is an infamous slum in South Delhi whose residents' place in the social order has been fixed for eons.   Yet The Times of India has launched a program to try and elevate the aspirations of the children, called Teach India.  AES has a program with 42 young adolescents who come to our school each Friday afternoon for two hours to study.  They are the hardest working students I've ever known.  They politely and sincerely attend to every spoken word. They come in crisply ironed shirts and lap up every second of their lesson.  I am amazed at their memory retention and the swiftness with which they absorb new learning. It seems they could overcome the years of deprivation they've already experienced, given the opportunity.  Some have: stories appear regularly in the media - a famous actor, a senator. 

I'm learning that many privileged Indians, the ones I know, give generously of their time and resources, and there is a collective consciousness to raise everyone's status with India's rising star.  But wealth distribution is even more dramatically disparate than I could have imagined.  All around us in our posh neighborhood, the houses are undergoing renovations to become evermore luxurious.  The 110% customs duties on BMWs and other imported brands don't dissuade the thousands of millionaires who populate the many toni neighborhoods all over New Delhi.   Chic restaurants whose prices are as expensive as Europe are popping up every week.  Designer shops for clothing and furniture are proliferating.  I've travelled all over New Delhi now, discovering that in neighborhood after neighborhood, excessive wealth is just as characteristic and widespread as excessive poverty.   

Delving more into culture

I'm taking a class on India's history, architecture and culture with a woman who has written more than 30 papers on the subject, but who can earn more being a teacher's assistant at the American Embassy School than as a professor.  She takes us on field trips to India's 'seven cities'...the ruins of the grandest edifices of invaders and dynasties since the late 12th century.  On Saturday we visited the Qutab Minar, pictured here, once the tallest free standing tower in the world, still impressive at almost 300 feet with beautifully sculpted inscriptions from the Koran.  It is 800 years old, built by the first Mongol invader Qutaab al Din.  Adjacent are the remains of Delhi's first mosque, built with the desecrated pillars of destroyed Hindu temples.  My classmates are women from Israel, Canada, Korea, Belgium, and the U.S. I love spending time this way!  Our teacher intersperses wars and empire building with beauty secrets of her grandmother: cover your face with cows milk, let it dry, and wipe away all the impurities from the skin.  I'm taking notes.

Neemrana - first trip outside New Delhi

 

The pictures here are of Neemrana, a 15th centuy Fort Palace on the fringes of Rajasthan, where we had a faculty retreat a couple of weeks ago.  I thought we were heading to a tired 2 star hotel on the outskirts of Delhi, so you can appreciate my awe as we climbed our way up this mountainside, wending our way deeper into this  labryinth of stairwells and gardens, turrets, screened rooms and arched balconies.  Craig and I hiked to the top of the mountain one evening to find the unmarked ruins of a fortification overlooking  hills of  forest and streams, unpopulated except for goats and herders, their faint cries the only sounds of civilization.   Swallows dipped close to our heads feeding voraciously.  The birdlife here is unexpectedly healthy and diverse.  A bird the size of a bluejay with gorgeous turquoise wings swept in front of us and alighted on a nearby tree, curious about our presence in its territory. Even Craig was charmed.  

Evan had a great time with the other faculty kids, friends now, Sam recently from Korea and Julie from France.  They told spooky stories by flashlight, the gothic setting perfect for their antics.  Saturday evening local musicians, singers and dancers set up on a deck overlooking the entire valley, and invited us to join them in swirling frenzies and elegant, sexy 'folk dancing'.  These folk had a more evolved attitude about relationships between the genders than my folk, if the moves of these dances are any indication.  

Craig and I experienced their specialty spa massage: two people work you over on a wooden board, lathering you with oil like they are marinating you for the evening's meal, then you are put in a medieval looking sauna box, with head stuck out on top, and once you are scalded, they scrub you down in a warm shower.  It was heavenly.  

So, put Neemrana on your lists of must-stays in India.  It was entrancing.  I can't wait to get further into Rajasthan, a land where life can resemble what it was when these palaces were constructed.  

For much better shots of this place, check out my talented colleague, Eric Johson's photo essay on this weekend:  Neemarana by Eric  An additional gallery shows his black and whites of Neemrana village life.  He captures ordinary but amazing moments.

American Embassy School is a lovely place to work.  Artists of every ilk have been invited as guests to create signature pieces, whether sculpture, gardens, or painting.  Artists-in-residence work with the kids and produce enduring works to beautify the campus.  AES prides itself on its architecture and ambiance.  There are no long, dull hallways, but 'pods'  that create additional meeting places outside classrooms. The gardens and walkways are well tended, designed for people to congregate.  Parents flow in freely, take classes, go to the pool, or attend the many forums run by the school.  Although the school is growing fast, and has reached 1300 K-12 students, it works hard at creating a tight community.  Our head is Bob Hetzel, whose staff meetings consist of inspirational stories and whose emails always include a poem.  

We are enjoying the best working conditions one can imagine in education.  The faculty are treated with respect and everyone wants to work up to the high standard with which they are regarded. The facilities are amazing: I have small classes of 7-10 students, yet my room has a smartboard, document camera, digital camera, etc.  I decided I wanted plexiglass on all the cupboards to increase writing surfaces - done.  I wanted an additional whiteboard - done.  I could have furniture made to my specifications if I wanted! Any supplies I want are available without delay upon request. We have instructional assistants who perform all the errands and copying tasks, as well as work one-on-one with students.  The schedule actually allows for a leisurely lunch for the first time in my career.  

My students are mostly from Israel, Denmark, Norway, Korea, but I have one from South Africa, one from Japan, one from Singapore.  They are mostly from well-traveled, well-resourced families, all literate in their first languages, and usually avid readers. The interesting thing is they are just like kids I've taught before from war ravaged African countries: they are curious and creative, naughty and nice. I'm really enjoying the elementary levels I'm teaching: 3rd and 4th graders of all proficiencies.  They are teaching me a lot. 

Evan has his work cut out for him.  While we are experiencing the lightest workloads of our careers, he is experiencing the heaviest.  He has between 3-4 hours of homework each night, and if he completes it all, he is still only getting Cs.  He sometimes feels like he's paddling in deep water as fast as he can, yet making little headway, and is unable to keep up the pace. He has felt like drowning a few times.  This week has been better than last, as he is trying his best to get into the groove of expectations.  Craig and I both feel if he can just learn to swim through it, he'll get a great education and be prepared for whatever he decides in the future.  Any 15 year old that can make this switch has had to develop the right stuff. 

Anyway, each week brings a new threshold of adjustment.  You know you're settling in when you start to look beyond basic survival needs for some fun and entertainment: we're heading off to the outskirts of Rajasthan this weekend for a faculty retreat. Stay tuned. 

We're living in the embassy district, with the embassies of China, Russia, Bulgaria, Germany, Thailand, and Saudi Arabia (pictured) nearby.  They are all multi-hectare plots walled and gardened.  The American Embassy has a pool, bowling alley, a couple of bars and restaurants, an espresso bar (where you can view the Olymics from the American perspective), and a grocery store.  It's also a hangout for teens and happy hour teachers seeking burgers and camraderie.  It's pretty happening on a Friday evening.  As faculty of AES, we can shop at the commisary in the embassy, but we're not allowed to purchase the tax free alcohol.  The Russians have filled a nitch here in a relatively 'dry' country by providing a black market booze delivery service.  Make a quick call, and they are at the door in 10 minutes.  

The other scenes are of our neighborhood.  The garden is the one across the street from our place.  I figured out why it's kept so trimmed and pristine, unlike several of the other gardens around us, which are lovely green spaces, but refuse and untended plants and pathways are typical.  One evening, the elderly Mr Singh introduced himself during his ritualistic stroll. He was very approving that I was Canadian, as he has many friends there, and has made several visits. At 84, the most traveling he does now, he explained, is around this park.  He proceeded to name many species of birds and flowers, as if it were his own private garden.  He has introduced himself to me three times now, as he suffers a bit from Alzheimers.  Each time I learn a little more about the local flora and fauna, and each time I'm affirmed for being Canadian.   I wonder if I told him I'm American how the lesson would go. Anyway, I learned that he was a senator for 7 years, and as such, has the government catering to him for the rest of his life, including the care of his favorite garden.  He is driven around in the traditional white Indian-made Ambassador, a reliable car whose styling hasn't altered since the the 1950s.  They are everywhere in this sector of the city, as we are only moments away from the monumental parliament and government ministries.  Government chaps are well looked after, assures our neighbor Sagar.

We enjoy walking to school each day, barely a five minute venture, and we've all become quite adept at dodging traffic at the one intersection we have to cross.  AES has hired a crossing guard, but his hours seem patchy, and no one pays any attention to him anyway.  We simply time it so that we all get over to the median safely, take a breath and go for the final dash.  We used to run across, then jog, now we stride without breaking our pace, timing it like all the others to slip behind the speeding cars and ahead of the three wheeled taxis and motorcycles.  Middle class school children in ironed pink and gray uniforms meet us on the way to their own schools in our neighborhood.  They're walking, or if very young, riding on the bar of their families' servants' bicycles. Wealthy executives from the Norwegian, Israeli, Korean, and Italian corporations (my students) have their children dropped off at AES by their drivers in luxury sedans and four wheel drives. And the very poor children enter the rear gate of the school walking in barefeet to accompany their mothers as they head to their jobs of carrying bricks and mortar on their heads for the construction of the new high school facility. All classes converge at this crossroads.