Who ya for? Bangalore!

Jerry’s conference is in Bangalore, the IT capital of India, with 10 million residents. It’s the capital of the state of Karnataka and located smack in the middle of southern India. We’re 1400 miles south of New Delhi where we started almost 3 weeks ago.

Bangalore is in the yellow southern state toward the bottom. Renamed Bangaluru but nobody calls it that.

Cyclone Fani struck India’s northeast coast yesterday but had no effect here. The NYT says India “moved a million people out of a cyclone’s path,” with “2.6 million text messages and 43,000 volunteers.” FEMA, take note.

Our first impressions of Bangalore were grim. On the long drive from the airport we passed miles of piles of garbage strewn along the roadsides. There was a string of 6 “Bridal Palaces” advertising fabulous venues to brides-to-be within walled acreage but the 10 feet or so of land between the walls and the highway were filled with trash.

The state legislature is immense and magnificent.

On the first day here we AP’s (accompanying persons) were driven 2 hours in a bus through unattractive areas to tour a culty ashram where transcendental meditation is practiced and taught but my mind wandered too much to tell you about it.

It was a bad first impression.

Three days later we’ve toured some beautiful areas — impressive government buildings, parks and lovely neighborhoods amidst palms and luscious landscaping. As always, the people are warm and welcoming and not just those in the service industry. I would not recommend Bangalore as a “must see” tourist spot, but if you come here you will find lots to enjoy.

Bangalore is very spread out and we’ve been transported as a group to tours and dinners on luxury busses . . . but too many trips for too long, sometimes hours each way. So, we and some friends went rogue today and blew off the Saturday tour to an animal reserve, a Jerry Martin Mackrell first. I told him I now love him even more.

With a precious free day, Jan from Portland, Oregon and I walked around the neighborhoods surrounding the hotel, around 5 miles outside of the town center. It was early enough to have a cool breeze and as we strolled the town came to life, men and women opening fruit stands and shops, eating plates of rice and sauces with their hands outside of food stalls, always smiling and returning our bows of Namaste no matter how reticent they looked at us at first.

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  It’s mango season!

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  Bamboo scaffolding, seen even in tall buildings in Bombay.

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  Not an unusual sight.

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  Shrines are everywhere.

Saturday must be “trash day” because uniformed women were sweeping garbage into enormous piles and men were loading it into “tuk tuks” pulling large containers.

Tuk tuks are green and yellow 3 wheeled super compact vehicles that comprise probably half of the traffic in the towns. They are used privately, to transport merchandise, and as taxis, described as “auto rickshaws.”

Jerry has evolved in these 3 weeks from eating only margerita pizzas for dinner to now happily eating Indian food. He shocked me further by hiring a tuk tuk to take us out today . . . Mr. White Knuckle Traffic Screecher in a tiny tuk tuk in this chaotic traffic that, apparently, we’ve grown used to. We haven’t seen even one fender bender despite drivers that don’t maintain proper lanes and pull in front of each other in a continuous game of “chicken.” It’s amazing they aren’t all dead.

Upon arrival a few days ago our Mackrell goody bag contained a sari for each woman. Yesterday we were treated to a “sari wrapping lesson,” but we could never replicate the process of wrapping and tucking, then folding tons of fabric into accordion pleats for more wrapping and tucking. The outfit starts with a tapestry bra with cap sleeves and no belly coverage, a long skirt you end up not seeing, and the sari itself. Quite warm to wear, and restrictive to move in. But regal and part of the colorful fabric of life everywhere in India, no pun intended.

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  Kristin from Houston

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  Kumi from Japan

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  Beth from Silicon Valley

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  Luzanne from South Africa

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  The Empress of India

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  Jan from Portland, OR

Then we got henna designs on our hands, drawn in a few minutes by an artist squeezing a tiny tube. It starts thick and dark brown and as it dries, flakes off to leave a subdued orange. It will last a week.

We paraded through the Mackrell meeting to great applause then treated ourselves to wine at the rooftop bar. A fine day!

We leave the hotel at 3:45 am tomorrow for our 7am flight. We are taking mementoes back with us, but are also leaving parts of ourselves behind. Specifically, my light weight cardigan sweater in Agra Airport. My prescription reading glasses in Jaipur. My hair clip in Udaipur. Jerry’s slacks in the Bombay hotel room top shelf we forgot to check.

We return enriched from this exotic country of rich and poor and 5 star hotel service. Monday morning I will stumble into our Baltimore kitchen expecting an extensive buffet breakfast with a starter of watermelon juice and mango yogurt with pumpkin seeds. We could be found standing aimlessly at our front door waiting for an air conditioned car with wifi and a guide greeting us, opening our doors and ensuring we have a fascinating experience. And a cool, wet towel and fresh water every time we climb back in.

Be patient with us.

Namaste.

Love, Georgia

PS – Miscellany –

The Brides/Grooms Wanted ad in Sunday’s India Times paper, organized
By Caste, By Language, By Profession, etc. Most of these women have impressive professions — MBA’s, professors, engineers:

Here’s our Bombay guide’s finger after voting. We kept seeing pictures in the paper of groups of celebrities showing one finger like this, and we didn’t understand why. At the polls your finger is marked with an ink made of a “secret formula” that won’t wash off for several weeks:

Our adorable waiter at a restaurant in Bombay . . . translation is “I am your father.”

Slums, Dabbawallas & Dhobis

Around 5 million people live in an estimated 2,000 slums in Mumbai, 1 million of whom live in Dharavi, the slum featured in “Slumdog Millionaire” and the one we toured today.

Dharavi is a strange source of civic pride in Mumbai, an area of entrepreneurial activity at the very lowest level of manual labor. It is divided into areas of trade. One section is devoted to making already tanned hides into belts, wallets, suitcases, jackets and shoes. Since cows are sacred, the hides are from water buffalo or lambs. They’ve even started stamping their slum name, Dharavi, on these leather items, as if it were a designer brand.

The biggest industry here is described in “Beyond the Beautiful Forevers” by Katharine Boo. People sift through garbage, sort pieces of desired items by type and sell them to scrap wholesalers. Dharavi is the place where this scrap usually then goes for further processing, packaging and selling to manufacturers of recycled goods, in tiny dark back rooms with rickety machines on dirt floors.

Here’s the first thing we saw, a canal of raw sewage in midday as the heat was hitting 102. The stench made me feel sick. I pulled my scarf over my nose as we walked away and through some narrow alleys before my guide, kindly and appropriately, said if I continued to do that it would insult the residents.

When the monsoons come, the canal overflows. The alleyways turn to mud.

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We were asked to not take pictures of the residents, only the goods. There were men and women of all ages, the women in traditional dress, the men generally in jeans, walking barefoot in the dirt, doing their jobs in their own trades. The children were so beautiful and each one, boy or girl, waved and smiled and shouted “HELLO!” as we approached and “GOODBYE!” as we passed. Boys were playing cricket or chasing balls, girls were seated together giggling, there were lots of kids just being kids and envisioning their future was heart wrenching.

Another area of the slum is dedicated to making pottery, for sale there and to all kinds of wholesalers and retailers throughout the city. They start with piles of dirt, add water to work it into clay, and hand make pots of all sizes.

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  Making clay from dirt.

One exceptional fact is that the slums are not dangerous places. No one will try to steal from you, or even beg. We’ve seen 2 or 3 beggars in 2 weeks in this country, all gypsies, less than those that approach me in Baltimore on any given day.

Street crime is rare in India. When we were walking around bustling Bombay I asked the guide if I should worry about someone trying to grab my phone. He looked perplexed and said “no,” that it simply doesn’t happen.

“If someone took your phone it would be on the news. It would be a very big deal.”

Of the 24 million people in the Bombay metropolitan area 30% are poor. In Baltimore the rate is 24%. Most houses and apartments in the worst neighborhoods of Baltimore are much, much better than in Bombay … but the level of crime is much, much worse.

When I asked about things I was reading about the slums in “Beyond the Beautiful Forevers,” like prevalent alcoholism particularly in the men, boys swimming in sewage to retrieve recyclables, babies bitten by rats at night, Morgan the guide said “yes, that is true.”

Except for the unusual businesses in Dhavari, people that live in slums have low paying jobs elsewhere. The children start in school but are often needed to take care of younger siblings or to earn money before their education is complete. Nothing new there in the cycle of poverty.

On a much nicer note, around noon we went to an area to watch the dabbawallas organize the lunch boxes they pick up from homes and deliver to office buildings every day. Unique to this city, there are 5,000 men that deliver 200,000 lunches every workday using a unique system of numbers and letters. If you haven’t seen it, watch “The Lunch Box,” a lovely Indian movie on this very subject, now on Netflix and “available for download.”

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Finally, we saw Dhobi Ghat, the largest outdoor laundry in the world, where 200 individual Muslim businessmen wash clothes and linens for hotels, hospitals and others. The same 200 families have operated as “dhobis” here since 1890. If you aren’t born one, you aren’t going to be one.

Each business must also have dryers to use during the monsoon season, mid June to mid September.

Earlier in the day we were taken by speedboat to Elephanta Island to see ancient Hindu sculptures. I learned 2 things: first, the Arabian Sea is polluted, with swaths of brown foam floating about; and second, I learned how to say “speedboat” in Indian. It’s “speedboat,” with an accent.

Tomorrow we go to Bangalore for Jerry’s Mackrell International conference, a consortium of law firms around the world and a reunion of rich friendships.

Love to all, Georgia

Mumbai, Bombay, tomato, tomahto

On Sunday we took an India Air time machine from the 6th century to the modern, bustling, financial, commercial and entertainment capital of India — Mumbai. After 10 days of staying in hotels nestled over acres of lush landscaping, topped with onion domes and built of soft sandstone, we checked into the Oberoi Mumbai, a high rise with an open air lobby of ultra modern decor. We used to unfold white wooden slatted shutters to welcome the morning sun. Now we push a button and a screen lifts from the wall of glass in our bedroom. And from our glassed in shower.

Mumbai is still called Bombay by the locals. Our guide, Morgan, says its “just the nationalists” that call it Mumbai. He says that these name changes occurred in 1995 as the “Indianization of India.”

See the lime green state on this map of India on the western coast? Mumbai is the capital of Maharashtra, on the Arabian Sea around halfway between India’s northern and southern borders.

See the “Back Bay” at the very bottom left of the long peninsula on the Mumbai City Map? Our hotel sits at Nariman Point, facing the skyline that sits over the natural Back Bay deep harbor. There’s a wide promenade ringing that whole bay area that is empty by day and crowded with thousands of young people at night, communing and staying cool with the sea breeze. The white lights on the promenade around the bay arc are called The Queen’s Necklace. Indigenous tall palm trees bring a Miami Beach vibe.

It’s not the only skyline. As we are driven around Bombay, there are tall buildings everywhere, some with 3 or 4 towers each 50 stories tall, and we’re told there are buildings up to 100 stories tall. There are a lot of people here, 12 million or so just in the city limits, 23 million in the metro area, making Bombay the 4th most populous city in the world.

Security at our hotel is tight. Our car is stopped at the gate, our purpose is stated by our driver, and a guard waves a mirror under the car looking for explosives. Our bags must be processed through TSA type scans each time we enter the lobby and our bodies are scanned with wands by gender specific guards. Our room key must be inserted into a slot in the elevator to press our floor each time we go up.

I learned upon seeing this memorial to the left that our hotel was one of those in the terrorist attack memorialized in the new movie “Hotel Mumbai.” The travel agency hadn’t mentioned that.

Morgan, like our airport greeter, Robin, is Christian, the first we’ve met in India, both of Indo-Portuguese descent. The Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama was the first to reach India by sea, landing in an archipelago of 7 islands they named Bombaim (“good bay”). De Gama’s voyage started a year after Columbus landed in America thinking it was India. India’s ruling Mughal Empire, considering it worthless swamp land, signed it over in a treaty with Portugal in 1534.

Seeing India’s abundance of peppers available to Portugal for trade in Europe via the Suez Canal, England realized this area’s value not only as the gateway to spices, but as a strategic harbor naturally isolated from land attacks. In 1661, the “Marriage Treaty” signed Bombay over to the Brits as the Portuguese King’s dowry for his daughter, Catherine, for her betrothal to Charles II. The East Indian Trading Company followed suit, and the plundering of India’s natural resources began.

From 1794 to the 1970’s the government connected the 7 islands with landfill, making the archipelago one contiguous 233 square mile peninsula.

27 stories, 400,000 sq feet, $2 billion value, staff of 600, 2nd most valuable residential home in the world after Buckingham Palace.

Bombay is famous for its slums (which we will tour tomorrow) but it also has the highest concentration of millionaires and billionaires in India. Last night we drove past a 27 story home owned by Mukesh Ambani for his wife and 3 children — 2 in college in the US, the third the one I wrote about from Udaipur who was married last year in a $100 million extravaganza with Beyonce as the headliner. Ambani is the richest man in India and my interest in this monstrosity is simply to show you the extremes here.

It is humid and 88 degrees, 17 degrees lower than we had in the desert up north. We get a breeze in the late afternoon and evening which is quite nice, but during midday I miss the arid heat which didn’t make us sweat like this wet heat does.

Today’s tour began with a drive through Kala Ghoda (“black horse” from a statue once there), the Arts Section where Victorian, Indian and Art Deco architecture create a charming collection of hotels, universities, churches, tony shops, and elegant condos and apartments that remind me of DC’s Kalorama neighborhood. We also toured Malabar Hill, the high rent district of Colonial era homes exuding charm.

The Watson Hotel

The Watson Hotel was built by and for the British. Indians were not allowed entry. Jamsetji Tata (whose son later founded Tata Motors) was so incensed when he was denied a room he created the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in Bombay in 1903, a 5 star brand now grown to a chain of 100 luxury hotels in India and 16 other countries. The Watson Hotel, seen above, is abandoned and it is cost prohibitive to renovate it in this historic district.

This is Victoria Station, designed by F. W. Stevens in 1878 in a style meant to be British Gothic, but later termed “Bombay Gothic” from the influence of the Indian craftsmen and materials. The first station in India, its trains now leave every 3 minutes and carry more than 3 million of the city’s 7 million train riders every day. Do you see the blank space just under the clock . . . that’s where they removed the statue of Queen Victoria when it was renamed Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, aka CST.

We went to an enormous field where at least 4 cricket games were ongoing, in a minor league to hone skills and hope for a chance in the bigs. Cricket, we’re told, is not a sport in India, it is a religion. Indians want to be #1 in the world, and often are, but mostly want to beat Pakistan. Like my mother passionately rooting for the Redskins over Dallas like it was the Super Bowl. Terps fans against Duke, Ravens against Steelers. You get it.

The highlight of today was visiting a home where Mahatma Ghandi once lived, now a museum honoring his life and legacy. His words are inspiring and his story of fearless opposition to all inequality, in both race and gender, is related in dozens of quotes and diaramas with explanation plaques. Married at 13 to his 13 year old wife, he later studied law in England. He was not successful in trial work in India and, while trying to figure out his future, was invited to South Africa to work for a friend’s company. He spent 20 years there defending the rights of people of color, including Indians (he was evicted from his first class train seat just trying to get to South Africa, as only whites were welcome in that car).

The charkha, a small spinning wheel, was a symbol of Gandhi’s campaign to encourage Indians to spin their own simple cloths rather than buy them from the British.

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Nehru was appointed the first Prime Minister of India in 1947, and was elected by the people until his death in 1964. He is credited for assembling the vast, diverse country into one, under the tutelage of Mohatma Gandhi. Indira Gandhi, the third PM of India, was Nehru’s daughter, no relation to Mohatma. She was assassinated by her own bodyguards in 1984.

Gandhi:. “I want world sympathy in this battle of right against might.”
“Be truthful, gentle and fearless.”

Upon learning more about Gandhi, I am incredibly inspired to live a simpler life on his example, giving up my privileged pleasures. Except for air conditioning. And fresh water to brush my teeth and hot water for long baths. That’s it. And a full bodied cabernet in a really nice glass. That’s it.

Tomorrow we go to the Dahravi slum area where the entrepreneurial spirit thrives amidst squalor.

Meanwhile I will leave you with a picture of the view from our pool.

Love to all, Georgia

Udaipur, the “crown jewel of Rajasthan”

Rajasthan is a state of 77 million people bordering Pakistan, southwest of Delhi, and geographically the largest state in India. Udaipur is a city in this state, with only 451,000 people and 4 man made lakes that are of late making it a popular resort and second home destination.

It is pronounced Oo-diaper, with the accent on the first syllable. And the reality on the last, since after my 24 hour “bug,” Jerry has been similarly hit. By tonight he will be fine, but it belies our theory of the Indian spices causing my intestinal monsoon.

It has occurred to me that Shiva, the god of destruction, didn’t like my Ganga-Fec business plan back in Varanasi. And so it is hereby cancelled. I’ll return all investments when we get home.

Udaipur’s lakes are sustained by the summer monsoons. Last year’s rainfall was light, and one can see dry beds ringing the lakes, but the two we’ve seen — one we crossed on a charming boat to get to our hotel — are still quite lovely. There are mountains surrounding the area, worn down by trillions of years as once, it is believed, they were as high as the Himalayas.

We arrived yesterday to another shower of rose petals, another forehead blessing and instead of leis we each received a gift — a brighly colorful scarf/shawl for me and a turban for Jerry, which should go over well at St. Ignatius. Every Oberoi Hotel offers us a glass of flavored water, this one deliciously tinged with rose and ginger.

We step into this pool from our patio, shared by 6 rooms. Bougainvillea petals fall from the vines and float elegantly atop the water.

Like in Jaipur (the capital of Rajasthan), it hits 105 each afternoon and remains in the 90’s at night. But it’s not so bad. First, we’ve timed our activities accordingly, sightseeing earlier than planned and spending the afternoons at the pool after cancelling yet another temple visit, not to mention the water art demonstration by the Hindu Priest, despite it being a dying art.

Second, it is so dry that you can find relief in the shade, unlike our thick humid heat at home. Nicer shops are air conditioned and the “old city” shops have fans that keep us quite comfortable. And, best of all, the Martins can put out their hand washed travel clothes on the private porch and it will be dry in just a few hours. A travel plus.

We once again visited a City Palace, this one where the Udaipur royal family lives. We saw lots of fancy and cheesy rooms, but the highlight was “the chair.”

In 1911 King George V was crowned in Britain and came personally to India to mark the succession from Edward VII to himself as Emperor of India, the first king to personally do so. Every Maharajah in India traveled to New Delhi to attend this event called a Delhi Dubar, except the Maharajah of Udaipur, who refused to come as an act of civil disobedience to the Brits and their self appointed monarch.

The chair for him was set in the first row, so his absence was quite noticeable to the king. This chair now sits in a hallowed roped off room in the City Palace, a simple but proud symbol of protest. (What the guide didn’t mention was that when George V came to Udaipur 2 years later, the Maharajah snubbed him again, and so was deposed by the Brits and his power was transferred to his son. Card overplayed?)

Udaipur is known as a romantic city where many weddings are held at the palaces, castles, and high end hotels that ring the lakes. The richest man in India (“richer than the richest man in China!”) had his daughter’s wedding reception in Udaipur, with Beyonce as the headliner.

The city streets, unlike those in Varanasi (by the way, the oldest “living city” in the world) and Agra, are kept clean. Both Jaipur and Udaipur have in recent years created jobs for the poor to sweep the sidewalks, alleys, streets and roadsides, to great result for all.

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  Exiting the airport at Udaipur

The current Prime Minister, Modi, is on the left, doing the wave.

India is in the midst of its election for Prime Minister. The current PM, Modi, was elected 5 years ago in a surprise landslide touting nationalism and “Hindus first!” He advertises his “friendship” with Obama but his politics are more in line with Trump.

The Prime Minister, Shri Narendra Modi

Modi is single so as to devote himself completely to leading India. In Varanasi, Agra and Jaipur, it will be a landslide in his favor we’re told, with guides getting starry eyed when we ask about him. There are billboards with his face everywhere we’ve been. In this country of 1.3 billion people, voting takes place in various locations over 5 weeks. Voting Day in Udaipur is Monday. At 4:45 pm today we got formal notice that, in light of the upcoming election, there would be no alcohol served at the hotel after 5pm today through Monday.

Today I told our guide that, in America, there are articles criticizing Modi for being divisive, ie, against Muslims. He replied that the other major party, the Indian National Congress, was in control for many decades, and was “pro Muslim.” On the internet I’ve learned that one significant example is that the government subsidized trips to Mecca so that poor Muslims could make their annual Hajj pilgrimage. Modi’s party cancelled that subsidy last year, citing separation of religion and state in their Constitution. Four of our five guides have said proudly that Modi is “pro Hindu,” with Panem in New Delhi saying his divisiveness was dangerous.

The Congress Party calls itself Progressive and says Modi is providing subsidies for other religions now.

Every guide says Hindus and Muslims get along on a personal level. Our guide in Varanasi wisely said that it’s the politicians that try to divide them.

This morning, while poor Jerry stayed in, I went on a 6:30 am bike ride on a lovely country road with a steady cool breeze and hottie Jay, the bike tour guide. In order that I could stop at any time along the 12 km route, we were followed by our regular driver in the SUV and also the bike truck the entire time.

I felt like the Queen of India with this entourage. About halfway through we stopped at a picturesque point where chairs were set up with snacks and I was handed a fresh cold cloth to keep on my neck. I called the 3 men my “subjects” as I sipped tea flavored with cardamom, cinnamon, ginger and milk.

As we cycled, Jay and I talked incessantly about his Hindu beliefs, politics, and his interest in motorcycling. He does not share the belief of our Varanasi guide that once one is human he/she will not reincarnated as an animal. He believes that bad people go to hell and are punished severely. They then are reincarnated low on the food chain again and must work their way back to human. Once a human achieves Nirvana — the end of suffering, need, desire — they cease to exist.

This strikes me as a religion designed for those with a very hard life. But there is a great beauty in the deep devotion of Hindus we’ve met and seen, people whose religion is a vein running through most aspects of their daily lives. It is a religion of love and community and nonviolence . . . except the Singhs, aka the second caste, aka the warriors, I guess you need them sometimes. And maybe the nationalists that vote Hindus First.

The valuing of animals is clear in the preponderance of vegetarians in this Hindu country. When I asked a guide if he is vegetarian he laughed.

“In India you ask if someone is non-vegetarian, it is much less common.”

After about 30 minutes of pumping up challenging hills, we slowly and carefully rolled down hills, all the time passing villages and villagers, cows, one pheasant, one camel, several quail, horses, goats and, to my heart’s delight, children beaming at the strange light skinned lady, waving and saying Hello and Good Morning to me as I passed by. We ended up at a flat bike trail surrounding a fabulous crystal blue lake, with Hindu temples and resorts high above us in the distant mountains.

And suddenly we were back in the city, the 12 kms were over and the guide and driver who idled for well over an hour behind me in case I wanted to stop got out of their vehicles and applauded.

While Jerry continued recuperating, the tour guide took me to a fabric store with pure silks, wools, and cottons, many wood stamped. Like many places in India, they custom make clothes for delivery the same day. When I asked to see examples of the kind of clothes they make (I had no idea where to start), the owner brought over a foot high Vogue pattern book. I could have designed anything, but it would have taken more time than I had in me. Instead, I ordered 3 casual summer skirts for myself and white slacks for Jerry, and hurried back to the hotel pool. Tonight the tailor showed up to our room at 10pm and stood outside while we tried everything on. Perfect fits.

I seem to have made some friends in this hotel. This morning I asked a lovely young woman near the buffet about the various yogurts and when she pointed out the mango I said “Oh, I love mango!” Then she walked me over to the toppings and I took some granola.

I bowed and thanked her in Hindu, pronounced Daan-ya-wad, accent on Daan, rhymes with naan.

As I sat at my table she came over in the chef’s uniform I hadn’t before noticed, introduced herself as Kashish, and said she would make me a special mango granola for breakfast tomorrow. She soon came back over with plates of freshly sliced mangoes, this the beginning of mango season. Tonight at dinner she came to our table on her way home to say she had made me a special mango dessert. It was amazing, a flaky tart of fresh mangoes over sugary lemon curd. The waiter said it was the first mango dessert at that hotel. I’m naming it OMG.

Sagar, the young man that checked us into our room quite thoroughly 2 days ago, came to our room tonight with a wrapped gift for me, and a note that said he wanted to offer a “small remembrance” since I was “curious about the culture of Mewar,” the region in Rajasthan that includes Udaipur. He stood smiling warmly as I opened the package to find a small, very beautiful marble vase! I’m not sure if this is from the hotel or from him. Regardless, it will remain quite special to me.

Tomorrow we fly to Mumbai. We should see very rich and very, very poor there, while staying at yet another Oberoi hotel, beachfront on the Back Bay of the Arabian Sea.

Love to all, Georgia

The Peacock, the National Bird of India. They shriek like cats in the early hours.

Jaipur, the “Pink City”

My kingdom for a box of Depends.

I won’t elaborate. Jerry is off to our morning bike adventure through villages, then to the Samode Palace for lunch. I will be dining via room service on yogurt, bananas, toast and rice which our guide Vijay ordered for me. The hotel also sent over the Indian version of re-hydrating Pedialyte. And a toaster.

We spent yesterday in Jaipur with Vijay, a charmingly boyish, handsome man in his late 30’s, the 5th child and only son of parents who “kept trying for a boy.” Like our past 3 guides, his marriage was arranged. He was driving along one day in his 20’s when his mother called his cell phone.

“Guess what! You’re engaged!”

It was a 4 month engagement but they met for the first time at the altar. Well . . . “if you don’t tell my mother,” he smiled, “we stole a 10 minute glimpse of each other before then. “

He didn’t find this stressful as he trusted his mother to find a pretty, kind woman. His father, and hers, researched the families back hundreds of years, partly to make sure no one had married out of their caste.

Castes mean nothing any more in terms of education or employment. But they still matter in marriage.

Like our past 3 guides, he and his wife and children live with his parents. After years of living on the same floor, his wife nudged him to build an additional floor for them and then an additional floor for the children.

Life is “much better now,” he says. His wife no longer has to cover her face all day, which is required whenever a woman is living under the same roof as a man not related to her by blood . . . ie, her father in law. She doesn’t have to cover her face for anyone else, just her father in law, whether at home or out.

And she and his mother don’t get on each other’s nerves so much now that they have privacy. Duh.

He talks about his wife in a very loving way. He looks forward to coming home to see what she has cooked for him, his parents and 8 year old twins, all of whom eat at 3 different times each evening. She was adamantly against him drinking any alcohol until he took her out one night and tricked her by ordering her a rum and Coke. She drank it. And liked the feeling. And so now they enjoy a drink together, but secretly in their own house.

Worshippers of the Monkey god, they do not drink alcohol or eat meat on Tuesdays.

The streets of Jaipur, both in the old and new city, are typical from what we’ve seen this past full week visiting 4 different cities: a cacophony of sound. Everyone is beeping constantly, some short, some long, some amazingly loud. We’re told the honking is not a sign of annoyance, but one of respectful driving. It means “I’m coming into your lane” or “I’m going to pass you,” etc.

One solo motorcycle can be holding a family of 4, or cases of merchandise on the rear, lap and sides of the driver, while veering around bikes holding bags of goods hanging from handle bars or rickety carts holding enormous piles of produce being pushed on foot from the rear. There’s a preponderance of industrious unskilled workers here. So far, we’ve encountered only a few gypsy beggars.

Back home, the slightest traffic infraction, even in a car 4 cars ahead of him, gets Jerry yelling and upset. In the car, I could tell him “I am leaving you for a man I’ve been seeing all year” and he would say “OH MY GOD DID YOU SEE THAT CAR PULL RIGHT IN FRONT OF THAT GUY!!!”

In the first week here, each riding experience brought him to a fevered pitch, practically foaming at the mouth as vehicles of all kinds maintained seemingly random, loud beeping, continuous and inexplicable lane changing. After learning by experience that it really is both normal and safe, he’s relaxed into a state of appreciation and wonder that all it all works out in the end.

On those chaotic streets we zigged and zagged to the City Palace, where the royal family of Jaipur lives. There were large white elephant marble statues framing the entrance. Jerry asked why we’ve seen some elephant statues with a trunk pointing up and others down.

“The trunk up means Welcome! The trunk down means Goodbye, Thank You,” Vijay explained.

“To remember this, just think of the trunk as just like a man’s.”

The royal couple had only one daughter, so the King adopted his own grandson to ascend to the throne. This new King is 21 years old and a student at NYU.

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  This Indigo Blue in the palace is prevalent in Jaipur.

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  Where Kings still sit.

There was a point when India consolidated its fractured sections with a contractual agreement with all the royal families. The royals agreed to loyalty to the federal government and, in return, the government gave them salaries and maintained their lavish properties. India got Kashmir’s royalty to be the last to sign, just as Pakistan was preparing to conquer them. Pakistan was furious with India for the loss of Kashmir, a country of rich resources. The enmity continues.

Hawa Mahal, “Palace of the Winds,” is constructed of red and pink sandstone. This is the color of the Old City of Jaipur.

In the early 80’s PM Indira Ghandhi cancelled those agreements so, financially, the royal families are on their own. Many have turned their multiple palaces into hotels which are proving lucrative. The Jaipur royals also created a tony private school, for profit. When they step out of the palace there is no security or special decorum.

I admired a tourist woman with a long, loose, super light open robe of colorful patterns, made, Vijay explained, with stamps made of woodblocks. So he took us to a shop where there were thousands of fabrics to be made into robes, caftans, bedspreads, curtains, pillowcases, table runners, you name it. The owner boasted that he wholesales to Anthropologie and showed me the bedspread patterns that I recognized.

I got a very light weight house robe there that I love and a custom caftan that I already regret ordering. It was inexpensive, so no great harm done.

The wood blocks that become too old to use decorate the walls.

My favorite part of the day was exploring the markets in the “Old City.” There are exactly 365 stores on each street and there are maybe 10 streets and alleyways. One area is just for brides to get their handmade wedding gowns, a colorful assortment of stalls with young beautiful women giggling and assessing magnificent fabrics.

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  Grooms wear these money belts to collect cash at the reception. They also buy their decorative groom turbans here.

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  People are incredibly warm and friendly.

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  Lassi, Indian fruit & yogurt smoothie.

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  Paneer, cottage cheese with texture of tofu . . . protein!

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  Two men taking a leak.

Here’s a symbol we’ve seen throughout . . . I wouldn’t have noted the similarity to the incidious Nazi symbol, but its name is Swastika.

The Swastika is a very holy Hindu sign of prosperity, good luck and health. The website “History Hit” explains this:

Before it was adopted by the Nazis, the swastika had already been widely appropriated in the West. In fact, it had become something of a fad. Seized upon as an exotic motif that broadly denoted good luck, the swastika even found its way into commercial design work for Coca Cola and Carlsberg, while the Girls’ Club of America went as far as calling its magazine “Swastika”.

I’ve researched further how Hitler ended up appropriating a holy sign to represent nationalism and evil, but there doesn’t seem to be a direct connect-the-dots explanation out there.

After my morning cramping, sleeping and … you know … Jerry returned from a very challenging, dusty bike ride over stones and sand. At the Samode Palace — turned into a hotel by its royal owners — he got to pet an elephant and is seated here on the Maharajah’s couch in a pose with the left knee raised onto a pillow which they favored (but he doesn’t know why). Maharajah, fyi, is the same as King.

He learned that polo was invented in Persia in the 6th century. On horses, the players fought to control a goat’s headless carcass around a flagpole and back to a circle. Polo proliferated throughout Asia, and the first polo club was established in India in 1833, with a ball by then.

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I’m feeling better this afternoon. Vijay says the spicy food I’ve eaten all week finally broke my system down. This explains why Jerry is fine, he’s been pretty much subsisting on Margerita Pizzas. No Indian food has passed his lips. I guess my “when in Rome” eating philosophy needs to be tempered here. I guess I need to be a little less smug about my succulent lamb shanks while Jerry is contemplating the Bangers and Mash.

When Jerry returned to the room today he found this outside the door, made with marigolds:

This hotel is a wonderful place.

Tomorrow we fly to Udaipur, pronounced Ooo-diaper, with accent on the first syllable. It is billed as a “fairy tale city of marble palaces and lakes.”

Love to all, Georgia

The Taj Mahal

When you have a guide come to your hotel for a 5:15 am tour of the Taj Mahal, the first thing that happens is you get sprayed with DEET. We haven’t seen a mosquito all week but the 42 acres of landscaping there and the cool of early morning brought them out in droves.

Our guide’s name is Sanjay Jain. In India the last name signifies where his family is from and his religion. He told us that Jains are unusually successful, a population of less than 1% that pay 37% of the taxes, with a large portion of them in the diamond business.

“We are the Jews of India!” he boasted.

A short golf cart ride from the hotel brought us down a pink sandstone promenade lined with cheesy concessions to the entrance. With 8 million visitors a year a long wait outside is normal, but we are out of season in April and since it will climb to 106 today this is no surprise.

The early hour was quite pleasant and we walked in with no wait. Sanjay explained that he would make a show of inviting us to use the professional photographers that will approach us on the grounds but that we should say “no” because he could do it better. And, boy, could he.

The Taj Mahal was commissioned by the Mughal Emperor who reigned from 1628-1658, Shah Janan, to house the tomb of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. “Favorite wife” is key here, as he also had 2 other wives, with Mumtaz the most beautiful. He also had hundreds of concubines. Despite that, Mumtaz bore 16 children in 19 years, 14 of whom were born, the last of which caused her death at 37 by hemorrhage. As she died she made two requests to her husband: to never marry again and to erect a monument to her.

He honored her requests, but he still had the first two wives and the concubines.

While I’m on the subject, Muslims believe that if a man follows the rules of Allah, he will go to heaven where he can enjoy a spectacular Garden of Eden with rivers of water and honey and even wine (which they are not allowed to drink on this earth), and virgins who will “accompany” them. Women, on the other hand, can go to heaven but will not get any wine or men.

We’ve all seen many pictures of the Taj Mahal, but its grandeur is only truly appreciated in person. It was built with nonporous white Indian marble with crystals within that cause the building to change hues as the day progresses. There is nothing painted on it, every speck of color is from precious gems, designed by hand by men and their sons down a family line. Years of intensive training are necessary to acquire singular expertise in one particular flower or design. Daughters are not allowed to learn this trade because, when they marry, they could reveal the secrets to their husbands.

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  The entrance building as seen from the Taj Mahal

Of course, these modern times allow offspring to pursue other interests and the art is disappearing with each generation. There are presently 1700 artisans left to make occasional repairs as they pursue other means of income, mostly making marble figures for tourists. The family in charge of “honeysuckle” flowers has already died off and there is no one left to maintain and repair those designs in the future.

The original landscaping design had large trees on each side but the Brits cut them all down in favor of low trimmed landscaping, to preserve the reflection.

Once inside no pictures are allowed, so I can’t show you the exquisitely beautiful flowers made of gems decorating the low wall framing the tombs. Little known fact is that the actual marble tombs are stored in the basement for protection from theft or invasion. The tombs we see are exact replicas. The faux Empress is in the middle, the faux Emperor, who joined her 35 years later, is on the side. He had planned to build a black marble monument to himself across the river behind the Taj Mahal, but instead his 3rd son killed his two older sons and sent him to exile until his death in order to take over the throne to which a third son is not entitled.

These Arabic letters grow taller as they move up the columns so they look the same size from the bottom.

Marble is etched by hand and all colors are tiny pieces of gems shaped, smoothed and inserted according to strict design so it is consistent everywhere. One mistake and the entire piece of marble must be discarded.

Through a hole in a honeycomb pattern used on certain walls.

Could Queen Victoria do this?!

When you go on a guided tour with Jerry, he doesn’t listen to the guide, he deposes him. It sounds senile, but it’s really his lawyerly way of confirming facts.

Guide: All of the colors are from gems. There is no paint anywhere. For example, the black is Onyx.

Jerry, pointing up multiple times during the visit: Is that paint? Is that? How about that over there?

Jerry, after the third time the guide pointed out the black Onyx: So, what’s the black . . . Jade?

Guide: The Mughals were Muslim, here is the Muslim Mosque, the Mosque faces west to Mecca.

Jerry: So, they were Hindus?

I’m used to it. Here is an excerpt from last evening in our room.

Jerry: Did you take the towel I had on the bed?

Me: No.

Jerry: Are you sure?

Me: I didn’t take the towel.

Jerry: Are you suuuuure? It isn’t here.

Me: Stop talking. (This is a phrase I have adopted to replace my earlier breaking point bursts of expletives).

Back to the Taj Mahal, it is a work of perfect symmetry and optical illusions. There are 4 buildings: the entrance, from which one can see the monument perfectly situated through the entrance archway; the Taj Mahal; an operating Mosque to one side and a perfect replica of the mosque on the other side. The replica is called the Guest House, but no one has ever stayed in it. It is there solely for symmetry.

Surrounding the monument are 4 identical minarets . . . they lean slightly outward so that if there’s ever an earthquake they’ll fall away from it. There are diamond designs on the entrance building columns that appear to be facing outward at the bottom but inward at the top. (Mad Magazine used to feature optical illusions, remember?)

There are thousands of pigeons living in, on and around the monument. We saw some metal rings installed on the central dome and thought it was some sort of pigeon deterrent, but found that during WWI the British installed them to hold a huge tarp to hide the monument from air attack. The Indians have kept the rings in place so as not to cause damage to the marble while removing them.

Jerry asked questions about how often they clean the pigeon droppings (once each night), and felt compelled to point them out during much of our tour.

We weren’t able to stick around all day to watch the sun play its tricks on the marble facade. Instead we went to a museum to see magnificent tapestries created by a genius named Chams, who was named a tapestry master by the time he was 13. In his 90’s he went blind but then somehow created a school to proliferate his art.

I wondered why the lovely gentleman there was spending so much time with us — each of the 7 enormous tapestries was revealed to us in turn in a dark room by lifting a curtain by remote control, accompanied by background music, but none of the drama was necessary — with each lit tapestry we GASPED in unison. There was a leopard attacking a peacock, a Bengal tiger whose eyes followed you as you moved, a vase of spectacularly draping flowers, even a tall light skinned Jesus surrounded by sheep from this Muslim artist (“There are no politics in art,” he said). But then he invited us upstairs to “see an ancient emerald necklace” –and he did show it to us — but “upstairs” was his family jewelry store, Kohinoor, quite famous for centuries in India.

As Jerry sat on a couch and checked his emails, I had an idea that I might replace my gold wedding ring I no longer wear with a ruby ring from India. We’re celebrating 20 years on May 29 . . . and, to commemorate, I thought I might shop for and select my wedding ring alone as it happened in 1999. So I did. It is perfect for me. There are 7 small Indian rubies, which tend toward a dark pink rather than a deep red, banded in white gold, a modest but beautiful wedding ring at a price that even a husband can love.

We were then driven 4 hours to Jaipur, a city known for being painted “pink” (which is really terracotta) to celebrate the 1876 visit of the Prince of Wales and Queen Victoria. At yet another spectacular Oberoi, we were welcomed with a toss of rose petals over our heads as we entered, then the traditional forehead blessing dot and marigold lei.

Oberoi Rajvilas in Jaipur, the Pink City. Another fabulous pool, stupendous room, attentive service.

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  Too exhausted to eat out, I dined in with Hugh Hefner. On my plate is Paneer, which is cottage cheese in the consistency of Tofu . . . quite delicious in a thick Indian sauce, with a side of lentils and garlic naan.

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  There are 40 peacocks living on the hotel grounds.

Big day today, the Taj Mahal and a wedding ring. Tomorrow we tour Jaipur with Vijay, a modern day Hindu in some ways, but with an arranged marriage to a woman he clearly adores.

Love to all, Georgia

Jerry-Ji and me

On our last day in Varanasi I woke at 3am, meaning I am back on my normal Baltimore sleeping schedule.  Damn it.

The banks of the Ganges in the early a.m. are transcendental. It is a particularly spiritual experience beholding it from an elegant historic balcony, just steps from air conditioning and multiple uniformed Hindus absolutely determined to meet your every need at any time of day.

Our Varanasi guide, Devesh, told us the river is very clean (“Can’t you see?!”) but the internet is telling me there’s around 10 times more fecal matter in it than is considered safe.  Hindus not only submerge here to pray, a certain enormous population also bathes, does their laundry and enjoys a respite from the incessant spring and summer heat in it.

I have a working title for a very promising new product: Ganga-Fec. Ganga from the Hindu name of the river. When the Brits came and asked its name the reply was Ganga-Ji, pronounced Ganga-Gee meaning the name Ganga plus “old,” or revered. So the Brits said, oh, cheerio, Ghan-gees.

Fec from the business purpose, using cheap labor and free water from the Ganges for fecal transplants that are gaining popularity in the U.S. for intestinal disorders. I’m accepting ground floor investors.

Today we flew an hour to Agra to the Oberoi Amarvilas Hotel, a ridiculously luxurious hotel with a view of the Taj Mahal from our room and balcony.  We were warned to keep our balcony door locked to keep monkeys out, and when I was relaxing out there this evening two monkeys walked past me on the railing before I had the wherewithal to react.

The Oberoi Amarvilas Hotel in Agra

Our pool, which we hit upon arrival.

The view of the Taj Mahal from our balcony, over-enhanced by Google Photo.

Zoomed view from our balcony

Agra was the capital of India under the Mughal Empire. The Mughals were a combination of Turks and Mongols, Muslim conquerors that took advantage of the politically and culturally fractured Hindustan (renamed India by the Brits later). They came with gunpowder, weaponry that the Hindu arrows couldn’t defeat. In fact, the Hindus would make elephants the first line in a battle, and when the elephants heard the gunshots the piercing booms made them turn and run, trampling their own army.

The Mughals ruled for almost 3 centuries, 7 generations of rulers, the most famous and effective being Akbar from 1556-1605.

Akbar is known for his administrative brilliance and incessant warfare, annexing northern and central India by getting along with the Hindus and even enlisting many Hindus into his military service. His son continued the tolerance of Hinduism but over the next generations Muslim bigotry brought political and religious intolerance, leading to the denial of Hindus to public office, destruction of their schools and shrines, and thus, the decay of the Mughal government and economy.

The British East India company came to India for its immense resources — spices, gems, marble, silk. When the Mughal Empire became fat and lazy, collecting heavy taxes from the Hindus but waging too many wars to remain solvent, the Brits seized the opportunity to annex the country and exiled the last Mughal ruler.

Queen Victoria became the Empress of India, the British Raj descended into this exotic country and did their best to tame it to their standards. In 1947 the Brits made a classic post WWII error in separating Pakistan and India, and battles over the riches of Kashmir made them enemies, a situation that continues today.

Tomorrow we visit the Taj Mahal, meeting our Agra guide, Sanjay, at 5:15am to see the sunrise and to escape the heat and crowds.

Quite exciting!! xo, Georgia and Jerry-Ji

Shiva, god of destruction

Saying Namaste to the Oberoi Delhi Hotel and my new boyfriend.
Namaste (Na-ma-stay, with the accent on stay) is used for Hello and Goodbye and means “I bow to the Divine in you.”

Yesterday we flew 1.5 hours to Varanasi, the holiest of the 7 holy cities of India, an area with 2,000 temples where devout Hindus come to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges River. Our hotel is an old palace on the banks of the river, an ancient stone fortress built for a very short king, so you have to duck to enter a lot of rooms.

We learned upon arriving that no alcohol is available here. It occurred to us over our 7 course pre-fixe dinner that there’s no meat, either. Neither, we’ve learned, is offered in a Hindu hotel on the sacred Ganges.

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  When we arrived we received another forehead schmear and blessing and got leis of red seeds with some special significance. They took our picture, I presumed for ID purposes, but when we returned at night we found this framed picture on our table.

Like Christianity, Hinduism has a holy trinity: Brahma created the universe, Vishnu preserves the universe and Shiva destroys the universe. Shiva’s city is Varanasi and any Hindu who is cremated here is believed to go straight to heaven. With such high demand, Varanasi is the only place in India that performs cremations 24/7 . . . all others start at sunup and end by sundown.

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  Shiva, god of death and destruction.

Being the god of destruction isn’t all bad. Shiva destroys in order to renew, rebuild, improve the universe. Our guide book says “his destruction is like the destruction of an artist, a surgeon or a cook, who through destruction transitions things and events from one stage to another.”

The Hindus, with all their ornate gods, are actually monotheistic. There is one God in the heaven. The holy trinity and the lesser gods are manifestations, avatars, of the one true God. Hindus do not pray to this God. Instead, each person picks a god to worship and shows it in the design on the forehead, symbols on the nose, and/or when they attend temple. Hindu worship isn’t centered on a certain day of the week, it’s more like “if it’s Wednesday it must be Vishnu.”

Like in Judaism, when a loved one dies Hindus cover all mirrors and “sit shiva” with family and friends. Their religious leader is a Priest who opens services by blowing through a conch shell to mimic the transcendental sound Om. The conch is much like the Jewish shofar, and the Priest’s calls to God sound much like the calls the Muslim Imam makes every New Year’s Eve at St. Ignatius. The Hindus have prayer rugs exactly like those of the Muslims.

The more I learn about the similarities of world religions, the more I wonder why religious differences become the basis of wars, racism and misery throughout history.

Our Varanasi guide is a very calm, knowledgeable middle aged man named Devesh. He is Hindu as is most of Varnasi, with only 14% of the town Muslim and enough Christians for a church or two. He says there aren’t many Jews here but there are large populations elsewhere in India, particularly Mumbai. He has friends of all religions and says everyone in Varanasi does.

“It is only the politicians that try to segregate us by religions,” he told us. “They use it as fire to create the fear they need for election.”

He aptly summarizes the major world religions as “the same salad but with different dressings.”

Knowing the revered status of Varanasi as a holy town, I was expecting some adorable village with charm and grace. But our 40 minute drive from the airport to the Ganges showed us a town like one would find in war torn Afghanistan — dusty, dirty, gray concrete buildings, many unfinished with stairs leading nowhere, trees but no greenery anywhere else, people vending cheap goods from cheap carts, horns constantly honking, cars and motorcycles and bicycles and bicycle rickshaws all competing for the same lanes just inches apart. Third world.

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Cows are sacred, so they roam freely around the town looking for food, always finding their way back to their owner’s house for a milking. We saw goats, wild dogs and monkeys. You have to really watch for animal poop when you walk anywhere.

When we arrived at the Ganges, we were taken by boat for a breezy 20 minute ride to our hotel. We had an hour to take high tea (for the snacks) and meet Devesh for an evening tour.

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  Carrot cake, cheese sandwiches and fried spinach and onion

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  The Tea Room

Just before sunset we boarded a long boat with red velvet padded benches, rowed by a very young, strong man. Very tall buildings line the Ganges shore above very, very tall stairs of sandstone called “ghats.” Every block a ghat has a different name, like a street, given by the local government. Despite the height of the ghats, the summer monsoons cause swells that flood the lower floors of the buildings atop them.

We were rowed toward the shore to a scene of hundreds of mourners and at least 4 dozen colorfully wrapped corpses laid out on one of the ghats framed by piles of hardwood. We were to observe the main activity of Varanasi … cremation.

Hindu women are not allowed at a cremation, not even as observers. They are home getting the house ready for shiva and comforting those who should not yet be alone. There are no tears or wailing, as men are periodically bringing down a body that is less than 7 hours dead … a loved human that had been alive that morning.

The men wash the shrouded remains down in the river then lay the corpse tilting up the stairs to drain the 70 pounds of water out. The Chief Mourner (the man closest to the deceased) then places the remains inside a carefully assembled pyre (wood from mango and tamarind trees) and has the privilege of lighting it.

Each body cremates in its own pyre for 2-3 hours before the fire burns out, leaving the larger bones — ribcage, pelvic bone, femur — unburned amidst the ashes. The Chief Mourner lifts those bones with two bamboo sticks and ceremonially throws them into the water.

The ashes are later placed into the Ganges by the crematory.

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Once our boat got close to shore Devesh advised me not to take pictures out of respect for the grieving families.

It was a disquieting scene. Fire and water consuming what was life that very day, so primal and spiritual and beautiful and deeply sad.

I asked Devesh about reincarnation, like, could he come back as a filthy animal if he was very bad?

“No,” he explained, “My favorite teacher taught me that we have already been an animal and have reached the status of human by now. We cannot be sent back to an earlier form . . . like in high school when you fail a test you do not get sent back to fifth grade. You are given other chances to improve, even if you must stay where you are.”

He says that there is no permanent place for a soul, not even heaven, because the nature of man is to be both good and bad. So once in heaven it is likely you will eventually do something wrong and get sent back to earth again to grow.

We were then rowed to opposite-land, stepping up to a ghat close to our hotel to watch the nightly tribute to Kashi, the City of Light, the ancient name of what is now Varanasi. There were at least 8,000 people crammed on the steps or on moored crowded tour boats and row boats as far as the eye could see. We were quite privileged to be taken up steps to reserved seats on a hotel terrace to watch 7 Hindu Priests chant and sing, wave fire, ring bells and swing incense. This happens every night for 45 minutes. The Priests were all young men, a new trend now that the religion no longer requires celibacy and allows one to quit any time.

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Back at the hotel we had a “fusion” dinner with terrible combinations — rice and lentils with hot Indian spices smothered in baked mozzarella, penne with watery tomato sauce and limp steamed peppers with hot Indian spices, some sort of mushed bean shaped on a little stick like a corn dog drenched in a brown sauce of hot Indian spices — ie, the fusion of bad food and hot Indian spices.

A fiery seed somehow hit the back of my throat and I choked and caused a scene and Jerry said that during the terrifying crisis as he sat wide eyed and helpless as three adorable 20 year old wait staff tapped my back as I gasped painfully for air, it occurred to him that if things didn’t go well, they could just drag me over to the conveniently located cremation site. Either way, problem solved.

In the night we were awakened at 3am by feral dogs fighting, bands playing, amps pounding, cymbals clanging, and, eventually, fireworks exploding over and over just outside our window. Devesh later explained that it was an annual overnight Muslim commemoration of an important battle that Mohammad won. They were still partying when we left at 5:45am to witness the Ganges in sunrise in our boat. This from people that don’t drink alcohol.

Hindus bathe in the Ganges River as a sacred morning rite.

Later today we walked through the back streets of Varanasi to see a handmade silk and brocade shop and sample exotic oils, each curing some ill. The streets are typical Middle Ages stone streets seen throughout Europe, narrow to capture shade, with shops and carts jammed along the way, and so we saw a bit more interesting side to this ugly town. But in Europe motorcycles and scooters and carts aren’t zipping through the tiny passageways of pedestrians. Cows and stray dogs aren’t taking up space, attracting flies, and leaving their mess smeared on the stone, and the merchants don’t ignore discarded food and containers on the ground.

Devesh, who has traveled the world with a father who piloted for Pan Am, says he chose Varanasi not for the physical offerings but the spirituality of the place and the warm vibe of community. Maybe that’s why many of us with neighborhood crime, high taxes and crooked politicians stay where we are.

Love to all, Georgia

PS: Ravi Shankar is from Varanasi . . . this red building is where he and George Harrison practiced and performed:

India!

Marigolds are holy symbols of auspiciousness, surrender, and sacrifice . . . they are plentiful in all of India and have the added benefit of keeping bugs away.

We’re in India to attend a Mackrell conference in Bangalore May 1-5. Jerry will spend long days in meetings and we all come together each evening to dine and commune and it takes a lot of energy to make the most of it. While we were in this exotic, colorful country for the first and certainly only time, we wanted to be fresh for that and travel afterwards, but the travel agent said that May is the hottest month in India and is followed by the monsoons.

So, April it is. After several weeks of mad internet purchases (Fit Flops, Coolibar clothes, converters, a hat, 3 ounce containers, etc.), clearing desks at work and home for 3 weeks away, a fresh lip wax, messed up pedicure, and heavily lathered full leg shave, I tiredly trudged behind Jerry into Indira Gandhi International Airport in Delhi, India at 1:30am on Friday April 19. We had left Dulles Wednesday evening, traveling for 19 hours and losing 9 1/2 in the process. (Why 1/2? Because India is in between 2 time zones and rather than picking one decided to split the difference).

Delhi is not to be confused with New Delhi, the capital of India. New Delhi is just one of 11 states in the territory of Delhi, with 260,000 of Delhi’s 26 million people.

As we left the airport we saw an ATM to get rupees. It offered us 2,000 but we overrode that to get 4,000 because, after all, we will be here almost 3 weeks. When we arrived at our hotel I googled the exchange rate and found we had withdrawn $57. The suggested tip for the bellboy is 100 rupees, not quite $1.50.

With 1.3 billion people, India is the second most populated country in the world, with 80% Hindu, 14% Muslim, 2+% Christian and 2-% Sikh.

The Oberoi Delhi, an exquisite hotel. When we arrived an equally exquisite woman dotted a waxy something on our foreheads as a blessing then graced us with marigold leis.

Jerry’s lei of marigolds matches his Orioles Under Armour shirt.

The bathroom mirror has a hologram TV set with a remote control . . . I guess while I’m brushing my teeth? In the words of Jim Nabors, “golllllll-y!”

Today we learned that we got very lucky two ways. First, I’ve obsessed over the weather for a month, looking it up online daily and finding Delhi at temperatures over 100 and up to 107 since late March. Meanwhile internet “social customs” websites told me to keep my shoulders and knees covered. All of my summer clothes, of course, are short and sleeveless. This is what my friends to refer to as a “Fuck Me” situation.

Adding to my obsession over excess heat is the grounded fear that my asthma is sure to react badly to the high temps and filthy air so I came loaded with a souped up inhaler, a face mask, and all kinds of pills in case I collapse from lack of oxygen.

But today was . . . really nice. Apparently, as we were getting here a huge storm blew through and made the air clear and quite unseasonably pleasant.

Second, there’s hardly any street traffic in a city famous for street traffic because in a country with 1.34 billion people, 2% Catholics means 27,000,000 people are celebrating Good Friday. It’s also a Hindu holiday with something to do with a monkey god and only the industrious merchants catering to tourists are working.

We fly to Varanasi tomorrow, and then will fly further to see the Taj Mahal in Agra, the pink city of Jaipur, and the wealth and slums of Mumbai over our 2 week trek south to the conference.

Today Punam, a 40 something incredibly well spoken woman, took us throughout Old Delhi (the marketplace) and New Delhi (the temples and parks). She is a Hindu that married a Sikh in a love match, in a country where arranged marriages are still the norm. Her father accepted her husband, though her mother-in-law, 20 years and a grandson later, is still not sure.

A generation earlier, her father was responsible for his 5 sisters. When one married into a caste below theirs, he banned her from their family life for 30 years, only then allowing her to attend a family funeral. When asked recently why he was able to accept his daughter’s Sikh husband but not his sister’s lower caste husband, he replied “because if I had supported my sister, none of my other sisters would have been marriageable.”

Imagine having to make such a choice.

Punam has been a guide for 22 years. She is very knowledgeable and politically liberal. She says the country’s Prime Minister hates the Muslims, doesn’t want to give education to all, and the country is now so divisive that she has lost friends over their political differences . . . . . sound familiar?

By marrying a Sikh, Punam automatically became a Sikh. Sikhism developed as an antithesis to the caste ridden and ritualistic forms of Hinduism, a simple religion whose foundation is “sewa” — social responsibility regardless of a person’s social standing. Every Sikh Temple has a community kitchen where it is considered a privilege to assist cooking the food and serving a simple meal to all visitors.

There are 5 tenets of being a Sikh:

1. Never cut your hair. So men wear the turbans which, supposedly, inhibits hair growth. (Side note: Just because an Indian man wears a turban doesn’t mean he is a Sikh).

2. Always wear a particular plain silver bracelet to remind yourself who you are. These bracelets supposedly helped soldiers remember they should be brave because they were, after all, only passing through to a better place.

3. Wear a small, particular, simple comb to hold up your hair.

4. Keep a dagger for safety. They sell cheesy curved daggers in street markets.

5. Wear a long white gown with special underwear to facilitate battle . . . not sure how that works.

Panem wears the bracelet but nothing else because she is “not Orthodox.”

She also had a red dot on her forehead, a symbol that she is married. It’s a stick-on, disposable dot that she only wore today because she found it in her purse. Her doctor discourages them as they cause skin irritation and damage.

We went to a Sikh temple with hundreds of people sitting on the floor meditating, praying, and enjoying trays of food prepared by the volunteers in the massive, well equipped kitchen.

The internet was wrong about covering one’s shoulders and knees. It is only necessary at temples and there are provisions for that. We were given headscarves at the Sikh temple and my knees were covered by a random piece of fabric kept the front desk. At the Jama Masjid Mosque earlier in the day Panem provided long white robes to cover us from neck to ankle.

When we returned for our shoes we were handed “wipes” to clean our feet.

In Old Delhi we rode a bicycle “rickshaw” that I thought would be touristy but is actually a form of transportation for all, through a fascinating market taking up 6 square miles. The streets are sorted between those that offer exotic bulk spices, fruits, paper goods, wedding favors, shoes, sunglasses, flowers. We didn’t see any meat or fish.

The rickshaw driver was fearless, zipping through the narrow streets with scooters, motorcycles, and all kinds of makeshift vehicles carrying all kinds of merchandise within inches of each other. I took pictures constantly while Jerry, in a quiet voice, so caring and nurturing, kept reminding me that I was going to “LOSE THE FUCKING PHONE” if I wasn’t careful, but I was careful and I think his non stop concern brought us closer together.

We went to the tomb of Humayun, a mausoleum that provided the prototype for the Taj Mahal. Surprisingly, it was beautifully decorated with Stars of David, symbols of Hindu roots of Moses and David, with lotus blossoms etched in the middle.

Too much to tell. I did achieve my goal to get a pashmina to cover my shoulders, handmade, tomato red and surprisingly expensive, from a passionate weaver from Kashmir that pulled out all the stops for us and surely gives Panem a well deserved cut.

Tomorrow we fly to Varanasi to witness religious Hindus bathe in the sacred waters. We bathed in the fabulous Oberoi Hotel pool this afternoon, well, I did while Jerry enjoyed a very British Raj gin and tonic.

Love to all, Georgia