Home

When you're in a foreign country, riding around on a bus, spending all day and night with the same small group of people...things are bound to get deep. So it's only natural that in the course of our trip the topic of conversation turned to the concept of home (ok, ok I brought it up). I was moved and surprised by some of the definitions offered to me by my fellow travelers.

"Home":

1) The place you always return to.
2) Where you feel comfortable living alone.
3) Where your people are.
4) Where it's not about bricks and buildings, but spirit and soul.
5) Where you can get a good night's sleep.

When I returned home to Delhi at 3 a.m., for a moment I forgot time and space. It was like I was back in the old Delhi of my childhood-- walking off the plane, clearing customs, taking in the familiar airport scents and sounds, the humid summer air, the sleepy excitement as I exit the terminal searching the crowd for my granddad... Then I remembered how things have changed and I got ready to hail myself a taxi, when who should I see sitting beside the guard right at the exit of the airport gate? Nani in a pretty pink salwar kameez. It was like old times, but new.

Sky Walk

In honor of Himanshu's awe-inspiring love, I too decided to do the 'Sky Walk', which is a Macau original (you can't do this anywhere else in the world). Since we weren't allowed to take photos on the ledge, (only Sky Walk employees can, and then they charge you for the picture), one of my fellow journalists kindly offered to take a snapshot of me just before I stepped outside:

Born Romantic

For my 22-year old colleague Himanshu, who is in love for the first time, Macau presented opportunity upon opportunity to demonstrate his undying devotion for his beloved back home. When we visited Macau's tallest building (and the world's highest bungee jumping spot), Himanshu put aside his fear of heights and decided to do the 'Sky Walk' around the tower's open-air ledge 233 meters above ground...all for love.

When Aloo took us all to a nearby island resort with a beautiful beach, Himanshu used the moment to write his loved one's name in the sand.

Each night we went on a scavenger hunt to 7-11s trying unfruitfully to find Himanshu a calling card. On one such jaunt we saw a group of mopeds at a red light and Himanshu promptly decided he wanted to immigrate to Macau, buy a moped, and ride around town with his gal. He wasn't joking.

There's something incredible about this kid's all-out, heart-on-his-sleeve, unabashed, unapologetic, love... and I for one am rooting for him all the way.

Sleepy Days

Though Macau comes alive at night with the sound of rolling dice (metaphorically speaking), during the day it's a sleepy, quaint little town filled with churches, temples and row after row of pawn shops... which were completely empty as we walked past them.

According to our tour-guide Aloo, these places buzz with business in the wee hours of the night when desperate gamblers come in ready to sell off their wedding rings just so that they can play another hand. But during the day it's a different story. In the photo above, one of the sales-girls is actually fast asleep.

At another shop, a lady listlessly watched a Chinese soap opera and even her caged birds were silent. The only sign of vitality was at a small jewelry store in Macau's Chinese quarter, where an elderly gent sipped tea with a good friend and flashed a huge smile for the camera. He was the highlight of my trip.

Golden Nights

Macau is connected to China and nearby islands with a series of elaborate bridges that light up golden at night...

Journalists at Work

In the elevators...

In the parks...

On the streets...

Aloo & The Motley Crew

My four days in Macau felt like a mix between a school fieldtrip and a beautiful surreal dream. Our tour guide's name was Alorino, or "Aloo" for short (which means "potato" in Hindi). Aloo grew up in India but moved to Macau 24 years ago for love. Even though this city is now his home, over lunch after some glasses of Portuguese wine, he'll tell you that his heart belongs to India and he'll regale you with stories about the year, way back when, that he spent traveling around Punjab.

There were 12 of us Indian journalists on this journey, each with our own story: a garrulous author of a book called "Surviving Women", a soft-spoken spiritualist with sayings like "Put a green bough in your heart and a song will come", a tone-deaf photojournalist who'd covered Iraq and liked to break into Hindi song at random moments, an elderly travel writer who looked like a little gnome with her big glasses and tiny sari-clad frame...

Each morning, Aloo would meet us at the hotel lobby and we'd roam around Macau in a small white bus with a clock that only showed time between 1 and 3:20 p.m., after which it would rotate back and start all over again.

In the evenings, we'd return to "The Grand Emperor" hotel, a chandelier-filled paradise with a casino on the second floor, 81 real gold bricks laid into the entrance, and stern looking British guards out front-- although, after careful observation and some discreet conversation, we found out that the guards were actually Romanian and had a habit of following with their eyes every pretty girl who walked by.

Wow Macau

Macau is a small city off the coast of Hong Kong with a population of 500,000-- you can literally walk from one end to the other within a few hours.

The city used to be under Portuguese rule but now belongs to China. Along with Hong Kong, it’s considered a "Special Administrative Region", which means it retains a certain level of independence from "the motherland".

Macau is a mosaic of churches and casinos, Portuguese streets and Chinese stalls, old-world charm and over-the-top glamour. It's like an adolescent that's poised to become something, but no one's quite sure as yet what.

Gambling is a major source of revenue, and the government actually receives about 40 percent of all proceeds from the various international casinos located here. In fact, Macau recently out-did Las Vegas in gambling money!

At the kind bequest of the Macau Government Tourism Office, which wants to promote its city to Indians, my colleague Himanshu and I were invited for a four day “sight-see” along with a small group of Indian journalists from various publications (pictured above).

This was Himanshu's first visit abroad and he took a photo of every single thing, including a blurry snapshot of the water as the ferry transporting us from Hong Kong to Macau began its journey.

Did you know...

...that Macau is like the Vegas of China?

It's 4:30 a.m. here in Delhi, and I've just crammed a back-pack full of socks, underwear, and jeans. Am heading to the airport for a six hour journey to Hong Kong. From there I'm told we'll be boarding a ferry to Macau. After scanning the itinerery provided by the Macau Government Tourism Office, it looks like we'll be sight-seeing atleast five zillion churches per day (I'm exaggerating only a little bit), followed by evenings of gambling and 'leisure time'. I think I'm going to like this trip!

Just your typical day

The magazine I work at feels like another world. Just to give you an example, yesterday my schedule consisted of the following:

1) Go to the spa at the Radisson Hotel and experience a 60 minute, full-body "green tea" massage for the "Spa for your Soul" article we're writing in the next issue.

2) After the spa, head to the "Federation of Indian Chambers of Commerce and Industry" where the "Young Federation Ladies Organization" is holding a talk on battling Domestic Violence and HIV in India. Very inspiring.

3) Return to the office where my editor, with a very serious face, asks me to step outside. I think I'm about to get fired, but instead she asks if I'd be willing to go for an all-expense paid trip to Macau and write an article about it. I say yes, casually, inside I'm jumping up and down.

Not a bad job, huh? I could get used to this but the question is, do I want to? I wish I knew what it is I'm searching for in my career. I think the Gods (or whoever's in charge of these big-picture, vocation-type things) should drop me a hint... I'm definitely due one.

New York to New Delhi (via Szeged)

I’ve been feeling a little homesick for New York these days, so a friend kindly decided to visit me, and even mapquested the route he’d take. See excerpt from email below:

“Almost made it to India. See step 24...

1 Head southeast on Chambers St toward Broadway 0.2 mi
2. Turn right at Centre St 0.1 mi
3. Slight left at Park Row 210 ft
4. Sharp left at Frankfort St 0.3 mi
5. Turn left at Pearl St 56 ft
6. Turn right onto the F.D.R. Dr N ramp 0.4 mi
7. Merge onto FDR Dr N 7.7 mi
8. Take exit 17 on the left for Triboro Bridge/Grand Central Pkwy toward I-278/Bruckner Expy 0.4 mi
9. Merge onto Triborough Bridge Partial toll road 0.4 mi
10. Merge onto I-278 E via the ramp to I-87 N/Bronx/Upstate N Y/New England 0.6 mi
11. Take exit 47 to merge onto Bruckner Expy/I-278 E toward New Haven 1.9 mi
12. Take the I-278 E exit toward New Haven 0.3 mi
13. Merge onto Bruckner Expy 5.0 mi
14. Continue on I-95 N Partial toll road Entering Connecticut 62.1 mi
15. Take exit 48 on the left to merge onto I-91 N toward Hartford 36.8 mi
16. Take exit 29 for US-5 N/CT-15 toward I-84/E Hartford/Boston 0.4 mi
17. Merge onto CT-15 N 1.7 mi
18. Merge onto I-84 E Partial toll road Entering Massachusetts 40.7 mi
19. Take the exit onto I-90 E/Mass Pike/Massachusetts Turnpike toward N.H.-Maine/Boston Partial toll road 56.0 mi
20. Take exit 24 A-B-C on the left toward I-93 N/Concord NH/S Station/I 93 S/Quincy 0.4 mi
21. Merge onto Atlantic Ave 0.8 mi
22. Turn right at Central St 0.1 mi
23. Turn right at Long Wharf 0.1 mi
24. Swim across the Atlantic Ocean 3,462 mi
25. Slight right at E05 0.5 mi
26. At the roundabout, take the 2nd exit onto E05/Pont Vauban 0.1 mi....
56. Take the exit onto A4/E60/Ost-Autobahn toward Bratislava/Budapest 36.1 mi
57. Continue straight onto E60/M1 Entering Hungary 96.8 mi
58. Take the exit toward E75/M0 417 ft
62. At the roundabout, take the 1st exit onto 5/E75 4.1 mi
63. Turn left at Párizsi körút 0.3 mi
64. Continue on 43/E68 0.6 mi
65. Turn right at Tímár utca 262 ft To: Szeged, Hungary

Oh and by the way, it is possible to swim the atlantic: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benoit_Lecomte"

Dolled Up

Nani, resplendent in her new buttercup yellow salwar kameez, stitched by her favorite seamstress Bholla, from Eves Tailor Shop.

Finding an Old Friend

Recently, I went with Nani to pick up some salwar suits that she'd given for tailoring. On our way to Eves Tailor Shop, Nani suddenly told the taxi driver to turn into an alleyway lined with fading houses. It turns out one of her old-time friends lived here, but Nani hadn't been in touch for over 10 years. She didn't even remember the exact address, nor did she have a phone number. "It's the house with the three Bhala brothers, the yellow one by the park," Nani told me and the driver. "But everything's changed; the streets don't look the same."

We stopped at a corner grocery and asked the grocer if he knew where the Bhala brothers lived. He didn't have a clue, but by chance a man walking by overheard and he pointed us to another alleyway, also crammed with houses and also by a park. We circled the park, asking a random bicyclist, a lady hanging her laundry, an old man sitting in his verandah... but no luck. Then, we came upon a man fixing his air-conditioner with his daughter. He hadn't heard of the brothers, but he did know of another nearby park in another alleyway. So we drove there, (by now it had been an hour roaming this random neighborhood), and we asked another corner grocer if he knew of the Bhala brothers... and to my absolute shock, he did. They lived in the yellow house by the park, just as Nani had remembered.

We spent a wonderful afternoon with the Bhala family, amidst lots of tears and laughter and catching up. More than the fact that Nani actually found her old friend, I was filled with wonder at the kindness of strangers. At how in India it's absolutely ok to try and find a place without a phone number or an address, and everyone will go out of their way to help you. Delhi is a big city, but it retains these sudden surprising moments of old-world charm.

Deadlines, Drudgery, and Luxury

Wow. Since getting back to Delhi, I've been on constant deadline at the magazine. Somehow, in some bizarre twist, I'm in charge of putting together a "Luxury Booklet". How did this happen??? By the way, here's a little tid-bit: did you know the word "luxury" is derived from the the Latin word "luxus", which means indulgence of the senses regardless of the cost?

Hmmm...which gets me thinking. What's my definition of luxury? Oh yes. Hanging out in a true-blue pool with a new best friend... talking about life, boys, the universe... drinking fresh lemonade... playing a game of 'Marco Polo' with two seven and ten year old sisters who seem to live in the water like baby mermaids... in the evening, going for a bike ride through a fisherman's village...dodging lazy frogs hopping across a red-dirt path... and finally at night, looking up at a sky so clear you think you can see the galaxy.

Sparkys

Before heading back to Delhi, we spent a day in Chennai. Here, we visited Chennai's only All-American diner called "Sparkys". This place was recommended to me by my competitive-eater friend Dale Boone, who's a top-ranking member of the International Federation of Competitive Eating. Dale spends half the year in Chennai making movies and the other half in the States competing in competitions like NYC's "Nathan's Hotdog Eating Competition". He's a regular at Sparkys because it has an all-you-can-eat buffet on weekends. I fell in love with the place instantly too.

Outside, the awning says, "Never trust a skinny chef". Inside, the place is crammed with U.S. license plates, photos of famous American celebrities, and the various booths are dedicated to each of the 50 states. We talked with Tom, the owner and chef (who's not skinny), and who's originally from Hawaii but has lived in Chennai for over 30 years. He is a natural story-teller and life-adventurer. Philippa and I sat at the "New Orleans" table. She ate a meatball sub, and I had country-fried chicken with gravy and mashed potatoes. All the while, Ella Fitzgerald and Charlie Bird Parker played in the background. This was one of the strangest, most wonderful meals I've ever eaten.

Sunburn

The Kailash has the most perfect pool. The water is blue and warm, and in various nooks and crannies you'll find ceramic steps of various gradations to lounge on in-between laps. Philippa and I spent a whole day by the pool-side swapping life stories (she took the photo above while lounging on a recliner)... We also ended up making friends with other pool-goers, namely two young sisters aged seven and ten, who taught us how to do underwater back-flips and handstands. The sun in Pondicherry is brutal though, and I got my first sunburn in 23 years. The last time was on a family vacation to Mexico when I was seven! Below is a shot of the Kailash pool at night...

The Puducherry Auto-Rickshaw Drivers' Association

On my way back from Auroville, I came across an intriguing sight. A group of men standing next to a billboard with a photo of Sonia Gandhi on it. Turns out this is the Puducherry Auto-Rickshaw Drivers' Association, a political society, inaugurated on February 7, 2007. This BJP government sponsored club for auto-rickshaw drivers (auto-rickshaws are a type of Indian scooter-taxi) consists pretty much of the sign, under which drivers gather on the street corner in-between shifts to swap news and views of the day, and play endless games of Carrom (an Indian boardgame that's a mixture between billiards and checkers). The gentleman in the white, Sebastian, is the current reigning champ. These guys are a friendly bunch, and let me join in on their game which brought back fun memories. I used to play Carrom as a kid when I'd visit my granddad during those long-ago childhood summers.

Auroville

While in Pondicherry, my editor asked me to write a story about a place called Auroville, a self-sustaining Utopian society built 50 years ago on the outskirts of Pondicherry. If you visit Auroville's website (www.auroville.org) it says: "Auroville wants to be a universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities. The purpose of Auroville is to realise human unity." Started under a banyan tree on February 28th, 1968 with some 5000 people, today Auroville has a population of 1,700 people from 35 different nations living as neighbors in homes built amidst the jungle (about 1/3 of Aurovillians are Indian). Auroville even has its own school (an examless place called "The Last School"), cafeterias, pizza-shops, a temple, and various community centers.

I interviewed a gentleman named Dilip, (who grew up here), and his 12-year-old daughter, Ayesha, who's half-German. Ayesha took me to her neighbor's peacock farm, where we gathered peacock feathers while she told me about her best-friends, a Korean brother and sister duo named Hansal and Danbi, and a French girl named Sisilia. Later, I chatted with her dad in their beautiful home (pictured above), about growing up in Auroville. In some ways, the people here are really cosmpolitan. They know alot about the world because they live amidst so many nationalities, and many people who live here make yearly visits to friends and family in big cities across the globe. But in other ways, Aurovillians retain a certain innocence, "They're so secluded; they live in an ivory tower", says Dilip. His older son, who's a Rhode Scholar and who went to Harvard, gave up a cushy job at a top-bank and moved back to Auroville where he's writing a book. Dilip said about the kids who grow up here, "They have a hard time in the material world, but they're also very adaptable. They learn to be independent in how they live; they're not interested in going out and getting a job and doing the typical things. My son told me when he moved back here, 'I blame you; you've made me unfit to live a normal life!'"

Lost in Pondicherry

Philippa and I decided to explore downtown Pondicherry, an intricate network of streets lined with flower-filled homes, beautiful cathedrals, shops, parks, and hotels. We ended up getting thoroughly lost in the French Quarter's maze of quaint "rues", and as we tried to find our way, we uncoverd and discovered all sorts of small, beautiful, ordinary things that filled us with delight and left us in awe. For instance, while walking along the promenade, a big strip of pavement running parallel to the startlingly blue ocean, we saw large ceramic rabbits hugging garbage bins...

We stumbled onto a street so white it reminded me of a fairy-tale...

I saw a pink elephant tucked away inside crumbling walls...

The heat in Pondicherry, especially during mid-morning, is blazing, and at random corners, under lush green trees, old men standing behind wooden carts squeezed out fresh lemonade from lemons the color of the sun...

On another street corner, we saw a parrot playing cards and gambling with a group of school-aged children who seemed suspiciously like they were skipping class...

As we walked, we passed tiny temples with roof-top etchings of colorful Gods and animals; and, along alley-ways, we found small antique stores with beautifully carved sculptures of horses and lions...

Even the run-down doors and crumbling buildings in Pondicherry are beautiful, many of them relics of French colonial life.

The Beach Nextdoor

As soon as we put our bags away, we decided to explore the beautiful beach right outside the gates of The Kailash. Below are some photos Philippa, photographer extraordinaire, took. In fact, she's a fellow blogger too, and you can read about her three months in India on her wonderful blog: www.pippalehar.com/indiablog

You can't see them, but the beach was filled with translucent crabs scuttling about.

As we walked farther down, we met a large family from the nearby fishing village who were enjoying an evening swim. They spoke Tamil, Hindi, French and English! We all had fun posing for photos together. That's one of the odd quirks about India. People love to get themselves photographed, regardless of whether they get a copy of the photo or not. It seems all the magic and fun lies simply in taking the picture.

The Kailash

In Pondicherry, we're staying at a place called The Kailash. It's tucked away at the end of a dusty road that runs through a fishing and farming village on the outskirts of the town.

Philippa (pictured above) stayed here in the beginning of her trip to India and she couldn't stop raving about it. It's even better than I'd imagined.

The Kailash is a pink-walled haven, filled with the scent of a thousand flowers, greenery at every step, a big blue pool, and the sound of the ocean nearby. It's owned by a wild-haired gentleman named Raj, who's Indian but has a French accent and who spent a large part of his childhood in Vietnam. Raj meant for The Kailash to be a small home for himself and his wife, but then turned it into a resort. He and his Argentinian friend Dara (who looks after the property) treat their guests like old friends, and during dinner in the lamp-lit patio it's not uncommon for them to join you at your table and tell stories about life and love.

Magical Pondicherry

I've finally made a friend here in India. Philippa's from Boston, and has been visiting the sub-continent for the past three months due to her job. She works in publishing and came to India to meet some of the Indian vendors her company works with. My dear college friend Nitasha put us in touch, since she thought I might be able to show Philippa around. Turns out, Philippa's seen more of India than I have, even in her short time here!

When we first met in February, she told me about this magical place in South India called Pondicherry. I've always wanted to visit, so as a fun farewell to Philippa's last week in India, we decided to take an impromptu break from hectic Delhi life and visit somewhere wonderful.

Pondicherry, now renamed "Puducherry" as a way to throw off the last vestiges of colonialism, has a population of 900,000 but retains the innocence and charm of a small village. There are no airports in this once-upon-a-time French Colonial town, so you have to drive three hours from Chennai (the nearest city) along a coastal road lined with palm trees and beaches.

All along our drive there, we passed these huge billboards advertising Pondicherry and the various resorts in it. My two favorites were: "Pondicherry-- Give Time a Break" and "Pondicherry--Restless and Yet so Calming." Our taxi-driver was a small Tamil man who spoke no English, had a shy smile, and a cell-phone with a ringer that sounded like a rooster crowing!

Just going by the drive, Pondicherry is a place like no other.

Color

Photo Postcard to a Friend:


"Yesterday Nani and I went to her favorite tailor shop, "Eves." Nani hadn't been there in six years. The mission was to get her some salwar kameezes (an indian dress--long shirt and baggy pants) made in pretty colors. Nani's been wearing brown, black, gray and white for the past couple of years.

So we went to Eve's with swathes of cloth----rose pink, lemon yellow, white with pink paisly, and dewy blue...The place was a riot of color itself. it's run by this family (mom, dad, daughter) and they have all these men stitching on old machines in a small room in the back.

The owner ("Bholla" is her name) remembered Nani and even had all her measurements carefully recorded from years back (which have increased a little since). The best part is when Nani uses her age as a bargaining tool. She'll say in her sweetest, oldest sounding voice, "Bholla, daughter, I'm an old lady. I don't have any money. Make it 1000 rupees..." and then she'll actually put her hand on Bholla's hand as she's writing the bill and make kissing sounds and say, "No, daughter, no, don't make it so much." Nani is evil! I'm attaching her "game face" aka "bargaining face" below..."

Bejeweled lady...

...waiting for her bus to come, while her new groom sits behind on his broken-down bike.

The top of Nani's head...

...as seen from the back-seat of a moving taxi:

Small Talk

Email to a close friend:

"Oh wow... I just returned from a true-blue scene. It's "Fashion Week" here in Delhi, and my colleague Varun dragged me to this high flutin party by some fashion designer... According to Varun it was *the* place to be and be seen. I saw, within my first couple of minutes: a man in short shorts carrying a puppet named "Princess"; a lady (and/or man) wearing a huge black funeral-like veil thing with a face so painted I thought it was a mask; a multitude of tall thin ladies of indeterminate age; a sprinkling of "Ferungans" (foreigners) from France, Japan, and the U.S.; men in suits; women in suits; a bar stocked with every kind of drink imaginable; firecrackers; waiters in white kurtas carrying flaming trays of "food" (very miniscule bites to eat); lanterns, trees, a bearded man fast asleep on a cushioned settee... and in the middle of it all, a girl in a jean skirt and black tights, holding a cranberry vodka, smiling at everyone while wondering deep inside, 'What the hell am I doing here? When will I ever find a place where I want to be?'"

The Ruins

Delhi is full of ruins, not all of them historic. Sure, you'll pass ancient Mughal mosques crumbling on a hill, but you'll also find large buildings torn down due to Delhi's constantly and abruptly shifting zoning laws (see photo above). Also, old abandoned houses with gutted windows and trees growing inside; or half-built and broken structures that are now inhabited by whoever sets up shop and stays... like the "restaurant" pictured below. It's actually, literally, a hole in the wall eatery called "Madras Cafe", which serves up fresh, open-air, South Indian food.

Life at the Mag

I feel like I'm living two lives. One is my life with Nani and Thoshi Dadi, filled with fun jaunts around the city to old time shops listening to old time stories. The other is my life at work, where I'm supposed to know what's "in" and "hip" and "happening"... and I don't, nor do I really care to. What I like about my job are the people I work with. They're characters.

There's Varun, an aspiring fashion designer, who likes to recite Shakespearian sonnets just for fun; and Karuna, full of sass and smarts, who's writing a tragic novel on the side; and shy Sunali, who can make even the most rigid businessman open up with his never-before-told secrets.

The editor, Meenu, is possibly the most candid person I've ever met, and she often gets into shouting matches over content and design with "The Two Brothers" who've created the magazine: Prakash, 26, who laughs like a hyena and takes care of sales and Vikas, 24, a frenetic young kid who's in charge of editorial and is always urging his team to "go out, be cool, mingle, spread the word".

The office is a constant mess of old edits and notes tacked up to walls outlining "Serious Deadlines" that never seem to be met. It's impossible to get work done here; everyone sits elbow to elbow (I'm not exaggerating) and between Varun's loud singing of Ella Fitzgerald and Karuna's entertaining stories about her nightly jaunts around the city (such as a party she went to where people actually stomped grapes in big golden vats), it's nearly impossible to write... yet, somehow, the work gets done and each issue comes out on time. I have no clue how. Maybe it's thanks to the endless cups of coffee and tea that are passed out in small styrofoam cups from the "pantry" pictured below:

Nani To the Temple

In honor of Navratri, the religious 9-day festival, Nani decided to go to a nearby temple early this morning and I went with her. It was an assault of color and sound. We walked past security guards into a huge marble foyer, where we passed gold lion statues and portraits of various Hindu gods, to a room filled with people.

Here, devotees offered flowers, fruit and money, in exchange for prasad (a token from the Gods). Nani said a silent prayer, and then lead me outside to a long balcony taking us back to the streets... but not before proudly showing me her small parting gift.

Felicitations, Duplications, Congratulations

My college classmate, Simon, was recently in town. It was wonderful catching up with him. At journalism school, Simon was this charming, British guy who wrote smart stories about foreign policy. When we met this time round, he seemed older and so much happier. Simon works for the Shell Foundation in London to promote programs addressing poverty across the globe. What's more, he's in love--both personally (with a lovely lady) and with his job. We met in Connaught Place after work, and before heading to dinner I tagged along as he ran a few errands... one of which was to get his favorite pair of jeans duplicated at a jean duplicating tailor shop (Do such places even exist?! Apparently so...). Inside "Suku Tailors & Drapers" you'll find buzzing tube lights, shelves filled with every type of jean material imaginable, and Saminder Singh (the gentleman wearing the turban), who proudly says he can "clone" any pair of jeans--Diesel, Lee, Levis, Gap, you name it--within an hour, and that also for only Rs 350 (about $7). I most certainly will be coming back here with my beloved pair of holey jeans ready for replication.

Let There Be Prayer

Today was strange weather in Delhi, with sudden strong winds circling the city. It was also the beginning of the religious "Navratri Festival" also known as, "The Nine Sacred Nights." People were literally stopping on the streets to pray at temples along the roadside (which is easy to do because temples abound here; you find them at every corner like convenience stores). In the photo below, throngs of devotees tied pieces of red cloth to a "wishing tree", asking for their prayers to be fulfilled.

An old lady stopped in front of a locked gate, praying to a huge statue of "Hanuman," the Hindu Monkey God known for his mischievous powers.

Over breakfast, Nani read me the story behind Navratri from her tattered prayer book: Once upon a time there lived seven beautiful sisters. One day an evil man tried to do "bad things" to them, so the sisters fled to all corners of India. On seeing what was happening, the Gods showered them with all the world's strength. "The snake gave his poison; the sun gave its light; the river, its power; death, its strategies..." And so on and so on. With their new powers, the sisters came out of hiding, united, and not only killed the evil man but also everyone that he knew or came in contact with (his entire village). This killing spree lasted nine days and nights. These nine nights are now called "Navratri" and people from all over India celebrate the sisters and pray to them for strength. (I also found out that there's a temple celebrating the "evil man", where people bring liquor bottles as offering. I'm not making this up).

At night, Navratri makes Delhi beautiful. Temples are strung with lights and religious bhajans blare from speakers; old sadhus sit on the pavement smoking hookahs, watching the floods of people who've come out to pray. The photo above doesn't do justice to the scene at the "Ancient Hanuman Temple" in Connaught Place, one of Delhi's oldest and oddest temples. Here you'll find everyone and everything; every type of story--corrupt businessmen giving food to the poor; con men pick-pocketing the rich; beggars swapping tales; young couples out on dates; the elderly weeping for the lost; children flying contorted balloons; pundits breaking coconuts; pilgrims sitting under trees... garbage, cows, ice-cream, snake-charmers, monkey-dancers, truth, beauty, good, evil... It's a human carnival.

Monday Morning

Today morning I woke up with butterflies. Eyes still closed, I felt a soft heat through the window, heard the creak-creaking of my old fan making its revolutions. Driving to work, the trees bowed to the breeze. A long dormant chant, from days of eating pink popsicles and selling sea-shells in the driveway, unfurled within me: "Summer's here! Summer's here! Summer's here!"

Sun Flower Chinese Beauty Parlour

The Sun Flower Chinese Beauty Parlour opened in 1979. Our neighbor, Thoshi Dadi, has been coming here every fortnight since, for the past 38 years. She gets her hair blow-dried and coiled into an elegant bun by a lady named Pinky, a second-generation Indian of Chinese descent, who's known Thoshi Dadi all these decades. Today, Thoshi Dadi took Nani and I to meet Pinky--me for a haircut, and Nani to have her eyebrows shaped. If you look carefully in the photo above, you can see Pinky greeting us at the door.

Inside, there's only one hair-washing sink and shelves filled with old, half-empty shampoos and hair tonics. Large women with curlers in their hair sit behind plastic curtains eating lunch.

A lady carrying samosas and ladoos (an Indian sweet) walks around to the customers selling her wares.

When Pinky's done with me, I look like those housewives from the 60s, with pouffy hair, all bouncy and popping outwards at the edges. "You look so beautiful," says Thoshi Dadi proudly. And strangely, in this odd little gem of a parlor from another era, I actually feel it.

Thanks for the lovely card Nick Y...

here are two signs I thought you might enjoy!

A Family Lunch, A Beautiful Garden

My parents are in town for a few days, and yesterday we had a family reunion lunch in their farm house's garden. It was the anniversary of my grandad's death and it was just the kind of day he would have loved--a day to sit around chatting and sipping chilled beer. It was also a poignant afternoon because Nani and Thoshi Dadi were there. And it struck me that they're the last of the Mohicans. After them, it's my parents who are the "old guys" and my sister, my cousins and I... gulp...we're the adults. (Is this what adulthood feels like? Like being a big kid?)


Speaking of which, these flowers are called "bottle-brushes" and when I was a kid I thought they were magic; unreal. I haven't seen them in years and years. I'm glad they're in this garden.

For Dadoo

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

-Root Cellar, Theodore Roethke

Central Park

My colleague Varun (pictured above) and I are writing a story about old-time tailors. While waiting for one of the tailor shops to open, we sat in Delhi's very own Central Park. It's located in the heart of Connaught Place, which I'll have to blog about some other time because it's a story in itself. C.P. is a shopping/business district filled with modern shops interspersed between old old British era architecture. Tucked away in this hive of activity, you'll also find generations old bookstores, candy shops, knitting stores, and restaurants. In fact, 60 years ago Nani and her husband went on their first date at a still-existing restaurant here called "The Embassy", which is renown for its "Mutton Chomp Masala"-- a gelatinous lamb dish that Nani loves.

While sitting on the grass and enjoying the beautiful day, Varun spouted odd facts and features about Delhi. He's grown up here and knows every nook and cranny of this city. "Delhi is built upon layers of ruins," he said. "What you see now is the seventh resurrection of this city and all the ghosts from the previous incarnations still walk this place."

The Moon Tonight

Holi & Nani's 30-year-old Rice

Today is Holi, one of India's rowdiest, most colorful festivals. The streets are filled with people throwing color at each other, and everybody is fair game. You see men on scooters with blotches of red and green on their office shirts, or people catching buses with their faces covered in pink. Even the police are tolerant of the craziness, and turn a blind eye to the drunk kids riding in crammed vans, toting spray guns filled with colored water. Some call Holi the last of the Pagan holidays. Jeet Singh (photographed above) says it's a time for people to put aside their enmities and embrace each other with joy and fun. It's also a day when everyone gets very very drunk on "Bhang", a drink made from pot juice...


...Like these guys who danced the whole day on the roof outside my verandah to Madonna, the Back Street Boys, and Indian Film songs.


In our house, we celebrated with this delicious sweet rice called "Zarda", a special dish that Nani makes on rare occasions. She makes it with (I'm not joking) a rice that is 30-years-old. My uncle bought tons of it years and years ago from a special farm and Nani has stashed it away all this while. If you think that's strange, one of my work colleagues told me that his family still has a jar of a 14-year-old lemon pickle that his grandmother made just before she passed away.

Sufi Isthiyak Ahmed

I went to pay my phone bill today, and saw this gentleman in the marketplace. Sufi Isthiyak Ahmed is 75-years-old and he's been a carpenter all his life, as well as a Sufi (read: a type of magician who can cure ailments of the soul). I talked to him for a while and he said the prettiest thing about what this world has taught him: "Everything there was to see, taste and learn... I've seen, tasted and learned. My stomach is full with life; I've sampled a little bit of everything. I'm an all-rounder."

Yes, there are cows on the street...

...and also this British-Raj era car called the "Sunbeam"...


...and old crumbling mosques...


...and this put-putting Coca Cola truck...


...and road-side vendors selling plastic balls, and coconuts, and books, and flowers, and haircuts and everything...


...Delhi is like a magic-hat from which you can pull out whatever you desire. In fact, there's a buzz in the city that wasn't here before; it's what I imagine the California Gold Rush must have been like. On the roads you see these signs saying, "India Poised" or "Our Time is Now" and everyone seems to be on the brink of creating the "the next big thing" whether it's in media or computers or big-business or fashion; there's a kind of brassy optimism in the air. I recently spoke with a retired journalist who offered some sage advice. He said, "India spoils you with choice; it's like being in a department store packed from floor to ceiling...so it's easy to get distracted because there's so much happening here. You have to be very clear about your goals because you can do anything." I'm only just realizing how true his words are. I think the scariest (and eventually most exciting) thing to be confronted by is the chance to do exactly whatever it is you really want to do; have always dreamt of doing. That's when you have to answer that hard question to yourself (with nothing in the way to stop you but you): What is it that I want?

Doctor Shahid, the New Man in Town

Recently Thoshi Dadi, our 80-year-old neighbor, brought over her physiotherapist, Doctor Shahid. Doctor Shahid is a young, handsome boy who's very earnest about his job. He showed up at our doorstep with his little black bag in tow and here's the conversation that ensued as he carefully massaged my grandmom's knees:

Doctor Shahid: Where does it hurt?
Nani: (giggling like a school girl) Doctor Shahid, I used to skate in Missourie when I was a young girl during the summers...We'd all, all the boys and girls, skate for hours and hours, drinking coffee and skating away. They called me the 'Skating Queen.' I had long, black hair back then. Do you think my knees have gone bad because I skated too much?
Doctor Shahid: I think you've got Osteoarthritis. I'm putting you on a treatment of laser massage and one hour of daily physiotherapy for the next two weeks.
Thoshi Dadi: Arre Sunita, bring the boy some lemonade... poor thing's been working too hard.
Nani: You're right, Thoshi...he looks too thin. (To Doctor Shahid) Do you eat enough, Doctor Shahid? Please stay for lunch ... Are you married?

And speaking of marriage and/or love or at least extreme like, it's been surprisingly hard for me to find eligible and gallant suitors for Nani. For one thing, Nani is Ageist and doesn't like old men. For another, there simply aren't that many places for the elderly in India to mingle in. I asked Thoshi Dadi where people hang out and it seems they either go to the temple (to pray) or to old British Raj-era clubs (to play Bingo) or to friend's houses (to gamble and gossip). None of these are conducive for blossoming friendships of the romantic kind. But the biggest barrier is that there's a kind of "in bad taste", "shameful", "this isn't the age for that sort of thing" attitude associated with romance after a certain point. People here seem to believe that once you've hit old-age and have "lived your life" aka "raised your kids and seen them settled", you're not supposed to want anything more for yourself-- no dreams or desires or hopes. I ran this observation by Nani as she was knitting and watching her favorite movie of all time, and she said, "Shhhh!" Geez. It's impossible to ask her anything while she's watching this movie. It's called "Love mein Twist" or "A Twist in Love" and it's about these two 50-year-olds who find love unexpectedly. Nani's watched it atleast 10 times and knows all the dialogue by heart, lip-syncing along with every scene. I think I have my answer.

It has been brought to my attention...

...that there is a phallic symbol in the lobby of the place where I work (the Le Meridien hotel). Can you spot it?

Joining The Ranks & Interviewing the Baron

You know that feeling when you board a plane and you have to walk through first class, past those plush roomy seats, all the way back, back, back to economy? That's pretty much what my walk to work is like. The magazine I've joined has its office in a 5-star hotel called Le Meridien. The hotel is filled with every kind of luxury you can imagine, including a television by the elevators playing cartoons so that the guests don't get bored while waiting.

I walk past all of this opulence to a cramped little office on the second floor, jammed between a row of kitschy jewelry and clothing shops.

On my first day of work I showed up at 10 a.m. only to find the place completely deserted...



Turns out everyone worked really late the night before (on deadline for the March Issue) so people only began trickling in by 11 a.m. After that, the place buzzed with energy and by my second day I was assigned my first article: a profile of a liquor baron attending a conference at a hotel nearby. I expected the interview to be really boring and the perfectly coiffed PR lady who was sitting beside him in the hotel coffee shop, didn't give me much hope...what she gave me was 10 minutes. I blanked on all of my carefully thought-out questions and instead asked the first thing that popped into my mind. "When was the first time you got drunk?" To my astonishment the liquor baron chuckled, looked down at his wine glass (white wine), and wistfully replied, "It was in the back of a Fiat car. I was 16. We were swigging from this cheap brand of scotch, my friends and this girl I liked...The night ended with me trying to kiss her and getting slapped!" Go figure. Here I was expecting some bland answer and instead this gentleman hit me with total human honesty. People are constantly a surprise.

All the Forgotten Things

There's a little girl in line behind me for the bathroom at the coffee shop. She's jumping up and down, hopping side to side, tapping her feet. She has to go and she makes me nostalgic for a time when I felt the same. What does it feel like to have to pee so bad you're dancing? When is the last time I felt that so vividly?

It was on a school-trip. We'd taken a three-hour bus-ride to some waterfall and on the trip back I felt the beginnings of having to go, but it wasn't anything terrible. I was sitting next to Gavin. He had a crush on me, and I had a crush on Chris Smith, who was sitting behind me and who always smelled like lemons and made me dizzy when he stood too close.

I remember about two hours into the trip feeling like the world was going to end. I had to go to the bathroom so bad that I folded my head in front of me, my leg shaking to a fast beat, praying to God, promising him anything and everything to let me make it to the bathroom without peeing on the seat so that the liquid would trickle to Chris Smith's feet. That's the last time I remember feeling that strongly about peeing...

Which makes me think of my grandfather and the catheter he'd carry around with him as he went grocery shopping; or to the hospital to pick up medicine for my grandmother; or on his little evening drives in which he, and his grouchy driver Peter, and me in the back-seat, and his whiskey bottle and glass carefully stashed away in a picnic basket by his sandaled feet, would head out in a little white car to dusty side roads lined with fading trees and hidden birds that made so much noise I felt as though my ears would explode.

And the three of us would just sit there with the windows down; me staring at the back of Dadoo's head-- his crumpled neck and sagging shoulders and little white hairs and wheezing breathing. And him lost in some long-ago thought, every once in a while barking orders at poor Peter to roll the window a little more up or a little more down, or to pour a little more or a little less whiskey. Whatever Peter did, it was never just right...and did I mention we'd be listening to music? Yes, old Hindi love songs from tapes so old and dusty that I'm surprised they didn't disintegrate midway through the song, leaving us all in silence, in our own thoughts, in that hot and humid car on the dusty road with the fading trees that I don't even think exist anymore... because most of the things I've written about are gone. They're over.

The Worst Case of Insomnia In the Entire Galaxy...

…is happening right here, right now, to me. I just can't sleep and instead have gained acutely sensitive hearing. Here are the sounds I'm picking up on:

1) Sunita and/or Nani snoring in the room next door.
2) What sounds like at least 200 stray dogs barking to each other as though in deep conference (There's something kind of wondrous about it. I think they're seriously solving the mysteries of the universe out there).
3) A guard outside blowing his whistle and tap-tapping up and down through the streets.
4) A man from the village next door-(whom I've heard before)-vomiting his heart out.
5) Same man knocking on a door that is not opening.
6) The wind through the leaves.
7) A planet slowly turning. (Ok, ok, so I can't hear that... but it sounds really poetic to write it, especially at two in the morning).

PS: Also, in one of those strange twists (and I'm still kind of in a daze about it), this week I turned down what I thought was my dream job (with an upcoming radio channel) and instead have accepted a job today with a newly created "lifestyle" magazine. I'm starting Monday (though it's for a grace period of 20 days after which we'll confirm). It's a small team and the people who work there are really quirky but also super intelligent and human. It's the first place I've interviewed at where the thought of going in to work each morning doesn't give me heart palpitations and make me break out in a serious sweat. Which I think is a good sign.

Excerpt of an email to a friend:

"I don't know...I'm making all my decisions based on my gut... I sure as hell hope it knows what it's doing! Sometimes it feels like I'm living through a crazy screenplay if that makes any sense... like this is all a narrative. Do you know that when I interviewed with the editor, bits of the ceiling from upstairs kept falling down on us through the water sprinkler (they were doing contstruction upstairs)?? He's this hip-looking Indian guy with a thick accent and pictures of his grandma and grandpa up on the wall beside him. He keeps saying, "I want this magazine to be outside the box; I want people who think
different..." I admire these guys because they decided to create a magazine...and then they just created it...even though they have no experience. And when they say they believe in treating their employees fairly, I believe it. Am realizing at the age of 31, that people are the only thing that make anything worth it or anything good. I truly believe that if the people
creating a project aren't full-proof then the project wouldn't be either. We produce what we are...

Enjoy your weekend...You made it to friday!"

Life With a Capital "L"

Excerpt from an email to a close friend:

"Have had an interesting couple of days. Been going out more and meeting a range of people doing all sorts of interesting things. Been on a couple of job interviews, including one at an upcoming radio channel! Have joined a writing group... so things are good, but it's hard being back here some days (am really really working on going with the flow...some days I'm better at it than others). Yesterday was rough. I saw the house (my granddad’s old house) and it's been torn down and is now the Embassy for the Ivory Coast... this ugly brown building where our home used to be. It actually makes my stomach hurt thinking about it.


The good stuff is: there are 26,000 weddings in the city today and literally the streets are filled with lights and dancing.

Infact, there's one going on outside my window right now and they're singing songs all night long! Also, I saw a hotdog vendor in Old Delhi, with a little cart that said "Hotdogs for Sale"...the cutest sight, made me miss New York. I'm going for my first writing group tomorrow. My grandmom fills my heart with love till it hurts... I'm sending you a photo of her with her doctor... And another photo that I think will make you smile: of the "STD Booths" all over Delhi. These are public phone booths where people can make long distance calls, no one here gives the funny name a second thought...

You asked me for a word to sum up Delhi and I think that word is "Life" with a capital L. You're never on auto-pilot here. You're always--through the good and the bad--on your toes, on the edge of your seat, Living."

Nani, Her Doc, & Our Two Delhis

Each morning, our apartment receives two versions of one of Delhi's leading newspapers, The Hindustan Times-- one in English (for me since I can barely read Hindi) and one in Hindi (for Nani since she can barely read English). And each morning over breakfast, Nani and I swap notes on the news of the day. It's amazing because it's like we're living in two different Delhis. In my Delhi: We have a GDP growth of 9.2%, the highest in India's history; The Shiv Sena (a fundamentalist political group) is making a stink about Valentine's Day; and Scarlet Johannson is in town for a charity event. In Nani's Delhi: A huge earthquake is going to hit this city according to a famous astrologer; some kid stabbed a girl on V-Day because she rejected his flowers; and there's a new miracle drug on the market that cures knee pain as well as makes you thin all in one go... Nani was so excited about this new drug that she decided to visit her favorite doc, Dr. Amitabh Parikh. They share a deeply mutual friendship (bordering on love) based on Nani's chronic hypochondria and Dr. Parikh's ability to instantly prescribe a pill for her every ache, pain, lump and bump. Below is a photo sequence of their visit:






As of this blog entry, Nani takes 13 pills each morning at breakfast (excluding vitamins).

Oh Boy

It just struck me that the average age of the people I hang out with here in Delhi is 80. Which is great for the life-wisdom and story-hearing part of things, but doesn't bode so well for my romantic life. I mentioned this to my grandmom who promptly replied, "The problem is you don't smile enough." To which I replied that my mom thinks I smile too much. To which Nani said, "Leave your mother out of this. She's hopeless." To which I said, "Anyways what's smiling got to do with anything?" To which Nani said, "The next time you see a nice boy smile sweetly and with sweetness in your voice say, 'I like your buttons.'" To which I said, "...his buttons??" To which Nani said, "Piya, these are truths from the old days... no one's going to tell you these things anymore... do you trust me? Have I ever told you anything wrong? Just do what I'm telling you and see what happens." Hmmm...now if I could just find a nice boy wearing a shirt with some nice buttons.

Birdsongs on a rainy Sunday morning...

Prem Singh & "Greenways"

I love running errands with my grandmom. She only shops at old family-owned businesses she's been frequenting for over 60 years and I see all these hidden parts of Delhi I never knew existed. Bright and early on this Friday morning, Nani decided she wants to knit a peach-colored baby-sweater for one of my dearest friends in the States (she's having a baby-girl). So we went to "Greenways."

Greenways used to be a yarn-shop filled with rows and rows of every kind of wool, stacks of knitting books, and boxes of buttons of every shape, size, and color. Today, it's mostly a women's clothing store and the wool section has been relegated to a few boxes upstairs, tucked away on a bottom shelf and lovingly looked after by a gentleman named Prem Singh ("Prem" means "love" in hindi), who can tell the quality of wool by sight because he's been working here for over 45 years.

Prem Singh is a small gnome of a man who seems grouchy and mean until he smiles, and then he looks like a shy, little boy. He and Nani swapped notes on how Greenways has changed over the years. "Nobody knits anymore," Nani tutted. Prem Singh nodded, "There's only one company left that still sells us wool...all the others are now making sweaters or importing clothes." He showed Nani and I old, faded knitting books he's saved from the 1950s, filled with British models wearing flower-patterned sweaters. He took out a tattered box of buttons he's carefully acquired from various people and places, "I got this one from a Japanese sailor," he said proudly pointing to a shiny square button in the box. Listening to him and Nani talk, I felt like I'd entered another world filled with stories and history... a world I could visit and revisit forever.

In Recap

1) Best moment of my three hour job interview:


2) Prettiest thing I've seen this week (afternoon sunlight through the curtains):


3) Thing that made me smile on a bad day (funny food stand at departure terminal of Delhi International Airport):


4) Most endearing sight (nani shopping for a temple):


5) Moment when I was reminded that life is beautiful, even when it's not (man on scooter with bushel of roses behind him):

Job Interview & The Black Book of Expenditures

I've finally begun job hunting and recently went for my first interview here in Delhi (see photo above). It was with the digital version of a major English-language newspaper and it lasted 3 hours! Pictured below is the room I spent the majority of that time in:

My main take away from this interview (apart from meeting some really interesting people) was this: I have no concept about the value of money in India. For me, money in India means asking my grandfather for 21 Rs so I can buy a Nirula's Hot Chocolate Fudge Sunday, or bargaining with the booksellers at the neighborhood market to sell me two romance novels for the price of one. I still view this city through a child's eye, because that's how I've known it all these years. So ask me how much money goes into gas per month, or the average cost of groceries for a two-person household, or what salary I should be asking for at a job interview...and I'm at a total loss.

To remedy this situation I've decided to keep a little black notebook and write down everything nani and I spend, so I can get an idea of how much things cost and what we'll need to survive per month. Here are a few entries:

2/3/07-
* 580 Rs, to plumber for washing-machine fixing equipment
* 200 Rs, bribe to MTNL guys
* 200 Rs, bribe to electrician
* 15 Rs, for Internet surfing at cafe
* 100 Rs, Barista Coffee
* 18 Rs, 1 kilo low-fat milk

2/4/07-
*100 Rs, bribe to another MTNL guy
*358 Rs, Sohn Lal ki Puris (got some extra for Thoshi Dadi)
*95 Rs, green sandals for Sunita & Parachute hair oil
*650 Rs, 5 eyedrop medicines for nani
*410 Rs, various steel utensils (2 glasses, 2 bowls, juicer, small bowl for nani's prayers)
*350 Rs, huge crate of oranges and one papaya

2/5/07-
*230 Rs, 2 dish drains to keep cockroaches out, stool, nails
*100 Rs, dish rack
*22 Rs, 1 kilo full-fat milk
*23 Rs, cockroach killer, headache medicine
*1500 Rs, gas
*210 Rs, fruits and vegetables from stand
*450 Rs, miniature wooden temple for nani's room
*290 Rs, for polishing small silver statues of various Gods
*36 Rs, 2 almond milkshakes from Om Sweets

Sohn Lal Ki Puris

This blog is dedicated to my running buddy, Jim, a former chef and food junkie, who's been very curious about hole-in-the wall food joints in Delhi. "Sohn Lal ki Puris," now known as "Bille di Hutti," is one of the oldest in the lot. Located in what's known as Old Delhi, this no-frills brunch spot has been around since 1952--right after the India/Pakistan partition. It began with Raja Ram, and then was taken over by his son Sohn Lal, and then by Sohn Lal's son Bille, and now by Bille's two sons...that's four generations! What's more, my nani knew Raja Ram way back before the partition when they all lived in Lahore, Pakistan. If you look carefully at the photo above, you'll see the sign says "Of Laho-" The "R" and "E" are missing.

One of my favorite childhood memories is visiting Nani's home in Old Delhi (she lived there for over 40 years), and waiting excitedly for my uncle to bring back freshly made puris (fried fluffy bread) and channas (a spicy chickpea curry) from Sohn Lal's. For desert we'd have halva, a semolina pudding flavored with saffron, raisins, and cashew nuts. I remember everything would be piping hot and carefully tucked away in paperbags made from old Hindi newspapers.

Though I've grown up on Sohn Lal's unbelievably delicious food, this was my first time eating at the joint itself. It was jam-packed and men holding steal trays crammed with food floated around as people shouted out how many puris or plates of channas they wanted. This place is not for the feint of heart. You almost have to take a leap of faith that your stomach will survive the unhygienic kitchen from which the heavenly food emerges (see photo above). Still, I'd suffer through two--no make that three-- bouts of the infamous "Delhi Belly," just for a taste of Sohn Lal ki Puris.

Mama Leaves, Chaos Comes

Excerpt from an email to a good friend:

"It's one a.m. over here and it's been a disastrous day until this very second. My mom left this morning, and everything went haywire. The MTNL phone guys came to the apartment to fix my connection. All these people flooded my room, staring intently at my computer, and four hours later they kept mentioning how they needed a "special wire" before they could make the final connection.



Turns out the term "special wire" was actually a polite way of asking for a bribe. Paid them 200 rupees. Then, the washing machine went crazy and actually started hopping up and down and shattered some glasses that were lying on a shelf.

I called the local plumber and he said he needed to get some "special equipment" to fix everything. I thought he was asking for a bribe, but turns out he's a decent chap and actually needed special equipment... so I ended up insulting him (because I offered him a bribe). AND the cable TV conked out so nani couldn't see her favorite soap... AND despite all the bribes and hours of fiddling with "special wires," the MTNL guys said I wouldn't have a connection until next week...

I felt like crawling into my bed and pulling the covers over my head (or calling my mom and telling her to tackle this crazy world while I hide behind her legs and peep out occasionally)... but instead went to the gym, had a really nice chat with my grandmom, and we decided we're going to go for brunch to our favorite spot in Old Delhi tomorrow. And then guess what?? Couldn't sleep, so just now opened my computer to import some photos, and to my total astonishment (awe, wonder, mystification and joy) a little green light started blinking on the MTNL box and I am… connected! I don't know how because those guys said the box had to be replaced, but I am truly thankful! Wow. Delhi has a way of making you not take anything for granted--not a connection, or a clean towel, or life-- and maybe that's one good thing about living here.

ps: I told my nani that you thought she was AMAZING (I showed her your all caps) and she giggled like a school girl and kissed the computer (as in she's sending a kiss your way). Do you know that anytime I compliment her she blows a kiss up to the sky? And when I ask her why she says she's thanking God since he made her. She's so funny!"

Home (kind of, sort of, fingers crossed)

It just struck me that this is the first time since highschool that I've had all my things in one place. Until now, I had random boxes stored with my mom, or with my grandad...and now they're all here and it's fun unpacking and rediscovering them. For instance, I found this beautiful painting (in photo above) that my sister painted for me years ago as a birthday present. I came across a faded "Hong Kong" stamp I'd carefully tucked into a box with cotton as a keepsake. All my beloved books are on one bookshelf and I can now revisit them whenever I want. My lucky maroon sweater with all its threads hanging out is now folded and ironed in my cupboard. I mentioned this to my longtime friend Dinh and she said something beautiful, "It's as though you found this envelope that was sealed for so long and is filled with so many beautiful things that you'd forgotten were yours...and now you're finding them like new."

Thoshi Dadi

We finally met our neighbor-- Thoshi Dadi ("Dadi" means grandmom in Hindi), an 80-year old fire-cracker of a lady with thick, long hair coiled into an elegant bun. She lives alone with her butler and young maid and is fiercly independent. Despite still recuperating from a stroke that's left her partially paralyzed, she believes in the "Power of Positive Thinking" and the "Triumph of Spirit over Age." When Nani asked her if she knew of any good doctors in the area she declared, "Oh forget the silly doctors! We can't let old age get us down! We've spent our youth laughing, why should our old-age be any different??"

Thoshi Dadi and Nani couldn't be more different. Whereas my grandmom, on first meeting, seems like a soft-spoken old lady and only those close to her know of the many wicked thoughts running behind that sweet smile...Thoshi Dadi appears regal and commanding and voices her opinion on everything. And yet I think their friendship will work beautifully because they're both sweethearts (just yesterday Thoshi Dadi sent over her butler with some DVDs for Nani and I to watch), and they're both on the same page about one crucial topic: their respective granddaughters and how useless young girls these days are at finding a good boy and settling down. I smoothly stepped into the conversation at this point and mentioned that I knew of a very wonderful and tall boy from Canada (whom I've never met but whom my grandmom mentions wistfully every once in a while) that I thought would be *just perfect* for Thoshi Dadi's 28-year-old granddaughter, and I'd be happy to pass on his email to her. I know, I know... it's evil to dump my set-up on this poor girl whom I've never met, but hey, all's fair in love and war, and dodging my grandmom's matchmaking takes the skill of a jedi master... but that's a different blog all together.

Room With a View

The first thing I see when I wake up is this:

My room has a tiny verandah with a view of the small village neighboring our apartment building.

Most of the people living here are construction workers who help build some of Delhi's numerous flyovers and high-rises. When I go out on my verandah, there's a whole life drama unfolding before my eyes. I hear people singing, I've seen a fuzzy white dog chasing mice on the roof, a man stitching his pants while smiling shyly at a girl passing by, an old lady who sits in the sun and eats oranges...and at night, Hindi music playing softly from a transistor radio.

Sunita

Sunita is my grandmother's Girl Friday, confidante, protector, and best friend. She lives with us, sleeps with my grandma in her double-bed, cooks, cleans, and tells Nani stories that make her laugh uproariously. They've known each other more than a decade and Nani loves to tell of how Sunita warded off a mob of angry village men who'd come to steal her father's land after he died. Her voice filled with pride, Nani often says Sunita is like a man (which means "courageous" in Nani lingo).

One of Nani's and Sunita's favorite past-times (when they're not telling each other wildly hyperbolic stories about their respective childhoods) is religiously watching Hindi soap operas. Every evening starting at 8:30 sharp, they both sit side-by-side, unmoving, in front of the T.V. From what I've been able to piece together, their favorite soap involves a young lady who is pushed off a mountain by her wicked friend (the friend is in love with the lady's fiancé). The lady miraculously survives, receives reconstructive plastic-surgery from a famous British doctor, and then, with an entirely new and very attractive face, she returns to her fiancé's house incognito as a maid and discovers that her friend is engaged to her fiancé. Nearly every episode for the past year is about the incredibly slow process of it dawning on the fiancé that the maid is in fact his "dead" lost-love and each show ends with him almost finding out... and then not. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but it's riveting stuff.

Beauty Regimes

For as long as I've known her (all of my 31 years), my grandmother has always had a host of "secret" beauty tips and tricks. For instance, decades ago Nani met a 101-year-old lady with sparkling eyes. She asked her what her secret was, and the lady whipped out a small green bottle from her purse. This bottle, also known as "Cineraria Maritima Schwabe," is a homeopathic eye solution made in Germany by a Dr. Willmar Schwabe Karlsrue, and can only be found at a tiny family-owned pharmacy in Old Delhi called "Homeopathic Home." Nani's been applying two drops every night for the past 60 years and she swears it's the reason she doesn't have cataracts and why her eyes still hold the "powers of attraction" (as she puts it). Nani also does 15 minutes of "top secret" hip and butt exercises each morning that look suspiciously like pilates, but she swears there's a magic twist to them that speeds up the toning process. Her real beauty secret though, is what she does every night after dinner. She disappears into her bathroom for half an hour taking with her a bowl of secret ingredients from the kitchen. I promised Nani I wouldn't divulge them, but I will say this: yoghurt plays a large part in this regime. Nani scrubs her face with these ingredients in a complicated series of hand movements and massages...she's never used soap or face creams or anything her whole life. And I have to say, she's 78-years-old but her skin is soft and luminous like a child's. If it wasn't for the overwhelming smell of dairy, I think Nani could have made a real fortune selling her "top secret" face regime.

First Night: Prayers, Peas & Pizza

1/31/07...

Our first night in the new apartment, the place was bursting with bags and boxes. Nani went straight to work making it all feel like home.

She called the "tailor-master" to stitch some curtains and cushions.

She went grocery shopping.

She set up a make-shift prayer shelf in her closet and blessed the house.

She shelled some peas to be frozen for future meals.

In the next room, my mom hammered together furniture in a frenzy...

I stared at the mess that is my room and read through old papers tucked away in old boxes.

Later, we ordered Dominos pizza to celebrate our first night in this new, (but now slightly less new and much more cozy), place.

The Gentleman Downstairs

My grandmom and I are moving into our apartment tomorrow. We just got back from there, had to meet the landlady and sign some papers. The place is a mess, but we decided we're going to tackle that tomorrow and not tonight... Tonight we're back at my parents' farm house. Nani is watching some Hindi soap opera and I'm sitting by the heater typing this blog. I probably wouldn't have internet for a few days... still in the process of proving "proof of residence" to the internet guys, but wanted to post an email I just wrote to a friend:

"Guess what?? Just met the landlady for our apartment and she lives with her elderly widowed dad-in-law. He is so so so cute, I just don't know what to do with myself. They live directly below us (wonder if he and my grandmom will become great friends?) and when I was leaving I asked him: 'Should I call you by your first name or by your last name?' and he said, 'Call me Dadoo'...which means grandfather in Hindi."

I think I'm in love.

It's a Miracle!

I have a phone, an actual working phone!!! Yaay, yaay, yaay (I just jumped up and down). And now the cell phone guy and I are great friends... my first friend in Delhi. Can this day get any better?

"Ms. Doomsday" and Chickens, Eggs, Hills & Dales

I have a new name for my mother--Ms. Doomsday. The lady can find a worst-case scenario not only in a best-case scenario but even in a no-case scenario. See example below:

Me: (Quietly looking out car window, minding my own business.)
Mama: You have to take care of your skin doubly well in Delhi--clean it, moisturize it. The pollution is horrendous here...People age five times as fast as anywhere else in the world. I read in the papers. And stay out of the sun...it causes cancer. Move your face away from the window. Is your door locked? I read in the papers that hooligans these days are grabbing girls out of cars at traffic-lights. Don't trust anyone in this city, not a soul. And don't smile too much. Not even at the old people. Just yesterday they caught an 80-year-old who was running a sex-slave ring out of his little village...don't you ever read the papers??

I'm sure this dialogue would be different if my mom were writing this blog and not me. Her version might go something like this:

Me: (Rushing into oncoming traffic.)
Mama: Piya, I think it is unwise to cross the street without looking both ways.

Jokes aside, despite her doomsday ways, I'm truly thankful my mom is here because I honestly don't know how we'd get anything done without her. Everything is so circular, it's comical. For instance, to get a bank account or a new cell phone you need this mysterious and elusive thing called "proof of residence" which is almost impossible to prove because to prove "proof of residence" you need a bank account or cell phone. Finally, after endless debates, arguments, cajoling, and some foot-stamping a kind stranger let us in on the secret solution.



The Notary. One way to establish "proof of residence" is to drive to a random street where a bunch of lawyers sit under random trees (see photo above) and for 300 rupees they will notarize and "officially" stamp a special piece of paper with a government seal on it that says absolutely whatever you want it to say. My paper said (I'm not joking):

DELHI-AFFIDAVIT

Piya Kochhar, daughter of Shri Nippi Kochhar and Shrimati Rita Kochhar, do hereby solemnly swear, affirm and declare as under:-

1) That I am residing at the following residence in Delhi (list apartment address).

2) That I am an Indian Citizen.

3) That I am applying for Telephone & Internet connection at the above said premises.

4) That this is my true statement.

VERIFICATION DEPONENT (signature)

Verified in New Delhi on this 24th day of January 2007 that the contents of the above affidavit are true and correct to the best of my knowledge and belief.

DEPONENT (signature & stamp)


Back at the cell phone office this special paper worked like a charm--I had a cell phone in no time. It's another matter that they later had to retract my phone number because the cell phone guy authorized it without proper clearance from his boss and it's been almost a week and I still don't have a phone... I'm not bothered at all. Atleast I have proof of residence.

Nani's In The House!

And she knit me a bright yellow sweater...

Good Morning

1/24/07, 10:47 am

"Feeling much better this morning. I saw my apartment yesterday and it has the feel of one of those sitcoms where everyone in the building knows everyone else. Met two ladies-- Raj and Nina. Nina wears jeans, has short short hair, chain-smokes and has a dry sense of humor and sensibility. I like her. The apt is ok, lots of windows. India currently feels so foreign to me. Haven't really been here for five years, or ever really lived here, and I feel out of my depth and overwhelmed...especially yesterday. A scary proposition to think how I'm going to make this feel like home. It feels like I'm doing everything for the first time. Good. This will keep my spirit sharp. My gut says that India's going to be tough but in the end, for the first time in my life, I will feel entirely full and rich with experience and life. I have no idea how any of this is going to happen, or what to expect at all... what twists and turns...but I have full faith it will and full faith that this is the right decision even though right now it is the scariest, uneasiest thing I've ever done. I just have to remind myself to keep breathing and let life unfold as it will...those tiny clicks and clacks turning and setting into motion a chain reaction of events I couldn't even imagine in their intricacy and beauty and surprise and depth."

New Delhi

Some notes from my first day...1/23/07

5:04 am:
Plane boarding. Feeling all these emotions welling up in me. I don't think excitement, more like bittersweetness and it hurts my throat. Living with Nani in Delhi has been a dream for so long and now here I am three hours away from it and... I'm scared and wondrous. Is this really happening? Am I actually really doing this??

6:33 am:
HOLY SHIT. It just struck me, I don't have any friends in Delhi. They're all in NYC or in other parts of the globe. And I don't have a job. Oh boy. Is this a mistake? Just going to breathe deep and sip my orange juice from this very very small glass.

7:41 am:
We're landing. Person beside me has window down... Delhi looks very small, aren't there any high buildings? This truly feels unreal. I'm looking out the window and I feel nothing, like looking at chopped liver. I remember when Dadoo was alive this was my favorite part of the journey. I'd look out and Delhi would be all these tiny lights like jewels and I'd have to hug myself to stop from squealing with excitement. Wow. Things change.

7:58 am:
Ok, now the tears are coming, nose is leaking. Why am I crying? Relief or sorrow or both? Have no idea.

2:15 pm:
Mama is driving me crazy. I'm glad she's here to help me settle in...but geez. She's not giving me a second to process anything. We've been doing all these boring jobs straight from the airport. Haven't even had a chance to call Nani. I feel like a 14-year-old (make that seven) who wants to stamp her feet and throw a tantrum. Instead, I'm sitting here in this stupid bank sulking and writing in my diary while mama is having a circular and completely pointless conversation with the bank manager that goes something like this:

Mama- We'd like to open an account for my daughter?
Manager- Sure ma'am. We'll need proof of residence.
Mama- Here's her passport.
Manager- That's not sufficient ma'am. Do you have an electricity bill? A phone bill?
Mama- She just moved to the country this morning. She doesn't have a phone yet. She's not even moved into her apartment. Will a rental lease do?
Mananger- No ma'am. We need proof of residence... An electricity bill? A phone bill?
Mama- Look, to get the telephone setup they said she needs proof of residence, like a bank account. So how do you suggest we do this? This is a chicken and egg story... ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.
Manager- I'm sorry ma'am. We need proof of residence.
Mama- Here's her passport. It says she's Indian...
Manager- That's not sufficient ma'am... (and repeat whole conversation again at least 4 times)

4:35 pm:
Saw apartment. Very dusty. Lots of daddy long-leg spiders and one small lizard. Lots of windows, also a nice gym nearby. Thank God. Why is everything feeling so unreal?

6:37 pm:
Drove by the road that leads to Vasant Vihar street and where Dadoo used to live. Gave me a jolt to see something so familiar out of the car window. Shut my eyes tight till we passed. I'm such a baby.

6:52 pm:
This is not the Delhi I spent my summers and winters in with Dadoo. I want to turn the car around and go back to NYC. I think this is a huge mistake. Feeling very uneasy, hard to breathe.

8:47 pm:
We're back at mama and papa's farm house. Staying here till apartment is set-up. Had a warm shower. Just talked to Nani. She sounds really excited. Cheered me up hearing from her. I'm so tired. Think I'll send some emails and then crash.

1:49 am (part of an email to a good friend):
"Just got back to Delhi. Being here is strange. It's like all my old memories and feelings were for another Delhi, and this Delhi is an entirely clean slate. For the first time in my life I don't know how to feel because I truly don't know what to expect."

Here we go!

It's 2:30 am. It's my last night in Dubai. In a couple of minutes I'm going to be heading to the airport and in another couple of hours I'll be in Delhi. Wow. I have no idea how this year is going to play out, or what my days will be like once I reach India... I know I'll brush my teeth in the mornings, but from there it's all an open field. I do know one thing for sure--this is going to be one grand adventure. Stay posted. Oh, the doorbell just rang, the car's here. Gotta go!

It's a Small, Strange World

McDonalds at the Al Khaleej Center, Dubai, U.A.E.


Western Union near Spice Market, Dubai, U.A.E.


Ikea at Dubai Festival City, Dubai, U.A.E.


Little Caeser's Pizza near Ibn Battuta Mall, Dubai, U.A.E.


Starbucks Coffee at the Ibn Battuta Mall, Dubai, U.A.E.


Subway sign near Old Souk Abra Station, Dubai, U.A.E.


Central Perk Coffee at The Global Village, Dubai, U.A.E.

Stevie and "The Pyramids"

I've known Stevie since we were kids (that's him and his wife Sapna in the photo above). Even though these days Stevie appears to be a perfectly respectable adult, to me he'll always remain the kid who'd alternately horrify and disgust my little sister and I with an endless repertoire of ghost stories and vomit jokes. So imagine my delight when my parents mentioned that he and Sapna live and work in Dubai (he's a banker and she's a lawyer).

Sapna and Stevie were kind enough to introduce me to Dubai's raging night life. Like everything else in this city, it's slightly strange and wonderful all at the same time. We drove to this ritzy building called "The Pyramids," so named because of the glittering pyramids on the roof and the mummies in the entrance. There are also a bunch of bars and lounges inside. I felt like I'd stepped into a James Bond flick or one of those Bombay Sapphire ads where everyone's super dapper and beautiful and having a ridiculously good time. If you look carefully in the photo above, you'll see a guy in a black jacket who's grabbing this other guy's neck playfully. Ten minutes before this photo was taken he was actually standing on a table, giving a toast and saying, "Pip pip!" to a cheering crowd. Unlike other places in the middle-east, it is legal to drink alcohol in Dubai. You need a liquor license to drink though (not unlike how you need a gun permit to own a gun in the States), and you can't be Muslim. There's also a 30 percent tax when you buy alcohol here, even though nothing else in this city is taxed. Anyways, if you ever happen to be in Dubai in a bar called "Ginseng" in a building known as "The Pyramids," I recommend you order the lychee martini. It's very good.

"We're not in Kansas anymore..."

Camel Crossing sign on highway, Dubai, U.A.E.


Men's Prayer Room sign in Al Khaleej Center, Dubai, U.A.E.

A Beautiful Day

Today is a beautiful day. The sky is gray, there's a light breeze, and the trees and flowers look super green. What I love about being home (home being where my parent's are) is looking through old photos and letters. My mom saves everything. A couple of summer's back I found a big file folder filled with letters my dad wrote to his parents spanning 20 years starting from the age of five. My granddad filed every single letter and passed the folder onto my mom for safe-keeping. It was amazing reading through them. For as long as I've known him, my dad is a serious, logical, banker-type. But in those letters he was a different person-- a romantic soul who wrote cheesy poems about life and love. Now I know where I get that gene from! Anyways, I came across this ancient birthday card I made for my grandfather when I was seven. Can't believe my mom still has it.

Kiran and "Old Dubai"

A surprise perk about visiting Dubai is reconnecting with old friends such as Kiran. Kiran's the girl holding the camera in the photograph. We knew each other as teenagers when my parents were posted in Indonesia. After all these years we met up again (she's visiting family in Dubai too) and spent a wonderful day catching up on life and love. Kiran's now a professional photographer who lives with her husband in Montreal! Check out her website at: www.kiranambwani.com. She and I photographed the nooks and crannies of what's known as "Old Dubai"... she on her professional, big camera and me on my tiny, Sony digital. In the photo above, Kiran is taking a picture of a vendor in Dubai's "Spice Market." Below are some more shots of the market...



Right next to the Spice Market is the Gold Souk, which consists of an endless row of crammed stores brimming over with gold and silver jewelry. People from all over hustle and bustle while bored-looking store owners sit behind glass windows and watch the world go by.

The Mall

Angad tells me that the mall is *the* major hangout here in Dubai for locals and expats alike. It's like the town square, the promenade, the gathering point for people of all ages. Though everyone at the mall gets along pretty well, I've heard that it's very important for expat kids to have "backing" from locals...otherwise they'll get beatup. So interesting. Also, did you know there's a new sect in highschools these days called "Emos?" The "Emos" are hyper sensitive kids who listen to sad songs and wear black eyeliner. They hang out at the mall too. The photo above shows one of Dubai's largest malls--The Mall of Emirates. It's like the Mall of America in Arabia. That strange silver, slide-shaped thing on the roof is an indoor ski-slope. No joke. I decided to investigate.

On the second floor by the foodcourt there's this huge glass wall, and behind the wall this is what I saw:

"Ski Dubai" covers 22,500 square meters (3 football fields), has 5 ski-slopes going up to 25 stories high and 6,000 tons of real snow created year round. Visitors can buy a skiing day pass for 230 Dirhams (about $62). Right next to the ski slope is the "St. Moritz Cafe" which has wood walls, bear-skin rugs, and a faux fireplace. People eat and drink while watching the skiers on the other side of the glass window. To make it all the more authentic, while I was sipping my coffee a group of children had a snowball fight and excitedly slid around on snowboards. This European guy on the table beside me couldn't stop mumbling to himself, "Thees eeezz crazy...just crazy..."

Angad and "The Global Village"

I've made friends with a 16-year-old kid named Angad, who also lives in the Arabian Ranches. He's one funny guy, and he's become my unoffical tour guide because he knows all the weird little facts and features, ins and outs, of this city. That's him in the picture above. It was taken at this World Fair type thing called "The Global Village" that comes to Dubai every year for a month.

"The Global Village" is right near the Arabian Ranches and Angad convinced me to go, saying it was a sight to see. He wasn't kidding. It's a big bustling fair and all these countries create elaborate stalls with samplings of their culture. There's fun rides and lots of icecream and musical fountain shows... It's a blast. It's also very very weird. As you walk through you slowly start realizing that these aren't your typical stalls. Sure there's the Japan stall and the London stall and the Thailand stall, but there's also the Kuwait stall...

And the Afghanistan stall...

And the Palestine stall...

And the Rwanda stall...

And spookily, the Iraq stall...which had a bunch of people hanging around outside, but was completely deserted from inside.

Arabian Ranches

Dubai has a population of 1.4 million. About 60 percent of that figure is made up of "expats" or foreigners who are working here with multinationals. There's a lot of British and Indian people here and most of them live in "compounds," which are these huge gated communities that are almost little cities inside complete with shopping malls, gyms, polo clubs, schools, medical centers and restaurants! Many compounds have names and slogans that crack me up such as: "Falcon City--Live the Legend" or "Al Barari Villas--Your Sanctuary For Life." My parents live in the "Arabian Ranches" and you can see their street in the picture above. To give you an idea of how huge this place is, there are atleast 2000 villas in the compound...and all the houses look exactly the same. When I go for my evening run I almost always get lost and end up running longer than intended. Somehow asking passersby, "Excuse me, do you know where the brown villa by the palm tree is?" just doesn't cut it.

Though the compound scares me, I have to say that whoever designed this place certainly knew how to create a good backyard. When I'm not exploring the city, I lie down on my mom's cushiony swinging-chair with a stash of trashy magazines and listen to my ipod. This is truly one of life's perfect pleasures.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

I've been in Dubai a week now and the most striking thing about it is how it's traditional and modern, western and middle-eastern, barren and cosmopolitan all at the same time. It's got these mammoth malls with every designer-make you can imagine, right alongside old crumbling markets that sell spices and gold. Sometimes when I'm in the car, we'll pass a herd of camels and a second later a young arab kid will zoom by in his porsche. And unlike other middle-eastern countries, women here have the freedom to dress however they like. Some dress in short skirts, while others are all covered up with black veils. It seems anything goes in this city...you can find whatever you're looking for. In the photo above, notice the stock-exchange ticker running under the big "Dubai-City of Gold" board.

People joke that Dubai's national bird is the crain, like the machine, because there's always some new building under construction here. In fact, as I type, the city's in the process of building what will be the world's tallest skyscraper (it's now 100 floors high, and they're still going higher). In the photo below you can see Dubai's modern skyline in the background, as a lady in a traditional "burkha" waits for an old-school, gondola-like water taxi called an "abra." Many Dubai locals use abras as transportation, even today.

That's the thing about Dubai. Sometimes when I'm sipping coffee at the Starbucks, I'll feel like I'm in the U.S. and then suddenly I'll be reminded that I'm not. For instance, weekdays run different here. They go from Sunday to Thursday, with Friday and Saturday off. Or, I'll see all these ritzy buildings but also at every corner beautiful ancient mosques...

I took this photo when we went for dinner to my parent's friends' house. Imagine a row of houses like you'd find in suburban New Jersey, and literally across the street was this sight! The boat shaped hotel right next to the mosque is a world-famous 7-star hotel called "The Burj"--it's shaped after Dubai's olden-day shipping vessels. You can't enter this hotel unless you're a guest, or you've paid a hefty entry fee, or you've been specially invited by the Sheikh of Dubai. They say the taps are made of solid gold and the walls are papered with pure gold sheets. So odd.

And speaking of odd, I saw this funny window display while out shopping with my mom.

Dawn of a New Day

Oh my god, I've cracked jetlag! It's a break-through! It's 6 a.m. and I just woke up, so I made it through the night. Took exactly a week. Wow. And it couldn't have happened at a better time...just yesterday my little sister emailed begging me to stop blogging in the early hours because it was putting her to sleep (to which I promptly replied I wished it were putting me to sleep because then I wouldn't be writing these boring blogs that are putting her to sleep). Ok, gotta go. Going downstairs and making myself some coffee like normal people do in the morning. I feel like I've joined the land of the living after a long exile. Too bad nobody's actually awake to witness this momentous occasion.

It's True

Well, I now know atleast one thing for certain. Things do seem funnier, more profound and better at 4 a.m.

Good Ol 4 a.m.

So, here's what I'm wondering:

1) What's the opposite of "Dog?"
a) God b) Cat

2) You know how on a train you can either sit facing forward (and see where the train is going) or sit facing backward (and see where it's passed)? Does where a person prefer to sit indicate something about their personality--like they're more "nostalgia oriented" or more "forward thinking?" Does it even make a difference really? They're still sitting down and looking out the window, right? The train's still going, isn't it?? Someone used this as a metaphor while discussing my future with me today, and I woke up this bright and early morning wondering about it....hmmmm.

3) Do you think things seem funnier, more profound and better at 4 a.m.?

4) Did you know there's the Dubai International Marathon being held here on Friday (only a week after I arrived)? And did you know that a week after I arrive in Delhi, they're holding the Delhi International Marathon? And did you know that only recently I myself ran a marathon in New York City? Coincidence? I think not.

5) Where do all the bad, I mean really bad, American sitcoms go? By any chance, are they sent overseas to random channels like "Tunisia TV" where people with jetlag who are awake really late at night have no choice but to watch them because there's nothing else on television despite the 500 channels on Dubai's cable network? And if that's the case, isn't that really wrong of the U.S.? Kind of like dumping pollution or garbage on the third world? Though then again, maybe these sitcoms will be a hit in some other culture, so why shouldn't they be given their fair shot at success? And speaking of success, isn't this a great quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson?

"To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty; To find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived; This is to have succeeded."

Gulp

It's 3 a.m. I'm in Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. I have jet-lag. Just a few days ago I was at a bar in Manhattan sipping a whiskey soda, taking the subway home to my window-filled apartment in Brooklyn. And now here I am, for a brief stop-over at my parents' house in Dubai, and then off and away to New Delhi, India where I plan to stay...a year? Indefinitely? Who knows?

I'll write more about why I'm making this move in a later blog... but for now, late at night when everyone's asleep and I'm the only one awake, I'm thinking about weird abstract things like, "What exactly does 'home' mean??" It suddenly feels like a really strange concept that I can't quite get a handle on.

I feel like I have so many places I consider home, and at the same time I don't have any place to call a home. Because of my dad's job as a banker my family moved from country to country every few years... all of these places feel like home in my memory, but I guess if I really had to pick a place, I'd pick the small white house on a tree-lined street in New Delhi. This street was called Vasant Vihar (translates to "The Green way") and the house was my grandad's. My family returned to him and my grandmom every summer and winter no matter where in the world we were posted.

I loved getting off the plane and smelling that unique Indian airport smell of cloth and burning fires and wet paper and hot tea. I loved how my grandad and his house-keeper Krishen would be waiting for us outside of the terminal, and I'd always spot my grandad first because he always wore this furry brown cap and a hunting vest and sandles that showed his plump clean toes.

I remember how it would usually be late late at night (like it is right now), and as we drove home the streets would be empty, except for a few sleeping dogs who would wake up and chase our car half-heartedly. I remember the gates to our street had two garbage dumpsters on each end... and I even loved that smell of rotting vegetables because it meant that in just a few moments we'd be driving down the street to the smallest, oldest house in the row of big shiny houses, and Krishen would be opening the old black gate, and we'd be driving under the steel awning with the hanging dense green vines, and the car would go silent and I'd hear a key turn in the doorway upstairs (my grandmom eagerly awaiting) and the sound of crickets and the scent of night flowers blooming and the soft scrape of suitcases being unloaded and my grandfather's wheezing breathing as he smiled and turned to me silently saying, "We're home."

I also loved waking up that first morning back in Vasant Vihar. I'd feel the light on my face from the big open windows in my grandparent's room. My sister and I would be on a mattress on the floor by their bed. My grandmom would have on religious gazals playing from an old tape-recorder. I could hear her in the kitchen, and smell the fresh oranges from which Kirshen squeezed us all juice that was such a rich deep color it was almost a shame to drink it. Even before opening my eyes, I'd hear my grandfather breathing and chewing his tobacco and the scratchy sound of his pencil doing the crossword in the newspaper. I loved this moment so much I'd keep my eyes closed just a little longer and from outside I'd hear the vegetable vendors screaming from their bikes, "tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes...fresh, fresh, fresh." And the crows and the cars passing... wow, even as I'm writing this I feel like I'm there.

Sadly, that house doesn't exist anymore. My granddad passed away two years ago, and my dad sold the house and I hear it's been turned into an apartment building. I haven't been back since my granddad's funeral... and I guess that's where the "gulp" part of this entry comes in.

I'm excited about going back to Delhi. I have some grand plans to rescue my grandma (from my mom's side) from her alcoholic son and embark on a series of adventures with her in which we watch lots of romantic Hindi movies and eat lots of delicious snacks. My grandma and I are going to live in a small 2-bedroom apartment with lots of windows...which is good. She doesn't know this, but I'm planning on finding her a suitor who will come over in the evenings to drink tea with her and tell her she's beautiful (which she is--the woman has the most amazing skin I've ever seen). I've also found out that our neighbor is a firecracker of an old lady named "Thoshi"... she's 80-years-old and she lives by herself because her no-good son ran the family business into the ground. I have a feeling Thoshi, my grandma and I will be great friends.

Anways--what I'm nervous about, and I've not really verbalized it before, is going back and finally knowing for sure that my home in Vasant Vihar is no longer there, that my grandfather is really gone. I think until now I could still somehow pretend like everything was the same. It's not the same. And I guess part of life is accepting that and moving on and creating new memories... I'm looking forward to that, the creating of new memories and the creating of new places to call home.

I'm also really proud and amazed to call New York my home. I don't know how that happened. When I first came to New York I hated it and I left it, and then I came back to it and didn't plan to stay long but ended up staying 3 years...and somewhere along the way I fell in love with it and now I will always consider it my home.

I guess that's what I'm hoping to do by returning to India--to make it feel like home again too. I think maybe in my life I will have many places I call home. I want these places to be filled with a diverse group of friends I love and who inspire me, and with little quiet coffee-shops I hang out in, and bars in little nooks that not many people know about but where the bartender knows my drink. I want home to be a place where I can walk out the door and randomly talk to a stranger who randomly tells me a story that I'll remember for days if not a lifetime to come. I think a park, and lots of greenery, and a way to leave the city and find some water and flowers...that should also be a part of any place I call home. I also have a fantasy of becoming friends with some crotchety old man who owns a musty bookstore...wow, if that's part of home that would be amazing!! But I'm not going to be too unrealistic... he doesn't have to own a bookstore.

Ok, this entry is way way too long. I loved writing it though. I think I'm really going to like this whole blog thing... makes jet lag alot more fun.

Good night (well actually, i'm not sleepy as yet. think i'll go watch some tv)