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.