Yes, we were invited to another wedding. Except this time, it wasn’t an actual wedding, it was the reception, a chance for everyone to see the bride and groom. The reception took place in Cuttack, which is about an hour’s drive from Bhubaneswar, so we had to leave at 7:30 in order to reach in time. When we entered, we met the bride and the groom, who were sitting at the front of the room in two throne-like chairs. The bride was again decked in traditional Indian clothes, wearing an orange sari and decked in at least three kilograms of gold. She had gold everywhere from her hair and nose ring to her ankles, where thick gold anklets were wrapped around her ankles. After taking pictures with them, we went to do pranam to all the relatives, many of who we hadn’t seen before. During this time, we were introduced to three girls, ages 19, 16, and 10. They were my father’s cousins, meaning that they were my aunts. I had never had an aunt that was younger than me, so it was a new experience.
We started talking about school and college, which was the first topic in almost conversations (seriously, after introducing who you were, the first question most would ask would be, “What grade are you in?”) We conversed in English, as they had gone to an English-medium school as opposed to an Oriya-medium school (meaning that they were instructed in English rather than in Oriya) and were quite fluent in English. During dinner (which was quite delicious), they bombarded me with questions about life in the US. They asked about our “night life,” to which I promptly responded that I had none, seeing as I didn’t live in a city, and they asked about Prom and school dances (which don’t exist in India), and other things that kids in America take for granted but which don’t exist in other places. There were many differences in our two cultures, but that’s not to say that there weren’t any similarities. Taylor Swift and her songs were one of the similarities that existed, and by the end of the night, we had exchanged emails, promising to keep in touch. All three girls desperately wanted to visit America, but knew they couldn’t until they had finished college. It’s times like these where you realize how lucky you are to be living in America, the land of many, many opportunities.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Puri
Every time we visit Bhubaneswar, we also visit the town of Puri. Puri is famous for its temple, the Juggernath temple, from which every year a giant statue of the God Juggernath is taken on a journey. The trip from Bhubaneswar to Puri is about an hour, so we normally leave early in the morning so that we can come back as early as possible, for Puri becomes extremely hot in the afternoon.
The first temple we visited in Puri was that of a Goddess, who supposedly granted whatever you asked of her, providing that you promised to give her something in return. My dad said that whatever he had asked for he had received, but I was not too sure that it was completely because of the Goddess. Leaving reason and logic behind, I too asked for something and promised something in return. The interesting thing about this goddess is that she is the only goddess in which fish can be given too. In most Indian temples, fruit and milk is given to the Gods as food; in this temple, fish was allowed.
After dropping my aunt and grandmother off at our ancestral house (which has been in our family for five generations), we went to Juggernath temple. The car was only allowed up till a certain point, after which we took a rickshaw to the temple. Shoes weren’t allowed in the temple, so after leaving them outside and washing our feet, we went inside the temple. This is one of the few temples in which only Hindus are allowed inside; in fact, one of India’s Prime Ministers, Indira Gandhi, was not allowed inside the temple because she wasn’t Hindu. Inside the temple are a series of mini temples, each devoted to a specific God or Goddess. We visited almost all of them, almost running across the scorching marble from temple to temple. After visiting the smaller temples, we went to see Juggernath. The doors (which Juggernath is kept behind) were closed, as this was the time in the festival in which Juggernath was “sick”. The story behind this is that all Gods come to earth, and so as part of Juggernath’s mortal life, he also falls sick, which is indicated by this time in the celebration (he also gets married and takes a vacation before he finally returns to his resting spot in the temple). After leaving the temple, we went to one of the restaurants that we also always go to in Puri (more because it has air-conditioning than because of the quality of food available). While walking, many, many of the beggars in Puri came and asked us for money. In fact, the amount of poverty in Puri seemed to be exponentially higher than that of any other city I had visited. And it wasn’t just this time that I had noticed; every time we visited, the poverty in Puri seemed to be increasing. There are a few possible reasons for this. Perhaps this was because of the fact that Puri itself hasn’t changed very much. I asked my dad if Puri looked any different from the time when he used to come during his summer vacations and he promptly responded that nothing had changed. With no change coming into the city, the opportunities for the newer generations are extremely limited. Most sons of priests know that they are going to be priests, so they don’t go to school and receive an education; instead they sit around all day, asking for money so that they can spend it on whatever they want. However, many of the beggars were women. For that there is another explanation. Many times if the husband dies, the family casts out the wife so that they get the land that the husband had. They can’t simply throw her out of the house in their own city, as then their reputation would be tarnished, so they bring the widows to Puri and then leave them there, where they are exploited and have no way of bettering their situation. Puri desperately needs some change, but as it is a religious city, change will be slowly accepted.
Anyway, after lunch we visited our ancestral house to rest before we visited my grandfather’s sister. The house itself has not changed at all. Ever since I can remember, the house has looked the same, with the sole exception that there used to be a cow that used to live in the house, but now is on the streets. I wasn’t in the mood to rest, so I began to flip through some old wedding albums. I came to my parents’ wedding album, which I had never seen before. It was interesting to see how everyone looked-not only my parents but other relatives. Soon everyone was flipping through the albums, reminiscing about weddings and the time when this happened or the time when that happened.
Going to my grandfather’s sister’s house was last on the agenda, and we only stayed for an hour. I had a little bit of fun playing caram with my cousin. The caretaker and his wife came to join us in playing caram, and for the hour that followed, the conversation was reduced to smiles and some broken Hindi (the caretaker’s wife fortunately spoke Hindi and Oriya, so she became our translator). This caused for some awkward moments, but it was still a fun experience, and by the end of the game, we were smiling and laughing as though they were my relatives who I had known for years. My hope is that after my grandfather’s sister dies, they get the house, as the caretaker’s family has been taking care of my grandfather’s family for years.
That culminated the trip to Puri. On the way back we passed by the Konark Beach, a beach we normally visit but this time decided not to. Hopefully Puri has changed by the time I next visit the town, but I’m not hopeful.
The first temple we visited in Puri was that of a Goddess, who supposedly granted whatever you asked of her, providing that you promised to give her something in return. My dad said that whatever he had asked for he had received, but I was not too sure that it was completely because of the Goddess. Leaving reason and logic behind, I too asked for something and promised something in return. The interesting thing about this goddess is that she is the only goddess in which fish can be given too. In most Indian temples, fruit and milk is given to the Gods as food; in this temple, fish was allowed.
After dropping my aunt and grandmother off at our ancestral house (which has been in our family for five generations), we went to Juggernath temple. The car was only allowed up till a certain point, after which we took a rickshaw to the temple. Shoes weren’t allowed in the temple, so after leaving them outside and washing our feet, we went inside the temple. This is one of the few temples in which only Hindus are allowed inside; in fact, one of India’s Prime Ministers, Indira Gandhi, was not allowed inside the temple because she wasn’t Hindu. Inside the temple are a series of mini temples, each devoted to a specific God or Goddess. We visited almost all of them, almost running across the scorching marble from temple to temple. After visiting the smaller temples, we went to see Juggernath. The doors (which Juggernath is kept behind) were closed, as this was the time in the festival in which Juggernath was “sick”. The story behind this is that all Gods come to earth, and so as part of Juggernath’s mortal life, he also falls sick, which is indicated by this time in the celebration (he also gets married and takes a vacation before he finally returns to his resting spot in the temple). After leaving the temple, we went to one of the restaurants that we also always go to in Puri (more because it has air-conditioning than because of the quality of food available). While walking, many, many of the beggars in Puri came and asked us for money. In fact, the amount of poverty in Puri seemed to be exponentially higher than that of any other city I had visited. And it wasn’t just this time that I had noticed; every time we visited, the poverty in Puri seemed to be increasing. There are a few possible reasons for this. Perhaps this was because of the fact that Puri itself hasn’t changed very much. I asked my dad if Puri looked any different from the time when he used to come during his summer vacations and he promptly responded that nothing had changed. With no change coming into the city, the opportunities for the newer generations are extremely limited. Most sons of priests know that they are going to be priests, so they don’t go to school and receive an education; instead they sit around all day, asking for money so that they can spend it on whatever they want. However, many of the beggars were women. For that there is another explanation. Many times if the husband dies, the family casts out the wife so that they get the land that the husband had. They can’t simply throw her out of the house in their own city, as then their reputation would be tarnished, so they bring the widows to Puri and then leave them there, where they are exploited and have no way of bettering their situation. Puri desperately needs some change, but as it is a religious city, change will be slowly accepted.
Anyway, after lunch we visited our ancestral house to rest before we visited my grandfather’s sister. The house itself has not changed at all. Ever since I can remember, the house has looked the same, with the sole exception that there used to be a cow that used to live in the house, but now is on the streets. I wasn’t in the mood to rest, so I began to flip through some old wedding albums. I came to my parents’ wedding album, which I had never seen before. It was interesting to see how everyone looked-not only my parents but other relatives. Soon everyone was flipping through the albums, reminiscing about weddings and the time when this happened or the time when that happened.
Going to my grandfather’s sister’s house was last on the agenda, and we only stayed for an hour. I had a little bit of fun playing caram with my cousin. The caretaker and his wife came to join us in playing caram, and for the hour that followed, the conversation was reduced to smiles and some broken Hindi (the caretaker’s wife fortunately spoke Hindi and Oriya, so she became our translator). This caused for some awkward moments, but it was still a fun experience, and by the end of the game, we were smiling and laughing as though they were my relatives who I had known for years. My hope is that after my grandfather’s sister dies, they get the house, as the caretaker’s family has been taking care of my grandfather’s family for years.
That culminated the trip to Puri. On the way back we passed by the Konark Beach, a beach we normally visit but this time decided not to. Hopefully Puri has changed by the time I next visit the town, but I’m not hopeful.
My Big Fat Indian Wedding-Bhubaneswar, Orissa
After staying in New Delhi for a week, our plan was to stay for two weeks with my dad’s mother in the small city of Bhubaneswar, in Orissa. Bhubaneswar is the capital of the eastern state of Orissa. The language spoken is Oriya, although my dad and his family speak Bengali (since they are from the state of West Bengal, where Bengali is the local language).
The day we reached, we had a wedding to attend. After dressing up in traditional Indian clothes, we departed for the guest house, where we would stay for an hour, chit-chatting with all the relatives. The only problem with that was that although I could understand Bengali, I could not speak a word of it. So after doing pranam to all the elders in the family (essentially touching the feet of the elders as a sign of respect) and nodding when everyone said, “Wow, she’s grown so tall,” the cultural barrier got in the way of any “chit-chatting” that I could have done. After watching the England-Germany game for an hour, we were told that it was time to go to the place where the wedding would take place. The place was only a kilometer away, but as is traditional in Bengali weddings, we were to walk the one kilometer, dancing to the music that was emitted from the truck that was leading the way.
In theory, we should have all been dancing. In reality, it was too hot and humid to dance, but more importantly, the songs were either Bengali songs or old Hindi songs that were slightly difficult to dance for. After spending a good 45 minutes dancing/walking, we finally arrived at the wedding place, where we went to visit the bride. She was wearing the typical Indian wedding dress- a red sari with lots of gold ornaments- and was sitting in a room by herself. Everyone from the boy’s side of the family insisted on taking a picture with her, such that by the end of the night, she must have taken at least one hundred pictures.
Truth be told, I felt a little sorry for the bride. She was surrounded by people she met for the first time, who insisted on taking pictures with her and touching all the gold ornaments that she was wearing. Albeit the fact that she was sitting in an air-conditioned room, the room was not very cold, and she was decked in at least two kilograms of gold, meaning that she was probably feeling hotter than we were. Anyway, after taking pictures with the bride, we left to eat dinner. This was when things became a bit strange. Apparently, tradition dictated that the girl’s family members were not allowed to see the groom, meaning that they had already eaten and left by the time the boy’s family members had arrived. I thought that marriages were a time when both sides of the families met each other, but clearly this was not the case. In addition, while we were eating, the marriage was going on. So while everyone was getting concentrating on the food, the bride and groom were preparing to join their lives together. The actual wedding ceremony was to last for four hours, from 10 pm to 2 am, but most people left around 12 am, meaning that most people didn’t see the actual wedding ceremony take place. They just ate food and left. This wedding seemed to be more a place to eat good food (although our driver later informed us that the food was pretty terrible considering the normal marriage standard of food) with a wedding thrown in on the side.
The day we reached, we had a wedding to attend. After dressing up in traditional Indian clothes, we departed for the guest house, where we would stay for an hour, chit-chatting with all the relatives. The only problem with that was that although I could understand Bengali, I could not speak a word of it. So after doing pranam to all the elders in the family (essentially touching the feet of the elders as a sign of respect) and nodding when everyone said, “Wow, she’s grown so tall,” the cultural barrier got in the way of any “chit-chatting” that I could have done. After watching the England-Germany game for an hour, we were told that it was time to go to the place where the wedding would take place. The place was only a kilometer away, but as is traditional in Bengali weddings, we were to walk the one kilometer, dancing to the music that was emitted from the truck that was leading the way.
In theory, we should have all been dancing. In reality, it was too hot and humid to dance, but more importantly, the songs were either Bengali songs or old Hindi songs that were slightly difficult to dance for. After spending a good 45 minutes dancing/walking, we finally arrived at the wedding place, where we went to visit the bride. She was wearing the typical Indian wedding dress- a red sari with lots of gold ornaments- and was sitting in a room by herself. Everyone from the boy’s side of the family insisted on taking a picture with her, such that by the end of the night, she must have taken at least one hundred pictures.
Truth be told, I felt a little sorry for the bride. She was surrounded by people she met for the first time, who insisted on taking pictures with her and touching all the gold ornaments that she was wearing. Albeit the fact that she was sitting in an air-conditioned room, the room was not very cold, and she was decked in at least two kilograms of gold, meaning that she was probably feeling hotter than we were. Anyway, after taking pictures with the bride, we left to eat dinner. This was when things became a bit strange. Apparently, tradition dictated that the girl’s family members were not allowed to see the groom, meaning that they had already eaten and left by the time the boy’s family members had arrived. I thought that marriages were a time when both sides of the families met each other, but clearly this was not the case. In addition, while we were eating, the marriage was going on. So while everyone was getting concentrating on the food, the bride and groom were preparing to join their lives together. The actual wedding ceremony was to last for four hours, from 10 pm to 2 am, but most people left around 12 am, meaning that most people didn’t see the actual wedding ceremony take place. They just ate food and left. This wedding seemed to be more a place to eat good food (although our driver later informed us that the food was pretty terrible considering the normal marriage standard of food) with a wedding thrown in on the side.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Honor Killings
For the past few days, the capital’s most read newspaper, The Delhi Times¸ has been abuzz with a story involving an “honor killing.” Two brothers and their friend were accused of killing their two sisters and one of their sister’s husbands. Why? Because they had put a stigma on their family’s reputation. One of the girls had eloped with the man who was to become her future husband. As if that was not bad enough, they happened to be of the same gotra, which is similar to a clan (meaning that they could be distantly, distantly related). The other sister had wanted to pursue a modeling career in the city. Seeing as they lived in a small town, the idea of a girl working in a big city was unthinkable. To save the family’s reputation and to ensure that other girls didn’t do the same thing, the two brothers and their friend shot and killed the two sisters and their brother in-law.
But this isn’t the most surprising or shocking part of the story. The most shocking part of the story is that the townspeople believe that the triple murder was necessary, and the murderers should be freed. One of the village elders actually said that if his daughter had done the same, he would have killed her too. Each and every village elder (all of them were male) that was interviewed agreed with the idea of an “honor killing.” This town is located only five minutes from the busiest part of the capitol city, but these conservative, traditional values are still strongly enforced.
This incident sheds light on another issue with modern Indian society. The younger generation uses the West as a “guide to life,” while the older generation continues to look to traditional Indian teachings as proper guides. While not always contradictory, in many ways, the two cultures clash. Something as superficial as wearing shorts is thought of as okay in one culture, while in the other culture, it is a sign of being a “loose.” Even deeper is the role of women in society. Only recently has the West come to terms with women being equal to men in society (although some barriers still remain), but in India, this social equality is yet to come. A women’s sphere is still considered to be in the house, while it is a man that is supposed to be the breadwinner for the family. The younger generation is desperately trying to change this image, and more and more Indian girls have entered the workforce. And that is where the divide between the older generation and the younger generation comes in. A divide that is growing each day, and if not reconciled, may see more incidents occurring such as the aforementioned one.
Shopping at a bazaar
June 25, 2010
After going to the mall yesterday, we decided to stay at home. The weather had slightly cooled down, for it had rained a little bit in the morning, but the monsoons were still behind schedule, and if they didn’t show up soon, there would be major problems (including severe water shortage and power cuts).
In the evening, my mother, aunt, and cousin all went to a local bazaar. My mom needed a SIM card for her cell phone, which could easily be bought in store. Unlike in the US, where phones are locked, meaning that each phone can only work with one cell phone provider (like the iPhone can only work with AT&T), in India, the phone and the cell phone provider can be purchased separately. That is why we could use my unlocked phone from Hong Kong with a SIM card purchased in India. After that, we explored the bazaar. We ate kulfi, an Indian ice-cream, purchased from a street vendor, to provide some relief from the humidity, and we looked at all the wares of all the street vendors, who had set up blankets on the street and were asking us to look at the clothes, DVDs, coffee cups, toys, etc that they had to offer. There were many girls getting henna done on their hands in intricate designs (and I was sorely tempted to get henna done, when I realized that it would make more sense to do it right before I leave for India). Buying food from an Indian restaurant for dinner, we proceeded to look for an auto-rickshaw.
As we approached a three-way intersection, we noticed that a car was unable to go through the intersection because cars coming from the perpendicular street didn’t stop. It wasn’t actually a three-way intersection, but there were two roads that merged into one road, and another road that was perpendicular to the first two. Two of the three roads had a stoplight- the road that didn’t have a stoplight was causing the problem. No one was willing to stop, so the car that was stuck was stuck until someone was polite enough to wait. Which no one was. After several people volunteered to act as traffic police, the actual traffic policeman came, and people finally listened to the government official. Which was weird. In India, everyone complains that the Indian government officials (including police) are corrupt, taking bribes from the people and not doing anything productive for society. But here, when they could have cleared the traffic jam by listening to ordinary citizens, they chose not to, instead waiting for a government official. Democracy: Hate it, but can’t live without it. Or as my grandfather says, “by the people, for the people, of the people, should actually be spelled, b-u-y the people, f-a-r the people, o-f-f the people.”
And finally, the World Cup Round of 16 is coming up! Although I should support India, India has never, ever qualified (India is more of a cricket, field hockey nation than soccer) for a single World Cup. Therefore, I support Spain. Although their entry into the next round is a bit shaky, I still believe they can do it (Fernando Torres will somehow find his goal-scoring skill, and La Roja will hopefully beat Chile 3-0). Tomorrow is Judgement Day.
After going to the mall yesterday, we decided to stay at home. The weather had slightly cooled down, for it had rained a little bit in the morning, but the monsoons were still behind schedule, and if they didn’t show up soon, there would be major problems (including severe water shortage and power cuts).
In the evening, my mother, aunt, and cousin all went to a local bazaar. My mom needed a SIM card for her cell phone, which could easily be bought in store. Unlike in the US, where phones are locked, meaning that each phone can only work with one cell phone provider (like the iPhone can only work with AT&T), in India, the phone and the cell phone provider can be purchased separately. That is why we could use my unlocked phone from Hong Kong with a SIM card purchased in India. After that, we explored the bazaar. We ate kulfi, an Indian ice-cream, purchased from a street vendor, to provide some relief from the humidity, and we looked at all the wares of all the street vendors, who had set up blankets on the street and were asking us to look at the clothes, DVDs, coffee cups, toys, etc that they had to offer. There were many girls getting henna done on their hands in intricate designs (and I was sorely tempted to get henna done, when I realized that it would make more sense to do it right before I leave for India). Buying food from an Indian restaurant for dinner, we proceeded to look for an auto-rickshaw.
As we approached a three-way intersection, we noticed that a car was unable to go through the intersection because cars coming from the perpendicular street didn’t stop. It wasn’t actually a three-way intersection, but there were two roads that merged into one road, and another road that was perpendicular to the first two. Two of the three roads had a stoplight- the road that didn’t have a stoplight was causing the problem. No one was willing to stop, so the car that was stuck was stuck until someone was polite enough to wait. Which no one was. After several people volunteered to act as traffic police, the actual traffic policeman came, and people finally listened to the government official. Which was weird. In India, everyone complains that the Indian government officials (including police) are corrupt, taking bribes from the people and not doing anything productive for society. But here, when they could have cleared the traffic jam by listening to ordinary citizens, they chose not to, instead waiting for a government official. Democracy: Hate it, but can’t live without it. Or as my grandfather says, “by the people, for the people, of the people, should actually be spelled, b-u-y the people, f-a-r the people, o-f-f the people.”
And finally, the World Cup Round of 16 is coming up! Although I should support India, India has never, ever qualified (India is more of a cricket, field hockey nation than soccer) for a single World Cup. Therefore, I support Spain. Although their entry into the next round is a bit shaky, I still believe they can do it (Fernando Torres will somehow find his goal-scoring skill, and La Roja will hopefully beat Chile 3-0). Tomorrow is Judgement Day.
Shopping at Rajori Garden
Today, the day started out slightly cooler, about 38ºC (100.4ºF). Not wanting to stay out another day, and in a dire need to buy some Indian clothes (after not visiting for 3 years, I wanted, needed Indian clothes). We decided to go to City Square, a mall in a group of five malls in Rajori Garden.
When we got to the mall, I was surprised to hear the music that was playing inside. I was expecting to find the latest Bollywood music being blasted over the speakers; instead, I heard Tik Tok by Kesha, All the Right Moves by One Republic, and Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. Although the imperialism that occurred in the nineteenth century is over, a new type of imperialism has replaced it-cultural imperialism. Western culture has so pervaded India that recognizable Western brands have replaced the Indian brands I recognized. Coke replaces Thumbs-Up (Indian equivalent of coke), jeans replace traditional Indian clothing (like the salwar kameez). Most of the stores had a section for western clothes along with a section of Indian clothes. Granted, the western clothes weren’t as up to date fashion-wise as Abercrombie and Fitch or Hollister, but the section was bigger than I had ever seen before. I needed both western and Indian clothes, so I went to most of the stores in the mall that offered both types of clothes. Although I liked some of the clothes I found, I ended up not buying them, either because they weren’t perfect or it was too expensive.
When we went to the mall, we used a taxi service. On the way back, we used the Delhi metro. It was similar to any of the metros used in American cities, except it was all overhead. I was surprised by the quality of the trains, as the only Indian trains I had traveled in before were those that were used to take 16 hr journeys in because it was cheaper than taking a plane. The Commonwealth Games are coming to India in October, so that could be a possible reason for the sudden uptake in the construction of more efficient transportation options. After the metro came our ride in an auto-rickshaw, a three wheeled small car with no windows and doors, and where the price can be negotiated. Since my Hindi is apparently very Americanized, my aunt haggled for us, bring the price down from 100 Rupees to 30 Rupees. The auto-rickshaw re-validated my beliefs about the great disparity between the wealthy and the poor. Where my aunt lived was pretty middle class, but when we meant to the mall, we saw the two extremes. We saw the extremely wealthy, with chauffeured- BMWs and completely branded clothing, but we also saw the extremely poor, sitting in the Metro station seeking respite from the heat, begging for money as their children went around shirtless or with extremely dirty clothing. This contradiction could be seen in our auto-rickshaw driver, who was only making about 500 rupees (or $10) a day, but had a cell phone that my cousin claimed was the same cell phone that her dad had. If India is to become a developed nation and join the US and the European nations at the top, among other things, this disparity is going to need to be reduced.
When we got to the mall, I was surprised to hear the music that was playing inside. I was expecting to find the latest Bollywood music being blasted over the speakers; instead, I heard Tik Tok by Kesha, All the Right Moves by One Republic, and Bad Romance by Lady Gaga. Although the imperialism that occurred in the nineteenth century is over, a new type of imperialism has replaced it-cultural imperialism. Western culture has so pervaded India that recognizable Western brands have replaced the Indian brands I recognized. Coke replaces Thumbs-Up (Indian equivalent of coke), jeans replace traditional Indian clothing (like the salwar kameez). Most of the stores had a section for western clothes along with a section of Indian clothes. Granted, the western clothes weren’t as up to date fashion-wise as Abercrombie and Fitch or Hollister, but the section was bigger than I had ever seen before. I needed both western and Indian clothes, so I went to most of the stores in the mall that offered both types of clothes. Although I liked some of the clothes I found, I ended up not buying them, either because they weren’t perfect or it was too expensive.
When we went to the mall, we used a taxi service. On the way back, we used the Delhi metro. It was similar to any of the metros used in American cities, except it was all overhead. I was surprised by the quality of the trains, as the only Indian trains I had traveled in before were those that were used to take 16 hr journeys in because it was cheaper than taking a plane. The Commonwealth Games are coming to India in October, so that could be a possible reason for the sudden uptake in the construction of more efficient transportation options. After the metro came our ride in an auto-rickshaw, a three wheeled small car with no windows and doors, and where the price can be negotiated. Since my Hindi is apparently very Americanized, my aunt haggled for us, bring the price down from 100 Rupees to 30 Rupees. The auto-rickshaw re-validated my beliefs about the great disparity between the wealthy and the poor. Where my aunt lived was pretty middle class, but when we meant to the mall, we saw the two extremes. We saw the extremely wealthy, with chauffeured- BMWs and completely branded clothing, but we also saw the extremely poor, sitting in the Metro station seeking respite from the heat, begging for money as their children went around shirtless or with extremely dirty clothing. This contradiction could be seen in our auto-rickshaw driver, who was only making about 500 rupees (or $10) a day, but had a cell phone that my cousin claimed was the same cell phone that her dad had. If India is to become a developed nation and join the US and the European nations at the top, among other things, this disparity is going to need to be reduced.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
First Full Day in India
June 23, 2010
I woke up at 9, which was surprising because normally, the rules of jetlag stated that I would be up at 4 in the morning (like my mother). Breakfast was mango shake and toast, which was eaten on the table. The kitchen area did not have air-conditioning, and the temperature was well over 100º. The temperature dictated that a shower would be necessary, so a shower I took after breakfast. Note to all that most bathrooms in India do not have showers; instead, they have a big bucket filled with water, and a smaller hand-sized bucket used to pour water on yourself. That’s why showers in India tend to be actually five minutes long, whereas in the US, a “five” minute shower is actually a ten minute shower. Afterwards came more AP US History work (I had a few assignments due Friday). By this time, it was about 11:30 pm in New Jersey, so my brother, mother, and I were all in the throes of jetlag. We weren’t sleepy, more lethargic, but if we had slept, then the night’s sleep would be ruined. Then began the crazy activities that people do to keep themselves awake. We ate sour worms, listened to Lady Gaga and Taio Cruz, and played various card games to ensure that sleep wouldn’t arrive before we were ready to sleep (afternoon-ish). By the time my aunt and grandfather returned from a doctor’s appointment, we were ready for lunch. My favorite foods made an appearance at the table: rice, kidney beans, and okra. Doesn’t sound very delicious in English, but it was extremely scrumptious. Speaking of English, I was not speaking much of it. My cousin sister was more comfortable speaking in Hindi, and it was a chance for me to practice as well. Already my Hindi had improved-the halting Hindi that I had used last night gave way to a more fluid Hindi, mixed with English (and in my head, sometimes mixed with Spanish).
Anyway, after lunch, came SLEEP! Only two hours, but it was magnificent. My cousin brother had returned from his tutoring class, so with him we made the typical jokes that adolescents make and listened to Linkin Park, all while he attempted to hack into the Wi-Fi so I could get internet. Between APUSH-ing and blogging, my day was spent. The power just went off (happens when it gets too hot), so this blog post will be ending.
I woke up at 9, which was surprising because normally, the rules of jetlag stated that I would be up at 4 in the morning (like my mother). Breakfast was mango shake and toast, which was eaten on the table. The kitchen area did not have air-conditioning, and the temperature was well over 100º. The temperature dictated that a shower would be necessary, so a shower I took after breakfast. Note to all that most bathrooms in India do not have showers; instead, they have a big bucket filled with water, and a smaller hand-sized bucket used to pour water on yourself. That’s why showers in India tend to be actually five minutes long, whereas in the US, a “five” minute shower is actually a ten minute shower. Afterwards came more AP US History work (I had a few assignments due Friday). By this time, it was about 11:30 pm in New Jersey, so my brother, mother, and I were all in the throes of jetlag. We weren’t sleepy, more lethargic, but if we had slept, then the night’s sleep would be ruined. Then began the crazy activities that people do to keep themselves awake. We ate sour worms, listened to Lady Gaga and Taio Cruz, and played various card games to ensure that sleep wouldn’t arrive before we were ready to sleep (afternoon-ish). By the time my aunt and grandfather returned from a doctor’s appointment, we were ready for lunch. My favorite foods made an appearance at the table: rice, kidney beans, and okra. Doesn’t sound very delicious in English, but it was extremely scrumptious. Speaking of English, I was not speaking much of it. My cousin sister was more comfortable speaking in Hindi, and it was a chance for me to practice as well. Already my Hindi had improved-the halting Hindi that I had used last night gave way to a more fluid Hindi, mixed with English (and in my head, sometimes mixed with Spanish).
Anyway, after lunch, came SLEEP! Only two hours, but it was magnificent. My cousin brother had returned from his tutoring class, so with him we made the typical jokes that adolescents make and listened to Linkin Park, all while he attempted to hack into the Wi-Fi so I could get internet. Between APUSH-ing and blogging, my day was spent. The power just went off (happens when it gets too hot), so this blog post will be ending.
Plane Ride/Landing in India
June 23
Today was the first full day that we spent in India, mostly spent inside due to the fact that it was 44ºC, which is over 100º F. But back to the beginning.
Our fourteen hour flight to India was uneventful. We sat in row 20 J,K,L, which was towards the beginning of the economy class section, so the food was served quite quickly. The dinner was pasta with some sort of chicken covered in cheese, served with yogurt. Yogurt makes sense to serve if the entrée is Indian food, but with pasta? Bad choice, and unfortunately a waste of food. With dinner began my movie-watching marathon, which began with the movie Leap Year, a complete chick flick and clichéd movie. But with junior year having just ended, it was this exact mind-numbing movie that I needed to see. After Leap Year, I decided to complete the Bourne Identity, which I had started at a party. The violence and suspense became slightly overwhelming, and so I quickly exited that movie, and I decided to watch Legally Blonde. Possibly the most hilarious movie I have seen a long time, the stereotypes that Reese Witherspoon debunked were quite widely believed as being true. Still, a great movie with a moral that has been used in umpteen movies, “Hard work and determination lead to success.” After Legally Blonde came Cold Case, a CSI-esque show that attempted to solve cases that had never been closed due to a lack of evidence.
I then attempted to sleep. Attempted is the true word for my journey into the dream world. Four hours of tossing and turning resulted in an hour of sleep, after which the tossing and turning began again. With my laptop and textbook underneath the seat in front of me, taking up the oh-so-precious leg room in front of me. After giving up the fight with sleep, I opened up my AP US History textbook to take notes on the Revolutionary War. Reading three pages took the remaining energy that my sleepless body had; while putting the book away, the breakfast service came around. Why anyone would want to eat breakfast was beyond me, but realizing my hunger as the plate slid in front of me, I ate the pineapple and melon and croissant. While eating I watched my absolute favorite movie, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (which I had seen seven times before). Unfortunately, watching it for the 8th time on a sleepless journey was too much, and I resorted to playing FreeCell. Suprisingly, it was this game that I enjoyed out of all the movies I had watched. It was challenging (I only won three out of the ten games that I played), which made it quite addicting. To the surprise of my mother and brother, I became quite engrossed in the game, hunching over in my seat, muttering to myself in hopes of finding a move that would lead me to another move and another move that would instantly win the game for me. While playing the game, the plane suddenly landed. Choppy landing, but it was great to be back.
Walking off the plane, the heat and humidity immediately hit my face. The captain had said the temperature was about 111º F-temperatures that I hadn’t seen, since, well the last time I had visited India. Immigration was a breeze, but it was the baggage claim that took the longest time. This wasn’t the first time this had happened either. Every time we traveled anywhere, our bags would be the one of the last ones out. After recognizing and lifting all four bags from the baggage carousel, we headed out to the waiting area. My aunt and cousin hadn’t reached, so we sat and waited, my brother and I playing with a little girl that we had met on the flight. She was an adorable girl, with brown hair, wide brown eyes, and a doll that seemed equivalent to that special blanket all children had. I had outgrown the blanket stage; I now had a special jacket that (much to the chagrin of my mother) I had insisted on wearing on the plane. After ten minutes of waiting, we called my aunt and then headed outside, as she had said that she was just arriving. The heat was not too unbearable, but I suppose that was because it was the night. Tomorrow would be the real test. When my aunt and the taxi arrived, we found out that the trunk did not have enough space to hold all four bags. Therefore, three of the bags would be placed on the roof of the bag. Throughout the entire ride, I was conscious of every bump in the road, hoping that it wouldn’t dislodge the suitcases (one of which was mine). Even at 9:30, the roads in India were crowded. The journey took half an hour, during which I mostly kept my mouth shut, both feeling shy and taking on the surroundings.
It was my grandfather who opened the door when we reached home, with my cousin peeking out behind him. It was late, and we were all jetlagged, so we quickly changed into our pajamas and sat in one room, unpacking the suitcase that had all the gifts for my cousins. For my cousin brother, who was a mere six months older than me but never failed to mention it, we had bought some clothes; for my cousin sister (who was 10) we bought a fashion design book and mannequin that could be outfitted with various outfits. I zoned out towards the end of the conversation, reading Devlin’s Diary by Christi Phillips and heading towards the dream world.
Today was the first full day that we spent in India, mostly spent inside due to the fact that it was 44ºC, which is over 100º F. But back to the beginning.
Our fourteen hour flight to India was uneventful. We sat in row 20 J,K,L, which was towards the beginning of the economy class section, so the food was served quite quickly. The dinner was pasta with some sort of chicken covered in cheese, served with yogurt. Yogurt makes sense to serve if the entrée is Indian food, but with pasta? Bad choice, and unfortunately a waste of food. With dinner began my movie-watching marathon, which began with the movie Leap Year, a complete chick flick and clichéd movie. But with junior year having just ended, it was this exact mind-numbing movie that I needed to see. After Leap Year, I decided to complete the Bourne Identity, which I had started at a party. The violence and suspense became slightly overwhelming, and so I quickly exited that movie, and I decided to watch Legally Blonde. Possibly the most hilarious movie I have seen a long time, the stereotypes that Reese Witherspoon debunked were quite widely believed as being true. Still, a great movie with a moral that has been used in umpteen movies, “Hard work and determination lead to success.” After Legally Blonde came Cold Case, a CSI-esque show that attempted to solve cases that had never been closed due to a lack of evidence.
I then attempted to sleep. Attempted is the true word for my journey into the dream world. Four hours of tossing and turning resulted in an hour of sleep, after which the tossing and turning began again. With my laptop and textbook underneath the seat in front of me, taking up the oh-so-precious leg room in front of me. After giving up the fight with sleep, I opened up my AP US History textbook to take notes on the Revolutionary War. Reading three pages took the remaining energy that my sleepless body had; while putting the book away, the breakfast service came around. Why anyone would want to eat breakfast was beyond me, but realizing my hunger as the plate slid in front of me, I ate the pineapple and melon and croissant. While eating I watched my absolute favorite movie, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (which I had seen seven times before). Unfortunately, watching it for the 8th time on a sleepless journey was too much, and I resorted to playing FreeCell. Suprisingly, it was this game that I enjoyed out of all the movies I had watched. It was challenging (I only won three out of the ten games that I played), which made it quite addicting. To the surprise of my mother and brother, I became quite engrossed in the game, hunching over in my seat, muttering to myself in hopes of finding a move that would lead me to another move and another move that would instantly win the game for me. While playing the game, the plane suddenly landed. Choppy landing, but it was great to be back.
Walking off the plane, the heat and humidity immediately hit my face. The captain had said the temperature was about 111º F-temperatures that I hadn’t seen, since, well the last time I had visited India. Immigration was a breeze, but it was the baggage claim that took the longest time. This wasn’t the first time this had happened either. Every time we traveled anywhere, our bags would be the one of the last ones out. After recognizing and lifting all four bags from the baggage carousel, we headed out to the waiting area. My aunt and cousin hadn’t reached, so we sat and waited, my brother and I playing with a little girl that we had met on the flight. She was an adorable girl, with brown hair, wide brown eyes, and a doll that seemed equivalent to that special blanket all children had. I had outgrown the blanket stage; I now had a special jacket that (much to the chagrin of my mother) I had insisted on wearing on the plane. After ten minutes of waiting, we called my aunt and then headed outside, as she had said that she was just arriving. The heat was not too unbearable, but I suppose that was because it was the night. Tomorrow would be the real test. When my aunt and the taxi arrived, we found out that the trunk did not have enough space to hold all four bags. Therefore, three of the bags would be placed on the roof of the bag. Throughout the entire ride, I was conscious of every bump in the road, hoping that it wouldn’t dislodge the suitcases (one of which was mine). Even at 9:30, the roads in India were crowded. The journey took half an hour, during which I mostly kept my mouth shut, both feeling shy and taking on the surroundings.
It was my grandfather who opened the door when we reached home, with my cousin peeking out behind him. It was late, and we were all jetlagged, so we quickly changed into our pajamas and sat in one room, unpacking the suitcase that had all the gifts for my cousins. For my cousin brother, who was a mere six months older than me but never failed to mention it, we had bought some clothes; for my cousin sister (who was 10) we bought a fashion design book and mannequin that could be outfitted with various outfits. I zoned out towards the end of the conversation, reading Devlin’s Diary by Christi Phillips and heading towards the dream world.
Waiting for the plane to take off
June 21, 2010
It’s 6:59 pm, and I’m currently sitting at gate C-108 in Newark International Airport. My brother is listening to some rap song on his iPod, while my mother is watching the growing line of people with curiosity, wondering why everyone is joining the line when no formal announcement has been made for boarding.
Our journey to India actually began at 4:30 pm today, when we left our house and entered the New Jersey Turnpike. The main artery of transportation on the East Coast, it was crowded with traffic moving at a slower pace than ususal-75 mph rather than 90 mph. The drive itself was uneventful, with my parents talking amongst themselves, and my brother and I listening to our own iPods. We reached Newark airport, where we proceeded to Terminal B, Level 4, which was designated as the International Departure Gate. There were two Continental gates (Continental Airline’s hub was in Newark, so we would be taking Continental to India), but when we asked the official which gate passengers to New Delhi, India would use. We were promptly informed that the gate was actually two levels below us, aka, where we had parked and then climbed up two sets of escalators because the sign had said that Level 4 was the International Departure gate, not Level 2.
We then climbed down the same escalators we had climbed up, and found the gate. The line was short, and so we reached the check-in kiosks, where the computer told us that we needed a Continental Representative to help us proceed through the process. While we waited, I got into a conversation with another passenger (possibly to Tel Aviv, Delhi, Mumbai or Hong Kong, as all four destinations had the same check-in queue) about the two world cup games that were played: Portugal vs DPRK and Spain vs Honduras. Portugal had complexly massacred the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea, ironically) 7-0. Six different players had scored; the best goal of the entire game? Definitely the goal that star striker Cristiano Ronaldo scored, nearly tripping over the keeper, juggling the ball on his back and head, kicking the ball deftly into the empty net, all culminating in him walking towards the camera with the million dollar smile on his face. The Spain vs Honduras game was less exciting, with the final score only being 2-0. But with Spain being the champion in my bracket, every point and every goal mattered. A Continental Representative finally arrived, and the check-in was completed, only to realize that the baggage belt was overcrowded, so we would have to wait until the baggage in front of us was put on the belt before we could leave. Thankfully we only had to wait for five minutes, and we left in search of a coffee shop. This was Newark Airport, not JFK, so there was only one option: Hudson News. We stocked up on sour gummy worms, gum, and mints, absolute essentials for any sixteen hour journey. The time was 5:45, boarding was at 7, so then we would enter the line for Security at 6:30. With my dad flying out to India a week later than we were, I spent the last few minutes talking to him, reminding him to record all the World Cup games and pleading him to not clean my room while I was gone. Last time he cleaned my room, he donated all my winter clothes (by accident) and through out my favorite issue of the New York Times magazine.
At 6:30, we trudged up the stairs, me lugging my Vera Bradley bag that had both an AP US history textbook (courtesy of the summer course I was taking) and a laptop (for the same reason and to make sure that I could update my blog whenever something interesting happened). When we reached the Security Line, we were directed to a different Security Line, which was thankfully shorter than the first. We said our last good-byes (not tearful, for this was normal-every time we went to India, our dad would always follow us a week or two later), and my brother and I attempted to touch his feet (a sign of respect in the Indian culture). Attempted was as far as we got-as soon as knee level, my dad picked us up and playfully hit us, which the security official who was checking our passports found hilarious. Security was uneventful, taking off my shoes and putting my laptop in a special container, and going through the metal detector hoping that it wouldn’t beep and I wouldn’t be subjected to additional security check in front of all the other passengers.
With security completed, all that was left was for us to go to the gate. We briefly visited the duty-free shops, as my mom wanted to see if a special face wash was available, and me, noticing DKNY’s new perfume (I love you from New York), needed to smell a sample. Of course, with my luck, there was no sample for the girl’s version of the new perfume. We went to the gate, and I opened my laptop, hoping to get in some last minute Facebook-ing, Gmail-ing, and Youtube-ing, before the flight took off. My luck was apparently terrible that day, for I couldn’t access the free Wi-fi. Not content with turning off my laptop and listening to my iPod (I could have just shared my brother’s, thereby conserving my own iPod’s battery power), I decided to type up this blog post on Microsoft Word. Passports were again checked at the gate (redundancy?) and then began the wait to board the plane. Perhaps the only interesting part of the wait was the fact that the cart driver (that transports people around various terminals) made a “beep beep” sound in order to get people to move out of the way.
Oh wait, the announcement for all passengers boarding flight 82 with service to New Delhi was just made (in both Hindi and English, of course). Time to start the 14 hour 50 minute journey.
It’s 6:59 pm, and I’m currently sitting at gate C-108 in Newark International Airport. My brother is listening to some rap song on his iPod, while my mother is watching the growing line of people with curiosity, wondering why everyone is joining the line when no formal announcement has been made for boarding.
Our journey to India actually began at 4:30 pm today, when we left our house and entered the New Jersey Turnpike. The main artery of transportation on the East Coast, it was crowded with traffic moving at a slower pace than ususal-75 mph rather than 90 mph. The drive itself was uneventful, with my parents talking amongst themselves, and my brother and I listening to our own iPods. We reached Newark airport, where we proceeded to Terminal B, Level 4, which was designated as the International Departure Gate. There were two Continental gates (Continental Airline’s hub was in Newark, so we would be taking Continental to India), but when we asked the official which gate passengers to New Delhi, India would use. We were promptly informed that the gate was actually two levels below us, aka, where we had parked and then climbed up two sets of escalators because the sign had said that Level 4 was the International Departure gate, not Level 2.
We then climbed down the same escalators we had climbed up, and found the gate. The line was short, and so we reached the check-in kiosks, where the computer told us that we needed a Continental Representative to help us proceed through the process. While we waited, I got into a conversation with another passenger (possibly to Tel Aviv, Delhi, Mumbai or Hong Kong, as all four destinations had the same check-in queue) about the two world cup games that were played: Portugal vs DPRK and Spain vs Honduras. Portugal had complexly massacred the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea, ironically) 7-0. Six different players had scored; the best goal of the entire game? Definitely the goal that star striker Cristiano Ronaldo scored, nearly tripping over the keeper, juggling the ball on his back and head, kicking the ball deftly into the empty net, all culminating in him walking towards the camera with the million dollar smile on his face. The Spain vs Honduras game was less exciting, with the final score only being 2-0. But with Spain being the champion in my bracket, every point and every goal mattered. A Continental Representative finally arrived, and the check-in was completed, only to realize that the baggage belt was overcrowded, so we would have to wait until the baggage in front of us was put on the belt before we could leave. Thankfully we only had to wait for five minutes, and we left in search of a coffee shop. This was Newark Airport, not JFK, so there was only one option: Hudson News. We stocked up on sour gummy worms, gum, and mints, absolute essentials for any sixteen hour journey. The time was 5:45, boarding was at 7, so then we would enter the line for Security at 6:30. With my dad flying out to India a week later than we were, I spent the last few minutes talking to him, reminding him to record all the World Cup games and pleading him to not clean my room while I was gone. Last time he cleaned my room, he donated all my winter clothes (by accident) and through out my favorite issue of the New York Times magazine.
At 6:30, we trudged up the stairs, me lugging my Vera Bradley bag that had both an AP US history textbook (courtesy of the summer course I was taking) and a laptop (for the same reason and to make sure that I could update my blog whenever something interesting happened). When we reached the Security Line, we were directed to a different Security Line, which was thankfully shorter than the first. We said our last good-byes (not tearful, for this was normal-every time we went to India, our dad would always follow us a week or two later), and my brother and I attempted to touch his feet (a sign of respect in the Indian culture). Attempted was as far as we got-as soon as knee level, my dad picked us up and playfully hit us, which the security official who was checking our passports found hilarious. Security was uneventful, taking off my shoes and putting my laptop in a special container, and going through the metal detector hoping that it wouldn’t beep and I wouldn’t be subjected to additional security check in front of all the other passengers.
With security completed, all that was left was for us to go to the gate. We briefly visited the duty-free shops, as my mom wanted to see if a special face wash was available, and me, noticing DKNY’s new perfume (I love you from New York), needed to smell a sample. Of course, with my luck, there was no sample for the girl’s version of the new perfume. We went to the gate, and I opened my laptop, hoping to get in some last minute Facebook-ing, Gmail-ing, and Youtube-ing, before the flight took off. My luck was apparently terrible that day, for I couldn’t access the free Wi-fi. Not content with turning off my laptop and listening to my iPod (I could have just shared my brother’s, thereby conserving my own iPod’s battery power), I decided to type up this blog post on Microsoft Word. Passports were again checked at the gate (redundancy?) and then began the wait to board the plane. Perhaps the only interesting part of the wait was the fact that the cart driver (that transports people around various terminals) made a “beep beep” sound in order to get people to move out of the way.
Oh wait, the announcement for all passengers boarding flight 82 with service to New Delhi was just made (in both Hindi and English, of course). Time to start the 14 hour 50 minute journey.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
June 20th: The day before we leave
Tomorrow, my mother, brother, and I will be leaving for India. After not having visited India in three years, tomorrow will be the first time that the myriad relatives that we have in India will be seeing us (of course, that also means that most of our time will be spent at relatives' houses, attempting to remember the names that belong with the faces). I'm excited to be returning to India. When I visited the last time, I had seen some of the improvements that had been taking place in New Delhi. With the developments completed, Delhi will be comparable to other metropolitan cities in Asia.
In addition to visiting relatives, we will be attending a marriage. I don't actually know the people getting married aside from the fact that they are from my dad's side of the family. No matter. Indian weddings often have relatives from all sides of the family, some twice and thrice removed, in attendance. Different parts of India have different wedding traditions. The last wedding I went to was my dad's sister's, so the wedding should be similar, but with it being held in a smaller town (compared to being held in a city), the expectations will be different. See, with my brother and I being raised in America, many of the relatives will be eager to see if we behave like typical Indian children are supposed to. Most Indians who have never visited America believe that children there have no boundaries, and are free to do whatever they want to do. Their ideas about America come from shows like Jersey Shore, and so they assume that kids are just as wild as Snookie. It will be my brother and I's job to debunk those beliefs, in addition to upholding the reputation of our parents, as our behavior will reflect on how our parents have done their job (in raising us).
That's it for now. It's now time for me to pack, which is probably the most difficult part of going to India. Conservative values and society along with an idea of what a girl from a "good" family should wear will make packing a long process.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)