One More Monsoon Blog Post, Three Years Later

Here we are: absolutely ages ago I was blathering about the rivers of water pouring down the streets -- words I hadn't read since shortly after I'd written them. After being out in a downpour today, thought to myself, "I should go back to that blog I used to use to use, to tell all the people exactly how it is to be out in the monsoon, with absolutely rivers of water pouring down the streets!"

Apparently monsoon blogging is not the most original of ideas; even I've had it before. Still, it remains a good idea to stay in touch with the people, mostly my relatives. Today I realized that this year has slipped away from me fast, without all of the documentation I was planning on giving it. The fact that it's actually passing by hit me with renewed vigor when the confirmation came through: we are coming home on November 29th, and we have tickets.

On to the content of today's post, which is indeed set on a steaming Bombay monsoon evening. I don't always love living in Bombay -- it a is huge, congested, inconvenient, impersonal, irritating city which can be quite difficult to navigate. And we don't just live in Bombay: we live in Andheri, a northern suburb of the city that is possibly even more crowded, congested, and difficult than the city proper, what the locals call "town."

But I nearly always love living in my neighborhood, a small enclave within the city that's actually recognized as such by the government, which calls it a "gaothan." The idea, as I understand it, is that certain villages and towns were established settlements long before the Mumbai metropolitan area crept north to meet them. When Mumbai expanded, these enclaves were absorbed into the city. For me, this means that we live almost directly across from the Andheri train station -- one of the busiest, loudest, most crowded places in the city -- and yet we hear almost no station noise. Instead, we hear the neighbor's rooster, two different muezzins at two different mosques, and that pesky autorickshaw that has trouble starting in the morning. Our flat is reached through a series of winding lanes, and we generally have to go out to the road to fetch any visitors. The little old ladies who sit on the wall outside our building gave us directions to that same road for almost a week when we first moved in. They continue to say hello to us
and quiz us about our comings and goings, which I much appreciate.

Tonight I realized that I had neglected to do the one task I had for the day: purchase milk. After squandering a day, I felt that going out in the morning would not be acceptable -- and what if the milk was finished? It was after 10:30, well past dark, and the rain hadn't stopped in hours. In fact, the rain had just gotten a bit stronger and was now thumping down on the tin roof. Still, milk at this hour was a questionable proposition to begin with, and it only became more unlikely with time. I hurriedly draped my dupatta around neck, grabbed my umbrella and squeaked down the stairs, out through the open doorway and into the night.

I saw no one. The rain was worse than I thought, then picked up strength. I crossed over the square where some of my neighbors park their autorickshaws. A few men and young boys were folded up in one of them, escaping the downpour. I turned left at the crucifix, passed the mosque where people were still busy at prayer, and passed down a small alley, empty by day but transformed into a bustling restaurant at night. To reach the street one must wind under the tarps and through the plastic tables and chairs that have been erected for the restaurant's patrons. The busy restaurant and mosque gave me hope for my milk errand.

When I emerged out into the street, I saw the combined sweet store and milk shop's lights gleaming on an otherwise dark street. Although it was nearly eleven, people thronged the front counter of the shop, which was doing a brisk business in special Ramadan milk sweets. In addition to extra time in prayer, in many neighborhoods Ramadan is a time to eat special, delicious foods after the daily fast is broken at sundown. The milk store was not only open, it was buzzing with people, so busy that I waited for ten minutes to be served. I couldn't go home with just my liter of milk, so I also picked up a "sweet dish." Tonight it was firni -- a sweet milk dish not unlike think homemade pudding -- with big tapioca orbs and shards of young coconut. The little clay dish was quickly wrapped up with string, my milk was ladled from the giant metal can into a small plastic bag, and I was back into the wet night, my salwaar sodden but my spirits high.

Scenes From My Roof

These are some recent pictures taken from my roof at my favorite time of day, right after sunset. You have to watch out for mosquitoes, but the views are lovely, the wind blows, and the friendly crows are out and about.

Back From the Mountains

Last week was a pleasant respite from the heat of the plains, as I made my way up from the heat and dust of Uttar Pradesh to Mussoorie, a cool and misty hill station about 40 minutes outside of Dehra Dun in Uttarkhand. I desperately needed the break, and even though my wallet was stolen (in Dehra Dun), I felt remarkably unburdened up in the hills. There's something oppressive about the heat of the pre-monsoon summer that makes it hard to exist. Cooling off, needing the geyser (ie, hot water tank), using blankets (Blankets! Who remembered that they even existed?) and getting a nice new shawl (thank you, Dan) all seemed very novel. I was definitely feeling like I was on vacation. Even though I did a lot of Urdu work, it was leisurely, over coffee, and I had the time to look up every word, which felt like a real indulgence. Our last morning, we had apple pie or breakfast, which was doubly indulgent because of the number of places where I've had good apple pie in India, ever (2, including this place and Vaatika pizza in Banaras).

The whole trip was wet -- this is not Mussoorie's high season, partially because panoramic mountain views are completely obscured by heavy fog and cloud cover in the monsoon season. This was especially nice, and we had no problem wandering through the clouds along damp wooded paths for hours. The picture isn't super, but I hope it gives a sense of the foresty shade, the coolness, the mist, and the moist mossy smell of the trails. The hydrangeas were in full bloom everywhere, accompanying the incredible greenness that the monsoon brings. Even the light rains on our wanderings were pleasant.

On the morning of our last full day in the hills, Dan and I agreed that we weren't up for any hiking or, really, anything other than laziness. We were spared the guilt of wasting a beautiful day when it proceeded to pour down rain for the next twelve hours. Water ran down the steep streets in sheets several inches thick. Everyone took refuge in coffee shops and video arcades. I spent most of the day in Barista, one of India's classy espresso-bar chains that are so popular. I cannot explain the degree of pleasure I took from that day of reading, drinking coffee, and doing homework.

I also can't resist noting my bird sightings: from a blurry bad photograph, I have been able to deduce that one of them was a Himalayan woodpecker (Dendrocopos himalayensis). I have no idea where this slight obsession with identifying birds has come from; obviously the complete pocket guide to every South Asian bird species (nearly 1300, the back cover proclaims) is a huge enabler in this pursuit/problem. I'll spare you the rest of my conjectures and sure sightings.

Luckily, I've come back to Lucknow rejuvenated, and Lucknow has indulged me with proper later-monsoon weather: almost cool and windy enough to make me feel like I never left Mussoorie. At the very least, I've been using my sheet at night. It't not a blanket, but it's reminiscent.

Qawwalis

Since this is supposed to be showcasing for my beleaguered faraway family what exactly it is that I'm doing, here is an actual event that I actually attended, albeit unwillingly at first, as I would have much rather gone home after class and taken my customary two- or even three-hour nap. When the days are so hot that you can't work, you sleep instead, and use up your night doing the work you might have been doing had it not been so incredibly hot in the first place. Today it rained beautifully -- steadily and lightly for several hours, instead of the twenty-minute downpours that we've been getting, which, ten minutes after they stop, turn roads into churned up and muddy puddles, give trash heaps the strength to be festering and fetid with renewed vigour, and transform the air from merely blazing to sauna-like. Not tonight. Tonight is breezy and cool, and the slow rain actually washed away much of the dust on the streets instead of creating impassable mud puddles. It smells like the plumeria tree outside my window.

At any rate, the event in question was a qawwali majlis at school. After classes were over last Wednesday, we were all enjoined to get out of the main room where we usually eat lunch, as men from some Tent House or another laid mattresses covered in white sheets end to end, side to side, until the whole floor was one big white pillow. In ideal conditions, almost all Indian music is performed seated on the floor. Sometimes the performers are seated on a kind of raised platform, but for our informal performance, the qawwals (that is, the guys who perform qawwali) simply sat facing us, just a few feet away. The floor-sitting is much more accomodating of scooting around, changing positions, or even laying down and going to sleep. All of these are very useful attributes for concerts that often start at 8 or 9 in the evening and go on until dawn, with the best and most famous musicians having later slots.

Our own majlis -- basically meaning 'get-together,' yet somehow more formal -- was not of the ten-hour variety. Nevertheless, the white-cushioned floor was comforting and soft enough to sleep on. With everyone sitting on the floor, suddenly the available seats mushroomed from an anti-social fifteen to a much more crammed together, yet somehow happier, 45 or so.

The qawwals themselves arrived soon after the pillows and mattresses and sheets. I adored them. From the feisty and passionate main singer to the quiet-looking fellow playing the harmonium and singing, well, backup, they all pleased me immensely. The main singer's throaty voice was ideal: strained-sounding but deft runs down and then impossibly up the scale are part of qawwali's fabulousness. Listen to even Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who's considered to have an amazing voice, and you'll know what I mean. Even he sings as though he's pulling at his vocal cords with his hands.

Qawwali is a type of Sufi devotional music, and as such hits all the best double-entendres that address God as a lover, refer to devotional ecstasy as drunkenness, and make many references to wine and very, very beautiful people (women? men? it's almost always ambiguous). These guys performed several qawwals (including the fabulous "Mast Qalandar," which, literally translated, means "drunk wandering religious guy"), in addition to a few ghazals, and told a number of actually funny jokes in Urdu. Most of these last were simple enough for most of us to follow, but funny enough for some of our teachers to be giggling helplessly too. At one point, Ahtesham Sahib, our director, got up to attend to something or another, and the qawwal immediately quoted several lines of famous, embarrassing poetry: why does the beautiful one run away, or some such...his beetlike face was brilliant.

The moral of this particular story is that I indeed like events, even when they are school-sponsered. I took my nap later that day, and all was well.

Poison Eggs

I'm supposed to be recounting our Fourth of July party, held at our house on Mall Avenue, but I'd like to wait until I can steal some photographs from people who actually took them.

Meanwhile, since I am newly (diagnosed as) ill, and I continue to trace this illness back to a poison omelette I ate in Joshimath, I would like to share this poster from Badrinath with you. Roughly translated, it reads "The egg is a living thing, not a mango or potato; all are beautiful breathing things, what's the use in eating them?" Basically, it's pro-pure-vegetarian propaganda. In India, the egg is indeed considered meat, and the 'non-veg' option on many breakfast journeys (Lucknow Shatabdi Express, for instance) is an omlette. However, considering my recent confrontation with the incredible egg, I am more inclined to agree with the disgruntled housewife in the poster, who is yelling at the hapless sabzi-walla (vegetable seller) who's expanded into the egg business:

"The egg is not a vegetable! Understand the difference!"

Warning: Poop

A warning: if you don't like reading about poop, please skip the following few paragraphs. I'll alert you to when it's over.

So starting this past week, I slowly came to the conclusion that my assorted symptoms were not likely due to after-effects of my previous antibiotics. Rather, I had either a) a new illness or b) a continuation of my previous illness. To this day, I am not sure which one is the right choice. However, I am absolutely certain of several things.

a) I do indeed have an illness and
b) it has been clinically shown to be amoebeosis.

Yes, this time I bypassed the know-it-all doctor and his condescending (and rather innovative) system for dianosis and treatment. This seems to be endemic in Indian doctors: they are completely and unshakably confident in their diagnoses (for instance, "viral fever") which they have come to after a cursory examination of the patient (this always includes poking the stomach and examining the tongue, and usually includes taking the blood pressure). This last doctor in Lucknow had the gall to tell me that I was not all that sick in the first place (of course, after I had gotten mostly better) and reminded me that most Indians knew how to live with daily diarrhea. He also mocked me for even insinuating that I might have diagnostic tests run.

For all of the reasons above, I decided to go straight to the pathologist. What sweet relief! After the minor indignity of having to poop into a ridiculously tiny cup, I was rewarded with a distinctly modern printout detailing its color and other specifics, most preciously, the part where it announced "Positive -- Amoebic cysts." I was almost joyful to find this out. Scientific diagnosis, specific treatment. I felt good enough to go to dance class that night simply on this knowledge alone. I didn't even have to show anyone my tongue.

Perhaps I should be more understanding about cultural variations in medical practices. However, I really, really like my printout.

Up and About

It's doubtless a good sign that I've been unable to get back to writing this for the past few weeks. I have been fairly well (though one is never at one's best in the extreme pre-monsoon heat) and have been studying somewhat diligently. More importantly, I have done a lot more exploring in the last two weeks. Three girls from a Johns Hopkins research program live in my house, and since they have no homework, they are apt to want to go out with a Hindi (Urdu?) speaker for shopping adventures when they're off work. By some interesting twist of early-Eighties naming practices, the three of us who went on the latest adventure were Katy (by which I mean myself), Kate, and Katie. Hilarity ensued for the shopkeepers who asked us about ourselves.

We headed up to Aminabad in the old part of the city in the worst of the day's heat -- it always takes a while to get moving on Sundays. We spent most of the next five hours in a clothing store, not one of these hyper-modern "showrooms" but a proper Indian clothing store, where the clothes are only available unstitched. You can either take them to your tailor or have them made by the house tailor. Furthermore, when you come into one of these stores, there are only a few pieces on display. The remainder is packed away tightly in rows and rows of shelves and cupboards, and usually more is to be found in a mysterious "upstairs" which is really not up stairs at all, but rather up a ladder. The shop boy -- because there is always a shop boy -- scrambles up and throws things down to his superiors who are busy shouting out orders for him to bring cotton things, blue things, fancy things and so forth. In between doing this, the shop boy is to be found frantically refolding all the cloth that has been lovingly spread out in front of the seated customers, and then rejected: too fancy, too blue, wrong kind of cotton. The main salesperson meanwhile keeps up the banter about the reasonable prices and fabulous work, attempts to discern what everyone wants, orders chai for everyone, and if (like we were) the customers are special, snacks or soda are also summoned. We just sit there are piles and piles of cloth are thrown in front of us. If someone makes a slight inclination towards any piece, it is immediately and elaborately unfurled. I love shopping with other people, because the joy of that pile lies partially in selecting those special pieces of cloth that will be transformed from 'kapda' to 'kapde' -- from cloth to clothes. With all those other people, I was able to restrain myself from purchasing yet another suit, and even then, just barely. Shopping vicariously is healthy for my overstuffed wardrobe and understuffed wallet.

Also of note is my recently added extracurricular activity: along with three other girls, I joined a Bollywood dance class, put together by the famous choreographer Shiamak (of 'Taal' and 'Dhoom' fame). It met for the first time tonight, and was completely fun and exhausting without being as humiliating as I thought it would be. I went shopping for dance clothes (loose pants, t-shirt) as I had not exactly planned this beforehand. Thankfully, there are different class sections for kids and adults, although one woman was slightly distressed that she was not in what she had been told would be an exclusively over-40 class. I admired her pluck: she wore a full salwaar kameez and didn't even take off her dupatta -- and she stilll managed to jump around quite a lot. The other girls and I had to practice our moves on the roof when we got home, so that they will be perfect for our next class on Wednesday. I also have to figure out what to do about my singular pair of loose pants, which are yellow, and which I was already wearing when I got caught in a huge downpour today. Needless to say, not only did I show up looking half-drowned, my pants are rather muddy from the deluge. This simply will not do for my extremely fashionable cohort, especially the dance teacher, who is small, springy, and has a small goatee. His name is Dijendra or something, but he made it quite clear that he is to be called exclusively DJ.

Everything else chugs along. Dan came and went, sadly, and I now know where to take all of you to get the best meat in the city. I know a few more words now than I did a month ago, I think. I haven't thought to take pictures, so today's is from my mountain trip. The mangoes are almost gone. They are still around, but nearing the end of the season, most are overripe and not worth eating. The monsoon is starting fitfully. It will rain one day, then we'll have two or three completely dry, hot days. Thus mosquitoes are hardly a problem yet, and I can still easily down five or six litres of water during a day. In the monsoon's soddenness, often it's hard to drink enough water.

I'm now reading Vikram Seth's "A Suitable Boy," famous for its literal (though not literary) heft. It may be one of the largest novels in the English language, at almost 1500 pages. It kind of reminds of novels like Anna Karenina that are weighty and well-regarded, but still turn out as multi-starring soap operas of gigantic proportions. I'm withholding complete judgement on this book as of yet, except to say that my mother would probably like it. (By that I mean, go read this book, Mama. At least it's long enough to keep you going for more than a couple of days!) So far it's worth reading, but not perfect or even astonishingly good. A point in its favor is that it isn't crushingly depressing, which many other of these astonishingly good Indian English novels are (Fine Balance, Midnight's Children, Inheritance of Loss). It's relegated to pre-bed reading, so I've only gotten about a third of the way through in the past two weeks.

I still have about a page of Urdu to crank through before bed, and then a bit of my wrist-spraining book to read, so it's off to study with me. I'll attempt to keep a more regular writing schedule in the coming weeks, even when I am well (and therefore busy).