Spa weekend

They don't really bill Jaipur as a calm weekend getaway (and given the hyperactivity of the city's rickshaw-wallahs, it's easy to see why), but that's exactly what the Pink City was for me this weekend. My father is currently living in a gorgeous, quiet hotel with a pool and lounge chairs; I parked there for a three-day weekend and got up only twice. My cold dried up, I slept more than ten hours every night, I fed myself silly. Thank you, Jaipur, spa locale of the future.

On Saturday afternoon I went to meet my friend S. at the Anokhi Cafe. She's studying Hindi in Jaipur and was reading the Hindi version of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when I arrived. While we caught up on several months of life and gossip, I slurped Assam tea and gobbled down what might be the world's most delicious carrot cake. (Okay, maybe the carrot cake at Magnolia Bakery is better. Maybe.) We then went to meet her roommate, L., at the Shree Radha-Govinda Dev Temple in the Old City. We were just in time for the evening aarti; as we arrived, the pundit drew back the stage curtain (yes, this is a celebrity performance) to reveal Krishna and Radha. Bells clanged. Light was offered. Water was sprinkled. The scene on the ground, however, was surprisingly quiet -- at least by comparison to those I've seen at other temples. I found myself able to look Krishna and Radha in their big eyes for minutes at a time: a real darshan.

Then we queued up to get prasaad (sweets that have been offered to the deities, blessed by their presence, and returned to the public) at a little counter next to the main shrine. You donate a few rupees and get a bag of laddoos in return: the more you pay, the more you get. There, two interesting things happened. One was that an old woman begged me to cut the line in front of her. In a country that rarely forms line-shaped queues (preferring, I think, to crowd and mob) this was very unusual indeed. "MERE AAGE", she pleaded over and over, "IN FRONT OF ME!"

Yet in total contrast with the old woman's generous sentiments, we actually *were* mobbed as we stepped away from the counter. Fifteen pairs of male hands -- mostly boys, but quite a few grown men as well -- appeared in our faces, begging for the sweets we had just been given. They didn't look like poor men; in fact, some of them were very well-dressed. I had no idea what to do. I saw S and L giving out pieces of their sweets, so I began to distribute mine. This was a bad idea. Fifteen pairs of hands became twenty-five, and the crowd swelled with neediness. It's disturbing to pause, look around, and find yourself surrounded by outstretched palms and dark, staring eyes. I've been coming to India for a long time, and it's never happened to me in *any* context. People can get aggressive in the temple -- usually when pushing forward to have a glimpse of the deity -- but this, I have never seen before. Has anyone ever had a similar experience? Thoughts?

After having darshan of Radha and Krishna, I hopped in an autorickshaw and headed back to the hotel to meet my dad for a late dinner. We joined lots of Indian families (children and babies most certainly included!) eating thalis and dosas at a popular south Indian restaurant at the prime dinner hour of 10PM. The food was delicious, but the real attractions were at the ice cream store next door. At this unusual ice cream store, a hungry customer could have her choice of fantastically named (and dressed) ice cream sundaes: "Pink Strawberry Pina Colada", "Tropical Sailboat", "Virgin Brownie Hot Fudge" and, my personal favorite, "Lemon Kookie Crumb Pizza".

As I sat on the train going back to Delhi late last night, I looked out the window and saw a few dim lights in the distance. It was a graciously familiar sight: I was on Amtrak for a moment there, traveling from Boston and primed to arrive late at night in grimy, glorious Penn Station, bag of textbooks and empty Diet Coke bottle in tow. I would stumble off the train and look around at the fluorescently lit, golden walls of the huge cavern station below 34th Street. I would follow the signs to the One and Nine Subway lines, even though the Nine has long since been discontinued. I would get on the local and rumble uptown to 110th Street, where I would get off, stick my head above ground, and breathe in the smell of darkened Broadway. I'd cross the street, ignore the loud pleas of our corner's resident homeless man ("Can ya help me get a warm meal please?"), and walk to Riverside Drive. Then I'd turn toward my bright lobby, greet F., the doorman, and walk past the spitting mini-fountain to get in the elevator and get out again on the third floor.

That might have been the first real pang of homesickness I've felt so far.