Sick crow

The fat crow would like to apologize for her lengthy silence.

Last Sunday I woke up with some serious chills, and on Monday I was admitted into a hospital here. Lots of things happened -- diagnoses, injections, breakthroughs, tablets, improvements, discouragements -- lots. It was not very fun. (Not to mention that I had to put my students' long-planned final project on hold, which was a big disappointment.) Thankfully my dad was in the hospital with me, every second.

But a couple of days ago I was released from the strange sterile jail, and I'm recovering with Z in a hotel next to the Lodi Gardens. I'm feeling a lot better.

Just to say: with a few more days of rest, I will be back and blogging.

Dosage of poetry for a hectic week

A wonderful friend from college, N., sent me this poem the other day. It seems to speak to the highs and lows of the urban landscape of faces in India --

Something this foggy day, a something which
Is neither of this fog nor of today,
Has set me dreaming of the winds that play
Past certain cliffs, along one certain beach,
And turn the topmost edge of waves to spray:
Ah pleasant pebbly strand so far away,
So out of reach while quite within my reach,
As out of reach as India or Cathay!
I am sick of where I am and where I am not,
I am sick of foresight and of memory,
I am sick of all I have and all I see,
I am sick of self, and there is nothing new;
Oh weary impatient patience of my lot!
Thus with myself: how fares it, Friends, with you?

Christina Rossetti.

Study date

On Thursday at the Bangalore airport, I was so busy perusing the glorious Duty Free that I nearly missed my flight back to Delhi. The excitement did not stop there. I arrived, left the airport, and arranged for a pre-paid taxi to take me back to Civil Lines – only to find, upon sliding into the cab, that there was another person in the back seat: Z., who had flown in from Kabul that morning. Quelle surprise!

We spent an excellent three-day weekend together, appreciating the precious spring weather and sitting for hours at my favorite café in Khan Market, furiously typing away at our laptops. There were long dinners and long discussions – the best of which we shared with my friends L. and A., who invited us over for homemade spaghetti and meticulously-washed salad. We visited Haldiram’s twice, once for Sunday brunch (a fantastic New York diner substitute, it turns out, especially given the superior food) with C., who’s back in Delhi on business.

Haldiram’s. I wish I had a picture. I’ve written about how, to me, the Old City—and Chandni Chowk in particular – represents everything I love about Delhi. It was where I looked bleary-eyed upon the gray and the poor on that first memorable morning in India, and since then, it’s always where I go to remind myself why I’m here. Haldiram’s, which is a three-story restaurant, take-away, cafeteria, and dhaba all in one, is, for me, the taste of that memory. Everyone has his or her palate triggers: Proust had his madeleine, and I have the food at Haldiram’s. If you can make it past the lobby and its glass-enclosed displays of permutations upon permutations of snacks and candies, the second floor is where you’ll find the real masala of the Old City. There, you can order 15 different kinds of chaat, fresh dosas and uttapams, full-on North Indian meals, and the puffiest bhature in the world. The best part of the cafeteria is that it’s made for sharing: the only way to go is to order everything you possibly can (especially foods you’ve never had before, with the Haldiram’s guarantee that they’ll be delicious) and try to beat your dining companions in scooping up large, dripping spoonfuls of each gorgeous dish. There’s nothing like it.

That morning on Chandni Chowk, highly satiated by hours at Haldiram’s, I looked around me and saw India’s great beauty once more. It was laced into the sight of a golden-domed gurudwara standing next to a minareted mosque, the hordes of eager cycle-rickshaw drivers, the clang of temple bells, the endless arrays of sweets and snacks in the lobby of Haldiram’s, and people’s honest expressions (smiles, frowns, grunts, smirks, boredom, desperation, annoyance!) all bared for the world to see. I saw them, and I was again convinced – as I believe I have to be convinced every day, in order to survive – that this is the country for me.

Bangalore: IT and Idlies

After witnessing the beginning of Holi celebrations in Delhi -- a full *week* before the holiday (no pun intended) itself -- I hesitated to believe my father's claim that "in the south, Holi is nothing more than an afterthought." But he was right: today we've only seen a couple of color-drenched people. I guess we'll have to see about tomorrow, which some say is the real festival day. Today, in any case, it turns out that Eid Milad-un-Nabi (the Prophet's birthday!), with its loudspeaker lectures broadcasted from the mosque down the street, is a far bigger deal.

Bangalore. I haven't had too much time to get out and see the city -- mostly I've been taking advantage of the Super Unbelievably Fast High Speed Internet Access (hello, IT city!) at our hotel to get work done on the ol' laptop. The last time I was in this city was five years ago, accompanied by my best friend A., her dad, and a whole bunch of food fanatics, some of whom I'm proud to call my relatives. Five years ago, my best friend and I walked the city alone: that's how safe it was, and still is. Even now it's a mixture of Honolulu, Queens, and India.

Back to the food. The incredible safety of this "modern" city made its mark five years ago: the meals, even more so. Bangalore is the center of South Indian Vegetarian Everything, served up specially for hardworking IT-types on snappy lunch hours. Above are some visual aids for two distinctly South Indian edibles: sweet milk coffee presented in two metal tumblers, and fluffy rice flour idlies with sambar, coconut chutney, and ghee. The pictures are from the famous Mavalli Tiffin Room on Lal Bagh Road, courtesy of Wikipedia.

And speaking of the best of both worlds (fast-paced, high-tech Internet; fast-paced, low-tech food), tonight my dad and I are going to one of Bangalore's massive malls to finally see the movie "Slumdog Millionaire." I know I'm a little behind the curve on this one, but perhaps it's not too late to ask the Fat Crow audience: what did you think of the movie? Realistic, or "poverty pornography"? How's the acting, and the now-famous A.R. Rahman score? Does it stand up to all the hype?

A note before Holi

Hi, everyone. I apologize for the long silence. It’s been a bit of a crazy week.

Still, we all know the perils of neglecting to perform “atithisatkaaram” (hospitality to guests) in Sanskrit literature – curses, spells, wrath, more curses – so I’d rather not risk ignoring my virtual guests for too long. Here’s a quick update.

I’ve taken the past few days off work for medical reasons, and am planning to spend next week in Bangalore with my father. Both of us are hiding from the danger that is Holi in North India. (Wikipedia it!) I can only compare this holiday to Mardi Gras, but it’s far crazier, and in a different sort of way.

Next weekend, Z is visiting from Kabul, and it’s back to work for the week after that. This is to be followed by more travels with Z (to Mumbai? to Dar-es-Salaam??), then a final fortnight with my students in Delhi, and then – unbelievably – home in April.

In a certain sense, looking back on them, these many months in India seem like tossed colors on Holi. But now is not the time for sentimental (albeit colorful) reflections. It's time to prepare for Bangalore.