We squeezed one more Rajasthani city into our travel itinerary over Thanksgiving weekend- this time we explored Jodhpur, the Blue City. Jodhpur was founded in 1459 and grew out of the profits of opium, sandalwood, dates and copper.
We stayed at a really cool hotel, the Ajit Bhawan. It's a Heritage hotel, meaning it's historically preserved and has tons of nooks and crannies all over the place. In fact, we spent quite a bit of time exploring the hotel! We had a super-cool room overlooking the pool, with our own private patio.
Once we'd arrived, gotten settled and explored the hotel a bit, we headed over to the Clock Tower and the surrounding Sardar Market. It was an incredibly loud, dirty, busy, crazy place...we were a bit overwhelmed especially since we had the kids. We lasted about 1.5 hours before we headed back to the hotel for dinner.
The buffet dinner was served alfresco (outside) with live entertainment- a group of men playing Rajasthani music, singing and dancing. There was one particular little boy who's footwork was just incredible! Ryan was especially curious.
The next day was dedicated to the Meherangarh Fort and the Umaid Bhawan Palace. The Fort was a pretty good one- great views of the Blue City (the Brahmin caste is predominant in this city, and they paint their homes/shops blue) and interesting architecture. There was a big collection of howdahs (seats for carrying people on an elephant's back) and royal infant bassinets. One thing I'll say is the the FLIES at the Fort were unbearable- there were millions! We lasted till early afternoon then headed over to the Palace, where the current Maharaja still lives. It was an interesting little tour, showing the Royal Family's world-over collections of glassware, furniture and clocks. A nice, quiet (and fly-less) end to the day.
Sunday was spent over a leisurely breakfast, a bit of window shopping and our flight home. Overall, it was a worthwhile trip, and we enjoyed having some family time outside of Mumbai.
Here's a glimpse!
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Giving Thanks
We celebrated Thanksgiving the good 'ole fashioned way this year- with food, beverages, and friends! And while the turkey is not featured in these pics (the carving knife got to 'ole Tom before the camera did!), these photos show what a feast we had.
Thank you, Kristen for hosting such a lovely, relaxing day of nice conversations, fun Wii time and way too much food and wine. We especially loved the idea of the "Thanksgiving mirror" where we all wrote down things we are thankful for.
We Weatherwaxes are thankful for so many things, but "Each other" and "living in India" topped this years' list.
Thank you, Kristen for hosting such a lovely, relaxing day of nice conversations, fun Wii time and way too much food and wine. We especially loved the idea of the "Thanksgiving mirror" where we all wrote down things we are thankful for.
We Weatherwaxes are thankful for so many things, but "Each other" and "living in India" topped this years' list.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
It's a "sign"
The other night, I looked out the window, and this is what I saw:
Could it be? Is that a LONGHORN I see in the clouds?
Heaven help us! :)
Could it be? Is that a LONGHORN I see in the clouds?
Heaven help us! :)
Monday, November 22, 2010
A wise man
I started a new book today, and a quote was included in the forward:
"Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth."
-Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Custom-House"
He was a wise man, that Nathaniel. A wise man indeed.
"Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn-out soil. My children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth."
-Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Custom-House"
He was a wise man, that Nathaniel. A wise man indeed.
All gussied up
Mike and I got all gussied up last weekend for the annual ASB PTA Dinner/Dance. It was held at the Leela Hotel; the theme was Hollywood/Bollywood.
Here we are on the way out the door- Cate took this shot:
Enjoying ourselves over dinner:
....and then, the dancing started:
Someone wore a feather boa, and EVERYONE had fun with it!
It was a fun night spent gettin' down on the dance floor with friends- and each other! I love my hubby- he's a good sport!
Here we are on the way out the door- Cate took this shot:
Enjoying ourselves over dinner:
....and then, the dancing started:
Someone wore a feather boa, and EVERYONE had fun with it!
It was a fun night spent gettin' down on the dance floor with friends- and each other! I love my hubby- he's a good sport!
Mad for Mumbai
My friend Victoria recently told me about this article, written by an Australian Catherine Taylor in early October. I marveled over how it completely describes our experience of living here. We love it, we hate it, we love it again. It's lovely and it's ugly. The people are wonderful and infuriating. The only way to experience it, is to live it. And I am thankful that the author had the skill to sum it up- for many of us expats.
Living in India is like having an intense but insane affair, writes expat Catherine Taylor
TONIGHT, as I waved my high heel in the face of a bewildered taxi driver, I thought suddenly: I am absolutely nuts in India. It's a thought I have often. Someone or something is always going nuts, and quite often it's me.
I was trying to get a taxi driver to take me home, a mere 500 metres away, but it was pouring with rain and my shoes were oh-so-high, and it was late. He, of course, was having none of it; no amount of shoe-waving and sad-facing from a wild-haired firangi was changing his mind, when suddenly I remembered the magic trick - pay more than you should. "Arre, bhai sahab, 50 rupees to Altamount Road? Please?" And off we went.
I have lived in Mumbai for almost three years. It was my choice to come - I wanted offshore experience in my media career and India was the only country looking to hire - and I wanted a change. I needed something new, exciting, thrilling, terrifying. And India gave that to me in spades. In fact, she turned it all the way up to 11. And then she turned it up a little more.
To outsiders, living in India has a particular kind of glamour attached to it, a special sparkle that sees people crowding around me at parties. "You live in India? My God, really? I could never do that. What's it like?" The closest I have come to answering that question is that it's like being in a very intense, extremely dysfunctional relationship. India and I fight, we scream, we argue, we don't speak for days on end, but really, deep down, we love each other. She's a strange beast, this India. She hugs me, so tightly sometimes that I can't breathe, then she turns and punches me hard in the face, leaving me stunned. Then she hugs me again, and suddenly I know everything will be all right.
She wonders why I don't just "know" how things are done, why I argue with her about everything, why I judge, why I rail at injustice and then do nothing about it. She wonders how old I am, how much I earn, why I'm not married. (The poor census man looked at me, stunned, then asked in a faltering voice, "But madam, if you're not married then… who is the head of your household?") I wonder how she can stand by when small children are begging on corners, how she can let people foul up the streets so much that they are impossible to walk along, how she can allow such corruption, such injustice, such A LOT OF HONKING.
But she has taught me things. She has taught me to be brave, bold, independent, sometimes even fierce and terrifying. She has taught me to walk in another man's chappals, and ask questions a different way when at first the answer is no. She has taught me to accept the things I cannot change. She has taught me that there are always, always, two sides to every argument. And she was kind enough to let me come and stay.
She didn't make it easy though (but then, why should she?). The Foreigner Regional Registration Office, banks, mobile phone companies and rental agencies are drowning under piles of carbon paper, photocopies of passports (I always carry a minimum of three) and the soggy tissues of foreigners who fall to pieces in the face of maddening bureaucracy. What costs you 50 rupees one day might be 500 rupees the next, and nobody will tell you why. What you didn't need to bring yesterday, you suddenly need to bring today. Your signature doesn't look like your signature. And no, we can't help you. Come back tomorrow and see.
It's not easy being here, although I am spoiled by a maid who cooks for me, and a delivery service from everywhere that ensures I rarely have to wave my shoes at taxi drivers. I buy cheap flowers, trawl for gorgeous antiques, buy incredibly cheap books; I have long, boozy brunches in five-star hotels for the price of a nice bottle of wine at home, I have a very nice roof over my head … on the face of it, it would seem I have little to complain about. But then, I am stared at constantly, I have been spat on, sexually harassed, had my (covered) breasts videotaped as I walked through a market, had my drink spiked, been followed countless times. I have wept more here than I have ever in my life, out of frustration, anger, loneliness, the sheer hugeness of being here. But the longer I stay, the more I seem to relax, let go, let it be.
But I do often wonder why I'm here, especially when I'm tired, teary and homesick, my phone has been disconnected for the 19th time despite promises it would never happen again, when it's raining and no taxis will take me home. But then a willing ride always comes along, and we'll turn a corner and be suddenly in the midst of some banging, crashing mad festival full of colour, where everyone is dancing behind a slow-moving truck, and I won't have a clue what's going on but a mum holding a child will dance up to my window and point and smile and laugh, and I breathe out and think, really, my God, this is fantastic. This is India! I live in India! She hugs me, she punches me, and she hugs me again.
Yet I know won't ever belong here, not properly. I know this when I listen to girls discussing what colour blouses they should wear to their weddings - she's Gujarati, he's from the south, she's wearing a Keralan sari. I know when my friends give me house-hunting advice: "Look at the names of the people who already live there, then you'll know what kind of building it is." (Trouble is, I don't know my Kapoors from my Kapurs, my Sippys from my Sindhis, my Khans from my Jains). I know this when my lovely fruit man (who also delivers) begs me to taste a strawberry he is holding in his grubby hands and I have to say no, I can't eat it, I'll die… I know I will never belong because, as stupid as it sounds, being truly, properly Indian is in your DNA. I marvel at how incredibly well educated so many of them are, how they can all speak at least three languages and think it's no big deal, how they fit 1000 people into a train carriage meant for 300 and all stand together quite peacefully, how they know the songs from every Hindi film ever made, how they welcome anyone and everyone (even wild-haired, complaining firangis) into their homes for food, and chai, and more food.
I've seen terrible things - someone fall under a train, children with sliced-off ears, old, old men sitting in the rain nursing half-limbs while they beg, children covered in flies sleeping on the pavement, beggars with no legs weaving themselves through traffic on trolleys, men in lunghis working with their hands in tiny corridors with no fans in sky-high temperatures. I've read heartbreaking things, of gang rapes, corruption, environmental abuse. I've smelled smells that have stripped the inside of my nostrils, stepped over open sewers in markets, watched a goat being bled to death.
I've done things of which I am ashamed, things I never thought I would do. I have slapped a starving child away, I have turned my head in annoyance when beggars have tapped repeatedly on my taxi window, I have yelled at grown men in the face. I have been pinched and pinched back, with force. I have slapped, I have hit, I have pushed. I have screamed in anger. I have, at times, not recognised myself.
I've yelled at a man for kicking a dog, and yelled at a woman who pushed into a line ahead of me when I wasn't at all in a hurry. When a teenage beggar stood at the window of my taxi, saying "F… you madam" over and over, I told him to go f… himself and gave him the finger; once on the train I let a kid keep 100 rupees as change. I am kind and I am cold-hearted, I am fair and I am mean, I am delightful and I am downright rude. I am all of these at once and I distress myself wildly over it, but somehow, India accepts me. She has no time for navel-gazing foreigners; she just shoved everyone along a bit and made room for me. She has no time to dwell on my shortcomings, she just keeps moving along.
And then, and then. I've been to temples where I've sung along with old women who had no teeth, I've held countless smiling ink-marked babies for photos, I've had unknown aunties in saris smile and cup my face with their soft, wrinkled hands, I've made street vendors laugh when I've choked on their spicy food, I've danced through the streets at Ganpati, fervently sung the national anthem (phonetically) in cinemas, had designers make me dresses, I've met with CEOs and heads of companies just because I asked if I could. She hugs, she punches, she hugs again.
In short, I have been among the luckiest of the lucky. She keeps me on my toes, Ms India, and I have been blessed that she let me stay for a while. She wanted me to succeed here and she gave me grand opportunities and endless second chances. She willed me forward like a stern parent. She welcomed me. And when I leave, because I know I will one day, I will weep, because I will miss her terribly. And because I know she won't even notice that I am gone.
Living in India is like having an intense but insane affair, writes expat Catherine Taylor
TONIGHT, as I waved my high heel in the face of a bewildered taxi driver, I thought suddenly: I am absolutely nuts in India. It's a thought I have often. Someone or something is always going nuts, and quite often it's me.
I was trying to get a taxi driver to take me home, a mere 500 metres away, but it was pouring with rain and my shoes were oh-so-high, and it was late. He, of course, was having none of it; no amount of shoe-waving and sad-facing from a wild-haired firangi was changing his mind, when suddenly I remembered the magic trick - pay more than you should. "Arre, bhai sahab, 50 rupees to Altamount Road? Please?" And off we went.
I have lived in Mumbai for almost three years. It was my choice to come - I wanted offshore experience in my media career and India was the only country looking to hire - and I wanted a change. I needed something new, exciting, thrilling, terrifying. And India gave that to me in spades. In fact, she turned it all the way up to 11. And then she turned it up a little more.
To outsiders, living in India has a particular kind of glamour attached to it, a special sparkle that sees people crowding around me at parties. "You live in India? My God, really? I could never do that. What's it like?" The closest I have come to answering that question is that it's like being in a very intense, extremely dysfunctional relationship. India and I fight, we scream, we argue, we don't speak for days on end, but really, deep down, we love each other. She's a strange beast, this India. She hugs me, so tightly sometimes that I can't breathe, then she turns and punches me hard in the face, leaving me stunned. Then she hugs me again, and suddenly I know everything will be all right.
She wonders why I don't just "know" how things are done, why I argue with her about everything, why I judge, why I rail at injustice and then do nothing about it. She wonders how old I am, how much I earn, why I'm not married. (The poor census man looked at me, stunned, then asked in a faltering voice, "But madam, if you're not married then… who is the head of your household?") I wonder how she can stand by when small children are begging on corners, how she can let people foul up the streets so much that they are impossible to walk along, how she can allow such corruption, such injustice, such A LOT OF HONKING.
But she has taught me things. She has taught me to be brave, bold, independent, sometimes even fierce and terrifying. She has taught me to walk in another man's chappals, and ask questions a different way when at first the answer is no. She has taught me to accept the things I cannot change. She has taught me that there are always, always, two sides to every argument. And she was kind enough to let me come and stay.
She didn't make it easy though (but then, why should she?). The Foreigner Regional Registration Office, banks, mobile phone companies and rental agencies are drowning under piles of carbon paper, photocopies of passports (I always carry a minimum of three) and the soggy tissues of foreigners who fall to pieces in the face of maddening bureaucracy. What costs you 50 rupees one day might be 500 rupees the next, and nobody will tell you why. What you didn't need to bring yesterday, you suddenly need to bring today. Your signature doesn't look like your signature. And no, we can't help you. Come back tomorrow and see.
It's not easy being here, although I am spoiled by a maid who cooks for me, and a delivery service from everywhere that ensures I rarely have to wave my shoes at taxi drivers. I buy cheap flowers, trawl for gorgeous antiques, buy incredibly cheap books; I have long, boozy brunches in five-star hotels for the price of a nice bottle of wine at home, I have a very nice roof over my head … on the face of it, it would seem I have little to complain about. But then, I am stared at constantly, I have been spat on, sexually harassed, had my (covered) breasts videotaped as I walked through a market, had my drink spiked, been followed countless times. I have wept more here than I have ever in my life, out of frustration, anger, loneliness, the sheer hugeness of being here. But the longer I stay, the more I seem to relax, let go, let it be.
But I do often wonder why I'm here, especially when I'm tired, teary and homesick, my phone has been disconnected for the 19th time despite promises it would never happen again, when it's raining and no taxis will take me home. But then a willing ride always comes along, and we'll turn a corner and be suddenly in the midst of some banging, crashing mad festival full of colour, where everyone is dancing behind a slow-moving truck, and I won't have a clue what's going on but a mum holding a child will dance up to my window and point and smile and laugh, and I breathe out and think, really, my God, this is fantastic. This is India! I live in India! She hugs me, she punches me, and she hugs me again.
Yet I know won't ever belong here, not properly. I know this when I listen to girls discussing what colour blouses they should wear to their weddings - she's Gujarati, he's from the south, she's wearing a Keralan sari. I know when my friends give me house-hunting advice: "Look at the names of the people who already live there, then you'll know what kind of building it is." (Trouble is, I don't know my Kapoors from my Kapurs, my Sippys from my Sindhis, my Khans from my Jains). I know this when my lovely fruit man (who also delivers) begs me to taste a strawberry he is holding in his grubby hands and I have to say no, I can't eat it, I'll die… I know I will never belong because, as stupid as it sounds, being truly, properly Indian is in your DNA. I marvel at how incredibly well educated so many of them are, how they can all speak at least three languages and think it's no big deal, how they fit 1000 people into a train carriage meant for 300 and all stand together quite peacefully, how they know the songs from every Hindi film ever made, how they welcome anyone and everyone (even wild-haired, complaining firangis) into their homes for food, and chai, and more food.
I've seen terrible things - someone fall under a train, children with sliced-off ears, old, old men sitting in the rain nursing half-limbs while they beg, children covered in flies sleeping on the pavement, beggars with no legs weaving themselves through traffic on trolleys, men in lunghis working with their hands in tiny corridors with no fans in sky-high temperatures. I've read heartbreaking things, of gang rapes, corruption, environmental abuse. I've smelled smells that have stripped the inside of my nostrils, stepped over open sewers in markets, watched a goat being bled to death.
I've done things of which I am ashamed, things I never thought I would do. I have slapped a starving child away, I have turned my head in annoyance when beggars have tapped repeatedly on my taxi window, I have yelled at grown men in the face. I have been pinched and pinched back, with force. I have slapped, I have hit, I have pushed. I have screamed in anger. I have, at times, not recognised myself.
I've yelled at a man for kicking a dog, and yelled at a woman who pushed into a line ahead of me when I wasn't at all in a hurry. When a teenage beggar stood at the window of my taxi, saying "F… you madam" over and over, I told him to go f… himself and gave him the finger; once on the train I let a kid keep 100 rupees as change. I am kind and I am cold-hearted, I am fair and I am mean, I am delightful and I am downright rude. I am all of these at once and I distress myself wildly over it, but somehow, India accepts me. She has no time for navel-gazing foreigners; she just shoved everyone along a bit and made room for me. She has no time to dwell on my shortcomings, she just keeps moving along.
And then, and then. I've been to temples where I've sung along with old women who had no teeth, I've held countless smiling ink-marked babies for photos, I've had unknown aunties in saris smile and cup my face with their soft, wrinkled hands, I've made street vendors laugh when I've choked on their spicy food, I've danced through the streets at Ganpati, fervently sung the national anthem (phonetically) in cinemas, had designers make me dresses, I've met with CEOs and heads of companies just because I asked if I could. She hugs, she punches, she hugs again.
In short, I have been among the luckiest of the lucky. She keeps me on my toes, Ms India, and I have been blessed that she let me stay for a while. She wanted me to succeed here and she gave me grand opportunities and endless second chances. She willed me forward like a stern parent. She welcomed me. And when I leave, because I know I will one day, I will weep, because I will miss her terribly. And because I know she won't even notice that I am gone.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Rangoli
During Diwali (The Festival of Lights), Goddess Lakshmi is believed to visit homes that are well lit, so families decorate their homes.
Lakshmi is the goddess of light, beauty, good fortune and wealth. While Laxmi is generally worshiped to achieve success, she does not reside long with anyone who is lazy or desire her only as wealth.
People wear their best clothes or buy new ones, children are given presents and new year greetings are exchanged through visits or Diwali cards.
Thus, a Rangoli design is created on doorsteps to welcome everybody. Rangoli exudes a pattern in color that are specific for each region.
Rangoli was one of the major decorations or embellishments in the ancient times, but they have not lost their charm even in the modern context. These traditional embellishments are still used in India on various festivals and special occasions like marriages, birth ceremonies, and so. Although rangoli-making is a popular art across India, but they are like a tradition in Maharashtra (where we live), where they are most prevalent. On the Diwali festival, people usually make various types of geometrical patterns and designs between which they place oil lamps (diyas).
And this year, our lovely maid Lilly was so thoughtful and brought colored sand and oil lamps to the house for us. She and Catherine had a wonderful time making Rangoli...she even changed the pattern 2 or 3 times during the week leading up to Diwali!
Another wonderful Indian experience!
Lakshmi is the goddess of light, beauty, good fortune and wealth. While Laxmi is generally worshiped to achieve success, she does not reside long with anyone who is lazy or desire her only as wealth.
People wear their best clothes or buy new ones, children are given presents and new year greetings are exchanged through visits or Diwali cards.
Thus, a Rangoli design is created on doorsteps to welcome everybody. Rangoli exudes a pattern in color that are specific for each region.
Rangoli was one of the major decorations or embellishments in the ancient times, but they have not lost their charm even in the modern context. These traditional embellishments are still used in India on various festivals and special occasions like marriages, birth ceremonies, and so. Although rangoli-making is a popular art across India, but they are like a tradition in Maharashtra (where we live), where they are most prevalent. On the Diwali festival, people usually make various types of geometrical patterns and designs between which they place oil lamps (diyas).
And this year, our lovely maid Lilly was so thoughtful and brought colored sand and oil lamps to the house for us. She and Catherine had a wonderful time making Rangoli...she even changed the pattern 2 or 3 times during the week leading up to Diwali!
Another wonderful Indian experience!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)