The Story Continues...

The Stories Continue

27 June 2006

I’ve been back for a week now and it is still strange to be here. There is too much food in the supermarkets, the ground is basically flat, and it’s quiet when I turn the lights out at night. I miss the chanting. I miss the exploration of a different culture and the aspects of myself that it arouses. I miss India.

But there is good news. Louise is carrying on the story from Dharamsala and the following is directly from her:

Hi Judy, Kate and I are sitting in a steamy internet cafe in Dharamsala. To my left are two Israeli girls, waiting for a yoga class, then next to them is a young man who looks like my nephew Ross in Tibetan monk garb, and then to my right, after Kate are two Tibetan monks. A large Brahmin bull just sauntered by, looked in, and then moved on. There is a flute playing upstairs, and the rain is falling on the tin roof. We just had two chocolate banana pancakes at a veggy place called the Peace Cafe, and shared the remains with all the people sitting at tables around us. There was a dog sitting on my feet throughout the meal, and at the other rickety tables were two monks, three sets of dread locks, and I heard both Hebrew and German being spoken, as well as Tibetan. Yesterday we went to the first day of the Boddhichitta teaching given by the Dalai Lama. We sat up in the Namgyal monastery with the other foreigners with our ears to small transistor radios, glued to the English translation. We saw his Holiness come both into and out of the teaching...after the teaching, he moved slowly through the crowd, smiling and beaming and waving, just like the celebrity he is. Some of us have questioned our own holiness because we've actually been more excited about several Richard Gere sitings in the area than our moment of darshan with the Dalai Lama. Apparently, Richrad wears hats and glasses and fakes an accent when he is here, to keep large fawning ladies from the west, the Dharma Babes of a certain age, from falling all over him. (And I DID see him and can attest: he's put on a little weight, but heh, he still looked pretty good. I could forgive a few pounds...) This morning we went out to the Tibetan Children's Village for a tour, and to interact with kids in grade eleven learning English, and Kate and I finally gave our puppet show to a very appreciative, and incredibly adorable, group of about 300 Tibetan kids, ages three to five. (Judy, we missed your music making, but Beth and Eileen filled in admirably, except that both of them were so moved by how much the kids got a kick out of the beaver bopping the squirrel on the head with a carrot, that they were both weeping.) The kids in the program are all studying very hard, and complaining about too much work, but I continue to find them out in the marketplace, boosting the economy of Dharamsala. The wares are amazing: a wide variety of cheap and fun hippy clothes for the young and the thin, thankas, Buddhas, large chunky silver jewelry, prayer flags, prayer wheels, books, you name it, it's here. (But don't try to buy something practical like a hot water bottle.) Yesterday Doug treated the entire faculty to a massage by a gentle man named Pema who cracked every joint in my body, and rubbed sandal wood oil into my furrowed brow. The monsoon rains have begun, and we had hail the size of marbles yesterday, and the gods are playing pin ball up in the heavens...the roar of thunder through the mountains creates a sternum shaking, deep and distant, tremendous roar. It's enough to make you believe they are really up there, watching us all. And they are. Missing you, Judy! Louise

Leaving Shimla

Thursday, June 15, 2006

It is with sincere regret and a heavy heart that I am leaving India. The altitude and winding mountain roads will prevent me from going to Dharamsala. So I am headed home to the United States and my husband and kitties.

There will be no sounds coming from the town, no chanting, no horns, no drums or bells or whistles. There will be no monkeys outside my window helping me watch the sun come up. There will be no Hoop Singh to bring me masala chai tea or Mukesh to change my dollars to rupees for shopping. Or Dolly to say, “Yes, yes, we will take care of it.” Or the kids who touched my life in so many ways, that I enjoyed so much - most of whom I will never see again. Or Trisha, may the gods and goddesses bless her, who was willing to drive me hither and yon, to get me to Shimla and to get me out – cheerfully taking the risk that I might throw up in her car yet again. I will miss Doug’s enthusiasm for his subject (International Human Rights) at breakfast, lunch and dinner. And getting to know Eileen better – I did my best as a stand in “Lucy’ to Louise’s Ethel. And Louise, how will I be in the U.S. without you? How do you stop sharing the intimate details of life? Leaky toilets, q-tips, crammed internet cafes when the lights go out, picking out the best shawls and bargaining (but not too hard) for them, the brown-eyed dessert man – that even after walking hundreds of miles up hill will be our demise. How can I thank you enough for sharing India with me?!



Monday, June 19, 2006

I am home and as I am writing this I am looking out of my windows at the rising sun painting the Connecticut foliage a brighter green. It’s beautiful, I live here – but I will miss the Shimla hills. It took 36 hours to get here and I have slept for almost twenty-four since arriving. I was so sad to leave and so happy to get home. Tomorrow the India crew will be leaving for Dharamsala. I am so glad not to be taking the bus ride but sad at what I will miss. I hope they will send me pictures – and emails and notes – so I can live vicariously though them as you have done through this blog.

All the picture pages are now loading and there will be more pictures going up. I hope I can post stories to this blog from others so that you can hear about the last part of the journey.

It has been an amazing time for me. One that I will never forget.

What a way to spend a Saturn return!

Love to all, Judy / Cat

Today was a great day in India

Today was a great day in India.

When I woke up this morning there was a gentle chill to the air. The dinning hall had hot oatmeal, fresh yogurt and honey – and tea with hot milk, which I am getting to like. I also like that everything is delicious, prepared and that they take the dishes away.

In the first class, two of the students did short fun reports on Hindu gods. We do two a day and today was given over to Ganesh and Kali. Ganesh is the guy with the elephant head. Dhru told it this way. Ganesh is the Hindu god of good fortune. The story goes that Shiva, workaholic and usually away from home god, decides to check in on his stay-at-home goddess wife Parvarti.

Parvarti has been a bit lonely without him and has created a son to keep her happy. When Shiva comes home, he doesn’t recognize his son, not being around much and Ganesh does know his dad either, so he rises to the occasion, thinking he is protecting his mom and refuses to let Shiva in the house. Shiva, not big on questions, gets pissed and lops off Ganesh’s head and throws it into the next universe and now there is no chance in finding it. Parvarti is quite upset and Shiva is remorseful that he has caused his wife so much pain. So advice has it that he should replace the head with the first animal head he sees that is facing north and that turns out to be an elephant. Ganesh’s life is restored and he doesn’t seem to mind his cool new head. And they become one big happy family and little elephant headed Ganesh becomes a favorite household god.

Kali is a female goddess with a necklace of fifty skulls and a serious attitude problem. Way cool lady, but don’t get in her way.

After Louise’s class, we went back to the dining hall for second breakfast. Second breakfast is a Hobbit concept that I fully embrace, I’m hoping it catches on in the states. Omelet, toast, Masala Chai tea – delivered by smiling gentlemen bearing china plates and silver tea pots. Life is good.

We found out how good when Doug Colbert’s showed an incredibly moving film, Born into Brothels, in his International Human Rights class. It is about a woman photographer who went into India’s red light district to do a film about prostitution and when she got there she found the children and decided to tell the story through their eyes and through their photographs. It is an amazing story filmed with honesty and love. So difficult to watch but so very worth seeing. I am embarrassed by the gratitude I have for my own privileged existence. It will be a while before I feel I have the right to complain about anything. Most left silently and spent some time in private thought.

After lunch we played the Indian waiting game. The Indian waiting game is played my making an appointment and waiting to see when the other person actually shows up. Sometimes it’s within and hour or two, sometimes days are involved. Our first task was to get a doctor for one of our students that had been scratched by a monkey up at Jakhu temple. Lidia’s scratch was faded but rabies is always an issue up here so after deciding not to take any chances we called the doctor to come to the hotel. Yes, they make house calls. He was coming at 3 and arrived at about 4:30 – not bad for doctors.

Lidia got her shot and I asked him about vertigo and altitude sickness. I haven’t felt 100 percent up here at almost 8,000 feet and I am facing a long trip back to Delhi unless I can fly out. Since I was very sick on the way up, I wanted to find something that would help on the ride back. The doctor prescribed a medication he said would help and wrote it on a piece of scrap paper – no pesky ID numbers here. I walked up to the mall to have the Rx filled at one of the stall pharmacies. 180 rupees. $4.00. Just because of the language issue and also because I wanted to find out what it was that he had prescribed I signed onto the internet with my 28.8 K modem and looked up the drug. It said “for nausea”, that was good. What it also said was “can cause permanent psychosis in (are you ready?) older women. You have to know how sick I was coming up here to know that I considered it for a minute. Louise falling on the bed laughing sobered me up and into the trash they went. Throwing up – no matter how bad – has to be preferable to permanent psychosis.

I did, however, pick up the salwar kameez I had made for me. It’s an Indian ladies outfit with long tunic, pants and scarf. You pick out the material and have it sewn for you by a tailor. I splurged and bought the one with beautiful embroidery on the front. 350 rupees for the material and 150 to have it sewn. Eleven dollars and fifty cents.

We went to dinner with a friend of Louise’s, a lovely woman, Rainu Singh, who is an advocate for children’s education in India. Her mother studied with Maria Montessori. A lively discussion accompanied our wonderful Indian meal which we ate in the neighboring hotel managed/owned by her husband. Actually, all the meals I have had here have been Indian and wonderful. The closest thing I have come to anything other than Indian was a latte in the Barista and rigatoni with ketchup (not good) in the dining hall. Oh, and there is a Baskin and Robbins. It’s about a mile walk up hill from here which does have the advantage of making you feel righteous and deserving when you get there.

When I got back to the Oberoi I could here Springsteen playing in the classroom at the end of the first floor hallway. Bruce in India? It was Brian’s 24th birthday and a party had broken out – music and all. Who could resist? It was past midnight when I left the kids and returned to my room to sleep until the chanting from the Sikh temple would wake me up in the morning.

God, I love India.

The Sounds of Shimla

It's Sunday morning and we have been in Shimla for a week and it dawns on me that I am beginning to get used to the everyday sounds. Right now I can hear from my open window blaring horns (they are beginning to recede into background noise), chanting and drums, church bells and people.

When we first got here the Tibetan Festival was going on and we could hear the music and drums at all times of day and night. It was a happy sound. Louise’s friend Tenzin who runs the Tibetan Refugee Handloom Store on the upper mall invited all of us to go to the ceremonies on Tuesday – the tenth day of the fourth month – a very auspicious day. The unfurled a four story high Tibetan Tanka – religious painting. All festivals are accompanied by music and drums and this one was no exception.

On the upper mall there is a stage and in the evenings there appears to be the Indian version of American Idol. There is a woman with a microphone who encourages other people to come up on stage and sing badly. People by the hundreds crowd the street, fill the steps across from the show and hang off the bandstand. Children and grannies are in rapt attention as the “wanna-bes” warble Indian pop music much to everyone’s delight. It’s very hard to tell (with a few exceptions) who is good and who is not. The volume goes up as the sun goes down and past midnight, long after I have returned to my hotel room the music is loud enough to rattle my window panes.

When the students who had gathered on the patio below my window Saturday night wondered whether their reverie would bother me, I had to pause and could only think “not a chance, you guys are amateurs compared to this crowd.” But it was really sweet of them to ask.

At first light, 4:30-5:00, you can hear a variety of calls to prayer and chants. I love the sound. It is the beginning of India’s devotional day. Weddings are frequently held early in the morning and can be on any day of the week that the astrologer deems auspicious. Weddings come with singing and drums and the cheers of the well wishers. My room is surrounded by flower vines and the birds must easily number in the hundreds all happily chirping bird gossip about the hotel guests all day long. By breakfast the cars are issuing rude challenges to each other for right of way and the decibel level has risen.

Just the number of people in the street provides it own noise. Families with hot and tired children in Disneyland have nothing on this crowd. Out shopping in the mall hawkers call to you and I am starting not to hear them. Of course, it is difficult to ignore the moving of a minor god. What? You ask. Minor god? Why yes, and moving them from place to place, carried by pall bearers on a decorated throne must, yes, must be accompanied by men with tin drums to announce his (her) passing. People flock to press coins and touch the statue to receive a blessing. I could only think of children running after the Good Humor truck and hoped that no one would find that visual metaphor offensive. The event seems to be marked with the same amount of glee.

Thing only seem to die down in the heat of mid-afternoon when everyone has full stomachs and is nodding off along with the dogs that seem to be comfortable sleeping anywhere – including the middle of the street. Sleepiness seems to creep over everything and even the traffic horns have lost their edge. Napping seems like a good idea and since you can never predict what new noises will be here to assault you later… well, as I said, napping seems like such a good idea.

A Word About Pictures

This is just to let you know that for some reason that eludes me, I can not get page five of the photos to load. I’ve redone the page in Dreamweaver five times and redone the photographs twice. I copied page three and dumped the page five photos into the code to see if it would load but no. I’ll keep trying but until then - I put up a partial page 6 and they seem to be fine. Ah, the mystery of the internet…

Shimla and the first day of classes.

Shimla and the first day of classes.

After spending a week going from one hotel, bus or train to another we are all happy to be settled into one place for a while. Everyone hauled their books and laptops down to class – Louise began hers at 8:20 am and settled in. For those of you who went to college a while ago – things are different now. The old fashioned pen and notebook has been replaced by the laptop and fingers that have honed their skills on video games and can fly over the keys and take a teacher’s lecture down verbatim. I watched with admiration as tapping keys and animated discussion took place concurrently and at amazing speed. As I scratched along with my pen, a touch smug that I could enjoy the class and not have to take the test at the end, one thing did occur to me – perhaps for good, but maybe for ill – where do they doodle? Those little notes that humanize the experience – a bad drawing of the professor in crooked glasses – a note about the time everyone is meeting at the pub tonight scratched into the margin – the phone number of the girl with the blue eyes.

When law was taught in the first U.S. law school, Tapping Reeve in Litchfield, CT, the students took down notes from a lecture that was give each morning and then they would be transcribed in the evening and would eventually form the law books the young attorneys would take with them into their practice. An entire set of law books written totally in their own hand. Did they go over every line and consider its meaning in the re-writing? Did the physical task itself integrate the law into their physical being? Was it just an aid to memory or was a right of passage involved? Have we replaced it with technology that depersonalizes the experience? Or have we just made transcription easier? Of course, things don’t work that way any more and even the enormous set of leather bound texts has given way to Lexis-Nexis but I do have some questions about efficiency vs. personalization – and I would like to know where they write the blue eyed girl’s phone number.


PS There are more pictures up. I think 5 pages, page 6 is almost done. There will be more on Shimla later - I have to up load everything on a 28K modem - it's slow and sometimes we lose power and I have to start again but we are chugging along and there are two new blog entries almost done that I will try to post later.

Sunday - The Governor's Reception

Sunday – The Governor's Reception

I was glad to find myself among the world of the living on Sunday morning and extremely grateful that world was solid ground. I was more than willing to partake in all the activities as long as none of them had to do with getting into a moving vehicle.

We got all dressed up and marched down the hill to Shimla’s High Court building to meet the Governor of Himachal Pradesh. He gave a speech on “Reservation,” a policy (I’m not sure of the proper term) that is akin to our affirmative action program. It’s a hot topic in the Indian news and he took some pointed questions from our law students as well as from others that were present. It was a spirited debate on a controversial issue. The dialogue continued as we had a proper tea and “tasties.” There was even a cake that Louise had to join the Governor in cutting. It was an interesting afternoon.

I have to say a word here about the students. They came in from all over the USA and India, jet lagged and fresh from law school finals. They got on a bus – some of the them with less than six hours sleep – and went to Agra, then got up early the next morning, saw the Taj Mahal, and got on a bus the next morning to come back to Delhi – all in heat over a hundred degrees, rooming with people they just met, and most of them doing it in a strange country – seeing a totally different slice of life then they are accustomed to. Then they boarded a train to Chandigarh and made a monumental five-hour bus ride up into the mountains of Shimla. They dealt with upset stomachs, coughs, colds and lack of diet Pepsi. They have eaten things that they can’t pronounce or even identify and forayed into market places and mingled with locals, bought from street hawkers and given money to beggars. They have been thrown into the deep end of the “culture shock” pool and to a person they have dealt with it with kindness and grace. They are without exception extraordinary people and I am very glad to be here with them.

P.S. I miss all of you at home very much! And I really want to thank you for your comments! It brings a little bit of home when I am on the other side of the world. Love to all of you, India Cat

Traveling to Shimla with the Allman Brothers

06-Saturday-June 3rd

From Delhi to Shimla as the crow flies might be a distance of 100 miles north and 2 miles up but what it takes to get there is an entirely different measurement.

You could count it in types of prayers perhaps: dear Lord please let it be cooler than Delhi might be the universal prayer. We are all ready for some cooler weather and it suits the first leg of the journey quite well as we board our behemoth busses for the short ride to the Delhi train station. As we congregate on the platform we are surrounded by the teaming crowds of India at its richest and poorest. I can see a procession on the far side of the tracks, a family walking single file, regal and dignified. A tall uniformed porter with two fairly large suitcases balanced on top of his head leading the parade. Behind him follows the handsome patriarch in the traditional Indian gentleman’s suit of a long top embroidered and baggie pants usually make from cotton or silk. His wife was next in line in an orange-red sari with wide gold bands of stitching on its edges. A proud daughter and an impish son, both neat as a pin and obedient to the rules of the parade follow behind.

Between them and myself are the train tracks and on them were men with brooms made of long twigs bound together sweeping the detritus of life in Delhi off the tracks. A boy of about seven, impossible to tell his age really, in clothes discolored by grime, hopped down from our platform crossed the tracks, peered into the sweeper’s garbage for jewels and finding none jumped up to other side. He stood a moment as the parade passed and I wondered if they would catch each other's eye, or if they envied each others possessions – riches in one case and freedom in another. How different were their dreams? But they passed invisible to each other but always vivid in my memories of Delhi’s train station.

The first class train we boarded had air-conditioning – that alone would have endeared it to us but along with the air-conditioning came cold bottled water and an Indian lunch served on trays with tiny plastic cups containing all manor of food. My stomach does not always agree with what my taste buds thinks is a good idea. I thought it was best to stay on the safe side with the cheese sandwich. Four hours is enough time to drink a liter of cold water with the predictable results that one needs to find a bathroom. There were two choices – Indian and Western. Although I am not an expert in Indian bathroom habits I get the impression that Indian people think we are more primitive by having a toilet that everyone can sit on and prefer squatting and washing. I had to admit that the Indian toilet was far cleaner than its western counterpart. So after some performance anxiety and a prayer that the train did not lurch to a stop at the wrong moment I conceded that it might be a good idea – not that I am ready to give up my comforts at home.

Our humongous busses meet us at Chandigarh for a five-hour ride up into the mountains and Shimla. Let me say that we are moving into the serious prayer stage of the journey. At no point are the two lane mountain roads between Chandigarh and Shimla straight for more than a hundred yards and each turn an agonizing hair pin with a sheer drop on one edge or the other. Cars pass each other around curves, dogs and cows sleep on the edge of the road, people stop their cars and open their doors on the two foot shoulder and each had to be negotiated around in nanoseconds by our driver and his assistant. My stomach was good for the first few hours – my prayers for avoiding a head-on collision seemed to be holding and the music on my ipod was good. Jessica, by the Allman Brothers always seems like a propitious song for starting a journey but by the journey's end cheese sandwich from the train was gone and I vowed that I would leave Shimla on foot. Abishek, our Sita tour person, held my head and Louise applied cold compresses and assured me that it would only be a few more minutes till I would be on terra firma. I didn’t believe them – I was sure Dante had something to do with the circle I was in and that climbing out wasn’t an option. When we finally stopped, Trisha, a truly wonderful woman and our contact in Shimla, took me the last hundred yards up the hill in her small car ignoring the wildly waving policemen and anyone else that was in the way. I collapsed into my spinning bed and willed the gods to answer my final prayer. Fortunately, they did not.

The Taj Mahal

04-Thursday, June 1

I am about to try to describe something that I have no words for. I never expected to be moved by a building. I thought I was going to earn the honor in some future conversation to be able to say that I saw the Taj Mahal in person. It was the thing to do in India.

So very early in the morning, 6 am, early for 28 jet-lagged students and their teachers we queued up in front of the south gate hoping to avoid the possible 115 degree heat that is not uncommon in Agra. The security is tight and the Indian officials looked very stern as they opened our purses and marched us though metal detectors. It was overcast and, fortunately for us, cool by Agra standards.

The Taj Mahal is described as “the most extravagant monument ever built for love.” The Indian poet Rabindranath Tangor called it “a tear drop on the face of eternity.” Kipling said it was “embodiment of all things pure.” It was built by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan as a memorial for his second wife Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their fourteenth child in 1631. It is said that his heartbreak was so great that his hair turned white overnight. It took 20,000 people twenty-two years to complete. The building is made of white marble inlaid with semi-precious stones. Its beauty is breathtaking. We watched as the morning sun turned the stone golden, then pink and finally a sparkling blue white and the sun began scribing its arc in homage to this incredible monument.

But while all is its measurements are impressive and its physical beauty staggering – it does not even begin to convey the palpable feeing of love and lost embodied in that place. The distinction between past and present is blurred, the timeless of love is real, it wraps around you and whispers “I love her still.”

On Our Way to Agra

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

The last of the kids arrived at the Park Hotel this morning about 1 AM. They looked bleary eyed, bedraggled and very happy to have a bed at the end of their journey. The hard thing for me is that I know I still look a bit like that after recovering for 3 days and they will be all fresh and ready to go in the morning. Ah youth…

We had to stack all the suitcases in the lobby this morning as we are checking out of the Park Hotel and on our way to Agra with only small bags – just enough for a few days. The bulk of our luggage goes on ahead of us to Shimla. We are trading 105 degree weather for 109 degree weather. It’s hard to think about anything being hotter than this but here we go.

We split the group onto two bohemic busses and embarked on our five hour journey into the desert to see the world’s largest monument to love, the Taj Mahal. Bus driving in India takes two people. One driver to steer and a side kick to wave his arms out the window and yell instructions to fellow vehicles. You wouldn’t think that it would work as well as it does but auto-rickshaw, bikes, cows, mopeds, all seem to have a second sense about how close they can come to disaster before that move out of the way. On the back of the trucks it actually says BLOW HORN. And every driver does! It is a cacophony of sound that somehow is the perfect background for India’s wheeled warriors.

Part of the road side dance belongs to the street hawkers. They approach you at every stop plying their wares. They are tenacious and undeterred even if you have just purchased the same item from their neighbor. If you show him the item, he merely takes the attitude that you need two. It is how they make a living, it is how they survive. We have so much, they have so little. So now I have more. I have two fans.

Sunday in Delhi

Sunday, May 28, 2006

The heat here is your constant companion. Even when you are in air-conditioning you know that it is looming outside your door like the ubiquitous beggars that follow you around plucking at your clothes for coins; only the heat does not want your coins it wants your strength.

This morning we hired a car and driver to show us around Delhi. Much better than the auto-rickshaw (there is a picture of one up under the photos) but still requiring some prayers for safety along the way. Driving here is best accomplished by blowing your horn and hoping that the slower vehicles will move out of your way. It usually happens but not till after some weaving and swerving goes on – occasionally careening is also added. Fortunately, most of this is not done at very high speeds.

Benjamin, our driver (who is very proud of his Christian name), drove us up to the Red Fort, a must see in Old Delhi and dropped us off by the road side so we could walk up to the gates. The red sandstone walls sizzled with heat and we quickly realized that we had neither hats nor sun block and that this might not be a good idea in the 109 degree heat. We bought bottled water from a street vender outside the gates and I bought a fan from a young girl, who was an already experienced in-your-face street merchant. They all seem to have large sad brown eyes. (think of the cat in Shrek 2) And if you meet their eyes, you fall in and have to negotiate for retrieval of your soul by buying something.

When it was obvious that we were not going back into the fort several men surrounded us wanting to sell us a bike-rickshaw ride back to our driver and car. Of course, they said, they would also be happy to take us other places as well – “maybe lady you go to mosque or temple, yes?” If you hesitate it’s over – they have you now. Louise and I looked at the tiny rickety seat and an even tinier Indian driver, and decided danger was preferable to heat stroke and got in. Doug and Nathanial got in a second one and we set off for India’s largest Mosque – Jama Masjid. Started in 1650, it took 5,000 workers six years to complete it.

We took off our shoes and agreed to pay 10 rupees to have them watched. We declined the sock for rent to keep our foreign feet off the hot sandstone floor in the open areas of the central court yard. We circled the inner wall, trying to touch only the stones that had been in the shade with our feet. Many families were sitting in the cool porticos having lunch, feeding babies and napping to escape the heat of the day. We even saw a family with a small cat like Maggie. She seemed to making the rounds begging for rubs and leftover morsels. There is a picture of her on the photo page.

When we came out of the Mosque the rickshaws were gone and our driver was waiting for us. We had no idea how he knew where we were. We climbed gratefully into the air-conditioning saying no, no, to the beggars who surrounded us and the car. It’s so hard to see them. The hardest are the women who are cradling infants and begging for money to feed them. They look so old and worn down by life – and yet bringing more children into this incredible poverty. I can’t even come close to understanding what their lives might be like or what anyone could do to fix it. We gave some small money and drove away. So hard, so sad.

Two former students of Touro’s India program met us for dinner that evening. The women were beautiful, intelligent and charming. We went to Pakirama, an Indian restaurant in one of the taller buildings. The restaurant revolved giving us a 360 degree view of Delhi. The discussion went from politics to environmental issues to the quota system for college entry. They are serious, well informed and beyond bright. If the future of India is in their hands – maybe twenty years from now there will be less mother’s begging for milk money.

Auto-Rickshaws

Doug Colbert, law professor from Baltimore, and his son Nathanial arrived around 10:30 pm and we all had dinner in the hotel - I had chicken Satay and a "sugar free" creme burlee (diabetis and carb free living has hit hindi land). Then we went for a auto-rickshaw ride. Too much - think about stuffing 5 people into a phone booth on roller skates - no headlights, no seatbelts, no traffic lanes, no speed limits - Doug asked Louise if we were in any danger and we both said yes and laughed. There were colorful decorated trucks and carts pulled by oxen on the same road, and flocks of Indians asleep on strawmats on the traffic meridians. Yes, I know it seems impossible but there are so many people and so many homeless, they sleep where ever they can. It's a city of diversity - and the ends are far apart.

It's almost 2 am. Time for bed...
Indian Cat

Here we are in Delhi!

We made it! Twenty hours traveling. The flight was just fine. A bit of turbulence from time to time but nothing serious and my patch worked wonders. My stomach has been solid all the way.
Abishek met us at the Delhi airport with a dozen roses each. He is the SETA travel person that makes our India plans. Touro pays him handsomely and Louise and I apparently will reap the benefits in roses.

We were picked up from the air port in a SUV-type vehicle and whisked along on the wrong side of the road to the Park Hotel. Two things around driving in Delhi - there are no traffic lights and if there were drivers wouldn't pay attention to them. And the lines on the road for traffic lane hold absolutely no meaning what so ever. SUVs, cars, electric rickshaws (funny green golf cart type things) and bicycles careen side-by-side braking and accelerating without reference to the other vehicles. Strangely enough I was not nervous.

There are people everywhere. On the sides of the roads and tin roof shacks, standing in groups talking, men squatting down an having earnest discussions, smoke curling upward from their short dark cigarettes.

On a construction site near the roadway, a man was shoveling dirt into a basket that a woman would then balance on her head and walk off to dump a short way away.

The Park hotel is lovely, albeit a bit strangely decorated for western tastes but luxurious just the same. When we arrived we were ushered into some comfortable hot pink silk chairs, while Abishek had our luggage unloaded while he checked us in. Then we had some lovely Chia tea and talked business. When are the kids arriving, will he arrange for breakfast on the day we leave for Agra, will there be porters at the Delhi train station?? He arranges for all of it.

After tea four porters carried out luggage to our room. Remembering the weight of Louise's bags you might agree that that was a good number - she did have to pay an extra weight charge. There is lots of bowing and thanking and politeness - and also lots of tipping but it's pennies on the dollar and almost a game played between the agreeing parties. I love it here already.

The room we are in is lovely and there is high speed Internet. There are fresh flowers in the room, some lovely art work and glass enclosed bathroom. The beds look comfortable and Louise says hello from under the covers - we are going to take a nap soon.

I posted the first pictures - take a look under photos-India.

My body is crying out for crash central bedding. Later...

Love to all.

India Cat

On the Eve of Adventure

I’m cross-eyed, cranky tired. I want to crawl under the covers with a teddy bear and four cats and wake up in India. I’m half packed and afraid to try on the bathing suit I want to bring with me for fear it will push me over the edge. Louise said it would get like this.

The kitchen table is piled with an octopus of power cords, USB cables and power adaptors. Its tentacles are clutching malaria pills, paintbrushes and South Beach diet peanut butter protein bars—the things I think I can’t live without. My passport and the tickets are already packed in my carry-on bag. There are still some important decisions to be made—which bear, which books, which pens, paper and paints.

All of which will be meaning less once I get on the plane. No matter what I forget, what I will miss most is all of you. I wish I could beam you over for those times when you appear in my thoughts–Sande when I need to remember that 105 degrees is an illusion, Karen and Holly when I’m faced with fabric choices that need to expand my palette, Linda when I’m hot and tired and need to find something to laugh about quickly, Robin when I need to fuss and not be judged (or right), Leslie when I need to make some savvy purchases, or Tracy when I need some cheerful help—it goes on and on. Each one of you will be missed!

And how will I wake up without Phil and the kitties and go to bed without Phil and the kitties? Phil, by the way, is showing his sterling qualities by being very supportive under combat conditions. The house looks like a clothing store and electric store collided and fluttered down on every available horizontal surface. The cats are delighted by the piles and it is a comfort to know I can count on wearing cat hairs in Delhi.

On the other side of exhaustion is the excitement of my approaching adventure, which I plan to find first thing tomorrow morning, I think I left it under the octopus.

With love, Cat