In stitches

I took my sisters' package to have it stitched for shipping. My friend Robert in California is fascinated by this uniquely Indian requirement and made me promise to blog about it.

All parcels to be sent through the mail are required to be sewn up in plain white cloth. Supposedly, this prevents theft. No one explains HOW it prevents theft...I suppose it makes it more difficult to open, but you could always just steal the whole thing.

First, I had to get an appropriate box. In this case, I had to go to a gents' tailor shop and buy a shirt-box for 15 Rs. (they wanted 20.)

Then, I folded the shawls into their separate plastic bags and sealed them with packing tape. THEN I put them into yet another plastic shopping bag and sealed it up too. You never know what kind of inclement conditions a package will be exposed to internationally.

Then I sealed up the shirt box on all sides, with brown shipping tape.

The tailor said a place called Rainbow Shipping and Parcels could stitch it, just up the corner. Most touristed places will have lots of shops for this, but any ordinary tailor should be able to do it, and probably for less money.

The Nepali boys working there wrap the box in off-white coloured cheese cloth, just like wrapping a present. But instead of taping it shut, they bunch up the excess cloth and sew it closed with white thick thread.

The stitching cost 50Rs. (they asked for 75.)

Then, I took a black Magic Marker and write the "TO" address in big block letters on the front, and my FROM address on the back.

The Nepalis (who were all neighbors from Nawaparsi, near Lumbini in the Terai region of southern Nepal) recommended I go to Bangla Sahib Gurudwara GPO.

I asked the (typically sweet, shy, polite) Nepali boys how they liked living in India. "Conditions are better," one said, "money is better, we are getting some 5000 Rs Indian a month. " That is about $120. In Nepal, they said, it would be much less for the same job. "But people are not so good here...more cheating...more lying...." he said, shaking his head and frowning.

I knew that Nepalis will not eat anything (I mean, almost anything) other than momos and Dal Bhatt (a rice and vegetable thali prepared in Nepali style - heavy on the spiced potatos). "Where do you get your dal bhatt here in Paharganj?"

They directed me to the Everest Bakery and Cafe. "This is such good dal bhatt. All people working there are Nepali, and music is always Nepali!" they enthused.

It's also possible to have the Rainbow Shipping guys ship your parcel for you, but I just couldn't resist standing in another line.

Next stop: the GPO.

The envelope, please

Land of legal limbo
Delhi

So here's the upshot (not the end!) of yesterday's Foreigners' Office story. (I am so sure you are fascinated....)

I returned (along with many others) to the Home Affairs Ministry at 4.30 pm to await my fate. While waiting I met some Ugandans, Pakistanis, and a Mexican Hare Krishna devotee wearing full dhoti and kasturi tilak. The Mexican man was married to an Indian citizen, but this didn't help his status much within the country.

An Indian-origin woman living in Miami, was having trouble getting an extension because she had now been a US citizen and passport holder for 37 years. The office claimed there was no proof of her Indian origin, which technically, I suppose, was true. Her US passport said "place of birth: INDIA," but "even that is not enough, they say."

All these people, including myself, were petitioning for permission to stay a bit longer on this visa. But one Norwegian couple were desperate just to get out, and couldn't even get the exit permission.

How had this happened? Why was it so difficult to get OUT of the country?

The Norwegian woman, who was in tears, explained the story to me. They had first been in Varanasi, where all their bags, passports and everything, had been stolen. The Norwegian Embassy had issued an emergency passport/travel document - but of course, this did not contain any evidence of their original proper Indian visas. Under such circumstances, you must get permission from Home Affairs before exiting the country.

As if it wasn't enough to be robbed blind, the man had then dislocated his shoulder in a surfing mishap down in Kerala. (I didn't know people surfed in Kerala; learn something new every day.) They were told they could not fly home directly from Kerala, but had to report to Delhi for exit permission.

I could see the lymph fluid (or something) oozing from his shoulder and seeping through his cotton shirt. He must have been in a great deal of pain. They wanted to leave the country for Norway right away.

As it was a Friday, the office claimed they would have to wait the entire weekend till Monday when the case could be reviewed properly. (I think I mentioned before that the office only accepts incoming applications from 9am to 12pm. The couple had made that deadline, but for some reason weren't going to be given a result the same day.)

Finally they were given the fateful sealed plain brown envelope, to be opened only by the FRRO in RK Puram, another part of town. They set off full of hope (and probably full of painkillers) at 4.45 pm in an Ambassador taxi.

The rest of us received our plain brown wrappers with instructions NOT to open them, and to report to RK Puram office on Monday morning. Which for many of us, means an entire weekend without valid papers. Fortunately, I've learned to live with a great degree of ambiguity.

Museum musing

Today, I had to go back to the FRRO on ManSingh Road. You turn in your papers (for request of visa extension) between 10 and 12 "only," wait till they accept them which usually takes till 2.30 or so, and return at 4.30pm.

I had two hours, so I went round the corner back to Gandhi Smriti. Today the power was on, and I enjoyed the exhaustive and state-of-the-art interactive museum upstairs on the first floor. There are all manner of multimedia displays and lots of great vintage film footage.

Still, the most effective parts of the museum are the most personal and the simplest. This time inside Gandhi's room, I noticed something in the corner I didn't see yesterday. Two pairs of the wooden sandals, and a walking stick. These weren't in a glass case, but just leaned up against a corner, as though Gandhi were coming right back for them. I just started crying.

Fortunately, there was a modern metal chair right there (maybe other people have been overcome seeing the room) and I sank down into it. The shy young museum guide in her khadi uniform was watching me from the corner, halfway pretending not to notice, and halfway curious. Finally she approached me.

"Which country?"

"I am from USA," I said, choking back tears.

"You are very inspired by Gandhiji?"

I nodded mutely, sniffing.

She smiled as knowingly as a 20 year old possibly could. "I think you are a friend of Gandhiji," she said, as though I were someone who had actually known him.

A friend of Gandhiji. I had to smile. "Yes, a friend." I was trying hard not to cry openly as I knew I had to look decent to go back to the Foreigner's Office and I didn't want to have a red nose and runny kajal down my face.

Ruby turned out to be a history major who was volunteering in her spare time. I was extremely heartened to hear that people are still majoring in history. All I have met since I arrived in India are engineering and B Comm students.

Anyway, the wireless place is closing now and I have to sign off.

In the footsteps

Gandhi's Ghosts
Delhi

Thanks to my incredible lack of foresight, I have only a minute on the laptop battery this time, but that's enough to tell about a very overlooked, and centrally located, Delhi historical site.

Most guidebooks mention Raj Ghat, the location where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated. (This site was in the news in 2006 when George W. Bush paid a visit. Some people complained about the hypocrisy. I think, if anyone ever needed to get Gandhi's vibes, it would be Dubya.)

But very few guidebooks (none that I have yet seen) seem to mention Gandhi Smriti. This is the house and gardens where Gandhi was assassinated by a Hindu nationalist hardliner, and died on 30 January, 1947. The road is now called Tees January Marg (30th January Road). The building was formerly known as Birla House. For various reasons (explained in the exhibit) Gandhi stayed, for the final 144 days of his life, as a guest of the wealthy Birla industrialists, rather than among the poorer neighborhoods as was his habit.

Admission is free, which seems appropriate, but I certainly wouldn't mind paying a bit to support it.

It's more than worthy of your time. At the moment, Gandhi Smriti hosts an exhaustive photo exhibit of events leading up to the 1857 War of Independence (formerly called the Sepoy Mutiny). It all looked very informative but I just could not digest all the historical information in one standing - I was too overcome with Gandhi's vibe.

I'm neither one of those foreign Gandhi-worshippers who think he was a saint, nor one of the cynics who takes joy in poking holes in him. To me he was a man, and that makes what he achieved and represented all the more amazing.

I am also aware that some historians, and Indians, and Indian historians, say he and his contributions aren't all they were cracked up to be. I'm sure they have a point, and someday I will get around to reading the rebuttals. But today I just bathed in Gandhi's energy, which is still all over the room and garden.

Especially moving is a glass wall case holding his very few worldly possessions, including the famous pair of round eyeglasses. I got a weird flash-forward (or is it backward?) to John Lennon and his schoolboy specs.

In keeping with Hindu tradition (but rather eerie for those not accustomed to this) are the footsteps set in stone, in the shape of traditional wooden sandals. I think they are called paduka. They immortalize Gandhi's last walk from the ground-floor room, where he lived on a jute mat and mattress on the floor, to the garden for the final prayer meeting.

A flowering tree with vivid pink blooms grows right above the doorway, showering petals down on the path. I picked up a handful and placed one on each paduka. I was surprised that more offerings weren't there. The exact spot where Gandhi fell (uttering "hey Ram") is marked with a marble column.

The final panel in the Independence exhibit was headed, "Let it not be said that Gandhi was party to India's vivisection." He is then quoted as saying something along the lines of "I pray that God not let me see the division of India" (Partition of India and Pakistan). Since I am neither Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Muslim nor Hindu, I can't explain logically the very deep resistance and resentment I have always felt about the Partition. But at least I know I am not alone in my strong feelings.

A power cut stopped short my viewing of the indoor exhibits, which seemed strangely appropriate. And so, too, is my laptop battery cutting short this post.

Taj mirage

Smog gets in your eyes
Agra, Uttar Pradesh

As fate would have it, I ended up being convinced to go along with my new friends to Agra, to see the Taj Mahal (for the first time). We just barely managed to catch the 4.15 train leaving from Nizamuddin Station in Delhi. I wouldn't recommend it for a longer journey (say, an 18-hour train ride), but "ordinary sleeper" is just fine for 3 hour trip and provided my friends with their first-ever Indian Railways experience, while I crashed out on the top bunk.

"Seeing" the Taj was only partially successful. Even when you're standing near it, it doesn't seem real, hazy as the polluted air is. The people who complain about the pollution in Agra are not exaggerating. It's all you can do to see or get a clear photo of the most famous monument in the world. At first, we thought it was just the north-Indian morning mist. So romantic!

After a few hours it became obvious that the mist was not going to burn off. It was semi-permanent haze. All our photos are in soft focus. This same pollution is evidently damaging the white marble permanently.

Perhaps something so hyped up can't help but be a disappointment. I have a few more grouses:

- Why is so much of the monument closed off? There are all kinds of upstairs balconies, adjacent buildings with turrets and towers and the four minarets. None of them are open for viewing (except the main rooms of the 2 flanking mosques, which in a way I liked better than the Taj itself).

-The museum, which is meant to be included in the huge ticket price (750Rs, about 300Rs more than it's worth) is closed now for repair. Of course, no one warns you of this when they sell you the ticket.

-The city immediately around the Taj ("Taj Ganj") is a very unpleasant, broken-down, dilapidated area. All manner of blocky concrete buildings have been allowed to spring up, which obscure any distant view (or any view at all) of the Taj itself. It certainly doesn't feel like the entrance way to one of the wonders of the architectural world, let alone to the universally recognized symbol of India. Ick.

-For ALL the money being dumped into it every single day, the waterways (an essential element of Mughal architecture) should have been restored by now. Fountains, channels, reflecting pools and so on.

-The explanatory plaques are so verbose and badly written as to be unreadable. I tried to read one of them twice and felt like I had been hit over the head with a thesaurus. I actually felt more confused after reading it than before.

-Inside the tomb itself there is absolutely no artificial light. You really can't see and appreciate the intricate stone inlay work the tomb is so famous for. And the centrepieces, which are the cenotaphs of the Emperor and his favourite wife, are nearly invisible. A wooden screen has been built around the original marble jali screen that prevents you from getting anywhere near the detailed work. Since you are not allowed to bring in any bags at all, none of us had our flashlights to illuminate the interior. Disappointing.

On the plus side:
-Everyone we encountered in Agra, including the persistent touts, were very kind and pleasant. The rickshaw pullers, the hotel guys, the police at the gate of the Taj, everyone was really lovely. Of course many were pushy with their sales technique, but they did take no for an answer...after about half an hour.

(However, they are allowed to solicit you right up to the bag check room at the Taj Gates. I mean, almost as you are checking in your bags, they are still pleading with you.)

-Best thing to do is arrive very early, about 7am, and wander around the outside rose garden at the West Gate. (Just pay the gardener, who appears magically from the mist, 50rs or so "as you like"). The mist (as opposed to smog) is still on the ground, the roses were in full bloom, and the Hindu temple next door set up a lovely wail of devotional music just as the sun was rising.

This was really the best moment of the day.

-You get great perspectives of the Taj itself by going into the 2 mosques flanking it from either side. They are warm brown sandstone and have the feeling of chocolate cakes placed next to the Taj's frothy wedding cake. Views of the Taj from inside these mosques are some of the more well-known images of the building.

-A community of craftsmen are still hard at work chipping and carving away, to restore various panels on the outbuildings. It is mind-boggling to watch the precise "chink, chink, chink" of the shilpas, changed so little since the days of Mumtaz Mahal. For some reason, the ASI has put up signs saying "construction and renovation work in progress, no photography allowed" - I can't imagine why not. India is the last place in the world that still has all the masters of these traditional skills, and watching them at work is a real delight for those of us from mass-produced societies.

So, we snapped some photos of the craftsmen anyway, before some fat bearded guy chased us off.

-Even when it is crowded, the structures are so vast that the people seem like scurrying ants. In fact some of the better photos we got show visitors floating through the oceans of marble terraces and platforms, dwarfed by the minarets and walls.

-I was also happy to see quite a few less-affluent Indians, who seemed to have come from villages, enjoying the Taj, dressed as they were in colourful Rajasthani turbans and flowing dhotis. One defense of the outrageously high entrance fee is that it "subsidizes the poor Indians." Of course, it is not my responsibility to do that, any more than it is an Indian tourist's job to subsidize poor Americans, but I was glad to see that perhaps the inflated foreign fees do help some less fortunate Indians enjoy such an experience. The Indian middle class do not seem eager to step forward and subsidize this activity themselves, as is their civic duty.

-One thing I didn't manage to do (this time) was cross the Yamuna river and view the Taj from that vantage point. An enterprising local was offering camel rides there over on the sandy river bank. Another guy is offering rowboat rides past the Taj from that side.

We did notice that, on the Taj side, down by the river bank, there were sandbagged soldiers with machine guns camped out. Sad, but a reality. Anything that is a symbol "of India" these days (like the India Gate I saw a few days ago) has to be carefully guarded.

From racing to get the train and then getting up so early, I was too burned out to take in the Agra Fort or Fatehpur Sikri. Maybe some other time. My friends and I were on a tight schedule but I think the best thing would be to rent a bicycle and explore all the historic monuments at a leisurely pace, for a day or two.