A Bourgeois Cooking Conclusion

Wow. I’m writing less than half an hour before a taxi comes to pick me up and take me to the airport. To go home. As in away from India. Weird, but also very exciting.

My last day in Delhi/India also held a great experience worth sharing.

While burning time in Agra before catching my train a few days ago, I was mulling over what Delhi sights I wanted to see when I came across a note to myself (written with a handy four color bic pen) back in January that I should take a cooking class recommended by the Lonely Planet. I called the place up on a whim (Parul Pari’s Cooking Studio) have expecting the number to be out of date. To my luck, Parul answered and booked me in for a class on Monday morning.

An agonizing trip involving both auto and bike rickshaws, multiple sets of directions, and a friendly neighbors cell phone finally brought me to the South Delhi suburb of Junkurai Extension. Here’s where the Bourgeouis comes in.

All other encounters with ‘upper classes’ were paled by my impression of this upscale residential district. It reminded me of the expat community LWIG and I came across in Ghana while doing some project research. Completely gated houses and apartments. Enormous lush, green trees. Fancy cars lining the empty roadways (no honking to be heard). And only the occasional glassed in shop front.

Since I was already late for the class, I rushed right inside to meet my teacher, a fellow by the name of Lelath (who I would peg at about 27 years old). I soon learned that he had been cooking since the age of 12, and was aspiring to open his own cooking scho0l after saving enough money. While he proceeded to make final preparations for our class, I sat in the lobby of the chic guesthouse and observed some (very beautiful) Indian girls about my age getting ready to go do some sightseeing.

I was kind of zoned out, but suddenly came to my senses when I heard them conversing in what appeared to be British english accents. I glanced over at them fumbling out of their room, and, dressed to the nines in fashionable saris, there was no doubt that this was their first (and best) language. Interesting! I wonder if they were educated in Britain, and how long they came back to India for? I didn’t have a chance to chat with them before entering my cooking session, but it was a fascinating observation.

The class wasn’t really me doing TOO much. (Mostly observing Lelath’s excellent cooking skills). However, I did learn how to make a delicious aloo gobi (potato cauliflower curry), tomato dal, parantha (whole wheat stuffed flat bread), paneer roll, and chapati. Nothing was near as difficult as I expected, and thus, I’m excited to bring a ‘taste of India’ back to you all at home.

Definitely a fun experience for my last day in the country, and I’m happy I was able to observe another element of the ‘new India’ culture.

Now, I’m off to catch my train to Germany. I will promise one last (and more conclusive) post once I arrive home. See you all soon!

Riding the Metro

My return to Delhi has been high and above my first, somewhat shell-shocked, introduction to the city. Upon arriving late last night, I easily found a (nice) guesthouse with zero issues. Was it some unmeasurable travel ‘ability’ that I acquired? Or maybe, more likely, the “touts-people” could sense a bit more confidence in knowing where I was going, and what I was doing.

Today, I had two goals in mind (one slightly more interesting than the other):

1. Go to the main Delhi tourist attraction, the Red Fort.
2. Complete a “culinary tour” of old Delhi that I read about the previous night in the Globe and Mail travel section. (It was pretty much identical to what was in my Lonely Planet, but I still felt rather lofty completing the suggestions of Globe travel writers in Canada after less than 24 hours).

Now, shockingly, my highlight from the day was neither of them!

After a bit of ambling arould near my guest house and the New Delhi train station, I found the New Delhi “metro” station which I figured could get me quite close to the Red Fort. What I found was a public transportation experience unlike anything I expected.

I walked down two wide open sets of stairs to reach a beautifully clean marble clad ticket area, that could have fit just as well in a glitzy North American airport. There were few people loitering around, and I quickly found my way to the clearly labelled signage; finding the exact fair I needed to pay, and route I needed to go. Purchasing a token was a breeze (from a person, not like one of the perpetually broken machines in NYC), and before entering into the “station” area, both me and my bag underwent a complete security check (metal detector and x-ray). Talk about confidence in security!

The subway ride itself was more comfortable than any other I have been on. Aside from the silence in the train, all you could hear was the clear english voice describing what stop was next before reinforcing some of the Delhi Transit “rules”.

“No listening to music on the train. No eating. No sitting on the floor. No bothering other passengers.”

I was pretty blown away. Apart from the sad transit system in Calgary, I’ve been fortunate enough to use the subways in Montreal, Toronto, Washington, New York City, and Boston—and this is far and away the best. As I emerged near the Red Fort, I was brimming with questions:

Did all classes of Delhi residents use the train? Why wasn’t it more busy? How did they keep it so clean? Had it been more haphazard to start with, and that is why they implemented so many rules?

During a great chat with a few guys my age in the beautiful Red Fort courtyard, as well as my subsequent trip home, I came to find out a few things:

• It’s mostly the upper class commuting in from the suburbs who use the metro.
• It was only non-crowded because I took it mid morning on Sunday. (When I rode home at around 3:30, it was packed with people).
• The efficient train design is taken from either South Korea or Japan (they didn’t know which one).

And so my enthrallment with public infrastructure continues, and now I’m greedy to know about the plans for Metros in other Indian urban centers. Costs versus benefits? Not sure, but even though they didn’t use it, the two guys were surely proud of it.

After making fun of me for not knowing their favorite Cricket and Bollywood stars, they responded to my election inquiry by indicating that they definitely thought the Congress was going to win.

“Of course they’ll win. They built the Metro for Delhi!”

The Infamous Taj

I truly saved the best for last, both in my journey through the sub-continent, as well as my three day stint in Agra. This morning I woke at 5:00 am to witness the sunrise at one of the word’s most famous architecture sites, the Taj Mahal.

Despite all of the photos and flowery descriptions I was plowed with beforehand, I truly found it an awe-inspiring experience.

As you can see from my vague allusion above, I’m in the last days of what has been a phenomenal journey. I won’t float you with my usual pontificating consideration, but I will state that the end leg of any period of time is really exceptional for the clarification it brings. For me, the excitement of heading out to Vancouver for new work, living, and involvement has provided a good basis for goal setting. More relevant, however, are the conclusions (or simplifications) I’ve reached on some of the enduring topics of travel.

As I was walking through Agra Fort yesterday, one of these realizations hit me abruptly. It is striking how differently people can explore the endless forts, palaces, temples, and tombs in India.

Maybe a visitor will:

• Take in the curves, shapes, and colors of the architecture; and relate it to their own perception of beauty.
• Imagine the monument as it was historically. Soldiers wandering through forts. Kings holding conference with foreign visitors. Peasants worshipping at temples.
• Consider the relevance of the historical site to the modern India, and how it plays into the ever-evolving culture.

There’s more, I’m sure, but these are the main ‘lenses’ I have found myself looking through. I might lean toward one or the other depending on what mood I’m in, but hopefully consider all of them at a particular place.

And I’m happy to report that I did this morning while touring the Taj with an old friend from high school/university.

The symmetry of the buidling is breathtakingly remarkable. First, in the sheer size of the tomb, minarets (large cylindrical tower), mosque, and jawab (fake mosque built specifically for the purpose of symmetry). However, as you move closer, it is difficult not to be taken with symmetry imposed with every last carving and embedded stone. These small and large scale details in symmetry are a major component to the Taj’s beauty.

Being with another engineer (and a geological one at that), we couldn’t help but stand in wonder of the construction process of the building. Built entirely of white marble, the Taj Mahal took 22 years to build! In a similar manner to my awe at the Mehrangar fort in Jodhpur, I could simply not even imagine the man, horse, and elephant power accompanying extreme artistic ability and ingenuity to put the entire structure together.

How were the detailed carvings placed so perfectly inside each of the complex domes? How did they find the artisans to carve each piece of marble with such immaculate detail?

The tomb (yes, it is just a tomb) was built by the Mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, as a memorial for his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal. The demonstrations of extravagance by these (fairly) recent Indian rulers should cease to surprise me by now, but I still can’t help but remain critical of the massive capital dedicated to these structures at the time.

Did the emperors not feel a sense of guilt at their affluence, especially in comparison to the toiling peasants around them? I suppose that’s my harshly western bias jumping in to judge, but I must be honest in stating my critique.

The entire visit took just over two hours, but is a memory that, I think, will sit with me for quite some time. I head back to Delhi this afternoon where I will take in a few sights missed last time around before jumping on my plane ride home.

A Walk Along the Ghats

After emerging from the Shanti Guesthouse, it is a short five minute walk down to the first of many ghats (stairway down to water) along the holy river Ganga. (It is usually spelt Ganges, but most people here pronounce it as the former).

The first ghat you encounter is also arguably the most striking. The burning ghat of Manikarnika. You’re overwhelmed with the smell of smoke and the heat from many burning fires on top of the already overwhelming temperatures. (30 degrees plus). When you emerge from the buildings surrounding the ghat, you see dozens of men, young and old, sitting peacefully along the steps watching these burning fires.

It doesn’t take you long to realize that the fires are in fact burning bodies, and a local Indian will soon explain to you the subtleties of the cremations taking place. Young men are burnt in white cloth, young women in red, and elderly (above 60) in gold. I saw two white clothed bodies and one red. The spookiness of this setting is paradoxically set against extremely loud, blaring music. (Which could as likely be heard from a New Delhi dance bar). Perhaps this represents the complex set of emotions family members face. Mourning in their farewell bid to loved ones. Happiness in setting them on to moksha (escape from the eternal cycle of rebirth). Interestingly, women are not allowed around this ghat for fear of throwing themself on the burning pyres (a traditional Hindu practice called sati).

Despite the loud music and spiritual setting, you soon encounter numerous boat drivers looking to take you on a ride down the ghats, or young men looking to sell various illegal substances.

The next major sight you pass is a huge boat loading ghat for Indian pilgrims. Each boat contains at least thirty people, and is manned by both a set a paddlers as well as a tour guide to explain all the different places along the Ganga. To your right, you become somewhat transfixed with an endless collage of painted advertisements for various restaurants, guesthouses, silk shops, cafes, and book stores. However, you are brought to attention as yet another boatman offers a ride.

“Special non-tourist price. Only 100 rupees for one hour!”

If you’re walking in the evening, you’ll now pass a series of boys enthralled in various stages of cricket games. Careful! You don’t want to be hit by a flying ball. Day or night, the water now becomes much more populated with Hindus of all castes bathing themselves in the water.

Just like the bathing pilgrims, the holy saddhus (religious ascetics on their wandering journey to enlightenment) become equally more populous. They are most often dressed in orange robes with long hair (either dirty or in dreadlocks), big beards, and bare feet. In observing them, there seems to be a bit of a high-school culture mixed in with the respectful life of worship. In the evening you will see groups of the orange saddhus sharing laughs or, occasionally, getting into a bitchy confrontation with one another. Sometimes, they will ask you for money as you putter by, which is, of course, good karma.

You will now reach the main ghat, which, day or night, also happens to be the most colorful. A Hindu temple sits adjacent to the water, where you will hear a perpetual medley of drums, bells, and chanting. Outside, numerous tables offer flowers, candles, and jewellery to offer the deities within. In addition to the vibrancy, you are introduced to a new echelon of touts. Men dressed in white approach you with a friendly (though rather awkward) offer to shake your hand. If you oblige, you will note their physical hand strength as they offer you a head massage, neck massage, or shoulder massage.

“Good Deal for neck massage! Ten Rupees only!”

I was somewhat in disbelief when I saw a near naked white tourist being rubbed down by one of these massage-wallahs in the early evening hours. This time also happened to correspond with an important worship period at the ghat, and thus there were at least 400 people gathered not 20 meters away from him. Simply bizarre.

Once you pass by the children offering post cards, the temple, and many tables with cold drinks for sale, you will observe the most dense population of bathing pilgrims of the entire length of the ghats. The men just go in their underwear, but the women bathe in their beautifully colorful saris–creating quite the visual impression. When they’re not bathing, families gather underneath broad unbrellas supported by thick stocks of bamboo. If you mingle in this busy area for little more than a few minutes, you’re sure to find some wonderful conversation. I tend to attract the guys about my age in the midst of university. Talking to peers in this sense is fascinating, and brings a further incite into the terrifically complex tapestry of ‘Modern India’.

Once you make it out of the busyness, you’re guaranteed to be dripping with sweat unless it’s the early morning or night. Hence, the holy water doesn’t really look that dirty, and you might even be tempted to go for a dip.

Further along is the cloth washing ghat. Ten to fifteen men slap their shirts, trousers, sheets, and saris with all their might before being laid to try across the steps. What another colorful sight!

Before discovering the hangout of the local cows and water buffalo, you pass by another burning ghat (this time without the DJ) and the bathing ghat for southern Indians. The activities of the animals is quite amusing, and as they aimlessly swam about in the water, or hurriedly rush up to meet each other, they might remind you of a pet from home.

The last encounter you might make before turning back is a series of young girls selling candle flowers to set out on the Ganga. (Another guarantee for good karma). Their intelligence certainly charmed me, and the chattiest one, Babbita, demonstrated her knowledge by first asking for a “loonie or toonie”, and then reciting the (correct) conversion rate for the Canadian dollar. A successful bargain on their part.