At the evening ganges aarthi (prayer ceremony) in the holy city of Haridwar.



My roommates and I jumping in Rishikesh.

A short update:

I have started working for an NGO in a poor Muslim quarter called Nizamuddin Basti in Delhi. The neighborhood -- a Sufi community -- goes back to the 14th century, and is full of beautiful, ancient tombs and mosques. Crammed alleyways and dirty roads will suddenly open up into majestic tombs or anonymous graves hundreds of years old (since so many famous people were buried there, everyone wanted to be buried there). It is a common sight to see residents of the neighborhood sitting on these anonymous marble tombs, going about their business. The daughter of Shah Jahan (who built the Taj Mahal) is buried here. I have been teaching English conversation to girls aged 11-19, all of whom have had to drop out of school for various reasons (their families are often very conservative). The girls are very sweet and VERY eager to learn English. While they don't know much English -- I taught them a simple "How is the weather" dialogue last week -- today I found out that they have been hiding their vast knowledge of English beauty terminology from me. In a conversation about what things they had bought for the upcoming festival of Eid (the end of Ramadan, which is apparently celebrated by buying new dresses, earrings, shoes, etc), it emerged that they knew how to say lipliner, eyeliner, mascara, face powder, lipstick, earrings!

I just came back from a weekend trip to Haridwar and Rishikesh, two holy cities along the Ganges to the north of Delhi. It was nice to get away from the heat and crowds of Delhi, although we almost got attacked by several vicious monkeys. Kyle learned an important lesson: when encountering a baby monkey, don't try to kick it, especially if its mother, father sisters and brothers are surrounding you. Check out my most recent flickr album for the pictures!

India so far

Indian Bureaucracy at the Foreigner's Registration Office

Silent symbols of protest at the Foreigner's Registration Office in Delhi, where the government officials twiddle their thumbs absent-mindedly as foreigners wait for hours only to be turned away for the most arbitrary reasons (which vary depending on the mood of the government employees). When you get there, you have to wait in line just to get a form (and give all the people cutting the line a fierce elbow-jab), then you fill out the form, and wait in line again. Then the official spends what seems like hours poring over your documents ("You are needing 15 passport photos" - "But your colleague told my friend yesterday to bring 10!"). Then, if you are lucky, they are deemed acceptable and the "In Charge" takes one last look at them and, if you are lucky, signs your forms. When I was there, the electricity went out three times -- the two government officials at my counter mysteriously disappeared the first time, returning an hour later with something yummy wrapped in newspaper -- and the man from Maryland standing behind me almost burst into tears. Thankfully mine went smoothly, mostly because the "In Charge" was chatting with her colleague while she was signing my registration permit.



This is our cushy apartment in Lajpat Nagar, a middle-class Indian neighborhood in South Delhi. Most of the people in the neighborhood are descendant from Punjabi refugees who fled what is now Pakistan during India's Partition in 1947. We live above our landlord, who has treated us like family members. He lives with his two sons, his wife and his 60 or 70-something mother. She is this very regal, handsome-looking woman who has told us repeatedly, while clutching our chins affectionately but rather forcefully, "I. am. your mother. You are. my children. Ok?" She is very sweet but I can tell she has the say in this household. I've seen her give the cleaning lady looks that could fry a monkey.



This is our street.



This is the outside of our apartment building. Our landlord's wife owns a beauty salon ("saloon") on the ground floor. A pedicure is only 4 dollars!



The Delhi flower market in the morning. Check out my flickr album for more pictures! Just click on the link on the right.



This is the Lajpat Nagar Central Market, two minutes from our house. It's one of the biggest markets in Delhi. I'm trying to not shop there every day.



These are my lovely roommates after a home-cooked Indian meal! Kyle, Lauren and Dodie!