Virtual Blizzard

Snow at home

The snow drifts high on my Gmail home page, which is programmed to reflect the weather of Brooklyn. A woman battles forward, umbrella thrust forward against an unseen wind that is blowing in from the right front column on the New York Times. Liz has to leave Bayonne drive to the icy bridge, but I shouldn’t worry, she chats, Because Adam has four-wheel drive.

Columbia College is not closing for a snow day, although there will be selected gate closures. Activities will cease after 3 p.m., another e-mail amends. “Hey all, inappropriate use of the list I know, but can anyone tell me if there are ski jumps in the Morningside quad right now?”

My father posts photographs of the thick-frosted house, car floundering in the drifted driveway, the snow packed even into forked twigs. And I remember those mornings when I woke to quiet, and ran into my sister’s room to see that down in the white yard, even the garbage cans had been given clean, edible lids.

This morning, the only snowfall came from the freezer, which I opened with a little shame to munch at frozen chocolate chips: my roommate’s can of coke had exploded in the night, ejecting brown ice shards. Because in Bombay, not even the fridge can make things cold enough.

How to Write About Food (with thanks to Adam Platt)

Vada pav

Lately, I’ve found myself writing about Indian food.  It makes for a tasty travel story and also, I’ve been seriously inspired by Fushcia Dunlop’s memoir  Shark’s Fin and Sichuan Pepper: A Sweet-Sour Memoir of Eating in China. In the early ’90s, Dunlop, an earnest Cambridge girl, went to Chengdu to research a very worthy project on ethnic minorities, only to find her  research impossible… and herself obsessed with tasty delights like fish-flavored eggplant. So she went on to become a worldwide expert in Chinese food.

While this is not my plan, the other day I did find myself in a serious struggle to write an evocative sentence on Vada Pav, the delicious Mumbai street food pictured above.  Crisp – salty – good: all of my adjectives were so trite. Happily, thanks to what can only be the best distributer in the world, I happened to have a copy of the “Where to Eat” issue of New York Magazine. And on a long ride on the local train, I noted the most flavorful of Adam Platt’s foody verbal constructions. So, for fun, here’s how to write about food:

trendy high concept * forking over * imbibe, gobble, and otherwise devour *  finest * deliriously potent, mind-addling * faithful rendering * signature * canoe-size * grandiose, foot-ball size *delectable, magestically unhealthy * old classics * infused * laced with * sizzles * old staples * properly crispy * rib-eye rich * enlivened * sizzles * smooth tangy * stuffs * opulently fatty * debones, simmers and serves * delicately crunchy crust * charred * pricey, unabashedly glittering * clamoring for tastes of * cool * paired with * lustrous tangles of * folded with * upscale * earthy geniality * antic * pretzel-crusted * elegant * quaint * replete with * wapped retrogourmet style with a crunchy layer of thinly sliced taro root * enhanced with * poured with proper ceremony * perfectly crisped * slathered * spiked with * impressively crispy * mounds of * mountains of * concocted * heretical choppings * simpler pleasures * feasting * fresh-charred * freshly whipped * icy, silver-dollar sized * gobble down * hunk of melted * weirdly muffled in * comfort-food delicacy * open kitchen * crunchy * tossed with * reduction finished with paprika * nickels of * crunchy translucent * tanlges of buttery beat-flavored tagliatelle * fluffy, pie-size * finished with *delicately constructed * peach-sweet * tiny-boned segments * dredged in * glazed with * greasy, queasy glory * artery-clogging pseudo-southern * salty, compulsively edible * viscous * coats in * deep fries to a golden-brown perfection * crinkly * crispy-fried * light golden crunchiness * crunchy curiously smooth fried * crunchy-fried * crunchy, miraculously ungreasy coating *tenderized * soaked in * truly grisly * elevated pleasures of * elegantly rendered * impeccable technique * sipped * pyrotechnic * imaginative* mingled * sprinkles with salty shreds * tiny, surprisingly excellent * garlic-crusted *inspired *tucked in * curls of * doused in * constructed of * griddled in * garnishes with * indulging * choice for a quick midnight snack * platter * basket * followed by * crispy, chewy * salty chewy *decorates * dappled with * for a taste of * piled with * fois-gras injected * over a * baked into a quaint * crowns * if you’re in the market for vanished delicacies  * lavish * crunchy, torpedo-size * frothy light version * imposing crunchy-friend * rashers of * framed around *laced with * clouds of deliciously-melting  * toasted * with a bracing dose * butter-soaked * fragrant * compulsively delicious * freshly-made * spooning it * ruinously addictive * golden, salty all-you-can-eat * sticky-sweet, pepper-smothered * I suggest you get in line * delectable * dressed with cucumber * maximum bang * tomato-smothered * rigorously seasonal treats * wood-fired tarts * chars * serves on *a fix of * I hop the train * chaw on * slathered with * sticky, lip-smacking glory

Wheh! After this intensive course of study, in which I learned that nothing can be better than crispiness, I finally came up with a one-line description of Vada Pav that works:

Vada Pav, Mumbai’s 15-cent answer to the burger, is a spiced potato patty fried to a crisp, topped with garlic chutney, and tucked in a bun.

Thank you Adam Platt!

Downward Dog

Goat and me in Jaisalmer

On the way back from yoga this morning, as I picked my way over the half-constructed road,  I heard a little jingling of bells and looked over to see a man walking a grey monkey on a leash.  Walking a little further, I saw four bedraggled chickens and one glossy rooster who gave me  scare, crowing loudly as I passed him by. The other day, in the Dharavi slum, I saw three goats being fattened up for a monthly sacrifice. In downtown Mumbai, I see cows constantly. But oddly, I barely remark on these urban farm animals anymore. That is, their presence here seems completely normal. This morning, only the monkey surprised me.

Month #5: Lightness

This morning, I was chatting with a friend in New York and she reminded me to update my blog. I have found that the more engaging my life is here, the less likely I am to write a post. Not only do I run out of time, I get intimidated by the sheer backlog of events. In the past week, I have: interviewed a former surrogate mother in her home (at last!), eaten the best vada pav* ever in the working-class neighborhood of Dadar, written about desserts for The New York Times travel blog, watched two Bollywood movies, wandered around the narrow alleyways and white temples of Bhuleshwar by night, taken a tour of the Dharavi slum, gone on a date and, after a four-month hiatus, attended two yoga classes.

This onslaught of activity was inspired by the realization that, in four months, I’ll be heading back to  New Jersey where, presumably, I’ll have to spend a long time looking for a job.  Alas, a few weeks ago this realization also led to a pretty crappy afternoon spent on job-hunting websites, which led to anxiety — a deep I’m-single-and-31-with-no-lucrative-career-path kind of existential anxiety that I just couldn’t shake.In the middle of that week, I had a Hindi class. My tutor Mano arrived at the apartment and as we sat down to review type #2 masculine nouns in the oblique case, I couldn’t focus. So I used a technique honed during my adolescent harp-lesson days — distracting the teacher with a volley of personal questions. Anyhow, I’d always been curious about Mano.

Mano is a slim, dreamy man with a rare gentleness that may come from his many years spent away from the world. When he was 17, Mano entered an ashram in Bihar and lived there until he was 32 when he decided to leave.  Just nine months ago, he “came out” for an Australian woman who he’d met at the ashram years before. Before leaving, Mano asked permission from his guru and was denied, as the guru was grooming him for a leadership position. So he left covertly, literally jumping over the ashram wall while his teacher was off on a speaking tour. The outside world came as a shock. At the ashram, Mano had  led a reflective and highly-regimented life. He rose before dawn, ate sparingly, shaved his head and wore the saffron robes of a monk. There was no television, no internet, and only the occasional newspaper. So when he got to Mumbai, there was a lot Mano didn’t know how to do. He didn’t know how to buy a train ticket. He didn’t have a bank account. He didn’t know how to make money.  So he sat down, meditated, took stock of his skills, and thought, “I can teach yoga.” So he did, first to one couple and then to more people and then he began teaching Hindi, and now he can feed both himself and his girlfriend. “It is through Grace,” he told me in that slow, wondering way of his.

Somehow, the story of Mano making his way in the world made me feel better. It wasn’t so much the idea that if Mano can find work, I can find work. Rather, I was comforted by his attitude. He has a “lightness,” as he puts it, that I understand as a useful detachment. A realization that you control over worldly events is limited, so rather than freaking out, it’s better to meditate, take things as they are and do your best to cope.

Lately, I’ve been coping with the vast undefined territory that is my future by limiting my gaze to Mumbai. I’ve been trying to live as fully here as possible here, in conscious appreciation of my limited time here. And I have been thinking about the idea lightness a lot, holding it in mind. Just this morning as I set about crossing the chaotic street at Pali Market, I noticed myself getting angry and agitated because there shouldn’t be so many wildly careening rickshaws and horns, there shouldn’t be so much traffic! Then I looked at the street again and thought, “Why shouldn’t there be traffic? This is just the way things are here.” So I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed to the other side.

*for details on the glory that is Vada Pav: http://intransit.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/16/snack-attack-mumbai-eating-safe-street-food/

Republic Day at Raj Bhavan

Raj Bhavan and the sea

Today is Republic Day, which celebrates the enactment of the Indian Consitution. As far as Indian holidays go, it was low-key: there were no fireworks, no street parties, no trucks,  no gods, and no traffic. Instead, flags were raised and the Governor of Maharastra hosted a staid assembly at the Raj Bhavan Palace for various commissioners, civil servants, important people, and me (for some reason invited by my university).

In the vague expectation of meeting palace-worthy men, I arranged to have my hair done at Jean Claude Biguine, a shamefully expensive Bandra salon.  For my $18 “fantasy hair do,” the stylist spent an hour-and-a-half straightening and then recurling my hair, an experiment that left my hair looking suspiciously like it always does. Well, maybe a little flatter:

Fantasy hair-do.

After arriving at the Palace,  I sat alone for a while, trying not to stare at a lady with a  trident-shaped white mark on her forehead and a pink pocketbook stitched with the words “hare krishna, hare krishna, hare krishna…” Then a nice guy from the British Consulate rescued me from social isolation and, after revealing he had a girlfriend, kindly introduced me around. I met people from the Ethiopian, Czech, and South African consulates, and was invited to lunch tomorrow at the Indonesian Consulate by the charming Acting Consul General who is, alas, a bit too old for me. But still, I am looking forward to trying Indonesian food.

And  I saw an excellent sunset, as Raj Bhavan is perched high on posh Malibar Hill, which has an unobstructed view of the Arabian Sea. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass which, in Mumbai, is a luxury all its own.

The attendees

Sometimes I forget that Mumbai is tropical

Sunset

Kids in Dharavi

Dharavi Children's Shelter and friend James

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon in Dharavi, India’s largest and most notorious slum (you may remember it from Slumdog Millionaire). For the record, many people in Dharavi didn’t like Slumdog because it depicts their neighborhoods as violent, filthy and basically unlivable. In fact, a million people do live there in a wide range of conditions (most houses have running water, many have air-conditioning). Even though the sanitation is bad, many people like Dharavi as it is and large-scale goverment redevelopment projects have met with resistance.

I went to Dharavi with my architect friend Dipti who works with an organization called URBZ which wants to involve the community in redeveloping the slum. URBZ aslo helps run the Dharavi Children’ s Shelter — really an activity space for the neighborhood kids. Dipti holds art classes for the kids each Sunday. This Sunday, the plan was to beautify the space by having the kids paint pots for hanging plants and decorate the rough wall in the shelter’s small courtyard. James (a new Brooklyn friend) and I went along to help. But as we didn’t speak much Hindi, our main contribution was photographing events and being leapt upon by small children.

The adorability quotient was high, as was the noise, mess, and work ethic. After the painting, a dozen kids spent two hours mopping the floor with apparent enthusiasm. Others showed their ingenuity when the key to the shelter’s lock fell into an unspeakable gutter: two boys scampered off to fetch a magnet on a string and as us adults looked on pessimistically, managed to lift the keys out of the deep black puddle.  When we left, several boys escorted us out of the slum and to a small cafe across the road. Dipti invited them to have a soda with us and while they agreed to sit at a table, the boys refused to have a drink. They couldn’t take our money, they said. They had already eaten at home.

What can I even say about that? All I know is that I’m going back next Sunday and am  committed to improving my Hindi, because I have a lot of questions for these kids.

I thought you’d like seeing some photos (click to enlarge):

Dharavi Children’s Shelter

Dharavi street

Across the tracks, the slum

Key-rescuers on left

kids!

Everything got painted

*

The wall

Dipti grew up in Madrid, is in architecture school at Oxford, and loves Mumbai

The kids painted the pots in groups of 3 or 4 — results impressive!

I was told that there is a “bacca” or child on the bottom of this pot

These kids were teaching me Hindi

Collaboration

Me and Ruksar

Ruksar

Everyone wanted to be photographed

Boys in the centre

Dipti explains the activity

The courtyard

And a nice picture!

Anna and Em walking through a tea plantation in Munnar, Kerala

But really! How can I write about hospitals after leaving my blog alone for a month, during which time I was travelling through Rajasthan, Delhi, Kerala, and Goa with my family and dear friend Lesley. I promise to share some photos from the trip in a post to be written very soon!

Sick in India: Part 2

As in England, "Casualty" means "Emergency Room"

Last night, I woke up with a migraine so terrible that my anesthesiologist sister suggested I go to the hospital for a painkiller. So at 3 a.m., my roommate Ally and I jounced on a rickshaw through the empty streets of Bandra to Lilivati Hospital where in addition to getting treatment, we were treated to a full-blown Cultural Experience.

The last time I went to the ER in Brooklyn, I had a broken hand — an injury so deeply unimpressive that I went two hours without even seeing a nurse, although I did get to fill out a sheath of paperwork. At Lilivati, by contrast, a nurse immediately led me to an empty bed. Other than an unseen snorer on the other side of the curtains, there were no other patients in the emergency room. None! Which was a good thing, because were no chairs or waiting area of any kind.  Next, a doctor asked me a few questions about my migraine and then announced that I would receive an injection of a drug that began with a “d.” I’d never heard of it, so I called my sister, who hadn’t heard of it either. Still, she advised, “Trust the doctor. It’s a narcotic.”

I asked the doctor if she wanted me to fill out some forms. She looked puzzled, “That’s not necessary.” After the injection, the doctor decided to prescribe me some anti-nausea pills and finally asked for my name. So I spelled out Abigail but when I got the Rabinowitz, she waved it away impatiently. Abigail was enough.

Even after picking up the pills, paying the bill, and waking up a rickshaw driver for a ride back to the apartment, Ally and I made it home less than an hour after we’d set out. Total cost of visit and medication? $6. Not $260 dollars to be paid to an emergency room or wrangled out of the insurance company. Sure, no one asked if I was allergic to any drugs or anything, but the results were excellent.

Was my experience characteristic of an Indian emergency room visit? I can’t say, but I can report that in India doctors answer their own cell phones, make same-day appointments for house calls, charge a pittance and dispense prescriptions quickly. There’s a shocking lack of paperwork, considering the bureaucratic tangle that surrounds everything from renting an apartment to buying a cell phone here. How can this be? Maybe there are less medical malpractice suits or maybe there are simply more doctors. And while the casualness of the care makes me innately uneasy as an American who expects the formalities of forms, the accessibility is great. All things considered, I’d chose an emergency room in Mumbai over Brooklyn any night.

Welcome Parents!

The parents in Qutb Minar, Delhi

 

My parents arrived in Delhi five days ago, looking stunned at their good fortune to arrive in our friend Rasil’s cool green garden. It was great to see them and, after three months of industriousness, to join them in pure tourist mode.

In our whirlwind tour of Delhi and now Rajasthan, we have had many memorable experiences. Some have been magical: my favorite was climbing the 270-foot minaret in India’s largest mosque, getting so high up that we had a bird’s eye view of the hawks as they gyred above the narrow streets of Old Delhi. Some have been less magical — for me and my 6’ 6” father, smacking our heads on the low doorways of the Maharajah’s residence in the desert fort town of Jaisalmer stands out (why don’t they give out helmets along with the audio tour?). And then there have been the quintessential American-in-India experiences, familiar to me but new to my parents, which have included:

1)      Getting lost in a rickshaw

2)      Exclaiming with horror as car driver misses highway exit, backs up mid-traffic, and gets it on the second try

3)      Getting lost on the way to a traditional cultural performance

4)      Drowsing with jetlag during traditional cultural performance

5)      Not knowing how to cross the street

6)      Not knowing how much to tip (confusion derived from being informed that a 10 rupee/20 cent tip is satisfying reward for some servers)

7)      Wondering what a bullock cart is doing on a main road

8)      Having insight that, on street, several centuries are existing simultaneously

9)      Becoming elated by the sheer energy of it all

10)  Compulsive hand-sanitizing

11)  Rejecting water bottle on suspicion that it was filled with tap water (poison!) and resealed

12)  Learning to say “bus,” or enough, to shoo away a beggar child, feeling both irritated and like a jerk at the same time

13)  Being amazed that people are able to scrape a living together, somehow

14)  Wondering just how much ghee is in that eggplant dish

15)  Getting yelled at for failing to remove shoes in a temple

And we’re only half way through Rajasthan.

Right now I’m writing from a princess-like room in a converted palace with a view of the shimmering lake in Udaipur (travelling with the parents makes for excellent accommodations). I promise to share photograph of this place and other moments of interest in the next week or so (the video of my father descending from a camel is a must-see). But for now, let me wish all you dear readers a very merry Christmas!

My mother and I share a camel on the dunes outside Jaisalmer

Another India

The fort in Lodi Gardens

The past few days, I’ve been feeling uncharacteristically relaxed, healthy, refreshed, sanguine, pleased, and focused in my work. I attribute all of these emotions to Delhi which is, as I’ve been told, the Garden City, a Green City, the Washington DC to Mumbai’s New York City. Now, Old Delhi is supposed to be different — all narrow streets and mad congestion — but I’ve spent my time here in New Delhi near Lodi Gardens, a park where paths wind between a 15th century Muslim fort and domed tombs. This is a neighborhood of consulates and foreign journalists, of new industrialists and deep old wealth.

I’m staying with an old family friend named Rasil, who lives in a white house just off the park. Every morning, we walk through the cool mist into the park, past speed-walkers with scarves wrapped around their heads and laughing students, green parrots and swans. And then walk back to the patio where a round table is set with a flowered tablecloth and napkins twirled in carved napkin rings. Raul, one of the staff, emerges with a tray of cool water (“thanda panni,” he tells me, since he knows I am learning Hindi). Then he returns with a tray bearing two slices of papaya, and then with hot cereal, and then his wife Savitri comes out with toast, eggs, and coffee.

Rasil used to work for the Women’s Commission at the UN and is officially retired, although she runs a small office out of her house and is making a film about farmer suicides in Punjab. Her life is both leisurely and purposeful, like the house itself — which has cushioned sofas and fireplaces, and walls packed with books, a wide desk spilling over with papers. I’ve fallen into Rasil’s routine easily and completely, from our morning walk to the hour before dinner, when we sit by the fireplace with glasses of red wine and chat. I’ve actually been able to write here. There is no construction going on next door.

Eventually, I suppose, I might miss Mumbai– the crazed energy of the streets and those late nights out in rooftop restaurants and bars. I would miss my friends. But right now, I am in love with the chilly weather and the sight of parrots flocking to the mango tree in the garden. I am relieved to be breathing air that smells like wet leaves.