Thur. Jan. 21

We went to Banaras Hindu University today to see the Ayurvedic doctors here regarding JP's arthritis and my long time companion, high blood pressure. This is a free clinic and part of the professors' duties. Four years ago these guys managed to get me off Celebrex for my arthritis and even cured my potato allergy for about 3 years. While examining me, the doctor respectfully asked me if I would like to step on the scale. I disrespectfully told him no, but did it anyway. Surprise, surprise, he said I had to loose weight. Yea, right, I'll get right on that. As Popeye would say: "I yam what I yam, what I yam". I am now taking allopathic, Chinese, herbal and Ayurvedic medicines for my high blood pressure. This is a beautiful campus and is JP's Alma Mater. It was founded in 1917 and is 40 square kilometers of classic Indian architecture, woodlands and gardens. It is a peaceful respite from the crush of the city. At the entrance to the campus was an auto rickshaw with a dead body on its roof, undoubtedly on its way to the cremation ghat. Walking on the streets of the city you can easily see 4 or 5 five bodies being carried to the cremation ghats. As the men in the family carry the white or gold clad bodies high on a wooden bier, they chant and almost trot.
As we walk about the city I marvel at the mass of humanity around me. Although they are busy as bees, Indians somehow exude a dignified stillness and grace. I really admire that, and wish I could achieve it. JP, Smita, and I discuss the plight of India. In JP's lifetime the population has tripled from 350 million to 1.1 billion. In the same time period, the US population has doubled. Smita also noted that the Ganga is shrinking. I have read that the ancient iceberg that feeds the Ganges is melting quickly. I don't want to think of the consequences of India without this great, sacred river. I am reminded of a line from the book Angels and Demons: "Progress is mother earth's ultimate malignancy".
At 6 AM I am awakened by the sounds of bells, drums, and loud chanting from the ashram across the street and the nearby temples. I wonder how long the sun has been greeted in this manner. It reminds me of another book, The Little Prince, by Exupere (sp), where a prideful emperor of a tiny planet sits atop a mountaintop early every morning and orders the sun to rise, thus proving his all encompassing power. Cause and effect is a tricky thing. Soon after awakening, I hear Bhabi chanting at the little alter outside our room in the hall. Soon she will leave for her rounds of the temples. Everyone here, men and women, start their day by visiting their local temple for a quick prayer. As they exit the temple, the local priest ties a red string around their wrists, reminding them that they are protected by the divine. I should mention here that, all signs to the contrary, Hinduism is a monotheistic religion. God is Vishnu, who is part of a trinity including Brahma and Shiva. Separate but equal. This is just like the trinity of Father, Son and Holy Ghost of Catholicism in which I grew up. All other gods or goddesses are manifestations or aspects of Vishnu or Shiva.
There was a story in the paper this morning about 3 college students who made a $10 bet that whichever one would kiss this particularly pretty girl first, would win all the money. One brave boy finally got up the nerve to do it and was expelled, along with his two friends. This culture wisely keeps a very tight thumb on premarital sex. There is also no public displays of affection. Bindu wants told me how strange it was for her when she first came to America to see people pawing each other in public and constantly saying "I love you". Did they have to remind each other all the time that they loved them? I was raised the same way by my Italian parents.
I find myself forgetting proper punctuation, and wish my old supervisor, Dave, were here to proof read this blog, as he did with all the criminal investigation I did. He told me that he printed out the email blog I did on my last trip, and corrected it as he went. I am also getting confused between what I have already written and what I have thought about writing. I wake up and realize I have been dreaming of writing poetic and erudite descriptions of things. Of course they immediately dissipate, leaving only scraps of mundane thought at the door of my memory. I guess my unconscious mind is still as hungry for praise as my conscious mind.
Every one on the streets here, no matter how poor, is wearing beautifully hand knitted sweaters. The Indian women are expert knitters, making my knitting look amateurish. It is a quirk of fate that most of these excellent knitters can only afford cheap, poor quality yarn. While I, a much less skillful knitter, can afford the highest quality wool yarn, called sheep's hair here. It humbles me. I remember stories Bindu would tell of her and her sisters sitting quietly on their beds, experimenting with different knitting stitches during prescribed siestas.
I have noticed a few wild pigs here in India on previous trips. Now there seems to be many more of them, one group of 8 even being herded by a young man. I could not imaging who would want to buy pigs, as neither Hindus nor Moslems eat them. Smita had the answer. It is the tourists in the few fancy hotels who want to eat pork.
I have not been able to spend much time on the balcony, referred to as Nadine's perch, because of the cold. I have always loved standing there, watching India go by. However I was able to catch the small herd of water buffalo go by as they made their way to the river, as they have done for thousands of years. I love these animals, with heads down, slowly plodding along, undisturbed by the tumult around them. I also marvel at the electrical wiring while I am on my perch. It looks as if someone has dumped a huge pot of tangled, black spaghetti onto poles and strung them together with more black spaghetti. While Jai was sleeping here one night, the transformer across the street blew, sounding and looking as though a nuclear bomb had exploded.
JP had forgotten the way to the Pilgrim's book store, but somehow I remembered it. This is quite an anomaly in the workings of my brain since I cannot even remember the way to my friend Carol's home in Taos, all of 2 miles from my house. This is a magnificent book store. It is off a quiet ally near the Durga temple. Beautifully decorated in white marble, with a gentle waterfall leading to a sunken pool with pillows around it for sitting. It is filled with spiritual books from all over the world, including many Buddhist books. While there I bought tons of postcards, much easier then haggling over price for them on the streets. I also bought a small book of the hilarious stories of the Mulla Nasruddin. Bindu would tell me some of these hysterical stories when I would visit her in Maryland. I'll give her this book on my next visit so she can read them to her little granddaughters when they are old enough.
While at BHU we went to the Visranath temple there. It is a beautiful and elegant Shiva temple. Shoes off, touch the steps and ring the overhead bell as you enter and leave, hands prayerful, circle the sunken lingum three times. All there is in a Shiva temple is a cylindrical shaped stone, depicting the penis of Lord Shiva, the life force of the universe. It is usually bedecked with flowers. Indians do not have the baggage we have inherited from the Puritans regarding sex. It is a gift from God and a fun thing you get to do when you are married. Period. I somewhat guiltily bought tons of those find wool yarns the same day. Enough to last me the rest of my life. Cost, about $100. Cost in US, about $800.
The winter marriage season has just begun and the first of many marriage ceremonies past under the balcony that night. They are a noisy, bright affair. The groom's family live just up the street and the house is strung with colored lights. The family and all the guests greet the groom at his home as he prepares to go fetch his bride at her home. A large band, playing terrible and incredibly loud music is accompanied by people with lighted chandeliers on their heads, powered by a truck with a noisy generator. The groom is heavily bedecked with jeweled clothing and is riding a white horse. Some men are dancing wildly to the "music" and the guests follow behind. All then proceed to the bride's home. From experience I can tell you that the girl is not enjoying this day. She is exhausted from the days of rituals and festivities, and terrified of leaving her family for her "new life" with a man and his family that she does not know. I put "new life" in quotes because that is the way young girls describe getting married. The marriage itself, where the fire is the witness, will take place at a time prescribed by astrology, often in the middle of the night. Also, the astrological charts of the prospective couple have been checked to make sure they are compatible.
As we walk the crowded streets of Varanasi, we pass the house where JP and his family lived after his father died, leaving them penniless. It has 3 stories, one large room on each floor, each inhabited by a large family. The entire house shares one bathroom, which no one wanted to clean. I understand this man, whom I have known for 35 years, better and better as I hear these stories. He also shows me the exact spot where he stood, at age 8, and heard the devastating news of Gandhi's death. I also recall in detail where I was when I heard the news of JFK's death. I'm sure all Americans of a certain age have that same moment seared into their memories. In this part of town we see people from all other the world, even two Hasidic Jews, with their black suits, hats, and earlocks. There are multitudes of people here, selling all manner of matter. As my heart goes out to those I consider unfortunate, I am comforted to see the children of the poor, still laughing and playing, the crippled, still going about their business, and starving puppies, still wagging their tails. Who am I to judge the quality of a life.

Peace,
Nadine

I'm going to pause my mental meanderings here and give you a history of Varanasi, with help from JP and The Lonely Planet's guide book on India. The intro to Varanasi in the guide book is so great, I'm going to type it verbatim:

"Brace yourself. You area about to enter one of the most blindingly colorful, unrelentingly chaotic and unapologetically indiscreet places on earth. Varanasi takes no prisoners. But if you're ready for it, this may just turn out to be your favorite stop of all.

Also known at various times in history as Kashi or Benares, this is one of the world's oldest continually inhabited cities, and one of the holiest places in India. Hindu pilgrims come to the ghats lining the River Ganges here to wash away a lifetime of sins in the sacred waters or to cremate their loved ones. It is a particularly auspicious place to die, since expiring here offers moksha (liberation from the cycle of birth and death), making Varanasi the beating heart of the Hindu universe. Most visitors agree it is a magical place, but not for the faint-hearted. Here the most intimate rituals of life and death take place in public and the sights and sounds in and around the ghats can be overwhelming. Persevere. Varanasi is unique, and a walk along the ghats or a boat ride on the river will live long in the memory."

The city dates back to about 1200 BC. The Afgans destroyed the city around 1300, after laying waste to nearby Sarnath. But the most destructive force to attack Varanasi was the fanatical Mughal emperor Aurangzeb, who, in the early 19th century, looted and destroyed almost all the city. All in the name of God, of course. The old city may look ancient, but few buildings are more than a couple of hundred years old.

The ghats along the Ganges are my favorite part of the city, and one the only places where you can walk without the danger of getting run over. The one I refer to and use to navigate from is the Dasaswamedh Ghat. Every evening at 7 an elaborate Ganga Aarti ceremony is performed here. When I see this most beautiful ceremony, I usually cry. It is so cold here now that we cannot go out at night. Hopefully, before we leave Varanasi for the final time on this trip, it will be warm enough to attend the ceremony. By the way, aarti is the last puja of the day, when the gods are put to bed. Even in this household, Babhi lays her tiny brass gods down and covers them with the robes she has made for them. Ritual is an integral part of Indian life. I too have always been a big fan of ritual. My favorite ritual in life now is waking up at 5 AM on a winter's morning to a cold house. I start the fire in our wood stove and meditate a bit, watching the flames grow and dance about. Then I curl up in the rocking chair by the stove and read. Life is good.

India suffered a thousand years of Moslem invasions, and the memory survives. Hindu's are wary of Moslems, but usually manage to live side by side peacefully. My heart goes out to the world's peace loving Moslems who bear the brunt of the radicalized minority. Christianity went through the same savage stages when it raped and pillaged its way through the Moslem world in the crusades. All in the name of the peaceful Jesus, and plunder of course. Although much of the population of Varanasi is Moslem, I have only seen a few Moslem women, covered from head to tow in their black burkas. I don't think they go out of their homes much. Bindu tells me that at home, their husbands like them to dress provocatively. The only problem I have with Islam is its belief that you must have as many children as God gives you. This also keeps them poor and uneducated. This is not to say there are not very well educated Moslems here, it is just a general statement. I share Hindu's frustration with this belief. They no longer have large families. JP's nieces and nephews have had no more than 3 children. We expect that their children, who are now just beginning to have kids, will only have 2. Also, the Hindus are getting married at older ages, girls at about 25, boys close to 30. I was aghast to learn from one of my many podcasts ( I am addicted to free podcasts through I Tunes) that there is a group of evangelical Christians in the US, calling themselves Quiver Full, who also believe that women should have as many children as God gives them. Their God must not be paying attention to the state of this earth he created. One thing I really miss from the Moslem world is the Muzzin, the call to prayer broadcast from high towers. It is so eerily beautiful. I'm surprised I have not heard it here.

I was very happy to read that there is a effort to clean up the Ganges. The problem is not the hoards of people who use it daily. Rather, it is the untreated sewage that is dumped in it daily.

On Tues., 1/19 we went shopping with Smita. I bought cloth to make 3 new salvar-kameez's. Not because I wanted more Indian clothes, but because I only have two with long sleeves and it is freezing here. The tailor came from next door, measured me, and said they would be done in a few days. Indian women do not buy clothes off the rack. They choose from a myriad of fabrics and have them made by a tailor, who charges a few dollars. Then off to the eyeglass shop for two pairs of new glasses for JP. I also brought a pair of very expensive sunglasses that had been hopelessly scratched to have new glass installed. This would have cost $150 in the US. We are guessing it will cost about $30 here. Then off to the narrow streets of the old town where not even bicycle rickshaws can pass. We were here to buy Banaris silk saris for all the women in Delhi and Varanasi. JP always does this when we are here. Banaris silk saris are the most prized in all of India, costing up to $10,000. They are traditionally woven by Moslem families. Of course, we were not buying the $10,000 ones. I remember this shop from past visits. It is four flights up through a narrow alley. Once there it is obvious this shop is selling pricy stuff. Shoes off at the door and onto clean white sheets. We sit on the floor on pillows while hundreds of exquisite saris are unfurled for our perusal. Smita loves this part of every trip. She and JP look, feel and discuss every one. One is finally chosen for each specific woman. Smita knows who would like what and what is appropriate. Al this, of course, is way over my head and I just sit there enjoying the show. There is no dust here and everything is polished to a high shine. Smita knew these guys well through her husband's work.

Wed. Jan. 20, 2010

Back to the train saga. After a huge rush to get to the train station, after a rushed sendoff by the whole family, we were told the train was 8 hours late, then that it was only 2 hours late, then that it had already arrived and left again. Who knew what the heck was going on. We decided to wait for a few hours to see what we could find out. In the past there were no information boards here, just one person to ask, and a huge long line waiting to ask them. Now modernization has arrived and there is no one to ask, just a crazy info board that kept changing. Ah, progress. The Delhi station is huge, and JP estimated there were about 1000 people there. I just stood there, observing. This was a microcosm of India itself: rich, poor, totally destitute, deformed, crazed. I watched as one woman in rags and bare feet (temp. 50) wandered back and forth, talking to herself. Was she a widow with no children ? Families everywhere were sitting on the floor eating. Others were sound asleep on the cold floor, oblivious of the cacophony around them. Indians are world class sleepers and can sleep anywhere, anytime. After several hours of this, Shashi, the can-do guy, arrived and things quickly changed. He disappeared in a flurry and about half an hour later rushed up to us telling us we were going to jump on a train leaving in 5 minutes. He had cleverly booked us on a train going to a station outside of Varanasi. It's been a long time since I had to run to catch a train, but run we did. We just barely made it. Shashi and Sunil literally threw our bags, and us, onto the train as it began moving. We got settled and were very grateful that we were finally on our way to Varanasi. The train perked along for all of about 10 minutes, then came to an abrupt stop. And there we sat for 3 hours. The dense fog was the problem, and it continued for the entire trip. The normally 12 hour journey took 20 hours. The big problem was food. The women had not had time to pack us the customary suitcase full of food, and for some reason this train did not have a pantry car. We also had not had a chance to eat lunch before we had left, due to the erroneous report of the train leaving on time. Boy, were we hungry, as were our fellow passengers, complaining to their wives by cell phone that they were hungry and dirty. God bless Arun, one of the Varanasi nephews. He had received a call from Shashi regarding our plight, and had arranged, through his work contacts, to have food delivered to us when the train stopped briefly at the Allahabad station. The poor delivery guy waited for almost two hours at the cold station, waiting for our train to arrive. Those darn boards again. The food was delicious, although by this time it was cold. I've never seen JP eat so much so quickly. We could not thank Arun enough when we finally arrived. We are blessed here to be so well taken care of by such clever people. I had mentioned to you beforehand that the continued fog had caused a terrible train accident several days before we boarded the train. It had been on the same track we were traveling and we passed one of the cars which was standing on end, bent in two, forming a gruesome V. By the by, the train system and the unifying language of English are two of the great gifts given to India by the British.

We were met at the station by Arun and Aradhana. Here is the Varanasi family lineup:

Jagdish, JP's brother died in 1999 because he could not get medical help on a Sunday.

Bhabi, his wife and grandmother of the family, now spends her time praying at various nearby temples and going to religious talks with her friends. In the home she is often found in front of the little house alter in the hall. She is a tiny woman, but still very pretty as old age comes upon her. She is several years older that I.

Anil is the oldest son in the house and is a dear, sweet man. Last month he collapsed while at home and was totally paralized on his left side. Luckily his brother, Arun, was also at home and managed somehow to get him on their motorscooter and to the hospital where he was able to get help. This happened on a Sunday, the same day of the week that their father had died from lack of help. The doctors helped him and, after 3 hours, feeling on his left side returned. He seems OK now, but all are still worried about him. He and his wife, Anita, have three daughters: Archana, Aradhana, and Anupria. Archana was married about 5 years ago. She was a little darker than her sisters so the family was worried about finding her a suitable husband. (I never even noticed the difference in color, but it is unfortunately a big deal with Indians). She has a master's degree in psychology and is energetic and hospitable. They did find her a very nice man (with the help of $ from JP for the dowery). The big problem was that she just could not get pregnant, or would miscarry. This was a very serious situation for her. Women here immediately have a child after marriage. Finally, with the help of a wonderful Varanasi doctor, she gave birth to a son about 6 months ago. A lot of prayers were said for the arrival of this child, not just in India, but in Taos, NM. The girls in Delhi and Varanasi tell us that Indian women are having more and more trouble getting pregnant. By the way, it is 11 AM here and still freezing cold. The electricity is off again, natch, so no little electric heater in our room. The light is being powered by a bank of batteries in the hallway. Aradhana is daughter # 2. She is 25, looks 14, and not yet married. The problem is that she is trying to obtain certification as a Chartered Accountant. JP says this is like our CPA certification, but much harder to achieve. If she can get this, she herself will be worth more, thus lowering the dowry, an able to get a higher class husband. She has been been trying to pass the final test for 2 years. She has passed most of the sections of the test but still has several to go. She has told her parents that if she does not get the degree in 6 months, they should get her married anyway. Although I am not an Indian mother, I share the worry about finding suitable husbands for these girls. I know the dowry system sounds arcane, but it actually makes sense. When a girl marries, the husband's family accepts responsibility for her and her children for life. Her dowry, which includes her gold bangles and earrings, is her only inheritance from her birth family, and given to the husband's family to help with the expense of caring for her and her children for life. I just love Aradhana. She is shorter than I and just about half the width. Like all the children in JP's family, she speaks good English. She also has a great sense of wry humor and usually is our companion when exploring Varanasi. For the last few months she has been working for Sensex, India's industrial index, like our Dow Jones, so does not have too much time for us during the day. Anupria is the youngest daughter and is a little spit fire. Jai loves her spirit. She is in Delhi right now, studying for the same degree as her sister. Anil's wife, Anita, is the workhorse of the family. She is always looking after our needs and making sure we are comfortable ( a relative term in this terribly cold weather). When we first got to the house, Anil and Anita were not there. Her 36 year old sister had died the day before after suffering for 6 months with liver cancer. Her body was immediately brought to Varanasi for cremation, probably on top of the car the family was riding in. The body, which would have been wrapped in clean white cloth and tied around the body, then would be taken to the main burning ghat. The men in the family would take the body to the Ganges' edge and ritualistically wash it. The body would then be placed over the wood pyre, ghee (clarified butter) poured over it, and lit by the eldest son. The women and children would already have been standing higher up the bluff on an ancient viewing platform, where the men would join them. Of course this is all done within the framework of specified puja (prayers). The family would stay there (in freezing cold in this case) until the body was completely consumed, the ashes gathered and placed into the sacred river. The whole family then bathes in the river, even though the time was about 11 PM and the temp. about 45.

Arun and Smita have two sons: Apoorva and Arpit. They are great, fun loving boys. Apoorva has finished college and is working for an American company in Pune, in computer safety. Arpit recently finished college and just got a job in Gurgaon in computer hardware technology. We just got news of the new job yesterday and are celebrating with the fancy sweet treats JP bought for the occasion. Indians are very fond of their sweets. I am so happy for this family. Arun, their father, earns about $300 monthly at his job in a clock manufacturing company. Now how does one send two boys to college while earning so little ? This is a good example of the Indian "can-do" attitude. Somehow they always manage to do what needs to be done. While I am happy for this family, I can see the eroding of the Indian way of life here. These boys will not come back to Varanasi with their wives and children. Rather, they will go where there careers take them. Smita, their mother, is another favorite. She is very personable and plump, like her husband and son Arpit. She loves to go shopping with us and makes sure we go to the best shops and get the best prices. Indians love to constantly dicker about price. It drives me, like most Americans, absolutely nuts.

Shyam Kasore's two daughters, Prabha and Chuma, and their families also live in Varanasi. Prabha is a Ph.D professor in Indian History and the mother of 3 very well educated children. Chuma had 3 children but tragedy struck about one year ago. Her son, Vivek, age 21, had been working in the distant city of Bangalore. He was a shy boy who did not have many friends there. A maid noticed that his apartment door was open and found him dead. He had been dead for several days and the police could never determine how he died. This is a cautionary tale for parents of children living away from home. Vivek's parents had no other phone numbers of people who could check on him. The police called the last number dialed on his phone, which was his parents. Otherwise, they would have not known whom to contact. JP has always made it a practice of having the phone numbers of employers and friends of kids living away from us.

There is a vigorous debate going on in my body regarding the efficacy of squat toilets. My digestive system in arguing for; my knees, against. As the days go on the knees appear to be winning. Enough for now. I am tired of typing and I am sure you are tired to reading.

Peace,

Nadine

Friday Jan. 15, 2010
Today I had appointments with a dentist and an allopathic doctor. The dentist's office was on the main road of Gurgaon. It looked like a shop in the worst part of Chicago. It was 6 feet by 20 feet long and divided into waiting room and work area. I was told this was his upscale office, as opposed to the one for less wealthy people. His partner is a woman with the same last name. I immediately fantasized a "love match" while in dental school. My fantasy was dashed when I was told they were brother and sister. Anywho, after 3 visits I ended up with a perfectly fitting cap over the tooth I had badly chipped. It cost $100 as apposed to $700 in the US. He was very proud of how good a job he had done. Then JP and I went off to the doctor. This was the nicest office of any type I had ever seen in India. On the wall were certificates from Johns Hopkins and Harvard. The doctor examined JP and was not at all convinced that his arthritis was rheumatoid. He then checked my blood pressure (my one enduring problem), prescribed medicine and off we went. He wants to see me again in about a month to see how the new drugs were working. Cost of visit, $12 each.
Driving in India is an exercise in blind faith. The comfort zone for Indian drivers is not measured in car lengths or feet, rather, in inches or fractions of inches. Although it appears to be totally chaotic, it is actually more like an intricately choreographed dance. As we drove to the dentist's office, we passed a group of 20 or so people, squatting by the road, many crying. Surbhi explained that the government had just torn down their illegally built shacks, and not they were totally homeless.

Sat. Jan 16
The doctor had ordered JP to have blood tests. Instead of going to a hospital for these tests, the tests come to you at your home. Nice. Since the sun had finally appeared today, everyone in the family was sitting outside, playing games and chatting with neighbors. All the housed are walled, with gardens inside the wall. Pretty much like Taos. I love these little gardens and am determined to create one at home. Everything here in India is smaller. From squirrels to servings of tea. Here, a small serving of tea is 2 oz., a large is 4 oz. JP and I have noticed over the years that American sizes have changed. 6 oz used to be a small, 12 oz a large. Now 12 oz. is small. The sizes of tea seem to be in a direct ratio to the sizes of us Americans, who have been supersized over the last 30 years.
The train to Varanasi was to leave at 8 PM on the 16th. However, the fog was terrible and the train was already 5 hours late. There was also a very bad train accident due to fog the day before, so the trains were going extra slow. Since we had alot of extra time, I decided to postpone a bath and take a long walk instead. After walking about a mile, we got a call from Shashi saying that now the train was on time and we had to leave ASAP. So, no time to bathe, change clothes, or for the women to prepare food for us to take. Off we went to the train station, only to have to wait for 2 hours to be told that the train was actually 8 hours late. The train station is a whole blog in itself but my legs can't stay curled under me for another minute, so I will continue later. By the way, when I read the blog after it has been posted, I noticed that some words or whole lines had morphed out of order. Don't know why.
It is almost midnight and there are sounds of loud drums and monks chanting coming from across the street. I find it soothing, not annoying.

Peace,
Nadine

I am now in the Varanasi household and have access to a computer, so I will try to catch you up.

The members of the Delhi household are as follows:

Shyam Kashore -JP's older brother and head of the household

Bhabhi (title for your older brother's wife)- S.K's wife, grandmother

Sushil S.K. oldest son

Sunana- Sushil's wife. She is the only daughter-in-law in the household and a workhorse. She is constantly cooking, cleaning, etc. Often signs as she works. They have two sons: Shashank and Amun. Shashank is a very ernest young man who, as elder son, works with his father in their retail cloth business. I've always been concerned about him because he strives so hard to do everything right. J.P. and I were both pleased to see he now seems more relaxed and confident. He has not yet married, but will have an arranged marriage in the next few years. Amun has always been a worry. As a little kid we never even saw his face because he would hide. On our trip 4 years ago we were convinced he was autistic. Now we are not so sure. At 21 he is still very shy and says little, but he will look us in the eye and smile. He helps his father a little in the store but I can't see how he could possibly relate to customers. Surbhi is the only girl in the family. She was married off while we were here 4 years ago. In a lucky turn of events, she and her husband, Mukesh, decided to rent the second floor apartment above her parents home. This is very unusual. Most couples live with the boy's parents. Surbhi appears to be very happy in her marriage and with their beautiful little 3 year old daughter, Anugya. They both have very good jobs and can afford their 16 year old nanny, Komal. Surbhi says that Komal is very intelligent and they have asked her parents to let her stay with them and that they would pay to educate her. Her parents refused the offer and intend to marry her off soon. Komal says she will run away if her parents try to do that. I try my best not to judge situations like this and just hope that whatever happens to her, she will be happy in life. She is so bright and lively and Anugya is very attached to her.

Benita, who is new to us, is a much sadder story. She is Sunann's younger sister, age 36, but looks much younger. She has been with the family for 4 years. She and her husband had had an argument and she went home to her parent's home. After some time, he came to take her back to his home, but she refused. He threatened to kill himself if she did not return. She did not believe him and still refused to return. He drank poison and died, leaving her a widow with no children. Her in-laws disowned her and she moved to her brother's home, as her father had died and he was now head of the household. Unfortunately, her brother's wife did not like her, and she was forced to leave that home. God bless J.P's family, who have assumed responsibility for her for the last 4 years. We noticed that, although she was always in the house, she did very little work. We later found out why. She has two holes in her heart, is very week, and is not expected to live a very long life. She refuses to take her medicine, saying she has no husband or children and life is not worth living. I noticed that Benita has no gold bangles or earings. This really upsets me. A woman's gold bangles and earrings is all she ever inherits from her family and is given to her at the time of her wedding. They are never to be taken from her are an insurance policy for her and her children. J.P.'s mother's bangles kept her and her children from starvation after his father died, leaving them destitute. When she had no money for food, his mother would take her bangles to the local pawn shop and get a little money. Later, when she got hold of a bit of money, she would retrieve the bangles. This is exactly what the bangles are for. Whoever took Benita's bangles and earrings took away her safety. Being a widow in India is a very perilous thing unless you have grown sons to care for you. There is no safety net here.

Shyam Kashore and Bhabi have another son, Shashi, who lives nearby. He is a whirl wind of activity and is our primary resource for just about everything. He will always figure out a way to do what needs to be done. He and his wife Uma have a very classy home in the same development as his father and mother. She is better educated that Sunanna and has the money to provide a lovely home for her family. Their eldest son is Saurab, who works with his father in their successful wholesale cloth business. When we were here last he was just married to Shivangi, who was newly pregnant. At that time she was a terrified young bride, missing her parents, and frightened of her new life with a man she really did not know. Such is the life of a new bride in this world of arranged marriages. She is now a happy wife and mother of a beautiful 4 year old son, Divyansah. The change was amazing and gratifying to see. Nidhi, Shashi and Uma's daughter, who's fairy tale wedding was described in the first chronicles, is now the mother of a 4 year old boy and lives in Pune, a city in the south. Nidhi is one of the most truly dignified people I have ever met. She is very intelligent, gracious, and graceful. She was married into a wealthy, educated family. I am sure they are pleased as punch with her.

Friday Jan. 15 was a partial eclipse of the sun, called Suryagrahan, when the sun is being s 11:30 AM towallowed by the deamon Rahu. The eclipse lasted for three and a half hours, beginning at 11:30AM. During that time you are not to bathe, eat, sleep, or clip your nails. I have no idea why. Afterwards you are to bathe in the river. I will ask my old friends, Bindu and Paramjit Singh, to fill in any info they have on events like this and to correct any misinformation I might give you.

As I sat in the sun outside the Delhi house, which is really in Gurgaon, I noticed 6 huge birds on the neighbor's roof. It took me a minute to realize they were peacocks. They actually belong to the neighborhood temple, but roam around during the day. They were huge, but I was told they were just babies.

I'm getting a headache from wearing my glasses for so long, so will close for now.

Peace,

Nadine

I've finally made it back to the internet cafe. Like everything here, it is barely working. If it fails, all will be well in several days. We will be leaving for Varanasi tonight by train, if it ever gets here. It is already 5 hours late. We will sleep on the train, always an adventure. The family there has a good computer which Jai brought them, so I will be able to blog to my heart's content.
As we walk to this internet cafe (which is not a cafe but several broken down computers and wobbly chairs) we pass by a fractal composit of India. We are greeted with a smile by the ironing man and his wife, who remember us from past trips. Their "shop" is a platform of bricks under a tree which serves as his ironing board. His iron is a huge metal thing filled with hot coals. His wife folds the ironed clothes, ready to be picked up by their clients. Next we pass the cart selling saffron rice. Then comes the man squatting on the sidewalk mending clothes by hand and the barber shaving a man with a long straight razor. Cars, trucks, motor scooters and rickshaws zip by honking horns, but the various mini industries are undisturbed. The front of the various small stores that actually have roofs are always adorned with loud, smelly generators. The electricity in India goes on and off constantly. The country simply cannot provide enough power for its growing population. It is not just a matter of new plants. The infrastructure and capacity of the electrical grids are totally decrepit. Another more serious problem is water. All the new building has put a strain on the water supply. The family house here has water delivered every 4 or 5 days. This water is not potable, so they must buy drinking water. The poor people have no choice but to drink the non-potable water. Surbhi says they have built up an immunity to the pollutants. I hope this is just not wishful thinking.
I have not seen another Westerner here, so I am a major source of interest. Indians are not shy about staring. I just look at them and smile, sometimes shocking them into smiling back. I also make it a point to wave at little children or give them a pat on the head. Mothers everywhere appreciate attention to their children. No matter how poor or dirty these kids are, their beauty shines through: beautiful creamed coffee skins and huge dark eyes.
The other computer in this establishment is not working so JP is getting antsy. I will continue more comfortably once we get to Varanansi.
Peace,
Nadine

Thur. Jan. 14 was Makar Sankranti, the winter solstice celebration. Some stores were closed for this holiday, others opened. JP says it is more seriously celebrated in Varanasi.

India Chronicals Part 2

India Chronicals Part 2
We left Albuquerque on Jan.13, flying to Newark, NJ, then on to a non-stop flight to Delhi.
First mistake: We did not weigh the suitcases after the final stuffing. Thus, when we checked them in Albu. one was 12 lbs overweight, which would have cost $125. While JP worked with the Delta folks, trying to get our bags booked all the way to India, I frantically took everything heavy out of JP's suitcase and stuffed it into my carryon.
Second mistake: One of the things I put into my carryon was a very heavy manilla envelope, without looking to see what was in it. JP's part of this mistake was to use a manilla envelope rather than a clear plastic zip lock bag.
When we went through security, I found out what was in the envelope. It contained 6 Swiss Army knives and a box cutter, which were to be presents for JP's family. Luckily, I do not appear to be a terrorist, and they bought my story.
Mistake 3: We did not arrive early enough at the airport to allow for screw ups, so did not have time to go back down and check in my carryon bag. So, the knives were confiscated.

The flight from Newark, NJ to Delhi was non-stop: 14 hours in a cramped seat. It was delayed 2 hours because someone had checked their suitcases but failed to board the plane. Very scary. So all bagage was removed, the missing person's bags found, and all other bags repacked.
We arrived at the new airport in Delhi at 11:30 PM. I love walking out of the airport into the Indian night. The smell of the tropics is an intoxicating assault. As usual, JP's nephew, Shashi, the go-to guy, was their to greet us, along with a taxi. The fog was unbelievable. How the driver saw the road, I don't understand. JP was nervous, but I have learned to trust Indian drivers. The amount of traffic here at midnight is about the same as rush hour in Taos.
Upon arrival at Shyam Kasore's home (JP's brother) the family was awake and greeted us with chai and snacks. After about an hour, we finally went to bed.
After many trips here, I am used to the very hard beds and squat toilets. What I never get used to is being in an unheated house when the ambient temperature is 45 degrees. The family takes pity on us and puts a rarely used electric heated in our bedroom.
This morning we had to bathe in the cold house. We do this by filling a five gallon bucket with hot water and have at it. The reason we have hot water in this bathroom is that 4 years ago JP bought a small water heater as a gift for the family. I've gotten very good at bathing in this manner and don't even use the full 5 gallons. I forgot that they do not use washclothes here so did not bring one. Rather, I have dedicated a pair of underpants for this use. The bathroom is attached to our bedroom, but is also accessable from the main part of the house and is used by many other family members . This means we have to lock the outside door when we want to use the bathroom, but not forget to unlock it after we are done.
I'll get the gross part over now and describe the toilet. It is basically a bowl in the floor with footpads on either side to show where you place your feet. I personally prefer this type of toilet as it is more natural for our bodies. They do not use toilet paper in India. Rather, there is always water available. They find it disgusting that we use paper on our bottoms. One of my proudest achievments is that I am very comfortable using their method. This took me 3 or 4 trips to India to accomplish this.
I am sending this from a cyber cafe in Gurgaon with no bathroom so enough for now.
Peace,
Nadine