Carolyn Fallert • India
I spent the last week of my stay in India exploring God’s country: Kerala. In addition to having the highest literacy rate and the best medical services in the country, Kerala is quite possibly the most beautiful state in India. Everywhere you look you can see lush forests of palms trees growing between vast rice paddies and abundant tea plantations. Calm, green rivers snake through the state and fishermen catch fresh fish from the Arabian Sea. Here, you can eat any tropical fruit imaginable and taste the most pungent spices. In my experience, Kerala is also home to some of the nicest people in India. The perfect place to end my trip.
During my travels I visited Cochin (where Vasco da Gama was once buried), Alleppey (home of Kerala’s famous backwaters and houseboats), and Thekkady (a city next to Kerala’s Periyar Tiger Reserve). My adventures included walking through an open-air fish market next to the Chinese fishing nets along the coast, crunching on jackfruit chips while watching a local track meet, attending a traditional Kathakali dance performance, watching the sunset over the Arabian ocean, paddling through the coastal backwaters, riding an elephant, trekking through the tiger reserve with leeches crawling on my tennis shoes (tobacco powder is a great repellent for leeches, by the way), and touring a spice plantation. At the end of the trip I got a very, very, very, oily but relaxing Ayurvedic body message. (Cold bucket showers don’t work very well when you are trying to de-grease afterward, but I can totally rock the greasy traveler look.) I also tasted some of the most delicious fish and prawns curry dishes and the best Kerala parathas from the hot grills of street vendors. Only the best. My trip to India would not have been complete without this tour of the south. This country is so diverse that Indians in the south speak a completely different language, have different cultural traditions, and eat very different food from those in the north. Seeing this part of the country was certainly one of the highlights of my trip.
Saying good-bye to India was not easy, especially after traveling through this tropical heaven. India is overwhelming to the senses and fascinating to the point of addiction. In this country there is always something new to see and to do. At times, I feel like I have only seen a fraction of what this country truly is. Some day in the future, I hope to return to this country to explore so many of the places that I missed during my trip. Let’s hope that day is soon. I must say that I have truly enjoyed sharing my experiences with you during the past four months. Thank you to everyone who has joined me on this adventure by following and commenting on my blog. Sharing my travels with you has helped to make them a reality in the United States. After returning to America, I could have easily dismissed the past four months as a wild dream; but your readership has brought my perspective of India to life at home. Thanks.
Chalo. Bye until my next adventure,
Carolyn
Two-wheeler ride from Carolyn Fallert on Vimeo.
When I first arrived in India, I was in a constant state of fascination. The simplest daily task could captivate my interest. Drinking tea in the morning. Taking an auto rickshaw. Crossing the street. Buying produce. After four months I feel like I have finally found a place in the ever-changing organized chaos of this country. Rather than staring at India with my mouth wide open, I have started to move with it.
Walking down the sidewalk, I can master the “unbothered”, unresponsive, Indian stare to avoid the persistence of beggars or to ignore obnoxious comments from Indian men. I am no longer worried when stray, sickly dogs follow me down the street or when a roaming cow nudges my arm. Dodging cars and two-wheelers is not a problem when I am standing in the middle of moving traffic. I let the constant rattling of the auto rickshaw jostle me as I ride to class in the morning. I can now maintain my balance in a crowded Indian bus when it brakes unexpectedly and throws me toward a crowd of older women in saris. I can sit for hours talking and drinking tea. I have learned to watch for flying cricket balls when I go for a run at the local park. In conversation, I can communicate with an Indian head bobble and an Indian wrist flick. At the Bollywood disc with Rohan and Asmita, I am most likely to imitate the hip shakes and shoulder bounces of recent Indian films.
In India it is always easier to move harmoniously with the county than to resist it. I have started to adopt the fatalistic Indian approach as the best way to live life in India. It’s less stressful to just accept things the way they are and go with it because, here, I never have complete control over the world around me.
One true test of this coordination with the world around me is my daily confrontation with Indian time. It’s not uncommon to wait in two different lines to mail a single letter or to wait an hour for food at a restaurant. Record time for my latest dinner in India: 3:30am. There is never a true sense of urgency in this country. The battery of my watch died two months ago, but there is no need to replace it. I have given up on being punctual because there is just no need. Watching the minute hands tick on the clock is the lease productive use of time. Things happen on their own time, in their own way, and there is no need to question. You might say that, to move with this country, you have to figure out it’s rhythm. The key is knowing when to start and when to stop.
Here is a short video of a two-wheeler ride in Pune. A typical form of transportation and a snap shot of daily activity in this country. You can see a part of the slum near Dandekar Bridge, a Hindu temple, school children in uniform, people waiting in the middle of the street for a bus, and the slow moving auto rickshaws that look like toys driving down the street. Although this daily scene felt overwhelming four months ago, today it feels quite like home.
Women of every class in India take pristine care of themselves. Every aspect of a woman’s appearance is carefully maintained and properly decorated, down to the very last toe ring. Here, the low-budget, careless, worn, tiresome, western traveler look is not appreciated. Ever. For women especially, looks are incredibly important for gaining and maintaining respect in society. No wonder men stare so much at women; they are absolutely beautiful.
Indian women’s hair is always exactly where it is supposed to be. If their long locks are not woven neatly in a plait down the middle of their back, then they are secured with a decorative clip or twisted in a neat, creative bun. Almost all women have long hair, but it is always well kept and has a smooth, healthy shine. Women wax their arms and faces to perfection. Under their sparkling, rainbow display of bangles, women’s skin is perfectly smooth. Not a single eyebrow is misshapen and Indian women despise the thought of having any trace of a mustache. In addition to being perfectly hair free, women’s skin has nearly perfect complexion. Sometimes when I look at women’s faces, I feel like I’m staring at a billboard advertisement. Their faces look unreal with such perfect maintenance.
One of the most important measures of beauty according to Indian society is the lightness of skin color. Almost every television advertisement shows off a variety of skin lightening creams. Women here cannot fathom why Americans would ever want to bake themselves on a sun bed or apply fake tan to their skin. Before coming to India I never imagined that being pale could be such a status symbol. My host family was appalled when I came back with a slight tan after exploring the beaches of Goa. “So dark! You should really scrub your skin.” Although I originally took offense to comments like “So pale!” “Very white.” and “White like Ganesh idol,” I have come to appreciate these remarks as complements rather than anything else.
Maintaining their physical appearance is just the beginning for Indian women, however. Indian women are experts when it comes to decorating themselves. From the saris to the jewelry to the shoes to the salwar kamise, each piece of clothing and accessory is a work of art. I often feel mesmerized by the colors and detailed beadwork and stitching of traditional Indian clothing. There is no such thing as “over the top.” Some times women look like walking jewelry shops. Gold jewelry is much more than decoration for Indian women, however. It is their savings account, and their insurance. Families will start saving gold for their newborn daughters to begin a dowry for them. More often this gold is in the form of jewelry that can be worn for safekeeping. Bangles, rings, necklaces, nose rings, earrings, bindis. Although this much jewel might look tacky or overdone in the United States, it looks like true artwork when it is worn with traditional Indian dress.
For the girl who rebelled against makeup since middle school and would rather spending money on any thing other than jewelry and accessories for herself, adjusting to this mindset has taken some time. Getting ready for any proper Indian function seems to take forever. I am not allowed to leave the house with out a perfectly tied sari, a complete set of jewelry with matching bangles, securely tied hair, neat makeup, and a bindi. You cannot forget the bindi. At times I feel like such a doll when I shuffle around in my host sister’s gold embroidered sari, trying my very hardest not to trip on the front it and an unravel the entire thing. One of the many reasons why being a girl in India is not easy.
For the past six weeks I have been chasing after microfinance loan collectors, trying not to lose them in the winding streets of Pune’s urban slums. Fully dressed in Indian attire with a notebook and pen in one hand, translator close behind, and candy lifesavers in my right pocket. According to the kids who chase after me to shake my hand, these small candies are “the sweetest rupees.”
This “internship” has not been what I expected it to be. Like most things in India, it forced me to forget my expectations and keep an open mind. Rather than an internship, these past six weeks have been more of an observational experience and a research assignment. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I imagined myself helping distribute loans, collect loans, and advise small entrepreneurs in the urban slums of India. I cannot speak any Marathi and, before entering the slums, I had no idea how these small entrepreneurs live. At times I feel more like a hindrance than anything else. I have spent most of my time sitting, observing, and asking lots of questions.
Parvati Swayamrojgaar (try saying that three times fast) is a non-profit microfinance organization that offers low-interest, small, individual microfinance loans to business owners and household owners in seven different urban slums in Pune. Unlike most microfinance organizations, PSW does not use the “group lending” microfinance model that has been so successful in Bangladesh with the Grameen bank. After qualifying for a certain loan amount based on their repayment capability, borrowers are personally responsible for paying an individual loan. During my internship, I have been responsible for investigating the effect of increased food prices on the ability of microfinance borrowers to repay these loans. Because of the inconsistent monsoons seasons during the past several years, agricultural production in India has suffered significantly. This low production rate has resulted in high prices for most staple foods in the nation. Although the government has implemented a rationing system for low-income families, the lower socioeconomic level of society has had trouble adjusting to the high food prices.
Most of my research has involved interviews with borrowers and personal observations of loan collection. The most rewarding part of this experience is having the opportunity to sit and drink chai with microfinance borrowers in their homes. These men and women work so hard to sustain their families and to maintain their businesses. Despite their low incomes, many borrowers are eager to offer me tea and snacks in their home and willingly take time away from their busy lives to answer my questions. Although most of the homes are half of the size of my bedroom at home, these slum houses are the most perfectly organized, efficient uses of space. Sipping chai in these homes makes me realize the true excess in my life in the United States.
Despite the increase in food prices, almost every borrower whom I interviewed has paid all of their loan repayments on time or early. So many of these borrowers told me that they would be willing to give up food for a few days so that they could afford their loan repayments. The work ethic and determination of these borrowers is inspiring. This isn’t this case all over India, however. If you have read the New York Times recently you know that many microfinance borrowers in Andhra Pradesh have driven themselves deep in debt due by overlapping microfinance loans. Some borrowers have chosen suicide as the only solution. This debt crisis in the microfinance sector of Andhra Predesh is partly due to an increasing number of profit-seeking microfinance organization in India. Luckily for my research respondents, Parvati Swayamrojgaar is a non-profit organization that makes every effort to ensure low interest rates for its borrowers and low defaults on loans. I wish I could say the same for all microfinance organizations in India.
The fastest way to any Indian’s heart is by enjoying Indian food. If you can join the clean plate club at any meal, you are automatically the subject of praise and compliments. My housekeeper’s goal is to make me goal (goal means round in Hindi), so don’t be surprised if you can’t recognize me when I get off the plane in December. Every time I turn around she has put a new plate of food in front of me. “Kai, Shaila? More? Bas. Bas.” “Time pass. Eat.” she says. Her smile is too hard to resist. It’s easy to succumb to the force-feeding when you know nothing tastes this good in the states. Some of my favorites:
1. Bhel. A mixture of crispy rice, spicy, crunchy sticks of fried dough, chopped tomatoes, freshly cut coriander (smells so good), chili water, chickpeas, beans, and onions. Get it at a stand on the street. There’s nothing better. Just don’t drink a glass of water after you eat it because your stomach will expand times three.
2. Sugarcane juice. While walking down the street, you can stop at a cart that presses long sugarcane sticks and strains the juice into a glass for you. If you stand there long enough you might see a young boy squatting next to the cart cleaning the sugarcane sticks with a knife. Sugarcane juice is supposed to be an excellent source of iron. Forget vitamin supplements. Just drink this stuff.
3. Chai. Despite the heat in India, a hot cup of chai is one of the most refreshing drinks I’ve had here. Indians drink at least two cups of chai each day. I can no longer pride myself on my ability to function without caffeine. Best if enjoyed while reading the Times of India.
4. Fresh pomegranate seeds. Although it’s a battle to remove these without staining everything around you, it’s worth the sacrifice. A bowl of pomegranate seeds doesn’t last very long in front of me. My host mother has a skill for removing them without squirting juice everywhere. My stained clothes envy her.
5. Sabudana Kichidi. Small balls of white starch that resemble a cross between rice and tapioca balls. Made with the perfect combination of sugar, oil, salt, lemon juice, freshly chopped coriander, fennel seeds, green chilies, and freshly ground peanuts. Yum. Served hot for breakfast on auspicious days. Any day can be auspicious if you eat this for breakfast.
6. Biryani. A typical Indian dish made with rice, spices, vegetables, and sometimes meat. Not to brag or anything, but my host mom makes the best mutton biryani. Her rice is cooked with whole pieces of cloves, cinnamon, black pepper, and cardamom. I never though I would enjoy chewing on a whole clove during dinner, but it doesn’t phase me now. If your food is bland in India, you’re not getting the real experience.
7. Fish curry. The family recipe from Goa. This curry is made with coarsely ground coriander seeds, garlic, black better corns, tamarind, red chili, turmeric, and onion. Shaila cooks it with delicious, tender pieces of fish. You can count on fish curry at least every other week at the Pai family. Pour it over freshly made, hot rice with a piece of fried fish and you have a little bit of Goa on your plate.
8. Kati Kebabs. A white flour chapatti with a scrambled egg on one side that is rolled with spiced chicken, mint and green chili chutney, onions, and lemon juice. When you buy these off the street don’t watch how they make them. It’s best to just enjoy. You can worry about the sanitation of the experience later.
9. Vegetable parathas. These are India flatbreads made from wheat flour with a mixture of spices and vegetables inside of them. I love eating these with plain yogurt. It’s easy to burn your hand while eating parathas because they taste the best when Shaila gives them to you straight from the pan. My fingers are boiling by time I finish but my stomach couldn’t be happier.
Last weekend was the grand finale of Hindu festivals in India before the New Year: Diwali. Celebrating Diwali in India felt like Christmas in July. The combination of decorations, lights, family traditions, big meals, and gifts was the closest I could get to the holiday season in the United States while continuing to sweat in the Indian heat.
During the festival each house was decorated with a unique, colorful paper lantern that hung near the front of the house among strands of small sparkling lights. Families lit small, clay oil lamps that were decorated with colorful, painted designs and small mirrors near their front doors. Women took such great care to make the decorations of their house as beautiful as they could be. Although I have very little artistic ability, I helped Asmita decorate our front step with rangoli. Rangoli is a traditional decoration that uses colored sand and other materials to create a temporary design on the ground that can be as detailed as a painting. While holding sand in her right hand, Asmita let a small amount of white sand fall between her index finger and thumb. By moving her hand above the ground she was able to draw the image of a peacock on the ground. We filled the design with turquoise, red, and orange colored sand and crushed flower petals. The tragedy of these beautiful sand designs is the ease at which someone can walk through them carelessly, destroying them along the way.
On the first day of Diwali I woke up early to take a shower with rosewater and sandalwood paste before I could the visit the temple with my host family. This paste leaves the most wonderful smell on your skin. Definitely one of the most refreshing and renewing ways to start the day. Everyone dressed in their nicest clothes—even Pa and Rohan wore kurtas for the day. Before leaving the house, my host family performed an arti (a small ritual with a lamp) in front of their Hindu shrine. During this arti, Ma and Asmita performed a ritual in front of Pa and Rohan respectively and finished the ritual by handing their husbands a beetle leaf with a beetle nut. Pa and Rohan returned the leaf to their wives with a generous gift that is traditionally cash, jewelry, or a saree. Following this, Pa crushed a kareet (a very bitter, small vegetable that looks like a mini watermelon) with his heel. Everyone in the family, including me, took a taste of the bitter vegetable. Hindus eat this vegetable on Diwali because life cannot be sweet all the time. During the day, Asmita, Rohan, and I visited a Ganesh temple to offer coconuts and hibiscus flowers to the idol. We visited family and friends while enjoying lots of Diwali “snacks” at each house. By the end of the day, I could not have eaten a crumb more.
One of the best (and maybe the worst) things about Diwali is the firecrackers. According to my experience, it is these firecrackers that truly make Diwali a festival of lights. Indians begin to set off fireworks at 5:00am on the first day of the festival and continue until 10:30 at night. These firecrackers aren’t just the little sparklers that kids like to light in the summer, however. They are full out fireworks. The fireworks that only certified, professionals under the supervision of firemen can set off for the Fourth of July in the United States. At times, my neighborhood in India sounded like a war zone from all of the explosions. India prohibited Diwali firecrackers in Mumbai during Obama’s recent visit to India to avoid any confusion with a terrorist attack. In Pune, firecrackers explode everywhere—next to the road, on the sidewalk, in front of restaurants, near apartment buildings. Rohan loves firecrackers like a little kids loves candy. He decided that my Diwali would not be complete without a lesson in setting off fireworks. His instruction: “Just use this matchbox to light the end of the fuse. Then run.” Ok, Rohan. I am surprised that there aren’t more disaster stories on Diwali. Indians seem to have this magical skill for avoiding accidents.
An Indian once told me that for every four miles that I travel in India, I would find a new language and a new taste of water. This is just a glimpse of the overwhelming diversity of this country. Over the past six days I have had the opportunity to explore Udaipur, Jodhpur, and Jaisalmer in Rajasthan. Rajasthan is a state in northwest India that is famous for its palaces, forts, and Thar desert. There I found old men with large, curled moustaches who wear the most brilliantly colored, tightly twisted turbans. I saw women hid their faces under colorful viels that are trimmed with intricate beadwork that reflects the sun. There I felt like Aladdin as I sat on a rooftop terrace and looked out over a maze of peach-colored stone and the winding streets during the call to prayer. In the Thar desert I experienced the foul smelling and uncomfortable but entertaining experience of riding a camel at sunset. My trip to Rajasthan was a kaleidoscope of unforgettable moments and distinct images that were uniquely colorful. The best way to share them with you is through pictures. Enjoy.
Standing in front of the Taj Mahal was a very surreal experience. Half blinded by the white marble, I felt captivated by the domes and arches that seemed so familiar. I’ve seen the Taj Mahal everywhere in my life. In books. On postcards. In movies. On advertisements. In photos. Suddenly I was standing in front of it. There is no doubt that it met, and even surpassed, my expectations. I can understand why they call it one of the Seven Wonders of the World.
Arguably the most dramatic display of love in the world, the Taj Mahal was built in the 1600s by the Mughal king, Shahjahan to honor his third wife, Arjumand Bano Begum. His queen died while giving birth to her fourteenth child at the age of 37. During her nineteen-year marriage, she was pregnant seventeen times. Rough life. I think this woman’s husband loved her a little bit too much. Shahjahan spent a fortune on this jeweled monument that serves little purpose but to amaze and to hold the remains of the woman he nearly loved to death. She must have been beautiful.
The Taj Mahal is more than just a monument of love, however. It is an intersection of Hindu and Islamic architecture. If you look closely enough, you can see the trident at the very top of the largest dome. To put things in perspective, the trident is thirty feet high by itself. Previously gilded in gold, the trident is a symbol of Shiva, the Hindu deity and destroyer. At the base of the trident sits an upside down lotus blossom, which is a symbol of rebirth and non-attachment in Hinduism. The most beautiful decoration on the face of the monument, however, is the Arabic carvings of the Koran in the white marble that frames each entryway. It is rare to see such a juxtaposition of these two religions in India. They seem to find peace with each other in the cut white marble of this palace.
After abandoning the impossible task of capturing the entire monument in my small camera, I found a spot to sit in the shade of a green garden in front of the Taj Mahal. Despite the crowds of picture-happy tourists (like myself) wandering around the grounds and it was the most peaceful and meditative scene. I could have sat there for hours. Some things deserve some time, thought, and appreciation. This is one of them.
Happy Dussehra!
I swear. The festivals in India never end. As soon as the last decoration is taken down, the last party ends, the last amount of delicious food is finally eaten, and the elaborate floats leave the streets, the next celebration begins. Honestly, I can’t complain. Who doesn’t need an excuse to enjoy family, friends, dancing, and good food?
Today is the final day of a ten-day Hindu celebration known as Dussehra (meaning tenth day in Hindi). This festival recognizes the triumph of Lord Rama over Demon Ravana (essentially, the triumph of good over evil). The nine days before Dussehra, known as Navarathri, commemorate the nine days that the Hindu warrior Goddess Durga battled with the buffalo demon, Mahishasura. During these nine nights women and men come together to participate in traditional Indian dances that involve interactive movements with a partner or with a group of dancers in a circle. Dancers keep the rhythm of the music with beautifully decorated sticks that are selected to match their elaborate Gugarati sarees or traditional kurtas. I thought my fourteen years of ballet training helped me gain some grace on my feet, but I was proven wrong. Dancing in a saree is NOT easy.
Besides humbling my dancing ability, this festival has taught me that there is no limitation to Indian superstition. On the day before Dussehra, Hindus bless all the machinery in their factories and elsewhere with an asthra pooja. This Hindu blessing was originally used for the worship of weapons, but today it is a symbolic worship of all tools that are necessary for a person’s occupation. Because my host father owns his own factory for manufacturing gearboxes, I had the opportunity to see his factory asthra pooja. On the day of the pooja each factory worker spent the entire morning cleaning his designated machine in the factory and decorating it with marigolds, incense, sandalwood, and turmeric powder. At the time of the pooja, the entire factory work force walked around to each machine and watched each machine operator light a flame and crack a coconut in front of his designated machinery. At the sound of each coconut crack, applause rippled throughout the factory. I watched my host father distribute sweets and shake the hand of each worker in his factory before dismissing them for the afternoon. Today, Hindu households perform a similar for their homes and cars. I woke up this morning to see a colorful string of marigolds hanging over our front door. Whether it’s living or non-living, Indians seem to find a way to show genuine care and respect for everything in their lives. They aren’t willing to have any risk of bad luck, in the work place, in the home, or elsewhere.
Last week I took a walk in the shoes of Gregory David Roberts. As much as I hate to admit it, his book Shantaram was one of my inspirations for this trip. Whether he over fantasizes his autobiography or not, I am not sure. One thing is certain. His language and vivid descriptions of Mumbai are addictive.
Mumbai is no longer Bombay. (Bombay means “Good Bay” in Portuguese, by the way.) Yet, the Portuguese and British colonial influence is distinct in the old architecture of the city. During my visit, I stayed in the southern part of the city in Colaba near the Gateway of India amongst grand European-style buildings. On the first night of my stay in Mumbai, I decided to explore the streets and fight my way through the persistent, stubborn street vendors on Colaba Causeway. Along the way, I came across a figment of my imagination: Leopold Café. The setting of so many late night conversations, secret exchanges, and a dreaded arrest in Shantaram. Complete with bullet holes in its walls from the terrorist attack several years ago, Leopold Café was bustling with people. One of my favorite books had just come to life.
On Friday I had the opportunity to visit Dharavi Slum, which is reputed as “the largest slum in Asia” where the famous Slum dog Millionaire was filmed. Standing in the streets, I could imagine Shantaram conversing with the local crowd next to the makeshift barbershop. My visit to Dharvi slums deconstructed nearly all of my expectations. I was waiting to see flimsy, rotting structures waiting to collapse. Instead, I found 450 year old infrastructure and well maintained concrete homes and shops connected by narrow, winding streets reminiscent of old Europe. It was almost as if I had walked back in time as I entered the maze of streets. I had my guard up against strangers passing by, ready to be the attraction of unwanted attention. Instead, I was welcomed with the most genuine kindness and eager curiosity of a cooperative, peaceful community. A community of people that is threatened only by the government’s desire for their profitable land. The street was the center of community interaction where private and public space merged. I noticed the diligent, hard work of people all around me to sustain themselves and their families. In Dharavi, the largest, most important recycling centers in Mumbai processes the majority of the city’s plastic, metal, and wood to be reused. Men and women alike squatted next to bins of sorted materials near deafening, grinding machines. In Kumbar Wada (potters’ residence) a labyrinth of small, old residences hide large, burning kilns where potters fire their homemade pot and bowls. As we walked past the small factories and businesses, people went along with their normal workday. This was their livelihood. Of course, the filth and the thick smell of human waste and pollution were as distinct as I expected them to be. Stray dogs chewed on rotting garbage and young children relieved themselves in the middle of the street. The resilience of the people was amazing. Seeing the positive attitudes and the dedication of the people in this neighborhood was a true inspiration. In those interactions on the streets of the slums, generosity and genuine relationships seem to have more value than anything else.
