Living in Mumbai:
Here's a great blog post about life in Mumbai from a Times of India blog:
http://blogs.timesofindia.indiatimes.com/everything-social/man-brilliantly-explains-why-mumbai-is-the-best-city-to-live-in/?utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=TOI

One word to describe India: Hopes

I will be attempting over a few blog posts to write some of my thoughts about India by collecting them around one word.  This is my first attempt.
---------
I began writing this using the word "Expectations", then realized that "Hopes" was a better choice.  I was initially inspired by our trip to Darjeeling where Nancy and I arrived with great hopes of seeing the Himalayas, only to have three days of cloudy, cold weather. 

 

Our best view of Darjeeling from the toy train ...

The closest we came to seeing the mountains

Hopes

India is densely populated with hopes.

Beggars tap on the windows of cars hoping for a coin or scrap of food,
With hopeful songs of hawkers and vendors assailing passing ears.
Crows hop between cars hoping to grab a bite of road-killed rat
While Party members desperately hope for a majority vote.
Drivers confidently thrust their vehicles into packed intersections
Hoping and somehow knowing that a path will magically appear.

Families move to the crowded city slums in hopes of a better life
and quirky television commercials raise ideas of how it can be lived.
Children attend after-school classes hoping for high exam scores,
Mothers dream of degrees in law, or medicine, or engineering,
While fathers of daughters look for ways to raise the needful dowries,
And consult with the pandit for an auspicious wedding date.

NGO's hope to make a small difference in the lives
of their carefully identified slices of the teeming masses,
some of whom huddle in their makeshift shelters lined
against the back walls of the luxury hotels where
CEO's make deals over buffet lunches and dream of record profits,
growing market shares and low labor costs.

Stray dogs lounge all day on the sidewalks, waiting for the evening
and the hope of a handout of food scraps while
Black kites circle slowly in the warm updrafts
looking hopefully down on the world below.
As the days become hotter, farmers hope for good rains to come:
The entire year revolves around the hope of the monsoon.

India is nothing if it is not a land of hopes.
-- -- -- --
We have our first-world hopes too.

We hope for quiet spaces amidst the growing cacophony
of horns and loud mall music and night-barking street dogs.

We hope to maintain the fond memories of wonderful people
whose essence can't be captured by a few photographs.

We hope to see past the poverty and pollution
to experience the awe-inspiring vistas,
the mountains soaring skyward into cold blue skies,
and white marble mausoleums reflecting back the early morning light.

Trying to reflect back a hint of the gracious welcome and friendly manner of the people
who greet us each day, we dearly hope to stave off the day
when we become the jaded, self-absorbed ex-pats thinking
only of our next vacation and nodding sagely as we tell each other:
Tee Eye Eye
This Is India.

By the airport

View from airport - our apartment complex is behind airplane's tail

We live by the airport.
Not such a big deal,
lots of people live by airports
and put up with extra traffic ...

Airplane landing by our apartment - taken from across the street

and flights that arrive and depart
in the wee hours of the morning and disturb your sleep.

Plane landing with Mahim creek in foreground

Near the airport is a creek
and a number of slums / suburbs
The new terminal
Just opened at the airport.
We haven't seen it yet,
but hear good things about it.
What we have seen is the life
In the neighborhoods around the airport.

Life under the landing planes

I like living by the airport,
hearing the planes landing or taking off.
They're louder when they take off of course,
But the wind is usually from the other direction
so we get the sights and sounds of the landing planes.

enjoying the evening air - watching the planes land

I think about where the planes are coming from
who is on them, and what lives they are about to begin.
I also think about who else is watching them
and the lives they lead.

 

 

 

The planes land right over their heads

The contrast between those of us who have come to this place
on the wings of dreams
and those of us who can only leave by dreaming of wings
is so strong.

Crossing the Street

I've been meaning to write about the traffic and crossing the street here in Mumbai for quite awhile. During a recent professional development event (ASB Unplugged conference) , I was lucky enough to be sitting next to a good friend and colleague, Megan in a cinematic narrative workshop by Jim Sill. Great speaker and good session and I really like the approach and the opportunities for use in education. We were tasked with telling a story in a short movie using 4 shots: an establishing shot, a long shot, a medium shot, and a close up.  Great speaker and good session and I really like the approach and the opportunities for use in education.

I chose to show how to cross the street in Mumbai. A couple of notes about this:

1) The corner we're using is the one nearest our school and apartment
2) It was shot mid-morning - a very quiet time of day in the neighborhood. 
    The good news about that is that it made it a little easier to shoot without getting run over.
    The bad news is that it really doesn't show how tough it can be.
3) I had a little difficulty with the sound - the crossing clip sound was messed up so I copied some audio and replayed it ;-)
4) Thanks to Megan for her patience and great acting !

So this is my first attempt to include a little movie clip in the blog. Hopefully it will work OK.

Playing Tennis in Mumbai

Playing tennis in Kurla, our neighborhood in Mumbai, is an experience that needs photos to tell the entire story.

First, you must walk down the street in your culturally insensitive tennis outfit. You hope that by carrying your tennis racket you are signaling that you are very aware you are wearing a short skirt and sleeveless top, but this is the outfit you wear when you are going to play “LONG TENNIS.”  If you happen to be on your way to the club between 4:00 - 5:00 you will pass the garbage truck. Now passing a garbage truck in Mumbai is not like anything you have ever experienced before. The garbage which you (or your housekeeper) placed in a black plastic bag and set outside your apartment door has been dumped on the road along with everyone else’s garbage in your entire apartment complex. There are men behind the garbage truck sifting though the garbage. You suppose the garbage is being sorted into recyclable items, but you walk on the other side of the street to avoid all the neighborhood dogs that have gathered for a tasty meal. Sometimes you are extra lucky and the dogs follow you to the other side of the street.

After you cross the street, you enter the club. A young woman that works at the club unlocks the gate. Then you and your tennis partners begin to play.

It takes a lot of concentration to play tennis in Mumbai. Just as you are getting into your stride, the workers at the club come to sweep the area around the court. They laugh and talk as they bend low to sweep with their short, branch-like brooms. Then the stray dogs, one who has two puppies, run past the court to romp on the cricket field next to your court. Sometimes there are men or boys playing a match of cricket. Sometimes the match is accompanied by a loud speaker with drums, music, singing, or announcements blaring at decibels sure to permanently damage your hearing. 

Do not let your attention wander even if you notice bright lights and sparks from men installing a window grill without any safety equipment on the twelfth story of the high rise apartment building that towers over the club. 

Do not let your attention wander even if workers are painting lockers with a power sprayer two feet from the court.

Playing tennis in Mumbai also calls for a certain amount of confidence as well. The fitness room looks over the court. Often you will notice men who are taking a break from the running machines watching you play in your short tennis skirt and sleeveless top. 

Your wandering eye might notice an audience of families sitting on their narrow balcony on the high rise apartment building. They are watching your match along with the  young men sitting on window ledges. You hope they are enjoying the game.

Playing tennis in Mumbai also requires a loud voice. If your tennis ball happens to fly over the fence into the small area next to your court that is  behind the restaurant next door, you will need to holler to the restaurant workers, “Uncle! Help! See our ball? Throw it to us!”

Playing tennis in Mumbai also tests your hearing. You must listen carefully for the distant call from the neighborhood mosque. The sound will float over the court at dusk. When you hear this call you must make a decision, “Shall we quit since it is getting difficult to see the ball or shall we ask a worker to turn on the lights?” No matter what your decision, you will be drenched with sweat and you will be thankful for the chance to play tennis in Mumbai.

Kodai Revisited

Always so green - Poinsettia tree ;-)

After more than forty years, I returned to Kodaikanal, where I had gone to boarding school through 7th grade.

Main entrance

It had been 47 years since last I had been there - though several family members had been there since. Much has changed of course - the town is much bigger and noisier, as is the school. There are a number of new buildings that made the campus seem more crowded than I had remembered. Of course things also seemed much larger in my memories, some of which I am sure are because I was smaller and my perspective has changed.  A lot of thoughts and memories came back to me - mostly good, I think. I worried that I afflicted Nancy, Alisabeth and Rickie with boredom as I spouted old stories, but they said they enjoyed it.  I hope so.  Here's some pictures.

Chapel

Chapel interior - significant early spiritual and musical memories.

Phelps entrance

Near Sherwood dorm - I helped build it serving detention hours. Used to make forts in woods near the dorms.

Phelps Hall - my first dorm - Houseparents were Mr. & Mrs. Banks - both born in 1899.

My traveling companions in front of the auditorium.

Kodai Lake - Perumal Mountain in the background.  The school in the red roofs on the right hand side above the boathouse and the Carlton Hotel.  Stayed there.

Day 11 of the festival, Ganesh Chaturthi

Juhu beach

Juhu Beach is a long beach.  It is a wide beach, too, especially at low tide.  Usually the beach is crowded with young men playing cricket.  But today is different. This afternoon the beach is crowded with families. Among the families there are the ever present gangs of young men—loud, laughing, their arms draped casually around each other’s shoulders. There are also the beggar children too. They are aggressive.  They paw at you, nimbly skip in front of you so you have to do a strange dance to keep moving forward. They persist until they hear a loud, firm “NEY! NEY!”

Auspicious decay

The first thing I notice as we walk along the beach are the many Ganesha statues that are scattered along the beach.  These are the statues that were immersed on auspicious days 1, 3, 5, 7 and 9. They have washed back on shore with lost limbs. The heavier ones are half buried in craters—treasures sunken in the sand. Sometimes we see a lonely ear, hand, or trunk. 

Who is Ganesha?  He is the elephant god. He is the god of new beginnings and the remover of obstacles. He is my favorite god. He was a mischievous child. He is affectionately called Ganapati Bapa. He’s the kind of god you meet and you like him right away.  You want to invite him to a party and get to know him better. I think he must enjoy this festival very much because it is one big citywide party.

Happy family

Tim and I hear chanting. Families are bringing their Ganapati (Ganesha) statues to the beach to be immersed. The families are kind and open.  They welcome our curious stares. The Ganapatis are adorned with strings of bright beads, pearls, greenery, and flowers. One family invites us into their worship. The dia (a small lamp with ghee) is lit and burning incense is waved as the family says puja (prayers.)  Puffed rice treats with sticky peanut brittle is offered.  Tim eats his and I slyly slip him my handful. Next we are offered the bananas that were laid before Ganesha. The women lovingly remove the ornaments from Ganesha, the men pick him up, and they head for the water. They all go into the water with Ganesha, but the men go farther out.  When they reach chest high, they dip Ganesha three times and on the third dip, they push him out to sea—released into the water. 

More statues are arriving. These statues are larger.  They are carried by groups of loud, raucous  men. The men are wearing t-shirts stained with red powder. One man shouts “Ganapati Bapa!”  The crowd shouts in reply, “Moria!”  We join in. “Moria!” we shout with enthusiasm as the chant begins with “Ganapati Bapa!”  This statue is 7 feet high.  The men are weighed down by its massive orange body, but it does not dampen their spirits. They are honoring Ganesha with their enthusiasm and volume. 

By 7:00, Tim and I decide it is time to go home.  The beach is getting more and more crowded.  The mood is changing from a family atmosphere to Mardi Gras. The road we came on has been changed from a two way street into one way towards the beach. Huge lorries carrying even bigger Ganapati statues, plus men and boys sitting, standing, hanging on are lumbering towards the beach.  Something hits my face.  It stings.  It is only flowers, but they were thrown with force.  It is time to go home.

Tim starts walking with purpose.  He is parting the Red Sea of people by the size of his body. We become separated. I try to push forward too.  I look anxiously for Tim.  How did he get to the other side of the street? I shout for him to stop, but he doesn’t hear me. Finally, he stops and looks for me.  When I reach him, I cling to his backpack like a little child. We find a lighted corner near a policeman and wait for Rakesh to find us.

When we see his car, we dive into the coolness, safety, and peace. Our tiny capsule of calm crawls forward.  People walking, motorcycles, trucks are inches from my face. I watch them through the glass. I see a truck that is decorated with palm branches. My mind wanders . . . Palm branches in a parade.  A ride to Jerusalem with a chorus of “Hallelujah!”  and people waving palm branches. A ride to the beach on lorries decorated with palm branches with a chorus of “Moria!” Baptism— immersion in water. A symbol of new life. Ganesh Chaturthi— a festival with immersion. A symbol of creation and rebirth.  All around the world hymns are sung, prayers are said, and holy people are present.  Ganapati Bapa moria! 

Breach Candy revisited

A short story:

They spent a relaxing Saturday wandering through a few art galleries, including a photography show at a nice restaurant where they had lunch.  There were three of them that day - the couple and their good friend the art teacher. After the last gallery, the art teacher invited the two of them to have a drink with her at her club, Breach Candy.  They gratefully accepted and asked the driver to head through the thick traffic in that direction. On the way, the man mentioned that he had something to say about Breach Candy - a story from when he was here as a child.
They entered the club, where the art teacher signed the two in as guests, and then they stepped into the inside pool area.
"Yes, this is the place - very much as I remembered"
She took a picture of him standing by the pool, then they walked through to the outdoor pool and around to the restaurant area.

Old guy by the pool -55 years later

They took a seat on the balcony with a view of the Indian Ocean in front of them and the large outdoor pool to their right. After ordering drinks and appetizers they relaxed and continued their conversation. The man began to tell his story about Breach Candy..

"We used to travel through Bombay on the way to and from boarding school in Kodaikanal. The trip took 3 days and we would spend the night here in Bombay. There was always a group of us - all the missionary kids from the Arabian Missions in Iraq, Kuwait, Bahrain and Oman. If we were lucky, Air India would put us up at the Taj Mahal hotel. Can you imagine a large group of rambunctious American kids running around the quiet restaurants and lounges?
Anyway, when I was four or five - four I think, though it's possible I was five or six now that I think about it - my mom travelled with us.  We had some time in the morning before our flight to Madras and we got on the Air India bus and come over here to Breach Candy to swim before heading to the airport. I think there must have been about 16 or 17 of us kids of all ages from my youngest brother Steve who was a baby to high school juniors and seniors.
It became time to go to the airport and my mom told all of us to get out and get changed and hustle out to the bus. I stayed in the pool a little longer because there was something I just had to do. After playing some more, I got out and headed to the little changing rooms to get dressed. When I found no others around, I panicked, started crying and took of out of the club and ran down the street looking for everybody.
In the meantime, all the others had gotten dressed and climbed on the bus. The bus started off for the airport and my mom started counting noses. She counted several times before she realized that not only was she short one person, but that person was her little Timmy. She too panicked, stopped the bus and ran back to the club where they told her that a little boy had run down the street. As she went people pointed her along where the boy had gone. 'Little boy? White hair? went that way !'
She found me after a shopkeeper had stopped me and given me some candy and kept me in his shop until someone came along."
The man stopped talking for a few seconds. "So that's the story. What do you think?"
"Wow, you're lucky you were found."
"Actually, I wasn't - they swapped me for another little boy. The real me is still wandering around old Bombay somewhere begging." He laughed at his own joke, thinking it quite clever.
They finished their drinks while watching the rain shower come in over the ocean and descend on the club. After it was over they walked back out to the street and called their driver to head home.

The Taxi Ride

Bailey Farms, near Osinning NY, where the
training for Amherst Writers and Arts took place.

I heard the sound of a car horn. “That’s my taxi,” I announced to the two remaining writing workshop members.  We exchanged quick hugs and I ran outside. A chunky, dark haired man was standing next to the black, oversized car. The driver and I exchanged greetings. I noticed he cradled his cell phone in his hands. He offered it to me as if giving me a gift.

His face had an open, childlike expression and he asked me, “ Please, you find the map to the airport?” I took one look at the old mobile phone and knew I was in deep trouble. I couldn’t figure out how to use my own iPhone and I was suppose to figure out this alien device? I quickly got on my computer and prayed that the WiFi access I used during the week could work here, outside, on the driveway. I Googled directions to JFK Airport from Osinning, New York.  I offered up a little prayer that the map would stay on my screen, and said with false confidence, “Let’s go! Take I-678 South.”

I settled into the back seat of the car.  The driver pulled onto the highway. The back seat was so spacious it could qualify for an apartment in Paris. The old suspension of the car rocked me into a feeling of comfortable contentment. Then I remembered a small detail. “The woman at the retreat center said that you take a credit card.  Right?”

“No, ma’am. Only cash,” he answered.

“I have no cash. We will need to stop at an ATM machine.”

“Okay, ma’am.”

“Good,” I thought. “He’s from this area.  He will know where to stop.” I settled back into my apartment size, gently swaying back seat.

“Are you from around here?” the driver asked.

“No,” I answered. “You won’t believe this.  I teach in India.  I am from India.  That’s why I don’t know how to get to the airport. Where are you from? What’s your name?”

“My name is Paulo. I am from Guatemala. I live here eight years. I buy this car.  It is my business,” he answered. Paulo looked at me in the mirror. “I saw a T.V. show about India.  Montañas in India. Como se dice…?”

We lapsed into a comfortable silence. Then I noticed signs for the Taconic Parkway. “Take this exit!” I shouted. “Go south! Go south!” The big boat swerved into the correct lane at the last moment.

“La Himalyas!”  he exclaimed with jubilation. “The show was about a girl. She went up into the Himalyas all by herself in just a jeep. Big tanks of petro on the back of the jeep.”

“Oh, yes.  The Himalayas.  It’s really cold up there.  I haven’t been there yet.  Do you see the Cross Country Parkway?  We need to go east.  EAST!  That exit there!  EAST!”  We slid past the east exit.

“No worry,” my trusty driver said as he exited west into a grey, tired town that had seen happier days. Paulo and I kept careful eyes out as we maneuvered our car through one-way streets, u-turns, and false highway exits.  At last we found a sign for Cross Country Parkway East.  Our car was once again heading toward JFK Airport. We continued on down the highway and through a tollbooth. I began to see signs for John F. Kennedy Airport.

“We need to stop at an ATM machine,” I reminded the driver.

“Yes,” he said without one suggestion of how we should accomplish that important task.

“Oh my God. What should I do?” I thought. I knew that Paulo could not drop me off at the airport and wait for me to find an ATM. The authorities would never allow it.  Should I have him drop me off while I find an ATM and he drives around?  Should I beg someone to lend me money?  Should I get out, collect my bags, and run? We were getting closer and closer to the airport. Suddenly my 59 year old brain remembered Yelp.  I could Yelp a near-by bank.  On my phone, I saw there were four banks on Liberty Street in Jaimaca, New York—the last exit before the terminal.

“Quick,” I instructed my driver. “ Get off on Liberty.  There are some banks on that street.”

The driver pulled off the highway onto Liberty Street.  I slunk low into my black leather couch and reminded myself that this was one of those times I need to let go, take a deep breath, and believe in all things bright and beautiful. “Get a grip, Nancy,” I lectured myself. “Stop acting like a 1950s girl with all your fears and prejudices.” I sat taller in my seat, reached through the two front seats to show Paulo my Yelp map.

“We need to keep heading west on Liberty to reach the banks,” I said as I prayed the banks had an open ATM machine.

Paulo inched the car down the road.  Suddenly my heart took a happy leap. A man in a neon orange turban.  A woman in a turquoise sari.  An Indian spice store.  “I’m home,” I sighed.  “It’s all going to be okay.”

“LOOK!” Paulo pointed.  “An ATM!” 

Paulo pulled over. I jumped out of the car and ran into the convenience store. The smell of tandoori chicken greeted me. “Where is your ATM machine?” I asked the man.  He pointed to the machine. I quickly withdrew the money I needed and headed back to the taxi. As I hurried to the car, I looked up. The store across the street was “Kohinoor Kitchens.” I smiled, nodded, and thought, “It’s like I’m home.”

My driver and I reached JFK Airport. I paid him his fee plus a good tip.  That day, Paulo and I were on a quite a journey together. You could look at it as a crazy ride to JFK or you could look at it this way: There were two travelers in that car searching for something more to life—a Guatemalan immigrant living in New York, U.S.A. and an American expat living in Kohinoor City, Mumbai, India.

Monsoon coming?

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:India_southwest_summer_monsoon_onset_map_en.svg#file

The monsoon is coming. It's raining a little this evening after being cloudy much of the day. The local pundits tell me that this is really the "pre - monsoon" time - a few days to a week of cloud and occasional sprinkles and light showers before the heavy rains of the true monsoon.

Everybody is excited and watchfully anticipating the coming of the rain - even or maybe especially - the locals.  Of course it hasn't rained since early October.
I found myself and my colleagues looking out the window at the clouds trying to anticipate exactly when they would give their blessings on us.

It's been interesting observing the weather the last couple of months. People warned us that April and May would be the really hot summer months before the monsoon came.  April was hot with temps during the middle of the day in the mid to upper 90's most days, but that heat only lasted a few hours and the early morning and late evenings were really not too bad, with a gently breeze and temps in the high seventies. When May came, so too did the humidity. The high temperatures weren't as hot, usually around 90 degrees, though it felt just as hot or even hotter with the heat index in the 100's. The big difference to me was that the evenings and early mornings only cooled to the mid eighties and the humidity remained high.  The last few days have been just a little cooler as we all await the coming "rains".

 A couple of things surprised me about this "Indian Summer":

The first was the number of trees that flower in so many colours during the hottest part of the year!
Yellows and reds seem to proliferate, though there are lots of shades of white and even pink. Seemed strange to us to be in such hot weather with the blossoms on the trees.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Yellow_poinciana_full_bloom_20110518.jpg

The second was the fact that the air is so seldom still, so that on most days sitting in the shade with a little breeze is quite bearable even when walking around in the sun may not be.

Finally, I had forgotten that April and May are the summer months for the local schools here.  As we are winding down the school year, they finished two months ago and are ready to resume.  Rakesh pointed out some school kids this morning in their new school uniforms. Some of the schools restarted this week.

CROP Walk and Water in Mumbai

For a number of years, we have been involved in the Holland Area CROP Hunger Walk. We've supported it because we've always felt so lucky and blessed to have all that we have and we want to help in some small way with those in our neighborhood and around the world who struggle with adequate food and water.  We like a couple things in particular about Church World Service (CWS) and their CROP Hunger Walks. First, we walk at participants to experience just a little of what many around the world every day do, walk to get their food and water. Second, 25% of the money raised stays in the local community to help with hunger issues locally. (Too often well meaning efforts seem to be focused elsewhere). Third, Church World Service works not only with disaster relief, but also with projects that empower people to better their own lives and not need relief.

about to begin walking

This year, because we were not able to walk our neighbors in Michigan, we did our own little CROP Hunger Walk here in Mumbai. We started  at our neighborhood church, Holy Cross, just like our fellow CROP Hunger Walkers in Michigan start at a local church.  Thank you to our friends and family that supported our walk here in Mumbai. 

Reservoir for water storage

We walked through a few neighborhoods - really little villages - near our house.   It is warm and humid here, quite different from many of our walks in Michigan when it was cold and rainy. It hasn't rained here since sometime in October, with the end of the monsoon, so it also quite dusty.  It also means that access to water, especially clean drinking water, is such an important issue here.  To try a share a sense of how important it is, here's a few pictures relating to how people get their water here ...

Water delivery truck

Water tank supplying clean water for a group of houses

Water tap for several houses

Communal water tap

Water jug at local restaurant

 

The run

He climbs slowly up the five flights of stairs to their apartment on the fourth floor, sweat dripping from his arms, face and shirt. He pauses between the second and third floor to stretch his calves and back with one foot placed three steps up the stair from the landing. After a few seconds, he switches legs, noticing as he does the drops already pooling beneath him. Some days he does all the steps to to top and then back down to the apartment, but not today.
Arriving at the flat he takes the key from his pocket and slides it into the lock, trying to open the door quietly.
"How was your run?"
"Fine" His usual response. For some reason he is reticent to speak much about it. Occasionally, he'll admit it was a tough day or a hard run. Today was more like normal so he just said "fine".
"Where did you go?"
"My usual route".
He thought back over it. He had walked down the stairs, out the gate and down just past the school to the first speed bump, where he clicked the timer on his watch and began to jog. Around the corner onto Kirol road, he went stiffly and without much speed, then past the buses parked in front of the mostly empty Kohinoor Mall. He went by the spot where a few weeks ago there had been a dead dog being worked over by the crows. It had surprised him how soon the spot disappeared.
He came to the corner where a man always seemed to be having his morning bath,then past the intersection of the road leading from the little "village", where he always had to watch for rickshaws. As the road straightened out he started to get into a little rhythm , thinking about his breathing. He had read a "Runners World" article about running with an odd rather than even stride per breath ratio, so sometimes he thought about it as he ran, using either a 3:2 or a 4:3 tempo, depending on how he felt. He liked it.
Approaching the next corner , where the road led to the Vidyavihar train station and his longer route, he began to feel his hips loosen a little. He went straight through the narrow street near the temple, then around the curve by Fatima High School and Jolly Gymkhana. He always enjoyed this stretch, with the trees on either side and the early morning exercisers on the cricket fields at Jolly. Then the slight rise into the residential neighborhood past the little Jain shrine. He looked for the old couple now, walking so slowly and carefully. The first few times he ran past them, they looked at him blankly, but the last few times he had seen recognition and even a response to his greeting. He wondered how old they were and if maybe the man had had a stroke.
Left down the lane then right around another school on the corner, up the next road and he neared the business area on Mahatma Gandhi Road and his halfway turn. Taking the little one-way loop, he looked to see if they were feeding anyone at the temple on the corner. A couple of times there had been some monks or priests serving our food to fifty or sixty people lined up outside. There weren't any today.
On the way back he ran more smoothly and easily, hitting his rhythm. It usually takes him about a minute less on the return trip. Of course he is soaking wet by this point, with sweat dripping off several points, including the tips of his little fingers as he swings his arms. Running back along the way he came, with the sun at his back, he sees a few other joggers running the other way, back to Jolly Gymkhana. He exchanges little nods of respect with several of the older gents as they recognize each other's efforts. Reaching the last long straight-away coming to the Kohinoor mall, he picks up the pace just a little, then makes the turn onto his street and runs just a little faster. (Of course, faster is a relative term in the heat and humidity). Finishing his run, he turns into the gate, then walks down the end of the apartment complex and back to cool down a little before climbing the stairs to the apartment.
"How was your run?"
"Fine."

Cecilia's Notebook

A favorite time of my day is coming home to see what Cecilia, our housekeeper, has written in the notebook that we keep.  Cecilia and I write notes to each other.  Cecilia keeps a running tab of expenses plus we write notes about menus and daily happenings.  Cecilia's writing has such voice.  She fusses over our health like a mother hen.  She apologizes over the tiniest glitch in the menu ingredients. Cecilia gives advice. She bought cough drops for me from a vendor at the train station when I had a terrible cough this fall.

As you can see in this page, the market shopping came to 705 rupees which is about $13.00. Tim and I want to make pesto, so we needed to know if Cecilia had extra parmesan cheese in the fridge.  Can you imagine not being sure what's in the fridge?

I saw a man hawking peaches along the road this weekend, so I wondered if Cecilia could buy some peaches.  Do I still want Cecilia to buy watermelon, cut it up into squares, plus make watermelon juice?  YES!

Cecilia and I have a running joke about how she makes the food extra mild for me.  She is so sweet.  She brought pork from home for Tim, warned me not to try it, and warned Tim that there were bones in the pork.

This country and its people humble me. Cecilia made our landing in this country soft and smooth. I am thankful for Cecilia. I am thankful for the generous hearts of this country.

India 101. Part 3 Agra and the Taj Mahal

Agra.
From Jaipur we traveled the third leg of the "Golden Triangle", taking the road towards Agra, the capital of the Mughal Empire from 1556 to 1658 and the site of the fabled Taj Mahal.

One of the Palaces at Fatehpur Sikir

Along the way we stopped at the historical city of Fatehpur Sikri, a planned city constructed by the Emperor Akbar to celebrated the victories that consolidated most of Northern and Central India under his rule. Another amazing place built mostly of red sandstone with several palaces, a mosque of course,  and the marble tomb of Sufi saint.

Entrance to the Agra Fort

We arrived in Agra late in the afternoon, with just enough time for a quick tour of the Agra fort. The fort itself reminded me quit a bit of the Red Fort in Delhi, with red sandstone walls enclosing palaces and buildings erected over the course of hundreds of years.  The Agra Fort also played a major role in the Indian Rebellion of 1857, but is perhaps most famous for being the residence, during his last years, of Shah Jahan, imprisoned by his son in the fort where, he could see in the hazy distance glimpses of white marble of the tomb he built for his beloved wife - the Taj Mahal.

View from the Agra Fort

After touring the Red Fort we headed to our hotel and dinner, eager to get up early to experience the Taj Mahal early the next morning.

I knew this when I married her ;-)

After waiting in line briefly, we lead through the outer courtyard and then walked toward the gate.

One of the Gates

First view through the gate

no caption needed

It was stunning.  The beauty and grace of the building glowing in the early morning light filled us with a sense of wonder and awe. Even with hundreds of people around, the grounds and gardens are big enough that we did not feel crowded and everyone seemed to be struck by the place.

Delighted Duo

It was magical.  It if were not for the fact that we still live here in India and there are so many more places to go and see both here in India and around the world, we might almost call it the trip of a lifetime. That evening, as we had dinner with our group and reflected on the day, we were somewhat taken aback as the discussion turned to "Now that you've seen the Taj, where do you want to go next?" We needed just a little more time to savor it, which we've been doing for several months now. Part of the reason this blog post took so long to write is that it is just so hard to express how magnificent an experience it was and pictures, though giving a sense of the beauty, do not capture that feeling.

Intrepid travelers