The Other World of Delhi: Night Life and an American Friend
Other than my parents, I have one white friend in Delhi. Marie is a blonde American girl who has been living in Delhi for over a year. She gets around in the city quite well and puts my todi todi Hindi to shame as she speaks to the autowallas in full sentences. Hanging out with her is great, because I step into another world. The first time I came to her house she opened the door wearing a little black dress. I looked down at my jeans and said, “you look so cute, you didn’t tell me (to dress so cute).” She pulled me in her flat and within a few minutes I was wearing another black dress of hers and straightening my hair with her flat iron. She invited some friends over and we had a little party without ever leaving her house. It was like playing we were in the U.S. Later in the evening we even changed into jeans and played “hide and seek.” That’s right, twenty-somethings in India playing “hide and seek.” It was great fun.
On Saturday night, I hired a taxi and went to Marie’s again for another night in the other world. We went to a club near her house in G.K.1 for a party celebrating a friend of a friend’s wedding engagement. Other than us most of the party was made up of Indians who live in the U.S. who were in town for marriages. Within five minutes after the guy who invited us to the party greeted me, he wanted to know if I had met a “nice native boy” yet. I was feeling sassy and responded, “no, but many have found me!” They were laughing about that for hours. Then at one point my friend disapeared upstairs to the restroom. I went up to make sure she was okay, and just then a tall white man approached us. He said, “excuse me ladies, I just had to speak with you I haven’t seen a white woman in months!” It was pretty funny, he was a Brit who works for a British sportscasting network. It’s cricket season, so he is in India. Then the Indian guys we were with wanted me to go dance with him, but I explained that I didn’t think that Brits could dance!
Shadi Season: a time of weddings
I spent the enire “Thanksgiving” weekend celebrating marriages. Friday night my friend Raman got married. It was a nice wedding followed by a fabulous reception. The banquet hall was beautiful, the girls in Saris and Punjabi suits were lovely and the handsome Indian men were charming on the dance floor. There was a live Hindi band, then there was a DJ. It turns out that Shakira is an international favorite on the dance floor.
Although I must say that it is a shame in my book that Christian Indian men tend to wear western style suits instead of the traditional kurta-pajama. I have never really liked black suits that much. Men in suits might look sharp, but most of the time they look uptight and uncomfortable. Kurtas are usually soft cotton or wool or silk and are usually baige or a rich color. I’m a sucker for that kind of thing. And, although I am an American girl who has dreamed since childhood of being married in a white gown seeing an Indian bride in white also looks out of place to me. While Hindus wear bright colors for marriage Christians have adopted the wests wedding traditions. It’s sad to me that Christian has been so closely associated with western. Sunday night I went to another reception for the same marriage (this reception thrown by the groom’s family) and I was relieved to find the bride in a beautiful red and gold sari.
The Christians and the Pagans: Thanksgiving
This morning as I helped my mom prepare for Thanksgiving, I started humming to myself Dar Williams song “The Christians and the Pagans.” Though it is a song about a Christian family celebrating Christmas dinner with Pagan relatives, it reminded me of our dinner tonight with our neighbors. Not that I would generally refer to Hindus as pagans (because of the negative connotations), but it is a pretty unusual for Christians and Hindus to sit around a table (or living-room) together and give thanks to God.
We cooked the whole day, from dawn to dusk. Mom, Dad, and I had Big Baby Dutch Pancake with Strawberries and Blue Berries on top for breakfast.
At 3:30 we had a traditional Thanksgiving meal–Turkey and all. We actually had to pick out the live bird at the market… sorry to the vegetarians, I won’t say more. We ate this meal with a resident N.R.I. (Non-Resident Indian), otherwise called ABCD (American Born Confused Desi), or third culture family. If all those terms confuse you, let me explain. One generation of Indians worked very hard and came to settle in the U.S. There they had a son–an American citizen. He subsequently was married and had kids. Then they decided to move back to the Mother land. Sound crazy…? The reverse of the brain drain is beginning–even according to the Times of India– I read that a few weeks ago. In this case as in a few others I know of, the family feels called back to India by God to invest in the country and love the people. They were wonderful people to celebrate with not only because we like them a lot and they are enjoyable, but also because they appreciated the special food we collected from all over the city to put together a traditional Thanksgiving meal.
At 8:30 it came time for the “Christians and the Pagans sit around the table.” We put the meat away and took out each dish that had been careful prepared away from meat products and egg-less and we spread a vegetarian Thanksgiving feast. Mash potatoes, sweet potatoes (but they aren’t orange here), brown rice with fruit, stuffed bell peppers, green beans, and a few filler Indian dishes so that no one would be too scared of what they were eating. The neighbors from upstairs and downstairs came into our house as we ate as a joint family even though we all have very different backgrounds–it was beautiful.
Grandpa Ali and Partition: Untold History
Grandpa Ali grew up in a small town in what is now known as Pakistan. The independence of Hindustan (India) was bitter sweet. According his grandson (a friend of mine who is a middle class guy educated at St. Columbas’ high school, St. Stephen’s College of Delhi University, and currently in law school) the British relinquished control of the subcontinent in 1947—but not without first pulling the carpet from under her. His version of the story goes like this: Two leaders were identified by the British as potential leaders of the country, one Hindu leader (Neru) and one Muslim (Jinnah). Then the British realized that both leaders were expecting the first prime minister appointment. And instead of choosing one over the other, they appointed each of them to their own country—one Muslim and one Hindu. Thus India and Pakistan were born.
If the Muslims lived in the region that became Pakistan and the Hindus lived throughout the rest of the subcontinent, this might have been a good idea in order to prevent conflict. I am not sure we should give the British the benefit of the doubt… The Hindus and Muslims had been living in harmony throughout the Subcontinent for hundreds of years! Suddenly the Muslims were told that Pakistan (holy-land) was their home and the Hindus were told India was their home.
Partition began. The Muslims migrated north and the Hindus south. The Muslims got greedy and ceased non-Muslim-owned land. But the Muslims are not the villains in this story. They were forced out of their homes in Delhi and the high Urdu culture developed in the Mughal Empire died with their exodus.
And, that is where Grandpa Ali comes in. He was the youngest brother of a faithful Muslim family. The oldest brother was working and living with his wife and kids in Delhi. All of the sudden, they lived in different countries. On the same road the Muslims moved one way and the Punjabi’s the other way—they got rowdy and attacked one another. So, Grandpa’s father sent him down to escort his brother’s family to safety. He arranged a car, but there was not room for him to join them. He was stuck in India. He was forbidden to contact his family and was under suspension for being a spy. A Methodist minister took him in and hid him until the violence subsided. The next two generations in that family now consider themselves Christians.
After twenty years Grandpa Ali was finally granted the visa to visit his family. When he got down from the bus and saw his family after twenty years, everyone who had come to meet him wept with joy. He was also weeping. This caused such a scene that his son told me that the guards let him through in front of everyone else without even checking his papers.
(This family’s name has been changed for their privacy. For more for a more exact report of the horrors of partition see this article in the economist.)
Luxury, Poverty, and Service: On Having Servants
I grew up lower/middle class. We always lived in decent suberbs for the good schools. But as friend of mine said about the neighborhood I lived in during highschool, we lived in “east-cobb slums.” If we had seen a real slum we never would have said that. But, growing up my parents never bought me new clothes and if I ended up with anything brand-name it was the luck of a rag bag, thrift-shop, or garage-sale (second-hand). We visited the government housing projects on the weekends, so I knew we weren’t poor, but I also knew we weren’t wealthy. I don’t think my mother ever bought a new piece of furniture in her life, okay maybe one piece. And I remember at least once that we didn’t have money for groceries and they just showed up on our door step…So we never had servants. We always did our own cooking, cleaning, and lawn care. Once we bought a house Dad would even try to fix things himself. Generally that only made the problem worse and more expensive to fix. We called him Mr. Fix-it… Now we live India.
In India it is much more time and cost effecent to pay someone to do anything you want to do. The press-wallas are my favorite. They come to the door and pick-up cupadie (clothes) and bring it back ironed a few hours later. Each day a lady comes and takes our trash. And everyday Ramwadie comes and cleans the marble floors. And once a week cute but strong little woman comes and gives mom and I massages. The rickshaw-wallas pedal bicyles with small carriages behind them. We open our front gate and if we are lucky there is a rickshaw-walla at the corner. We call one and they carry us to the metro station (less than a mile away). When we need to go by car somewhere, we call the taxi stand and Sire Singh or Mun Singh pick us up.
A life of luxury–and we are generously giving work to the poor at the same time. Never-mind the facts that we do not have central AC or Heat, the only air-coditioned transportation we have is by metro, and our oven isn’t big enough to bake a whole Thanksgiving Turkey, maybe not even a chicken. And we have floresent-tube-light in everyroom. I am not complaing–at least not yet.
But how much are we helping the poor by employing them? We pay 2rps per piece of clothing ironed, 5-8rps per rickshaw ride, 70rps per massage and less than 700rps per week to have the house cleaned (about 40 rupees = 1 $). Of course cost of living is different here than in the U.S., but many of these workers live in slums or only one small step above a slum. My friend told me that when he employs a worker he tries to think about his family and if they would do that amount of work for that pay (he is from a middle class Delhi family). Now I am starting to do the same thing–and lets just say we are giving a few raises!
The Moguls:Untold History
The more time I spend in India, the more I realize the defincency of world history classes in the American school system. I visit ancient ruins built by kings I have never heard of. I think we spent a week maximum on Asian history, a week on the ancient Middle East and then spent the rest of the year on European and American History. Maybe a sentence or two was added in regards to the British Empire and World War II. But, that was it. So one of my new hobbies is learning Asian history.
The City of Delhi is an ancient city that has been destroyed and rebuilt over and over by empire after empire. The last great empire before the British was the Mughal Empire. But they should not be confused with the Mongol(ian)s led by Gingus Kan The Moguls came from over the Himalayas through what is now called Afghanistan and Pakistan from central Asia, although the first Mughal Emperor did claim to be the greatgrandson of Gingus Kan! The Moguls brought with them a high culture of design, poetry, dress, food, and Islam. But they are most famous for their architecture —the Mogul King Akbar had Agra Fort (Palace) and his grandson Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal and had the peacock throne contructed. More on Shah Jahan at a later time.
Jesus Wasn’t Religious: A Rant
One time when I was in Elementary school, a kid in my class asked me if I was religious. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and said, “No.” When she looked at me in confusion I said, “I just love Jesus, Jesus is my friend.”
Now, I know some people are skeptical of such a ‘low Christology,” but Jesus did say that we needed to be like children to enter the Kingdom of God. Besides, my distaste for religion has never changed. Yes, I have learned to worship in many different styles. I love the smoke and bells. I love bare feet and guitars. Thanks to Princeton, even the pews and organ have a place in my heart. As long as the Trinitarian God is worshipped, I’m there.
But I cannot stand religiosity. Neither could Jesus. Why do you think he hung out with the “tax-collectors and sinners?” So that they would be come more religious? I think he hung out with them because they were more fun. After all Jesus did turn water into wine. I’d like that gift! Today I talked on the phone with a guy that added “Praise the Lord” after every sentence. I almost gagged, “bless his heart.” No one likes to be preached at… at least I don’t.
I just think that Jesus was an amazing person, and more than a person. Jesus was not uptight. Jesus was sure of who he was. Jesus wasn’t cheesy. If you read the gospels, it is clear–Jesus was radical. Jesus pushed the religious leaders to their edge, he went all the way. He gave his life. He asked people to give everything up and follow him. And, that is what I want to do. I want to follow Jesus. I want to be like him. That’s it.
Hinglish: The Language of the World
Here in India English has been spoken for over a hundred years and with that history comes regional colloquialisms. Some are mixed language phrases. In Delhi if you want someone to wait, you say “Ach minute” (Ach is Hindi for One). Other ‘funny things” I hear Indians say in English, are phrases that have been directly imported from Hindi or another regional language. For instance when your taxi driver is going too fast, you will say slowly, slowly, because in Hindi instead of using an intensifier like very a word is often repeated for emphasis. Here I might ask for someone to drop me on the ground so I can play cricket, when my team wins I might say can you believe?
Sometimes English words are used, but different meanings are applied. As I flip through the India Times I find Matrimonials that are not wedding announcements, but detailed descriptions of a women who are eligible for marriage. This is something you just wouldn’t find in an American newspaper. The closest thing you might find is someone looking for a date. But this eligible woman will advertised with her basic CV and the CV she seeks for her husband. She is described as having a decent family (meaning well to do, not morally up right or so-so as we use the word in American English) and as being homely (meaning that she is domestic, she can cook—not that she is plain or ugly).
But these things that make talking to a Dell service representative difficult to understand even if he or she has perfected his or her American accent, do not reveal that Hinglish’s contribution to International English. For instance every time you stand on your terrace in your pajamas or visit a friend’s bungalow in the jungle you have used Hinglish. These are Hindi words.
Love (at first sight) Marriages
Love marriages as opposed to arranged marriages are becoming popular among the young people of India. Just last week I was in a rural part of South India and guest lectured at an English language Institute, and one class was in the middle of a debate over lover marriage vs. arranged marriage. Most of the class (males) sat on the side of love marriage and all but two of the females of the class sat on the arranged marriage side. They wanted to know what I thought… What could I say? I couldn’t pretend to be a proponant of arranged marriage. While the idea seems wise and even sometimes romantic for others, the idea of my parents chosing my ‘partner’ for me, even givin my approal in the match, sends creepy chills up my spine. It goes against so much in our culture and my own personality. I gracefully said there were merrits of both ways, but when they pressed me I said I would go for a love marriage. The boys cheered! I said, “It’s just not our tradition to have arranged marriage.”
But the problem with Indians going for “love” marriages more and more, is that it is often love (at first sight) marriage. Couples see each other and our infatuated, and given thier newly found independence from the traditions of thier parents propose to one another. Just last week I met a couple who was married last month with the approval of the girl’s family, but without even the knowledge of the boy’s family. See, he is still a student so the parents would not have approved. Plus they are from different states. They met thee months ago.
Check out this story about Sweety Tater, a rich 20 year-old who ran off and got married afer she met Rajesh Shaw. The parents are after the guy and kidnapped thier daughter and imprisioned her in their house. Now, I know the parents sound evil, and perhaps they are. But, maybe the girl isn’t so smart either. She is 20. She barely knew the guy and she ran off to marry him. I have heard and witnessed many stories of true love marriages. Couples who have been friends and dating for a long time, finally gain their parents approval and marry. But most often it seems like it is love (at first sight) marriaf
“Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall, Who’s the Fairest of Us All?” Thoughts on Being White
If I could be any Disney princess I would be Jasmine. She has the best name, she has green eyes, long dark hair, a funky wardrobe—and tan skin. Plus Aladdin is pretty hot. But, alas I have pale skin. And for the time being my hair is cut in a bob. Especially in India, I feel more like Snow White than Jasmine. If you don’t know the story, Snow White is hated and envied by the evil queen because of her light completion. She flees from the evil queen and comes to live with seven dwarfs. There she is happy. They are brothers to her. But as long as the queen’s mirror says that snow white is the fairest of us all, the queen cannot rest. So, she poisons Snow White with a red apple that puts her into a coma until or unless she is kissed with a kiss of true love. Because this is Disney, prince charming eventually comes and kisses her, waking her from her sleep. 
I get a lot of attention in India. But instead of it being flattering, it is overwhelming and sometimes insulting. Insulting, because many people only see white skin when they look at me. The allure is not me, but my “white” skin. They call it white, but ever since I was a little girl with a box of crayons, that has been a point of confusion for me. I am glad that I am not literally white, because being the color of computer paper would so much more bland that this peachy translucent color that sometimes reveals my blue vains. But I wish I had more color. Being gold or being brown or black somehow looks more a live to me, but at least I am not literally white. It seems as though most people want to be lighter than they are—being light has status. When did that change among “white” Americans?
I suppose it must have begun to change during the industrial revolution when the masses worked in factories but the wealthy could vacation at the beach or sit by a swimming pool and their cheeks would become rosey in color. Before that the workers worked out in the field where they became tan and dark and the wealthy had the luxury of remaining in doors or being shaded when out doors. By the time I was in high school in the 1990’s the more “popular” you were the more your skin was “fake and baked” from the tanning bed. In the U.S. we have also been influenced by dark beauties. Who is more tall dark and handsome than Michael Jordan or Densel Washington? Plus, there is the inherent sinfulness in all of us that results in some self-hate and envy. If most of the world wants to be white, then of course the whites want to be dark. God help us.
