This is my 'hood.

As I returned from my fourth walk home from my yoga studio on Friday, I was overcome with a satisfaction that this is my neighborhood, my home, if only temporarily. I am known to the guards who stand watch in their small booths outside of gated homes. I know who will return my smile, say hello, ignore me blatantly, look away. My route is now familiar, like my old daily walk from the Community College T Stop to 73 Green Street:
I pass the shady, deserted D-Block park, worn and brown from lack of rain, or perhaps from the lack of footsteps pounding out love upon her ground. I pass all my Bessie cows, desperately seeking solace from the heat, taking to the pathetic shade on the roadside. I step high over cow pies all along the way, and leave wide berths between myself and then stray dogs. I turn left onto the main drag, Paschimi Marg, passing Mr. Maguu's home, and giggle just a little as I picture Mr. Magoo, the cartoon. The Mayor of Delhi's home is always guarded casually by armed (machine guns, or something hardcore like that) police officers, and I smile even though I know their stoicism can't be broken, like the guards at Buckingham Palace. Here, and on every road I travel (there are no sidewalks) I have honed my reflexes, so I can step to the side non-chalantly, when a driver honks to warn me they are passing. I turn right, and pass the dumpster shed behind the Vasant Vihar Club, hold my breath, and glance in to see if any cows are having breakfast, and to smile at the cat who always perches herself on the ledge. The shade must be worth the stink, I think to myself. I pass the shwanky dental office and like everyday, I think I should get a cleaning her in India where it is probably affordable! Another left, and I walk by the shady roadside where drivers park to wait for their "sirs" or "madames". They chat in small crowds, or sprawl themselves along the backseat of their Honda City (anyone read White Tiger?), catching some morning rest before a long day of driving in perpetually horrendous traffic. One more right-hand turn, and I arrive home, and wave to Shayam, who spends much of his day waiting, as well.

I awoke this morning (Sunday) with the taste of Chandi Chowk in the back of my throat. I had an adventurous day on Saturday, hitting up Old Delhi - Karim's Hotel (but really just a restaurant), The Red Fort, and Chandi Chowk (the main street along Old Delhi). I went with two of Steve's colleagues from Bain, one of whom speaks Hindi, so we were a good team. We went to the famous Karim's for lunch, and had delicious Bengali food, the traditional Delhi fare. After lunch, we took a bicycle rickshaw to the Red Fort. Bikes, rickshaws, cars, trucks, buses and pedestrians all share the same, wide roadway (lanes are only hypothetical) so it made for a perilous journey. With three on the rickshaw, our poor driver had to walk the bike most of the way, which made us even better targets. Alas, we survived.
As with many tourist spots in India, there is a tourist economy and a local economy. Indians pay Rs. 15 (about $.30), and foreigners pay Rs. 250 (about $5) for admittance to the Red Fort. The Taj Mahal is more like Rs. 50 for Indians ($1) and Rs. 1500 (about $30) for foreigners! The Red Fort was worth Rs. 250, and the Rs. 100 we each paid for an enthusiastic tour guide to bring us around. The fort is massive, consisting of several large buildings, constructed and decorated in the Mughal tradition. While I had a hard time understanding our guide as he spoke at length about the history (political, social, religious, etc.), I was able to catch some info on the design of many of the buildings. The short of it, so I won't bore you with details (google 'Red Fort' if you're interested), is that the numbers of columns, panels, curves, windows, balconies, and the various decorative styles, represented the different religions and cultures present in Old Delhi at the time. These were meant to be reminders to the Emporer (a Mughal), to maintain a spirit of justice when making rulings or judgements that would affect the community as a whole. I like that.
After the fort, Akshay departed, and Bernd and I headed to the infamous Chandi Chowk to find Saffron (a coveted and very expensive spice) at the spice market, and inevitably suck down some serious fumes, and dust in the process. I am afraid it is impossible to paint an accurate picture of what Chandi Chowk is really like. It's a mess of people (predominantly men), cows, stray dogs, rickshaws, wheeled carts, narrow alleyways leading to more men selling things, cars, buses, monkeys, and more. Bernd and I explored the spice market quite thoroughly, moving further and further into the crevases of the area, seeking the best stall for saffron. You see, in the spirit of haggling, all like items are put together at Chandi Chowk (and all markets, really, it's just that Chandi Chowk is MASSIVE!). Stall after stall displays barrells of rice, tea, cumin, masala, pickled mangos. People are crammed in (no such thing as personal space), men calling out for space to walk through with huge sacks of something carried on their head, standing water to be narrowly avoided, dogs snoozing, cows grazing on the brick pathways. In certain corners of the market, tucked away down narrow alleyways where the men coughed among their wholesale bags of flour and spices, I wondered if women were supposed to be there, particularly a white woman. But we proceeded nonetheless, drawing stares and smiles the whole way. Overall, it was sweaty and smoggy and loud and dusty, but it was remarkable, invigorating, exciting...
But the adventure didn't stop there. We had an interesting rickshaw ride back to our driver, who was waiting on the outskirts of the Chandi Chowk mess. Our rickshaw driver misunderstood our desired destination, and pedaled us all the way to the opposite end of the market. He tried to drop us, but we explained his error, none of which he comprehended. Rather quickly, we were surrounded by about 20 Indian men trying to help us. They argued amongst themselves as to where we really wanted to be, and finally one of the men told our driver, and he pedaled us to our car. The whole process took about an hour and a half, when the trip should have been 20 minutes. Night fell, and we were fortunate to see Chandi Chowk at dusk, and then at dark, brilliant lights cascading from the many Mosques and Temples. Traffic was just plain insane all the way back to Vasant Vihar, and I felt like I had smoked 25 cigarettes in a row after our adventure in Chandi Chowk.

Happily, I slept like a rock after that day, not even waking to Charlotte's screaming protests when she woke up in the wee hours of the morning, sans pacifer since the "Passy Fairy's" midnight heist. It is, afterall, Char's third birthday today.

On an entirely different note, I decided to journey to Thailand in December to meet up with my friend Mike for a couple of weeks, probably spend Christmas, and then head North to volunteer with Burmese refugees. Details to follow...

It's time for Charlotte's pancake birthday breakfast. Her party with friends is at the American club pool this afternoon. Ah, nothing like a cold swimming pool!

Be well, friends. Namaste.