6 big bonuses in one day - I needed to head up the road to the post office to send off a few packages and the young rickshaw driver zeroed the meter for the trip before I had even asked.  (Bonus #1! No need to bargain)  I tapped the meter at the end of the trip and said 'Thank you for using the meter' and handed him a very fat tip.  One very happy tuktuk driver!

I walked straight up to the post office counter and the packages were mailed in less than ten minutes!  (Bonus #2)  Last time we went to send packages it took closer to 40 minutes. Although it sounded a great amount to pay in rupees, it really wasn't when I thought of what it costs to send things from England or USA.  In fact when I really considered what I had paid I started to wonder how it could possibly be that cheap.  I paid less to send the packages registered airmail than I would  have had to to send them regular air mail the opposite way.  (Bonus #3).

The Post Office is on the opposite side of the street from Lodhi Gardens so I decided to walk through the gardens to get to Khan Market.   It was a beautiful day and the garden peaceful and lush.  For several minutes in the center of the garden I could only hear birds and gentle gardening sounds. (Bonus #4)

I got my shopping at Khan Market done swiftly and went to the rickshaw stand for a ride home.  Extraordinarily there were none waiting.   I put my bags down and a tuktuk pulled up to discharge a passenger.  As I told the driver where I wanted to go, he nodded and put the meter back to zero - again without my asking!  Again, at the end of the trip I thanked the driver for using the meter and gave him a lovely tip.  He too grinned ear to ear.  Felix suspects that word will get around and I won't have to bargain at all any more because they will all realize they get more if they don't hassle me. :) (Bonus  #5)

Hendrik sent an email from Annandale asking whether I had ordered $500 boots, size 5 1/2,  from Neiman Marcus on line.  Head scratch and think!  No I have never bought boots for $500, I don't know anyone size 5 1/2 who would like those hideous boots, I have never bought anything from NM on line and the last time I was in the shop was more than a year ago.  The boots had been shipped to Annandale with clear indication that my credit card had been used.  There were two other small charges on my credit card account to something called Intelius.com that did not originate with me.  The card was  canceled immediately.  The ugly boots go back to NM and the credit card company does some investigating and we get new cards.  So glad this didn't develop further - surely the petite footed purchaser made an error in shipping the goods to my home address.  (Bonus #6).

A day for the record books.

Manicure freebies -  Khan Market: most expensive real estate in New Delhi, a higgledy piggledy assortment of shops and services close to many ex-patriots and wealthy Indian neighborhoods.  I'm a fairly regular customer at the Khan market.  I can walk to it if I want good exercise. I feel safe shopping there.  They have a good selection of food products and three book shops.

This week I went in search of a manicure.  Between the pomegranates and the constant grime of New Delhi my hands at times erroneously reflect betel nut addiction and an improvised nail brush (couldn't buy a designated 'nailbrush') isn't shifting the tenacious stain.  I walked up the narrow stairs to the hair salon Felix and I have frequented before.  My earlier appointment was just as they were coming awake at 10 a.m. This time I arrived in the full swing of business with 6 stations busy with various hair processes.  I wasn't sure they even did manicures. Madam at the desk nodded towards the waiting room couch and said "Most welcome," when I asked.  She stepped around the corner and spoke some rather harsh words and a pleasant young man came and took me in hand.:)  In good India style everything was a bit improvised, but had very specific order and at different points in the proceedings my pleasant young man would also imperiously snap some order to a lesser minion and a bowl of yellow warm water showed up, or heated damp towels appeared.  The yellow water got my attention, looking rather like a warm liquid I didn't want to put my hands into.  I don't think the young fellow had a clue what my concern was but he obligingly told me that it was Savlon and water (so the yellow Savlon should kill anything in the water I might have been worried about :)).

As I sat through the lengthy, most enjoyable, manicure I had the whole salon to observe.  The music was heavy on bass and loud, very much the flavour of the young, black T-shirted men working.  There were 4 hair stylists and about 6 assistants and a strict hierarchy - floor sweeper and water carrier; hair washer; stylist assistant and stylist.  The higher up the ladder the longer and curlier the toes on the black leather shoes (even floor sweeper was proud of his canvas Converse shoes).  The clientele, in contrast, were mainly slightly overweight women in their 40s and 50s, Indian and ex-pats.  The whole scene was somewhat surreal as the young men from the hip down repeatedly broke into MTV choreography while their hands steadily went about the hair business of washing, snipping and sweeping.  Even my nail improver,although seated for his job, managed to get his head into the MTV action while buffing and greatly appreciated the MTV parallel when I mentioned it.

Apart from the great entertainment, the manicure also included a fabulous arm massage.  All wonderfully unexpected and  good things to add on to the list of things to be thankful for in Thanksgiving week.

How do the guys collect their commissions? - Bert and returned to the markets just south of Connaught Place in the city center on Saturday.  These are markets renowned for second hand clothing, cheap clothing and cheap imitations of expensive products.  We were just starting to relax and enjoy the mix of people, colours and products (having left anything valuable in our hotel suite in case we were going to get into jostling crowds) when the young man who was so 'helpful' in guiding us to a more suitable, more expensive shopping location, several weeks ago, showed up again and grinning ear to ear asked "Remember me?"  He then had the gall, yet again, to try and persuade us that we were not looking in the right place and would surely get much better goods in the direction he wanted to point us.  I didn't feel too charitable, but Bert, always keen to avoid an international incident, waved him off in a friendly manner.

If things had worked out the way the lad had hoped the first time I assume we would have trundled off towards the correct shop and another amazingly friendly buddy of his would have received some signal from him that we were the target customers and perhaps youth #2 would have suggested a slight course correction for us.  Would he have walked us to the door or passed us off to another agent, #3, in line?  Would they all get a cut of the profits of anything we bought?  I keep having to remind myself that this is good entrepreneurial spirit and much better than sitting in line to pick up unemployment benefits.

Last weekend as we left the grounds of the Lotus temple in the south of the city we wanted to visit an area nearby that had been recommended to us.  We mentioned where we wanted to go and the rickshaw driver said, ok,quoted an outrageous price and then said he'd go in the opposite direction so that we could take a look at some products before he took us to our desired destination.  No thank you, we really don't want to see other goods and that is the opposite way of our destination.  The fellow almost begged us (he didn't look underfed) to go with him to get some fuel token if he showed up at the aforementioned emporium with potential customers.  Good sense won out, in that we just walked off in the direction we wanted to go and later found a more accommodating tuktuk driver. The incident left us wondering about the incentives involved.  The original driver ostensibly gave up a RS50 ride for a RS30 fuel voucher.  We are guessing there is more to the story and presumably the success rate of persuading reluctant customers to purchase something must be fairly high.

I wonder how much weight I will gain in Virginia when I no longer have tuktuk drivers to haggle with and no reason to walk miles to get to my destination.

Festival of lights - The topic of what was being celebrated is complex, but Diwali is a big deal for business and temple in the Hindu world.  There was a flurry of pre-Diwali buying that could well compete with pre-Christmas shopping and the amount spent on gifts carried great significance.  Where in the west businesses might send clients cards, here there was a great deal of gift giving from business to client.  The piles of chocolate piled up outside all the little shops was incredible.  It all disappeared so I am assuming it didn't get stuck in some corner of the shops for storage, but instead went to delight many.

The hotel did a phenomenal job decorating with lights (little candles) and intricate floor designs made with flowers, petals and coloured rice.  The large one at the hotel entrance took 12 people 6 hours and they only left it out for two days before it was replaced with a newer, less intricate pattern.  The long corridor/cloister walk down to our block of suites had a different floor decoration on each side of each door.

After dark all the candles were lit and the Aman looked like fairy land.  We got a surprise ring at the door and were presented with a small plate of sweets with candle lit and a couple of environmentally friendly sparklers.  The excitement with all the fireworks over Diwali leaves Delhi absolutely blanketed in smoke and the mayor of Delhi, Mrs.Dickshit (Dix-it) appealed "My dear little friends" please don't celebrate Diwali with fireworks.  I am not sure sure how many of her dear little friends responded to her pleas, but the Aman was respectful. The city, however, was wreathed in smoke as we headed to the airport the next morning. :)

It was rather tricky business, but we tried to give small monetary gifts to the staff who had particularly helped us and of course, we couldn't even tell which of them actually celebrated Diwali (except for those with little red string bracelets and multiple rings on their hands).  I regret that some of the staff seem to talk about guests a bit too much and somehow word must have got around that van der Vaarts were handing out small envelopes.  I fear that while there were several genuinely delighted and surprised individuals, there were a few hopefuls who were disappointed.

Cheap date - As we've noted before, all the gardens and monuments seem to be a great spot for courting couples.  I recently took Bert on a very LONG hike to discover Haus Khaz - a very trendy neighborhood built around the ruins of an older Delhi.

The first time I went to Haus Khaz with Elaine there was an older group of teen boys playing cricket.  This time the younger boys were playing soccer, a few in shoes, most in flip flops, and a couple with bare feet, while the teenagers were hanging out in groups in the ruins of the mosque and madrasah next to the soccer field.

We spotted a young couple in one of the alcoves with take away meal and laptop propped open with their entertainment for the evening.  Very creative and above board.

All you can eat for RS80 - Walking from the center of the city southwards to India Gate at the weekend, Bert and I found a monument of a pleasant looking man at a our side and idly decided to find out who he was.  In the excitement of what followed I have completely forgotten exactly who he was, but certainly an important man for Andhra Pradesh (4th largest state of India in the south).  Behind the statue was a well weathered sign 'Canteen' and a steady stream of people was using the turnstile into the alley promising food.  We had had a good walk and a grueling morning haggling and bargaining and decided to try our luck.  Did one have to be from Andhra Pradesh to eat at this canteen (located in Andhra Pradesh House)?  Would the place be clean?  Would our (actually this was only my private concern) stomachs cope with the spices?  We followed the crowd in. About forty or fifty people were crushed into the entrance waiting.  In fairly close quarters about  16 tables seating four or two  people were full of customers enjoying the southern food.  I crept closer to the cash register and asked for two 'veg' (as opposed to non-veg) meals.  RS160.  We crowded in with the other hungry clients while a rather healthy, and very loud doorman called out repeatedly 'Just five minutes madam, please wait sir.  Number 32, 32, How man in the party, come now 33.  Please move back.'   I don't know what we did to deserve the preferential treatment, but he pulled us in before we reached our numbers.  We were pointed to a small table for two and immediately two steel cups of water arrived followed swiftly by two thali plates.  (Thali plates are steel trays with multiple small compartments and many restaurants serve meals this way so that customers enjoy small portions of multiple dishes.)  Servers came by at stunning speed and relentless repetition (they almost seemed disappointed that we didn't take more).  It was delicious, a fabulous variety and opportunity to take second, thirds or even fourth portions of favourite dishes.  What heaven for students if they ever get to this area.  Now I have to find out if they are open every day, and at what hours.    We left at about 3:15 and although the queue for meals had dwindled, the supply of food was still strong.


Further inquiry indicates that many, if not all, the states have their own 'houses' and some of them have restaurants, but not all are such good value.  Rather sad that our time isn't sufficient to scout out all of them.:)

Begging dilemma - Lodhi road (our hotel is almost at the east end of Lodhi) is a fairly wealthy area with lots of office space and non profit type organizations and a major six lane east west thoroughfare south of the city center.  A junction in the center of the road draws a small group of regular beggars.  Perhaps it is just one family or a combination of a couple.  Mother often has a grimy baby on her hip and makes a repeated  pitiful gesture of hand pinched to take food moving to mouth with a mournful 'Ma'am, Ma'am.'  I have steeled myself to merely pray for this little group.  Bert and I walked up the road earlier this week and passed the cluster of children.  One little chap has a marvelous curly moustache drawn on his face.  I pointed him out to Bert who confessed that he had given him something earlier.  I was amazed.  Didn't we agree that we were perpetuating a vicious cycle by given anything to beggars?  Bert said, yes, but this chap was a bit more than a beggar.  Two days later my tuktuk had to stop at the light and I got a front row seat to watch Master Moustachio.  He had some weighted string on the back of his little baseball cap which he started twirling before he launched into his 30 second choreography routine.  Michale Jackson would have been proud of him.  My tuktuk driver laughed when I mentioned the similarity, but rolled his eyes when I handed over a small bill.

I want to go back and film the little chap (I think he may be six, but hard hard to tell given how poor his food may be) and take him a bag of food and books as payment for his excellent entertainment, but struggling to discern whether this is good or not.  Reading Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance, I wonder about making anyone jealous of my Charlie Chaplin Jackson and whether I inadvertently encourage him to stick with his Lodhi street corner when he might have other positive options.

Rain after the monsoon - I didn't realize that showers continue after the monsoon.  The first shower hit very suddenly.  I remember walking into the hotel thinking 'if I were in Europe or America, I'd say we were in for a shower.'  It darkened suddenly and the heavens let loose rain and hail.  The shower probably lasted about 10 minutes and was absolutely drenching.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dxm6XgYDZUw

Since then we have had several more showers.  Some are short and heavy, some are just a sprinkling while today was several hours of quite English steady, good garden watering rain.

Given how much of the economy is on the street and without cover I wonder what on earth all those vendors do.  Are they better at predicting the weather than I am?  Do they have somewhere to hide with their wares?  Do they have tarps tucked out of sight until they need them? 

Food, glorious food - Fruit is far more expensive than vegetables here.  Tomatoes have vacillated somewhat between RS20-RS40 a kg over the last two months, but the Kashmiri pears or apples are about RS85-120 while the Afghani pomegranates are RS220-450 a kg.  Sporadically everything is available.  Melon imported from Japan can be RS500 a piece, while a small punnet of strawberries could fetch RS250.  Dried fruit and nuts and highly esteemed and relatively expensive and there were many baskets of dried fruit and nuts made up for Diwali gifts.  (It isn't strictly accurate, but for rule of thumb I reckon about RS50=$1)  Last week I bought 5kg plum tomatoes: about 10lbs of tomatoes for $2!  That seems incredible to me.

It took me a while to spot the Indian oranges. The earlier ones were a bit larger than tangerines and somewhat irregularly shaped and mainly green skinned.  These were fairly fibrous and full of pips and were just intended as juice oranges.  Delicious, but not drastically juicy.  Now there are larger looser skinned green oranges which seem like giant mandarins, delicious, juicy, sweet, a few seeds, speedy to peel.  

Pomegranates: we've bought some directly from the vegetable distribution market in the north of the city (the best of those we've bought); some that Bert schlepped in his suitcase from Kabul (perhaps not fair to judge these as they inadvertently spent an extra day in his suitcase when the flight back to Delhi was cancelled at the last minute) and plenty from the Khan (high end) market and INA (not quite so high end). I cannot bring myself to pay RS400 for the smaller ones, but a guest of mine for high tea here in the Aman asked whether the pomegranates on the table were just for show, or might they be eaten too. :)  The very well trained waiter didn't hesitate to offer to prepare one in the kitchen for her, although they were clearly part of the decorations.  This was the most tender pomegranate I have ever had.  The seeds were hardly noticeable.  Some of the cheaper ones really feel as though they have wooden chips for seeds.

Breadfruit is a wonderful discovery.  The skin looks a little like something that a dinosaur might have worn and inside is succulent white fruit wrapped around large brown seeds. It is quite a mess to eat, but a per fumy delicacy.  The banana in the photo is only for perspective.

As for those amla/Indian gooseberries. . .gulp!  It is hard to believe that anyone really eats them raw. (Perhaps it is a manly thing to do - like eating steak tartar.) They are so sour - much more so than lemons or rhubard and that mouth drying raw rhubarb sensation is magnified several times in these small plum sized stoned fruit.  They are prized for phenomenally high vitamin C.  I have boiled our exploratory 1/2 kg with plenty of sugar to make chutney. I doubt they will be a repeated buy.

I'm a bit more cautious now about the quantity I buy of an untried product.

Bonus material - I've had three massages here at the Aman*.  It probably seems incredibly indulgent and in some regards it is, but it still works out more reasonably than the chiropractor would in Virginia and I am still trying to work through my post snow shovelling shoulder injury of last winter.  Everyone has a different diagnosis - the orthopedic surgeon, the chiropractor, the trainers in the gym, the massage therapist. :)  Interestingly the surgeon and the trainers have a similar take while the chiropractor and massage therapist seem to basically agree.:)

My favourite therapist is a lovely, tiny Christian woman from Mizoram.  (I'll call her Rebecca.) I had never heard of Mizoram (granted statehood in 1986).  It is one of those tiny Indian states on the east side of Bangladesh, on the border with Burma.  My 2006 children's atlas of India tells me that Mizoram has 22 towns and 699 inhabited villages, of which 663 are electrified. The atlas also states that the population of Mizoram was 891,058, while today Wikipedia postulates 888,573.  It is easy to see why young people might be leaving to find more opportunities.  It must be quite beautiful and tough to access. It takes about 2 1/2 days to make the journey from Delhi to this lady's home town.  . 

Rebecca is a really skilled therapist.  She is really good, both technically, and psychologically.  She is able to distract from the discomfort of some of the manipulation with a stream of fascinating information.  She has worked at the best hotels in New Delhi and for all kinds of people.  Here are a couple of nuggets I gleaned.

Mizoram is a mainly Christian state because Welsh Baptist missionaries came in 1894.

Our 5 star hotel has a canteen which serves everyone from window washer to the General Manager (GM).  Everyone gets the same food from the same kitchen.

Every woman whose shift ends after dark is driven home to her door by one of the hotel's drivers and seen into her building.  This policy seems the same for all the good hotels, but Aman people seem to go the extra mile by seeing the women into their buildings.

The former GM of the Taj Mahal hotel in Delhi (where Rebecca used to work) started off working as a steward in the hotel and worked his way up to GM at the Taj and is now #3 for the whole Taj group of hotels.

The spa staff of this hotel number about 29. 6 attendants (managing the changing rooms) and 3 beauticians (can only guess what they do), a few managerial and secretarial positions, but the vast majority massage therapists.  At times all the facilities are booked.

The outgoing GM of the Aman (a Scotsman) was remarkable because he would carry luggage if all the other staff were occupied when a guest needed help. [I take it that an Indian GM wouldn't dream of confusing roles/status in this manner.]  The incoming GM is a tall distinguished elderly Indian.  He has a tough act to follow.

We've now had opportunity to have longer conversations with several staff members, housekeeping and dining staff as well as the lobby and reception stewards and many speak 3 or 4 languages and have degrees in hotel management or engineering. 

*Aman: from an exhibit in the National Museum in Dhaka I found out that in some parts of Bangladesh they harvest three crops from the same fields.  The first major crop is the 'aman.'

Beggar magnets- Our clothes are different, our faces are different, we are stronger than many AND we stand a foot taller than many, so it is no wonder that we attract the attention of the beggars.  I cannot give to them.  It seems the worst of all worlds to encourage them to stay on this street corner and do the same thing.  I have been guilty of handing a couple of kids something out of my grocery bag (Felix still laughs at the outrageous snort from one little chap when I handed him a tomato), but it makes our native hosts uncomfortable.  One Indian friend would angrily shout at those that gathered around us when we were with her, but our guide in Dhaka reached into his wallet to get rid of them quickly.  Felix is very proud of this photo.  I am guessing that this little chap was sent after us on his first begging mission.  He doesn't really look as though he knows what he was given.  Felix got the better part of this exchange though - he has a cute picture while the little guy has been given the wrong signal and someone probably thinks it very 'auspicious' that on his first fishing attempt he landed a fish - albeit a very tiny minnow.

Recycling - The images of children and women sifting through garbage on the street, in dumpsters,  and under overpasses brings up a turmoil of emotions.  On the one hand: brilliant!  This is as green as we can get: everything is sorted through and anything of value is sold off to be recycled.  But O what a grim existence, bare handedly picking through other people's rubbish.  And yet, these people are not merely holding out their hands asking for a handout, they are doing something constructive to feed themselves and they serve the community as a whole: less garbage for the municipality to handle, at least for these products, lower production costs with the recycled matter.  I felt particularly frustrated as I folded perfectly usable cardboard into the bin this morning.  Even in Delhi, someone would be earning money from stacks of cardboard, old glass and plastic.  Why then do we in the west have to pay taxes to have our materials recycled?  Yes, I do know the answer: the dollar cost of raw materials to us is less than the dollar cost of recycling, but we have decided that the non-dollar cost to our environment is worth more to us than the dollars used in recycling.  I still have issues with this: a)before I paid taxes for recycling I dumped my own materials at central points as I did my shopping AND 20 years ago I even got paid a few cents per pound of material! and b) the data is ambiguous on how much of an environmental toll our systems of recycling take.

Both of my pictures were taken on the Ahsunulla Road along the Buri Ganga river.  We spent about an hour on this road managing almost a mile at snail's pace.  The one picture is taken under a bridge - the overpass is an impromptu garbage heap where a couple of men have parked and the young fellow is stooped with bag in hand gleaning.  Incidentally I didn't see any men going through the rubbish. Here in Delhi I see men wheeling enormous bales of old plastic on their bikes to someone who will pay for it.  Can we deduce that the children and women get something for the gathering and then the men get a bit more for collecting a larger volume and hauling it off to someone who will in turn get it to a recycling facility?  The other picture shows two men focused on sorting industrial waste - they had four baskets in front of them and one had rubber pieces and another metal in it.  From the car I failed to identify the other two. 

Perhaps we could move to a (tax deductible) charitable donation of recyclable materials rather than paying taxes for recycling pick up.:)  employing those seeking manual labour at the sorting facility. :) 

Bangladesh history - I wasn't there at the time, but from today's perspective it seems ludicrous that the British could make Pakistan one nation out of two completely separate geographic areas. I grossly over simplify.

First came the violent struggle to be able to retain Bangla/Bengali language as the primary language in the area, 1952,  (Bangla-desh = land of the Bangla people) over which there was violent struggle and many died (Muslim and Hindi) and then came the Independence struggle from Pakistan (1971) over which many more died (Muslim and Hindi).
These two events are very important to the Bangladeshi and Bert's colleagues at SEAF and the young man appointed to be Felix's and my guide on Monday were clear that the FIRST things we had to see were the two big monuments to the martyrs. 

I believe the the Monument to the Independence Martyrs  lies approx 20 miles outside the city center.  It took us two hours at 8 a.m. to get there.  The drive was fascinating.  The spectacular monument is next to spacious university grounds and the whole park is a restful and well-kempt spot. Each of the pillars was built to honour one of the leaders who died in the struggle.  The park will be full later this month for annual celebrations.

From this monument we headed back into the city to see the Martyrs of the Language Struggle movement which involved another two hours of colourful travel.  This monument looks less visited today, but for a while was almost a pilgrimage destination for Bangladeshis. 

Our guide subsequently took us to look at the LalBagh Fort, a 17th century red sandstone fort in lovely gardens in the old town, but clearly the new Bangladesh history was what was important.

Bert and I have a habit of looking for novels from the area we are visiting.  I walked into two of the Khan Market book stores and asked for recommendations of English translations of contemporary Bangladeshi novels:  much head scratching. (It turns out that there is a much contemporary Bangla literature, but it isn't translated.)  The only thing they could come up with was a novel called Shame.  I took it and later found out that the writer, Taslimi Narin, is banned (person and writing) in Bangladesh.  She is a strong feminist humanist and writes bluntly about the horror of religious extremism.   Shame is a hard read as it deals with the Muslim persecution of Hindi Bangladeshis after the destruction of a mosque in India in 1992 .  I didn't take this book with me to Dhaka.  Instead I very much enjoyed reading Bert's pick of Rabinadrath Tagore's The Wreck.  It is old, but much of the village life today is still as it was when he wrote it.  


The Wreck is the second example I have run into of stories where a 'bad' character doesn't get his deserved desserts.  It reminded me of "It's a Wonderful Life" when the horrible banker isn't brought to justice for his mean theft of the money.  I have a slight sense of outrage and dissatisfaction that everything isn't straightened out neatly by the end. 

Extending square footage - Dhaka has high incidence of pedestrian injury and the government decided to put in pedestrian overpasses, or subways, almost every other block in the city center. (The hooded covers for the subways reminded me of the sections of a caterpillar, and I mistakenly thought them metro entrances - metro would be a great idea in theory, but the flood plain character of Dhaka would make it an enormous financial burden.)  Quite a lot of people actually use the overpasses as intended, but in a place where space is at a premium the added square footage is quickly taken advantage of.  We saw vendors on every overpass, two sleeping people (Felix felt it dishonoring to take the one sleeper from a more conventional angle) and some laundry out to dry.

As we drove out of the city to see their most famous Independence Memorial we crawled through areas still under water from the monsoon, or perhaps under water all year, and some of the farmers had built a lattice on stilts so that their gourds, pumpkins, and cucumbers could grow several yards further over the water and in the sunshine.  I'm not sure what happens as the crops ripen, but I was assured that the snakes in the water were not the poisonous kind.

Jams- Traffic is intense in Dhaka from about 8a.m.-9p.m.  It is immediately noticeable that there is less hooting of horns in Dhaka than in Delhi, but it is also immediately noticeable that vehicles in Dhaka are significantly more dented than in Delhi.

Pedalled rickshaws are lined up along the streets.  The rickshaws are surprisingly brightly ornamented which belies the rather grim existence they afford the drivers.  Most rickshaws belong to business men with several, if not tens or hundreds of rickshaws, and they are rented out to drivers for 8 hour sessions. Virtually all bike rickshaws are off the streets at midnight. It was frightening to think of rickshaws out at night without any lights.

There were two kinds of motorized rickshaw: one imported from India with smaller motorbike wheels and a slightly bigger body, or the Bangla made one with larger bike wheels and slightly smaller body. Most of these motorized rickshaws were caged (both driver and passenger) against theft from passersby.

There were a lot of buses and they are used hard: dents and scrapes all round, but even the very top seats (I wonder if they are much cheaper) are padded!

At 10:30 at night we saw trucks unloading on the main road into the city and workers with large baskets  (3-4ft across) carrying goods off.  Some of the workers had finished for the day, or perhaps they were just taking a nap before the next delivery, as they were now using the basket as a bed on the pavement.  At 8 in the morning we saw the basket topped men transporting more goods and the men dragging carts piled high with another man on top to anchor the load got through the traffic often more quickly than anything with four wheels.  In one spot there were six man staggering under a huge bale on their heads and each held a sickle poked into the bale to maintain balance as they weaved their way through the standing traffic.

We spent about an hour driving a mile along the riverfront road and I was reminded of Colonial America when it was faster and simpler to transport by river than across country.  Dhaka seemed like a distribution disaster.

Beautiful fruit and vegetables -  Dhaka is a dense city, full of people and innumerable rickshaws of both bicycle and motorized type, dented buses, cars, and the usual grimy street dirt so the piles of wonderful fruit and vegetables are a delight to the eye.  Sellers with the carved amra on sticks walked between the cars trying to sell them during rush hour and earlier in the day one vendor permitted me to photograph him carving his wares.  The amra is tangy like lemon, very high in vitamin C, and the Bangla like to eat them with a sprinkling of salt and chili pepper (our wonderful housekeeping-wallah from Calcutta told me this). 

There were also amla for sale.  They are Indian gooseberries and look like over sized European gooseberries.  Perhaps it is really that the Indian gooseberry was schlepped off to Europe where it didn't thrive so well and is thus smaller? :)

The other delightful instant food (not that we ate any of it) were the beautifully almost completely peeled cucumbers cut down to the stem in 8 parts so that it opened rather like a  long flower that the vendors sprinkled a bit of oil and lime juice on.

Dhaka, on foot

National Museum -  It was a little scary stepping out of the hotel grounds and heading to the National Museum, although it was only three blocks away.  There was a lot of curiosity and not all of it seemed friendly.  It took me a while to pluck up my courage and actually take out the camera. 


To decrease fatalities the city has erected street overpasses almost every block.  For a really crowded city this produces new surface area and we found people sleeping on the stairs and on the overpass as well as setting up stalls along the overpass and drying their laundry on the railing.

The museum was set in well tended garden with lots of flowering shrubs and one particular tree with very large painted stones underneath it. I couldn't determine whether this was some form of worship or modern art.  The contents of the museum were a fascinating mix of elementary school textbook and fabulous workmanship and art.  They had a large collection of Zainul Abedin's work which was stunning.  His sketches of the 1945 famine victims are very moving.  I wanted to buy postcards (no photography was allowed) and yet despite advertising and sample cards, there were only about 10 cards available (not the ones I wanted). 

The first room of the museum (and yes, there is a very definite order one is supposed to view exhibits in and I was barred from entering rooms out of order!) I entered had a large map of Bangladesh in it.The map was about 24' x 30' and raised three feet off the floor.  There were little red lights indicating towns all over the map and a museum-wallah sat behind the bank of 60-odd buttons ready to show us where what was with the same degree of professionalism and importance that someone at Mission Control might have.

I am guessing that the flipflop has its origins in Asia.  I saw an amazingly painful looking 19th century variation on the theme carved out of ivory.  It seemed rather a waste of skilled workmanship that there were curvaceous young woman sculpted into the soles of these shoes.  These were evidently never meant to be exported to Japan.

Another eye catching exhibit was of ektera.  One stringed quasi-violins. The base was a hollow dried gourd and the neck a split piece of bamboo that was joined to the outside of the gourd. Thanks to Felix we found out what it sounds like http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ai6yj5tMTo and I think it could make a great 'beat' for Felix's next composition.

I spotted a 15th century, four foot high copper war drum that could probably have frightened people several villages away and the embroidery samples were a delight.

By far the most well presented and well maintained room was that of dark, highly polished carved wooden furniture.  There were elaborate husking pedals in the forms of 10 foot crocodiles, and raised beds with with ornate legs and canopy supports. My favourite had three foot high legs with a large animal foot at the base with an elephant on that and a lion on top of the elephant and a bird on top of the lion and finally the bed base on top of the bird, while the canopy would have been supported by the  four lovely corner angels with wings opening outwards who were again another four feet high.

ang

The Dhaka Sheraton - The hotel kindly had a sticker on the hotel wall pointing out the direction of Mecca.  They also had on hand at the concierge copies of most of the known holy books of the world.  One bathroom wall was devoid of any decoration or appliance except a rather primitive bottle opener about 3 feet from the ground and, in somewhat odd contrast, the minibar was empty unless we solicited its filling. Even though it was tempting to test the utility of the bottle opener, we resisted.

The hotel had decent gym facilities - one whole facility for men and another for women.  The hotel also boldly advertised a swimming pool. I would not have dared use it, except for Felix's strong presence with me.  The hotel provided no dressing gown but expected me to walk from the gym down a passage (also used by security staff and dining-kitchen people ferrying food) and then unwrap myself in full view of a bar and multiple groups of business men seated around the very basic pool.  As discreetly as possible I slunk into the pool and swam very close to my son.  I don't think they really wanted the pool used. It just added to their prestige.

On our way from the airport to the hotel we noticed a large sign advertising Sweetmeats.  Bert found this very odd (confusing sweetmeats with sweetbreads) and when I protested that it was merely another name for a bakery a serious debate started which ended in a 300 taka bet.  (Not too large a risk with about 70 taka = $1).  Wanting to cash in on my bet asap, I asked a young hotel minion in the hotel lobby what the word 'sweetmeat' meant.  What could I buy in that shop?  He thought very hard and then said he'd get back to me.  When I saw him next he had several addresses for me where I could buy sweetmeats!  I had not managed to convey my query clearly.  The issue was resolved, in my favor, naturally, at dinner the following evening.  In fact we should have guessed because there is an area in New Delhi called the Bengali market that is just FULL of shops selling sweetmeats (even if they don't call them that in New Delhi).  There seem to be many varieties of ladoo - small deep fried donut like sweet bread dipped into a delicious sugar syrup - with slightly different shapes and colours, of course, with different names.  My  earnest young hotel friend asked me each time he saw me whether I had found the shop yet and although I hadn't, I could at least honestly tell him that I had tried some of the sweetmeats and found them scrumptious.

Persistent rickshaw drivers - This is starting to be very uncomfortable.   A third rickshaw driver picked us up on Saturday and told us our history! Bert and I had established that we would start with a quick visit to an enormous bazaar at the Indira Gandhi Cultural Center (close to India Gate, north of us) where I wanted to show him something in an exhibit on puppets and storytelling and from there go on to walk around Hauz Khaz which has the remains of Siri City (the second city of Delhi built in 14th century). 

Just a block south of the Cultural Center is the National Museum of History and there was a large chariot I wanted to show Bert.  We got out of our rickshaw here and Bert was suitably impressed with the chariot.  Coming out of the gates a pushy rickshaw driver asked where we wanted to go.  We pointed north to the next block and said we were walking.  He said "Cultural Center one and a half kilometers.  I take you both 10 rupees and then you like to see Indian Crafts, very fine things.  This Cultural Center, there is nothing to buy there.  You want to see fine Indian crafts, I take you."  I had been to the bazaar at the Cultural Center only days before.  It was a three minute walk and about 5 acres of stalls full of things to buy.  Bert bravely told this chap that we had plans to go to Haus Khaz, and we were walking the less than a block, thank you.  The persistent chap followed us up the road.    "No problem, you go here, I wait.  I take you to good place, very close, good price, you know festival time, and then I take you to Haus Khaz."  I tried to protest, but somehow we gave in.

Bert and I had a good time at the bazaar, where there was nothing to buy, and even got ourselves interviewed by some enthusiastic media students.  The rickshaw chappy, whose name I am delighted to have forgotten, was, of course, waiting for us. 'O, you find something to buy?'  Shameless chap!  He took off confidently, telling us he knew all about us, "You know Ranjeet Singh.  Sikh man?  He tell me.  You live Aman Hotel.  Most expensive hotel in Delhi.  You buy carpet.  How many carpet you buy?  What kind of carpet you buy?  You also go with Mr. Sharama (the other enterprising chap who picked Elaine and myself up)."  I am nudging Bert through  this deluge of questions: "Be vague in your answers, please." :)   20 minute drive later we arrived at another of those hard sell places full of fantastic things that we didn't want to buy.  Our driver was understandably saddened that we didn't pick up two silk carpets.

"Well thank you for showing us that, now could we push on to Haus Khaz."  "I take you to metro.  Very close.  Very easy."   The nerve of the fellow!  Needless to say he didn't get much of a fare from us for using up our time and dumping us at the metro.  However, the metro was great.  It got us down to Haus Khaz a lot faster and with less pollution than the tuktuk could have, but I am not sure it would be such fun without my strong defender and the reduced weekend traffic.

I am going to have to talk to Mr. Singh.  We clearly overpaid substantially for that carpet and his joy on his commission must have caused him to be too loquacious.

I wonder if the hotel is now being staked out and our descriptions circulated.

Ghazals - William Dalrymple has written a wonderful book about Delhi, City of Djinns, which led me to a another book, a novel by Ahmed Ali, Twilight in Delhi.  Dalrymple's book has several passages describing Urdu scholars' passion for Urdu and Ahmed Ali's novel (a depressing but accurate picture of 1940 Delhi) shows how widespread knowledge of, and delight in, Urdu poets was.

My sources suggest that Urdu arrived in Delhi with the Muslim sultanate in the late twelfth century and that Urdu although its own beast now, bears resemblance to Persian, Turkish and Arabic.  India's 2002 census states that 51,536,111  :) people speak Urdu. 

While Bert was away, and because I am bent on having to pay for more luggage on the way home in January, I went off in search of some Urdu poetry with English translation.  There are plenty of volumes to choose from.


The ghazal is a closed form of poetry with quite strict guide lines.  It is the kind of intricate puzzle I would have set my poetry students to master: short (usually not more than 12 lines); opens with a rhyming couplet with this rhyme repeated at the end of the second line of every verse, AA, BA, CA, DD; the second to last word in the opening line should rhyme with its counterpart in the second line and then every counterpart in each second line of verse; the last couplet often includes the poet's name in some form; the couplets in a ghazal may not hang together logically; the last couplet can be more personal.  Ghazal is an Arabic word = talking to women, and ghazaal is an Arabic word= the painful wail of a wounded deer.*

Given how formal the structure is it comes as a bit of surprise that the ghazal's main subject matter is pining away for the poet's mistress.  It comes as even more of a surprise that these verses also doubled as verses of devotion to God.  Although mistresses seemed the rule rather than the exception, "love outside marriage was deemed immoral"* so these verses are often very ambiguous in their language, addressing lover as God, or God as lover, and carrying a tone of unrequited love and persecution.  Put this in the context of a time of rigorous observance of Muslim worship -certainly a far cry from 'Jesus, Lover of my soul'!

I shan't be adding ghazals to any future high school poetry class. :)

Mir Taqi Mir (1723-1810)

Every bright and beauteous thing derives from His grace,
It's but His spark divine that sets the sun ablaze.

As my agitated heart erupted unrestrained,
The din of doom was let loose with every wail I raised.

When I realized myself, I realized my God,
Far away from myself, I know, I'd strayed.

Dull was your inward flame, or, O, Moses wise,
A thousand Sinais lay ambushed in the lightning blaze.

Without your glowing presence, love, at the nightly meet,
Orphaned stood the moth, the candle desolate.

What matters, O heavens, if I'm razed to dust,
How else my coquettish love to taught to mend her ways?

What if the rich possessed velvets and brocades,
Did he not spend his night, the unprovided, naked rake?

This one seems a bit more hopeful in recognizing an inconsistency:

Mirza Ghalib (1788-1855)
Thousands of desires, each a deadly force,
I have had surfeit of them, still I yearn for more.

Often have we heard of Adam's inglorious exile
but more ignominious was my exit from your door.

The truth about your stature tall will stand exposed, O despot!
If your curls, coil on coil, straighten out their folds.

Let him come, he who wants a letter to my friend inscribed,
with a pen behind my ear, every morn I hawk and stroll.

Those I thought would sympathize with my tale of woes,
Proved to be the sufferers of even harsher blows.

No difference in life and death when we are in love,
The same infidel sustains our life, who makes our life a load.

The preacher and the tavern door, Ghalib, lie poles apart,
Yet yesterday, as I was coming, I saw him slip indoors.

 * Glimpses of Urdu Poetry by K.C. Kanda