A four hour marathon to get a notarized signature: Tales of Dickens – Last week Bert had to get some paperwork notarized.  Now, in America this is simple: almost every bank, and most organizations, have a notary public who will, for a very small fee, notarize papers.  In Germany you can find notaries easily and they charge you an arm and a leg and the outrageous prices are well known.  There is a lot more mystery to it here.  Neither of Bert's Indian associates  (H and S) knew exactly how to get a document notarized.  They knew that notaries existed near the law courts in downtown Delhi. The junior associate (S) had some lawyer friends who said they could get this sorted, and so off Bert and S went to the law courts in one of Delhi’s last days of the 2010 monsoon.  H wisely surmised that his time would be better used at the office.

 The law courts were swarming with people moving in all directions but unwilling, or unable, to help.  It first took Bert and S 30 minutes to find the right gate to the Delhi High Court to enter—with cars and mud blocking progress in all directions.  When they entered, they were greeted by an odd combination of Dickensian England, Kafka, and present day Bollywood: many young and serious looking lawyers, wearing no wigs but a kind of false subfusc front—as if they were all going to final exams at Oxford. Some of the women lawyers wore black and white saris with this subfusc tie of sorts on the front—everything was in black and white, with some of the larger lawyers sweating in the humidity with their pinstriped worsted trousers and the subfusc tie.  After a series of false leads Bert and S found a sign pointing to “oaths commissioner.”  The doorway it pointed to was entrance to a muddy courtyard with a bungalow planted in it—with only two feet between it and the ancient looking High Court building.  To make matters worse, there were Styrofoam trays with half eaten thalis on the ground, puddles everywhere, and the building occupying this courtyard was in complete scaffolding.  They uncertainly circled the building, trying to avoid the puddles, food remnants, scaffolding bars, and scurrying  lawyers and their assistants,  and they found the only door showing the way to the “Typing Pool”. Inside were even more scurrying people with desks all around the perimeter.  Giant Remington typewrites still clacked their way through 4 carbon copies while nervous petitioners waited respectfully.  A few typists had computers vintage 2000—and all around young silent servants were bringing tea.

S luckily found one typist who was typing with the sign of the bank which S’s father is currently heading.  Tentatively, he asked the man (60 years old, quite “healthy” and very officiously busy) if he could help notarize something for his boss out of the US (mention of the US often helps).  Notarize?  Not the right department, the man said and went back to his work.  Very luckily, however, S seemed to recognize the man. He commented, "Don't I know you from somewhere?"  This man is a relative of S's extended family and his daughter is getting married to one of S’s cousins.  S kindly asked the right questions about the upcoming nuptials and the man was suddenly helpful—even more as he recognized that S’s father was the head of the bank for which he was in some way the official typist in the Delhi High Court. He demanded we sit down amidst the hubbub of typing and perspiration of others trying to find a way into the power structure that is India’s legal system. After procuring tea, the man was able to obtain a beautifully ornate enormous (half a legal page) 'stamp' with a 50 Rupees nominal price, which apparently had to be affixed to our document to be notarized.  He added various stamps and scribbles while an ancient British barrister was lurking at the man’s shoulder with an urgent request. However, there was nothing doing before the affixing of the stamp.  The typist then summoned another earnest servant with very fashionable black shoes, curved either out of fashion sense or as a result of too many puddles from this monsoon season.  He was assigned to lead us to a notary—who had additional mystical tasks to fulfill.

The notary, however, was in a completely different building and hall—Bert and S set off to try to keep up with the new servant, who scurried away.  When they finally found the notary’s office, it was bolted shut with three separate locks.  The servant shaking the door was clearly not going to bring anything, so S called on his mobile (I have to think that the mobile phone has transformed the red tape of India’s Kipling era bureaucracy into a foe that can, at least  occasionally, be beaten) to another lawyer friend.  The suggestion was made to go to Delhi’s district courts—about a kilometer away—so off they went to get out of the huge and swarming complex to the road where S’s driver could find them and on to the next stage of the quest.  On arriving there, they had to find another lawyer without subfusc tie (was he a demoted or fallen lawyer?) who led us to a very correct lady notary, sitting under a tent with  a wooden desk and grubby books detailing the successes of previous applicants. As rain dripped all around, she affixed various red wax seals and many new stamps (nothing nearly as impressive as the pre-notary stamp affixed  30 minutes earlier)—going away on two occasions and with the accompanying lawyer charging a fee  (apparently arbitrary) that competed with the German notaries.  The bold adventurers took their valuable document and headed to McDonalds to revive themselves after this bewildering experience.  It is amazing what a Maharaja Mac or Paneer Salsa Wrap  can do to revive the body and soul!. :)

The valuable document was FedExed to Poland before I could take a picture of the amazing pre-notary stamp to impress everyone.  :(

Local Fauna - Our hotel suite is immaculate - I have never stayed in a place so beautifully maintained and serviced, so our run ins with some of the local wildlife are a reminder that we are in Asia, and not everything can be tamed or come under the influence of advanced technology.  (I am reminded  that in northern Virginia I've been more than challenged keeping the rats out of my compost bins :), so it is not just in Asia that some creatures resist our attempts to control them.)

Dogs, dogs, dogs everywhere.  They don't appear unfriendly or rabid - though we are under strict orders not to touch any - few look starved though most look dirty and uncared for and they all have a vague family resemblance from generations without arranged marriages: long legged, short haired, curled tail Labrador like faces.  Although the paths are swept daily on our big road (Lodhi Road) we have to make sure we keep our eyes on where we are walking because of the piles left by the dogs or the uneven pavement.  Interestingly stray dogs and cows don't seem to find the very, very wealthy areas attractive!

Cows - well I haven't seen so many yet, but the one in the middle of a nice mall was a bit of a shock.  We've had an occasional traffic jam because of a couple of leisurely cows, but not many yet.

We have dark wood panelling throughout our suite and instead of blinds or curtains we have the same dark wooden sliding door panels to close the windows.  Last week I was closing up the living area when the sliding door provided a dramatic back drop for a 6" pink lizard.  We observed one another for several seconds before he decided he preferred the darkness of the sliding door opening.  I don't have much history with lizards so I calmly phoned the 'butler' service and asked:  is it normal to have lizards in the room?  Do they carry disease?  Will they go after my food?  The butler was totally unfazed so I guess the lizard is a semi-permanent resident and he certainly doesn't like my food and I haven't seen him again.

A couple of days ago Felix rushed into our room because something  heavy had scampered across his leg.  Regrettably we have still not been able to identify this specific visitor.  We like to know who we are entertaining.

Sunday afternoon Bert and I were enjoying a cup of masala tea together when a dark haired foolish young mouse decided to scurry across the room against the white wall (his mama didn't teach him about camouflage) and into the kitchen. I was very grateful that Bert saw him too.  I think I am worried that people will think I am exaggerating, so a witness is always reassuring.  Our trusty butler service came immediately and within minutes we had one of those horrible glue pads in place with some delicious tempting morsel on it.  Our inexperienced young visitor fell for the trap within two hours and was escorted from our premises by an apologetic butler's assistant.  How this guy got in is a mystery, but the whole city is probably enjoying new animal activity as so much building has been going on for the Commonwealth Games.  When you disrupt a rodent's home he has to find a new one. . .no wonder the athletes' village is finding cobras and mice!

For good measure housekeeping put another glue trap under my sink. . .I hate checking it regularly.  Why does it make me more squeamish to open the door and check to see if something has got stuck on the board, than it did to actually see the mouse?

Security increased sixfold - 4 days ago our gatekeeping security folks got reinforcements: grey safari suited and green clad soldier types.  The green uniformed ones had machine guns slung over their shoulders and generally looked aimable, the grey fellows looked a bit more sinister and never permitted smiles or greetings.  Normally when cars drive up to the hotel one guard uses a slanted mirror on a 3 ft pole to check the bottom of vehicles and the second guard checks the inside of the vehicle and the luggage space.  Now soldiers' guns shadowed each car into the guard stop and four or five men were checking vehicles.  The regular staff apologetically attempted to maintain their usual upbeat friendliness - afterall we have worn their wellies, we do have a special bond.

The athletes for the Commonwealth Games have started to arrive and not all the facilities in the athletes' village are up to snuff.  In fact, some of it has looked a bit grim and so various groups were farmed out to 5 star hotels.  We are guessing from their caucasian appearance and their red and white track suits that we got part of the Canadian group.  I doubt the athletes' village can compete with our hotel's facilities so perhaps the Canadians will find a cobra or rat in their rooms to enable them to shift back to our premises.  The security types (including the fellow stationed to overlook the walled garden) all disappeared along with the red suited athletes yesterday.

I am sure the hotel enjoyed the extra income, but what a security headache.  I hope we don't get Prince Charles and his wife or Mr. O and his.  I like our guards' normal cheerful dispositions.

Colour, noise and traffic jam- these components seem to fit a lot of celebrations here. Earlier this week Bert and I got caught in the last of the monsoon showers at the Khan Market - lots of little shops in a very compact area primarily serving the expatriot community (read, expensive). You can find everything at the Khan Market: Levi jeans, Heinz ketchup, McDonalds, Pumpernickel, imported Japanese melons. There isn't much parking and it is usually noisy with lots of hooting as people maneuver in and out of tight spaces and drivers wait for the Ma'am to do her shopping and load up the car. We arrived just as a tremendously noisy procession completely jammed the whole area with lorries festooned with marigold, loaded with grinning men, blarring a mixture of noise and announcement inched its way through the tight market. Men leaped off the lorries and handed out boxes with little cakes and bottles of water. More echoes of the Sikh good will to all? None of the shopkeepers we asked could tell us "It's just the end of some festival. Nothing to worry about." I wasn't worried, just interested. :)

Sikh Temple and the Friday Mosque - It seems that there is something vaguely humiliating about what the pious faithful require the infidel to wear in order to enter sacred spaces.
The Friday Mosque, Jama Masjid, has an enormous impressive courtyard with colonnades on three sides and a wall of raised areas for prayer under five impressive cupolas/domes that face Mecca. There is something medieval about the way the surrounding city presses in on the walls of the mosque area and business is furious in the narrow streets that feed to the steps to the three entries. The day after we were there some misguided individual drove by the spot where Felix is sitting and fired a couple of shots that hit two Japanese tourists. It is hard to imagine how the perpetrators could made a swift exit, but apparently they were on a motorbike. The unfortunate Japanese tourists are stable. Felix fairly shocked.

Mr. Singh, rickshaw driver of good repute, took us to see the Sikh temple, Gurdwara Bangla Sahib. A guru was murdered on the spot by a particularly unpleasant Mogul emperor, Aurangzeb, and the guru's tomb and the very holy book are venerated here along with neon flashing signs. We had a lengthy, very articulate explanation of Sikh philosophy which raised more questions than it answered, and were amazed by the vast kitchen and lunch facilities. Apparently every Sikh temple cooks to feed everyone at lunch. Rich or poor, regardless of their faith, everyone is welcome. Bert, not one to refuse good food, partook. Felix and I were not so brave. We'll have to seek out further enlightenment as the explanation for this generosity was not clear.

The Muslim call to prayer - It still comes as a shock each time I am outside at the appointed hour for Muslim prayer. In my imaginings I had thought of their call to prayer as a haunting and melodious, or at worst, a strident, invitation. In reality, the call in this part of New Delhi, sounds like the caterwauling of numerous lovesick tomcats to their female counterparts in a ghastly discordant cacophony.

Rain, rain, rain! - Apparently it is the third straight Sunday that there has been torrential rain. Our hotel complex is adjacent to a Methodist church so we are taking this as a sign that that is where we are meant to head on Sundays. We have a 2 minute walk, well perhaps 4 minute walk. The doorman at the hotel kindly lent us a second umbrella as we headed out to church at 7:55a.m. in the drizzle. There is a downward sloping drive to the gate of the hotel and then a slight incline again to get onto the street about 15 yards away. By the time we got to the church door we were grateful for the second umbrella. Rain had started to come down more heavily and proceeded to increase in volume and intensity throughout the service. There was a steady drip onto the pew ahead of us which kept that area clear--or perhaps it was Bert's singing! By the end of the service the street was awash. Water doesn't seem to be able to run off and sits for a while imobilizing everyone. I don't know if we made a conscious decision to run for it, but once out in it and with wet shoes there didn't seem any point turning back. Our 4 minute walk back to the hotel gate was almost entirely under an inch of water. Once we got there we really had a dilemma: the valley at the driveway to the hotel was almost 12 inches under water - we knew because one of the gate keepers was standing in his waterproof and wellies and indicating that we should not try in loafers and sneakers. Felix slipped off his shoes and got through effortlessly in his shorts. I started rolling up my trousers thinking my sandals could handle it. The second gate keeper waved Bert and myself back and came out carefully with an additional pair of wellies for Bert. Umbrella and Bibles in my hands I nearly toppled Bert as he changed from loafers to wellies. Not sure whether it was laughter or the depth of the water, but we nearly came down again in the deepest part of the gully. It was with a great deal of relief and more shared laughter that we handed the wellies back to the gate keeper on the hotel side of the flood. I wonder if the extra wellies are always there in case some guest gets marooned on the wrong side of a sudden torrent.