Out of the winter, and into June

So it is the end of February now. Winter is about to end tomorrow with the celebration of Holi. Already it is unsafe to go out in the streets unarmed with a water pistol or a bit of paint. We are like massive walking targets for the water bombs of men everywhere. I don't really mind water, but I do mind anything else. One of my friends got bombed on Friday with a water-pee mix. Pee! It's a whole new level of human degradation and obscenity. We were afraid to begin with, but now there is the added dimension of uninvited bodily fluids being in contact with me. Imagine if it happened on the way to a lecture! What could you do? What if it was half an hour from your place? Half an hour of stinking to high heaven of SOMEONE ELSE'S URINE. *shudder*

I am worried by the weather right now. It is reminiscent of a beautiful June at home. June. In February. It does beg the question: So if this is like June, what is May going to be like? I fear there might be a return to the dripping days of August. I need to get out of Delhi I think.

So new things in my life since I have been in Delhi:

1. I now know the girl from AIM cafe's name: Yuang. It only took five months to ask.

2. I am taking three very interesting courses this semester: Gender in Literature, Romantic poetry and India After Independence. More on these later. Everything in the department seems really organised this time around though, so that is a nice improvement. I am not sitting exams this term as I really feel like the whole thing was such an unnecessary palaver last time. So it will be essays a go-go.

3. I like guava jam.

4. Continuing the fruity theme, I ate a new fruit. There is a fruit here called chiku (they have it in South America too, and it is called Sapodilla I think) that looks like a small dirty potato. I found it at breakfast and picked up and took it to Tanveer who seemed to think much more of the small potato-ish thing than it's appearance would suggest. You cut a chiku open, and inside there is flesh that is quite like an over-ripe pear in texture, soft but a little grainy. And it tastes like caramel. I think it is possibly my favourite fruit alongside pineapple. You don't eat the skin, you scoop it out, or if you are picking one up on the way home, eat it off the skin. And they are addictive. You can easily consume five of these wee things in about as many minutes. They are incredibly sweet and go well in porridge. I have a vague idea to make jam out of them to send home, but I really don't know how to do that. I had never seen them before in my life. that was strange for me, as in the UK we have access to so many international foods, and one so tasty as chiku, I thought I would at least have heard of it. Someone is missing out on making a killing. "Chiku! The fruit that looks like a potato but tastes like caramel!" I can just see it now.

5. I have taken up Urdu classes. We are trying to learn how to write it. It is a beautiful script, called Nastaliq. I am rather bad at it though, as it does all look worryingly like the same squiggle, just in different positions round the page. Still, if I can at least write my name, I will be happy. Thankfully Urdu the spoken language is just a Persian version of Hindi, so I have not too much issue there.

6. I cut my hair, I take vitamins, and yet it still falls out. Actually, that isn't that new is it?

7. Trip to Chandigarh: Went up to Chandigarh with Lauren to stay with dad's friend Navjeet and his wife Meenu and Navjeet's parents. His parents are lovely, though they are both fairly bonkers in their own ways. His dad was quite imperious and obviously incredibly proud of his city and university. He showed us round everything and was anxious that we didn't have to even think in case it was an effort for us. He had decorated the flat they lived in himself, and it was full of plastic and real flower arrangements, strange mood lighting, decoratively arranged soft toys and paintings. There was a cupboard that turned into a mirrored bar and a blue tooth controlled music system. In the room we were sleeping in, we had a lamp made of hermit crab shells all sticking outwards, a green light above the bed, a monkey hanging from the toilet ceiling and a dress-up magic wand pinned to the wall, leather square cushions and a tiger print quilt. It was an eclectic mix of old cat lady and 70s pimp. His mother was constantly asking us why we didn't eat more, and talking about desert in a furtive and giggly way. We loved her, she was such a character. The made us feel so welcome in their home, despite never having met us. Chandigarh itself is a nice city, quite odd. It doesn't feel like India. It is clean, open and green. it feels American actually. Everything in it is built to a convenient and well-organised plan and everything is very new. The lake there is lovely to walk round, and you could take a pedalo out on to the water. I think I would go back for a relaxing weekend if ever I felt I needed to get out of India but couldn't actually get out of the country. 

8. Other small things that come to mind: Small child being hung out of mercedes car door to shit in the street; being asked if I was Mulsim and married by a rickshaw driver; the tchai in my Urdu classes with huge amounts of ginger in it; zazie in the metro; the new urinal on my road everyone now pees on instead of in; new friend from California Shayna; seeing a rickshaw do a somersault and smash right next to me; two monks on a moped; Chinese New Year with Vietnamese nun chant and Ladaki dancing; Wouter and Lauriane's new flat and the tea we attempted; learning that putting bitter chocolate in tchai mix helps everything.

So. Here we are. Back in the present more or less. 

A note on Delhi winters

A note on Delhi winters:

 

Everyone explains that winter here is the period from Divali to Holi. How and ever, when I left India for home I was still only ever needing to put on a light jacket at night, and during the day it had become bearable to wear jeans and a cardigan. However, when I arrived back to the metropolis with Iain, it was freaking freezing. It was drizzling, maybe 5 degrees during that day and misty. Oddly reminiscent of a slightly bleak October in the UK. I was stunned. I was cold for perhaps the first time in India. I hadn’t taken heed of all those who had warned me that Delhi would get cold and that I would feel it too, no matter how hardy the Scots race is and so on and so forth. It was so cold that walking on the stone floors without socks was painful.

None of the buildings here are designed for the cold. So it could in fact be colder IN your room than out of it. The hostel is effectively one big concrete block, so no heat is trapped in the rooms. Ineffective in summer and too effective in winter, this led us to being freezing at night to the extent of having to wear all our clothes in bed as well as all our duvets. In the worst weeks of January I habitually went to bed with:

5 woolen jumpers/hoodie

1 t-shirt

1 pair wool socks

1 pair leggings

1 set fleecy pajama bottoms

2 duvets

1 blanket

1 set wool gloves

1 scarf

Top that if you can…

You didn’t even want to go and have a shower and get changed at all. The showers were for the most part hot, which was a life saver, but even so, we were quite content to let ourselves get dirtier and greasier lest we should have to strip off a layer. I think Amanda epitomized this. She is unashamed to admit that she hardly changed her clothing at all or washed much at all, save her knickers. Lauren came up with the affectionate nickname of ‘Maevis’ to describe Amanda’s new found love of all things a bit baggy, comfortable, and woolen. There was a period where she was wearing a dusty pink chunky knit cardigan and a little white chunky knit beanie, and I have to say, ‘Maevis’ suited her.

We wondered how the rickshaw drivers coped. A lot of them didn’t even have socks on. They all covered their faces with a scarf to try and keep out the wind. The only other change was that some seemed to have acquired perhaps a wool vest to go over their shirt or perhaps, if lucky, an old moth-eaten jacket. If I, wrapped in as many layers as could fit under my wool jacket (got to love wool) was cold in the rickshaw, what the hell were they feeling? It was like a reversal of the month of August – then I wondered how the rickshaw men coped with the sweltering heat and humidity.

It occurred to me on various occasions that the winter in Delhi, while comparatively unextreme compared to the ones at home, would kill a lot of vulnerable people. There is no flu vaccine. But that is the least of the worries of some poor person who lives on a pavement and who has to gather pieces of plastic to make a fire. Except they might not even have been able to given the fog density. You could hardly see two feet in front of your face. I read on the BBC a feature article about the homeless in Delhi. Apparently some government scheme was trying to move some of them out from under a bridge in an effort to ‘clean up’ the city. The journalist had interviewed one or two of them, and they sounded completely desperate. The government was moving them out and leaving them to find some other bridge to colonise, or else to just get on with a slow, cold and hungry death. 

Seeing the little kids in just a shirt, or the rickshaw wallahs in their summer clothes, or the people clustered in a tent around a dung and rubbish fire forced me to consider them so much more than in the heat. At least in the heat they won’t suffer cold and all the ailments it brings. At least then, running around without your sandals on it not a problem, as even the ground is hot. Sleeping outside might even be considered preferable in the summer months. But in the dark, mist and cold, it must have been truly awful to be one of these people. And all we felt we could ‘do’ for anyone was to try and make sure we had biscuits to give the kids and an extra five rupees for the rickshaw wallahs, because Christ knows they deserved it. And perhaps then they could buy some socks. Personally, I would probably have spent it on alcohol. 

Slowly but surely...

Slowly but surely I am catching up with myself.

Iain's trip to India:

1. The guest house we stayed in was down a back street in Karol Bagh. You have little idea how happy I was that I decided we would stay in a five star place for the final two nights just so that we had heating. The floor was cold stone, they over-charged for what you got and the bathroom was shared. Not overly romantic. Not that this was an issue as we were generally so tired after a day full of running about like idiots trying to fit everything in to the tiny amount of time Iain spent here. 

2. Had my third (twice was enough) trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. I am now entirely sure I never need to see Agra again. And yet, I am going to be with Emma. Sigh. Stupid Wonder of the World being beautiful and accessible to me...

We did find a Costa Coffee though in Agra. For all those who would declaim me for being excited about a Costa in India when I should be stopping at a roadside tchai wallah for authenticity's sake, I say this: Agra is a hole. It is a complete state of a city with more rubbish than is usual (and that is saying something for a country with negligible waste disposal at the best of times) and a reputation for giving all who go there some form of food poisoning. So a Costa is a clean oasis in a desert of dust, discarded plastic, and flies. Don't judge me until you go and see for yourself.

Had my first ' you hold my fat baby' photo experience. Most gratifying. I felt more white than I had done in a while.

3. Had a bit of a freak out in Jaipur airport. Thought I might have to go home for a moment or two but I was probably just a bit tired. that's what three a.m starts can do to a girl.

4. Iain and I explored Delhi with the assistance of Lauren and Amanda. It was nice to be able to show Iain all of the little hangouts we have and prove to him that it ain't all bad once you get used to it. He particularly enjoyed Cafe Turtle and a very posh restaurant in South called Bakura. It is in the Maurya Sheratoun and it is incredibly expensive but highly worth it. The best tandoori food you will have in Delhi as far as I can tell so far. Iain even had them pack the lamb we shared and brought it back to the hotel to munch on as a midnight snack while we watched Up together. We also went to Karims: a tiny little conglomeration of kebab shops in Chandni Chowk beside the Jama Masjid. The naan bread there was absolutely divine I have to say. Amanda and I had a lovely almond, date and paneer curry called 'Karim's Special Veg' that was incredibly creamy and very unusual. We were practically scraping the bowl with the naan to try and scoop up the last dribbles of the gravy. I also took him to AIM cafe. After he had left for home, the nice girl (who I recently found out is called Yung) complimented me on his hair and thought it was very sad he wasn't here any more to keep me company. All of my friends in the hostel that got to meet him were incredibly impressed with him as well. Apparently we match one another. How cute. How nauseating.

It was very embarrassing at the airport saying goodbye to him. I was sobbing hysterically and getting a lot of odd looks from the Sikh gentlemen who were exchanging pleasantries beside me. It was such a deflated feeling once I got back into the hostel, but life in the convent goes on. 

Iain seemed to cope with the poverty and everything he thought would get to him incredibly well. He even (shock, horror) had a good time. I think he liked the Lotus Temple and the food the most. He is a huge fan of modern architecture, so it isn't too surprising. He left with many presents, wall-hangings and tchai. I am happy he came, and even happier he enjoyed himself seeing as it was so difficult to convince him to come in the first place. He says that he has been inspired to travel more now that he has made the leap, which makes me very glad, as I love to travel and explore new places and revisit old ones. You can't ask for more than that really. 

I am a terrible blogger.

I promised myself I wouldn't end up getting too far behind with this thing. And yet here we are, in February, and I am still on about the pre-Christmas line up. No more!

I was going to talk about Islay, so here are some things I feel are highly evocative of the trip:

powder snow sinking in and dusting over the sand so the beach turned as white as they sky and only the mirroring sea was distinguishable; the tree that looked like a man from a distance; the iron ship hull on kilcomman beach that I hadn't even realised existed because the tide is never that far out; the snow-seagull; parsnip crisp soup and clootie dumpling in Ardbeg; waving to every driver we passed; brakes failing in the snow; shortbread and tablet made by my dad's elderly patient and Gordon's mum; Gavia sprawling over everyone's bed; Robin attacking me and making me fall over and nearly flash everyone; the white dog that looked like a cross between a bear and a powderpuff; an entire smoked salmon; looking over the Loch Indall and seeing Jura's hills covered in pristine white snow.

A weekend of wine, food, whiskey, the sea, the snow and general meandering throughout Port Charlotte. I have decided I will have my 21st there.

Christmas was wonderful. It was a white Christmas I think for the first time in 10 years, if not longer. I was so completely happy that day. I had my pink and blue silk saree on that I wore for Divali and I felt pretty good, even if I did keep standing on my sash. I got many amazing presents, including a brilliant canvas shopper with a foil printed Tunnocks Teacake on the front, thigh high leather boots, a leather jacket and a plastic badge that resembles the posh lady with the purple poodle out of the animated version of 101 Dalmations. Once more, the ladies won outright at Articulate and Iain said some vaguely inappropriate things as is his wont when surrounded by my family. I enjoyed it very much.

Between Christmas and New Year there was a bit of a blur of activity. I got ready to leave and spent time with people as much as possible. Grace left for Ghana. I had my last milk Oolong in Tchai Ovna for the next few months. It snowed some more. My parents and I spent a brilliant afternoon in Mugdock Country Park. The branches had crazy ice formations on them that made them look like the were frosted with sharpened glass. 

New Year's Eve was also a success from my point of view. My last night to see my friends for the next five months. It was sad to have to say goodbye again, but not nearly as bad as the first time. I am glad I went home to see them all, even if I was running from one thing to the next and didn't get to spend proper time with anyone. We spent the night dancing to terrible 80s music and eating various muffin concoctions, including a feta and sun dried tomato variety that was surprisingly moreish. I drank the champagne my Great Gran had kept for me, but stopped after the bells so as to be able to drive home the next day. On New Year Day I had to go to jack and Susan's, my grandparents' friends, for a wee bit and pay my respects to the relatives before I was off. I was sad to leave my Great Gran again. I really missed her last semester. The letters she sent me were so uplifting and depressing all at once. It isn't nice to leave the people who are in your life. My little cousin Hannah wore harem pants and an Oriental collar jacket. That night we had a family dinner, watched the last ever Dr Who and cried over David Tennant and the lack of time. 

On 2nd January, I made my way once more to the sub-continent. This time, Iain was coming with me.

And I almost didn't make it. At Heathrow I was told I had no ticket, and had to buy a new one. You can imagine the moment of panic, I am sure, upon being told the flight you had booked for two months was in fact not booked in any way, shape or form. Thankfully the ladies at the Air India desk were sympathetic, and I got on the flight nevertheless. 

So. That was home. I am glad I went, and upset that I had to leave everything again. The holiday was too short, but I nearly went straight back to the airport when I returned to Delhi, so perhaps if it had been longer I would have refused altogether. The people in this place are what keeps me here. I know I am having a good time. I know I am lucky. I know I am seeing and doing things I would not have the chance to do at home. But in all reality it is my friends, the people I have met here, that I want to stay here for and not just treat it all as some strange extended holiday that I could back out of. I want to be able to stay with them as long as possible. I will see my friends, family and boy again, but I might not see these girls and guys for years, if at all. And that is definitely worth the stress of walking down our road after dark!