Turtles all the way down

This week we're turtle sitting. Pushpa, our cook, traveled to visit her family home in Kolkata for the first time in three years and left me in charge of her pet turtle, Pupu. Pupu, it turns out, is (are?) actually two turtles. I didn't know this detail until Pushpa showed up with Pupu Thursday afternoon on her way to the train station. Our previous conversations had all painted Pupu as a singular masculine subject. Anyhow, around 4 pm she stormed in with a large red bucket, pulled two small turtles out of her bag, motioned for me to remain quiet, then turned and left without taking time to answer basic care-related questions. I guess she was concerned someone in the building would learn about the turtles and get the wrong idea. Who knows how her brain works. Thankfully, she provided all the necessary information later through a series of short WhatsApp voice messages.

To my relief, Pupu requires very little maintenance. I change their water (let's go with they pronouns) daily and feed them a small quantity of basmati rice atop a tupperware lid that serves as both a plate and a makeshift island in their shell-high aqueous environment.  They don't really like to be played with or even observed, so I mostly let them be. I'm glad there are two of them just for the sake of entertainment. Do turtles even get bored? It seems they'd have to in such an under-stimulating environment. It helps my conscience to imagine them playing turtle games when we're not looking.

Pushpa returns for Pupu Wednesday, when she resumes her cooking and cleaning duties, so I only need to keep these turtles alive for three more days. Per her instructions, all they eat is rice and papita (papaya). She left us with plenty of cooked rice and at the moment I'm ripening a papita from the bazaar. With any luck, it will ripen in time for us to feast together in the coming days. There isn't much you can do with aquatic turtles, but I've grown rather fond of the little buggers in our short time together.

Pupu aside, it's been a busy week of shows here in Delhi. I've gone out to see music or dance eight of the past nine evenings, and I'll plan to post some highlights in the coming days. As fun as it's been, I'm looking forward to a little down time this week. Monsoon, for all its romance, is a good time to rest.

Back to Business

 

Following a full week of lessons and practicing, my pakhawaj made its stage debut with Ashish Gangani Friday evening at Kathak Kendra. Ashish, one of my three pakhawaj teachers (and the only one of them I handpicked based on his expertise as a kathak accompanist), left Hauz Khas the night before with my drum aboard his scooter in a soft protective case. He needed a loaner for the weekend as he waits on a new drum to be made. Apparently his pakhawaj maker refuses to build drums during the monsoon out of concerns over inferior quality.  

Ashish accompanied Samiksha Sharma, a student of Rajendra Gangani (his uncle) and a teacher at Kathak Kendra, alongside Yogesh Gangani (also his uncle) on tabla. The above clip shows Ashish and Yogesh accompanying Sharma's presentation of gat nikas. These Ganganis play so well together, and their alternating phrases highlight the complementary sounds of the tabla and pakhawaj as well as their respective roles in kathak accompaniment. The clip below shows Ashish performing a short solo in drut (fast) tin tal towards the end of the program. 

Tonight I'll head to Shri Ram Centre at Mandi House to see Ashish perform with my drum for the second night running. Tomorrow it makes its eagerly anticipated return to Hauz Khas by scooter. Then tomorrow evening it's back over to Mandi House to watch the young tabla virtuoso Yashwant Vaishnav perform a solo. I've been wanting to catch him since arriving in February. Excited to finally have the opportunity. After a couple slow summer months, the show calendar is ramping up again.

Varanasi

Reached Delhi late last night after eight hours aboard the Vande Bharat Express from Varanasi. Allie and I spent three days exploring the city following our rendezvous aboard the Dibrugarh Rajdhani Thursday evening. Poor thing was in the throes of intense gut distress but she braved the trip and gradually bounced back over the course of the weekend.

Since my last post consisted primarily of text, today I'm going to serve up a bunch of photos. Varanasi is a photogenic place, and we caught it at a particularly photogenic moment in time. Enjoy.

Day 1

Setting out for an evening cruise on the Ganga with our singing boatman, Sonu

Cremation site at Manikarnika Ghat (vid)

Crowds gathering for aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat (vid)

Day 2

Damekh Stupa at Sarnath, where the Buddha gave his first sermon

Day 3

Sunrise bathers at Tulsi Ghat

The "Ghatwalk"

Shri Durga Mandir

Street dog love

Banarasi Silks

Sunday afternoon at Varanasi Junction

A Tale of Two Weddings

Last week I attended not one but two weddings here in Delhi. I didn't have any prior relationship with the associated parties, and in truth I didn't actually see anyone get married. Apparently that privilege is generally reserved for close family members. I also didn't take any pictures, beyond a couple kurta-pajama selfies to share with Allie. I did, however, manage to capture a two-minute video of the extravagant vegetarian buffet at the first wedding, again for Allie's amusement. The two weddings, only about ten kilometers apart, articulated a gulf in social worlds that is by no means unique to Delhi, or India for that matter, but is certainly pronounced here. 

On Wednesday, following an afternoon pakhawaj lesson with Mohan Sharma in Badarpur, I changed into my golden kurta (the first time I'd worn it since purchasing back in February) and hopped into his SUV, along with a backseat full of family members--mostly children. With Panditji at the wheel, we fought our way westward out of Badarpur through Delhi rush hour, south across the border into Haryana, and eventually reached Surajkund--the site of a tenth-century reservoir that is now home to a number of resorts and bougie hotels. 

We arrived at the Rajhans Hotel shortly after 8 pm--still early by Indian standards--which meant the massive outdoor reception area remained relatively empty. But to my delight, the food was already on full display. Though I can't be sure, I'm pretty sure the extravagant culinary offerings were a big part of why I received an invitation in the first place. When Panditji initially asked if I'd be free the evening of July 6, he commented on how much excellent food would be served. 

I'd learned earlier that afternoon that 2000 guests were expected at the reception. The exhaustive buffet of chaat, classic vegetarian entrees, fresh Indian breads, oven-baked pizzas, countless sweets, kulfi, and made-to-order ice cream sundaes suggested the figure was not an exaggeration. Accompanied by Chirag, Panditji's adorable four-year-old grandson, we set out to peruse the chaat first. After downing a small plate of aloo tikki, doused in all the customary chutneys, followed by some small dosa-like creation, I worked my way towards the entrees, where I was careful not to overdo it. With so many desert options, it would be a shame to fill up on paneer masala and vegetable curries.

In the process of sampling the extensive selection of dishes, the humidity became a factor. Feeling myself starting to sweat through the kurta, I looked up at Panditji and saw he was similarly perspiring. He suggested we check out the AC hall, which prior to that moment I hadn't even known to be an option. I didn't need to be asked twice.

That first taste of AC made it difficult to head back outside, particularly as servers continued to roam the hall with small plates and glasses of assorted fresh juices. I braved the outdoors in short bursts, specifically for a plate of sweets and a handmade kesar pista kulfi, but the remainder of my evening was mostly spent chatting in the crowded air-conditioned hall.

A rather intense ten-year-old lad named Jagrit consumed the majority of my time and attention from that point onward. Having seen me chatting with Panditji in English, he approached as soon as he saw me sitting alone sensed an opening. Eager to befriend the lone foreigner, he bombarded me with questions. At first it was endearing, but after an hour or so I found myself searching desperately for an exit strategy. Even as I attempted to chat with other people, and tried to shake him with the occasional trip outside for cold refreshments, he continued to attach himself to me. Convinced he'd made a best friend for life, and telling me as much, he asked repeatedly for my phone number, which I provided somewhat reluctantly. Neither of us had a pen, and he didn't have a phone, so as we meandered in and out of the hall, he repeated my phone number out loud to sear it into his memory. Inevitably, he'd forget something, or misremember, then ask again. By 11 pm, full of sweets and tired of dealing with the overly inquisitive youngster, I said my goodbyes to Panditji and called for an Uber home. By midnight, I was comfortably back in my bed in Hauz Khas. Thus far, no calls from Jagrit. 

The following evening, having slept off most of the gluttony, I set out to meet my friend Karishma (a fellow Fulbrighter and Delhi-based journalist) who had invited me to tag along along to what she called an "aam aadmi" (ordinary man) wedding. She reasoned I would probably have plenty more opportunities to attend rich people's weddings but that a wedding of this nature may not come along for me again. In hindsight, I also think she didn't want to brave the journey into JJ Colony Madanpur Khadar, a dense government resettlement colony on the southeast outskirts of Delhi along the banks of the Yamuna, alone. Glad to be asked, and not one to turn down a new "cultural experience," I had accepted her invitation.

I knew we might be in for some unforeseen complications when the Uber driver we'd hired from Alaknanda, where Karishma lives, wouldn't take us all the way into JJ Colony. At first he demanded an extra two hundred rupees, to which we agreed, then he apparently had second thoughts decided the trip wasn't worth the extra cash. He dropped us a few kilometers away in Sarita Vihar. We tried to hail autos, but no one wanted to fight the traffic into JJ Colony. To my amazement, Karishma--who is slightly more shameless than I and more fluent with her Hindi--recruited a nearby police officer to our cause. I would never consider doing such a thing. The less the Delhi police know about me the better, and I stand out enough as it is. Eventually we found a generous autowala through Uber who, for an extra fee, agreed to drive us as close to the bridge into JJ Colony as he could get us. He explained that if the traffic was completely jammed then we'd be better off crossing into JJ Colony on foot.

Seeing the stationary traffic jamming the narrow road, we paid the autowala, bid him farewell, and set out across the bridge spanning the canal that separates JJ Colony from the rest of South Delhi. The road, just wide enough to accommodate two vehicles side by side, left no room for foot traffic. During breaks in the oncoming traffic we walked on the pavement, but as soon as any vehicle wider than a scooter came along we had to balance atop a large drainage pipe and walk alongside the passing traffic and blaring horns. Like so many of the small, extraordinary moments that slip by undocumented, I wish I'd taken a video, but pulling out the phone at that moment would have compromised my safety. 

Safely across the bridge and through the traffic jam, we hired another auto to take us the remainder of the way. The contrast with the previous night's reception was stark. Karishma's friend Viru, the groom-to-be, came out to the street to greet us and led us into a narrow alley where a catering tent had been erected towards the back. Rugs had been spread in the ten meters or so between buildings, covered by a festive pink and red canopy, and a group of teenagers DJed from a laptop through a loud makeshift sound system. We followed Viru into a humble dwelling where we sat and met with a few family members, including his two-year-old niece, whose pet name is "Ladoo" (a type of Indian sweet). Everyone was in the process of making preparations and getting dressed for the party, including Ladoo, who would soon be wearing a silver sequin dress with matching footwear.

We stayed long enough to mingle and eat a simple, satisfying dinner. It wasn't quite as hot as the previous night but every bit as humid. On top of that, there was no AC hall. I kept hearing stories about the crazy dancing at the family wedding Karishma had attended before covid when Viru's brother (Ladoo's father) had tied the knot. Alas, shortly after dinner Karishma started to crash from the heat and we made our exit before a proper dance party could materialize. We said our goodbyes, thanked Viru, and made for the exit. Not to be denied the rare opportunity to party with a well-dressed foreigner, one of the uncles approached and started to dance with me as I made to leave. I obliged. At that moment, no one else was on the dance floor. We must have been quite a spectacle. In any case, it was enough for Karishma to pull out her phone to document the incident. The video can tell the rest of the tale.

Leaving Lucknow

Masjid at The Residency (site of the 1857 Siege of Lucknow)

In honor of July 4th, I'd considered dedicating a post to assessing the state of American democracy in an attempt to process the events of recent weeks. Then my departure from Lucknow provided more exciting and frankly less depressing fodder. Maybe I'll feel compelled to weigh in on American politics eventually, but things back home look pretty bleak at the moment. Let's go with a feel-good story instead.

Leaving Lucknow

It almost didn't happen. Despite agonizing over train schedules and rebooking last minute to avoid the pitfalls of an early morning departure, I almost missed my train. Lucknow made one last-ditch effort to retain me.

Upon arrival, the first major difference I noticed between Lucknow and Delhi is that unless you're in a couple specific areas you can't just walk outside and hail an auto in Lucknow. The train station is one of the few places where it's easy to find transportation at all times. When Allie and I met at Charbagh some ten days prior, we had no trouble hiring a friendly gent piloting an electric rickshaw to get us to our AirBnb in Husainabad. Several minutes earlier, the same gent had apparently given Allie directions towards my train while she was wandering around looking for me. Hazratganj, the central commercial district, also boasts an abundance of all types of rickshaws, but there are neighborhoods in Lucknow where you'll never see an empty rickshaw roaming in search of a fare. 

Allie's homestay happens to be located in one such neighborhood. After blowing off my Friday morning ticket and rebooking for Monday afternoon, I shifted to the homestay for the weekend. The property, while a little on the funky side, is in a posh upscale district of the new city nested amongst the homes of politicians and other high-profile civil servants of Uttar Pradesh. Unlike Hauz Khas Road (my stomping ground back in Delhi), where you will encounter no fewer than three to five auto rickshaws per minute during daytime hours, booking through Uber is the only reliable way to get out of Allie's neighborhood. In India, Uber offers hired autos, a variety of cars, and motorcycle pickups. As you might expect, there are fewer drivers on the road in Lucknow at any given time compared with Delhi. But that's not saying much, as Delhi is one of the busiest places on earth.

In any case, one of the reasons I rebooked my return ticket (apart from wanting to spend additional time with Allie on her home turf) was my concern with hiring a ride in Lucknow at 5:30 am. Beyond that, our AirBnB hosts in the old city locked the front gate of their compound overnight. Last week Allie had to ask them to open it for her once or twice while leaving for the language institute around 8 am. These two factors prompted me to reconsider the prudence of catching the 6 am train. Accounting for the relative slowness of Lucknow (i.e. still a busy Indian city, but not Delhi), 3 pm Monday afternoon felt like a safe time to book an Uber out of Allie's neighborhood to Charbagh, a mere three and a half kilometers to our west. Perhaps our recent string of benevolent Uber fortune had made me irrational, but requesting a fifteen-minute ride fifty-five minutes before the Swaran Shatabdi departed for New Delhi felt reasonable.

Technically the story hasn't even begun, but bear with me. Context is important.

So there we are resting on Allie's bed, AC unit cranking away behind us, and I start requesting rides at 2:40 pm to make the 3:35 train. Based on recent experience, turnaround time for Uber in that part of Lucknow averages between five and ten minutes. But following days of reliable pickups, this particular request yielded no immediate results, just spinning bars in the Uber app. This happens from time to time, particularly in Lucknow, and usually you just need to wait out the dry spell or try requesting a different form of transportation. 

A few minutes passed and a driver finally accepted the ride. We watched the vehicular avatar begin winding towards us on the map before slowing to a halt and canceling abruptly. Cancelations are frequent in India. Drivers have their reasons, I'm sure, and sometimes it's probably as simple as not wanting want to fight through traffic to pick you up just to turn around and fight through the same traffic to reach your destination. Often drivers won't even budge until you communicate your intended destination. Then if the destination is undesirable, they'll cancel the ride.

With 3 pm fast approaching and no driver en route, the search took on a tinge of urgency. Still plenty of time, but we needed to find someone soon. Now searching for an auto--to see if I could change my luck--I asked Allie to pull out her phone and request a car. This would at least give us multiple hooks in the water. She got a bite, but the driver canceled like clockwork as soon as she told him we needed to get to the railway station.

3 pm and no closer to finding transportation than we had been twenty minutes earlier, the urgency ratcheted up a notch. It was time to brave the heat and hit the street on the unlikely chance that an empty auto might pass by the homestay. No such luck. We continued to search for rides on our dueling iPhones but no one would take the fare. Time was slipping away. As the afternoon sun beat down and my fresh travel clothes began to melt onto my body, we started to walk. Cappuccino Blast, a busy-ish cafe, is around the corner just a couple hundred meters from the homestay. Maybe we would find an empty auto waiting there. At least moving would put us closer to a busier intersection. 

Standing there on the corner near Cappuccino Blast with all my luggage (pakhawaj in soft bag, roller-board carry-on, and backpack) we looked every direction for some sign of life. Nothing. Autos simply don't cruise that neighborhood. Then all of a sudden, a cycle rickshaw turned the corner--a glimmer of hope! I tried to hire him, but after glimpsing the luggage and assessing the distance to the station he shook his head and rode onward without breaking stride. 

Just as we were about to give up and accept that fate had intervened to keep me in Lucknow for at least another night, a nearby gentleman, witnessing our predicament, approached. He informed us that if we walked a block to the next corner we could probably hire a cycle rickshaw that could take me to an auto rickshaw that could take me to the station. What the hell, it was worth a shot, improbable as it sounded. I checked my phone. 3:15. Time to move.

We approached the first rickshaw wala we saw and explained the situation in as few words as possible. Seeing all the gear, he dropped the canopy--which transformed into a luggage rack--in order to accommodate the heavy load. After hefting up the luggage, I hopped aboard (my first time riding a cycle rickshaw in India), waved back to Allie, and we were off. Our pace was not exactly blazing, but he did his best given the extra weight and abusive sunlight. We gained momentum on the straightaways, but as I tracked our progress on the phone it became clear wouldn't reach the station by 3:35 at our present velocity.

Stilly roughly two kilometers out, I told the rickshaw wala we should hire an auto for the remainder of the journey. Struggling up a slight incline through traffic, he didn't protest. He soon pulled up alongside what turned out to be a shared auto bound for Charbagh. There was exactly enough room next to the older gentleman in the back to fit me and my oversized luggage. I payed the heroic rickshaw wala 100 rupees, thanked him, and zoomed off in the full auto. 3:25 pm. If we hit the traffic signals right there was still a chance.

The auto pulled up to Charbagh at 3:31 pm. Not bad. The only problem now was that the station is massive and I had no idea where to go. Charbagh is actually a complex of multiple railway stations under one roof--I had arrived at Lucknow Railway Station (LKO) but was scheduled to depart from Lucknow Junction (LJN). Walking the length of the station and looking for my entrance, I skimmed one of the large departure monitors facing the street and didn't see my train number anywhere. I kept walking. 

Then who should appear out of nowhere but the very same electric rickshaw wala that had driven us from the station to our AirBnb ten days prior. When I told him I was looking for the train to Delhi he identified it by name, looked down at his watch, and with a sense of urgency told me to hop aboard. I obeyed. No time for second thoughts.

What happened next is still a little hazy, given the mixture of heat exhaustion and heightened adrenaline that tainted the moment. We drove quickly past the end of the station and onto a service road between two sets of nonparallel tracks. At one point the driver appeared to pay off a couple guys who were standing in the road before proceeding directly to my train. Once we arrived alongside the Shatabdi, I hurriedly payed the driver (too much, but who cares) and turned to see the door in front of me closed. Panicking, I implored the conductor standing there to open it. He obliged. I asked which coach I'd boarded. C4, he said. Which way to C15? Forward, he said. C15 was the first (in this case the last) coach in the line.

Convinced that the train would pull out of the station at any moment, I proceeded to walk the entire length of the remaining eleven coaches without once setting foot back on the platform. Nothing would get me off that train. Saturated in sweat, carrying entirely too much luggage, and almost certainly the only white guy on the train, I must have been quite a sight as I clumsily navigated the succession of full compartments.

By the time I reached C11, I barely had enough strength in my arms to open the heavy doors between coaches. Dehydration hit quick. Almost there. Just keep going. The final departure announcements came over the PA just as I reached my coach. Dripping sweat and scrambling to stash my bags overhead, I urged the father and adult son in my row to let me past to the window seat. I'd made it. Through an improbable concerted effort--a web of moving parts and contingencies--somehow I'd made it. 

As the Shatabdi picked up speed, I looked back at the station where my Lucknow journey had begun and miraculously ended. Ten days spent with Allie in between. Ten days filled with mangos, kebabs, biryani, sightseeing, sweat, rain, and new friendships. Ten days from then I'd be passing through the same station yet again on my way east to Varanasi, stopping for ten minutes to let Allie board the Rajdhani. I hope Lucknow will forgive me if I don't disembark to stretch my legs, out of fear she might have a few more tricks up her sleeves.