Old Chinatown and Mother Teresa - what a team!

On my way out to Old Chinatown this morning, I had to stop and photograph my favorite vegetable lady who now smiles and waves at me even if her carrots ARE so old and ratty that the blender blew up twice when I was making carrot soup!

This was an eye hospital where the line of patients streamed across the yard and out to the road.  I wondered if George Spaeth might think about coming over here and giving a helping hand...

The effusive bathing in the public water faucets was unbelievable - bubbles of soap lathering up backs, hair, faces, legs, etc., and the joyful, lack of self-consciousness was sheer exuberance!

This indicated that I was getting warm, the Tung Nam Eating House.

There is NO way I could have planned this photo, but the purple of the woman's dress against that orange plastic is so good that my heart sings

This one is for my sister, and this adorable young man agreed to let me photograph the back of his T-shirt; when I left him, I said, "See you in Brooklyn!"  I saw two other T-shirts today that unsettled me. One read, "Dream, Dream, Desire, Desire, Despair.  The other said Life has No Backspace.  I liked that one.

This man in the white shirt was the first indication of some Chinese genes, but how can I really tell?

These were some clearly Indian fellows who wanted me to take their photos; they can really ham it up for the camera, and then they just LOVE seeing themselves and fall over each other laughing!

 No question that this is the Chinatown, old or new, and when I saw the crowd congregating below, I sensed this was a Chinese group; apparently there are only about 50 Chinese families left in Calcutta.

This bubbling cha compelled me to order one and sit and chat with the men who were enjoying same.  When I tried to pay for the TWO cups I had, the man wouldn't let me!  

These are my tea friends, and they were all proud as punch to tell me that they were friends with the Muslims who had a stall next door.  They wanted me to know that they were all friends, and I surmise they would like me to take back that message to the U.S.  Now I have done my job.

This man was cutting off the edges of this gigantic truck tire, which would then be filled with new rubber and reused.  One man leaned over to me with his thumbs up, saying, "We, like U.S. reuse things!"  He was so pleased with himself.

EVERYbody wants to have his/her photo taken, but why this man with a big stick wanted me to take his picture in such a pose will remain a mystery to me.

This fellow waved to me to take his photo and he carefully lined himself up into this long-legged pose.

I KNEW I was in a Chinatown, old or new, once I saw all the bicycles; these are actually in states of repair.

I walked from Phears Lane to Mother Teresa's House, way across town, talked with my old friend Sister Ann Frances who introduced me to Sister Mercy Maria who runs the orientations; she assured me that I could volunteer in the children's house after the orientation and tomorrow, but the orientation went on for SO long that Utsa and I left, she determined to volunteer twice a week and I determined not to volunteer on this trip because Sister told me there is a mission in NORRISTOWN, of all places!  I will go there when I get home; it's a hell of a lot closer and I can do just as well helping people in my own country as I can in India.  I met a young man who had been a manager with Coke in Australia, and he had taken this year off without pay in order to travel around the world and volunteer, also, by the way, he had climbed Everest and was heading to Kilimanjaro.  We had lots to talk about!

Tomorrow is my last day here with Afroja and her family; I shall miss them all and have been SPOILED rotten with fresh cut up fruit every time I turn around; they serve me homemade yogurt, fruits, mango lassis, veggies, coffees and anything my little heart desires.  How EVER shall I live on my own after such royal treatment!!

What a Difference a Word Makes!

Today was a walking morning, and here is my man riding to sell his chickens, all dangling and wriggling from his bicycle handlebars and rear fender - well travelled, those birds.

Here is the deliver system for LONG bamboo poles.  They are balanced lengthwise on a platform attached to the back of a bicycle.  I'm glad we have trucks for this sort of delivery but think it would be a hell of a lot better for the environment and the American girth if we used bikes!

I haven't yet found an excellent example of the way trucks are decorated here, often with eyes painted on the windscreens and mottos along the sides, but this one was a start.  It says "Goods Carriage," which I thought was a useful tag...

I took the bus to get to the Metro in New Garia, but I seem to have taken the wrong bus and ended up in Old Garia, where there is an enormous bazaar down these steps.  I was trying to keep my bearings and so didn't go down into the maze of the bazaar but did take the next photo of an array of veggies, many of which I cannot name.

I decided to take advantage of a new environment and loved the sarees hanging out to dry; I realize that I spelled the word as "sari" before.  Forgive my mistake!

Here is a little stand that is selling sugar cane juice, which was being scarfed down lickety split by the surrounding folks; I had had it before in Hanoi and really didn't find it that refreshing so I didn't stop to sip this time.

I can only wonder about this South Kolkata Tea Club which doesn't seem to be open on Sunday mornings.

This photo troubles me because it is a bucket of charcoal outside the locked door.  Another sign of bad air.  I wish I'd been able to photograph the beautifully lined up cow pies that are sold for fuel; honesty, they look like rope delicately twined together in a large coil, especially prevelant in Agra.

I cannot resist these doors; they just look like abstract art to me, blocks of colors and textures, and this one is exquisite.  Would that I could do something comparable with my own painting.

As I was trying to find the right bus back here, I came upon this little house which looks as though it may be the place for the communist meetings, hammer and sickles aflutter.

I didn't know if Cakes were not allowed to park here, or if Cakes were the reason for not parking here; either way, it's a particularly informative signage.

It turned out that the Metro doesn't actually run until after 2:00 P.M. on Sundays (you'd think somebody would have told me), and they will be mobbed this after noon because of a big cricket match, so instead I bought a big fat fish - I think something like sandshark and made a big pot of curried fish that was a HIT here!  They use water for the sauce, and that just wasn't cutting it for me, so after the turmeric, the cumin, the pepper and LOADS of salt, I added SWEETENED MANGO JUICE as a secret ingredient, and it was delicious!  They think I'm a genious chef.  Heehee.

Finally, the water man came, just when we were running out of water!  He carried the full jug over his shoulder and climbs up to the fourth floor in his long skirt; he seemed pleased with his photo, posing proudly!

I've tried and tried to get to the Sundarbans, but they tell me here that $80 is too expensive for the trip, it's too hot and mosquito-ey, etc., so tomorrow I will hit the old Chinatown market at 8:00 a.m. and then go to Mother Teresa's House to see about volunteering for Tuesday with Utsa, Sundarbans be damned.  I'll have to return with Lisa and plan it to the hilt!

Demolition Confession

Demolition Confession

Today was a slow day with Afroja sick and mostly in bed, and I decided I would cook carrot soup for her, which turned into a big fat mess in the kitchen; however, I got the carrots and onions, and Utsa helped me cut them all up.  It smelled heavenly, but when I finally pureed it with milk, somehow the blender exploded and soup was dripping from every counter, drawer and shelf in the place.  The floor was covered.  Once I got Afroja a bowl, I began on clean-up.

When I finished, I decided to take a walk and wanted very much to buy Afroja a new frying pan or pot because two of hers are missing handles.  Utsa told me that her mom would be very mad if I did that because it would cost too much money, and she will feel that I am saying her pans/pots are inadequate.

So, I went to the movies instead. Now, I have a confession; I used to love to watch Demolition Derby on television when I was younger, and I’m certain that I am dating myself here because I cannot say that I have disclosed OR discussed this passion with anyone – ever.  Today when I saw that Fast and Furious was playing and it was about fast cars, I went for it.  My seat was in the middle of the theater (assigned seats), and I was surrounded by teenaged boys.  The movie was one huge screech and bang and whack and shoot ‘em up, and I loved every minute of it! 

There, I’ve made my confession.   It wasn’t much of an India day; I ran, I read, I bought food and cooked and went to the movies, but it was just the sort of day I needed.

But I have no photos to share.  I’ll be better tomorrow.

Calcutta in 22 Hours

After my run in the early morning, Utsa and I drank our "bed tea" and went down for breakfast at the Delhi University Guest House; she was anxious to take me out to Delhi Haat, which seemed more like a street fair with vendors selling their wares in just the same way they do on the streets except that we had to pay 20 rupees to get into the place.  As we were waiting for it to open, we encountered these kids doing some performance and learned that a bollywood movie was being filmed and I was warned not to upload any of my photos on social media/networks until the film comes out.  I doubt very much my blog counts as a social network...

Utsa turns  out to be the most extraordinary bargainer, and we played good cop-bad cop  with the sellers.  She got me these three paintings for HALF what the sellers asked of me!

We got back, sticky and hot, and this sweet man rode us on his rickshaw at 2:00, the most vicious heat of the day, to the metro station where we could catch an auto .  I think I now understand towel heads; the towel must catch the sweat and keep the sun off, but it just isn't quite my style yet...  Maybe once I get back to Doha...

I couldn't resist this fellow who had a gorgeous rig on his head, but as I tried to photograph him, he untied it so that I could get a full frontal, which I did; wasn't he accomodating?

This is Utsa at the beginning of our journey, so excited to be going home!

Sun is going down on this vast land that is India.

HERE is my "salad" for supper, and those of you who know me well, know that I eat a gigantic bowl of salad every night for my supper; this is as close to raw veggies as I've gotten while here. It is a sadness to SEE the veggies at the stands, but by the time they his my mouth, they have been over-salted, over-cooked and over-spiced!  I mean, a carrot on its own is heavenly, and I did enjoy these few bites of vegetables in their close to raw state.

How cosy is this?  Everybody snug in his or her little bunk, reading,sleeping or just day dreaming until we fell into our rhythms of sleep.

Morning sun rises over India, and the photographer is up and about to drink her "bed coffee" as I carried a little jar of instant coffee with me.  Cheater!

Once we got near Kolcatta, Utsa beamed and said how she loved seeing all the colors of the trains stations again; Delhi's was so drab.  These are some of the scenes on our taxi ride back to the apartment.

This was a hand cut and hand stitched piece of bedcover from the Delhi Haat, and I just loved the workmanship and the CONCEPT as much as anything.  Bet if I were about 100% more patient I could do this!

I forget to tell a lovely little piece of Utsa-ism.  As we went to catch the train, we bought big bottles of cold, cold water, and as she took her first sip, she said, "I just LOVE water on a hot day!"  I loved the simplicity, the earnestness and the ease with which she said it, and I realized that there really IS nothing finer than cold water on a hot day.  But who takes the time and the words to express such a fundamental truism?

Over and out for one of my last few nights in Calcutta.  It is decidedly cooler here than it is in Delhi, and I am looking forward to being home for awhile and helping Oona get ready for HER trip.

"Running" in Delhi

“Running” in Delhi

6 am and I found a park just down the road from this guest house.  It was mobbed with people, walking, jogging, meditating, chanting.  I was the only person in lycra shorts and bright blue shoes, but I kept on going, trying to smile although my mouth was so dry that my lips just stuck to my teeth.  I passed one man, sitting, thumb and middle fingers together in meditation pose, and oops,  caught you peeking!

Once I had run the north, east, west and south paths of the park, I headed out on the road in an uneventful  run along the sidewalks until an earnest youngish man dressed in pristine white down to his wife-beater under shirt beneath his neatly pressed, white shirt.  He looked at me wide-eyed and said, “Excuse me.”  I always hate it when people presume to interrupt my runs to ask directions or something, but this man looked innocuous enough so that I stopped.  In his clipped British English he said, “What tis the different, ma’am, between plain walking that I am doing and the fast walking that you are doing?”

So, this is what it’s come to.  Fast walking is it?  I couldn’t possibly parade off, leaving the guy in the dust of my smoking 10 minute miles, but I wanted to say something like, “The difference, buddy, is that when I walk fast, I jiggle more like an old lady,” or, “The difference is that you will get a little sweat on your shirt.”  I mumbled something about heart rates and then stumbled back into my regular “fast walking.”  The guy is a bastard, plain and simple, and he just doesn’t KNOW about my racing record of first prizes in the Turkey Trot for three years running!  Imagine how mortified he’d have been if he knew!

Doing Delhi til I Drop

I am having a malfunction with my camera or computer and lost most of my photos from today, including a most spectacular piece of fabric from the Crafts Museum, a photo I took on the sly even though we were not permitted to take any photos; maybe I am being punished, and if so, it would serve me right.  Today I went to the Indira Gandhi Museum after almost being thrown out ot the guest house here because I didn't get in until after midnight, and all the keys to all the rooms had been locked; nobody was here to let me into a room.  The guard and some other non-English speaker kept gesticulating with their arms, telling me that I had to leave.  Hands on my hips, I insisted, "You are going to throw me out in the street?  A female guest from a foreign country?  Are you crazy?"  All the time I was imagining sleeping out at the corner where the rickshaw drivers sleep on the pavement.  Some days are just like that for me, and I realize that I am just a hair's breath from being one of those people, living on the street, floating about on the fringes of the social sructure.  Get a grip, Faith.  Back to Gandhi...

I read all the materials about Indira Gandhi, her marriage, her relationship with her father, her two boys and then her grandchildren, and I looked at her books and her living room, saw photos of her, read her writing, and then saw photos of her grieving over the loss of one of her sons.  Finally, the her clothes she wore the day she was assasinated by her own security guards are on display, and by that time, I felt as though I knew the woman and wept.  When I got to Rajiv's tale, her other son who came to office after her death, I was as captivated with his as I was with hers:  his marriage to Sonia, their life together, his politics, their children, etc... Then, there was a display of HIS clothing on the day he was killed by a bomb.  I could barely walk through the rest of the museum.

 At the outside of the house is the path Indira Gandhi walked on the day she died; it is made of slices of glass that look like water flowing, but at the end of the path is a square of clear glass, which is were she fell after she was shot.  Remarkable.

I really couldn't resist this photo of Gandhi with Hubert Humphrey and Lyndon B. Johnson, primarily because Hubert looks so distressingly distracted.

I have no photos of the Crafts Museum which took me two Metro rides and then a few scalding kilometers of walking to get to, but it was a superb look at the fabrics, brilliant colors, gorgeous designs, and hand work that was so intricate and so magical I was in pain just thinking how I could POSSIBLY endeavor to attempt such feats of stitchery.

After the museum, I his the metro again (Delhi's Metro is so well organized that it makes life a piece of cake here) and got myself to the shopping place tor hand woven Khadi fabrics where I bought several meters of fabric for quilting, and the women and men were all laughing at my buying these little pieces of fabric instead of two-storied sari quantity.

Before I bought the fabric I went to Hanuman's Temple where men were standing to pray, ringing random bells that dangled from the ceiling.  One woman was rushing around one of the glass cases with an image of Hanuman, and I thought she was either the clerk on her way somewhere or she was lost.  One woman was sitting on the ground, chanting a loud prayer and looking ever so much like my friend, Ellen Hicks.  Then, I noticed the woman who might be a clerk or lost was still walking around the glass case, and she had an orange bag with her; I thought perhaps she was shopping, but she picked up her pace, scarf flapping as she went. Round and round she went as a man began to turn on all the lights and opened up a counter behind which sat about 15 more Hanuman figures.  More worshipping, more clanging of bells, and the woman kept lapping that glass case.  I slowly descended the stairs, figuring some things are just too mysterious even for me.

When I got downstairs, a man told me that the woman was doing a form of praying that required going around 108 times!  That lady's going to be hungry after so many laps!

After my experience with laps and fabric, I looked across the street, and what should my discerning eyes behold, but a Starbucks!  Didn't I just rush in there, full of curiosity but also ready to sit down?  I ordered an iced coffee and a chatpatha parata wrap, all of which came to less than $5.00.  

This really is a wonderful world!  Here is the inside of Starbucks in Delhi, where all the young, beautiful people hang out.  Oh, and so do I...

One last thing, in the Metro there is a section called "For the Elderly and Disabled."  Hey, that's ME!