Some Sad Stories

Lately I’ve been doing some research on the human rights situation in Pakistan. The organization that I am working for is in the process of preparing a report on the performance of Commonwealth countries in the UN’s Human Rights Council. Pakistan is one of the countries in the Council. In my search I have found quite a few articles that moved me to the point of tears. Below are few of them:

1. This one is on victims of enforced disappearances:

http://www.paktribune.com/news/index.shtml?208859

2. These are on women’s rights:

http://www.nationalpost.com/news/world/afghanistan/story.html?id=1457612

http://www.asianews.it/index.php?l=en&art=15031&size=A

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/asia/article4678530.ece

Mumbai with Drushya

There were a few highlights to one of my favorite trips in India so far, and Drushya was certainly one of them.

She is a super cool girl who I met while working for the Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative. Sitting in the same office for about a month, we quickly became close friends. Together we giggled lots during and after work hours, smoked a few hookahs, danced up several monsoon storms, and got freebies from overly flirtatious waiters. Unfortunately for me, her internship ended much sooner than mine, and she had to return to college in Pune, located 2 flying hours away from Delhi. But thankfully, Pune is only 150 km away from Mumbai, which I was going to visit. So, to add a few more stories into our memory piggybank, we chose a weekend and got our travel tickets – I for a 2-hour flight from Delhi to Mumbai and Dryusha for a 3-hour train ride from Pune to Mumbai.

2. Itinerary and Pictures

Our itinerary was well crafted by another lovely Indian friend of mine, Richa, who had lived in Mumbai for over 2 years. The to-do list consisted of the following:

1)      a few prayers and an embarrassing fall-down on my ass (it was slippery) at Haji Ali, a stunning mosque located on an islet that extends into the Arabian Sea

2)      a four-hour tour around Dharavi, the biggest slum in Asia, organized by a charity; all proceeds go into building schools, medical clinics, and community centers

3)      a comical play at the centre for the performing arts (made even funnier due to the Indian accent)

4)      a club (of course!)

5)      a visit to the Gate of India

6)      a shopping spree in Colaba (a neighborhood in the south of Mumbai with a variety of cheap stalls)

7)      a drool at the most expensive hotel in India, the Taj Mahal Hotel (the one that was bombed in 2008)

8)      a promenade along the so-called Queens’ Necklace (a C-shaped road around the coast which lights up beautifully at night)

9)      and a meal of street bhelpuri (Mumbai’s famous puffed rice dish with potatoes and tamarind sauce)

3. Elaboration on the Execution

While getting a pre-paid taxi at the airport, a few police officers were very happy to assist me and ensure that I am not attacked by local touts. It amazed me how well Mumbai is fighting with the tout phenomena. In most Indian cities, there is an extremely high chance that somebody is going to try to rip you off by, say, charging you 2,000 rupees for visiting a temple (entrance to any place of worship is free, by the way). Every time I get back to Delhi from my weekend trips, the rickshaw drivers at the train station try to quote quadruple the price that it takes to get to my flat. There are also various commission schemes in which a driver takes you to a shop and gets a cut from the amount that you spend there. Hence, I was really surprised that there wasn’t anything like that in Mumbai, even though the city is one of the most visited places by travelers. I guess the government finally realized that in order to bring in tourists – and with them, dollars – touting has to be eliminated.

During my drive to Haji Ali, I had my eyes glued to the window, marveling at the clean and green Mumbai. I was shocked! I expected it to be very dirty and full of chaos, as most financial capitals in the world are. Instead, I saw a variety of exotic trees lavishly blooming around modern glass buildings. The roads weren’t bumpy, and unlike Delhi, there were sidewalks for people to stroll along.

After a few prayers at the ladies’ compartment in the mosque and another taxi ride, Drushya and I met at our guest house. The price of 6 dollars per person per night was microscopic given the cleanliness of the place and the strategic location in the middle of downtown.

We showered, loaded ourselves up with some delicious butter chicken, and set out for the slum tour.

Dharavi slum is one of the biggest in Asia as it hosts an estimated 1 million working poor. It’s a whole different world out there, and I have a hard time describing it. On one hand, you see poverty; decrepit shacks, a.k.a. ‘homes’, are filled filth, dirt, and stench; skeletal, malnourished children  with their skin covered in spots of some disease; there are no bathrooms…none; garbage and excrements fill the river canal; electricity cords hang freely everywhere, ready to electroshock the unlucky; children sit in dark rooms sewing yet another shirt that will be sold for $79 US in some fancy North-American mall; sheep are skinned for yet another Gucci purse; half-used disposable soaps that you get at fancy hotels are melted and made into more disposable soaps, again to be used in the same fancy hotels; fabrics are waxed first and then dyed in different colours in rooms that are too hot for human existence….I could keep going on and on about how appalling the living conditions are, but there is also a bright side to Dharavi and it’s certainly worth mentioning.

First of all, it’s a very tightly-knit community of people. Even though the working conditions are stratospheres below any imaginable standards, there is a minimum wage of 120 rupees ($2.5 CA) per day of work. Pay-per-piece structures are also prevalent, and those who work harder are compensated. People can then send the money back to the villages where they came from; there, they used to make 60 rupees a day. Even though it is the destination of garbage, nothing in the slum gets wasted away. Every piece of plastic and every shard of metal are recycled and resold. Reality Travel Tours, the organization that runs the tours around Dharavi, has built a school and a community centre where they run various educational programs. So, as sad as the conditions appear, I do feel that there is a light at the end of this tunnel, and hopefully in a decade or two, things will look differently.

Later that night, joined by two American tourists we met during the slum tour, we decided to be the biggest hypocrites and indulge in a little bit of Mumbai’s nightlife. When we entered Redlight Club (no connection to Redlight district), I almost felt like crying. We had just paid 750 rupees to get in and the place was utterly and completely deserted. As I realized that the DJ was playing exclusively techno, I wished I had brought a big towel to wipe my tears. To drown my sorrows, I decided to go all Russian with my drink and got a lethal and disgusting concoction of vodka, Kahlua, and Red Bull. I might as well have shoved two fingers up my throat. Twenty minutes and a few forceful gulps later I said “never again am I drinking this rat poison” and got myself a more reliable Smirnoff Ice. As the liquids went down and the clock hands approached midnight, the DJ smartened up and started playing hip hop. By 12:30am Drushya and I were rocking on the now-extremely-busy dance floor with our usual intensity. By 2am the place was so crowded that I couldn’t move my fingers without poking somebody. After the lights came on around 2:30am, we proclaimed the night to have been ‘super fun’ and proceeded to finish it off with a walk around the stunning Queen’s necklace.

We spent the next day wandering around and shopping. In the afternoon, after I saw Drushya off to Pune (with high hopes to see her again in this lifetime, be it in India, Canada, US, or anywhere else), I decided to walk by Mumbai’s University.

If you think U of T is pretty, wait till you see U of Mumbai. Judging by the architecture, the only degree you could potentially pursue there is Bachelor’s of Sorcery. I’ve never read Harry Potter, but I’ve played the computer game. I recall flying the poor Harry on a broom around his enchanted campus, and believe it or not, Mumbai’s campus looks exactly like the one in that game. I was genuinely surprised that the souvenir vendors in the area weren’t selling invisibility cloaks.

To wrap up my trip, instead of taking a taxi to the airport, I decided to ‘risk it’ and take a train. ‘Risk it’ because, first of all, Mumbai’s train station is pretty busy and the possibility of pick-pocketing is quite substantial; second of all, the schedules are mostly in Hindi; and third of all, the stops are never announced, so getting off the train is a guessing game. The good news is, however, that Mumbai’s trains, believe it or not, have ladies’ compartments! I have never felt so safe in India! Ever! After that train ride, I wish everything in India had ladies’ compartments. But, alas…I will keep trying my hardest to ignore the shameless staring that makes even the most devoted attention seekers highly uncomfortable.

By 2am, exhausted from the flight and the hassle with Delhi taxis, I was sound asleep at my flat and having sweet dreams of the next trip – to Amritsar!

Shopping in India

Even thought their English is far from perfect, most of the shop keepers are able to speak at least a little bit. Below is a list of four words every shop keeper has mastered, and an example of a typical dialogue that takes place before the purchase.

Vocabulary

1. Hello – pronounced as “yellow” with a strong emphasis on the first syllable. The word is also often used instead of ‘excuse me’. When responding to it, I can’t help but mock their pronunciation.

2. One hundred rupees only – they always add the word ‘only’ in their attempt to suggest that they are giving you a good price, even though it’s triple the amount a local would pay.

3. Madam – young or old, every foreign woman is referred to as “Madam”.

4. Come – in conjunction with the word ‘Madam’ the word ‘come’ is used by shop owners to invite foreign ladies into the store. “Madam, come….please…cooommmme”. I can’t help but laugh every time I hear it. It’s never ‘come in’ or ‘come over’. It’s just ‘come’. Plus, the sound of Indian pronunciation makes it even more difficult to suppress laughter.

Typical shopping dialogue

As you are walking down the market with your hands clutching your purse in attempt to prevent involuntary transfer of your wallet to a talented thief, you hear the following:

“Yellow, Madam!”

You nod and take a quick glimpse at the store.

“Please come. Madam, come, please!”  Picture a lot of enthusiasm here.

You hesitantly walk into the shop.

Madam, you like pashmina? Many colours, Madam. Very beautiful for you.”

“I am just looking, thank you.”

As you look around, you find some useless piece of fabric sewn into a disposable piece of clothing that mildly pleases your eye.

“How much is this shirt?”

”Madam, you my first customer today. I give you good price.”

“Okay. How much is it?”

“Three hundred rupees only!”

You turn around and walk away because you are perfectly aware that it shouldn’t cost any more than a hundred and fifty.  You keep walking because you know that in another second you will hear:

“Madam, how much you pay?”

You turn around and say: “One hundred.”

“One hundred? No, madam! I give you good price, 250.”

You repeat the well-rehearsed walking away procedure several times. Ten minutes later you walk away happily, having paid 151. One rupee for good luck.

Oh shopping…

 

In love with:

Hookah
After chai, smoking hookah is the runner-up in the competition for the world’s most addictive activity (for me, anyway). It’s really relaxing, and it’s a great social lubricant. Plus, it is much less harmful than smoking cigarettes or any other substances. I bought the pipe in Mumbai, and coals and tobacco in Delhi. I really didn’t think I’d succeed setting it up all by myself. Even when pros do it, the smoke often hits the throat, and that’s just not pleasant. So, it was a surprise to me that my hookah tasted great on the first attempt! Now it’s just a matter of telling myself: “everything is good in moderation”!

Young boys touching women’s feet
I think it’s one of the most adorable traditions! All adolescent boys and young men do it in their inquiry for a blessing. They go up to an older woman every time they greet her or say goodbye and quickly touch one of her feet. I wish I was allowed to ask for blessings in the same fashion, but unfortunately, girls are not supposed to do that because feet are considered dirty. Girls can only touch feet of their in-laws, which I have not acquired as of yet. So no free blessing for me!

Women’s clothing
Most Indian ladies living in the urban centers wear a kurta (a long top) over a pair of kameez (baggy pants) decorated with a long scarf that hangs on the backside. In more rural areas, women still wear saris. The bright colours and intricate designs of both outfits are always perfectly matched into a manifestation of femininity. Honestly, if I could wear Indian clothes in Canada, I would be absolutely delighted! But then I’ll probably be put into an asylum as well, which is not my priority destination at this moment. So, perhaps, for now, I’ll just stick to the depressive, but accepted by North American society, greys, browns, blacks, and other pitiful neutrals. I’ll just throw a yellow scarf over top and stick a dandelion in my hair as a statement of rebellion!

Men signing or humming any time they get a chance
They sing while cooking, washing dishes, driving a rickshaw, or doing anything that doesn’t require talking. And even when they talk, it often sounds like they are singing. It just puts a big smile on my face! I wish everyone was comfortable enough to sing whatever is on their mind (well, maybe not ‘whatever’…some censorship would be nice). That would at least justify my urge to showcase a raspy voice paired up with a complete absence of musicality.

Accha, Accha!

I figured that today’s list of favorite things about India will concern culture and language!

1. Words ‘Accha’ and ‘Thik Hai’ (pronounced as TK)

‘Accha’ can mean ‘yes’, ‘good’, ‘awesome’ and a bunch of other words that signify affirmation. ‘TK’ has a more of an ‘okay’, ‘all right’, ‘understood’ sort of meaning. Both are accompanied with a side to side head shake and often a softened voice. It’s adorable! A rickshaw driver recently told me that my Hindi was very Accha. Little did he know that rickshaw phrases are the only ones I know in Hindi. Perhaps because I say them with confidence and roll my Rs, the drivers assume that I speak their language.  I think (or I hope) my fake confidence stops them from inflating the prices. But, unfortunately, the truth about my language skills comes out when they try to strike up a conversation with me. In response, I shrug my shoulders and say “sorry, no Hindi”, to which they shake their head again and say ‘accha, accha’.

2. Head Shake
It’s honestly the cutest thing ever! When they say ‘Accha’ or ‘TK’, they shake their head side to side to indicate approval. When I just got to India, I was in utter confusion! I couldn’t understand if people were saying yes or no! But now, not only am I incredibly fond of the gesture, but I have also started imitating it without even realizing what I was doing. I wonder if all that shaking strengthened my neck muscles as I get asked all the time whether I like India.

3. The word Bhaiya (Brother)
It is used towards any men (usually older than oneself) and I feel that it substitutes for “excuse me”. I start most of my inquiry sentences with the word ‘Bhaiya’ (don’t forget that most jobs here are done by men, so there are very few ‘sistahs’ out there). To a food vendor I say “Baiya, how much for bananas?” To a rickshaw driver I say “Baiya, will you go to South Extension?” There is definitely something endearing about calling every stranger your brother.

4. Young boys touching women’s feet

I think it’s one of the most adorable sights! All adolescent boys and young men do it in their inquiry for a blessing. They go up to an older woman every time they greet her or say goodbye and quickly touch one of her feet. I wish I was allowed to ask for blessings in the same fashion, but unfortunately, girls are not supposed to do that because feet are considered dirty (not according to those who have a foot fetish, but whatever….when in Rome, do as the Romans do). Girls can only touch feet of their in-laws, which I have not acquired as of yet. So no free blessing for me! Boo!

Food for Thought (or stomach)

I figured it’s time that I start writing out what I love the most about India. And since I am such a foodie, I decided to start with a list of my favorite edibles.

Mangoes
I eat at least one a day (for dessert)! They are so sweet and juicy here, it’s unreal. I even learned how to peel them with my nails and eat them like apples. I should say, though, that I am pretty clumsy and a lot of my clothes have now been permanently stained with orangy-yellowy juices.

Chai
It’s a bad addiction now. I have 3 cups a day at least. It’s a semi-latte, i.e. half milk and half water with a mixture of spices known as chai masala. In terms of sugar, I no longer inquire about the amount. I have accepted the fact that they put enough to dissolve my teeth and significantly increase my chances of getting diabetes!

There is a chai stand right by my work (literally 7 steps away from my office door) and a cup only costs 10 cents. Every time I step out of the rickshaw by my office, the smell of chai flies on its masala wings up my nose and tells me accusatively: “Oksana, I’ve been waiting for you for so long! Where have you been? You should feel guilty for leaving me here alone in the darkness of a boiling pot! I will only forgive you if you drink at least 3 cups of me today”.

How can I possibly say no to that? It would be a huge crime against the entire chai community!

So I leave my laptop in the office, grab my own mug in attempt to be environmentally friendly (they usually serve it in two plastic cups) and go to the vendor. Ann, Yannah, and I are the only female customers at this little street food venue. Usually, it is only the street workers such as construction guys and rickshaw drivers who eat their breakfast and lunch there. I was told by my caring co-workers that I shall certainly get sick if I ever dare to eat the food sold there. My hygiene-spoiled western stomach would rebel against it with a serious case of diarrhea. And after being such close friends with a toilet for a whole month and taking 7 pills a day, I am no longer willing to test the strength of my digestive tract. But chai doesn’t classify as ‘food’, right? Plus, it’s boiled….or so I hope!

Mattar Paneer with Naan
Mattar means green peas and paneer means non-fermented cheese made out of milk.  Both are cooked in delicious spices, tomato sauce, and plain yogurt. The curry is then scooped up by en edible spoon made out of delicious naan bread. It’s so yum!

Kulfi
Indian ice cream that tastes exactly like frozen condensed milk. It’s absolutely scrumptious as is everything that has saffron, pistachios and cardamom in it. Also, unlike most ice creams, it doesn’t melt right away, which is quite useful in 45 degree weather!

Eating with my hands
I just feel as though I have a much more intimate relationship with my food when I eat it with my hands. I also don’t mind licking my fingers after a meal.  I do find it difficult though to eat with my right hand only. Left hand in India is strictly reserved for bathroom purposes. Instead of toilet paper there is usually a water crane and a mini-bucket right by the toilet. Needless to say, left hand is considered dirty and should not be used for any other purposes but washing your ass!

Udaipur Adventures

The four of us decided to take an overnight air-conditioned train to Udaipur hoping that we would be able to get a good night sleep before our adventures in the so called Venice of the East. Around 1am our hopes of sleeping were shattered by snoring of a very large-sized man. Ann decided to solve the problem with a few almonds. She shot them at the ‘snoring beauty’ in hopes of shutting him up. Even though her attempts proved fruitless, we all laughed in the morning noting the almonds spread all over his bed.

To my huge surprise, our train arrived only one hour late. I expected much worse. Our hotel with an open swimming pool and a roof top restaurant overlooking the mountains was definitely a highlight. Indian art pieces, colourful window panes, western style toilets instead of squatters, air conditioning, and delicious breakfast included in the price of 10 dollars a night made our stay even better!

After hiking in the mountains, watching an incredible dance performance, and shopping around the old city, Karen, Jessica and I decided to grab a bite to eat.

When we heard loud noises from one of the roof top restaurants, we paused and looked up curiously.I noticed that something landed on my hand. I was not pleased to find out that it was now covered in spit. Disgusted, I laughed; I figured it was better to have spit on my hand than pigeon shit in my hair (a.k.a. Karen-style).

After dinner I decided to go for a swim in the pool, even though none of the girls were interested. Instead of bikini, I wore a pair of Indian pants, which proved to be quite see-through when I got out. Ann kindly offered her ass-shielding services on our way back to the room. Never again am I swimming in those pants!

The next day Jessica and I decided to take a cooking class. Our chef/instructor met us at his spice store from which we headed to his house on a motorcycle. The ride was both a lesson and an adventure in itself. We learned how not to fall off a bike when three people sit on a tight double-seater. I must say, however, that the fear of the ride was well worth the sights of rural Udaipur.

The cooking class took place in our chef’s living room where a ‘kitchen counter’ was neatly set up on the floor. His wife, dressed in the brightest red sari I’ve ever seen, brought us cooking utensils and the necessary ingredients. His 2-year old daughter walked in occasionally to check up on her dad and help with stirring and eating.

Right from the start the chef made us memorize the 7 basic Indian spices: coriander, cumin seeds, red chili, turmeric, anis, salt, and garam masala. These are used in most meals prepared in Indian households. Over a span of four hours we cooked 10 delicious meals including dessert and chai! We were happy to find out that our stuffed stomachs were full of exclusively organic products grown on our chef’s farm. Even rice and the 60 different spices found in garam masala (the word ‘masala’ means a salad of spices) were grown on his farm with not a single chemical added to them.

Besides cooking, our chef also told us about his family business. His elders grow spices and most other foods, while he and his brother run the spice store. When not at the store, he teaches cooking classes to tourists and uses foods grown at the farm as ingredients. The students often end up buying spices from the store, contributing to the profits.

It amazed me how the whole family is involved in the intricate chain of supply and how its success depends mostly on the quality of monsoon season (the rain). For the past 6 years monsoon has been poor and many vegetables didn’t come up, affecting the wellbeing of the whole family. From a financial management point of view, the family doesn’t have a very well diversified portfolio. All its eggs are sitting in an extremely brittle and unreliable basket. No rain – no business, no business – no income.

On a happier note, however, it was nice to hear an Indian talk about organic foods. Up until that point, I hadn’t met anyone who was aware of potential dangers of pesticides, GMOs, etc.

It is also worth noting that our chef looked like an Indian version of Elvis! He was a very sweet, modest, and humble man: a true rarity in Delhi.

On our way back from Udaipur, a one-year old kid stumbled across our part of the train and became very curious about my glasses. His tiny hands reached out to my face, but couldn’t quite reach. I took off my glasses and handed them to him. His father helped him try them on, but I quickly suggested that they may be a bit too strong. The kid was not happy about having to give the glasses back, but luckily his attention span was short. A minute later he was more than happy to be playing with a purse my sister knit for me as a Christmas gift. His dad started drumming his hands on the table and immediately the kid started dancing. He was the cutest thing!

Again, to my surprise, the train was only an hour late. Thankfully, we were able to go home and take a shower before going to work. Next stop is Mumbai!

Spare Some Change

If you had to choose between carrying one $20 dollar bill or eighty quarter coins, which one would you go for? I am pretty sure the majority of North Americans would select the first option.

Not in India!

One Canadian dollar equals approximately 50 Indian rupees.

Typical prices in Delhi:

15-minute rickshaw ride to work = 40 rupees (80 cents)
a bottle of water – 15 rupees (30 cents)
a banana – 2 rupees (4 cents)
10 slices of Kraft cheese – 400 rupees (8 dollars)

Even though most staple items are very cheap, anything imported, be it apples, cereal, or chocolate, costs ridiculous amounts. However, since I am not in India to eat Ferrero Rocher or beef burgers, I am absolutely content with substituting apples with mangoes, meat with chick peas, and chocolate with milky and sugary Indian sweets.

The only problem is that when you withdraw money from ATM, you get exclusively 500 or 1000 rupees bills. And, guess what? No one wants to take them! Somehow, nobody, not a single vender, EVER, has any change. Quite a number of times I’ve been stuck with enough cash in pocket and unable to pay. Once, I even considered paying with a kilogram of mangoes for a rickshaw ride. The ‘auto wala’ (rickshaw driver) wouldn’t take a hundred (2 bucks). Luckily, after searching through my bag for the hundredth time, I found a 50.

The accounting department of my organization kindly saved my ass by exchanging 80 dollars worth of rupees with 2 dollar bills. My co-worker took a picture of me cooling myself with a money fan.

Conclusion: both countries would benefit if Canada got rid of the useless, unwanted pennies by giving them out to India.

Haridwar – Stop Planning, Start Praying!

Last weekend (July 2-4th) Ann and I once again decided to venture outside of Delhi and explore India’s northern parts, namely the province of Uttarakhand. Our first destination was the city of Haridwar, surrounded lavishly by forested mountains and washed by the holy River Ganges. Our bus was scheduled to leave Delhi at 9:45pm on Friday and arrive to Haridwar at 3:30am on Saturday. We figured that upon arrival we would find shelter in one of the Ashrams where visitors are allowed to stay for free and participate in meditation, yoga, and worship sessions. We hoped that we’d be able to sleep a bit on the bus and catch some more zzzs in the Ashram before heading out for a guided tour of the Rajaji National Park.

That was the plan.

After 45 minutes of running around and sweating buckets while desperately searching for the bus station, we finally discovered our lovely vehicle. Relieved that it did not depart without us and grateful for the AC, we laughed at how showering prior to the trip was a waste of time and water.

Everything was still going according to plan.

We snacked, chatted, and I even attempted to read. However, the roads were so bad that I kept flying out off my seat every 30 seconds, fearing that I dislocated my back and bruised my hips. Needless to say, the intentions of reading did not come to fruition, and neither did sleep.

Reminder: arrival to Haridwar was scheduled for 3:30am.

At 6am we were still on the bus, which was about to park in Rishikesh, another holy city located 1 hour north of Haridwar. Surprised that the bus passed Haridwar without dropping us off, we found out that we are actually on a tour bus! The bus was to stop in Rishikesh first, discharge passengers for a 2 hour tour around the temples and mountains, and then go back to Haridwar. We looked at our tickets. There was no mention of the tour! However, I couldn’t complain because I’ve wanted to go to Rishikesh anyway.

Change of Plans: we figured that upon arrival we’ll still go to the Ashram, but we’ll swap our Sunday plans with Satruday.

The bus didn’t make it to Haridwar until 10am. So much for 3:30am!

In the Ashram we were denied a room because we did not bring our passports. So much for a nice shelter with AC and a yoga class in the morning! We were advised to go to a smaller ashram next door.

“My daughter and I had our passports stolen, and I only have a copy of my passport,” explained Ann to the Ashram director, surprising me with her abilities to lie.

Ann is the same age as my mom, but one could never assume that I am her daughter. We look nothing alike and she surely does not look her age. Somehow, the lie flew and we were directed to our room.

The room had many valuable assets including a rusty fan, a squatter toilet, two painfully thin mattresses, and an army of cockroaches. Neither one of us were impressed, but I figured that for one night I can suck it up and make friends with a couple of Indian insects.

After taking a bucket shower (you fill up a bucket with water and then dump it over yourself) and having a delicious lunch, we finally started exploring Haridwar.

Overall, our trip turned out fabulous. On Saturday, we took a cable car up the mountain and marveled at the beauty of the city. From the top of the mountain, we walked down encountering families of langur monkeys interacting peacefully with anybody who was willing to donate a banana, a lime, or any other treat.

We also took part in the Haridwar Puja, which is a worship ceremony on the River Ganges. It involves lighting up a candle embedded in a pod of flowers and sending it downstream.

Every night thousands of Hindus gather to send their flower offerings to the Gods and make a wish. This beautiful ceremony makes the river look as though it is on fire!

On Sunday, one of the most renowned tour guides in India, Sanjeev (he has organized trips for Brad Pitt, Kate Winslet, and Madonna), took us to the Rajaji National Park. In the morning we drove around in his Jeep and marveled at the park’s wildlife. Later we hiked up the stunning mountains and visited a temple on top of one of them. In one of the small mountain villages we had a delicious chai while listening to the stories of how sheep dogs protect the villagers and the sheep from tigers. Each dog is to wear a collar covered in long and sharp thorns. If the tiger was to attack, its mouth would be pierced.

The highlight of Sunday was a baby elephant, Yogi, who is a true member of Sanjeev’s family. Nine years ago when Sanjeev heard about a ten-day old elephant stuck in a sugar cane field, he decided to adopt him. In the absence of animal adoption laws, Sanjeev found himself fighting with the authorities for the right to father Yogi. Ten days later, the permit was granted and the whole city participated in Yogi’s adoption ceremony.

The first few years of his life Yogi spent living with Sanjeev’s family. Sanjeev recalls how his children played soccer together with Yogi. Today Yogi lives in the national park where caretakers look after him 24/7. Yogi is growing quickly, and Sanjeev is preparing to reintegrate him into the wild when the elephant turns 14.

Conclusion:

Even though many things did not go as we expected them, we still enjoyed every second of our weekend. We also learned a lesson that nothing in India goes according to plan. Predictability, punctuality, and a sense of control are not valid descriptors of Indian society. I’ve found myself praying much more than I’ve ever had in Canada. At times there was nothing else I could do but pray; pray for the electricity to turn back on so that the fan works and I can attempt some sleep in 45 degree temperature; pray to find a bathroom in the middle of the market so that I don’t embarrass myself in the middle of the street; pray for the bottled water to be filtered and not just replenished from Indian tap; pray for the monkeys not to steal my ice cream and give me rabies; pray for not finding a thick black hair in my chick peas; and pray for cockroaches not to find their way into my body cavities.

I am surprised that my prayers have been heard every time, and every ‘down’ has quickly turned into an ‘up’. I don’t know if it’s just luck or the universe really does conspire to assure that things do work out; but whatever it is, I am grateful for it; and so I keep on praying.

India never ceases to surprise me!

It was a typical Wednesday at the office and I still had a few days of work before my weekend trip to Chandigarh. Around lunch time someone walked into the office and very calmly said: “Turn off your computers and come downstairs. The building is on fire.”

After exchanging looks of confusion, colleagues and I slowly followed the instructions. Within 5 minutes after exiting the building, the first floor was being voraciously consumed by flames.

Half an hour after, the fire-fighters finally arrived. My administration suggested that we all go out for lunch since there wasn’t much we could do anyway.

Although the restaurant personnel did not expect a party of thirty to walk in without a reservation, they managed quite well and my Thali tasted superb. The only issue I had with the meal was my dessert. As delicious as an icy, chocolate concoction should taste in 40 degrees weather, mine wasn’t the case. As I felt something solid in my mouth, I figured it was just a piece of ice, which I am used to finding in Indian ice creams. Usually I just eat the ice, but this time I thought it was a bit too big. When I took it out on the spoon, I shouted in horror while the waiter who happened to stand beside me at that particular moment ran for the manager. A huge screw sat in front of me. I laughed. The entire party was reimbursed.

After the incident, our dear administration suggested that due to fire, we may have to work from home for the next couple of days. The moment I heard that, I knew immediately that there is no way I am waiting until the weekend to travel to Chandigarh.

I went home and booked my ticket to go right that night. The ticket was waitlisted for eight people, meaning that unless 8 people cancel their rides in the next 5 hours, my ticket would be reimbursed automatically and I am not going anywhere.

By the time it was 2 hours before departure, the wait list went down to 5. Chances of me going anywhere were in the negative . I took a taxi to the Old Delhi train station thinking: “What do I have to lose?”

On the platform I panicked that my name was not on the chart, suggesting that my ticket was in fact cancelled, and it is illegal for me to board. In pure desperation, I turned to a man standing beside me and explained my situation. “I ordered a ticket and it is waitlisted, but I absolutely must get on this train. What do I do?”

The man was well dressed and spoke good English. He held two cell phones in one hand and a printout of his ticket for the same train in the other. Later I found out that his name was Sunni. After he skimmed through the charts, unable to find my name, he went to the train attendant.

Responsibilities of the train attendant include collecting money, checking tickets, and assuring order in a particular train car. After Sunni presented my case to him in Hindi, the attendant and a few other men standing beside him started snickering and looking at me funny. I was a woman, I was alone, and I was white.

“They are asking me why I am helping you,” said Sunni. “They think I have bad intentions, but don’t worry, I don’t’ have any intentions.”

“Okay,” I said warily. “Can I get on the train?”

“Hold on,” replied Sunni and launched into a further conversation with the train attendant.

Ten minutes later Sunni explained to me that I can get on the train, but I will have to pay a fine.

“Thank God!” I exclaimed. After, I found out that the fine and the ticket together will cost me about 14 Canadian dollars for an air conditioned 8 hour train ride, which clearly was absolutley cool with me.

“Yes, but there are no empty seats on the train, so you can’t really get on,” said Sunni.

“Okay, so what do I do then?” I asked disappointed.

“I don’t know…You cannot get on the train,” Sunni replied apologetically.

“Boo!” I thought to myself. “First they give me hope and then they take it away”

“Well, you can share a seat with me if you want,” offered Sunni.

My jaw almost dropped in surprise.

“Are you serious? You wouldn’t mind?” I exclaimed. “Thank you so much! I’ll pay for your ticket!”

“No no, it’s okay. Don’t thank me. Thank God and let’s get on!”

And just like that Sunni saved the day. Later it turned out that one passenger did not show up, and I had my own bed. I couldnt believe my luck.

Sunni and I chatted for a while and I found out that he had applied to immigrate to Vancouver three times. He was rejected twice, but this time he’s hoping to get a different answer.

I thanked him at least a million times.

“Stop thanking me! Thank God,” he replied every time.

Everything was really great until he started showing me pictures of his family. After I saw pictures of his wife and kids, he played a video in which a young Indian woman was behaving rather coquettishly. She was dressed, but somehow I knew she wasn’t going to stay that way for too long.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I want to watch this!” I said to Sunni and turned away.

“What’s with the Indian men trying to always show porn or rape scenes to white girls??” I asked myself. “This is not the first time this is happening.”

“She is my friend’s wife and she wanted him to videotape her. It was her own will, no one forced her,” explained Sunni.

“Hmm, I see,” I said indifferently still facing away.

“You don’t want to watch?” he inquired.

“No, thank you,” I said politely, thinking how ridiculous this situation was.

I was very happy to have the upper berth for sleeping, because on the lower one the chance of being robbed or touched is much greater. I made my bed and proceeded to go to sleep. Sunni attempted to show me the video one more time and I again declined the offer. First, I was scared to fall  asleep, but there was another man and his wife in the same train compartment, so I figured it was safe enough to catch some zzzs.

At 7am I arrived to Anandpur Sahib, the home of the second holiest Sikh temple in India after the Golden Temple. I love the Sikhs for their kindness, acceptance, and of course the turbans they wrap so skilfully around their heads. Anyone can come to a Sikh temple and have a free meal at any time of the day. The dishes are then washed collectively by all attendees. Worshipers are also welcome to stay at the temple for several nights. No money is to be paid, but donations are appreciated.

I walked around the temple for several hours, ate, and washed dishes. Later I called my friend, Ishaan, who I was going to stay with in Chandigarh, and told him that I am catching a bus and will be in the city in 2 hours.

Three and a half hours later, a non air-conditioned bus full of men only, dropped us off in the middle of nowhere. Everyone who was going to Chandigarh was to get into an 8-seater mini bus. Of course, the number of seats did not match the number of travellers. We were at least 25. I was told to sit in the front, most likely because I was white and I was the only woman at that point. Later, another woman and her child shared the one front seat with me. It was tight, but I felt relieved to see another female. The window pane of the mini bus looked like a bullet went through it not too long ago. “It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay,” I kept telling myself.

And it was. Half an hour later I finally made it to the Florida-like place called Chandigarh. While Ishaan and I were driving to meet his family, I wondered how Indians go through similar adventures every day, and thanked whatever higher power for letting me reach Chandigarh in one piece.