Homestay Families

Since we arrived on the first morning of the Tibetan New Year, Losar, we've spent a lot of time in family spaces. Zaq's homestay family is better off so they keep inviting us back for meals. We go to see my homestay family a couple of times but only briefly.

My amala is a single mother with two young daughters. The older daughter is boarded at another town an hour away. The Tibetans were able to create their own school system that, while still linked to the Indian educational system, was mostly designed to meet their needs. The students have a month-long break over Losar so both of my amala's daughters were present while I lived there. I never got the story about her life and the father. She was actually born in India, just north of Dharamsala. Her parents must've been part of the early waves of exiles who lived in small refugee camps while arrangements were still being negotiated with the India government but the nascent Tibetan government-in-exile. Her home is part of an elementary school stepped down the sharp hillside and she works as the janitor of the school and caretaker of the children who board during the school year. The space allocated for her home consisted of a large room where the childrens' bunks were situated, two squat toilets and a shower(without running water when there hadn't been enough precipitation), and two small side rooms which made up her private space. One room still stored students' trunks and had one empty bunk and the dual gas burners that made up the kitchen. The other room had one bed, where I slept with my head below the altar. Amala would sleep with the 7-year-old daughter on the bunk in the kitchen room and the older daughter, about 11, would sleep on bedding rolled out next to my bed each night. There was electricity for the lights and the television which was a recent addition. The food she prepared was great. Often she made Indian curries, always vegetarian for me. She spoke some English. It was easier to communicate about school and food than to ask questions about life experiences. In the mornings, I enjoyed pretending to be asleep while she tended the altar, watching her light incense, murmur prayers, and refill the bowls of water and food. It was a pleasant way to slowly wake up. Breakfast came next, usually some fresh bread with honey and peanut butter. Extras in a Bob the Builder lunch box. I used to be so finicky about the hard boiled eggs she'd given me, trying to hide them to throw out later if I found the inside wasn't thoroughly cooked. Only recently I've realized how much raw egg I've ingested in my life in the form of cookie dough.

This year, she has another student who is already bed-ridden with some kind of stomach troubles. But my amala is very kind and welcoming but, as usual, seems slightly stressed by the demands of caring for three people. Her youngest daughter, Pema, is super shy at first, as though I'm a stranger again. She warms up later, especially when she comes with her mother to see me off on my last day, a gesture that assures me that they always were, and still are, fond of me. It must be strange for them to have us foreigners dropping into their lives from unimaginable distances. I doubt my homestay sisters have ever been to Delhi. Someday, they will, though, when they are older. Maybe for university, like one of Zaq's homestay brothers who is in his first year.

Dharamsala

We arrive in McLeod Ganj, the smaller town perched above Dharamsala in the foothills of the Himalayas. We took a night bus from Delhi - 12 hours. The last half of which was on increasingly bumpy, windy roads, narrowly scraping (and I mean inches that would be lost if the buses weren't perfectly parallel as they passed) by other rickety buses at frightening speeds next to steep drop-offs. I get small bruises on the elbow that I bouncily try to lean on the window frame.

A few observations about India. Men and poor people pee everywhere except the grass in designated parks. Telephone and electricity wires are haphazard rats' nests of odd wires, some a couple inches thick, draped over tilting posts, ledges, and corners of buildings. Street vendors stir cackling snacks in spitting oil pans. Touts wander through stopped traffic offering small toys, newspapers, water, sliced coconut, oranges, and baked nuts to drivers and passengers. One man spins an empty basket on a finger and makes a kissing noise at me in my bus window. The kissing noises, along with gropes and cat-calls, is called Eve-teasing here and the problem is given a lot of lip-service in the newspapers. I think its a telling name for the behavior because it reveals a victim-blaming attitude that explains these actions as inevitable reactions to a perceived female sexuality. Because India is not known for having a large Christian population, I assume that the Eve reference fits into the variation of British English that is spoken in India.

Indian buses have large cabs up front, sometimes with space for extra passengers during the day and for the extra men who help the driver by checking and selling tickets, dealing with luggage, filling the gas tank, wiping the fogged up windshield, and navigating slim passes with other vehicles. The cabs are decorated with images of Hindu deities, blinking lights, and various tassels. Along the route bus hands pick up and drop off various large sacks at small towns, providing a delivery service as well.

We arrive in McLeod Ganj on the first day of the Tibetan New Year, Losar. The owners of the Om Guesthouse give us a key and never check us in - they are busy entertaining family. McLeod Ganj is the home of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government in exile. It is the center of the expatriated Tibetan community. There are many settlements in India but all expat Tibetans (I have yet to hear of an exception) come to McLeod Ganj at least once. For some, immediately after they leave Tibet, usually via Nepal, feeling it necessary to be blessed by H.H.. Zaq and I lived here for a month in homestays two years ago, learning the Tibetan language, politics, history, and religion.

There are small patches of snow on the ground, something I never saw the last time I was here. My previous visit had been during an unseasonably warm year. The cold creeps in through the few centimeters of breathing room between the door and its frame. The windows aren't doing their best either. No heater. After an early morning nap, Zaq and I head first to get some lunch from the J.J.I. Cafe which is owned by one of the older Tibetan women who taught our language classes, Nima-la. She is a mischievous woman who loves teasing us and playing a part in some of our schemes. Her sons are a successful Tibetan rock band, the J.J.I. Brothers, so the family has had opportunities to travel. Unfortunate for us, she was in Holland with them while we visited Dharamsala. The town is quiet and empty of Tibetans because many were up early for prayers at the Tsuglhakhang, the main temple next to His Holiness' house. The first day of Losar is spent at home with family. Here, the holiday is 3 days long but in some places, it is celebrated for one to two weeks.

There are quite a few Westerners in the J.J.I. and I wonder which ones might be current S.I.T. students. Instead, I am discovered by Sean, the older brother of a good friend and former housemate of mine. The world has suddenly spasmed into its miniature form in which, no matter the distance, everyone is a hug away.

Delhi Day 3

Old Delhi is all small winding streets, a true bazaar. Each alley or section of street is full of tiny shops selling the same things as their neighbors. Coils of strip metal, stationery, bearings, springs, tassels, handles & knobs, metal pipes, etc. It is quite the opposite of the American tendency to spread away from your competitors unless you intend on taking their customers. These groupings of same shops makes sense for a time and place without uniform addresses with consecutive numbering. I've heard that sometimes multiple separate shops are owned by the same person so they work together to get you what you're looking for. While we are in old Delhi, school kids are getting out of class and riding 6 or 8 packed into a cycle rickshaw, all matching uniforms and with their backpacks hanging from hooks, clustered on the back. One student followed us awhile, chatting with Zaq and later forcing upon me a gift of 10 rupees which surprises and confuses me because my experience has only been that kids ask for money and pens from me.

After lunch at the famous Karim's (claiming roots in Mughal times- amazing naan and curries), we head across town on the Metro (very clean and cheap, jam packed at rush hour) to the Indira Gandhi Memorial. We have to walk 15 minutes through some of the wide residential tree-lined streets of walled compounds set back from the street. Indira Gandhi (the daughter of Nehru who is not related to Mahatma Gandhi), the first female Prime Minister of India, was assassinated at her home. It is now a nice memorial, filled with keepsakes and photos for visitors to view, including the clothes she and her son were wearing when each were (at separate times) assassinated.

A few minutes away is the Mahatma Gandhi memorial at the place where he was assassinated. The bottom floor of the building is full of various detailed accounts of the day he died. My favorite describes him as having just returned from Calcutta where he was "dispelling hate with love", as if it were his job. I guess it sort of was.

Delhi Day 2

Zaq and I spent the day running errands. We managed to find the Kyrgyzstan embassy but they are on holiday. I'm not sure if there's a holiday in either Kyrgyzstan or India that the embassy should be celebrating.

Delhi is better than I remember it, perhaps because the weather is pleasantly cool. There are trees lining most of the streets, offsetting the dust from the partially excavated brick sidewalks. There is a lot of construction everywhere, creating a bit of disarray but still a positive sign that there is money to be spent on improvements. Construction work is slow in India, I'm not sure why. I often see people standing around chatting or sleeping on a patch of grass, at the construction sites or near fields. Sometimes it is difficult to determine who is a worker because they wear no uniform and there don't seem to be bosses or managers around.

Here, workers don't mix cement in a bucket, they dump the dry cement into a pile and pour water in the center, making a bowl of the extra dry cement and mixing wet cement in the middle. Saves on having a bucket or a wheelbarrow.

Delhi Arrival

My flight left San Francisco in the first five minutes of the third of February. Fourteen hours to Taipei, Taiwan, an hour layover in the early morning of the 4th and then seven more hours to Delhi. I finally arrive at 1pm. Delhi and New Delhi are both one city but it has noticeable layers of development.

In the airport, I have to wait almost an hour and a half for my first bag to turn up on the baggage claim conveyor belt. It may have been the first one on the plane because I watched 200-300 bags pass by me. I have either never been on a plane with that much luggage or I have been lucky enough to have bags earlier in the queue. As I waited, I watched workers beginning to saw wood next to the baggage claim, working without goggles and ignoring the young boy wandering nearby looking for his family's luggage. I also examined the the various styles of turbans the many Sikh men waiting with me were wearing. Later on in India, my friend, Zaq, and I will notice the many 'Singh's on the reservation lists for the trains. It is common for Sikh men to take the last name Singh.

Once I get my bag, I head out and prepay for a taxi to Majnukatilla, a Tibetan colony in the northern section of Delhi, near a river. It's an hour drive across Delhi from the airport. I'm a little disappointed that I am not riding in an Ambassador, just a regular little hatchback. Ambassadors are beautiful old cars, fully metal, heavy, and painted in the bright colors required for city taxis (black with yellow and green stripes for Delhi) or black or white for private cars.

I get used to being on the left side of the road pretty quickly. It takes a few more days to learn how to look the correct way before crossing the street. I am a little more surprised to see how many more men are out in public than women, a severe majority. I had forgotten. My driver tells me that there are three female rickshaw drivers in Delhi. A lonely contingent. He also tells me that the key to driving in India is, "a good brake, good horn, and good luck".
The air smells musky, a bit sweet, not as bad as I remember. It is about 65 degrees Fahrenheit, amazingly temperate. Delhi will get hot in a month.

After I drop my bags in a room at the Tibetan-run Wongdhen House, I wander around the narrow streets - too narrow for vehicles, only the occasional rickshaw. Zaq shows up after dinner from Mumbai/Bombay. He and I were classmates here two years ago for a Tibetan Studies program in the School of International Training (SIT).