Monthly Archive for June, 2004

Yea, the only update I can really give on my life is that my back still hurts like hell. I’ve been doing these exercises that my school principal taught me. They help a bit, but they more reduce the conflagration to a smoulder, if that makes some kind of sense. I’m gonna go the hot-water bottle route tonight, and I’ve already changed rooms to a more accomodating mattress.

Hope you all are doing better than I am. Much love.

If you, the uninformed observer, woke up at 4:03 this afternoon on my porch, you would have no idea where you were. The fog was so thick, so enveloping in dulled and silvering mid-afternoon light, that visibility was maybe 10 feet at best. Beyond you could be anything. The temperature was cool, the breeze was just shy of swift. For all you knew you could be looking at the sea. A sniff of cool air to the sensitive, balanced observer would connote a palpable thinness, thus ruling out the sea. The view would continue to be a mystery, hypotheticals would swirl and die and rise and fall, until about 4:08.

The unfolding of the view from Valley View must be framed with beautiful, epic comparisons. Venus rising out of the sea. A silk dress falling pointedly to the floor. A rocket, moon-bound at dawn. The rise and crash of a thousand waves. The coiled strength of an Olympian. It is simply jaw-dropping.

As the clouds rolled away and up the mountain, you would simply stare. Your gaze would probably first take in the first huge landscape, then move up and down the gorgeous imperfect geometry of mountain, valley and plain. The side of the mountain sloped steeply down in front of you, broken with infrequency by hotels, flat terraces, and homes, ended in a crack that reminded you of arms stretched out in a breast-stroke. This crack would be just the northern side of a cracked, irregular bowl that is probably 5 miles across. Across the bowl would be another hillside, sprinkled on top with hotels and houses, roads like some ladled sauce across and around it. Way off to the left, well beyond the western edge of the bowl, the Himalayas would rise with ominous power. On particularly clear days, like today at around 4:10, the distant glint of snow-capped mountains shines through high haze. Way off to the right, the organic sprouting of houses and small shops, and the call from the top of two small-looking distant minarets signals Mussoorie proper. Behind Mussoorie off to the east would be, to your rapidly spoiling eye, comparitively unimpressive high, forested hillside.

Taking in the bowl and its surroundings, your eyes would inevitably gravitate to the distant center of your view. In the plains below the mountain range you would currently inhabit, flat brown plains would stretch on forever, meekly interrupted by tiny tan squares you would assume to be houses and dark, wriggling lines you would assume to be roads with diry diesel vehicles on them, collectively making up what you might assume to be Dehradun. But the plains… the plains stretch on and on. If this was your first time blessed with such a view, raw beauty and visual power, as well as the yielding intricacies of any passing gaze would force you to stay and just look. Eventually your analysis would stop but the brilliantly arranged light flowing into your eye would not.

Time would pass, more clouds would roll in and reshroud your recently revealed treasure. You would lament the loss of such a thing, but be greedy for some break in the clouds. Perhaps after a few hours and a few quick but punishing rainshowers, you would break off the vigil for a while. You would go in and eat, play poker for valueless wooden cubes, and cheer for unknown football players trying to do their country proud. The view would be in the back of your mind, calling you like some kind of siren. Randomly you would run out to the porch, riding on a hope, and you would be well rewarded.

The sun would have gone down, leaving its western tropical wake. Reflected light would still gently color the top-most layer of trees, but the landscape would be totally different. Tiny lights would dot the hills, Dehradun beyond would be shimmering. On the nearside of the bowl, two cones of light would be snaking up the hillside, giving pinpoint and momentary access to daylight color. Again you would be called to stay, your analysis fading in importance, your connection with the world more palpable and flowing.

I have to say, I wish you would have been here today. It’s really quite the view.

How cool am I? Just got a fresh new gmail account. it’s bmcguirk then at gmail dot c0m. That’s gonna be my primary address at least till I get back in delhi.

Much love. Be safe all of you.

Brilliant. Very tonal. Very logical script. Maddeningly precise pronunciation requirements. Heavy. Wide variety of sounds.

Absolutely insane day yesterday, demolished entirely by today.
Today: We awoke at 5:15 in order to catch our train at 6:45. The taxis should have been here at 6:00, to be loaded and departed by 6:05. Only three of us were truly ready by 6:05, so there was that. Aided multiple people in bringing bags down. The taxis didn’t arrive at the hotel till 6:25. Madness ensued. After loading our bags-did I mention that the monsoons started today-our taxis broke all traffic laws to get to the station. Speed, signs, avoiding collision: more suggestions than anything else.

Arriving at the station, Indra, the god of rain, bestowed his blessings upon us. The skies opened up with our doors as we descended into a calf-level puddle. As we got out of the taxis and the rain started to pour, random porters came and just took our bags away. Rather shocking if you’re not prepared for it, and even then… I held on to my bags. Our situation was worsened by our total lack of info. Brinda was in another car and, though she told us our train, it was some long thing in Hindi. I couldn’t bloody remember it. So when 50 yelling porters asked us what train we were on, we had no idea. Brinda apparently broke less traffic laws than we did.

Being the poor sheep that we are, we blindly followed the porterse who were carrying our bags on their heads. Totally no clue where we were going, even though once in a while they would just start running, as if our non-existent train were leaving. Brinda soon showed up, smiling. Apparently having your bags semi-stolen and being herded are normal occurrences in India.

“Oh, this is the coach.” Up (way up, weirdly—a little difficult with a big suitcase on your back), and in. It’s packed. Nowhere to sit, nowhere to stow our bags. I pictured myself standing for five hours on the way to Dehradun. Some Hindi rang out in a lovely womans voice from the back of the train and the porters started grabbing our bags again (“No, thank you, I’m taking my own bag.” “I take bag?” “No.” “Bag?” “No.” “Theekai?”), heading off the train. It filters up our 8 person-strong line that we’re on the wrong coach, C1 instead of C3 or some such thing. Off the train, again, herded like unholy cows by men we couldn’t understand. Yelling, yelling, rain and uneven shafts of light littering down onto the platform, hand gestures, more yelling. I think there’s a Hind word that’s something like “Ahna” or something meaning “Move your ass, stupid American,” because that’s what they were thinking and thus that’s what they chanted, a tattered, red-clad Hindu chorus. We finally made it on the train, having lost non of our bags (Amazing! What a country!). Now we’re sipping decent tea in the air conditioning and all this seems funny.

Sidenote: I’d always thought that, when presented with it, I’d like sitar music. I’d find it interesting somehow. Perhaps, with time, that may be true. But right now the irregular clanging of maddeningly disharmonic notes on the shitty speakers is giving me a sensation something akin to classic road rage.

Thank God for the iPod.

Yesterday – June 18th, 2004
So the goal yesterday (the 18th) was two-fold: buy things we needed and see our respective colleges (Lady Shri Ram and St. Stephen?s are on opposite sides of Delhi: 40 minute drive assuming little traffic… which means about an hour and ten minutes…). Before that we were to have lunch with Rudy and Sumar at this trendy new place called “Mocha.”

Mocha is the slightly stale, corporate edition of what Akbar?s Harem must have looked like. The tables were all low, as were the lights, and we sat on plush silk-covered pillows. We were in a VIP-looking remote corner, silk sheets hung from the rafters to act as semi-opaque, exotic doorways. Unnervingly out-of-place American Pop and Eurotrash House thumped on the stereo. Trendy, indeed.

We starts with bottled water and a main course. I had an excellent Country Roasted Chicken Panini. But the desserts were the main attraction.
Desserts:
::Cr�me Brul�e
::Lava lava – Melted butter, hot dark chocolate and oil in a coffee mug
::Between the Sheets – Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream mixed w/ toffee, between chocolate covered cookies
::Jamaican Blue Mountain Cappuccino Cake
::Plus 2 hookaks: apricot and strawberry. I didn’t partake.

I’ve given up drinking while I’m here (exempting, of course, October—those in the know will know why and, yes, I’m working on a Thirsty McShady). I want to see/remember what an alcohol-less life is like. Interesting, if nothing else. Healthy, most probably. I mean I’m in a country that values renunciation (just look at the deification of Sonia Gandhi), so why not do my part and go a bit native? So, despite the fact that half of my ancestors are probably spinning with impressive revolution in their graves, I didn’t have Irish coffee at Mocha yesterday, or beers later when we were watching the football.

Yes, football. A bit addictive, actually and, in certain circumstances, beautiful to watch. Talented players are like artists making a fine carving of the field and their opponents. And, come on, Zenadine Zedane is just a badass name.

Shopping was crazy, Delhi-crazy. We went all over Delhi looking for, of all things, surge protectors. I ended up going in on some speakers with my flatmates. We split them 5 ways, so it was 260 Rs per person. Around 6 bucks. That’s a dollar a month for what will be a well-used luxury. But power! My laptop and iPod are finally fully charged. We almost kissed the guy that finally had them for us. Hotness.

Speaking of hot, it was oppressive yesterday. The monsoon today cooled things down, thankfully. But it was not just hot but so muggy that all items of clothing stuck to all proximate parts of our bodies. Chafing going on in unfun places. Welcome to Delhi.

There was a woman who came begging to our car on the way through New Delhi. She wore a dirt and red colored sari, and her shawl was fluttering around her stretched, thin face. She had sad, sad eyes, brown, a deep brown like rich soil. Her teeth were few and far between, and her jaw was perceptibly askew. She held out one open hand, a flower clutched between thumb and forefinger. The other arm ended in a bruised, pus and blood-leaking wound. Her legs were twigs wrapped in cotton against the wind. She stared at me in my $180 sunglasses, $1100 watch, $150 hiking boots, silver ring, and asked for small change through the glass. I have always prided myself on having a bit of eye-power, being able to meet anyones gaze. I withered under her weak, pleading assault. I could not meet her eyes. The car was completely silent. I don?t think I?ve ever felt as ashamed of the blessings I’ve been given. I won?t ever forget it.

Delhi is massive. It just keeps going, straining under its 11 million inhabitants. We drove in our car for an hour north, through relatively smoothly moving traffic, to get to St. Stephen’s. We passed the India gate and the huge governmental buildings. I say huge because I’ve already used massive in this paragraph. Note to self: find better synonyms for use on truly massive things. These buildings, though, they were so imposing. You felt so small—which was of course the object of their design. Other would probably say they felt powerless, but my ego won’t quite let me.

St. Stephen’s is perfectly Indian. The furniture is sparsely furnished with wooden chairs and big slate chalk-boards. The grounds are fully of greenery (though I admit in the Delhi heat they look a bit brown—apparently after the monsoons they bounce back), including a massive cricket/football field and random itinerant wildlife.

Sidenote: everyone here says football when referring to soccer. It?s so overwhelming (there’s a billion of’em!) that I’m just going to go with it. Deal. When American football season starts, I’ll work out some way of delineating the two.
Stephen’s is going to be a highly competitive program, and I think that’s exactly what I need. I’m psyched for it. If my productivity since coming to India can be sustained (I don’t see why not: I haven’t been making an effort or anything, it’s just sort of happened), then that shouldn’t be a problem.

The poverty in this country is overwhelming. It just stretches on and on to all points of the horizon. I just don’t know what would be required to raise the standard of living. Forced secondary education, at least, probably, for starters. Clean energy. Better infrastructure overall, come to think of it. Less corruption in government. Better civil society. Less vertical reliance. That’d be a start. But that’s just it. I keep thinking of the caterpillar who, when asked what foot to move first, never moved again. I guess education and corruption are the two most gateway issues. They affect so much. So I guess you concentrate there. Once you have a clean, well-ordered government, you can start really fixing the infrastructure. With better communication, better access to education, civil society will start to right itself and expand and reverse the vertical alignment of Indian society. That’s probably how I’d start to go about it.

This Indian music is terrible.

Valhalla
So we went to St. Stephen’s, looked around, then went to the apartment. Good Lord. My buddy Rob said it best: “This is the nicest apartment we’re going to live in until we’re 35.”

First, the complex is guarded by a 24-hour a day security team with shotguns. They looked comfortably imposing. Once past the big, motorized, wrought iron security gate, the newly paved road slopes down to the 30-ft high, pike-topped eastern wall. On your left are the gardens with grassy paths, bisected by a concrete walkway leading to the building itself. The gardens are awash in exotic-looking flowers of which I am currently totally ignorant. I’m sure in the months to come I’ll be able to update you on that. They’re gorgeous, trust me.

There’s no proper door to the building because, really, after the shotguns, why would you bother? There’s just a staircase that leads up to the apartments. We’re on the third floor, out of four. The fourth floor is the roof, but that deserves its own description. Upon opening the door to our apartment, you?re immediately struck by the enormity of our living/dining room. It’s easily half-again as big as my living/dining room at home. Off the living room to the left is the first of four separate balconies. From this balcony, the view to the east is of a temple built around 1000 years ago (we’re researching the details here, more to follow). Beyond the temple is the greenness of Delhi. Delhi is actually one of the greenest capital cities in the world. From what I’ve seen, I believe it. The only problem is that it’s also one of the worlds most dirt-colored capitol cities… but who’s counting that stat? Regardless, all you can see to the eastern horizon is trees and the occasional bigger than average building.

Back inside, straight ahead from the entrance door is the dining table and the first of three bedrooms. This one was under construction at the time we visited (why? No one tells us). In the northeast corner, to the right of the room under construction, is a sizable bookshelf and the second bedroom. It’s almost the length of my bedroom at home, with most of the width (but no slanted ceilings). There are two beds, two desks, two surge protectors (!), and one private bathroom. The bathroom is nicely sized. As long as it was bigger than chez Madam Mercier in Nice, I was going to be happy. The shower has a semi-sunken basin, which is sort of cool. So you step in and you’re feet are below the level of the floor by about a foot. It’s an odd-looking thing, but… exotic? Am I overusing that particular adjective? Anyway… The balcony off this room has views of the park close to the complex to the Northwest and Delhi’s green down the hill to the east. The bedroom next to this is largely the same, but with an even more sunken tub/basin. Next to this bedroom is the kitchen, complete with stove oven, microwave, fridge, tons of cupboards, and a gleaming new white paint job. Gorgeous.

It really is an unbelievable apartment. If we can get some DSL going on there, my life will be complete.

The apartment is about 10 minutes to St. Stephen’s by Auto-rickshaw. Apparently we need to learn to haggle with them over prices. That’ll be fun.

Speaking of haggling, I want to join the debate society at St. Stephen’s. Cat will join with me, she says. It’ll be cool. I need to flex and grow those muscles better and more often.

The Roof
Oh my God. One floor up from us is the roof. It’s a huge flat terrace with two sides. The view is nearly panoramic (the building directly to the east blocks much of that direction, but that’s up the hill anyway, so we wouldn’t be able to see much anyway). You can see the tops of the great white government buildings in New Delhi, as well as part of the top of the Red Fort… no words… And that’s just at night! Beautiful. Just beautiful. It totally changed my perspective on how I was going to be living in Delhi. Movies/pictures soon to follow as soon as I’m back in civilization.
What a damn good day.
Note: This post was post-dated to June 19th, because that’s when it was written. I’m finally online here in the mountains, so more should be forthcoming.