Catching Up 5: In Transit

Sorry for the delay in posting! Access to the internet -- at a reasonable price -- has been difficult to find.

I spent my last full day in Pune, a very wet, rainy Sunday, visiting to some local sites that I somehow missed during my two-month stay. My morning started with 97 steps up Parvati Hill so I could see all of Pune, and the view was vast. There was a temple and a museum, and the wet weather ensured that I was the lone tourist among a mere handful of devotees. The museum was a former residence of the Peshwas, the former rulers of Maharashtra, and filled with objects of those bygone days – utensils, costumes, jewelry, palanquins, sedans, photographs, etc. Then I went to the Kelkar Museum, more modern than the previous one with a bigger collection. Not only does it feature daily objects, but also doorways and statues, from all over India. It is definitely worth a second visit.

I met up with some people at Le Meridien for Sunday brunch, where I gorged myself on food and wine. I ate, leisurely but steadily, from 2 to 5 pm. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate so much, but it was so very good. Afterwards I had to walk off the wonderful food, so a classmate and I explored Deccan, the bustling area right next to the Institute. It was a pretty typical college-town, full of bookstores, book bag stores, coffee shops, gift shops, etc. I couldn’t believe I only discovered it on my last day, but I took it a preview of my next visit to Pune.

But at that point I didn’t know for certain that it would be my last day in Pune. I had kept myself busy throughout Sunday to distract myself from the cloud of anxiety that was hanging over my head. With the flood situation in Bombay, the heavy rain that was still continuing at that point, and the fact that many of my classmates had had flights cancelled, I was unsure whether Ken would arrive on Monday. If Ken could not fly into Bombay, there was no point in my going to Bombay, and what about our trip to Rajasthan? The itinerary was booked and paid for, starting from Bombay. When I consulted with Manu and Neena, they advised against me going to Bombay: the train tracks, which had been open briefly, were flooded again, and my ticket had been cancelled. They knew others who were trying to fly in/out and were stuck. So I went to sleep on Sunday night with my bags half packed (one suitcase had already been sent to Delhi, my departing point) and hoped for the best.

Monday morning, I raced to the internet café to read Ken’s emails: he had arrived in Singapore… the flight was postponed as they waited for reports of the airport conditions… he was waitlisted… and then… he was on his way! I called wonderful friend Janet in Singapore to verify, and she called me back: yes, barring any curveballs that Mother Nature might still throw, the plane was cleared to land in Bombay. It was the first Singapore Airline plane cleared to land in several days, so we kept our fingers crossed. I called Manu, arranged for a shuttle to Bombay, raced home, threw the rest of my stuff into the suitcase, and left on the shuttle. As we drove on the Mumbai-Pune Expressway in pouring rain, I noticed the streams of water gushing down the rocky mountain walls and onto the road. When I traveled on the Expressway a couple of weeks ago, the water was mere trickles, if they existed at all. I tried not to think about the landslides that had closed the Expressway only a few days ago.

When I finally arrived at the hotel front desk about four hours later, I was told, "Oh! Your husband has just arrived, madam. He’s just looking at the room." I had wanted to change and "pretty up," but that was instantly unimportant. He was here. From then on the weather was mild, just small occasional showers, and no sign of flooding, past or future.

The next day Kathy arrived. Just 24 hours before she got on the plane, she had broken her left index finger, so she was both jet-lagged and groggy from pain and pain meds. We let her rest while we went on a little mini-adventure: taking a bus to buy a charger for my cell phone. A taxi would have been faster and easier, but we were told that it would have cost more than the charger, so we hopped on the bus. After wandering around for a bit, guessing a lot, and asking for directions, we found "Krishna Electronics." They gave the necessary part, we wandered a bit to find the bus stop back, and got home. The whole thing took less than an hour and less than Rs. 100.

We woke Kathy up for afternoon tea, which was even more delicious the second time, and then some shopping around Colaba Causeway, the place to shop. Luckily Melanie had already shown me the shoppers’ tour so I knew where to go ;)

The next day we got up bright and early to fly to Jodhpur and begin our Rajasthan trip.

Going, going...

I've packed up one suitcase already (I ended up buying two), and oh my goodness is it heavy.

The trains are running today from here to Bombay, so I've booked my ticket for Monday morning. Due to the rain, a number of my classmates are stuck here. Some were able to postpone their flight until next week, others got tired of waiting here and just decided to go to the airport and take their chances.

Two more classes with Geeta, tonight and tomorrow morning.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

After almost a month of unbelievably beautiful, lovely weather, the monsoon rears its ugly head again. No, I shouldn't say that. Quite a number of locals have explained to me that monsoon season is the loveliest time of year, when the rains rejuvenate the dry dusty earth and give farmers hope for the coming season. Things come to life, especially romance. Many traditional love songs mention the monsoons, and the wetly clad Bollywood heroes and heroines writhing and thrashing suggestively in torrential downpours give a whole new meaning to "Singing in the Rain." As someone explained it more explicitly, "From February to May it's just too hot to make out." The way that everything turns green and fresh is really adorable, and I don't mean just the plants. Yesterday when I was at the dry cleaners I noticed a little cricket hopping around. On closer inspection I saw that it wasn't a cricket, but a frog, the size of an insect : )

However, the manmade environment is sometimes unable to deal with gifts of the gods. This morning's class was humming with the news that Bombay is heavily flooded right now. The airports were closed yesterday, with no planes coming in or out; the Mumbai-Pune Expressway is closed due to a landslide, and train tracks are flooded. This being the last week of the month, people are starting to leave. A number of my classmates have flights out tomorrow that may be cancelled. I am not so worried, I leave Monday morning for Bombay to meet up with Ken (yay!) but I do hope that things clear up by then. Meanwhile my umbrella is being put to good use, as I run around on my errands. Pune is not so bad, but there are many streets that are flooded, and driving around is much slower than usual. Oh, and the laundry is not drying.

The Beginning of the End

It seems that I'll be playing catch-up for quite some time on this blog. It's my last week in Pune, and I just haven't had time to post -- sorry. Not only am I doing last minute chores, like buying a suitcase so I can pack (still need to do that), but I'm trying to absorb as much of Pune as I can. Even though I'll be in India until August 13, it'll be as one hundred percent tourist, which isn't the same.

To summarize the last few days:

Thursday, July 21 - Guru Purnima. Flower garlands and wreaths adorned the Institute gates, doorways, and the walls of the practice hall for this important festival. The statues in and around the premises were cleaned and polished, and also got fresh garlands. The 6 pm pranayama class was cancelled; instead we dressed in our best and packed into the hall to honor Guruji. Prashant started with a two-hour talk -- without notes, mind you. Unfortunately I didn't take notes, but when I got home I jotted down as much as I remembered. I'll try to transcribe and post them as soon as I can.

He started off by saying, "Do not confuse Guru Purnima with 'Teacher's Day.' We are not celebrating one man. The guru is not a man, rather it is a principle." His talk was very engrossing, and filled with quotes from the Vedas, the Bhagavad Gita, as well as Patanjali's Yoga Sutras. Afterwards, Guruji came up to speak for a little bit, about how he got started in yoga -- he said he had wanted to become a dancer when he was young, and that later on when he met a famous Indian classical dancer, he wanted that dancer to teach him. The dancer never did teach him dance, but rather, Guruji taught the dancer yoga! After Guruji's short talk, he was presented with various "things:" a new CD with 108 names of Patanjali that we can play as we're practicing, to inspire us; the latest edition of Yoga Rahasya, etc. Afterwards we went single-file to bow to Guruji as he sat on his porch -- it was a long, long line. Usually one is supposed to make an offering, like flowers, or a coconut, but they requested that our efforts go instead toward a donation toward a girls' high school that he has built in his home village of Bellur.

Saturday, July 23 - I went with two classmates, Peggy and Anastasia, to the Deep Griha Society, a thirty-year-old organization dedicated to helping the people living in the slums of Pune. They provide whatever they can, whatever is needed: daycare for children, basic education, health clinic, nutritional awareness, technical skills. The main reason we go, of course, is for the children: toddlers and babies in one room, held or played with by volunteers; 3- to 5-year-olds in another room, calling out "Namastaaaaay!" in baby voices; and the older kids in a third room, their greetings a little shyer but no less sincere. They were so happy to see us, their smiles came out more readily than the sun. Some followed us from room to room, confidently slipping their thin little hands into ours. Anastasia had bought origami paper, and we spent a fun ten minutes making shirts, pants, and boats, as well as taking pictures.

I'm shown the health clinic, where they stock up on free tuberculosis medicine from the government; but now that the rains have started, I'm told the main problem is diarrhea. Medical records are kept on thin, pulpy paper; they are on the alert for signs of malnutrition. I pass the sewing room, where teenage girls receive lessons; we make a brief stop at the nursing classroom, where students get a 10-month course, then practical training. The chalkboard says, "WBC - White Blood Cells."

Peggy and Anastasia are sponsoring children, which costs Rs. 8000 per year (less than $200). In addition to donating money, the organization encourages contact between the sponsors and sponsorees -- letters, visits, etc. Peggy and Anastasia met their sponsorees on a previous visit, Peggy her 12-year-old girl and 10-year-old little brother, and Anastasia her 13- and 11-year-old girls and another little boy, the three of them also siblings. On that previous visit, in honor of meeting, they took the kids out for ice cream. As they were going, Peggy's little girl had told her, "I don't want ice cream, I want shoes." So on this trip we went to the shoe store, followed by one of the staff to make sure we weren't getting ripped off. Then the three of us took the five kids for a quick lunch at a nearby restaurant.

Before we left, however, a Western volunteer took Peggy aside and told her that her sponsorees' single mother had passed away that week -- stage 3 AIDS. Now the children are living with an aunt, but it's not an ideal situation, so they will probably be going to an orphanage outside Pune next year. The little girl was cheerful and smiling, but later as we were walking to the restaurant and she was holding my hand, she looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "I have no mother no father," then pointing at Peggy, "This mother and father."

When we brought them back to the clinic, Peggy tried to say goodbye, but the little girl wanted her to come back inside. In the rickshaw, Peggy struggled with tears as she said to us, "How do I explain to her that I will come back in 2008?"

In spite of such heart-wrenching moments, those of us who have gone to visit the clinic are truly grateful to be able to see this side of India. All of us have had encounters with street children. They come up to you as you're sitting in a rickshaw, stopped at a traffic signal, tap you on the knee with their grubby little hands, point to their mouths in an eating gesture and make "ah, ah" noises, their voices rough with the pollution and exhaust since they spend their time at busy intersections. Or they follow you as you're walking, the more experienced ones holding out their hands and chanting, "Mo-nee, mo-nee." Some will be so persistent as to follow you for a few blocks.

Their tender ages makes the it hard to take. My landlady advised me on my first day not to give money to them, "even though they may look cute." But when the child is not even tall enough to reach my hip, or when a 6-year-old is carrying a naked baby, covering it with her scarf, most of us look away, or look through them, not wanting to be manipulated by such stark wretchedness, and yet not wanting to be guilty of incompassion.

So going to an organization like Deep Griha is a therapeutic relief. We can't give much, but we can make a personal connection, give more than money -- a smile, a hug, let them take pictures with our cameras. It's better than handing out single rupees from rickshaws.

Catching Up 4: Bright Lights, Big City

I wake up with the dawning realization that it's too bright and too noisy to be 5:45 am. I glance at my watch -- 7:30 am.

I had missed my train.

I rush down to ask Manu what I should do. He tells me that I can catch a bus or a cab, depending on what's available. Ever since the Mumbai-Pune Expressway opened in 2000, there are numerous daily shuttles and taxis back that go back and forth, so I shouldn't worry. He offers to give me a ride to the station, and I say I'll be ready in half an hour.

On the short ride to the train station, Manu casually mentions that if I do take a bus, I should not accept any food from anyone, because it might be drugged, and better yet, "just don't get too friendly with anyone."

I suggest that I should probably try the cab option first.

"Cabs" are basically little hatchbacks. They carry a maximum of four people for a total of about Rs. 1300. When four passengers show up, the cab leaves for Bombay. If there are less than four passengers, they can agree to split the price amongst themselves.

Manu inquires for me at the ticket booth. Apparently there are already 2 people signed up to go, and they both agree that 3 is a comfortable number. I wave goodbye to Manu, and we set off.

The weather is beautiful -- just the right combination of sun and clouds. The road is smooth, and there's not much traffic, so we zip along. The scenery is lovely. When I made the trip to Pune back in May, I was anxious, uncertain, and in no mood to appreciate the dry, dusty landscape. But now that monsoon season has started, everything is fresh and green. Our little cab tunnels though mountains and winds along valleys. From the elevated expressway I look across canyons to misty cliffs on the other side. I found some pictures on the internet (wonderful internet!) here and here.

My two travel companions, both Indian, start the trip with a few cell phone conversations. One is a young girl, early 20's perhaps, in a fitted velour track suit and trendy shoulder bag. I speculate she's talking to her boyfriend when I hear her say something like, "I told you where I was going (mumble mumble) ... not coming back... (mumble mumble)." Her phone rings constantly throughout the ride with calls and text messages.

The other one is a clean cut guy in a crisp white shirt. He makes short calls in a distinct English accent, like, "I'm flying out of Bombay tonight, I'll call you at 7 am London time," and, "could I ask you for a favor? Could you pick up my uniform and flight case?... Brilliant.... Raw-ite... Cheers!" So I had to ask if he was a pilot. He says yes, with Virgin Atlantic. His parents live in Pune, and he was born in the UK. I ask if he could tell me when we're a half-hour away from Bombay so I can call Melanie, who's picking me up.

We make a stop at one of the many gas stations along the expressway. There's a little snack shop next to it that's doing brisk business. Nice Pilot and I are standing in line for a cup of coffee, and I look curiously around me to see what people are ordering.

"That's a batata wada," Nice Pilot informs me when I ask.

"What's that?"

He looks at me curiously. "Have you had Indian food?"

"Well, yes," I say, feeling a bit defensive, "Just not that!"

He tells me it's a Pune specialty and orders two. It's a patty of mashed potatoes, spiced, with some veggie bits, and fried. They serve it with a bread roll, which you break in half, stick the patty (the batata -- potato -- wada) in the middle, and sprinkle some spice powder. It makes for a very tasty little snack.

We get into Bombay at 11:30 am. Nice Pilot had let me know at 11 am that I should call Melanie, then gave Melanie's fiance directions to the pick up location, and when we got there, waited with me until Melanie and Vikram (her fiance) arrived. I was lucky to have met him, even though I never learned his name.

The rest of the weekend went just as smoothly. We kept it mellow and didn't do too much sightseeing -- as mellow as possible considering we hung out in Colaba, which is probably to Bombay what Fifth Avenue is to New York City. After running some "errands" with Melanie at some jewelry stores, where I managed to refrain from buying any of the gorgeous, gorgeous items, we had high tea at the Taj Mahal Hotel, overlooking the water (I think it's the Bay of Bombay?) and the Gateway of India. It was very lovely, and very very upper crust. They ran into some friends there, and I can see why people say that the Indians can out-English the English.

We went shopping on the Causeway, filled with shops and booths. I bought two pairs of shoes, which was a fun and surprisingly efficient experience. All the shoe stores have one or two big square holes in the middle of the ceiling. When you ask to try on a pair in your size, the salesperson calls out, "Hey, Ramu! 1368 -- 38!" And waits under the chute, to catch the shoebox. (It's raining shoes!) If they don't have it in your desired size or color, they can make it in a few days. When Melanie tried on one that she liked but rubbed her arch uncomfortably, it was whisked away and came back five minutes later, problem solved.

We ate at Western restaurants all weekend, with delicious food (dark green salads with blue cheese and nuts! Yum!!!), sophisticated decor, and an international clientele. I hardly remembered I was in India. I told Melanie I felt like the country mouse visiting the city mouse. At Vikram's parents' house, I stayed in a room with a TV. I'm afraid I was unable to detach my hand from the remote and I stayed up half the night channel surfing. I watched True Lies, of all things, until 4 am.

Not that I actually needed sleep. The next morning Melanie and I walked ten minutes to the salon, where I got a wax, full body massage, and a pedicure -- for less then Rs 1000. Which is about $22. Then we had Sunday brunch that was better than most Sunday brunches back home.

After a laze at home, I gathered my stuff, thanked Melanie and Vikram for a wonderful weekend, and got into the taxi to go the train station. The Mumbai Central Station is still known to most people by its former name, Victoria Terminus, or VT. It's a big Gothic landmark that was built in the 1880s. I board my 5 pm train with no problems, and by 8:30 pm I was back in Pune.

Home sweet home. :)

Catching Up 3: Catching Cold and YogaBlurb

My health had been pretty problem-free, but it was too good to last. Even since the end of June people had been coming down with some sort of sore throat thing. When it hurt to swallow on Tuesday morning I gargled with salt water, drank warm liquids, and hope for the best. But it didn't go away, and when I saw angry red bumps at the back of my throat and tongue on Thursday, I knew I had to take the antibiotic route. I asked Neena to take me to the doctor.

I had made plans to go to Bombay for the weekend, to see my friend Melanie (hi Melanie!) who's in Bombay for July. She is getting married here in January, and has been to India numerous times. I was excited, and looking forward to seeing Bombay with a semi-native. The train tickets were bought and delivered, but it would all go down the tubes if I was too sick to go.

The doctor (a nice lady one, and a one-minute walk away from my apartment) prescribed antibiotics, cough syrup, sore throat gargle, and ibuprofen. The visit and drugs came to about $5. At first she looked at me dubiously when I asked her whether I could go to Bombay for the weekend, but when she learned I was staying in a private home rather than a hotel, she gave her ok.

Later that evening, I debated whether I should go to class. My throat was sore, but I felt heat that needed to be let out, and it wasn't fever. I wondered whether I should rest and let it cool down, or work hard and sweat it out.

It was the latter. I told Geeta I had a throat infection, and she nodded, but didn't prescribe anything special. We proceeded to do jumpings (Surya Namaskar) but broken down to two poses at a time to work repeatedly on the transitions, as in:

Urdhva Hastasana <--> Uttanasana
Uttanasana <--> Adho Mukha Svanasana
Adho Mukha Svanasana <--> Urdhva Mukha Svanasana
Urdhva Mukha Svanasana <--> Chaturanga Dandansana
Chaturanga Dandasana <--> Adho Mukha Svanasana

Followed by some standing poses and backbends.

It was excellent and I felt much better afterward. I came to the conclusion that though my throat was sick, the rest of my body wanted to work, and boy did it work. I went home feeling confident that my cold was over, and set my alarm for 5:45 am, to catch the 7:10 am train for Bombay.

Catching Up 2: It's All Fun and Games Until the Dancing Begins

Part I: Engagement, Sangeet, and Mehendi

Monday night I dress in my best salwaar kameez and go with two of my classmates to the Hotel Aurora Towers on Moledina Road. The invitation says 8 pm and I don't want to miss any part of the ceremony so we leave at 7:30 pm. The rickshaw driver takes us on the scenic route (not an uncommon occurrence) so what should have been a 20-minute ride instead takes 45 minutes. But no matter. We arrive at a beautiful five-star hotel, with a spacious modern lobby, glass and dark wood everywhere. We go up to the mezzanine floor to find that we are the first ones there -- the staff are still setting up. So we go down to the bar for a drink, where we are also the lone customers.

When I get home later I discover that the invitation actually says "7 pm onwards," so at a quarter past eight things are really behind. But then again, it's the pace of life here, so I should have known better. Stores open from about 9 or 10 am to 1 pm, then everything closes down for lunch and naptime. Around 5 pm, business resumes, and close again at 8 pm. Then people go home and have dinner at 9 or 10 pm. By the time the dishes are washed and the table wiped down, it's midnight.

We go back to the banquet room at around 8:30. Votive candles line the walkway from the elevator to the banquet hall, with shredded flower petals surrounding them. The hall itself is in an "L" shape, and we enter from the short end of the "L." It's a banquet hall like any at home: plush red carpet and soft gold lighting. Along the sides of the hall, chairs are grouped in U-shapes for easy socializing, with a small table in the middle, decorated with a votive candle and flower petals. In the center of the hall, thick white pallets are laid out to form a square of about 20 x 20 ft. With bolsters evenly spaces on the pallets, it looks very inviting.

In the corner there is a small platform with a golden swing for two, adorned with flowers. There is a dance floor in front. Along the long side of the "L" are the DJ's table, two bars (alc and non-alc), and at the very end is the buffet set up.

The few people milling about are the bridal party, including the bride. Someone told me later that in Indian weddings it's the groom who makes the grand entrance. Everyone is beautifully dressed. Many of the women in sarees sport a modern twist, such as having the scarf hang down the front rather than the back, or wearing a mandarin collared saree blouse. The men are in the traditional long-sleeve, below-the-knee tunics called kurtas, with a scarf around the neck, loose pants, and pointy slippers. It's very flattering. Almost all the clothes contain gold or other metallic thread; the ladies' are studded with any amount of beads and sequins. It's a dazzling sight.

Aside from the clothing, what isn't covered is just as novel. In the general public, sleeveless shirts are about as revealing as it gets. But now I'm seeing spaghetti straps and strapless bodices; lots of bare backs and even some discreet bellies.

Glass, gold, and bejeweled bangles are stacked on wrists almost to the elbow. As Denise explained to me, banking services are only recently widely available, but obviously not so much in rural areas, and neither banks nor currency are entirely trusted, so people invest their wealth in gold -- 23K to be precise -- and wear it on their bodies, men and women alike. I've seen men wearing beautiful rings that would seem feminine back home, as well as gold bangles and earrings. For women, the jewelry always comes in even numbers, as it is to be split evenly on both sides of the body -- toes, ankles, wrists, and ears. Everyone wears gold bangles, it's just a question of how many. Even the poor women that I see on the street wear some kind of gold bangle on their wrists. And to break up the monotony, there are glass bangles that come in every color imaginable, with various degrees of sparkle. Because the bangles are supposed to fit snugly, when you want to take off the glass ones, or when they are old, you have the option of breaking them.

Back to the wedding. Actually, it's an engagement. Someone later explained that Indian weddings last so long (average three days) because traditionally marriages are arranged, the families are strangers, so the drawn-out process give the two families a chance to get to know each other. The sangeet is the beginning of the celebrations. It means "song," and the two families are supposed to make up songs of a humorous content about members of the family -- I guess a sort of musical meet-and-greet. The next day is the mehendi, usually a women-only affair, where the bride's hand and arms are decorated with intricate henna designs. That's to give her a chance to do nothing, as henna takes a few hours to set, and have the women tease her and share marital secrets. Finally comes the wedding ceremony.

Well, it seems this wedding has been shortened a bit, modernized and customized. There's no actual singing, and as for the mehendi, the bride's hands and arms were already done, I guess for the sake of efficiency. Instead, we ladies are invited onto the pallet, where a team of four beauticians decorate our palms with henna squeezed out of little pastry bags. Leaves and flowers, starbursts and scrolls unfurl in brown paste as the girl moves the small tube across my palm, all the way to the fingertips, then moves onto the backs of my hands. I feel like a cake being decorated in chocolate icing. The smell of eucalyptus oil wafts through the air. It's mixed into the henna paste of help it set faster.

Afterwards, all the ladies are rendered momentarily helpless, as we cannot do anything but sit or stand with our hands and fingers outstretched. Trays of hors d'oeuvres and drinks are being passed around by servers, but none of us can pick anything up. I begin to see why some ladies only decorated one hand.

Right at this time, when my hands are unable to use the camera, is when the groom and family make their entrance. To my relief, I recognize the groom's father, the owner of Karachiwalla and issuer of my invitation. Since I only met him once, I had been worried that I wouldn't recognize him. He comes over to us and treats us as if we are still in his shop: "Hello madam, how are you madam? Are you enjoying yourself madam? Can I get you something madam? Something to drink?" I indicate my henna'd hands and say I'll get something later.

The bride and groom step onto the dais, in front of the swing. The videographer's huge spotlight turns on them, and shutters click away. They are lovely in matching outfits of turquoise (the same color as the wedding invitation). He is tall and handsome -- who knew turquoise could be such a manly color? She is gorgeous, and positively decked out in jewels on her person and clothing. Their smiles are genuine -- we discover it's a love match, not arranged.

A small crowd gathers in front of them, rings are exchanged (a Western touch?), a priest (I think) says something, everyone applauds. Someone starts chanting, "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" so the groom kisses her hand, but that doesn't appease them, so he pecks her check. It's all pretty low-key, since plenty of people are standing around having private conversations, with each other or into a cell phone.

The bride and groom step down and mingle with the guests. We eye the buffet set up. It's about 10 pm by now and there's no activity.

The DJ announces something about someone giving us a performance, and we gather closer to watch. In the center of the dance floor three little girls dressed in matching yellow-and-pink outfits, start doing a choreographed dance to a popular Bollywood song, I think from "Bunty aur Babli." The oldest is maybe 12 years old, and the other two are under 10. So cute!!! They obviously love doing it, executing every move with well-rehearsed precision.

The parents and other relatives encourage the little girls with cheers, whistles, and hand-clapping. One by one, members of the audience dance up to the girls holding a rupee-note, circle it around the girls' heads a few times as if in blessing, and drop it on the DJ's table behind them.

The little girls finish to thunderous applause, to be followed by a little boy, also maybe 10-12 years old. I think he's the groom's nephew. He's dressed appropriately in t-shirt and jeans, and he does a solo performance to a song from the action flick "Dus," with a heavy, rhythmic beat. His brow furrowed, plump little lower lip jutted out aggressively, he bends his knees and starts the pelvic grind, and boy does he get down! All the while making the "appropriate" faces. I am a little shocked, but the adults love it. Out comes the rupee-note twirl over the head again. Some of the ladies take the opportunity, while giving him money, of doing a little twirling themselves on the dance floor, eliciting more cheers and whistles.

The next day, Chittra (of cooking and music lessons) tells one of my friends that the kids' performances is not a traditional part of the ceremony, but a fashion that started after the movie "Monsoon Wedding" came out. This makes me want to go to other weddings to see whether other little kids are gyrating their hips too!

When the little boy finishes, the oldest girl from the previous group gets back up to do another number. I guess she wants the last word. Pretty soon a number of people are up there, dancing away. I'm standing at the sidelines, taking short little videos with my camera -- I'd used the hand dryer in the bathroom to dry my henna'd hands -- when one of my friends comes up to me. "They've started the buffet!" We go. It's 11 pm by now and we're starving.

There's a surprising amount of meat -- chicken and lamb. According to Chittra, a traditional Brahmin wedding would have been a lot more sedate, and without dancing, meat, or alcohol. She says more and more Indians are eating meat. I notice restaurants often offer both "veg" and "non-veg" items on the menu, and on TV there are often commercials for "Real Tender Chicken" (I think that's the actual brand name.)

The three of us find seats and chow down. As I'm eating I notice an older gentleman (mid 60's?) looking at me. As I'm putting the last bite into my mouth he approaches and shouts over the music, "May I have this dance?"

How quaint, I think, and put my plate aside. He takes my hand and fairly drags me to the dance floor, whereupon he proceeds to turn and twirl me with gleeful enthusiasm on his part. On my part it's more like wide-eyed mortification. I see my friend trying to take a picture with my camera. Later I find that it was on video mode, so instead of taking a picture she took a little film of us.

I'm thinking of how to get out of the situation, when the song ends and he pulls me closer to talk. "Where are you from?" He shouts in my ear. His moustache tickles my cheek.

"America. Thank you! I must go." I run to my friends, waiting at the sidelines.

"Wow, he really took your breath away, huh?" My friend says.

"Yes," I pant.

"Are you reading to leave?"

"Yes," I say emphatically.

There's no time to look for the groom's father, or even to wait for the cake. My friends have a 7 am class the next day, and I was tired as well. The rickshaw ride home was uneventful, and I got home just at midnight.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Part II: Wedding

Wednesday evening. I'm standing in my room, amid five-and-a-half meters of red silk, wondering how to put on a saree. I thought I remembered when the girl put it on me at the silk factory in Aurangabad, but now I'm not so sure. I wrap it around me awkwardly and go to Komal, the cook, watching TV in the sitting room "Nice, Didi," she says.

"Yes, but..." I pantomime to her, how do I get the last bit?

"I no idea." That's her way of saying, I don't know. If she knew, it would be, "I idea." (Once I tried saying, "I know," once, but she got confused between "know" and "no." So now I also say, "I idea.")

"Neena?" I inquire about my landlady downstairs.

Komal nods, motions for me to stay, and goes down. A minute later she comes back. "Neena not coming." Neena is not here. "Shopping."

I'm wondering whether to go for Plan B, my second best salwaar kameez, when Manu, my landlord comes up. "Danielle! I just called Neena, she is at least half an hour away. She said if she knew you were needing help tonight she would have stayed home. Why didn't you tell her this morning?"

I apologize for not thinking ahead, and assure him it's no big deal.

"What are you going to do now?" He asks.

I tell him I'm going to the Hotel Chetak, where I'm meeting my friends, and hopefully I'll find someone there who can help me.

He wishes me luck.

I pack up the saree and the Plan B salwaar, put on pants and a shirt over my saree blouse, and try to hurry to the Chetak without breaking a sweat.

Luckily, at the Chetak, Denise is getting her hands and feet henna'd. She told me she always does this the night before she leaves, and tries to leave the paste on throughout the plane ride home for maximum skin absorption. When I interrupt her session, I see that the design on her is even more intricate than what I saw Monday night. It's like she's wearing black lace gloves.

Ever helpful, she takes a break to let the beautician put on my saree, and provide me with the necessary safety pins, which I didn't know I needed. "Indian ladies are never without safety pins!" Denise declares. I think of her as my fairy godmother.

It's a difficult thing, wearing a saree. Five-and-a-half meters is a lot of material, and it's supposed to go all the way to your toes. Throughout the evening I was afraid that I would step on the skirt, which I had heard happen to someone. I couldn't take the long strides I usually do. And I decide to limit my liquid intake so I won't have to negotiate going to the bathroom.

The red silk also accentuated my mehendi. When I washed off the henna on Monday night, it was a pale orange. Disappointed, I thought it didn't take, so I was surprised the next morning to find that it had darkened to a deep red, matching my saree almost exactly.

After taking our pictures in the lobby, the six of us set off in two rickshaws to go to another five-star hotel. Although this time we arrive an hour later than the time stated on the invitation, the place is still pretty empty when we arrive. But at least we're not the first.

I was really looking forward to the groom arriving on a white horse, and wondering how he would do that in such a fancy hotel. But my hopes are dashed when the bride and groom arrive together with their families, on foot, and the men very much in Western dress. Apparently all the ceremony and rites were done beforehand, and this was really just a reception. Still, it was another opportunity to admire jewels and sarees, and marvel at how easily the ladies move about in them, when I don't feel like I should budge from my seat for fear of unraveling!

A little girl had sat near us on Monday night, with her aunt. Tonight, she comes straight over to us when she arrives, like she's known us forever. She starts chattering to us, but when she realizes we don't understand, changes to pantomiming. We learn that her name is Dahida (my phonetic spelling) and she's six years old. She's adorable. Her big, alert eyes light on my camera, and she asks to see it. At first she looks at the display on the LCD screen. Then she asks if she can take pictures with it. She takes a picture of each of us, then all together as a group. She figures out how to use the zoom and the playback button. Soon she's taking pictures of her friends (the dancing trio from Monday night), her grandfather and aunt, the bridal couple (seated on two very throne-like chairs on the dais, receiving guests and gifts). When they wheel out the cake, I ask her to take pictures of that, and she's off and running. She gets a close-up of the flower arrangement on the table, and says to me, "Action!" So we pretend to be talking and gesturing so that she can get an action shot. She keeps going until the battery dies.

When I go through the pictures later, they are nearly all excellent, and the subjects would not have posed for me in the way that they did for her. She really did me a favor.

Dinner is buffet again, this time more elaborate, and served on the terrace. My little photographer takes a break just long enough to eat something. As I go to get a plate, I see my dancing partner from Monday night. He waves to me excitedly. I return the smile and stay away.

As we eat, the kiddies do a reprisal of Monday night's performance. This time we do stay long enough for cake (chocolate). But somehow, the groom's vivacious sister comes to our table (which has the best view, which means closest to the front) and wheedles, "Just one dance, come on!" And convinces four of us foreigners onto the (mostly empty) dance floor. And let me tell you, if I found it difficult walking in a saree, it's nearly impossible to dance in a saree. The groom's sister does it cutely and gracefully, trying to teach us moves. Almost immediately all attention turns on us -- lights, cameras, many many eyes. We tell each other, later, that when they watch the wedding video, they're going to wonder who were those foreign women???

I don't know how long we danced -- maybe ten minutes? -- before we make a decision to exit, single-file, and head directly out the door. Once again I get home just before the clock strikes twelve.

The entire occasion didn't have as much ceremony as I was hoping for, but it was a treat to attend. Anyone have a plan on how I can attend at least one wedding per visit to India???

Catching Up 1: A Musical Afternoon

Last Sunday, on July 10, a bunch of us went to an Indian classical music concert that was advertised in the paper. I personally did not see this ad, so I had no idea who or what was playing. It was held in the auditorium of a nearby university.

Sidenote: There are lots of universities, schools and institutes in Pune. "It is one of the country's most thriving centres of academia," (Lonely Planet) and this means students are everywhere. They can be identified by their worship of denim - blue jeans in all weather, stonewashed, faded, streaked, you name it, and sometimes paired with a jean jacket. On the top is usually a print T-shirt with some sort of Western brand -- e.g., Moschino -- prominently displayed. But I'm stereotyping of course. There are plenty of girls that wear traditional Indian dress, I'm just noticing the ones in jeans and T-shirts.

Back to the concert. The tickets were Rs. 60 for a chair, Rs. 40 for the floor. We got chairs, which were lined up neatly in the back. People on the floor sat up fron, closer to the stage, on thick, fabric-covered pallets that were laid out ahead of time.

The performers came out and started tuning their instruments. I couldn't see that much from where I sat, but two men had tabulas (drums), one man played the harmonium, three back-up singers were in the back, and one narrator sat outside this semicircle. The male vocalist sat in the center. All were in Indian dress, and sat on the thick pallets. The sound equipment -- amplifiers and such -- were also on the sidelines of the stage. After the tuning of the instruments came the sound check. We winced and I occasionally had to cover my ears as the speakers screeched in and out. After about half an hour, the concert finally began.

Unfortunately I know nothing about Indian classical music, so I can only describe the basic format and guess at the context. From my online research it seems to be a bhajan. The narrator would read something -- historical background? mythological story? -- and the male vocalist would start to sing. He would sing a line, the back-up singers would repeat it, he would sing it again, altering the rhythm and melody slightly, the back-up singers would sing it again, and so on. He would lead the group toward a tonal and rhythmical climax, then resolution. Several of us in the audience were swaying or moving our heads to the beat. Also fascinating were the vocalists hands, which gestured and flickered with the melody. Sometimes he wiggled his palm like a fish, when his voice was doing a trill.

Serendipitously it started raining right after the concert started, so the sound of the rain also became an accompaniment to the songs. It stopped right before intermission. As nice as the music was, most of us were nodding off. With the lulling music, and the dark and cozy surroundings, there's nothing like a little shut-eye during a concert, even if it seems a waste of the money you spent on the ticket. Anyway, we left and went to dinner.

Next Time: Monsoon Wedding!