Monday, March 16, 2009
One-sentence Trip to India
I will not notice bumps in the road, for I have seen great beauty on roads that are only bumps.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Three Dinners with Satvir
Satvir stays with me. He is a fine young man and helps me survive the foreignness of things on a regular basis. This includes talking to people on the phone when they try to speak Hindi to me, finding out what people want when they come to our door, and coordinating cleaning and transport. Daily dusting is pretty much a necessity as a pretty good layer settles on everything over 24 hours, so he handles some of that as well. All in all, I would live in a very dusty place and understand much less of what goes on around me were it not for him.
After working Saturday and Sunday in the apartment, I decide to join Satvir when he tells me he is going to get dinner. I need to get out at this point. We go down to the street and walk a couple of blocks to the main road, where there is a shanty mall. I don't really know what else to call it. It is a collection of shops, each with very little physical structure. The nicest shops are made from aluminum siding or tough cloth and branch-poles, and many others are nothing more than goods arranged on a rug.
Our first stop is a pushcart vendor that I decide to call "Egg Man". On the cart is a large pot, heated by one of the small, red propane cylinders I see being moved around the city all the time, often slung around a motorcycle (or its passenger) in large quantities. The whole setup is just inside the "entrance" (it is all fairly open, but there is a flow of foot traffic along a common path). Satvir gets me two eggs, hard-boiled. They are otherwise prepared by being shelled, cut in half and seasoned, whereupon they are placed on a small square of newspaper on a thin metal plate. Satvir remembers to prevent Egg Man from covering mine in masala and "chillys" (as the signs here say) so I end up with just salt on mine, which is itself pink and powdery in consistency. Satvir orders the same dish for himself and Egg Man wants to know if he should include the normal extras. "I am Indian..." Satvir responds, nodding and laughing. Egg Man shrugs and piles on the toppings.
Satvir hands him a 50Rs note, and we eat at the cart while we wait for Egg Man to get us 40Rs change from Fruit & Vegetable Rug across the path. This requires a fair amount of discussion (as most things seem to) and while we are standing there, a ragged, skinny chicken gets away from its new owner and runs clucking across Watches, Pens & Scissors Rug before it is caught by another shop's owner. Everyone around seems pretty amused after the brief commotion. We get our change, return the plates and amble onwards.
A short tour of the mall brings us back to the street to wait for an auto rickshaw. I reflect on the variety and quality of the goods in the market, both of which were remarkably high relative to the expectation I had developed seeing it from afar.
Just off the main road, there is a bike shop with an apparatus for suspending and tuning bicycle wheels, a coffee shop with gas-heated urns and jars of biscotti, a barber with mirrors and shaving cream, a long-distance phone stall (of course; these are everywhere) and other businesses operating in the open air and, by all appearances, strewn randomly along the side of the road.
The first three auto rickshaws to approach are overflowing with people. I'm not really sure why they even bother to slow down. I think I would be able to stand on the back bumper of the third one, a practice I have seen a great deal of, but Satvir waves the driver on and we eventually hop in one with an open seat on the inside.
I overhear Satvir talking to the driver as we motor down the road and I understand well enough to know they are discussing our destination, occupation and the fact that Satvir will be paying for both me and himself. I comment on this dialogue after we exit the (moving) auto rickshaw and Satvir is amazed that I was able to understand the driver, who, he informs me, speaks Haryanavi, not Hindi. "It's all Greek to me!" I say, which does not seem to decrease Satvir's mystification. He takes my hand and we cross the street.
We get me my favorite sandwich from the Black Brew Cafe, a sandwich Tafara and I had established as our go-to backup food when one of us didn't want to eat what was being served by the office staff. The label used to read "Contry Rost Chicken Panani" but Tafara and I had laughed about the unusually high density of spelling errors every time we came in, pronouncing it the way it was (mis)spelled, so they may have heard us and had it changed. A second level of humor present for me as a fledgling etymologist is that "Panini" is also the name of an Indian grammarian alive in 400 BC whose rules for Sanskrit represent the first example of descriptive linguistics. He would certainly disapprove of this loose use of language.
I get Satvir and myself a plate of momos from my favorite momo boy (who happens to be directly across from Black Brew Cafe) while we wait for my sandwich to be grilled, and when it is ready we go to a restaurant above a sweet shop nearby to get Satvir's main course. He orders a plate of breads, sauces, lentils, vegetables and rice, and while we are waiting teaches me the Hindi words for:
I use some of my longer-known Hindi to ask the waiter for the bill, but this feat is reduced to redundancy by my concurrent use of the international hand signal for getting the check (the mid-air scribble).
Our trip home is lengthened by having to wait some time for an auto rickshaw traveling in our desired direction, but one does eventually come by and there is enough space me to sit. Satvir perches on the dividing wall with his lower back against the driver's shoulder blades, which is fine until we came to our drop-off point and Satvir is unable to see out well enough to recognize it as such. Luckily traffic is stopped and we are able to get out. Satvir stays talking with the driver while I start across the street, and when he catches up with me shows me a small, hand-rolled cigarette. He identifies it as a "biddy" as far as I could tell, but I think he may have been saying "bitty" in reference to its size. When I decline to make any use of it, he flicks it away. "Poor man is smoking this. I am not like it."
A new guard is waiting in the lobby of the apartment tower. He asks, in Hindi, for our flat number and I tell him:
"Do-so teen."
After working Saturday and Sunday in the apartment, I decide to join Satvir when he tells me he is going to get dinner. I need to get out at this point. We go down to the street and walk a couple of blocks to the main road, where there is a shanty mall. I don't really know what else to call it. It is a collection of shops, each with very little physical structure. The nicest shops are made from aluminum siding or tough cloth and branch-poles, and many others are nothing more than goods arranged on a rug.
Our first stop is a pushcart vendor that I decide to call "Egg Man". On the cart is a large pot, heated by one of the small, red propane cylinders I see being moved around the city all the time, often slung around a motorcycle (or its passenger) in large quantities. The whole setup is just inside the "entrance" (it is all fairly open, but there is a flow of foot traffic along a common path). Satvir gets me two eggs, hard-boiled. They are otherwise prepared by being shelled, cut in half and seasoned, whereupon they are placed on a small square of newspaper on a thin metal plate. Satvir remembers to prevent Egg Man from covering mine in masala and "chillys" (as the signs here say) so I end up with just salt on mine, which is itself pink and powdery in consistency. Satvir orders the same dish for himself and Egg Man wants to know if he should include the normal extras. "I am Indian..." Satvir responds, nodding and laughing. Egg Man shrugs and piles on the toppings.
Satvir hands him a 50Rs note, and we eat at the cart while we wait for Egg Man to get us 40Rs change from Fruit & Vegetable Rug across the path. This requires a fair amount of discussion (as most things seem to) and while we are standing there, a ragged, skinny chicken gets away from its new owner and runs clucking across Watches, Pens & Scissors Rug before it is caught by another shop's owner. Everyone around seems pretty amused after the brief commotion. We get our change, return the plates and amble onwards.
A short tour of the mall brings us back to the street to wait for an auto rickshaw. I reflect on the variety and quality of the goods in the market, both of which were remarkably high relative to the expectation I had developed seeing it from afar.
Just off the main road, there is a bike shop with an apparatus for suspending and tuning bicycle wheels, a coffee shop with gas-heated urns and jars of biscotti, a barber with mirrors and shaving cream, a long-distance phone stall (of course; these are everywhere) and other businesses operating in the open air and, by all appearances, strewn randomly along the side of the road.
The first three auto rickshaws to approach are overflowing with people. I'm not really sure why they even bother to slow down. I think I would be able to stand on the back bumper of the third one, a practice I have seen a great deal of, but Satvir waves the driver on and we eventually hop in one with an open seat on the inside.
I overhear Satvir talking to the driver as we motor down the road and I understand well enough to know they are discussing our destination, occupation and the fact that Satvir will be paying for both me and himself. I comment on this dialogue after we exit the (moving) auto rickshaw and Satvir is amazed that I was able to understand the driver, who, he informs me, speaks Haryanavi, not Hindi. "It's all Greek to me!" I say, which does not seem to decrease Satvir's mystification. He takes my hand and we cross the street.
We get me my favorite sandwich from the Black Brew Cafe, a sandwich Tafara and I had established as our go-to backup food when one of us didn't want to eat what was being served by the office staff. The label used to read "Contry Rost Chicken Panani" but Tafara and I had laughed about the unusually high density of spelling errors every time we came in, pronouncing it the way it was (mis)spelled, so they may have heard us and had it changed. A second level of humor present for me as a fledgling etymologist is that "Panini" is also the name of an Indian grammarian alive in 400 BC whose rules for Sanskrit represent the first example of descriptive linguistics. He would certainly disapprove of this loose use of language.
I get Satvir and myself a plate of momos from my favorite momo boy (who happens to be directly across from Black Brew Cafe) while we wait for my sandwich to be grilled, and when it is ready we go to a restaurant above a sweet shop nearby to get Satvir's main course. He orders a plate of breads, sauces, lentils, vegetables and rice, and while we are waiting teaches me the Hindi words for:
- "Window"
- "Door"
- "Welcome"
- "Open"
- "Ceiling"
- "Fan"
- "Mirror"
- "The window is open"
- "Rice"
- "Pea"
- "Carrot"
- "Spoon"
- "Table" ("Bench")
- "Napkin" ("Tissue")
- "Glass" ("Glass")
- "Tomato" ("Tomater")
I use some of my longer-known Hindi to ask the waiter for the bill, but this feat is reduced to redundancy by my concurrent use of the international hand signal for getting the check (the mid-air scribble).
Our trip home is lengthened by having to wait some time for an auto rickshaw traveling in our desired direction, but one does eventually come by and there is enough space me to sit. Satvir perches on the dividing wall with his lower back against the driver's shoulder blades, which is fine until we came to our drop-off point and Satvir is unable to see out well enough to recognize it as such. Luckily traffic is stopped and we are able to get out. Satvir stays talking with the driver while I start across the street, and when he catches up with me shows me a small, hand-rolled cigarette. He identifies it as a "biddy" as far as I could tell, but I think he may have been saying "bitty" in reference to its size. When I decline to make any use of it, he flicks it away. "Poor man is smoking this. I am not like it."
A new guard is waiting in the lobby of the apartment tower. He asks, in Hindi, for our flat number and I tell him:
"Do-so teen."
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