Fish

Class trip to the fishing harbor. You knew it was going to be amazing. Instructor M. says she goes there all the time, she just loves it. I don’t buy it, especially when she starts gagging in the auto. Frankly, I like the smell of fish. Even stanky fish harbor fish. Reminds me of Viet Nam. As usual, there was no plan. We just approached a group of women scaling fish next to the dock. The fish were about six inches long, slim and silvery. In the middle of the circle of women was a huge pile of these things, packed in ice shavings. An all too familiar scenario played out. We approached them, interrupted their work, surrounding people noticed the white folks trying to speak Telugu and that’s how a scene at the harbor gets started. I don’t know why - maybe it’s my inner anthropologist - but I felt compelled to walk away from the group to a couple women sitting on the other side of the circle. Away from the growing knot of people. Luckily Instructor L. followed me for the photo op and stayed to translate. It wasn’t the deepest conversation, and I couldn’t have held up my end without Instructor L. But it was a real conversation. She told me about her family, and her livelihood. Anthro nerd stuff. It was exhilarating.

Haleem on a Train!

We’ll write off Saturday. It was a bad day. Sunday went much better. We found our way to the Charminar and the bangles market. A. had been asked to buy several sleeves, so we all set off to seek her bangle fortune. We wound through narrow alleyways festooned from top to bottom with colorful glass bangles. Even the alleyways were covered in beautiful shards of colored glass. Bangle fortune seeking makes one hungry, so we stopped for a cool drink and a hot dosa. What a dosa! I watched it made, spread paper thin on the hot griddle, spread with chili paste and filled with a spoonful of potato masala. Ice cold Pepsi provided a nice complement. As did a chocolate ice cream cone from down the street.

We left the Charminar to catch our train back to Vizag. On our way to the station we stopped at a highly recommended haleem shop to take parcel. Now, haleem is a special Ramadan food, but for whatever reason they start making it early in Hyderabad. And I’m very glad. Mutton roasted all day, mashed into a stew with wheat gluten, spices, and more. I can’t say that it looks good, because it doesn’t. It just tastes good. We rode home in our posh 3-tier A/C compartment, creating a small scene, devouring haleem and the best mutton biryani I’ve ever tasted. Sunday was a good day.

Puri

A Vignette

7:45am. Me, sitting alone at a formal dining room table eating uttappam. The chairs have high straight backs, made of dark wood. There’s a large vase of fake roses in the middle of the table. The uttappam is warm and slightly greasy. It goes nicely with pickle. Out on the verandah P. is reading the “Lifestyles” section of Saakshi newspaper. From the master bedroom come the sounds of a cricket match. I can only assume that R. is in there, eating his uttapam and watching highlights. Everyone is very alone.

Water

I forgot to tell P. when I’d be home, which is how I came to find myself sitting on the stoop at 3pm, trying to read and fighting off mosquitoes. Sita told me that P. and R. had gone out, and they should be home soon. She proceeded to weed one of the many flowerbeds around the house. I leaned up against the locked door, trying not to be frustrated.

There are many public works projects afoot in my neighborhood, which means there are plenty of day laborers passing through. During my banishment to the stoop one stopped by. I was curious to see what Sita would do - she has a strong “mother hen” streak. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and I probably couldn’t have understood it anyway. But soon Sita was leading the woman down the drive to the spigot in the back where she filled her large water jug. They chatted. I smiled to myself and pretended I didn’t see anything.

A half hour later P. and R. showed up.

Green

To Market

Everyone, the proverbial everyone, is saying these days that India’s biggest agricultural problem is distribution. There seems to be no good way to move food around the country. If I know anything about what “everyone says these days” it’s this:

1) The problem is always more complicated than “everyone” would have you believe. I’m just beginning to root around in that which is India’s agricultural distribution system, but I’m inclined to believe this premise holds true yet again.

2) There’s always some truth to what “everyone” is saying.

And while I’m not ready to go about labeling things as problems, I’m constantly in awe of the myriad of creative ways in which people here manage to get things to market. There are trucks, buses, bullock carts. My favorite is the ubiquitous auto. I see them on my way to school. We’ll be stopped at one intersection or another and an auto will pull up next to us. Instead of being stuffed with people, however, it’s brimming with agricultural produce. Bananas are common these days. My personal favorite though, is fish. Baskets of small, shiny, slippery fish. The baskets and the auto are stuffed so full I’m amazed they don’t leave a trail through Vizag. Yet some how they all stay in. I don’t know where they’re going, and I’m certainly not sure that an auto is the all-things-being-equal-(which they’re not)-best way to get there. It’s a stunning feat, nonetheless.

Color in Calcutta

Off To School

Every morning I sit on the verandah, look over my Telugu lessons, and wait for A. to come pick me up in Ram Babu’s auto. If I get to the verandah early enough, I get to watch Sita seeing her children off to school. They look so smart in their blue uniforms, hair neatly combed and braided. Sita walks with them out through the gate. As they stride down the road she follows a few steps and looks on worriedly. She watches until they are out of sight.

Yogini Temple

Just outside the main temple complex at Khajaraho is a Yogini temple. The Yogini tradition is associated with female deities, Shiva, and various taboos such as meat and sex - among many other things that I am not qualified to speak on. They are located outside towns or complexes, and are often ill looked-after because of their sordid nature. After seeing the grand edifices of Khajaraho, so well preserved, the Yogini temple was striking, and some how more real. It was refreshing to see something that had been allowed to decay; it spoke of a different history. Despite its appearance this temple was not abandoned. There were pots, coconuts, flowers, red fabric - someone still worshipped here.

Out of Place

You know you’ve been somewhere for a while when it starts to feel like home. You have a daily routine, and nothing about it strikes you as odd. You feel, comfortable. Despite how boring Vizag is, and how unhappy I’ve been here, I’ve started to feel at home. My auto ride to school, the endless “what are we going to do now?” and P.’s call to dinner all blend in to the fabric of my daily life here. Varun Beach Inox, Café Coffee Day, Tycoon Hotel, A.’s house, the Institute - all have become a part of my landscape.

Last night S. and I went out for dinner. The place was just across the street from my house and unremarkable, despite high praise from local auto drivers. We redeemed ourselves by hopping next door for some ice cream. The attendant was a skinny young man with glasses. He looked like any student working a service job. This afternoon as I was walking home, turning onto my street, I saw him - the ice cream guy. I tried to make eye contact, to say hi, but he never looked my way. I was still thrilled. There was someone, completely out of context, that I recognized. This was MY street corner, and I knew who belonged there and who didn’t. I even knew where the misfits belonged. And to put icing on my cake, the neighbor boy said “Hello!”