Drowned Rat

It’s officially monsoon. It basically hasn’t rained at all since I arrived in Delhi but no worries, global warming hasn’t screwed with the rainy season too much because I got caught in an epic (for the little American, ordinary for Delhiites) downpour on my way home in an auto today. Riding in an autorickshaw is always an adventure because they are tiny, rickety three wheeled motorcycles that sputter and fart exhaust and are only higher on the Delhi road food chain than pedestrians and cyclists. Everything can be and seems to be life-threatening when there are no seat belts and no doors.

Autos in the monsoon aren’t necessarily life-threatening but they are also (literally) no joy ride. So very low on the pecking order, everything splashes you through the nonexistent doors with the sewage laden brown muck that passes as rainwater in Delhi. Sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the auto will have a plastic sack hanging over one of the door openings to help deflect 1/76th of the rain. I wasn’t so lucky today. So I ought to be fair and admit that I was already soaked before the engine flooded and I was forced out of the auto onto the sidewalk while the autowalla tried valiantly, for 20 minutes, to get it restarted. Once he did, he drove me another 500 meters before refusing to go down either road that would take me home. Before you bemoan the innate laziness of the heathen Indian, I should point out that there was at least 2 feet of standing water on each road. So this brown kid played a little urban Survivor which included, among other things, performing a long-jump over a murky river of sewage (to general applause from the men who had by then gathered to watch), climbing onto people’s fences and swinging across tree limbs like Tarzan. Really, all I was missing was the loin cloth. I wish I could tell you how successful I was and that I made it home without dipping my feet in the toxic sludge but I was thwarted just feet from the house by, as my pal Coleridge put it, “water water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.” (For real, touch it and grow an extra leperous limb, never mind what might happen if you swallowed) This, I suppose, is real life in India. Jai Hind indeed.

Excuse me sir, could you move your cow?

So the heat finally got to me. And by heat I mean ridiculous Indian bureaucracy, deathly temperature and stupifying humidity. Delhi heat is the ultimate psychological bully, pushing you until you have no choice but to retaliate. My first Delhi meltdown was yesterday in the Archives and began with a requisition slip and ended with a book being thrown (at me, not by me). Tapping into some serious Gandhian satyagraha nonviolence, I ignored every instinct to throw the book (and other things back) and instead stormed out in a self-righteous rage. The longer I am here, the less I understand Gandian nonviolence. The whole hunger-strike thing makes sense because it is hot as balls here and not eating means you avoid the viscerally unpleasant sensation of being a human pressure cooker. But nonviolence, in this heat? It’s nearly impossible. My curry hot temper seems at a constant simmer, ready to give way to a full-fledged eruption. Given that today is the 4th of July and I am as fed up as can be with the National Archives, it seemed as good a time as any to take the day off to do some sightseeing, to prevent another potential Krakatoa moment.

I could lie and tell you all about how I took to the streets of Old Delhi in search of authentic culture and a taste of non-globalized India but my pants would immediately ignite and choruses of children would resound, “Liar, Liar!” My real reasons for going were entirely corporeal but more of that in a second. To get to Old Delhi, I hopped onto the Metro which is all the things that India never is– clean, organized, punctual, orderly and cheap. (Obviously , the Japanese built it). My ride was uneventful but for the brief instant at which a scrawny Indian fellow leapt onto the train and sprinted onto my lap, apparently believing it to be a seat. One searing P-Saha-mess-with-me-and-die glance later, the chap scampered off to another car and another lap to occupy.

Old Delhi is what most Westerners imagine when they think of India– cars, trucks and autos battle fiercely for sovereignty on a road with pedestrians, cycles and cows. Cows and teeming masses of humanity. I could tell you all of the beauty of Jama Masjid and Lal Qila but I’d be playing to the wrong crowd and pretending I went for a reason other than the wonder of Paratha Wali Gali (Flatbread-Maker Row). Now, those of you who know of my love of parathas and have witnessed the many late-night burns endured for the bleary-eyed love of a crispy hot paratha will understand my excitement at learning of this place. I had, before I arrived in Delhi, even threatened to set up a tent and live in the dark and narrow alley of delicious. And those of you who do not even know what a paratha is, I weep for your ignorance. A paratha is the most wondrous of all Indian flatbreads, because in addition to being made of wheat flour and often filled with deliciousness, they are also deep-fried. Imagine the perfection of carbohydrate filled with starch and doused in hot oil. Perfection, I tell you.

So after much roaming about aimlessly through the streets of Delhi, I finally found a the gali and immediately made friends with the proprietor of one of the stalls. After learning that though I was American, mother-fatherji Indian, the paratha-wali proceeded to clap his hands, dance a little jig and proclaim with much Indian head-wobbling and hand-fluttering, “You me sister brother hai.” I was, by then, guaranteed a meal to die for. For the price of a paratha, a whopping Rs. 20 (less than $.50 for those keeping track), you get a plate with three kinds of vegetable curry and two kinds of pickle.

Bargains abound in the mother land. And the parathas were unlike any I had ever had– far more crunchy than the skillet fried ones mama-san makes or the the frozen-reheated ones I resort to in a fit of gastrolust, while still tender and fresh enough to melt in your mouth. Heaven I tell you, heaven. For the twenty or so minutes it took me to scarf a mixed veggie and alu paratha, I was as tranquil and content as anyone can be in 110 degree heat. The alu paratha, my very favorite of the paratha family, was good enough for me to consider calling my mother (at 3 am EST) to tell her that I had found a paratha better than hers (a daring bit, to say the least). While I shoveled sharp carrot pickle, sweet alu curry and delightfully bland cauliflower into my mouth, wrapped in the miraculous parcel of the paratha, all was right in the world. There was no noise too loud, no heat too oppressive, no shopkeeper too pushy. I was the Dalai Lama on a serious post-Thanksgiving tryptophane turkey high. The goodness of the moment lasted through my long-winded farewells with my new best mate amidst Hinglish promises to “coming back soon with husband,” (he looked so heartbroken for me when I said I was unmarried I immediately changed my story to say I was) and until I emerged from the glorious cool shadows of the gali onto Chadni Chowk (the major thoroughfare in Old Delhi) and was promptly forced into a traffic jam by a man who refused to move his cow out of the intersection and onto the sidewalk. Only in India, I swear.

Set Temperature to Bake

I will never ever take for granted the library and archival systems in America. (For as often as I schlep myself into the library, I do thoroughly appreciate its existence) I am floored by the inefficiency of the archives here. I didn’t necessarily expect to be able to order documents online and have them delivered to my carrel as in the British library but I also didn’t think that I would have dig way back into my old skool card catalog skills. That’s right—a card catalog. I just spent a little over five hours leafing through individual cards, unable to do a subject or keyword search. My little brown fingers simply aren’t made for such nimble, repetitive work and cramped up in my second hour of fruitless searching, so I had to resort to pawing through with my fists like a subnormal chimp. But at least when I do find something, you might think, I can grab my book and get to work, right? Wrong. This is the promise land of bureaucracy. There is someone to watch me sign the archive register, another to hand me the index to search, another to take it back, another to watch me hunch over the card catalog until I am slobbery with exhaustion, yet another to hand me a requisition form, (I’m disappointed that no one will fill out for me, truth be told) and a mere 4 hours later, one more person to hand me the book. Efficient, yes? All of these people, while toiling away at their single menial task, will clump together to stare at me and comment loudly in Hindi about the length and gravity-defiance of my hair, the tragic hue of my skin, the malice of my scowl, the width of my shoulders and the futility of my academic endeavor. My Hindi is pretty poor but all of this is communicated beautifully to me by the sheer volume of the conversation and the ever-so helpful mimed gestures and mimicked movements. That’s right folks, I’m being heckled by librarians. I officially have hit a grad student low.

All of this might be easier to take if my brains hadn’t been scrambled by the heat. It is literally stupid hot in Delhi. The kind of heat that makes it hard to follow your own train of thought, let alone what other people are saying to you. Combined with the language/cultural barrier (I’ve been getting by with a mixture of Bindi—that is, unaspirated Bengali spoken with what I fancy to be a Hindi accent punctuated with “hai” and “yaar” when I feel appropriate, which is about every other word—and gesture-happy English), my heat-induced idiocy means that everything has to be repeated three or four times before I either understand or simply go catatonic from the mental strain of it. Other people seem to be coping with it so really India is revealing what some have suspected of me all along, despite all that jockishness, I have the constitution of a swooning Victorian woman.

What a hero…

It took me about 7.2 seconds in Delhi to finally understand what mi madre has meant all these years that she’s been muttering “Thinks he’s a damn hero,” (pronounced heeeer-oh!, not he-row) under her breath when ticked at a person of the male persuasion. All this time, I thought she had some sort of feminist anti-fairy tale complex. But I’ve finally figured out the cultural referent.

“The hero” is a classic South Asian male trope, apparently timeless and unchanging. Essentially, the hero is a man– age indiscriminant, from the prepubescent to the geriatric, spanning all classes, religions and locals of the subcontinent– who fancies himself the Bollywood leading man of his own life. Now those of you unfamiliar with the resplendent genre of the Bollywood musical may not yet appreciate the charisma, poise, and general attractiveness of the hero– so I did a little google image searching of one manifestation, just for you:

This is the model of smoldering machismo that the street hero too strives for. The context may change (the autorickshaw-wala to the head archivist at the National Archives to the paanwala to the scrawny adolescent on his motorbike) but the ideal remains– exude such a compelling masculinity as to render yourself at once irresistible and while still an impossible love object. The hero can only ever love himself, drunk as he is with his own manliness and power over all things in the world. The first step of herodom, naturally, is the outfit. Let us not forget that the clothes make the man. Take for instance my hero du jour, who at the National Archives (a hopping spot I assure you) was dressed, if not to the 9s, to the 8 1/2s at the very least. Monochrome is key and as Delhi is a crisp 38 degrees celsius (a mere 100.4 farenheit), black for sure is the way to go. Function over form always for the hero. But the hero must dress with an eye to the needs and certainly the desires of his adoring public so the true hero doesn’t shy away from showing skin. And (manly manly) chest hair. Shirts unbuttoned to one above the navel is a commonly accepted practice for the hero. The look is enticing and allows for ventilation. The hero, you see, is a thinking man. Every thinking man also needs proper accessories. Texas-sized belt buckles, shades and several heavy gold chains are good. A diamond stud and rings on each finger? Extra credit. (The ultimate hero-accessory is a luxurious mustache because true herodom cannot be bought but must be grown.)

Now I would hate for you to think that the hero is merely an aesthetic category because it is so much more and a real hero can be one in any garb. The hero is, in fact, self-fashioned. This is to say that believing yourself a hero is half the battle. The other half of the battle is fought in the arena of public opinion so the hero must convince the masses of his status. The best way to do this is by wooing the ladies by strutting about, toothpick or cigarette dangling from lip, and shouting either classy pick-up lines (the hero is a sparkling conversationalist) or better yet, by singing a line or two from the most recent blockbuster. All of this is accompanied by the hero strut– chest out, legs apart, hip cocked to the side and perhaps holding the hand of another hero (homosociality between heros only magnifies their manliness). This is certain to spark the interest of passing females, but should this fail the hero will display great perseverance and follow said female until she is heady with desire for his blazing masculinity and burning to be the swooning, giggling heroine in the Bollywood cinema of his life. In the end though the hero, like the cowboys of old, can’t be held down and must move on. There are other women to wow with his testicular fortitude, musky scent and lush body hair. Others to blind with his potent machismo and utter supremacy over those doomed to live without a Y chromosome. This, if nothing else, is what I’ve learned today–wooed and heartbroken as I have been by heros on motorcycles, on foot, in libraries and napping in alleys: they are just too much man for this woman.

Delhi Pride

In my first couple days in Delhi, I’ve seen two very different sides of the city. I’m staying, for the first part of my time in Delhi, with my adviser’s son Tariq and his girlfriend Piyali. They’ve been very nice about taking me in and such a luxury to arrive in a new city to ready-made friends.

My first full day here, we camped out in this super posh mall, stealing wifi, taking advantage of India’s capitalist impulse– as wily graduate students will. It was far from an unfamiliar face of a “third world” nation as Jakarta is similarly chock-full of malls that house Gucci, Prada, and Hermes (not to be confused with the street markets which deal in Pucci, Pradda, Hermmes). While convenient, cheap and gloriously air conditioned, the mega mall scene isn’t exactly one I trekked halfway around the world for.

My second day in Delhi proved far more interesting as the three of us went and marched in the first ever Delhi Queer Pride Parade.

Honestly, we had no idea what to expect and thus went with low expectations– as in, we thought we might have been the sum total of the parade. The “Times of India” newspaper estimated that between 600-700 marched and there was no apparent hostility from the people who lined the streets to watch. That being said, I’m not sure the rainbow flags and placards in English registered with most of the people going by but in BJP (ultra-conservative Hindu Nationalist) Party dominated India, it was a blessing to have been ignored. Pride in Delhi was a whole different animal than the parades in New York, London or most metro cities in the world– in large part because this was as much about celebrating sexual diversity as it was about demanding recognition and protection from the state and nation. The closet looms large in India and that was apparent from the some of the marchers who, despite the air of celebration, wore masks so as not to be recognized. It’s sometimes easy to forget in our age of queer liberalism and the American queer rights movement’s mainstream focus on gay marriage that sodomy laws remain on the books and enforced in countries all over the world and that the very option of coming out of the closet remains a social, familial and political impossibility for many. Pride parade’s are largely about the party but it’s hard not to feel sobered and saddened by signs like this one:

Despite those who could not openly march, the Parade was a fairly exuberant affair– a hodge podge of Indians, expats, queers, hijras, allies, families, and people who, given Indian’s culture of political protest, grabbed a flag and hopped on the bandwagon without being quite sure what they were marching for. In some ways, Pride Parades are fairly generic affairs but Delhi pride felt– at least to me, neophyte as I am to the city– distinctly Indian. Instead of DJs on floats, there were dholwallas banging away and hijras bringing the procession to a halt every 100 yards or so to dance.

The hijras also interestingly complicated the gender and sexuality identity politics of the parade, though no one explicitly called attention to it. Referred to as the third sex in India, hijras are women who were either born men or intersex and live as women. They have been a visible community in South Asia for centuries and with established customs and social hierarchies. They are referred to in the Kama Sutra (the original, not the Skinmaxed version) and were far more visible on the sub-continent until the British, in their attempt to eradicate all deemed indecent, heathenous and a general blight on the otherwise surely spit-shined jewel in the crown of the Empire, established anti-hijra legislation. (Incidently, Section 377 of the Indian Penal code which criminalizes sodomy is another colonial legacy– there was many a chant of “British Law Quit India” yesterday, against 377) Since the end of British rule, most of these laws have been repealed and hijras continue to be a part of visible part of Indian society. For example, when a baby is born it is customary to pay hijras to come and dance with the infant, as they are believed to have the power to bless the child, and as an act of empathy towards these women who cannot have biological children (I got a little hijra dance action as a kid too). There are also several prominent hijra politicians in office in India, and a prominent socio-political movement for hijra rights and protection. Unlike those who identify as trans in the West, hijras do not necessarily undergo any hormonal gender reassignment, though some believe that to become a true hijra, one must be completely castrated. During the parade, they seemed to serve as place-holders for a visible trans community in India. I find myself a little troubled by this because the idea of an unproblematic conflation of hijra and trans relies upon Western constructions of gender and sexual identification that hijras do not necessarily abide by. It also assumes a commensurability between the social and cultural structures which produce, define and often fail to contain non-heteronormative identities. This became blatantly obvious when two hijras were overtaken during the parade by a foreign journalist who, having clearly done no homework, asked them if they had known they were transgendered from birth. The desire to intervene was almost overpowering but also, I realize, futile.

Ok, back from my rant. All in all, Delhi Pride was the perfect way to kick off my time in Delhi as it’s incubated in me a deep affection for this city. Tariq, Piyali and I even made the front page of the “Times of India” for all our queer pride. Nothing like a little media attention to hone love for the motherland. I’ll surely need it as I battle the muggy, hazy, congested streets of the city in rickety three-wheeled autorickshaws. I have a feeling I’ll need all the love I can get. Today was largely lost to international bureaucracy as I shuffled between the National Archives and US Embassy trying to be legitimized by the powers that be so I can access documents. Maybe tomorrow I’ll even get to go into the research room at the Archives but don’t hold your breath.

Farewell London, Hello Delhi.

I’ve arrived safely in Delhi. I admit that after the Great Kidnapping ‘05, I was a little nervous about taking a cab by myself from the airport at midnight but the most eventful thing that happened was that we were briefly waylaid by a cow which decided the middle of the road was a good place to hunker down for a nap. Just another day in Delhi. More on Delhi to come but I thought I would at least mention, and share a couple photos from, my days in London.

The rather shocking lack of wifi in London shot to hell my good intentions of updating daily so this will have to suffice as a brief, incomplete recap of the highlights.

I was successful in my search for a full English breakfast though I found it in an unexpected place. It was delicious—greasy, heavy and very very bad for me. It must be some lingering colonial specter lodged in me that makes me think that tinned beans, unseasoned mushrooms, salty salty bacon and runny eggs are the most delicious things on earth when crammed onto a plate. Some atavistic taste bud that’s survived lifetimes of fire-hot chilies, pungent curries and eye-watering sauces. It would explain so much.

I wish I could say that I did lots of fun touristy things while in London but in fact I spent most of my time looking at manuscripts at the British Library and Freud House. I did happen by Covent Gardens in time to catch what I’d like to think is a slice of real Britain. I mean, if this isn’t the face/body of the empire, I don’t know what is:

More on Delhi to follow soon but I’d be remiss if didn’t admit that I was posting from a Coffee Bean inside a megamall. Apparently Indian owned stores aren’t allowed on the first floor of the mall– not the image they want, so walking in was like being in any mall in suburban America. Except the guards here keep out vagrants and stray livestock.

Where’d all the Brits go?

Granted I haven’t been in London in the last two years or so but never before have I noticed how many Americans there are here. The streets are teeming with faux blonde teeny boppers from middle America– or worse, Jersey. They’re everywhere, smacking their gum, regaling each other with stories of last night’s underaged pub crawl…. It’s too much. I realize that it may be in part where I’m staying– in Bloomsbury, not far from the University of London– and that these charming representations of true Americana are probably doing a summer study abroad but it makes me no less bitter that they seem to have taken over the streets of London. You are more likely to hear a Long Island accent around these parts than a North London accent. Where all my Queen’s English speaking peeps at?

I napped for a solid 5 hours yesterday after I got in so I’m up early and off now in search of a proper fry-up. Pictures and gory descriptions of deliciousness surely to follow…

Onward, ho.

There are (perhaps apocryphal) accounts that upon arriving in Hawaii for the first time, Captain James Cook flung out his arms, dropped to his knees in relief and exclaimed, “My! the natives look friendly.” Knowing as we do now what eventually happened to the good Captain and those friendly natives (they ate him), I’m setting off on my journey with a tiny bit more caution. I won’t hop into any inviting looking pots hanging over the fire, I promise. And while I’m sure that the natives will be plenty friendly in the land of my fore-mothers, I’ll try and avoid the hungry looking ones with sharp teeth. You can never be too sure with those heathen Hindoos, I know.

I leave tonight for the glorious mother country tonight, for a few days of civilized R & R before tracing the route (albeit by air and not sea) of so many brave and surely completely altruistic men and woman who went to Hindoostan to save the savages from their many-armed demon-gods, wipe the land of its pestilence, and bring general order and civilization. At least that’s what I wrote in my grant proposals. In addition to inconsequential and brief tasks like parsing through obscure archives, preparing to “write my dissertation,” doing oral history interviews and getting lost in the maze that is Delhi, of course. But who knows what those wily natives might enchant me to do once I arrive? I could be charming snakes and walking across hot coals by the time I arrive Friday. You’ll just have to keep reading to find out. I’ll try as much as possible to update every day and will go to great links to encourage you to comment on posts.