I woke up from a nap the other day to two text messages. One was from Sean, my fellow ETA, which said: "monsoon! rain check?" The other was from a college friend named Sim who is from here originally and moved back after graduation. It read: "The first rain is the best thing about the monsoon." I thanked my lucky stars as I looked out the window and saw the streams of water falling from the sky, as I realized that this tremendous heat was on its way out. I walked outside in my schmancy new rain jacket that I spent too much money on at Paragon; at this point the rain had abated from a downpour to a heavy drizzle. A giant puddle had formed in front of the apartment building and a boy of about 5 or 6 was timidly walking through it when his father motioned for him to jump. He splashed with delight, echoing the happy cries of the kids that filled the playground across the street, outside not in spite but because of this overdue first rain of the season. The fact that it came just after we had finished our (hopefully) final major bureaucratic ordeal, spending four hours in the Foreign Residents' Registration Office (FRRO), made it all the sweeter.
Leaving the house with Tangi to go to our first Hindi class was amazing--for the first time since we arrived, we weren't choking on the heat, or sweating before we got to the end of the block! The air was fresh and fragrant and the breeze felt cool on our skin. Despite being one of the largest cities in the world and being located in the heart of a subcontinent consumed by a monsoon for several months every year, Delhi lacks a sufficient drainage system, and the ground that had been dust yesterday was now soft and muddy. Large puddles had formed every few feet, making the road an obstacle course not just for trying to avoid the puddles, but for trying not to be near a puddle when a car, motorcycle, scooter, auto, stray dog or any other moving anything while it went through the puddle.
The Hindi class was awesome, though it is a difficult language to learn, especially because there are so many sounds that are guttural or otherwise difficult for English speakers to pronounce. We spent two and a half hours learning grammar and an hour and a half practicing reading and writing the script, and I never knew four hours could go by so quickly! So far I have learned how to count to 10, apologize, say go away, say don't touch me, say my name and where I am from, and of course the essential: menduk neh mera dil tordiya, which means, "a frog broke my heart." (seriously. Long story. It took me forever to remember that phrase. Time wisely spent!)
After resting for a bit at home after class, Hannah and I took a walk to explore our neighborhood, now that we finally know how exactly to get back to our house and don't get hopelessly lost every single time we go home! We walked through the narrow streets towards the market, keeping our eyes out for Nice Tailors, the recommended seamster, and a wine and beer store, as they are called here. Taking our time and strolling without a clear agenda, we reached the main street of Malviya Nagar. When we turned just off the main road, we found ourselves in the heart of a pedestrian market we hadn't known existed. There were vegetable wallas with produce much fresher and prettier than we had seen on carts around the neighborhood. There was a whole row of stalls selling only dupatas, the light scarves Indian women wear flowing down their backs. Another row held stall after stall of tailors, with men diligently stitching perfect, straight lines using shiny black foot pedal sewing machines that are sold in the States merely as decor. Several shops had only trimmings-- ribbons and buttons and patches with embroidery in turquiose, gold and magenta. Piles of fabric in a million stacks, each with a distinct pattern and ready to be made into saris and suits. After walking for a bit, I bought dumplings from a guy selling them from round, steaming tin containers called tiffins; a dozen for 30 rupees (about 50 cents). As our neighborhood is not touristy at all, we saw no other foreigners during our three hour walk, except for, ironically, two Mormon missionaries. We left the market and walked to the main road in search of sharab (alcohol) a scandalous endeavor for women in India.
After asking some men selling PVC pipe about its whereabouts, we found the walla, bought some beers and tried to get home via the route we take to the metro, not our usual way home. Hannah was "sure" we were going the right way, but after about 15 minutes, when I did not recognize any landmarks, she asked for directions to Malviya Nagar N-Block. "Malviya Nagar?" I heard them say. We had walked into a completely different neighborhood. Tired at this point and ready to be done walking after three hours, we tried to flag down an auto, of which there were few, laughing so hard at having walked to a completely different place. I had forgotten my water bottle and already finished Hannah's water, so I went into a corner store to get water, only to find that what they sold were two liter bottles. Armed with my new, infant-sized water bottle, Hannah and I finally found an auto to take us home, and we rested our dusty feet as we passed a group of men butchering live chickens, a mosque, a cluster of bicycle rickshaws, and plenty of people taking a snooze in the shade of their awnings. Something tells me that Mr. Rogers wasn't talking about Malviya Nagar when he sang about the people in your neighborhood.
Leaving the house with Tangi to go to our first Hindi class was amazing--for the first time since we arrived, we weren't choking on the heat, or sweating before we got to the end of the block! The air was fresh and fragrant and the breeze felt cool on our skin. Despite being one of the largest cities in the world and being located in the heart of a subcontinent consumed by a monsoon for several months every year, Delhi lacks a sufficient drainage system, and the ground that had been dust yesterday was now soft and muddy. Large puddles had formed every few feet, making the road an obstacle course not just for trying to avoid the puddles, but for trying not to be near a puddle when a car, motorcycle, scooter, auto, stray dog or any other moving anything while it went through the puddle.
The Hindi class was awesome, though it is a difficult language to learn, especially because there are so many sounds that are guttural or otherwise difficult for English speakers to pronounce. We spent two and a half hours learning grammar and an hour and a half practicing reading and writing the script, and I never knew four hours could go by so quickly! So far I have learned how to count to 10, apologize, say go away, say don't touch me, say my name and where I am from, and of course the essential: menduk neh mera dil tordiya, which means, "a frog broke my heart." (seriously. Long story. It took me forever to remember that phrase. Time wisely spent!)
After resting for a bit at home after class, Hannah and I took a walk to explore our neighborhood, now that we finally know how exactly to get back to our house and don't get hopelessly lost every single time we go home! We walked through the narrow streets towards the market, keeping our eyes out for Nice Tailors, the recommended seamster, and a wine and beer store, as they are called here. Taking our time and strolling without a clear agenda, we reached the main street of Malviya Nagar. When we turned just off the main road, we found ourselves in the heart of a pedestrian market we hadn't known existed. There were vegetable wallas with produce much fresher and prettier than we had seen on carts around the neighborhood. There was a whole row of stalls selling only dupatas, the light scarves Indian women wear flowing down their backs. Another row held stall after stall of tailors, with men diligently stitching perfect, straight lines using shiny black foot pedal sewing machines that are sold in the States merely as decor. Several shops had only trimmings-- ribbons and buttons and patches with embroidery in turquiose, gold and magenta. Piles of fabric in a million stacks, each with a distinct pattern and ready to be made into saris and suits. After walking for a bit, I bought dumplings from a guy selling them from round, steaming tin containers called tiffins; a dozen for 30 rupees (about 50 cents). As our neighborhood is not touristy at all, we saw no other foreigners during our three hour walk, except for, ironically, two Mormon missionaries. We left the market and walked to the main road in search of sharab (alcohol) a scandalous endeavor for women in India.
After asking some men selling PVC pipe about its whereabouts, we found the walla, bought some beers and tried to get home via the route we take to the metro, not our usual way home. Hannah was "sure" we were going the right way, but after about 15 minutes, when I did not recognize any landmarks, she asked for directions to Malviya Nagar N-Block. "Malviya Nagar?" I heard them say. We had walked into a completely different neighborhood. Tired at this point and ready to be done walking after three hours, we tried to flag down an auto, of which there were few, laughing so hard at having walked to a completely different place. I had forgotten my water bottle and already finished Hannah's water, so I went into a corner store to get water, only to find that what they sold were two liter bottles. Armed with my new, infant-sized water bottle, Hannah and I finally found an auto to take us home, and we rested our dusty feet as we passed a group of men butchering live chickens, a mosque, a cluster of bicycle rickshaws, and plenty of people taking a snooze in the shade of their awnings. Something tells me that Mr. Rogers wasn't talking about Malviya Nagar when he sang about the people in your neighborhood.
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