India tidbits: napkins, mosques, matrimonials, head-shaking
I have another half hour to kill before our ride to the airport, and the keyboard is working again, so here is an absolutely unorganized buffet of India travel tidbits:
Absorbency is not a chief value of local “paper” napkins, which look American-normal but are made of an impenetrable waxy paper whose primary talents lie in the smearing department.
At the mosque of Sikri in Delhi, we waved off clouds of importunate vendors until Lalit gave in and hired an old man wearing a skimpy undershirt and carrying a big stick, whose job seemed to fall somewhere between shepherd and tout-beater. He circled our sprawling, unruly group of 17, sweeping us in the right direction with his staff and threatening to clobber anyone else who came near us. This was only ever slightly effective at the corner where he happened to be standing, which was why he had to keep circling us like a sheepdog. We showed a distressing tendency to stray from the central flock, though, and had various encounters with unauthorized touts, including one aspiring tour guide who upbraided Kelleigh for being a “bad woman!” when she and boyfriend Sasha split up to avoid him. “Bad woman! Not leave your husband!”
Did I already mention that holding hands is okay here between same-sex friends? Never seen between men and women, though.
“Uncle” and “Auntie” are terms of conversational respect here – sort of like “sir” and “ma’am” but spanning a greater range from formality to informality. They can be used in place of names or titles to refer to adults (usually slightly older than oneself) of one’s slight or great acquaintance. For instance, Lalit would sometimes refer to Linda (Tra’s mom) as “Auntie,” despite their mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship.
Also, when referring to one’s actual aunts and uncles by name, one puts the honorific second: Linda Auntie. In Delhi, Tracy & Lalit & Linda stayed at the home of Deepak Uncle.
After our week in Delhi, Deepak Uncle’s family retainer, Mary, ceremoniously splashed a cupful of water over our departing taxi. Lalit explained that water-blessing refers back to the water of the holy Ganga, or Ganges.
Indians often appear, to my American eyes, to be noncommittal. This is because (you probably know) there is a lot of bobble-head type head shaking, with the ears tilting sideways toward the shoulders. A sideways shake (which in the US would be a kind of head-shrug) generally means Yes. Although sometimes it means, Well, maybe, or If you like, or I don’t care as long as you are no longer standing in front of my ticket window. So it’s hard to parse.
At one of the train stations there was a pedestrian catwalk over the tracks with a sign in Hindi and then in big block letters in English: “Foot over bridge.”
Prices at national monuments (such as Qutb Minar and Red Fort) depend upon nationality. For foreigners, admission is generally 250 rupees (say, around 6 dollars); while for Indian nationals it will be 10 rupees (25 cents).
The contrast of the colorful sarees against the dirty dust of the post-monsoon urbanscape is dazzling, like the eyes of hunting cats shining through tall grasses everywhere you look. Or like Lifesavers scattered on the sidewalk.
The newspapers have Personals sections called Matrimonials. One paper’s slogan for this page was “Matrimonials: for the better half of your life.” These were all ads seeking candidates for marriage interviews. They would include phrases like: “Looking for match for handsome Sindi boy”; “Alliance wanted for business class Punjabi Khatri boy”; “a wheatish handsome boy looking for pretty educated girl.” Quite a few ended with the assurance: “Caste no bar.” Sometimes the ads are divided into category (you know, like Yard Sales; Trucks for Sale; etc.) by whether or not caste was important. One category was “Scheduled caste/scheduled tribes.” (I think “scheduled’ here means government-recognized or registered or something.)
Lots and lots of trucks sport this phrase colorfully hand-lettered on the rear bumper: “Horn OK Please.” I think it means something like, “If you can’t see my mirror, I can’t see you, so speak up!”
Computer time’s up; talk to you all soon!
Lots of love,
Deborah, preparing for 28 hours of travel
