Bookin' it

I was thrilled to read that Katha, an Indian publishing house dedicated to culture and literature as a means of empowering the poor, was launching a book club -- and better, an online book club, which I'll be able to track regardless of the hemisphere I'm in. I particularly covet their collections of short stories translated from the panopoly of India's mother tongues -- I can't read Malayalam or understand Bengali, but these books take me to people and places I would otherwise remain ignorant of.

The only problem with the book club? Although they've apparently written a press release for it (which The Hindu, the Press Trust of India, The Times of India, and Zee News have faithfully transcribed), there is no mention of the club on their Web site. I know my initial five-year membership will cost Rs 500, and I know my money will benefit slum children in Delhi and Arunachal Pradesh, but I have no idea to whom I give the money or how to transfer it to them.

The only site that even broaches the question of how to get involved (why would anyone want contact information if a story is about a service being provided or an event being held?) is TOI, which directs readers to e-mail directmarketing@katha.org for membership information.

If you're trying to stimulate interest in a new program, isn't it of the utmost importance to eliminate every possible entry barrier? I'll still probably find a way to sign up, but if the goal is to bring the best of translated India to the masses, shouldn't it be ... a little easier to participate? And if it's really an online book club, shouldn't priority No. 1 be creating online infrastructure?

Literature and performance art in Delhi

Just heard over the transom about what sounds like a cool event:

Earlier this year, the British Council Delhi had organized a Spoken
Word Series featuring performances and workshops by UK and Indian
poets such as Anjum Hasan, Jeet Thayil, Lemn Sissay and Patience
Agbabi. This culminated in an open mic evening at Sarai, where those
of us present felt the necessity for more such spaces, which give an
opportunity to poet performers to explore how performance and poetry
can be brought together, spaces where words can come alive on the
stage through ways and means ranging from music to rhythm to dance and
beyond.

Introducing "Open Baithak", a space to experiment with words, enjoy
them, delight in them and do risky and innovative things with them. A
space where poet performers coming from different linguistic, literary
and oral traditions can find and learn from each other. A space where
new poets can try out their verses and voices.

The first five sessions of Open Baithak are being sponsored by the
British Council Delhi. Come to participate, or as audience to good
poetry and to daring, dazzling performances.

WHEN: 18 May 2007, 6.30-8.30 pm
WHERE: The Attic, 36 Regal Building, Connaught Place (see theatticdelhi.org)

To sign up, email openbaithak@gmail.com or show up at the Open
Baithak. Email the same if you have questions!

*OUR THREE RULES*

1. You get 7-8 mins on the mike. A bell will signal when your time is up.
2. Bring new material at every Open Baithak. You can perform the same
material twice max, if you wish to try it in a different way.
3. You can bring poems or prose readings in any language.

I'm not one for reading my work, and let's be honest: I haven't written anything I'm proud of in a long, long time. But it's great to see someone's trying to cultivate a more stimulating literary scene than book launches that are more about P3Ps than prose.

Anda ke funda

A few weeks ago, I decided I needed new shoes. NEEDED them, and not just any shoe would do. They had to be special, and no, I didn't want to go to South Ex or Khan Market or anywhere else I had already seen; I wanted a clean slate, a totally new experience.

So S took me to Shahpur Jat, an "urban village" that also features a number of hoity-toity shops, such as The Shoe Garage, where I bought what can only be classed as hooker heels. But that's neither here nor there, because what I really want to write about is the place there where we had lunch.

Pam's Breakfast & Food Center is a fairly nondescript little joint -- clean, minimalist, festooned with posters highlighting the excellence of eggs. The day we visited, in fact, they were having an omelette festival; we ate something called a "pillow omelette," which was OK, if a little gooey, presumably because they had to stuff the eggs with a mass of processed cheese the size of my closed fist to make the dish look like a pillow.

Anyhow, you know, not the best breakfast I've had, but certainly not the worst, particularly in a city where it's damned hard to get a "Western" (i.e., not puri/sabzi or paranthas) breakfast anywhere outside of Hippieville (also known as Paharganj, where most backpackers/budget travelers stay). With our check, we were presented a comment card and a pen, the waitress hovering expectantly as I dutifully rated the food, service, and ambience.

And then I made a fatal error: I wrote down my real e-mail address, in addition to some candid remarks S urged me to record ("The omelette was alright, but it was a little ... wet."). The following Monday, I logged into my e-mail account, I was confronted with this message:

Dear Zoey,

Thank you for visiting PAM's for the Omelette Festival with TWIST.

You liked the PILLOW omelette, but, found the inside too wet and gooey. Well we have gone further and developed a mix veg omelette where we keep the cheese minimum and not all that gooey whith veg and tomatoes and cheese altogether.

We look forward to seeing you again with your friends and family. However, please ask the Table Waiter to ask the chef to make the omelette not wet inside.

Regards

Capt. Jatindar P. Shad

Whoa. Now THAT'S service. I now receive spam from them at least once a week, but at least it's inventive and mildly hilarious. And the proprietor seems to be a most intriguing man -- on the Web site, Pam's advertises free services, including individual counseling with Capt. Shad ("There is no problem of life that you cannot discuss with Capt. Shad and after you have spoken to him - you will find a new meaning to life. So let it be a difference with your associates, your boss or for that matter with your spouse, you siblings, your parents - any one - come and discuss this openly with him and find how simple it is to Be Happy."

For once, I'm on the side of the 5-0

Today, in a quote rail accompanying a story on the Delhi Police's crackdown on routine traffic offences, Pawan Kumar quibbles:

"The new fines are highly unfair. I earn Rs 2,000 a month, so how can I possibly pay a fine of Rs 600?"

It would be a much more defensible position to take if he hadn't just run a red light. See, the point is, modify your behavior, or spend one-third of your monthly income on a traffic fine. Don't do the crime if you don't want to do the time, jerk! (Furthermore, this anecdote stinks like patchouli -- Kumar is characterized as a "marketing executive." Now, I can't tell if he's lying about his income to dramatize his plight, or if there really *are* such woefully underpaid execs, but come on. Something just doesn't add up.)

And seriously; is taking personal responsibility for one's actions that out of fashion? Like when the copy machine runs out of paper, and there's a stack of paper sitting on the desk to the right of the copy machine, is it that much to expect for someone to simply load the tray, instead of calling IT and asking them to fix it. Or when I want to go to the bathroom and everyone is avoiding one stall like someone who used it experienced severe gastrointestinal distress, when really the stall's simply out of toilet paper, is it that insane to expect that someone will grab the readied roll, conveniently resting on a shelf for just such occasions? Ay yi yi.

Delhii Heights (the extra "i" is for illiterate!)

According to the annual Mercer Quality of Living survey, I reside in the world's 148th most liveable city (by measures of criteria related to health, sanitation, recreation, schools, housing, &c., and out of a total of 215 locales). Bottom of the heap, unsurprisingly, is Baghdad.

Take that, Chennai (no. 177)! Suck on it, Mumbai (no. 209)!

Possible city mottos, in recognition of this tremendous feat? Let's see...

Delhi: Proudly in the Third Quartile!
Delhi: Up Two Whole Places!
Delhi: Poor Waste Removal and Sewage Systems, But at Least the Americans Have Only Invaded Khan Market!

Hillary, Barack: Take note

An independent candidate in a Delhi election, backed by his local resident's welfare association (RWA), has a new campaign tactic: Annoying the hell out of his constituents.

RP Gupta, being unaffiliated with any traditional party, needed to choose iconography with which his constituents could connect -- the Congress' symbol is an open hand and the BJP uses a lotus, which serves to allow even illiterate villagers to select the party that most closely reflects their values.

Gupta decided on a whistle, presumably because he could physically utilize it in his electioneering. The Indian Express reports, "The whistle seemed like an odd option till we hit upon an innovative way to campaign in our constituency .... 'Each time I go out for campaigning I start blowing my whistle getting people to come out of their homes. They all know me as the old man who blows a whistle outside their windows,' [Gupta] says."

I suppose it could be worse: he could have chosen a can of mace and sprayed the vile liquid in his constituents' eyes, or perhaps his gimmick could have been a leg -- his attendant action could have been kicking the people in his neighborhood in the groin.

Six degrees of expat separation

You know, you'd think there'd be more variety in a country of a billion people.

Imagine, if you will, a young American expat's birthday party on a balmy Saturday night. Said expat is Miss Y. Your humble blogger? Miz Z.

Miz Z brings her husband, Mr. S., to the party, who promptly identifies Miss Y's paramour as "a guy who looks like my friend R," who indeed turns out to be his friend R (with a slightly different haircut).

Miz Z also brings her friend Big D, a freelance journalist, to the shindig, because, you know, Americans gotta stick together. Big D immediately begins talking to Miss Y, who works for a human rights foundation in Delhi that is TOTALLY Big D's "No. 1 favorite human rights organization."

Miss Y, consequently, is working for the organization in India on a fellowship that Miz Z just discovered is run by the son of Miz Z's former employer.

One of the girls also in the fellowship program (and at the party) is Easy E, who has brought her fiance to the fete. The fiance went to LaHell, the private Catholic high school located in Miz Z's home town (she went to the downmarket Milyucky).

There are two fine young people who also attended a rather exclusive Holi party attended by Miz Z et al.; another attendee is studying the '84 Sikh riots, which Mr. S did a photo essay on last year.

I could go on, but seriously, six degrees? Try one or two. It's a small world after all.

Unfrozen Sudoku champion?

At left: The Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer (played by the late Phil Hartman), of Saturday Night Live fame.

At right: The six representatives of "Team India," bound for the World Sudoku Championship in Prague on March 27. Presumably, they're helmed by the dashing man in an incongruous black shirt, who may or may not have fallen into a crevasse during the Ice Age only to be discovered by scientists in 1988 who reanimated him.

I know the picture is a bit fuzzy, but I can totally imagine our plucky friend addressing the audience at the penultimate Sudoku championship ceremony: "Ladies and gentlemen of the audience, I'm just a caveman. I fell on some ice and later got thawed out by some of your scientists. Your world frightens and confuses me! Sometimes the honking horns of your traffic make me want to get out of my BMW.. and run off into the hills, or wherever.. Sometimes when I get a message on my fax machine, I wonder: "Did little demons get inside and type it?" I don't know! My primitive mind can't grasp these concepts. But there is one thing I do know -- when a large media group offers you hundreds of prizes for putting some numerals on paper, and they also offer to fly you to Prague, you seize the opportunity. Thank you."

Close encounters of the politico kind

I was at Khan Market this morning, dallying, mostly (and looking for a new pair of jeans, a quest that sadly went unrequited), when I noticed that a new store had opened: Good Earth.

I peeped curiously through the darkened windows, lingering a bit and wondering whether I could get a free glass of champagne or something if I entered -- garlands were strewn all around, and it was apparently the grand opening. I hemmed, hawed, contemplated, and ultimately decided not to be presumptuous -- when who walks out but the Chief Minister of Delhi, Sheila Dikshit.

OK, so she's not exactly a celebrity, but she is an immensely powerful and influential woman. She was wearing a khaki silk sari, and she looked much as she looks in her pictures; she wasn't doused in makeup or drizzled in gold, just a normal woman, escorted by several security men and a glistening Amby. For some reason, I wanted to ask her for her autograph.

I didn't. But I was awed by her presence, for better or for worse. However, it does beg the question: Why is she spending her time gracing the opening of posh stores, rather than helping alleviate widespread poverty, etc.? Granted, you can't be on all the time, but why are high-end home furnishings more important than highlighting the importance of, for example, eliminating tuberculosis or securing a safe water supply for all Delhiites? (I cite these examples because earlier this week there was an emphasis on both in the newspapers, presumably, for example, because it was World Water Day.) I don't envy politicians, in that they have to flatter a variety of stakeholders, but can't her support extend beyond token appearances?

Coincidence? I think not.

Left: Steve Carrell in The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

Right: Strapping young employee of the Delhi government's department of trade and taxes.

Something about this ad had been bothering me for days; I think now I've figured it out.

Case studies from adventures in social networking

For reasons unknown (even to myself), I have a MySpace account. Usually I forget about it, but occasionally, I see fit to log in and check out what the aam admi is saying.

Recently received messages:

Nameless schlub 1
Subject: Liking
Message: I like you
(Accompanied by a friend request)

Nameless schlub 2
Subject: hi
Message: u look cute....can u sspeak hindi? r u in india?
(Accompanied by a picture of Scott Foley and a friend request)

Nameless schlub 3
Subject: note
Message: I'm thinking of coming to India sometime in the near future. Do you have any Indian friends that look like you? I just want an Indian girl that looks like you!!!! That way I don't have to have brown babies. haha
(Accompanied by semi-pornographic images)

Another excellent hub of social networking shenanigans is Orkut (which is quite popular in the subconty and was recently in the news for potentially offering the Mumbai police access to information about people who have started an "India hate" group).

Nameless schlub 4
Scrap: hi i am from delhi north side can we friend
(Accompanied by picture of man lifting shirt and rubbing six pack)

Nameless schlub 5
Scrap: hi
myself working as senior research officer in reputed hospital in Delhi, well educated, smart, hdsome, gd looking, fun loving, broad minded, respect feelings, easy going, loving and caring. like ur profile very much. like to have honest, trustworthy friendship and enjoyable time with u if u r interested in friendship. if u like my profile then reply on "xxx" directly and also let me know ur separate ID so we can contact directly for quick responses. i am transparent in my friendship . whatever u want to know more about me, i will glad to reply u and we will become good friends then see where the things go. rest is on u now.
(Thankfully, not accompanied by any further evidence of his academic accomplishments)

Let the rain fall

Tuesday forecast: 71 degrees Fahrenheit (22 degrees Celsius) high, 55 degrees Fahrenheit (13 degrees Celsius) low.

That's right. It's March, and I haven't once been compelled to switch on the air conditioner (guiltily, trying to conceal my heat weakness from the hubby). I wore a jacket when I walked to the place where I get picked up for my carpool. There was a light mist in the air, all my co-workers were miserable, and I had the hugest smile on my face.

Take that, statistically average March max of 88 degrees Fahrenheit (31 degrees Celsius)! I don't care if my normal life has been thrown out of gear, I'm loving it.

Holi moley!

HOLI HAI! S and I, quite a few bhangs in. We celebrated at a party at the Art Room. Lots of colors (the dress I was wearing was cream colored in the morning), lots of merriment, lots of foreigners. And LOTS of bhang thandai.

Making the Metro

Some enterprising chap created a list of the top 11 (I like, I like -- now THAT'S thinking out of the box) transit systems around the world. A good list, but I'd like to think that in a few years, it might benefit from the inclusion of Delhi's Metro train.

Granted, the network is still in its infancy, and parts of it are still being built. But it has the potential to revolutionize the city -- it's fast, cheap, and shockingly clean (particularly in comparison with the DTC busses streaked with paan spittle).

However, it's not without controversy, and the final extension from Delhi to Gurgaon is particularly fraught with problems. It would take a long time to sort through all of them, but they touch on themes from the environment (construction could cut through a large portion of Delhi's protected forest area) to historical preservation (a monument from the 18th century, Dhauli Pyau, was destroyed earlier this month to make way for the transit line) and half-assed nincompoopery (a mall that was destroyed last year to make way for the Metro was not completely razed and now represents a public health threat).

I look at the whole issue as an outsider: Gurgaon has mushroomed as an O&O hub, and though many companies have moved their offices to what was essentially a village 25 years ago, the road connecting the capital and its little sister is pretty insufficient. Official numbers widely vary, as they are apt to, but according to a report cited here, about 800,000 people travel between the two cities everyday -- and that's on one main road, NH-8, which has two to six lanes (depending upon how you count them). To contextualize, I live in south Delhi and commute to Gurgaon every day; in the mornings (before rush hour) it takes about 45 minutes, and in the evenings, 60 to 90 minutes. If it rains, or if there are multiple weddings being held at the farmhouses that dot the connecting road, double those figures.

It seems, from my dispassionate, liberal, Western (bitchy? cold?) perspective, that improving transportation should trump political pandering -- it'll encourage investments and make life easier for people looking to travel the 20-odd miles between the two locales. But will this destroy Delhi's heritage, or should "progress" come at any cost?

Life or death choices: Thursday

A diverse set of media performances on self-propelled carts at the Mediawala Festival ...

OR

... 100 snake charmers in Delhi's Central Park?

I don't know how I will ever choose.

Another day, another tangle with bureaucracy

Today, some cause for celebration: My employment visa has been extended. The babus have truly smiled upon me on this most glorious of Tuesdays!

My experience at the FRRO was BY FAR the least unpleasant it has ever been; though it did last about three-and-a-half hours, I somehow managed to wrangle a fixer from my company, who made the process much less bewildering than before. She was not just any fixer, but a fixer who specializes in relocation, a fixer who routinely spends time at the FRRO and knows how to handle every qualm brought up by the clerks, a fixer who speaks English and is utterly unflappable and balks when the bureaucrats make a lovely French (?) woman in delightful striped pants cry. I'm working up a verse in the fixer's honor, provisionally entitled "An Ode to Competence." (Aside: It's quite sad, as the beloved hubby pointed out, that competence is such a breath of fresh air to me these days.)

With a capable, strong woman facilitating the process, I got to spend some time people watching. If you're a people watcher, the FRRO is, indeed, a prime location. My favorite sighting today was a group of three women and three children, all under the age of five or so. The children were dressed in identical -- and likely handmade -- outfits of knitted, nubbly red yarn, intricately designed stitches and black stripes and fringe, yes, even fringe; the women waited stoically for their numbers to be called as the kids squirmed, their cheeks approaching the Valentine's massacre color of the sweaters and bloomers they were all trying desperately to shuck off.

Adorable, and I only hope their visa/immigration/extension-related business went as well as mine did.

Public service announcement!

Hey friends, I had to post this, because every time one of the monkey public service announcements comes out, I crack up. It's just so...foreign. I'm not saying they're irrelevant, I'm saying that, if one was to issue a "monkey menace" announcement in NYC, well...the world might stop spinning for a few minutes. Highlights of the text, in case you can't read it: "Monkeys are wild animals, don't domesticate them with bananas" -- isn't that contradicted by the happy monkey holding a banana? Let's stay on message, department of environment, forests, and wildlife; "Monkeys are monkeys" -- no, I thought they were elephants! (OK, I know maybe they're alluding to Hanuman and his monkey-ly importance in the Hindu panoply, but still.) All jests aside, seriously, don't feed the monkeys. When S and I were in Chail with my parents, we were loading food and stuffs into our car and left it unattended for a few minutes; when we went outside, there was a monkey in the driver's seat, and I ran at him with flailing fists, seriously alarming the hotel personnel, who were wondering just how they would explain a way a monkey-induced firang death in the peaceful mountain town. Just don't do it.

Everything is rent

So, though the vast, vast majority of landlords in Delhi are unspeakable assholes, S and I happened upon a very endearing old doctor who lives with his brother and has graced us with his benevolence on many occasions.

The latest, and perhaps most endearing?

Landlord: "With you extending your lease, I am going to need to raise the rent, cost of living, you know."
Z&S: [Silent and frightened about potential increase of thousands of rupees]
Landlord: "So, you've been paying Rs 13,000 a month; now you will be paying Rs 13,050 a month."

For those of you keeping score, that's an increase of little more than a dollar a month. Schlamoley.

Least convincing tag line EVER

"Delhi Police: We Would Be There In Case You Need Us"

They forgot to add, "... but if you don't need us, we'll be out by the chaiwallah having some samosas."

I wish I was joking.

Much as I sympathize with people suffering from mental illness ...

... I couldn't help but laugh at Krishnadas Rajagopal's reportage in "'Over-protection of employees has affected efficiency in offices'" (IE, Delhi Newsline, Dec. 29).

Rajagopal recounts the court case surrounding the dismissal of a watchman, Suresh Chand, who contended he spent long spells away from work (frequent, unauthorized absences spread over four years) to be treated for anxiety and depression. What really sunk this poor chap, though, is that his employer provided him medical facilities, but rather than avail of these, the guy went to a private hospital, which produced a certificate for him. Subtext? This man is faking mental illness and using a forged certificate that he bought on the black market as an excuse to tell his workplace to fuck off.

(I do realize that there are a number of issues at play; the way in which mental illness is conceived in India could prevent someone from letting his employers know that he is seeking treatment, but let's be honest: this reeks of foul play.)

The High Court, thank god, upheld Chand's dismissal; the journo writes, "Government organizations in the country are held back by the whims of employees, who consider their appointment to government services as a 'licence to thwart the work culture and discipline of the organisation," the Delhi High Court has observed in an order."

The court, not immune from having itself a little laugh, also observed, "I consider that there are very few persons in India today who are not suffering from one or the other form of anxiety or depression. If such medical certificates are acknowledged as valid for such long, unauthorised absence, no work can be done in any of the government departments."

As a frequent audience for government employee tomfoolery, I applaud this decision ... if only it meant that change would transpire. I'm never going to get back those four hours of waiting for the marriage registrar to consecrate my vows!