Come tomorrow

I'm back in Delhi. And (surprise, surprise) it's hot.Shamsher, PJ chach and I drove down from Kasauli yesterday, and it did not take us all that long to get here (6 hours with a 45 minute pit stop for food), which was great because I hate sitting in cars.

As far as Kasauli is concerned, after my last, incredibly crabby post, things got a lot better. Partly because I began to tune out the annoying, extraneous noises (demands from my family, my sister's whining, the annoying pitter-patter of pine needles on the tin roof of the Kasauli cottages, Angober's (sometimes) shitty music) and partly because the rest of my cousins arrived so my family stopped pushing me around because there were a bunch of other kids to push around instead!

Friday was really interesting, because I FINALLY took my first official project train ride. I woke up at 6:30 and we drove down to Dharampur station so that I could catch the 7:30 train to Shimla. Dharampur station is really cute- it's a small station in the middle of a hill town. When I got to the station, the booking window was closed, and the station master was nowhere in site and I was the only person in the station, except for the man who was selling chips. So I waited for 10 paniced minutes (it was 7:15 when I got to the station) until it finally occured to me to knock on the station master's door. Which is, apparently, what I should've done earlier because the station master was in there, sleeping.

I eventually bought my ticket (it was Rs. 14 which should've told me what kind of train I was getting onto), and waited on the platform.

At this point, I think I should mention that my family had led me to expect a proper, long distance train to arrive at the platform. In fact, the train that has traditionally gone from Kalka to Shimla is called the Himalayan Queen, and it is FAMOUS for it's "old world charm".

So of course, the train that showed up on the Dharampur platform at 7:55 that morning was not the Himalayan Queen, but a local train. Which is fine, except that there was NO space on the train for me. The ladies compartment, which was the nice short length of 7 feet, was crowded to the extent that there wasn't even a square inch of space (women were scattered all over the seats, all over the floor and were even hanging out of the door). I pleaded and pleaded with the ladies in the compartment, and all of them refused to move, which was just great because the TT had blown his whistle twice by then. Eventually, when the train whistle blew, I ran along the platform in a panic, looking for any bogey with any space, and finally climbed onto a random one toward the front of the train. Of course, there was no place to stand in that one either, so I ended up being one of the people who hung out of the door.

The whole hour long ride to Solan was really awkward, partly because I was the only woman in the compartment, and partly because I was dressed in jeans and a hoodie (all the other women in the train, above the age of 15, were wearing Indian clothing). But after the first stop, a lot of people got off and more space opened up on the train. So eventually, I was able to stand near the compartment door in peace and was able to take in the mountain scenery, which was incredible. I have a ton of pictures, but the reels are being developed right now, so I might put them up later.

Anyway. When I got off at Solan, and I can't lie but I was a little relieved. It was the first time I had traveled alone as the sole woman in a sea of men. And now that I've done it, it will definitely be easier to do next time. After Solan, we drove to Shimla (it took an hour and a half to drive to Shimla; if I had stayed on the train, it would've taken me an additional 3 hours to get there) and I took a bunch of pictures at the station there. And then headed back to Kasauli to enjoy the rest of the weekend with the family.

So at the end of it all, the last weekend turned out to be great. I won Rs. 500 at a tambola game at the Kasauli Club, lost Rs. 239 while playing rummy with my family, ate a shit load of great food, re-read The God of Small Things, and walked a hell of a lot everyday. Now I'm back, and getting ready to go to South India on Thursday.

So until next time, stay safe, and stay tuned.

Welcome Home

Yesterday, a bird crapped on me.

It's a slightly (only slightly) exciting story; one that involves me sitting in an open topped jeep (my cousin's friends) holding an Orange Bar (sidenote: I LOVE Orange Bars with a fiery passion that rivals their colour) with the wind making my hair fly around. But the point of it all really is that I hope that the bird shit hitting me at 60 kms/hr makes my luck change.

So far, Delhi has only been ok. I enjoy being home to the extent that I enjoy meeting my friends and enjoy meeting my family and enjoy eating the best food that the planet has to offer. But I can't handle living at home with my family anymore. I fight with my sister and mother on a daily basis (oddly, I haven't fought with my father yet but that might be because he understands what it's like to go to college far away and return home only sporadically) and it's getting to the point of excrutiation.

I think the last two or three days have been better than most. But that's mostly because I didn't spend all that much time at home. On Thursday I went to Old Delhi with Prashant, and then we went to Def Col market and had some beers. Harshyla and Pooja joined us, and then after that I spent the night at Harshyla's. I went to sleep early because I had a headache (which was probably the result of walking around the city in the heat), but it was nice to spend the day far away from my house. Yesterday, Harshyla, Pooja and I went to lunch and then I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with Niamat and Harleen (which is when the pigeon poop fell on me) and only met my parents and sister at about 10 o'clock at night. Which was nice, because I didn't fight with anyone until about 9 pm. 36 hours of quiet.

Anyway. Getting back to the point of the crap story... Over here, people consider a bird crapping on you to be a sign of Good Luck. It probably has something to do with crapping being so bad that nothing worse can happen (thus, a sign of changing luck). But I don't really care. All I know is that I really want this trip to get vastly better because as much as I love my family (fighting and all), I don't think I will be able to handle living like this for another 3 months.

It is NOT to late to Apologize

So Angalandar and I are terrible at this whole Blog thing.

I can't speak for him, but I think that I am going to start being more regular with it, now that I am home in India, and on summer vacation. At the very least, there will be updates about my travels. I promise.

New post coming later today.

Fateh Can't Dance Saaaala (But Himmat Can)

It's been a full 3 days since I left. Left Delhi, left the wedding celebrations, left my family.

The week before that was a whirlwind. A whirlwind that I have repeatedly tried to explain to outsiders in vain. Because no one truly gets it: my American friends vaguely comprehend the wedding process and my Desi friends (who actually know about about weddings and their various events) don't understand my obsession with certain songs and they just don't get the inside jokes or the endless stories that are playing on repeat in my head.

I think about the wedding at least two times every hour. I incessantly think about Shamsher on auto-pilot or Angad's beard needing cleaning on the night of the youngsters party or Niamat and um, our non-stop jokes about her neck. But these things mean nothing to the people I know here- they don't understand these stories, and the jokes just don't seem funny to them, no matter how well I try to explain. Most people over here just react with a passing laugh or a confused expression (or, in the case of the Angad beard story, they react with a disgusted face). And while I understand why this is so, I really do wish that I could share these memories with the people that I experienced them with.

When I look back at that one week, and especially when I look at the wedding pictures on facebook (repeatedly, of course) and listen to hunta thon mera (also repeatedly, of course), I remember each one of their faces. And I think about how happy I was during the wedding. I know that there were moments of frustration but now that I think about it, I genuinely feel happy that my family is my family. And while it is true that you can't choose your family and that you can choose your friends, I think I'm proud to say that my cousins are my friends, and that no matter how much I want to kill them sometimes, they're friends that I'm happy to be stuck with. No matter how frustrated I get with them, they'll always have my back. And more importantly, they will always make me laugh.

So cheers to Hersi for taking the plunge without crying and without the slightest tinge of fear or nervousness. Cheers to my moronic cousins who will always be Lutzes in my eyes. And cheers to us having many more weeks like this past one together.

I can truly say that when this week ended all I could think was "Hunta thon mera dur jan da ji ni kar da ni". Home is home, Delhi is Delhi, family is family. And my family is crazy. Cheers to nothing ever changing that.

JFK, Heathrow and Indira Gandhi International

I never thought I would be one of those people who went home in the middle of the semester. But here I am, sitting in Terminal 7 in JFK, waiting to get onto my flight to Heathrow (and eventually Indira Gandhi International).

I can't help it. My cousin is getting married, and I can't imagine not being there for the wedding. I can't imagine not going home for a bunch of different reasons: not only will my entire family be present at this (at least for us) momentous occasion, but I also can't believe that this moment has come upon us so soon. I always imagined this happening maybe 2 or 3 years down the line from now, and I can't pretend that it's not going to be really strange next Sunday during the wedding.

But as it stands, it's real and the wedding is happening. So I'm here in in JFK, even though I know I'm missing an assload of work for college (God knows I'm emailing 3 papers in next week) and even though my family is paying a lot of money for me to be in Delhi next Sunday. But honestly, I can't imagine it any other way.

I guess the next time I update, however small the entry may be, it's going to be from my house in India, probably with some sentimental crap about how weird it was to see Hersi get married. But until then, I guess this will have to suffice, because um. They just announced the final boarding call, and I have to run!

Just look at my family

I'm convinced that Gangbad is just bored with life, and he is just jealous.
In short. Gangbad can go suck it.

I also would like to leave you with a little gem of a facebook message/conversation. Perhaps it will only appear funny to those that belong in the larger Dugal/Chopra/Saund family circle. And I understand that this might be for family eyes only, but if that be the case, well, I can just delete this post.

Fateh
Today at 4:38am
you bored sons of bitches..you all need a very VERY strong drink to help you think about how stupid you all look...i..on the other hand..drink a large number of strong drinks so im always in my senses..happy holi btw..haha

Angad
Today at 4:47am
I think sobriety would help perspective better.
Which is why I have none.
Hah.

Fateh
Today at 5:10am
angad my lil friend..you know these big words are of little importance to me..smaller..more efficient words are requested

Niamat
Today at 5:59am
my baby brother, ladies and gentlemen

Jaiveer
Today at 7:08am
watta family...tooo good

Hell yeah. Watta family! Tooooooooooooo good.

Cold, Miserable and 8000 miles away from the Monsoon

So here's the thing.

I grew up in a city where rain was a welcome relief from what seemed like the furnaces of hell. Every July, we'd all wait with bated breath for the monsoon to explode in a combination of bangs and flashes, and we'd all sigh with relief when the clouds eventually relented and unleashed their weight in precious rain on our dry, dusty city.

And the truth is, the city really came alive with the rain. Little kids would run out to play in puddles and overflowing drains; leaves that were spotted with dust and dirt finally became shiny and green again; building edifices actually managed to looked clean; the smog would disappear; and that godforsaken heat would finally dissipate, even if it was only for a few hours.

But when I come to think of it, it's really funny how I came to love the monsoon, because it can truly be a huge pain in the ass. Traffic, for one thing, comes to an absolute stand-still (I will never forget the day that my mom came home from Dhaula Kuan and announced that she might as well have gone to Jaipur that day because she had been stuck in traffic for a full three hours). The drains, for another, become raging rivers with lovely little bits and pieces of floating debris bouncing along in them, as if they were boats trying to navigate frenzied waters. Socks and shoes, for another, also become more than slightly annoying, because no matter how hard you try, they will absolutely never remain anything less than soaking wet.

But overall, I think that I loved the monsoon mostly because, despite the rain, it remained warm, and I could go about my daily business without resorting to sweaters, jackets, wind-cheaters and other cold weather paraphernalia. More often than not, I would prefer to wear flip-flops because it meant that I wouldn't have soaking wet socks, and also because I could actually wear them without having my feet fall off from cold and frostbite.

Which brings me to what I absolutely hate about rain in Claremont, and places other than India in general: it's fucking cold! SERIOUSLY. I absolutely hate the rain when it makes me this cold and this miserable. I especially hate it when I have to stand in it to wait in line to watch a speaker who insulted pretty much everything I believe in. I really hate it when it makes me sick and keeps me sick. And I absolutely detest it when I'm supposed to be in a place that doesn't receive rain at all!

Ordinarily, I would not complain about it if it were the torrential monsoon rain that I remember and love. I would not complain about it if this place was prepared for it and if there weren't gigantic puddles and raging rivers on every major street crossing. I would not complain about it if I had a rain coat and rain boots. But I don't. And it's cold. And it's wet. And I'm miserable. And I'm freezing. And I HATE having to walk through it to get to class.

So no. I will not stop complaining until it stops to rain, or until it gets warm in spite of the rain. I will not stop bitching and moaning, and if you're going to hate, I'd say you should step to the left. Or go drown yourself in one of the many rivers that are forming on Columbia street.