Hyderabad on Sunday Morning

This morning we went on a two-hour guided walk through Hyderabad's old city. We had to get up earlier that we would have liked (for a Sunday) in order to be downtown by 7:00am. The meeting spot was Charminar, the four-hundred-year old granite arch in the center of town. The tickets cost Rs 50 (about $1.20) and included, at the end of the tour, a breakfast of idlis and coconut chutney, served in an off-limits area of the Nizam's palace. Our group of twenty or so also had an escort of two "Tourist Police," who stopped traffic with their whistles every time we needed to cross the road.

Outside the old city's main mosque, the Mecca Masjid, the local kids were already wide awake.

The neighborhood we walked through was predominantly Muslim. Note the goat in the foreground. (Incidentally, this goat recited several verses of the Koran for me, in Arabic, but did not know what they meant.)

Around 9:00am, the guide led us through a gate into a vast sandlot filled with boys playing cricket. I still don't understand the rules of cricket, so it felt like chaos. Right under the stairs we were standing on when I took this picture was a doorway marked "Mohammed Wachman." A man with a handlebar mustache stood outside the door, hands on hips.

The tour ended at Chowahalla Palace, the seat of the Nizam's government from the mid-eighteenth-century until Hyderabad joined independent India in 1948. He had four palaces, seven windows, four mosques, etc etc (all the palace/fort stuff runs together after a while). I was just impressed with how green they kept the grass. The natural color of the ground around here is cinnamon-brown.

We capped the morning with a trip to one of the hundreds of bangle shops in the area. Imagine a store the size of Claire's Accessories selling nothing but brightly-colored bracelets, floor to ceiling. The attendant runs around like mad, picking them off the wall, measuring your wrist, and flipping them back and forth in his hands to create custom color combinations. The bangles are sold by the dozen. Most Indian women around here own at least a few hundred, and probably more. Our driver says that his wife wears two colors at a time--one color completely covering the left forearm, the other covering the right.

Weekend in Mumbai

This weekend we went to Mumbai, India's largest city, which is an hour by air from Hyderabad. By car the same distance would take--well, you might never get there.

This was my second domestic flight, Jessica's third, and we have noticed that for some reason you still get fed on Indian airlines. On the Hyderabad-Mumbai flight, before the captain had turned off the seatbelt light, the stewardesses were racing down the aisles ("veg or non-veg?"). Ten minutes later they came with steaming pots of masala tea (what we call "chai" in the United States). The airplane food is crappy by Indian standards, which means delicious by ours. Dessert, for example, was a small dish of cardamom pudding.

The city formerly known as Bombay has a totally different feel from Delhi, the other Indian megacity we have visited so far. First of all, Mumbai is on the sea. Everywhere you look there are banyan trees (Ficus bengalensis) whose crazy snakelike roots have worked their way into the masonry of the surrounding buildings. I saw at least one seaside property that had been condemned--there was a sign from the city government on the door--but had not crumbled simply because the banyan roots held the crumbling thing together. The actual seashore is hot and smelly. Because hot, smelly places are so romantic, this is where Mumbai's teenagers come to hang out and--children, look away--hold hands.

One of the highlights for us was the Hanging Garden on Malabar Hill, where Violet met a fashion-forward seven-year-old with a nose ring and beautiful English.

A vendor was wandering around the Hanging Garden selling fans made from peacock feathers. I bought one for Violet. (I know, I know...but isn't it so pretty?)

We also visited a children's park named for the wife of Jawaharlal Nehru, India's first Prime Minister. Here's Violet with some teenagers who climbed the jungle gym to get a photo with her.

Another interesting aspect of Mumbai is the prominent Parsi population. I know a little about the Parsis from the novel A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. They are a small but successful ethnic minority who are some of the last remaining practitioners of Zoroastrianism, the ancient Persian faith. According to our guidebook, the Hanging Garden is near the Parsi Towers of Silence, where Mumbai's Parsis leave their dead for the vultures to pick over. We didn't see the Towers of Silence, but we did see a few Parsi schools and--vultures, look away--Parsi sweet shops.

The Rainbow Primary School

Seven years ago, when Jessica's company was setting up its office in Hyderabad, the wife of the American manager did something amazing. Along with an Indian friend, Leigh Anne Gilbert founded the Rainbow Primary School, a government (ie, public) school for poor children in the neighborhoods around Hi-Tech City. Since opening its doors in 2005, the Rainbow School has risen to become the top-rated government primary school in the area.

When one of Jessica's colleagues (who volunteers at the school) asked if we would like to visit, we quickly accepted. What's more, we arranged to bring Jessica's mom, who was a public school teacher for thirty years in Virginia. The school is in a fairly ritzy area of Hyderabad called Jubilee Hills. Don't forget, though, that in India the richest families live in close proximity to the poorest. The Rainbow School's neighborhood, for instance, probably had more goats than people, thanks to the rich variety of garbage in the alleys and vacant lots.

The current headmistress is a friendly and even-keeled young woman named Vijaya (or "Vijaya madam," as everyone calls her). She greeted us warmly in her office and immediately took us on a tour of the facility. The school occupies a narrow three-story building of I would guess three thousand square feet. The 280 students are spread across five grades, or "standards." First and second standards are taught exclusively in Telugu, the local language. English is introduced in third standard. Judging by our interactions with the older students, English is well-established by fifth standard, and most of the students are proficient if not fluent. After fifth standard, the students at Rainbow School go on to the local high school (Madhapur School), where they remain until finishing their schooling requirement in tenth standard. There are currently over sixty Rainbow School alumni at Madhapur School.

In the lower grades (first and second standards) the students sit cross-legged on the concrete floor. The first room we visited had nearly sixty children in it. Chairs and shared desks are provided for the upper grades. The teachers were impressed when Vijaya madam introduced Benjie (Jessica's mom) as an American teacher with thirty years experience. For her part, Benjie went right into teacher mode: "Good morning, students. What are you studying today?" The students in every classroom stood up, saluted, and said "good morning" in unison. It seems elementary school kids are the same no matter where you go.

After the tour, we sat down in the headmistress's office and she and Benjie compared notes. We were impressed to learn that the school holds conferences with parents every month. (In Virginia, Benjie reported, this happens twice a year at best.) We also talked about what needs the school was facing right now. Vijaya madam surprised us with the first item: "bulletin boards. We have only two right now, and we would like to have one in every room, to put up important notices."

Another urgent need is a place for the children to eat lunch. Food is brought in every day, but they have to eat in shifts in the courtyard, because there is so little room. Thankfully Jessica's company is funding the construction of a covered patio to help meet this need. On the day we visited, workers were busy leveling soil with picks and carting rubble back and forth in pans balanced on their heads.

At the end of our visit, the teachers posed for a picture with Jessica's parents. The headmistress, Vijaya madam, is on the far left.

Adventures in Jaipur

I'm just back from an amazing business trip with the India management team I've just joined. We flew from Hyderabad to Jaipur in the state of Rajasthan (ie. the desert, elephant, camel, and colorful clothes state). We were there for 4 nights and three days, which is a long time to be away from your family in a foreign country when your daughter is sick. (No need to worry - Violet is just recovering from a cold.)

On the plane, I sat with a new manager who just joined my company after selling her stake in a Bangalore start-up. We had tea and she openly revealed that she was divorced. This surprised me - as it turns out there are several women on the management team who are divorced, single moms. It's cool to know that the taboo around this is disappearing. When we landed, we took a rather rickety bus to what had been described to me as a "resort".

Let me pause here to say that prior to leaving everyone was talking about how cold it would be and how they needed to buy warm clothing. Weren't we staying in a hotel, I thought? A resort, no less? Are these people crazy? Delhi is further north than Jaipur, and we didn't freeze; in fact during the day it was often hotter than California is on a "warm summer day..." I packed a few long sleeve shirts, assured my former boss that I'd call into two very important meetings (my last remaining responsibilities) late at night from the hotel.

On the way to the "resort" we stopped at a roadside stand to have tea and paneer pakoras. This was my first street food and everyone assured me it was safe. I'm so glad I ate them because the spices in the pakoras were divine - cumin and coriander seeds...To get to said "resort", we drove through a village where people as well as flocks of goats and a family of pigs lived. We turned onto a dirt road, and my colleagues laughed watching my face. I was scared we'd topple imminently into a ravine...Finally we reach the "resort" and lo and behold, "resort" is tantamount to "camp" in the US.

We were each provided with a cabin that had warm blankets and one tiny space heater. The bathroom had two buckets. When I asked my roommate what they were for, she got a kick out of explaining that the shower had no mixer ie. furnished no hot water; so I'd be filling the buckets up to bathe. I quickly skimmed the amenities of the hotel - at 7:30 a man raps on your door and pours you hot tea. At 10 pm the generator turns off completely. All of our meals and common spaces for meetings were outdoors. At this point I realized that a) I did not pack warmly enough and b) there was no way in hell that I'd be able to call into those meetings.

Suffice it to say it was a magical 4 days. The business sessions were invigorating, and I couldn't have been more impressed with the leaders with whom I'll be working. "California managers," I kept thinking, "Stand back because the people in this room are bound to be leading our company before long". This team demonstrated trust in each other the likes of which I've never seen. They made fun of their Director while showing him affection and deference. They didn't think twice about baring their deepest doubts or aspirations to one another. Our meetings were punctuated by hourly interruptions whereby we were served tea. Everyone did their best to ensure I was comfortable - when I noticed that the bottled water they were serving was only sometimes sealed, my colleagues made a point of requesting a sealed bottle for me rather than a refilled one. I was in the stix for 4 days and never once got ill.

The evening entertainment was amazing. One night, Rajasthani folk musicians and dancers came to perform for us.

Another night, I headed into the city with my colleagues to do some shopping at the markets in Jaipur. It was unreal to see my friends bargain with the vendors - suddenly our budget was doubled, because they bargained the prices down to half. We started our meetings just after 10, so that at 8 we could take a guide and hike around the desert landscape to see birds. At night I woke to the sounds of wild dogs howling, jackals jackaling, and god knows what other creatures that were fighting for their survival.

Our last day, I joined a group of managers to visit the beautiful Amber Fort. There were elephant rides, and we heard stories about the King's 12 wives who were not allowed to meet except when they were all together. If they were all together and one queen spoke ill of him, he could rest assured that at least one wife in twelve would betray the naysayer. The queens were never allowed to walk and were carted around on ramps everywhere.

Upon leaving the fort, we had a dilemma - we had to eat, but we also risked missing our flight. But we had to eat! So we risked missing our flight (because I had to remind myself; I'm in India after all) and let me tell you, the ride to the airport was an exciting one. It was a 45 minute drive wherein our driver had his hand on the horn the entire time as he swerved back and forth to get us there on time. Did I mention that his gas light was on for the duration of the trip?

Now I'm back and it's a great feeling to know people around the office. Had I not attended this trip, it might have taken 6 months to meet them - let alone to dance and shop with them.

Bureaucracy with a capital B

There is an old joke that the British invented bureaucracy, but the Indians perfected it. Over the past three weeks, I have been able to confirm this.

The Foreigners Regional Registration Office (FRRO) for the Hyderabad area is housed in the old Begumpet airport, a facility made obsolete two years ago when the shiny new Rajiv Gandhi International Airport opened south of town. I had heard of municipalities using old airport sites for redevelopment; the former Stapleton Airport in Denver, for example, is now a neighborhood and shopping district. But this is India, not Colorado. Instead of leasing the land to a developer, as Denver did, the government here just decided to use the crumbling airport terminals as office buildings. Take a baggage claim, add cubicles, throw in a few plastic chairs for the public to sit in, and voila! An instant DMV.

The first time I went to the FRRO, I was with Jessica and the immigration consultant her employer had hired to facilitate her registration. It was a two man job actually: one guy with excellent English to tell Jessica what to do, and another guy who used to work at FRRO who works behind the scenes, pestering his former colleagues to hurry up. She was in and out in less than two hours.

But the consultant wasn't hired to help me. As soon as we sat down, I learned that there was an online application I should have filled out. (The Fulbright people told me it was paper.) So I took out a laptop, created a temporary WiFi hotspot with Jessica's cellphone, and submitted the application.



Then they told me that after submitting the application I had to wait twenty-four hours for the systems to sync up. And I needed a letter from my university in Hyderabad. And because I had a research visa, I also needed an HIV test.

So that ended day one. I went home and started accumulating paper, plotting my return. I got an HIV test at the local clinic (more about the clinic in a future post). I got a letter from my department chair. I even got a letter to the government from my wife granting me permission to live with her in her company-sponsored flat.

I returned six days later ready to kick some official ass. Once again, I was humbled. After two hours of waiting, they called my number and I was escorted behind a partition. There sat the boss of the operation, a man with henna-dyed orange hair and a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache. He asked if I was being paid to teach at the university. I said I had a government grant. "But are you receiving remuneration?" I said I was, yes sir. With a stern finger wag he informed me that I had the wrong type of visa. He and my case worker chatted in Telugu for a few minutes, and then he said, in excellent English, that it was not my fault: the Embassy had made the mistake. "Can I go?" I asked hopefully.

"The server is down," he said, handing me half a sheet of photocopy paper. "Come back on this date. Then you can take your certificate."

Five days later I returned. This time I had none of my previous swagger; this time I knew better than to believe I could bend the Government of India to my will. A secondary purpose of the registration process, I have learned, is to remind foreigners that India can be colonized, but it can never be told what to do. Western ideas about efficiency--for example, that processes as simple as tax registration can be accomplished simply and easily over the phone, or in conjunction with another necessary chore, like buying a local SIM card for your cell phone. Remember the Motor Voter Bill? That would never happen here. For one thing, combining the processes of voter registration and drivers-license renewal (as in Motor-Voter), would halve the number of government employees required. In a country of 1.2 billion, jobs are always welcome, no matter how unnecessary they may seem to us. In fact they are quite necessary: it is necessary for those people to feed their children.



Long story short, I finally got my certificate. Don't tell anyone, but I'm going to miss that place. Where else can you hang out with a cup of Nescafe in a room full of Ethiopian immigrants and their adorable children? Or American study-abroad chicks in $1.50 pink kurta pyjamas? Or foreign technocrats with paid local minders? All of this under the watchful third eye of a sleeping security guard. Tell me--where?

Stella (Violets ayah)

Stella is my ayah. She is 18 years old. Stella takes care of me when my parents are working. She teaches me all kinds of tricks. Stella has many piercings. These are the languages Stella speaks: Telugu, Hindi, Tamil, Oriya, and English.

Stella can:

• draw
• read Telugu
• speak in languages
• do lots of fun stuff
• stand really spicy food (unlike me)

Here is her picture.

Girl Scout Connection

Yesterday we returned to Golkonda Fort with Jessica's parents, who are visiting from Virginia, and we found ourselves surrounded by thousands of Indian Girl and Boy Scouts. Turns out this weekend was the annual Indian Girl/Boy Scout Jamboree, held here in Hyderabad. Aside from substituting salwar-kameez for skirts and changing the color to blue from green, Girl Scouting seems to be the same here. As always, everyone wanted to shake Violet's hand, and some of the Indian tourists at Golkonda seemed more interested in her than in the 850-year-old temple behind her. I imagine this is what it feels like to be the person in the Mickey Mouse costume at Disneyland. Violet calls the experience "being helloed," because that's what they say when they swarm her, hands out and cameras ready: "Hello, hello, hello!"

Henna - Violet's Third Dispatch (in English this time)

At the hair cut place, I got henna! The woman said to leave the paint on for 2 hours exactly. We went home and watched TV. Then on our way to dinner, we met our friends. They said: wash your hands with oil. At night I had to eat with my left hand which is bad luck or something like that.

When 2 hours were up, we washed the paint off with oily stuff. It is beautiful. It will stay for one week.

Sari Politics

Tomorrow I start work. I'm excited for the vitality of a new office, the challenges of a new job, and the novelty of getting to know a new team. That said, these weeks off acclimating to India have been relaxing and fun. I'll miss the free time. So before I disappear into the world of online advertising, I want to get one last post in.

There are many spoken and unspoken rules in India. In America, we may have rules of social decorum, but they are innate to us - we don't need to think about them. In fact, my heros have always tended to be women who flout these rules. But practicing "safety first" in India and showing respect for the culture means learning the Indian societal rules and playing by them.

What does this often mean? Not making eye contact, particularly with men who are staring at you. Tipping everyone. Finding opportunities to say "Namaste" or "Happy New Year" and bowing to those who help you negotiate your new world.

Even when you try to be proper, you end up making a fool of yourself regularly. For example, our first day, we were starved for beer. We'd been on vacation for one week and only attained 2 beers a piece at the Western hotel we stayed in Agra. Immediately, we asked our Muslim driver, Nayeem, if he could take us to buy beer. While Nick was getting it, I said, "It seems like no one in India drinks!"

He politely responded, "Some do and some don't, madam."

The next day, I asked Tirupa, our housekeeper if she'd help me tie my sari. She kindly agreed to and there were many awkward pauses as we searched for safety pins and I held the pleats while she situated my sash. When I tried to tip her for this service, she declined. Later, I realized that there are strict rules for not tipping the staff. Tirupa also left us beautiful orchids in our bedroom. It's strange being in a place where someone is working constantly to appease and comfort you, and you cannot reciprocate.

Later we went to an open air market, where we bought a number of wall hangings to decorate our bare apartment. Nick was reprimanded at one stall when he tried to pay an artist with his left hand (bad luck!) He quickly changed hands, and the artist kissed the money and said a little prayer.

At the market, we experienced a very mixed reaction to my dress. Some women stopped me to smile and say that I looked very beautiful in my sari. (It goes without saying that I was merely imitating all the beauty surrounding me. India as Violet says, "is all about fashion." Women's saris are truly arresting.) One girl even stopped me to ask who had tied my sari and instructed me that if I wore a chain around my neck and had a bindi I would look like a true Indian girl. She proceeded to take a bindi out of her purse and anoint me with it. But behind my back, many shopkeepers snickered at my sari - how it wasn't tied correctly, etc..., etc...It's strange and unsettling to have the feeling that you are constantly being judged no matter how pure your intentions are.

Yesterday, we crossed the street from our apartment to a beauty salon run exclusively by teenage women. The bulk of their business appeared to be threading eyebrows. I had a hair cut for 350 Rps (equivalent to about $8). While my hair was being washed, the hairdresser asked me if I spoke Hindi. When I said no, she made a quick comment to her assistant who laughed and laughed. I can only imagine she said something about the ugly old white hag with frizzy hair that she was coiffing. Nonetheless, she gave me a great haircut. In the waiting room, the receptionist kindly decorated Violet's hand and shoulder in Henna. Violet couldn't have been happier.

New Years Eve

Don't you know that in a city of six million--in a country where homosexuality is prohibited by law--we would end up what we think was a gay bar for New Years Eve? Because of the legal issue I won't give the name of the venue, but let's just say that the theme of the "dj party" was way on the down low.

Because we were with Violet, we arrived at the restaurant early, a little after eight. As we stepped out of the car, a well-dressed gent behind a card table said, "Mister Nick?" I must have looked confused, because he added quickly, "I took your reservation." Ah, of course--how many Americans with seven year old daughters had reservations at eight o'clock? (In retrospect I realized just how unique we were: what other Americans with seven year old daughters have reservations at a gay bar at eight o'clock?) Upstairs, the techno music was deafening, but we enjoyed the drinks and appetizers that came with our cover charge. Even in a dark techno club on New Years, the food in India is fantastic.

Slowly, the men arrived in twos and fours. Jessica still maintains that it might not have been a gay bar, but here are the facts: by the time we left at 9:15 (exhausted daughter in tow) Violet and Jessica were the only females in a room of forty or fifty men. Unless a flock of forty or fifty women arrived shortly thereafter, the proportion was decidedly more Apollo than Venus. Or is it more Krishna than Radha?