I leave for New Delhi tomorrow for a year. I’ve never been to India before.

I’m a preparer. I always think there is little I cannot handle as long as I’m adequately prepared. At the same time, paradoxically, I know that I cannot really prepare for anything.

Except the possibility of chapped lips or being without my favorite deodorant

So I settle for the happy medium of being less likely to be sideswiped by something stupid. Although I’m beginning to realize that I enjoy myself more when I don’t prepare as much, I can’t help myself. So I read and watch and absorb the wealth of information available to me.

I’m almost through Delirious Delhi, a humorous blog-style book about a man and his wife living in New Delhi who seem almost as paranoid as me when it comes to food and water-bourne illnesses. Lots of great tidbits and advice about how to bargain for rickshaws and which markets to go to. I also read Living Abroad in Delhi, which had lots of good living-in-Delhi info and about the infamous FRRO card I’m required to get, that involves navigating a maze of Indian bureaucracy in the one place where they ironically don’t speak much English: the foreign registration office.

I’m also reading Speaking of India, a so far excellent book about office politics in India. I started Delhi: Adventures in a Megacity, which is good, but I think I’ll like it better after I’ve lived there for some time. It has less advice, more funny encounters. I also have a book on Hindi and have pored through a few websites on the written language so I arrive somewhat literate.

The best book I read was on the flight(s) over called Enjoying India: The Essential Handbook. Like Living Abroad, it was written by a single American woman living alone in India, which provides a particularly useful perspective for me. This had the best combination of tips and went into great detail about things most guidebooks just touch on, if they mention it at all. I love that she had a whole section about the plumbing! Seriously, the number of guidebooks that don’t tell you when you are in a country where you maybe shouldn’t put toilet paper down the toilet…

Themes I’ve come across:
One book said that India is the most extreme cultural experience a Westerner can have. You see beauty and horror side by side. It’s incredibly diverse. India cannot be described in one word. I’ve watched several Bollywood movies and TV shows (like An Idiot Abroad) and, on top of photos online, have seen many images of India. I watched The Most Exotic Marigold Hotel and Slumdog Millionaire. Phrases I’ve come across: “A crush of humanity”, “disgusting”, “dirty”, “assault on the senses”, “smelly”, “heart-wrenching poverty”, and one traveler who went four times describes it using the acronym “I’ll Never Do It Again” though admitted he is planning another trip.

Many years ago, I went to Little India in Singapore and found it slightly uncomfortable. There were a lot of people. Men in moustaches staring at me from the street corner. And I didn’t feel safe. But wow, the temple in the middle of it all was the MOST AMAZING temple I’d ever seen and prompted the urge to visit India, even though it simultaneously prompted the intimidation.

I think, no matter what, it will be intense. Every single westerner I talked to that has visited India agrees on that word. But until I’m there, I won’t really get it. Until I see the dirt, feel the stares, hear the horns honking, smell the fumes, witness the poverty and luxury next to each other, I won’t really GET it. Alternatively, until I am surrounded by colorfully dressed populace, witness the organized chaos of the roads, taste the deliciously spiced chai, stand before the most incredible temples and mosques I can imagine, appreciate the patience and resilience of the population, and am treated to the most decadent meals imaginable by a very warm-hearted community, I won’t really GET it.

I flew British Airways. On the flight from Denver to London, we ate curry. On the flight from London to Delhi, we had a fajita. Random. (Though, the main dish on the Delhi flight did increase substantially in spiciness.) That flight also involved the attendant walking through the aisles and spraying insecticide up into the air (!) with some explanation about agriculture. Many of the lights of the city below were flickering. The experience arriving in the middle of the night in the Delhi airport was pleasant; the customs and money changing line was short and the entire interior of the airport is closed to the public. Although this makes it inconvenient to pick someone up, I imagine (and is also confusing as they let just enough people through with signs making it ambiguous as to where one’s party is) it does make it less stressful as you are not hounded by taxi drivers the second you leave the international exit. Incidentally, as I ventured out the final exit and looked for my own driver, I was not really hounded by anyone, though I got some stares.

A hailstorm pounded down as we drove (four of us: me, the driver, a ‘bouncer’, and a co-worker to give directions) the hour to Noida. This was so unusual, I saw it mentioned on the news later. I arrived in my room shortly before 3am, made sure I had internet, checked my email, faffed around on facebook, then finally went to sleep.

My room, I suspect, is luxurious by Indian standards. Internet, a shower with hot water, an air conditioner, cable (dozens of channels), high ceilings. I even saw a wedding party arriving here, so it must be pretty nice. By American wedding-hotel standards, it is serviceable, though maybe a little worn and run down. It should work fine for me. We’ll see how it goes when the weather gets hot or if/when there are issues with the availability of municipal services.

… or if anyone “distrubs” me

My sole view of New Delhi so far has been out the windows of moving vehicles. It looks like I expected based on what I read. Lots of people, check. Rows of hole-in-the-wall shops, check. Chaotic roads shared by all sizes of vehicles and where magically no one gets into an accident, check. Cows, check.

Three car rides (one that had no place to plug in a seat belt) has given me a theory as to why so many drivers honk their horns. It is to kindly spare the drivers in front of them the trouble of looking in their rear-view mirror to see if you are passing. In fact, on several trucks I actually saw “Please Honk” written on the back of them.

My new workplace has a nice energy about it. Busy. Upbeat. Full of friendly people dressed surprisingly casually. But no privacy. There is a food court for the several companies that share the three towers. (I wandered into the wrong two towers first… the problem with people staring is that I don’t know if I’m in the wrong tower or if they are just reeling from the glare on my whiter-than-white face.) At the food court, my new co-workers took me to lunch and I had an Indian pizza which was actually quite tasty.

This evening, I tried the gym, which I get to use free while staying here. I had to walk through the lobby of the building next door where the wedding reception was being set up in order to use the gym, but luckily, I finished before the percussion and band announced the sparkly couple. The drums were awesome. (And finished before my bedtime – even better, as they were essentially right outside my window.) The gym was very nice. High-quality equipment, full of big TVs, blaring techno music, lots of dudes lifting weights, and a long list of rules that included, I’m not making this up:

‘Frequently use “Sports Deodorant” during workout.’

Glad I packed all that deodorant!

I live in a complex of apartment towers. My tower has twenty-four-hour reception and a doorman who opens the door every time I walk in or out. I’m on the second floor, but here they call it the first floor. (The lobby is on level “0” and the elevator has a “-1” button for the basement.)

Apartment from the Outside

View from Inside
(with local kids playing cricket!)

It is a lot like a hotel in that I get a room cleaning – bed made, towels replaced, even dishes washed! Luxurious, but sort of overkill. I’m determined to do the majority of my own dishes. I even have hot water in all my faucets, which wasn’t even true in Japan. The only things I don’t have are a water filter (I’m provided with a fresh bottle of water every day… but that is a lot of bottles. I might look for an alternative.) and a washing machine. There is a laundry service, but it is expensive. Not sure if I will end up using it or do a lot of washing by hand.

Bed and Wardrobe

Living Room
(with cable, not too slow of a LAN connection, and hotel art!)

I also get free breakfast with this deal! I’m actually not sure what it costs yet, but it will be interesting to find out since it essentially staying at a hotel for a year, though with assumedly a long-term rate. It is located in Indirapuram which is a sort of sought-after neighborhood for its proximity to both Noida and New Delhi, though it does not appear to be in either…

Kitchen

Bathroom (and bidet)

I’ve never tried to regularly use a bidet (or health faucet) before… but maybe I will, since one is only supposed to put a minimum of toilet paper down the toilet. This I read in at least one of my books. (I was never given any instruction on this by the hotel. I think it doesn’t occur to the service industries in many countries just how much TP an American will put down the toilet if given the chance.) In any case, it makes sense. Give yourself a wash, then you can dry off with just one bit of toilet paper and put that in the wastebasket. Using the bidet at work seems like another step. Bidet sharing.

As for the lights, I have seen some flickering, but have not actually lost power for any significant amount of time yet. I can’t tell if that is because the hotel has a generator or I just haven’t seen it happen yet. The restaurant I went to lunch at with my co-worker did lose partial power while we were there, and it delayed our check.

I took my first steps outside the gates of my apartment complex this morning. A chilly morning with a bit of fog, kind of spooky. Closed shops, stray dogs, and a lack of sidewalk made me think I was going to run into a dead end. Also, when I stepped out to the seemingly empty street to walk along the side, I had to quickly step back as I was honked at by oncoming autorickshaws. Ack, they drive on the left in India, so I was looking the wrong way for cars without even thinking.

My co-worker (Best Co-worker Ever) picked me up and took me out to lunch. The waiter only looked at him to take both of our orders. Whether that was because I was foreign or a woman (which I’ve read happens), I do not know. Then he took me to a supermarket a block from my place, which was greatly relieving as it had nearly every item on my food and stuff-for-apartment list including pots and frying pans (but not a rice cooker; I guess Indians cook their rice in a pressure cooker, which I don’t know how to use.) They even had Nutella! I thought for sure Nutella would be on my care package wish list, but there was a big display. They had all sorts of honey as well. And even Tropicana orange juice, yay! Co-worker picked out some mosquito-repelling plug-ins and sprays for me, which I was excited about. The aisles were narrow, the items tightly stacked, and it was crowded with shoppers (who were too concerned with their shopping to notice the blond woman) and nearly one employee per aisle. But we only had a couple cart-jams.

I tried to ingredient check so I could attempt to keep to all-natural items, but there was a new class of listed items like “Acidity Regulator” in place for the usually unpronounceable chemicals. This is good in that I know why they added it, but bad in that what was actually added is a mystery. Either way, I probably want to avoid these if possible and if I hadn’t wanted salsa so much, I might not have picked up this jar, their only salsa selection. In any case, I suspect salsa will remain on my care package wish list.

Mmmm… Class II Preservatives

While my co-worker drove me around the streets of Noida, the traffic was the chaotic-but-cooperative I had expected. I watched, fascinated, as we managed to not run into anyone nor have anyone run into us during the whole trip. A motorbike went by with a man driving, a woman in a sari riding side-saddle behind him, and their son – maybe six years old – sleeping smooshed between them. An autorickshaw (a motorbike taxi with barely enough room for two seated in the back) went by without about six people crammed in and on it.

The most aggressive drivers I’ve seen so far are motorbikes with the acronym “PHD” on them. They swerve by, horns honking repeatedly, clearly in a hurry. I found out later what “PHD” means. “Pizza Hut Delivery”. They apparently still do the 30-minutes-or-it’s-free deal.

My co-worker, who visited Colorado, told me that horns honking here doesn’t mean what it does there. He said it is more like a conversation here. Perhaps that is why the four-way intersection with no traffic signal (and the occasional cow off to the side) on my way to work can be at all navigated. Horn-language.

So far, I’ve seen (and killed) one mosquito in my room per day I’ve been here. I have not been bitten that I can tell and they have been easy to kill. I asked my co-worker when mosquito season is in Delhi and he said that usually, it is in summer, but that “in this neighborhood, it’s anytime.” Hmmm. Hopefully, the plug-in repellant will do the job for now. I brought a whole mosquito net if needed, though I’d have to figure out how to mount it without upsetting the hotel staff.

Co-worker discovered I did not have my gas hooked up and that I needed to have my company ask. Within about ten minutes of me emailing work (on a weekend no less), someone came to the door with a gas canister and hooked it up. Then, a couple hours later, another dude showed up with complimentary pots and pans! D’oh. Now I have quite the collection.

I had my usual free breakfast, even daring some cut-up melon in my porridge (I’ve been scared of fresh fruit and veggies because I don’t know the quality of the water they’ve been washed in, but in this case, it has been theoretically peeled and chopped.) One of the many workers in the dining area asked me what country I was from. When I told him, he proceeded to inform me that the president there is Barack Obama. I realized I don’t know who the Indian Prime Minister is, forehead slap, then again Obama has a photo on the front page of today’s paper (the Hindustan Times), which I got at my door this morning.

I spent the day finally unpacking all my clothes and toiletries (wow, I brought a lot of toiletries) and moving in.

In the afternoon, I wandered outside the gates in the direction of the supermarket that Co-worker took me to yesterday. There was sort-of-a-sidewalk-sometimes off to the side, but more often it was broken up or separated by dirt and garbage (and the occasional tree) so it was easier to just walk on the side of the street like other pedestrians were doing, listening for honks. It was amazing, though, how much my level of comfort increased as soon as I came upon a sidewalk! A real, large sidewalk, next to a suddenly fancy shopping center (the complete opposite of the hole-in-the-wall shops across the street) with the supermarket within. Lots of people were out relaxing and shopping this sunny, cool Sunday afternoon and it was quite pleasant.

I had some “Authentic South Indian” fast food for lunch. Like every other restaurant experience I’ve had so far, the menu is only in English, but the transactions are all in Hindi. Except for me. When there is English spoken, our accents are almost mutually unintelligible to each other. The only thing I can understand are the pleasantries, which are nice, but are not necessarily helpful. I ordered the “Perfect Meal Combo” off the signboard. He asked me something. No idea what. He then confirmed that I ordered the “Royal Meal Combo.” I didn’t argue, I was hungry. A little while later, sitting at my table and reading about the Vaango experience on the placemat, I received a tray full of two small bowls with soup, a bowl of something potatoey, two tiny bowls with sauces, a chicken donut (?), and something that looked like a rolled-up tortilla the size of my forearm. There were some spoons at the table. I took a spoon but had absolutely no idea how to eat this food.

Totally stole this pic from the Vaango website

I hope the staff were more amused than disgusted as I attempted to eat this. At first I ripped off a bit of the tortilla thing and started to eat it like a burrito. That’s when a staff member suddenly appeared with a fork. Then I remembered two things: one, that a lot of Indian food is meant to be eaten with your fingers and two, only with your RIGHT hand, since the left is associated with bathroom duties. I immediately dropped my left hand to my lap and used an awkward rotating combination of fork, spoon, and tearing off chunks of tortilla (disclaimer: not a tortilla) with my right hand and got most of the food eventually in my stomach (only using my left hand when no one was looking, which was probably never as who isn’t looking at the dopey foreigner.) Even if I looked like an idiot eating it, it was rather tasty. Incidentally, here is some of what I read off the placemat:

“Every feature of Vaango is based on extensive consumer research, which holds that the new age consumer is particular about authentic taste, quality, hygiene, and convenience.”

You may be able to guess my favorite word there. Hygiene! Yay for new age consumers. They also mentioned the “soothing music” they played, which I had not even noticed until they mentioned it. (Then it was all I could hear.) Incidentally, I have yet to feel any stomach oddities during my almost three days here. Knock on some wood, there.

I thought people in India were supposed to be on ‘relaxed’ time and everything was supposed to be inexpensive.

Almost every time I’ve agreed to meet someone at a certain time, the person has been early. Not just on time. Early. The one time someone was actually late, they apologized profusely (and as they were arriving through evening rush hour, they cannot be to blame.)

So far, I’ve hesitated on at least three accounts due to price. Hotel laundry apparently costs over $1 per shirt. I’m debating just doing it myself. And last night’s excursion: My co-worker’s wife was kind enough to take me clothes shopping after work for a wedding I am invited to go to next week. (And, incidentally, if you find yourself coming to work in India, I recommend procuring The Best Co-workers Ever. I don’t know what I’d do without them!) We went to a nice mall that was well up to, if not exceeding, American standards for malls. Perhaps that is why the prices there were also up to, if not exceeding, American prices. For a dress that one would wear to an Indian wedding, the price seemed to be in the range of $150-$200. I wasn’t looking at the bling-tastic saris even, just an Indian-style dress or salwar kamis (a kind of long-shirt-and-pants combo) suitable for a fancy party.

Shipra Mall

I ended up going with what I’ll call the ol’ J.C. Penny’s route. Find something ‘good enough’ on sale. Luckily, my companion indicated what ‘good enough’ meant as I would not have had a clue! (And her mother, who met us there with her adorable toddler, seemed to agree.) In the end, I spent closer to half that price on two outfits, for two different ceremonies, and hope that is sufficient not to embarrass myself. It’s certainly better than anything I currently have in my closet! My lesson from my shopping experience: the heavier the fabric, the brighter the colors (no white or black), and the blingier, the better. It’s all about the bling. (She even used the word “bling”.) To increase my bling factor, I decided to take the woman’s advice and get some inexpensive jewelry to go with it. Inexpensive jewelry (a necklace and matching earrings with so much bling, even the woman I was with took pause) cost almost $40. Wow. I have now spent almost all the money I changed at the airport. (And I’m still second guessing myself, wondering if I should try that shop across the street, just in case I can find more bling for my buck.)

Pink Pants! Pink Bling!

It may look like those two pairs of pants are for two very different people, Michael Jordan and MC Hammer perhaps, but nope, they are the very common styles of pants one wears under a dress / long shirt. One bunches at the bottom. The other (Punjabi style) just ripples all around. Both ready-to-wear outfits (because I’m too lazy/intimidated/in a hurry to use a tailor) happened to have pink bottoms. I think they’re cute!

So far, the only thing that seems cheap here is food. Lunches at work are just a buck and we had dinner at a mall restaurant for under $4 each. My long-term hotel, however, has no problem charging $11 for a dinner buffet.

(And how awesome is it that I got invited to a wedding!? I had been hoping to go to one sometime during my time here, I didn’t expect to in my first few weeks!)

First World Problems

• The edges of my toast got all burnt this morning
• This YouTube video is taking so long to load
• My co-workers’ loud cell phone ringtones are driving me nuts
• Brushing my teeth with bottled water is so awkward
• Only one of my microwave buttons works
• The Tropicana juice I’m drinking is from concentrate
• I have no washing machine and dryer in my room

I have yet to actually visit Delhi (I’ve just been bumming around my neighborhood across the river in Ghaziabad so far, giving myself a gentle, step-by-step introduction to India big city life) so I suspect these problems will seem increasingly “first world” the longer I’m here.

(Totally stole this pic)

I have the History Channel. The show “American Pickers” is on TV right now (about the two dudes who buy junk from people’s yards around the country and resell it at a profit). It is dubbed into Hindi, then subtitled back into English. Random. But an excellent way to practice Hindi! (And Hindi numbers since they are always talking prices.)

On next week’s agenda: get water delivered regularly. The hotel is giving me a bottle of water every day. Gah the waste. And gah, the lack of a backup I’ll have if there is suddenly a water shortage.

Speaking of water shortages… in a place where shortages could be a problem, it is interesting that they use a bidet (water-squirty-thing-to-clean-your-bottom) at the toilet. Hmmm. In any case, I’ve decided to start using it and I’m sort of getting the hang of it! It’s kind of refreshing and less messy than I would have imagined. It must be really weird if you grew up using these and then had to switch to only toilet paper.

Today is a holiday in India. Republic Day. There was a parade that I watched on TV, complete with a motorcade with the Prime Minister, saluting, awkward arm-swinging and face-to-the-side marching by various military branches, camels, and fun floats, even one dedicated to the differently-abled, complete with dancing wheelchairs. Because of all this, roads near the center of New Delhi as well as the metro (or at least the main stops) was closed all morning.

An excellent day, as it turns out, to go to Akshardham.

It was also my first foray outside my neighborhood!

So I walked out the gate of my apartment building, all getting ready to hail my first autorickshaw (I had double checked about the feasibility from my co-workers), when the friendly gate guard did it for me. Then, after three autorickshaws turned me down, I found out it was because they cannot cross state lines. (Akshardham is in Delhi, while I am technically not.) What to do now? That’s when an Indian family walking out of the same building complex I’m staying in also started looking for an autorickshaw to Akshardham. Very awesome coincidence! So the four of us piled into an autorickshaw that just took us up the street where we could share a taxi the rest of the way.

The autorickshaw was not as tight, uncomfortable, or scary as I thought it would be. And it was kind of fun!

Photo of a Photo: Akshardham

There were plenty of people, but not the crushing crowds I was led to believe there’d be on this sunny and cool peak-season day. The family I was with explained that they had actually turned back the previous day because of the crowds, but having a limited metro (Akshardham has its own metro stop) decreased the number of people drastically.

All electronic devices, like mobile phones and cameras, are prohibited at Akshardham. (As well as “smoking, alcohol, tobacco, and addictive substances” – guess it is a good thing they did not notice the chapstick in my pocket during my pat down.) If it were not for the camera restriction, then this page would have taken a LOT longer to load as I displayed the two hundred photos I would have taken. I paid 130 rupees (under $3) for an official one, then took a pic of that.

The complex, which has free admission, was amazingly detailed (the interior as well) and beautiful. You could pay 170 rupees to enter the exhibition area where you heard the story of Narayan, the Swami / Yogi / Guru / Spiritual Guide for which the temple is dedicated to. There is a series of mini-theatres with animatronics (the ‘English’ version was less crowded) that told his life story, then in the next building you can watch a quite well-done IMAX-sized movie about his same journey. After that, you can take a boat ride a-la It’s a Small World, and enjoy a snack in the food court. One of the workers there chatted with me for a bit (as he intermittently chased people off the fountain steps) and told me that SwamiNarayan had a center in Denver! I can’t find evidence of that (I might have misunderstood), but there is quite a large temple in Chicago that I saw a photo of.

Akshardham from the Metro
(took this on a later, rainy, day)

Although I tagged along with the nice family from Mumbai (their son is moving to Delhi to work, so they were doing some sightseeing before seeing him off) for quite some time, I was on my own by the end and had to figure out how to get home. I wandered out the exit, debating between a taxi and trying out the metro, when an autorickshaw guy waved me down. After I told him my neighborhood, he agreed that he couldn’t take me past state lines, but that I could switch to another auto there. Unsure of what this meant I decided, after a moment of thought, to try it out. Indeed, at the state line, there was a little pull off. Another autorickshaw pulled up right next to him (seemingly pre-arranged) and I paid the first, then stepped right into the second. And off we went!

After I made it back, I ran into the nice family again at the hotel and said hello (and thanked them again as they refused to let me pay for my portion of the taxi ride). I also ran into a coworker and her family who live in the area. Cool to have familiar faces to see. I managed to purchase something to hang wet laundry on from two very helpful employees at the uber-crowded supermarket/housewares/clothing store. And I managed, with two other helpful employees at a very crowded electronic store, to get a rice cooker. There are so many people in India (that will work cheap) it means that every building is overstaffed. I appreciated that tonight!

Visiting the Foreign Regional Registration Office is something anyone other than a tourist needs to do within two weeks of arrival. Two weeks goes really, really fast, incidentally. I only would have had a few days left to get it sorted out at this point.

(Edit from eight months later: Don’t make my $500 mistake! Although you almost never actually need the two stapled pieces of paper that make up your FRRO – they had been sitting in my drawer for months – you DO need them if you intend to travel outside of India! They would not give me a boarding pass without these two sheets, even though I had my PAN card and passport.)

Every book I have read on living in India has stories about the FRRO Bureaucracy Hell: of the getting up absurdly early to wait in line after line for hours in a non-air-conditioned concrete building only to likely be told that your paperwork is incomplete or your passport photos (at least 5 are needed) are the wrong size.

I avoided this scenario entirely by paying a relocation organization called New Horizon (that my company arranged for me) about USD$150 to organize the paperwork and meet me at the FRRO office. (Spending the dough to hire a professional was described as “definitely worth it” by the last ex-pat who worked for my company. I think his email might have nudged everyone into action since, as I found out later, he actually ran the place for a couple years. I got his name from another employee who is childhood friends with the wife of someone I work with at the Colorado office. Connection!) I also avoided the worst of the FRRO, I believe, because my residence is technically in Ghaziabad and not New Delhi.

In fact, just the ride to the rural FRRO office was worth the trip!

Ghaziabad Traffic

Going to Ghaziabad proper (instead of the high-rise / shopping-center section I live in) was like traveling back in time. Narrow, dusty roads. Marketplaces selling chips and apples and rice by the bowlful and motorscooters and spare parts. Lots of people out and about in traditional wear, sometimes pulling wheelbarrows. I even saw two women carrying loads on their heads like a National Geographic special. I felt for the first time like I was seeing “the real India”. Except for the vehicles crowding the roads, I could have been stepping into a city fifty years ago.

I got to experience my worst traffic jam yet. Gridlock for almost half an hour. It was fascinating (and surprising for the middle of the day.) Though I felt guilty because I had already been late meeting the taxi so we ended up being half an hour late to meet the FRRO guy. I wish I got a photo of the jam, but the above photo was just the standard traffic on the way back.

I also saw quite a few sights along the way. Something that looked like a slum – canvas tents on poles, but with sections for cows. Then hollowed-out crumbling brick buildings that served as one step up from that. Then a pretty cute town with not a name brand, except maybe Coca-Cola, in sight. The driver stopped every three blocks to ask directions.

The sign for the FRRO office was *inside* the FRRO office. (Not just the inside. The back corner. And it was faded. I never would have found it.) It was in a vaguely adobe-looking one-storey yellow building in a complex of similar-looking yellow buildings. Some of the buildings had lines of people out front, but not mine. No line. The one-room FRRO office had two people behind a desk, two chairs in front of the desk, and no one in front of me. I had to fill out one more form, but that was it. A woman came in while I was there trying to get a visa extended for her American-born son, but that was the only other customer I saw. I think I was there less than half an hour. That has to be some kind of record. Or, more likely, simply worth the hundred and fifty bucks.

On our way out of the city, there were two ragged kids – a boy and a girl – wiping the dust off of car windshields with a rag as the vehicles were stopped in traffic. My driver was on his cell phone and, as far as I could tell, ignored the boy. The car in front appeared to give the girl a coin. When the girl passed the taxi I was in, she must have noticed me. I could see her in my peripherals, waving and then tapping the back window across from me to get my attention. I was not sure what to do. I think I would have been heartbroken if I looked the poor girl in the face. She probably was looking for a tip from the wealthy foreigner (I keep trying to remember that the word ‘wealthy’ is associated with me here) but she may have just wanted to wave hello to the mysterious blond woman, too. I just looked forward. Hrm.

So it turns out I was not too underdressed after all, whew. Most of the men were in western wear, everything from jeans to suits. The woman were in various styles of sparkly Indian dresswear. We arrived 45 minutes after the time on the invitation. We were almost the first guests there. Ha! So IST, according to Buddy (nickname I’m giving the co-worker who is always doing stuff for me), actually means Indian Stretchable Time. The bride didn’t even arrive until about two hours later.

First Indian Outfit
(Yes, there are Pink Pants under that.)

I hung out primarily with the spouse of LeadingMan (nickname for tall, dashing co-worker) while Buddy and him went off somewhere. Everyone I talked to about Indian weddings told me that a wedding is a 3-5 day process with ritual after ritual (many including a big party and most including both extended families who are also joining together) and that the bride and groom have almost no time to sleep, except for brief naps when they can grab them. (“It prepares them for the sleepless nights ahead,” someone quipped.) The bride and groom did admittedly look a little exhausted, poor things, and the groom’s brother was running around crazily on errands like any groom’s brother. Speaking of brothers, I learned something funny. In many Indian communities, a younger sister can get married before an older sister but it is virtually unheard of for a younger brother to get married before an older brother.

There were appetizers (including something very yummy that was described as a “chili mushroom”.) I also tried a couple “golgabe”, which are these fried things dipped in a sweet or sour liquid, then eaten in one bite since it holds a lot of the liquid. Sounds better than it turned out to be, but glad I got to try one. Every hour or so, there was some sort of ritual happening up at the front with a throng of people (though only a percentage of the guests) gathered around. One was for the groom and not the bride. It involved <begin ignorant foreigner translation> dudes with their shoes off sitting around a bunch of fruit with dishtowels on their heads and a red splotch on their forehead with grains of rice on it listening to someone chant. <end> The chanting is in Sanskrit, I found out. I asked her what it all meant, she shrugged. “I don’t know. I barely paid attention during mine.”

Groom and Bride
Photos courtesy of woman I was with, since I was way too shy to get up close
(No large version since I totally don’t know most these people.)

Most of the time, people were just socializing and dancing. Once the DJ blasted the music – which he did off and on throughout the evening – it was pretty much impossible to have a conversation. But the dancing…

I have never seen guys dance like that… sober, at least. I should have expected that in a country where every time I turn on the TV there are men dancing in unison in some Bollywood music video (wooing a woman usually), that they’d have no trouble doing the same at a wedding. Combine the love of song and dance with the much smaller sphere of personal space Indians have, and wow! Guys in a tight bunch, singing along to the music and dancing gregariously together. It was awesome! (Apparently, a number of local religions forbid alcohol so it is rare to go to a wedding with alcoholic drinks served. Pretty sure no one needs it here!)

“No, they’re not drunk.”

Everyone knew the lyrics of every song. I did not recognize most of the music. There was one song I did know: Gangnam Style!

I got pulled up to dance by our group of co-workers and I even got some dance time with the groom as we all boogied in a circle. Though at one point, the actual ring ceremony started. From what I could see between the many people gathered at the front (while the techno still blared deafeningly and people continued dancing up a storm), there was a fancy sofa where the couple sat. They exchanged rings and posed in many cute positions for the photographers and filmographers. I saw one girl, looking bored behind them, mouthing along to the words of the song.

The drinks that were being served on trays were mostly multi-colored sodas, but there was one funny one with little balls of batter floating in it. “It’s good,” the woman assured me. I took a sip. It was sort of like I was drinking hot lemony oily soup. It was not thirst quenching. I tried to drink it, but could barely get down a few sips. She had earlier asked a waiter for some coffee and they happened to bring two, so I broke my no-caffeine-after-6pm rule and had a delicious cup of sweet, milky coffee at 10pm and surreptitiously let a waiter pick up my other glass.

The buffet finally opened shortly after that (invitation says: “Dinner: 8:00pm”) and the woman I was with was on a fast where she could only eat (other than fruit and not counting coffee) once she saw the moon. Her husband did a couple moon checks and finally, we went outside, gazed at the moon, she said a prayer I think, then we went back and had some food. It was pretty decent. Conclusion is that the redder the sauce is, the more I like it. The brown ones are decent. I don’t like the white ones as much. We left early (just before midnight). I saw one of the guests at work the next day who said he’d stayed another hour and the party was still going strong.

And the actual wedding is not until tomorrow!