Nature Bazaar, Revisited

I went back to the Nature Bazaar (see previous posting) with my friend Krish yesterday. It was a very balmy day - which means slight sun, slight haze and thus, inclination towards slight movement!

Our friend Krish, arrived on Saturday and yesterday we set out at about 2.30 PM after a cup of home made vegetable (delicious) soup and toast. We made a stop at the petrol pump to get a punctured tyre fixed. Krish made a purchase of cashews at the In and Out convenience store and I added a chocolate bar to it. We found parking at the back entrance of Dilli Haat and went into the Bazaar. The tickets are Rs. 15 for adults (less than US 50 cents) and we had to get our bags checked.

Being Sunday, it was very crowded. It was often hard to get to the stalls because of the people. I saw that my missing soap stalls had returned. And, Krish came excitedly talking about poo paper. What is that? Its paper made from the poo of elephants and camels, in this case. I said we must see it on the way back. We proceeded to the recycled paper stall - bags - computer and carrying bags - so lovely. As you can guess, I wanted them ALL!!

We saw a stall with animals, homes, trees, all made from coconut husk and string. I wanted all this too. We walked to to where I had seen the Bangladesh stall with the fine kantha work. This is like quilting - on silk, wool and cotton - and they offered scarves, shawls, bed covers and more shawls. Trish got into a conversation (as she lives in Bangladesh) with the organisers. Yesterday there was a man with lots of facial hair (turned out he was the Indian consultant to the project) and a German woman (who I had spoken with the other say). We exchanged business cards and promised to stay in touch, as she was moving to Delhi.

Krish wanted to buy some Delhi blue pottery (actually made in Jaipur) and we did that, stopping on the way, admiring various stalls, watching people and enjoying ourselves. I met several people I knew and we stopped to chat. The sun - whatever there was of it - was going down and we decided it was time for tea. Before that I bought a lovely piece of cotton made in Andhra Pradesh, a state in the middle of the country. I wanted to get more but I decided to order it on the web. So, I picked up the picked up the brochure to check them out, later when summer comes around.

We decided to stop for tea and momos - a Chinese delicacy a bit like dim sum, chicken, vegetable or mutton wrapped in a flour roll and steamed. It's served with a hot sauce and a bone broth. We each had a plate (8 momos to a plate) and hot tea. Delicious! Slowly, we wound our way to the back entrance, stopping to buy bars of handmade soap, some poo paper products (I got a notebook with the Delhi metro map) and a small 2009 calendar.

The photos I am sharing are mostly of things I liked - textiles. My friend Krish is in some of the picture and I think you will see that. The last three pictures are of the Bangladeshi stall and work I wrote about in a previous post and here. The red shawl is made int he Northeast of India, very close to the Chinese border, as are the bead necklaces that Krish is examining.

It was such a lovely afternoon, said Krish and as we drove off to see a movie with another friend. We both liked many of the same things and it was good that we were able to share the joy of these beautiful hand made products, among other things.

I hope you enjoy the pictures too.

555 Pages - The World is What it Is

The World is What it Is, by Patrick French, is the authorised biography of the well known writer V.S. Naipaul. Naipaul was born in the West Indian island of Trinidad and his grandparents originally came from India. He left for Britain as a teenager to study at Oxford and only returned to Trinidad to visit. In 2001 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.

As a brilliant writer - and I am a fan of his - Napaul's essays, novels, commentary and fiction span about four decades and the continents of Asia, Africa, Latin America, North America and Europe. As a writer his range is amazing, his prose polished, his descriptions vivid and his imagination fertile. He writes harshly and plainly, offending many. His critics are equally harsh with him.

This book took a decade to write. French, a British writer, painstakingly traveled to all the places Naipaul went to, interviewed people, poured over thousands of pages of documents, journals and reviews, to prepare for the writing of the book. He is neither for or against Naipaul. He presents the human face of Naipaul, one that many people miss when they write or talk about him.

Naipaul is a complicated man. He is full of neurosis, complexes and difficulty in establishing and maintaining relationships. Critics and friends have called him 'racist', 'miserly' and 'unkind'. He had a long and seemingly cruel marriage with a British woman - Patricia Hale - whom he met at Oxford. They had a troubled relationship, childless and sexually frustrating. He says in his journals 'he didn't know much about sex and nor did she'. He had a long extra marital relationship with an Argentinean woman called Margaret Murray. When Naipaul's wife died, three months later he married a Pakistani woman, Nadira.

A few weeks before his book was released in India, the media highlighted Naipual's admisison of visiting prostitutes and paying for sex. Many were intrigued by this and commented on it as well. In the book, however, it comes across as more humane than it would be as reported in the media. And, his relationships with Pat, his wife and Margaret, his mistress were indeed complicated and troublesome.

I like the book. French takes great pain to bring a balance to his writing by covering the many faces of Naipaul. Having read almost all the books written by Naipaul, in some ways, it's like going over the books again. although in a parallel journey. The book is intimate, easy to read and a marvelous portrait of a flawed and great man.

As French writes: My approach to writing biography is as it was when I began my first book. I wrote then that the aim of the biographer should not be to sit in judgement, but to expose the subject with ruthless clarity to the calm eye of the reader. Since writing about the writer for the first time, I have become more doubtful about the emotion that an artistic creator should be expected to explain himself. Anyone who has written imaginatively will know that the process remains mysterious, even to the author, however hard you try to unpick it. The best writing can be examined only in its effect.

He goes further to say: A biographer can never fully reveal the source of its subject. The commonplace that a biographer has found the 'key' to a person's life - usually something as arbitrary like the death of a sibling, or moving house - is implausible. People are too complicated and inconsistent for this to be true. The best a biographer can hope for is to illuminate aspects of a life and seek to give glimpses of the subject, and that way tell a story.

And, French does this well, with Naipaul as his inspiration.

Picasa Web Albums - Anita - Desktop

Picasa Web Albums - Anita - Desktop

What the eye can see

Yesterday, my husband and I had an appointment with a company that specialises in kitchen and bathrooms.

We are trying to get the unfinished business in our kitchen (since the last four years) completed. The showroom of this company is only 5 kms from the President's residence. It's called Kalkaji, after a rather famous temple in the area. It also has another famous site - the ISKON temple - the Krishna Consciousness people. The first time we drove there - about a month ago - it was quite a challenge - very busy and congested and it was hard to find a parking place.

Yesterday, we took a different route, which was more manageable. We got a parking spot across the showroom. We were listening to a rather nice ghazal in the car and my husband suggested we wait till it finished. As we sat, we looked at what was ahead of us. Right at the tip of the car headlights, a tea shop run by a woman with about six men seated around, drinking tea and chewing tobacco. Beyond that was a string of clothes drying - several pairs of jeans, blouses and shorts. Beyond that, a mound of rubble mostly of construction material - bricks, stones, etc. And, beyond that, homes, with people of the roof tops.

Among all this, was a stench of urine. We were also surrounded by rickshaws - a three wheeler transport, a bicycle with a seat for two people with a canopy, used by a driver in front of the rickshaw. They are the poor person's vehicles, and in a city like Delhi with faster moving traffic, they move slowly, being one cause for traffic jams. About 50 of them were scattered around the rubble heap, almost parked there, but also in various stages of repair.

Looking around I felt sad - that India - which is claiming to be the next superpower, with its 9 per cent economic growth - cannot even keep this eye sore from happening. I also felt angry that the people responsible for maintaining the city would allow this to happen and not carry out its commitment to basic sanitation and hygiene, which then creates problems with water borne diseases. There are few to almost no community toilets. Indians and non-Indian alike complain when people use public space as a private urinal or toilet. What are they to do?

Sometimes I think that when the eye can see so much beauty, why do we have to see the seamier side of life?

When people ask why I came back to India after living in North America and Europe for so long, I say it's because I wanted to and one of the things I like about living in India is being face to face with the contradictions of India - rich and poor, built and unbuilt, well fed and hungry. But, I say this knowing I am on the winning side. What if I were poor, hungry, roofless? Would I still feel the same?

My husband and I had a long discussion about this driving away from the place. Mostly it was an angry and disappointing discussion about what could be done and what isn't done. We drove by the annual Surajkund Mela - a fair held from February 1-15, attracting thousands and showcasing craftspersons from the Southasian region and other countries. Everything for the Mela looked perfect. There were police on the roads, guiding traffic. The parking lot had several hundred cars, parked perfectly. There were no jams, no back up, no garbage. When we want to do something we can.

In retrospect, I am glad that the eye sees so much. With beauty, it also sees the darker side of life.

Do bloggers struggle with these contradictions in their lives?

The Magnificent Marigold

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This bunch of marigolds grow in the area outside my gate, under the shade of ficus and bougainvillea - which we have cordoned off with a gate. They also grow in the back yard, between the roses and creepers. The gardener planted them around October and they are in full blossom now, and a magnificent sight.

Marigolds are called gaanda in Hindi and used in offerings in temples - individually, in groups or made into garlands. In marriages garlands are exchanged between couples and once the bride and groom become a couple marigold petals are showered on them, along with rose petals. During various auspicious occasions and religious festivals women and children make patterns on the ground , mixing the marigold petals with rice powder and vivid colours.

Marigolds have a rather heady fragrance and therefore, are very useful in keeping away pests and insects. They are often used as soil fixers and planted between and around crops.

I really like the marigolds, their colour and fragrance. They come in various shades of orange and yellow and sit rather majestically among the lush green.

Do you have marigolds where you live and do you like them?

The Queen and Diana

As I sit down to write this is, the concert for Diana is on TV.

Last week I saw The Queen, a Hollywood production that brought Helen Mirren the Oscar. August is the month of 10th anniversary of the death of Princess Diana. The film brought it all back. I am not sure where I was when she died, but I wasn't in India. I do remember the outpouring of grief and the public outrage over her death, at that time.

The film - in very moving manner - presents both sides of the story as the British people experienced it: how the Royal family reacted and how the people reacted. And, in the midst of this, the role of the then recently elected Prime Minister Tony Blair,who takes it upon himself to advise the Queen on how to respond to the death. Helen Mirrren does an excellent job of portraying the Queen. Diana is portrayed in TV and print media clips.

In our discussion after the film we talked about how easy it is judge the royal family and be sympathetic to Diana, especially when during the last two years of her life. However, in retrospect, Diana grew increasingly irresponsible over the years. Granted she was a commoner (but not that common), she chose to move into the royal family. Not everyone can understand how hard it could have been to be a part of the royal family, but given the nature of royalty, it's not that hard.

Prince Charles was no angel, but somehow that didn't give Diana the permission to behave the way she did. Since her death there is increasing evidence of her irresponsible behaviour. Where does one draw the line?

In some ways moving into a family is not easy. In India young women move into homes and families of the men they marry, living in joint families. Sometimes, they move out into a nuclear unit. In most cases, it is a difficult transition. I can imagine what Diana went through. Young and fairly naive (and so much in love!) it must have taken some doing on adjusting to her new life. Diana's case is not different from millions of women who find themselves in relationships that don't work for them. And, making them work, also requires commitment and patience.

In the final analysis, it's a question of choice, and choosing wisely about our lives and loves. While love is great and fairy tale romances ideal, the bubble does burst sometime. Then there is heartache and sorrow, regret, anger, and many other negative emotions.

Diana's 10th death anniversary is a time to remember this, and more.

An Invitation

Come Into My Home

Walk through the gate

into the garden, the verandah

The front door is open and inviting

There are electric and candle lights

Have a seat here, and here

What will you drink?

You want to see the house?

This is the back garden

Thank you for noticing the smell and flowers

You like the size you say? I do too.

Here is the guest room

where you can stay when you come to spend the night

Let us go up the stairs

The family room - leading into the terrace

Let us enjoy the breeze, the sunset to the west

How green it is, you say? It surely is

You like all the artifacts? Thank you for that

Let us sit down and talk

A toast to all of us, as we raise our glasses

The dog is at our feet, tail wagging, wanting to be included

It's dinner time

I light the candles and go into the kitchen

The food is ready, in the serving dishes

Oh dear! The grilled vegetables look somewhat shrivelled

But the chicken and rice looks beautiful

(yellow with saffron and yellow peppers)

The potates in the shrimp are uncooked

The salad is fresh and the dressing tasty

(the mango and kiwi give it the touch)

The pasta with pesto is green and soothing

We sit at the table, give thanks, eat and drink

The talk is good and friendly, a lot of laughs

For desert we move into the sitting area

Rice pudding, cool and white, with almonds

A dish of fruits - cherries, plums and apricots

More talks and laughs

The hour is late

It's time to leave

The moon is high and full

And there is a gentle breeze

Hugs and kisses

Goodby, goodbye, come again

An evening of love, laughter, and togetherness

So much to be thankful for