Ramzan Mubarik

I forgot how enchanting of a city Hyderabad is during Ramzan. Each night starting at sundown, the city begins to light up... small white and yellow lights strewn all over the city. Despite the horrible roads torn up from monsoons, my rides home have never been so cinematic -- in part because I hardly ever leave early enough to see the sun set over the lake... but do this month, mostly inspired with helping ensure Amjad gets to his mosque on time (I have noticed, for the first time, a certain positive correlation with speeding and the hours approaching darkness) -- has has, after all, been up since 4am and had his last meal of the day at 4:30am.

Maybe it's because I've just come from the US, but the calls to prayer sound louder, longer, and more beautiful (helped by the fact that I no longer wake up to the morning calls, having now moved to a new apartment). I look out of my office window and see a community gathering where the mosque next door has organized a feast for the needy, which a colleague tells me is called a "Maweed Rahman".

Tyler and I decide to go to the Old City and Charminar one night. Too bad for us that the small rain droplets that started soon after we left decide to massively pour down once we're there and walking around. Even the hawkers and bangle-wallas decide the rain is too much and cover up their wares, taking refuge under whatever canopies are available.

No matter, we still see Charminar lit up, and visit the Mecca Masjid. Built in the 17th century, it is one of the oldest and largest mosques in Andhra Pradesh; incredibly, it can hold 10,000 people. Alas, we are not two of them, for they turn us away as quickly as we get there.

The rain is getting harder, but we're determined not to leave until we get what we came here for: haleem -- pounded meat and wheat grounded into a thick stew. We go on a hunt for Pista House -- recommended by Amjad and ubiquitous everywhere else in the city, except apparently in Old City. Deciding we're probably not haleem conisseurs anyway, we settle on a place near our first non-date "date":

Religion in Technicolor

The shoes neatly aligned in rows outside is my first sign that this mass would likely be different from my church in New York.

Stepping in and nearly gasping at the bright blue neon crucifix is the other. Gotta hand it to them, of course, the neon makes you stop and stare. While the cross oftentimes becomes an object of meditation for me in church, all I could think about during mass were visions of Las Vegas!

What continually fascinates me each time I attend mass in a different country is how that country takes facets of the religion, yet incorporates aspects of its own culture. The first time I attended a Catholic mass in Hyderabad, I was struck by how many people went up to touch a life-sized Mary statue and give offerings of marigold and fruit, almost as though she were a Hindu goddess in a temple. The church I attended yesterday was adorned in saffron and golden colors throughout. When, in the homily, the priest spoke about the virtues of humility and meekness, he spoke of Mahatma Gandhiji, whose daily prayer was to be "lower than the dust under his feet." Rather than shaking hands for the sign of peace, we bowed and said "Namaste" with hands clasped together.

I was struck by the diversity inside the church -- people from America, Africa, and Asia, with the children of all the families instantly curious about one another. An electric amplified band played 1970's-esque music to "Hallelujah" and "Glory to God", while the priest tapped his hands and swayed to the music at the altar. You could even see his feet shuffling a bit under his robes.

Eager to meet the priest after mass to discuss pre-Cana and marriage requirements, I find him at his church office upstairs. After giving chocolates to crying American babies, he turns to me and asks how he can help. I tell him I will be getting married and wanted information on pre-Cana.

"A spinster, you are, then?" he asks.

Ah. At this point, all I can do is laugh. And people ask why we're not getting married in India? ;)

And in case we needed further proof of Delhi's bad traffic...

... the marketers have clearly caught on!!

Traffic Nostalgia

A few months ago in the Himalayas, this was the type of traffic jam I encountered heading to Gaumakh, the source of the Ganga (Ganges) River:

As I sat in literally six hours of traffic yesterday (I mean literally six hours), I could only wish I were in some more bucolic place than the streets of Delhi. After waking up for my flight at 4am, I landed in Delhi by 8:30am and headed straight to my meeting in Noida. THREE hours later, I finally arrived. This is some people's daily commute!!

I am reminded of an article Tyler sent me: "You Only Think Your Commute Sucks" -- yet unfortunately for Delhi-ites, the commute really does suck here (rated 5th worse worldwide, after Beijing, Mexico City, Johannesburg, and Moscow... New York is a distant 17 on the IBM "Commuter Pain Index").

Looking anxiously at my watch yesterday, I asked the driver how far we were from our destination. "7-8 kilometers," he replies. I breathed a sigh of relief, until nearly one hour later, we still weren't there!

There is an incredible recent report published by the Delhi government stating that the average vehicle speed in the city has come down from 18 km per hour to 15... and that this is expected to decrease further to 5 km per hour by the end of 2011. Imagine -- sitting in a car and moving all of 3.125 miles after an hour!! -- and this is for people lucky enough to even have a car and not be exposed to monsoons, dust storms, and utter pollution! (and mind you, this time estimate is from an official government report, which one assumes to be optimistic)

Now that I'll be splitting my time between Hyderabad and Delhi, books on tape seem like an amazing investment...

Root root root for the home team

Some pics from New York last month...

"Who says you can't go back, been all around

the world and as a matter of fact

There's only one place left I want to go

Who says you can't go home

It's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright"

(Bon Jovi)

A New Perspective

I am hanging upside down, literally.

We are told to stay in this position for five minutes, while counting our breaths. Getting in this position seemed a yoga move in itself -- strapping rope around my lower back, climbing the wall Crouching-Tiger-style, and leaning backwards until you are literally hanging upside down, with your head touching the floor.

As soon as I get into position, all I want to do is come out of it... the sudden rush of blood to the head makes me queasy, not to mention the whole position in itself is uncomfortable and disconcerting.

A few deep breaths, and I've calmed myself down. We are told to close our eyes, but I can't. I'm too enthralled with seeing the world in this new way. Doors look the same, but different. The trees outside growing from the sky. I almost giggle at the childlike view of the inverted world.

A couple of new students come to the door, staring incredulously at the yoga students hanging upside down from contraptions that always looked like torture chamber tools to me. They stare at me; I stare at them back. They are upside-down, I am upside-down.

I have a sudden epiphany that this is exactly how I have often felt here in India. I try to connect and integrate, but so often, we just don't see eye to eye. I get mad at the country, wondering why they don't see the logic that I do, and which is so clear to anyone around.

And then I get it. I'm upside-down. I'm trying to get everyone here to see things and do things the way I expect... when it's me who's turned upside-down. It's a parallel universe where things seem the same, but somehow are not quite.

It's a long road to becoming a disgruntled expatriate, but one with a quick and slippery slope. A mentor has often said: "Once you set your intention, the universe conspires with you to achieve it." So here goes, from my few minutes turned upside-down: May I continually see things in a new perspective, and handle daily frustrations with humor, grace, and kindness.

...And may I not always have to hang upside down to realize this.

Ode to Jet Lag

3 o'clock in the morning and I'm wide awake. Guess it's okay, considering I went to bed at 8pm the night before.

Somehow even at this hour, India still manages to be loud -- there are dogs barking outside in a bohemian rhapsody of wails and turf wars. I blink my eyes open and wonder what to do.

Ah well, I might as well unpack! It's my fourth apartment in six months, and this time I'm in it for the long-haul. I unpack and set up my room, excited to be back in India once again. There's a feeling of "newness" and excitement I have not felt in a long time.

7am and it already feels like mid-day. I head over to my old apartment, expecting to meet the movers for my bed, dining table, and patio swing. A call. The mover wants to know whether he should still come. Um, YES.

"I cannot find movers to help." That's okay, I reply -- I will find someone. Twenty minutes later, there are now literally ten men standing around my dining room table, staring and strategizing on the plan of attack. I soon determine that two of these men are the actual movers; another is the driver, and the rest are watching and directing efforts.

Furniture finally stored in the van, I smile at how easy this all is...

I clearly pressed my luck, for I get a call from the mover five minutes later. "How on earth can they be lost already?", I wonder. "Petrol nuhee hai," the driver says. No more gas! Seriously?!

And so begins a comedy of errors that sometimes seems only possible in India. We circle around to find the vehicle, which is now just stalled in the middle of road. The two movers appear uncertain what to do, until the driver climbs into our car. Both movers walk away to pee, and I wonder who's now watching my stuff. Certain my questions will only stall this further, we head out and drive through traffic (how is there this much traffic at 8am?!) to find a petrol pump, and fill a pail with gas.

We get back to the movers' truck, and they realize they have nothing to pour the gas into the tank with. So they search the sidewalks looking for a bottle, which they cut up and use as a funnel for the gas. I sit and stare incredulously, while Amjad smiles and says: "This is India!"

Indeed it is, and I'm happy to be back -- quirks and all. On my first day back, there's a leadership training around quality improvement, where a key theme is ownership and finding solutions, rather than blaming. Not rocket science, but a necessary reminder of the type of outlook I want to embrace during my time here. I make a list of all the small changes I want to incorporate to improve my daily quality of life... small, obvious things in the US that somehow become challenging and at times almost impossible here -- like making sure there's breakfast food in the house, getting my cell phone to work, and having internet at home.

While I used to complain about jet lag, I now think it's like some type of wonder drug that gives me time in the morning to get everything done and check off my boxes. Maybe in the end, that's why we get it... our body's way of giving us borrowed time to settle in, get our lives in order, and ready to tackle whatever new adventure awaits.

La Isla Bonita

Hiking through Waimea Canyon, snorkeling with turtles, kayaking and drinking mai tais... our week in Kauai was packed with everything except relaxation! :)

To see more pictures, click here.