Adam and Tina

Tina and I made a quick exit after Sonu & Tashu’s wedding ceremony in Delhi, as we were hoping to make it to Agra to witness the Taj Mahal over night. Avlok’s father had helped us secure a car and driver for the long drive, which we had been told would take about three hours. The agreed price was 2200 rupees ($55 USD) for the car, driver and gas, and remaining in Agra overnight. When it was time to pay, we were charged 3300 rupees ($83 USD), because the driver had switched on the air-conditioning, despite us having never asked. We had packed all our things and loaded them into the car that morning, and were now prepared to leave directly from the wedding. With a quick goodbye, we were off and finally able to relax. The heavy food from the wedding reception put both Tina and I to sleep before long, and when I awoke I assumed that we must be there. “No Sir. We stop. Bad traffic.” Sure enough, there’s motorcycle out one window and a red saree covered butt in the other. We were in the middle of the biggest traffic jam I had ever seen, stretching up the highway (2 lane road) as far as I could see.

Three hours later, we finally arrived in Agra, more than 3 hours late. Our driver didn’t know where our hotel was, so he stopped to ask another hotel owner. The owner jumped right on us. “You cannot take car to where hotel is. You must stay here.” Our taxi driver agreed with him. It took closing my window on some fingers, and loud commands to our driver, but we turned around and found the right direction. We were able to call the hotel owner, who offered directions to the driver. While still on our mobile, the driver stopped in the middle of a crowd. He reached back to my door and unlocked it. “What the….?” A man tries to open my door. I quickly grab the handle and held it, while slamming the lock back down. “What are you doing?!?”, I yell at the driver. The driver’s window is down and the man identifies himself as the hotel owner. It takes me a moment before I can trust him, and let him into the car. The hotel room was the smallest we stayed in during our entire trip, but also the cheapest. At 400 rupees ($10 USD), we decided it was a steal. We go for dinner a restaurant across the road, run entirely by 12 year old boys. Tina gets so frustrated by the lack of service that she throws our cutlery over the balcony at them. Luckily, they take no notice.

Tina wakes up easily irritated the next morning, insisting that we make to the gate before 5 am. To her great frustration, I awake slowly and we waddle down the dirt streets to the south gate. Upon arriving, we are informed that the south gate doesn’t open until 8:30, and the only gate that we can enter through is the east gate. We curse India with the conviction of a southern pastor, and find a rickshaw to take us over to the east gate (a 20 min walk). We pay the foreigner price (which is 100 times the domestic price) and proceed to be harassed by the officers at the entrance over carrying a backpack. When we finally reached the Taj, we were instantly impressed. No picture fully does it justice. We took several moments to sit and just breath it in. Definitely the most impressive monument we witnessed in India.

While admiring the Taj, I noted yet another inconsistency in Indian culture. Many of the major distinct monuments of India were built by Muslims or Buddhists. The Taj Mahal is quite obviously built by a Muslim, as it is covered in writings from the Quran. Throughout India’s glorious history, the country was ruled by the Mughols who invaded from the east. The Mughols, such as the famous Akbar and Shah Jahan, built many of the great palaces and forts throughout India. The World Heritage sites in central and southern India are mostly Buddhist temples or dwellings. That doesn’t leave much for the Hindus, whom are the large majority in the modern day. India’s Hindu sanctuary seems to be Udaipur in Rajasthan, the only city that didn’t give in to Emperor Akbar’s armies.

Jewelery worn by the bride on her wedding day. March, 2008. New Delhi, India.

Nearly midway through our stay in India, Tina and I had the good fortune to attend a reputably magnificent Indian wedding in the capitol, New Delhi. I have a good friend from school, Avlok Kohli, who heard we were headed to India and insisted that we attend his cousin’s wedding. Both Tina and I are so deeply grateful that we did because it offered us a view of India that was both amazing and completely unlike anything we had seen so far, or expected to see. For a traveller there are two completely different views of India; from the outside looking in and from the inside looking out. The extended family is the atomic institution upon which India is built, and once accepted as a family member, the world instantly lights up.

When we arrived in Delhi on a flight from Jaipur, we were warmly received by Avlok and his father. Avlok had been sent to another terminal by an official, but once we found each other in the crowd, I felt instantly relieved. Maybe it was a familiar face in an unfamiliar place, or simply a full english conversation, but either way it was welcome after being sick all through Rajasthan. Avlok’s father whisked us off to their flat in south Delhi, quite close to the hotel Puneet found us the first night.

The 3 day festivities were just about to begin at the Kohli residence, and you could hear that life was stirring from four floors down. We mounted the seemingly endless flights of stairs (Curious Note: Why do the Kohli families all have penthouse flats?) to a rush of Kohlis moving in every directions. Grandmothers sit and gossip in Avlok’s parents flat, while across the hall, Sonu’s mother yells at him to quickly get dressed. Today is Sonu’s wedding day, and as is traditional in India, the festivities are beginning later than planned (also referred to as “Indian Time”). Sonu is just getting out of the shower and we greet him wearing a towel, as he pops his head out of his room to return the marble shattering hindi reply to his mother. His voice becomes much softer and genuinely kind when Avlok introduces us. Before we have the chance to sit down and share a cup of chai, we are rushed off across town.

Sonu’s unmarried wife is a Sikh, and as part of the wedding ceremony, Sonu has agreed to appease her family by wearing a traditional Sikh turban. Sonu has a Sikh friend who has offered to wrap his ceremonial turban today, however he lives nearly an hour away. The streets of Delhi are wild and ever encroaching, surrounding the rolling car with crowds and cows. Tina hides her eyes as Sonu narrowly misses a rickshaw, then slams the brake pedal to the floor to halt inches from a fifty car traffic jam. My mind races trying to discern how Sonu knows which direction to turn. At the house, we are already late for the ceremony and dispense with the long formal introductions. Marching directly into the bedroom, we find the ten meter turban fabric being stretched and rolled. Sonu tightens his teeth on one end of the fabric while the other nine and a half meters fly around his head in a precise and artistic manner. The first wrap isn’t perfect enough for a wedding, so we get a second show. Finally, Sonu is ready. We wave to Sonu’s very talented friend and his family while the car speeds off towards the gurdwara (Sikh temple).

I am going to be honest, that I don’t fully understand all the proceeding and ceremonies involved in an Indian wedding. If you do, and you notice that I’ve made a factual error, please don’t hesitate to correct me. Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims all have unique traditions, although those of the Hindus and Sikhs are similar. We were in for a treat because Sonu’s (the groom’s) family is Hindu and Tashu’s (the bride) is Sikh. In order to represent the union of the two families, the wedding is also a union between the traditions of the two religions. The Hindu/Sikh wedding is a series of events staged to introduce the groom’s family to the bride’s, and bless both families.

Adam and Avlock sitting on the male side of the gurdwara.

The first day held a ceremony at the bride’s gurdwara, where the groom was introduced to her family. The groom was force fed by the brides family, which I believe was a sign of respect. The ceremony was otherwise uneventful, but I was fascinated by my first experience in a gurdwara. The staff consists of the guru, and his band. The band plays a traditional indian chant, while the guru chants his blessings during the pauses. There was no idol that I could recognize, instead they had some ceremonial objects (including a knife) and a holy book, from which the guru would read. Men and women are separated in the gurdwara, separated by a colored fabric path from the entrance to the alter. Tina chose to disregard this obviously visible religious law, and sit with the photographers on the male (right) side.

Ceremonial feeding of sweets during the engagement party on day one.

Following every ceremony is a banquet feast for all members of the wedding party. Since Indian families are enormous, they need a massive banquet hall to host the hundreds of people that constitute friends and family. Since the first two days are hosted by the bride’s family, they also plan the meals. Lunch on the first day is extravagant, but in hindsight, only modest compared with what was to come. Just before we sit down to eat, the bride and groom exchange rings that look cartoonish in size, with bright jewels encrusted. Sonu’s juvenile nephew, Nonu, wreaks havoc by tossing a fork into a crowd of elderly folks.

By the time we arrive back at the flat, Tina and I are both completely exhausted. Avlok reminds us that the day is only half over, and the real fun is only just beginning. “Tonight is henna night. A couple of henna artists will come over, and all the women on the groom’s side will be getting their hands and feet painted before dancing to Indian traditionally loud music. Last time, I got dragged into the middle of the dancing circle by Sonu’s mother, and was trapped for hours. Adam; you’re going to be their primary target.” I have never been very interested in dancing. This was enough to push me to dance on my own terms, by accepting to go salsa dancing at a club, instead. This was Tina’s first choice, since she’s a closet professional.

The ‘priest’ during blessing ceremony on the evening of day one.

We ordered Domino’s pizza and watched in wonder as Sonu was engaged in another ceremony. A man dressed in yellow and red appeared at the door, and was instantly welcomed and treated like a priest. This man sat Sonu down in the middle of the floor and proceeded to light cups on fire and put fruit into his hands. I quickly understood that the fruit was not for eating, but instead for blessing. The raggedly dress priest would repeat short chants, then utter instructions to Sonu. After requiring Sonu to bless various fruits and sweets, he painted Sonu’s hairy limbs with a yellow coloring. We take off just before the ceremonial shower to clean off the toxic yellow holy color.

I have painted a very sarcastic picture so far, but there are some heartwarming moments that I completely glazed over. As Tina would tell you, Indian hospitality is second to no other culture we have yet encountered. Even just knowing that I was a friend of a cousin’s, Puneet and his family went out of their way to help us in our first couple of very overwhelming days in India. When we arrived for the wedding, we were welcomed with open arms. The Kohli flats in south Delhi were completely over booked, with all beds accounted for, and unused floor space fought over. Where would we stay? Avlok’s neighbors were all too happy to take us in, offering us their bed, while they slept in their living room. Astounding. They even offered to help Tina put on her saree at 7 in morning. On our final night in Delhi, even though the Kohli’s had room for us, the neighbors still wanted us to stay with them, and so we did. Any time we stay with the greater Kohli family, food was always being pushed in front of us and anything we needed was instantly taken care of. Both Tina and I thoroughly enjoyed our stays with Avlok’s and Puneet’s families and are deeply grateful for their generosity.

Dancing on the street, on our way to meeting the bride’s family.

The second day begins bright and early at 7 am. The events began with Sonu riding a very flashy horse to his local temple, symbolizing his journey to meet his bride. Sonu got fully suited, as a Rajput king should, and headed to the street to mount his horse for the long journey (5 minutes). The horse was fed, and the women (plus Avlok) danced to the band of drums and horns following Sonu’s lead. Once he reached the temple around the corner, we all jumped in cars and drove to the banquet hall. The groom’s family (including Tina and I) danced our way up to a well decorated arch blocked by the bride’s family. The band was so loud that they overpowered the industrial saws ripping through logs on the other side of the street. Upon meeting at the arch, the two families exchanged gifts (ten sets of blankets), and the bride’s family officially accepted Sonu. We were led into a new and even larger hall, where lunch and afternoon snacks were to be served. Sonu and Tashu were joined on an alter, where they were forced to sweat for more than half an hour while two video-camera-men with high voltage bulbs heated them with solar radiation. I felt most pity for Tashu, whose wedding day saree weighed more than 30 pounds.

Immediately after the photo session ended, we were back at the gurdwara for the official wedding ceremony. Ironically, this ceremony was attended by the least number of people, as most of the wedding party awaited Sonu and Tashu’s return to the banquet hall. The Sikh wedding ceremony is a simple one. There are four prayers which both the bride and groom chant, followed by a march around the alter. The Hindu equivalent is to circle a holy flame. At the end, the groom finally gets to hold hands with his new bride as they gracefully exit the gurdwara.

Tina and I make a quick exit as we were hoping to make it to Agra to witness the Taj Mahal over night. [See next post for details]

When we arrived back in Delhi, we were informed that the flat was infested with hijras, the night before. Tina was instantly fascinated by transgenders who wander into births, weddings and funerals because she yet to be approached by them. While in Jaipur waiting for Tina to buy a saree top, I found myself encircled by several imposing male figures dressed in female clothes and accompanied by two guys with drums. I was danced and kissed until the drummers could tell that I’d had enough, and moved on. Tina prodded and discovered that the hijras come to weddings to perform sexually suggestive dances and demand whatever sum they choose for they blessing and smooth exit. Last night, the hijras that came to the Kohli residence had left with more than ten thousand rupees, the equivalent of three hundred US dollars for twenty minutes of dancing. I was flabbergasted that anyone in India would actually respect these lower-class citizens enough to pay them whatever was demanded, reminding myself that no Indian respects anyone demanding money from outside their family. Just as we’re trying to understand another Indian inconsistency, another group of hijras shows up at the door. This group also happens to hail from the neighborhood and demand a fee, like it is their right. After some hostile negotiation, Sonu’s mother pays them to leave.

The final wedding reception is hosted by the groom’s family, and is held in one of the most exclusive five star resorts in Delhi. Avlok refers to it as a ‘five star location’. The party starts fashionably late at 9 pm, but is worth it. The food is a healthy feast, and both Tina and I marvel at the real vegetables, fresh stir-fry’s and pasta. Oh, and the Indian options were also spectacular. My meal is frequently interrupted by Puneet and his family trying to get Tina and I on the dance floor. I’m not certain he ate anything all night; he couldn’t stop dancing. The party cleared out quickly, as families with small children, of which there were many, left early. The final straw was when a fight broke out between Avlok’s father and a distant member of their family. The two of them were separated, but Avlok’s father was noticeably missing a few minutes later. We discovered that he disappeared, not because of the fight, but because Sonu chose to wear the ceremonial turban again. This evening was hosted by Sonu’s family, a Hindu family, and by wearing a Sikh turban, he was not showing his own family any respect. Avlok’s father disapproved and left. As I said at the beginning, the Indian family is a very closely-knit and proud institution. Families take each other, and their respect for each other seriously. The bad blood that night will be recycled, but will clear with time and effort. They are family, after all.


Day 2: being tricked by the boys to pose on the bride & groom’s chairs.


Day 3: at the reception.

View into the old city of Jodhpur, Rajasthan.

These words are coming in the heat of passion, backed by fear for my life. Not more than a moment ago, a bee the size of a hummingbird flew in through one of the eight windows in our hotel room that does not have a screen. Both Tina and I scurried madly around the room, until I finally found an object I deemed large enough to kill the bee in a single whack. As I returned from the bathroom with a plastic pail (normally for use as a manual biday), the bee had paused on the ceiling to do an upside-down hip-hop style belly flop. The power had just come back on, after the daily power outage, and we suspected that the bee might been drawn by the light. Tina jumped up from her spot cowering in the corner to flick off all the light switches. She exclaimed “I can’t take this anymore. I’m going outside!”, just as the bee circled the room once more. The bee landed on one of the two windows that does have a screen, and I grab the guestbook filled with names of French and British people, preparing to the trap the pest in my biday bucket. As luck would have it, the window screen was not sealed and the bee slowly waddled out. I quickly slammed the shutters behind him.

Rounding the room to close window shutters, I noticed a pigeon was peeking through. I thought to myself, “Why can’t India just leave me alone?”

Yesterday, Tina and I arrived in the desert fort town of Jodhpur in western India. Our taxi driver stopped in a busy market, turned around and said “I cannot take you any further. Rickshaw only.” Conveniently, a rickshaw driver pulled up and promptly tried to harass us into taking the rickshaw. “You must! There is no other way!” We really disliked being dropped in an overly congested and pushy area, so we tried to convince the driver to take us to an entrance to the old city that was closer to our hotel. The driver wasn’t interested in the detour, as it would clearly take another half hour or more out of his already long day, and instead offered to pay for the rickshaw. I could sense that the discussion was going no where, so we picked up our things and jumped on the rickshaw. After paying the driver 2300 rupees for his services, he double checked that I still wanted him to pay the 20 rupees for the rickshaw. This time, I looked him in the eye to ensure there was no verbal confusion.

Adam in our hotel room, before attacked by the large Bee. Jodhpur, Rajasthan.

I am appalled at every rouse that we encounter. You would think that after a month in India, I would have gotten used to the constant pain of trying to do anything, but I have not. They still surprise me every time.

For dinner, Tina and I made our way to one of the classier restaurants in town. It was hailed as being clean and served excellent pizza. I was stoked. I had been eating almost exclusively indian local fare, until recently. Either a bowl of fresh fruit and yoghurt or an oily paneer butter masala had induced a stomach that wiped me out for a day, as well as my appetite for curries. As the doorman held the door for us, the manager greeted us. We were lead by two waiters to the non-smoking section at the back with more than eight large tables, all empty. We were offered the menus, which were clean and appeared to be brand new. Both Tina and I thought out loud, “Wow! We’re in for a treat!” We ordered water, a tomato and cucumber salad, and the usual cream of tomato soup. I got my pizza and Tina picked vegetable fried rice. Our food came out quite quickly, and we were eating before we had time to wash our hands. We picked up our utensils and dove in. The food tasted quite good, but felt like one detail was a little off. We looked up from the table to catch more than four sets of eyeballs staring at us while we crunched away. I first assumed that we were surrounded by waiters because the restaurant had more than 8 staff and only two customers, but I quickly remembered that the waiter had asked me if Tina and I were married. I understand that it must be quite a sight to see an asian girl who would marry a white guy, but we are still human. Don’t we deserve a little respect? Tina and I continued to make constructive restaurant management comments throughout the rest of dinner. We both agreed that we would eat there again, simply because we had seen the alternatives.

Why can’t India just let me relax a little? It seems that I can’t walk anywhere without 80 decibel requests for money, pictures, rickshaw rides, clothes, shoes, jewelry or trinkets. This is worst in the touristy areas, but even outside, there are still many people and foreigners are spotted easily. I need to be constantly on the watch to keep us from being hit by a car, bicycle, motorcycle or cow. I check every footstep to avoid potholes, liquids, cow dung and other feet. I feel like I’m being endlessly bombarded with demands for time, and I don’t see any near end to it. In the land where the only consistent, trustworthy fact is the very inconsistency itself, you have no choice but to make the most of what you have.

Typical street corner full of cows in Jodpur, Rajasthan.

On the way home from dinner, Tina and I agreed on price with the second rickshaw driver we talked to, as the first was trying to stick us with the foreigners’ price. A short command of the english language isn’t always as big a problem as it was tonight. The driver had little clue where he was taking us, even after agreeing to the price of 30 rupees. He stopped to ask nine other drivers before finding one that had heard of our guest house. We were finally off to get some rest after a long day. About a third of the way, the driver stopped. Three men had dug a deep hole in the middle of an intersection and the driver could not continue. He informed us that he could drive around the fort in a different direction, but that would cost us another 40 rupees. I thanked him but decided to get off, and offered him ten rupees for his troubles. He would not accept my rupees arguing that his time was worth twenty. After more than a minute, I told him that either he takes it, or he gets nothing. He would not accept, so Tina and I jump around the intersection and were on our way down the dark alleyway. We quickly found another driver who left us at our door for a mere twenty rupees.

Large number of scooters and auto-rickshaws

When I first arrived in India, I enjoyed playing the games of deception and other deal brokering tactics. However, playing the same game time and time again has transformed my excitement into frustration. I would much rather trust that I am being offered the best deal, the first time, accept it and move on.

This morning, while we were lying down reading books, I looked at Tina and exclaimed “India sucks!” And we laughed. We laughed because we both realized that there was nothing we could do but accept it and laugh. But, if you’re ever looking for a list of hotels not to stay in, restaurants not to eat at or places not to visit, I will be happy to bombard you with them.

We long for the comforts of home, especially Tommy (our 3 yr old dog).

Note: So what did we think of Jodhpur? The fort was amazing (you have to get the audio tour), and the old city provided a wonderful view of pastel colored blocky buildings. However, the old city is incredibly congested, where you might just get hit by a cow/auto-rickshaw/scooter/bicycle (seriously). It is also exceptionally run-down, lined with sketchy hotel options and open sewers, uneven streets and extra cow dungs (more than in other cities). We don’t recommend staying here for more than two days, unless you check yourself into the fabulous Ajit Bhawan luxury hotel, and don’t leave.