Indelible Images of India

It's been an amazing, interesting, colorful, odiferous, educational, inquisitive, and acquisitive trip to India. And we have one last purchase that absolutely, positively must be made. Gigi has been excited to get henna tattoos since we arrived, and I promised her we could do this on our last day in Delhi. It should be done just before heading back to Paris, ideally, in order to maximize its impact on classmates. At the local market, there is a row of henna artists who do this for 50 rupees per child's arm (just $1), or 100 rupees for the adults. Traditionally it is meant for brides, but we're not the only ones doing it just for fun. And no, it's not really indelible. But in theory, it should last for a couple weeks. Ours turn out lighter than we expect (what you're seeing below is the design before the mud dries and gets brushed off), so we'll probably only get a week or so out of them.

 

Bridal henna:

 

Tourist henna:

 

 

Now that we are at the end of our two-week vacation, I can answer the question posed in the intro to this blog. Yes, it does indeed make sense to travel with small children -- and my parents -- to India, even though they don't like spicy food. At least, it makes sense with the way we do this trip (I think trying to replicate with them the sort of backpacker adventure I had in my twenties would be completely distastrous, however...). We are able to order nearly everything "no spice," eat in clean restaurants and -- heaven be praised -- avoid Delhi Belly, buy scads of colorful and affordable souvenirs, and generally have an unforgettable trip with aunt, uncle, and grandparents. I can't even imagine having done something like this with my own grandparents and am so thrilled that my children will always have this memory.

 

 

 

Besides what is burned in our brains, the other indelible images I am referring to are these -- some of my favorite photos that didn't find a home elsewhere on the blog:

  
 

My parents, covering their heads in a temple. My father appears to be aiming for the Russian babushka look:

 

The incredibly beautiful saris of India. Many of the women look more elegant and dressed-up when shopping at the outdoor market than I did at my own wedding. No exaggeration.



The local butcher. Everything about this picture just kills me. It explains why we only eat at "fancy" places, in a nutshell:

Honest-to-goodness snake charmers. Yes, they are real snakes.

 

 

All that's left is to pack up, get to the airport....and discover that while we have been here, American Airlines has completely shut all operations in India and left my parents stranded without any valid ticket or reservations to get home. As we wonder if my parents will ever escape, the girls and I get on our plane to Paris. And with this, we say goodbye to India.

But the Real Star Attraction Is....

Today my sister-in-law takes us to visit Qutb (pronounced Koo-tab) Minar, an ancient Islamic monument in Delhi, built starting in 1192-1193. Not nearly as famous as the Taj Mahal, of course, but quite impressive nonetheless. The centerpiece of the complex, the minaret, is the tallest in the country at 72.5 meters (238 feet).

 

My father, being my father, gets equally excited about the Iron Pillar, which he has heard about in some documentary program. It's an alloy of something like 14 metals and has stood outside in this courtyard for almost a thousand years, even through monsoon seasons, without rusting. The information I get from my father, which comes from what he remembers of the program, is that nobody can replicate this or even knows quite what it's made of. However, I must warn you that my father is notorious for his facts not being, well, quite so factual, and I just can't be bothered to research this one in depth.

But the real star attraction is not Qutb Minar or the Iron Pillar but, rather, our girls. It turns out we do not have to tip people or sneak around in order to take their photos, beause we can simply do an even trade: They desperately want photos of our girls, and then we get to take pictures of them in their traditional clothes. The only two groups of people I say "no" to happen to be two groups of young men who grab P without asking my permission and start putting their arms around her and whisking her into their photos. I tell them in no uncertain terms, "You must always ask the Mama first!"

For example, we have a picture of this handsome couple celebrating their first wedding anniversary. And they have a picture of our two girls in front of the same monument. There's the Moslem man checking his cell phone after photographing P, and other families eager to get G & P in their photos.

 

My father is lurking behind a group of colorfully dressed Indian women and wants to take their photos when suddenly my girls step into view up on a hill, with the tower behind them. All the women start screaming "Baby!" (what all young children are called here) to get their attention for photos. So, naturally, my father starts taking pictures of his own grandchildren, then turns to the women and brags that he's the grandfather and gets his photos of the sari-clad women that way. And, being brought up in a photographic family, I of course take photos of my dad and the ladies taking photos of us.

By the way, it's not just here that the girls are stars. There must be literally hundreds, verging on thousands, of photos of them taken on our entire trip here. By the middle of our trip, P starts waving out of the car windows to gawking passers-by, like a princess doing the royal wave. We may need an ego check when we get back to Paris...

Anthony, We're So Sari

Perhaps it would be better if Anthony were here for what is turning out to be a daily shopping spree so that he could possibly put the brakes on us. But he's not here, and the girls and I are thinking in euros. That means that everything is fair game. And no matter what we buy, we then translate it into euros and dollars and far from regretting what we've purchased, we start regretting that we didn't just buy more. The girls have been anticipating this trip especially because, in the words of P, "Aunt Coca & Uncle Jeff and Nana & Pop-pop are going to spoil us!" G added as an afterthought, "And I'm looking forward to seeing the Taj Mahal." But that's only because she didn't know what the shopping opportunities would be.

For example, a set of three shiny jewelry boxes that she's been coveting in a Parisian import store for about 15euros cost $1 or so here. The girls are the worst possible bargainers since as soon as they hear the first offer price, G looks at us and shouts loudly, "That's so cheap!"  This is our haul from the first 24 hours alone:

This morning is the main shopping event that G & P have been looking forward to for months: shopping for saris with their Aunt Coca.

  

The girls actually end up with two outfits each -- a sari-lengha (like a lengha but the scarf is attached and drapes around sari-style, such as both of the turquoise outfits in the photo above), a lengha for G (a separate top, shirt, and scarf, but she is only wearing the top half of her peach outfit in the photo below) and a churidar (dress that comes with leggings that P decides not to wear in the photo below). Other than the mounting bill, Anthony is probably quite pleased to miss this portion of the trip since he really hates shopping. And the only thing he hates more than shopping is seeing musicals. And the only thing he hates more than seeing musicals would be seeing musicals in Hindi.

The Anguish of Silver Lamé

Our first day in India, and we start off with a bang -- rather literally. The Bollywood show we go to see, Zangoora, is performed at roughly the decibel level of an airport runway. But this is what I expect of India. It's the opposite of the subtle black-and-whiteness of Paris. This show contains Ganesh the elephant god wih many trunks; girls in Vegas showgirl outfits with pink tail feathers; gypsies; an underwater scene; so many actors flying through the air it's like O'Hare Airport in there; confetti over the audience; Cirque du Soleil-style ribbon contortionism; a dwarf; forlorn lovers crooning in silver lamé; sequins; a magician levitating his lovely assistant; people dancing in the aisles; fog machines; rising stages; turning stages; people declaring their love in gold lamé (and that's the men...); troupes of shirtless men with six-pack abs; princes and princesses whose royalty is a secret; rainbow colored saris -- all of them glittery, sparkly, metallic, and reflective; and all of it performed in Hindi.

No photos allowed inside, so here are a couple photos of the outside of the theater. They're very tame in comparison. I also have to tell you that it's taking me about 10-15 minutes per photo to upload these pictures, so I'm probably going to be pretty sparse with the photos till I get back to Paris. Or maybe I'll have a better connection on another day...