Last week, Bhubaneswar was a pressure cooker. The temperature was escalating every day, the sun was unforgiving and the air had become suffocating from the humidity. Going outside midday was not an option. Power outages were occurring daily. Newspapers were reporting of villagers performing special rituals that haven't been done since 1987 in order to coax the rain to come.
And then the monsoon finally arrived. When it first started pouring, people on campus cheered. Honestly, I wanted to run outside myself and get cooled by the water. It was a relief. Almost instantaneously, the temperature dramatically dropped, and I could wear jeans in the evening again. I started to wonder why everyone warned me against coming to India during monsoon season. It was wonderful.
Then today I began experiencing in earnest some of the problems with monsoon season.
Problem 1: The shower
I have failed to mention that the campus, like most places in Bhubaneswar, does not have hot water. I am the first to admit that I am a big baby about taking cold showers. However, when the thermometer was reading 44 degrees Celsius, it was tolerable - sometimes even pleasant- to be soaked in the icy water. Now that we're at 30 degrees Celsius, I have to give myself a pep talk to turn on the tap and then brace myself for the shock of the frigid water.
Problem 2: Walking at night
There are hardly any sidewalks in Bhubaneswar and most of the small roads are unpaved. As a result big muddy pools of water form in the street, and walking home at night is like navigating a minefield. In slippery sandals, we try to dodge the camouflaged mud puddles, while at the same time being mindful of the crazed traffic. Risks abound as motorbike drivers balance umbrellas in one hand as they speed by and cars and trucks transform into the enemy that at any moment can wield its power by charging a puddle and spraying you with dirtied rainwater.
Problem 3: The mud
It's everywhere. Caked on my feet. Splashed on my pants. In the bathrooms. Tracks running down the hallway. It cannot be escaped. The mud gets so bad (and the water levels so high) that some areas in Orissa become completely inaccessible.
This just might have something to do with why people prefer to visit India in the fall.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Matters of the Heart
When I was in Kolkata I invented a game for my colleagues and I to play. Now this game isn't particularly original - or fun for that matter - but it is a game none the less. The rules are simple. You see a couple while you're out and you ask: arranged marriage or love marriage? Then everyone has to give their guess.
Arranged marriages and love marriages exist side by side in India today. I liken the relationship to that of radio and television. Radio may be the older medium but it has not been supplanted by television. There are people who fervently argue that one is better than the other. There are also those who may change their opinion on the topic depending on the circumstances. And then there are those who couldn't care less between the two as long as they get their entertainment.
Even though I invented the marriage guessing game, I am really bad at it. Horrible, actually. Here's why. I had this assumption that just because you haven't chosen who you will marry that somehow you'd be paired with someone that you would never want to marry. I imagined that talented, pretty young women would be arranged with guys who were three times their age or who had severe flatulence problems and diagnosed halitosis.
But that's actually not the norm. At least from the outside, on a purely superficial level, couples who are the product of arranged marriages seem perfect for each other. After all, these couples are matched based on similar levels of attractiveness, education, family income and social status, with the guy usually two to three years older and two to three inches taller. In other words, they are mainly matched on the criteria that from the outside they look like a good fit.
Love marriages are a whole lot messier than that. Love is not bound by caste or class, religion or age, horoscope or height. Love is what makes you see beyond flatulence and bad breath. Love is what accounts for the lopsided couples I see around.
Now if you want to ask me which of these couples I think are the happiest or are the most likely to stand the test of time, I cannot say. I'm still trying to figure out the strategy to that game.
Arranged marriages and love marriages exist side by side in India today. I liken the relationship to that of radio and television. Radio may be the older medium but it has not been supplanted by television. There are people who fervently argue that one is better than the other. There are also those who may change their opinion on the topic depending on the circumstances. And then there are those who couldn't care less between the two as long as they get their entertainment.
Even though I invented the marriage guessing game, I am really bad at it. Horrible, actually. Here's why. I had this assumption that just because you haven't chosen who you will marry that somehow you'd be paired with someone that you would never want to marry. I imagined that talented, pretty young women would be arranged with guys who were three times their age or who had severe flatulence problems and diagnosed halitosis.
But that's actually not the norm. At least from the outside, on a purely superficial level, couples who are the product of arranged marriages seem perfect for each other. After all, these couples are matched based on similar levels of attractiveness, education, family income and social status, with the guy usually two to three years older and two to three inches taller. In other words, they are mainly matched on the criteria that from the outside they look like a good fit.
Love marriages are a whole lot messier than that. Love is not bound by caste or class, religion or age, horoscope or height. Love is what makes you see beyond flatulence and bad breath. Love is what accounts for the lopsided couples I see around.
Now if you want to ask me which of these couples I think are the happiest or are the most likely to stand the test of time, I cannot say. I'm still trying to figure out the strategy to that game.
Fourth of July
A friend from New York asked me last night if I was planning on celebrating the Fourth of July while in India. The thought had never occurred to me. I usually celebrate the day by going to a barbecue and watching fireworks. Neither of these activities are particularly feasible here. However, I figured I would ask the readers of this blog if they have any Fourth of July traditions that I can share with my international colleagues. Leave a comment with your ideas.
Setting the Record Straight
We haven't moved. We're still at the nunnery.
I should have mentioned it earlier. People have been asking. But the truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell the story till now.
We had found the perfect little house in Bhubaneswar. It had two bedrooms that were bigger than New York City studio apartments, an additional small bedroom, two bathrooms, our own kitchen, a sizable living room and a terrace. The whole place was newly renovated with brightly colored walls, and we were going to be the first tenants. The rent plus made-to-order meals plus a cleaning service for two months was $8,750 rupees per person (that's approximately US$194).
We informed our supervisor. We informed the UNICEF office. We wrote letters to the university acknowledging that we were taking our safety into our own hands by moving. It was all arranged. On moving day, two drivers came to the hostel, and we packed all of our luggage into the backseat. We handed over our keys to the warden, said a quick goodbye, and piled into the car.
Four staff members, our supervisor, and our UNICEF rep all came to help us settle into our new place. When we and our entourage arrived, the landlord opened the gates, and the staff members started unloading our bags.
Joyously, we entered our new house ready to live like adults again. But then we looked around only to find that the house was completely empty. No dining room table. No stove. No beds. No nothing. Empty. Well, with the exception of the seven witnesses to our aborted plans.
Now just to be clear the place was empty when we first visited it. But the landlord assured us during several conversations that occurred over five days that it would be ready in time for our arrival. That clearly was not the case.
Feeling like the air was sucked out of our bodies, we did the only thing that we could do. We loaded our bags back into the cars, sat down, and had them drive us back to the hostel. The warden met us at the door, handed us our keys and we dragged our stuff up the stairs to the rooms we will inhabit for the rest of the summer.
I should have mentioned it earlier. People have been asking. But the truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell the story till now.
We had found the perfect little house in Bhubaneswar. It had two bedrooms that were bigger than New York City studio apartments, an additional small bedroom, two bathrooms, our own kitchen, a sizable living room and a terrace. The whole place was newly renovated with brightly colored walls, and we were going to be the first tenants. The rent plus made-to-order meals plus a cleaning service for two months was $8,750 rupees per person (that's approximately US$194).
We informed our supervisor. We informed the UNICEF office. We wrote letters to the university acknowledging that we were taking our safety into our own hands by moving. It was all arranged. On moving day, two drivers came to the hostel, and we packed all of our luggage into the backseat. We handed over our keys to the warden, said a quick goodbye, and piled into the car.
Four staff members, our supervisor, and our UNICEF rep all came to help us settle into our new place. When we and our entourage arrived, the landlord opened the gates, and the staff members started unloading our bags.
Joyously, we entered our new house ready to live like adults again. But then we looked around only to find that the house was completely empty. No dining room table. No stove. No beds. No nothing. Empty. Well, with the exception of the seven witnesses to our aborted plans.
Now just to be clear the place was empty when we first visited it. But the landlord assured us during several conversations that occurred over five days that it would be ready in time for our arrival. That clearly was not the case.
Feeling like the air was sucked out of our bodies, we did the only thing that we could do. We loaded our bags back into the cars, sat down, and had them drive us back to the hostel. The warden met us at the door, handed us our keys and we dragged our stuff up the stairs to the rooms we will inhabit for the rest of the summer.
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