Japanese in Delhi

Saturday night was one for the ages... It's rare that I do anything illegal, but drinking under the age of 25 has recently been added to this short list. On Saturday I managed my way past the Japanese bouncers at a party focused on the Tokyo expat community. With a friend's blessing, and Irish comrade, and a host of Japanese words like "Ohaiyo, genki deska?" we made an entrance. With each hint of Bollywood, the room of well-coiffed Japanese would erupt into a scene fit for Juhu. As the "Om Shanti Om," began to pulse through the fogged darkness of the hall, "Om Tiger Om," as the party was dubbed, came alive. With posters of Deepika Padukone on the wall (thankfully not Shah Rukh), we found it apt that through a friend, we had forwarded the invite to Deepika herself the day prior.

Arigato gozaimasu... shukria... Hindi and Japanese, Bollywood and Tokyo united with Irish and Californian, Emerald Isle and Honshu meet Golden State in cosmopolitan splendor... in New Delhi. Almost akin to the Swahili / Arabic mix of Zanzibar, recounting Shinjuku tales in Delhi was fantastic, thanks to Tim's MP introductions and our willingness to embrace East Asia in South Asia post-GK1 afternoon.

Sufi Music & Soccer

On the three nights of the week when I am not in the office until 11pm, straining to communicate with my California counterparts in 1440 x 900, I attempt to create a life in between the maddening chaos of construction that is Gurgaon. On Wednesday I watched a fantastic free performance of Sufi musicians in Gurgaon. Sufi music draws you into its dream with the monotonous buzz and undulating dips of the tabla. You slip into a gossamer world of circumspection, and a series of moments veiled in mystery, until the lyrics, strong and poignantly flat, are emotive, and tell a tale that varies depending on your ear. The story is personal, and it relates to me.

On Thursday I ventured into Delhi traffic at the perilous time of 5:30. I made my way toward the US Embassy off Shanti (peace) road. The American Community Service Center boasts a fortified baseball diamond that looks more like a Marine barrack. In fact, you must pass Marines to arrive within its chain-linked walls. Inside, however, to the tune of 100 rupees, you can assemble some mates for a weekly football match. I've managed to find a Euro expat circle that plays each Thursday.

We played for over 2 hours under the lights. Representing Slovakia, Poland, Scotland, Italy, the US, and India, football became a common language across countries and ages. I realized an hour in that the throbbing in my calf after a hard tackle, the sweat down my face, and the bruises I had acquired on my shins made me, again, feel alive. I played one-twos with Martin, a highly-skilled 18 year old from Bratislava. As I received each touch, and sprinted down the flank, I remembered how much I missed one of the fundamental freedoms that India denies, namely, the ability to exercise outdoors. Though I failed to slot a few break-away goals past the Polish keeper, I had a Dennis Bergkamp 1998 moment when, as a long ball dropped in over my shoulder, I took it out of the air and volleyed it into the far post in two fluid touches without letting the ball hit the dusty pitch. We called a break, and an Indian guy bought me a gatorade in congratulations for my goal. The language of football, while spoken less frequently, still apparently works in India.

Jodha Akbar & Jodhpur

After a typical Monday in Bombay, during which time you span one of the world's largest cities, dine at a fantastic restaurant called Khyber, encounter sadness beyond belief, challenge your originality in the banal ex-pat scene that is modern-day Leopold Cafe, and go out on Marine Drive, I flew home to Delhi at 4am. We had spent an afternoon walking Juhu Beach and stumbling upon a Bollywood model shoot. He had half invaded at the bequest of a mumbling beach-side man who half forced us to the bouncers because of our lighter than tan complexions. Don't worry, Shah Rukh wanted none of us.

Mid-week we spent ambling through Delhi and the various acronyms that make its scene cooler than it probably should be. Don't get me wrong, Delhi is fun, just not as fun as GK-1 would make it sound. That's a pretty damn cool name, and with rats running in South-Ex II, it's hard to argue that the place is as snazzy as the name. Speaking of rats, they're enormous... ENORMOUS. I giggled in nervousness as each one would dart into and out of street holes toward my feet. Good thing they can cook and they just won an Oscar for their artistry in animation. Hmm...

Friday's four hour stint at Bollywood blockbuster Jodha Akbar, written in Hindi and Arabic to accentuate the "Great" coming together of the Mughals and Rajputs, left us craving more Rajasthan, more Aishwarya, and well, more Jodhpur... so we boarded an Indian Air flight Saturday morning.

Jodhpur is the "blue city" due to its ubiquitous indigo paint and ancient 1459 Meherengarh Fort that stands 500m above the town on a massive rampart of rock. Descending from the fantastic palace, as we shuffled to the edge of a rock overlook, I was inclined, and did, burst into song. A whole new world had emerged, and we didn't buy the whole "riff-raff, street rat" gig. Though perhaps the most chaotic city center in India, Jodhpur is alive. It's narrow, it's grimy, it's friendly and intense. It's hundreds of cows, thick black rickshaw puffs, tiny lanes where bodies, animals, bikes, rickshaws, currents of street-side sewage, piles of gravel that tilt your vehicle degrees beyond sanity toward oncoming traffic, abandoned wagons and overturned machinery intwine in perilous moments of intersection where timing tempts the fate of futures and dreams. It is chaos incarnate inside the city walls, but after a few hours you learn the predictability that keeps you safe. You walk decisively. You move with pace and reason. You do not hesitate or you tempt judgement of those whose action may influence your own. Everyone does what they have to, and somehow, in the sheer disaster of it all, it works.

Cross-Country to Kerala

After a 24 hour journey across India from Hyderabad to Delhi to rendezvous with Aaron, in from his Amman flight, we made the impossibly inevitable decision to mix a night in GK1 Delhi with one hour of sleep and another cross-country flight, a mix as potent as any cocktail.

While our delayed flight got us into Kerala after we'd expected, a frenetic drive landed us at our houseboat dock in time for four hours of afternoon cruising on the placid backwaters of Kerala. Armed with fresh fish, good company, Kingfishers (both bird and bottle), and a boat staff of three, we set off down the flat reflection of the sky, where the coconut palms reached toward us in reverse order, crawling with their fawns over the ripples toward our hull. With some light Arabic tunes from Madinat in Dubai, the mood was pretty unbeatable, and we crashed under the stars.

When we awoke at dawn, our houseboat staff was preparing for a dip at the water's edge. Although my post-swim sickness doesn't corroborate my claim that the water looked clean, I lathered up and jumped in covered in soap like a Keralan village local. The calm, cool water opened up a new day.

Arriving back at the dock, we had time to kill and so boarded a 150cc bike with three men and all our luggage. Again, helmets are optional, and we chose the cautious path of "not necessary." After showing the business owner Google Analytics tips on his shack wireless connection, I naively assumed that we were on good terms. Not more than 10 minutes later, as he pocketed our wad of 500 rupee notes for his troubles, he altered the arrangements of our transport, demanding yet 1000 rupees more. In a fit of rage I pounded the car, got on my cell phone and said two words beginning in B and S no fewer than 10 times. This delicate tactic smoothed over what I like to refer to in India as the "quid pro screw you." What happened to the quo?

That afternoon we spent touring Fort Cochin with a rickshaw driver who charged us a paltry 50 Rs for his all-day services (1 dollar), and took us to a number of sites, including a ginger factory where we even got to paint transport boxes. Our tour ended at a Kathakali performance in traditional Keralan style, and we watched, mesmerized, as men in dhotis spun swords, fought in traditional martial arts style, and performed Kathakali, or dramatic-style Peking Opera.

Following the performance we attempted to organize a driver for Munnar, or the far-away tea plantations in central Kerala. 90km inland, the drive takes nearly 5 hours. Because in Communist Kerala all drivers were protesting gas prices, we were warned not to attempt the roads. We were advised that we would likely get stoned by villagers. Heeding caution, we paid a muscular-looking local named Hari to drive us in his tiny personal Tata Indica. He promised that he could drive fast, and I can attest to his insanity. We made the journey in 3.5 hours, though for much of it the puzzle-piece hillsides of Munnar appeared more like a blur, and less like tea. We survived without even one stoning, and after doing a yell with 30 kids at echo point, eating fresh pineapple and black pepper off the trees, made our return to Cochin, a drive I likened to nearly 4 hours strapped into Space Mountain. We pulled the G-Forces of Maverick, and arrived back in town feeling more like Goose, albeit we'd seen elephants.

Hyderabad Homecoming

After eight months in California, I returned to my home city of Hyderabad to smiling faces, the same sights and smells, and a yoga teacher who asked me where I had been. With rooftop drinks, 80 degree weather, a new office building, and motorcycle rides across town I began to comment that in comparison to my Gurgaon residence, "I'm a South Indian at heart."

Sunday marked the first ODI in a triangle cricket series between Australia, India, and Sri Lanka. As my friend drove me cross town on his motorcycle, the thought crossed my mind that my sunglasses would not protect me from a crash. Mother would be proud of my judgement. With an Indian win, an afternoon of home-cooked food and Kingfisher beers, it was a successful day when we merged onto the city-center airport fly-over.

True to all Indian construction, there's an overwhelming mix of labor, chaos, and an underlying magic in any completed project. Whereas there is continuity in an American or European project, in that progress is noticeable, in India progress seems to exist only as a finality. Sites are littered with laborer tents, squalor and sadness, dust and debris. There are no cranes, but only men. Women carry pail after pail of dirt on small head pans. Cows meander through the maze of bamboo shafts that support what may become a building. There is not the technology of Dubai; There are not the infinite cranes of China. There is only toil and tiny tasks, iterative enough that they amount to eventual change. And then, suddenly, in the fog of night a site goes from 200 Bihari hard-hat workers clambering over bamboo shafts to massive glass buildings. Despite a circumspect eye, it's hard to determine how such transformation is possible, or even when it actually happens. Apparently, though it's not normally noticeable, someone involved knows something about what they're doing.

One Goat Head, Please

On Saturday before my Hyderabad flight departure I spent the morning wondering the grotesque alleys of Old Delhi near Jama Masjid. Dusty blankets mark personal plots of concrete, a frenetic sea of traffic slithers through the streets, jamming up against the slower bullock carts of fruits. DVD shops blast Bollywood hits. A three-year-old finds empowerment as he drives pigeons into the sky, and an 18-year-old mother in a brilliant salwar chemise giggles. The steps are littered with beggars parading pitifully before the shaded and stoic tourist with an SLR camera. Their hardship is, however, not exaggerated, but the artifice in their positioning makes even missing limbs a hard sell. The sadness and frustration well up, but a dishonest tout quickly transforms this to anger. I offer a smile and a Hindi greeting to an elderly man, but he demands more.

On the street men sit around a small radio pulling back the facial skin on a pile of severed goat heads. I pause to stare in curiosity. I look down and realize the softness under my New Balance is a goat ear, flavored with the spit of a passing driver’s betelnut paan. The squeeling horn of a rickshaw clipping my heels quickly refocuses my attention. I shuffle through the crowd behind a cluster of women in burqas, and locate the rusty steel sign that points to Karim’s, an alley-side restaurant.

As we enter Karim’s, a famed meat restaurant, and we purchase our lunch, I’m able to separate my plate from the outside world. Compared with the mall-lined friviolity of Gurgaon, Old Delhi is, if not trendy, at least authentic. The men and women who line the streets live their own lives, not pandering to tawdry Western style and mediocre clubs. Despite the palpable squalor that manifests itself in sights, sounds, and smells, somehow I find that the encountered cultural authenticity is sufficient to refresh me.

Office Shenanigans

On Friday I was told, “good luck,” at least a dozen times after my willingness to participate in an office-wide Indian roast. I was to sit on stage and field questions from hundreds of coworkers, and tested critically on my wit and ability to respond to inquiries like “who killed the dead sea,” and “why is a manhole cover called a manhole cover?” Bollywood sound cues told me if my Shakespearean wit had failed or won the crowd.

When the tables turned and I was able to ask questions to my counterparts, I asked the office director, “Who’s a luckier man, Saif Ali Khan or Abishek Bacchan?” For those not versed in Bollywood gossip, Saif and Abishek are movie stars married (ostensibly in Saif’s case, based on recent reports and the large arm tatoo of Kareena’s name) to gorgeous Indian women, each with his own set of virtues and vices. For example, Saif has royal blood, and is a decendent of a former cricket captain and Nobel Prize laureate, while Abishek is married to Miss World Aishwarya Rai but lives in the shadow of his father, a man known across the sub-continent on every billboard and whiskey ad as the “Big B.” My question alluded to one obvious consideration, though the director parried my blow with a deft non-sequiter and a smile offering to keep it “family safe.”

Again, I asked, “in cricket, why are the ‘slips’ the guys with the surest hands?” After good laughs, laconic wit, and a general attempt to embrace the awkwardness that comes while sitting in front of 200 co-workers with an umbrella drink, being judged with Bollywood jingles, and walking the line between humor and homelessness, I survived.

Mid-Week Beats

India allows for a bizarre dynamic of challenge and ease, discomfort and glamor. As our car pulls to the front of Ministry of Sound, an overweight, akimbo bouncer in 11pm sunglasses steps aside as my Rajasthani friend Vrinda and I make our entrance.

Inside the beat is part Punjab and part American hip-hop. The crowd is college local, and the drinks are surprisingly expensive. For 200 INR apiece, 700 percent mark-up on a Kingfisher is no deterrant to the visceral beat calling me bar-side like a Siren.

Punjabis, light on their toes, with undulating motions beckon us to the dance floor, and we cut through the fog and strobing lights with our well-practiced moves. We return the exchange of culture later in the night, as knowing Will Smith lyrics and preemptively enacting moves in the form of cheesy lyrical dances markedly improves our coolness.

Our 2am return on N8 from South Delhi to Gurgaon leads us through the toll plaza of inefficiency. Lack of lanes and laws leads cars to infinitely wedge into narrow points of entry, and the arbitrary price of 16 rupees means that each car must wait for a dilatory man to open packs of change, and dispense 2 small coins to each driver. Where are the Bobs from Office Space when you need them?

Tiger Team

Friday marks departure for Rajasthan and Ranthambore National Park from Delhi. Departing from Bikaner House bus station near Khan Market, my Hindi comes in handy when I spout the phrase, “yaha bus jaipur se jana hai (this bus is going to jaipur?).”

After an iPod night aboard the bus to Jaipur, we arrive and check into our small hotel for a few hours of needed sleep. The car from Jaipur to Ranthambore is nearly five hours, though the distance is minimal. Roads are littered with oxen, doddling rickshaws and lumbering trucks for which our horn is a futile tool. Half way through the drive our grinning driver surprises us by pulling a DVD screen from the ceiling and putting on a faux-violent and typically disultory Hindi film.

Staying at the Raj Palace in Ranthambore, our facilities are nice, and are markedly improved by the warm sunshine, Kingfisher, and Ben Harper I play from my portable SonicImpact speakers. But not all is lost, as we have tiger-printed sheets and curtains.

Our first safari is unsuccessful, but we manage to spot crocodiles and paw prints, ostensibly fresh, but impossible to validate. Reminded of my September safari in Tarangire National Park in Tanzania where zebra and wildebeast became banal sightings, our initial enthusiasm for deer dwindled as scores ambled in the dry forest.

Five AM on day two tiger team has better luck. Traveling with two other Stanford kids and my Egyptian/Californian friend Heba, we cut through the frigid morning air as a hooded possie on the top of an open-air jeep. The tigers don’t know what hits them.

Our first spotting includes a tigress 10m off the path sleeping under a tree. As our unfortunate driver, hit by a branch as we careen down the dirt path, bleeds from his eye, we attempt to evacuate the park prematurely. Perhaps our second tiger sighting is a karmac reward for our selflessness, as it walks down the path toward our speeding vehicle. Pausing, we let it draw close, within 3m of the car until it nonchalantly graces by the front bumper and into the brush. With a heavy step, it powerfully takes deliberate steps, impressing the elusive paw prints into the soft dust for future jeeps to discover.

Satisfied with our fortune, we play soccer with Indian tourist kids, peruse over-priced Kashmiri carpets, and begin the return journey to Jaipur and Delhi.

Defense Ministry Invitation

Rating up there with my morning at the White House Nobel Prize reception, and the Chinese Film Festival at the U.N. Office at Geneva where the unlimited fruit tarts define Anna’s conception of Heaven, tonight we attended a closed ceremony organized by the Indian Ministry of Defense. Sure, that’s normal right? I suppose if your friend’s uncle’s friend sets you up as is typical of both Indian generosity and bureaucracy.

Our driver, tentatively nearing the Presidential palace walls, drove toward a cadre of armed, khaki men. With the flicker of a generic white envelope, a smile, and claim as “Mr. Scott,” no not the Brazilian footballer, but the invitee, we entered the gates.

The end of the Rajpath is not unordinary, and is nor inaccessible on normal days, but this week it resembles an armed fortress due to the National Day holiday. Surrounded by taller-than-average men in khaki poised aside beeping security terminals (ostensibly metal detectors without enforcement), the ceremony for the Ministry was held on the Rajpath opposite the India Gate. The scene reminded me of Latin American airports. Between the “your machine’s broken” argument and the “empty your pockets” demand, the former is a much easier battle to win, a consequence that likely makes your life easier to lose.

“The Beating Retreat” as it is called, includes a live marching performance of the massed bands of the three services at Vijay Chowk. In immaculate order, and adorned with at least one hundred bagpipers, we witnessed a wonderful Indian ceremony obviously directed at the adorned men who had arrived in 1990s stretch Mercedes. We didn’t mind.

At the end of the night, after the men retreated into the night, the camels that had lined silhouetted against the sunsetting sky gently moved down the porticos to a point where their unique form belended into the graying stone of night, all building edges instantly illuminated in a Tivoli moment. It was Disneyland magic slash Copenhagen on the Sub-Continent. Just as the harmony of trumpets and campanile bells was echoing into silence, the lights ignigted an erruption of cheers from the crowd, and we departed.

Delhi Nights

In an area called Defense Colony in South Delhi, I held a table at Barista where a cartwheeling four-year-old out my window gyrated in competition for attention with James Joyce sitting before me. While her smile lit up when I’d turn my head, I knew the futility of her act, and was saddened by the cold fact that it was driven by penury, and demanded by her mother. I turned my gaze back to the reflective words of Joyce on the page that had been before me for minutes, my thoughts tumbling through all but the storyline. I joke that my still reading the book “Dubliners” a week into Delhi is a testament to the Dublin pub life.

After a short wait my friend from Stanford arrives, and we catch up over tales of Google.org and the World Bank. I appreciate good company, old stories, and the broad smile she brings into an otherwise solitary weekend. She’s responsible for the Bank’s Malarial medication outreach on the sub-continent and reflects on the difficulty of compliance. A few hours pass and we walk to a nearby friend’s apartment in Defense Colony. I like to call Defense Colony the Coronado of Delhi because similarly, as you probably would not wish to provoke a bar fight with a Navy SEAL, there is a history of martial population. This is an interesting contrast to the Lotus Temple, a Baha'i house of worship and peace, that I visited earlier in the afternoon.

On an outdoor balcony, and over a few Kingfishers we discuss Punjab and Joyce. I reflect on Delhi with Dubliners. Making our way to another nearby home where two friends are throwing a party, the surprise of serendipity strikes again as a friend from work, and another Indian girl whom I’ve met at the gym saunter into the small living room gathering 10k miles from California. The crew is comprised of UNDP workers, members of the World Bank and French and Dutch embassies. Fulbrighters and venture capitalists, microfinance, and those fighting age by adopting a remote life wherein adventure can preserve youth.

I feel at home with this group, and I’m invited to join a local football team called “CNG Car” with Dublin backs, an Italian keeper, and the promise of letting me play up top.

Dubliners

My week in the Dublin office offers me a chance to hit the ground running, albeit in the rain. Having set up 30 meetings, my workday requires the endurance of an Ironman, the intensity of a sprinter, and the agility of a decathlete, but at night I learn the Irish saying “Sober as a Judge,” and its late night spoonerism “Jober as a Sudge.” Over a dozen pints of Guinness, it’s Irish courage that comes about, not Dutch, and friendships blossom.

A Thursday night Brazilian party teaches me the ways of FoHo, as I miserably explain my dance failing in Rio de Janeiro to two Brazilian ladies from Goyaz, and recount to a Valencian, my poignant tale with the Girl from Ipanema, one that concluded with a long kiss goodnight, splashing puddles, chasing a taxi cab in the rain, and the consolation of two Brazilian bouncers who longingly annunciated the word “Belleza.” He philosophically rationalized that deeper understanding could have revealed incompatibility. I told him of my faith in the world, as on my return to California a guitarist aside me in a café began playing the “Girl from Ipanema” as my thoughts spilled onto a journal page. I approached the man with a coffee and told him, “I know her.”

On Friday I met had a night out of Buckfast, a potent Irish drink, with a dozen friends from India. Spilling into the night with all the Dubliners about whom Joyce wrote a book by that very namesake, my friend Giovanni and I made it home by 5am. Recounting memories from our time as roommates in Barcelona, comparing stories and perspectives Italian and American, and finding solidarity in our joint appreciation of Doesoevsky, I remember that true friendship can endure. After three years, we did not skip a beat.

We see Monets in the Dublin City Gallery, the Book of Kells at Trinity College, the National Gallery, and then meander the streets about which Joyce writes. St Stephens Green and Nassau Street, Merrion and O’Connell, Grafton and Mulligan’s…

Saturday concluded with a Dutch party that I attended with twenty friends from six continents. Conversations sparked in French, Italian, and Spanish, and topics varied from Biarritz surfing with a South African to discussion of Japanese alphabets with a Brazilian girl who has studied Arabic and Mandarin, pursuing the same focus in her life as I’d like to in mine, namely international diplomacy and economic development.

Aboard my flight from London, the sun began to rise over the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan. Jagged snow-capped peaks revealed a country beyond CNN. Deep rifts held dangerous mystery, but somehow it looked innocent, untouched, and beautiful. In a part of the world most troubled, as we flew with Kabul and Islamabad out of my leftside, 747-window, I envisioned an alternative. Looking at my moving flight map, turbulence introduced a palpable fear dictated by the ubiquitous regional perceptions, but as I turned my eyes to the cold glass of my window, I was saddened by an unfortunate corruption of a beautiful land.

Belgian Beer and Harvard Law

Attending an amazing two-day session with a Harvard Law School war crimes delegation, to which I was invited by one of my best 2L friends, Albert Chang, I was fortunate to listen to and discuss cases with lead prosecutors and defense attorneys at the International Criminal Court (ICC) and International Criminal Tribunal for Yugoslavia (ICTY) in Den Hague. We met with the lead prosecutor for the Serbian propaganda chief on trial in the ICTY. Though I visited the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda in Arusha, Tanzania in September, I was not able to enter. As I scanned my passport and entered the metal detector, it was fitting that my security agent was a Tanzanian with whom I could conduct similing Swahili banter, and mention the fact that I had a beer with his national team’s goalkeeper, Ivo Mapunda.

I was struck by our meeting with the lead ICC defense attorney for Charles Taylor. How could one stand with the conviction to defend a man who has allegedly sold arms to fuel war in Liberia and Sierra Leone, endorsed or at least not opposed the use of child soldiers and diamond mine exploitation? In his black and gold-rimmed glasses and gold watch, the bedazzled persona of Charles Taylor makes a difficult case even tougher. It’s difficult to consider how the cost of extradition, in that it’s likely a reasonable assumption of guilt, influences the perception of justice for the convicted. ICC has historically acquitted far fewer than 10 percent of cases, so then is the role of defense attorney merely a formality? I pensively drew lines in the condensation on my Belgain beer glass as an articulate man explained his belief in justice and reconcilliation as separate processes.

From The Hague we journeyed to Amsterdam where I walked the canals with Simon, my buddy from Munich. I visited my favorite gallery, and constructed my own version of the FT’s “Perfect Weekend” column, a feat that included two pre-India McDonald's burgers eaten in about 1 minute.

Head and Heart

After visiting 17 countries across four continents in 2007, my new years resolution focused on far more personal and athletic goals than adventurous ones. Adventure is but one piece in a composite that for me approximates happiness. It is one piece that along with beauty, love, wisdom, and respect, creates an environment in which happiness can flourish. Man is assuredly defined by his choices, and not by his abilities. A desire for ability can infiltrate choice, and though my choices have remained adventurous, priorities that define choice are beginning to evolve away from my monolithic perspective.

I began my year with an intimate and powerful human spark, but my preordained choices revoked me from an immediate potential that my heart demands. Despite a love for adventure, the illuminating smile of a new friend indicted my priorities, and made me, in days, question the choices that have, for years, defined me.

At the time when my heart calls for California, my head has selfishly dictated alternate circumstance. The future thrusts its way through the present, an omnipotent but transient moment when the possibilities of the future become the memories of the past. I am resigned to the Stoic, in the classical sense, reality that I can only live the choice that I have created, which today, is another life in India.

As I departed California I was fortunate to have the companionship of great friends. The company we embrace makes the experiences we cull from life also the ones we cherish. Flanked by some of my best friends – Californian, German, Italian, Dutch – I spent 10 days en route to India, between Eindhoven, The Hague, Amsterdam, and Dublin.

Dhola Ri Dhani

Upon morning arrival from Bombay, I began my last week in Hyderabad. Tuesday evening our team had reservations for a Rajasthani-themed restaurant on the outskirts of town called Dhola ri Dhani. The restaurant featured not only camel rides, a Rajasthani puppet show, a magic show, and innumerable other attractions, but also choki-styled seating and traditional dinner. As expected, our team of six exhibited remarkable enthusiasm for the location. With child-like energy we bounded from one activity to the next, accompanied by a man in a dancing horse costume. The Rajasthani puppet show featured puppets juggling fire, and the magician promised to retrieve someone's ring from my nose. He gave me orders in only Hindi, so somehow the ring ended up in the middle of a tomato instead.

The choki-styled dinner is one in which you dine seated at a small table. Dinner requires not only that you manage spices well, but also that your knees can withstand a couple hours of awkward pillow repose aside a stunted table. For me the former was not a problem, but the latter left me limping to the sink to wash up. After rounds and rounds of food, raita and dal, sweets, kulchas and gobi and aloo (all veg), rice and curd, I managed to convince the waiter that 'Nai, nai' was not embarrassed courtesy masking hunger, but was bona fide, 'Do not give me any more food or I will wipe my curd-encrusted fingers all over your turban.'

We finished up the night with Gujarati hits (out of theme, of course) and a little post-meal dancing. After an impressive demonstration by one of the girls on our team, (a former Indian Idol finalist!), we packed up the cars and left Rajasthan.

Whirlwind Weekend

With the arrival of Anna on the sub-continent, we set off on a whirlwind India tour. Starting with dinner at Bukhara, the acclaimed 'Best restaurant in Asia,' and '50 Best Restaurants in the World,' our first day in Delhi was one for the books. Beginning with a 5AM airport arrival, we toured Delhi until 10PM. From the Qutb Minar to the Red Fort, National Museum, Rajpath, Old Delhi, we ravaged Delhi's tourist attractions in a successful effort to keep Anna awake. While we did make the mistake of walking the Rajpath from the Gate of India to the Secretariat in 45 degree C heat, this was imperative preparation for our upcoming stint in Udaipur, Rajasthan. When we had reached the Secretariat, having engaged in a nervous and jocular banter with two guards carrying machine guns, my mouth was parched and shirt soaked. An oppressive blanket of heat stifled every pore in my body, and I could feel the pulsing blood in the back of my neck. As even short distances began to present themselves as insurmountable obstacles, we decided to text Permeshwar, our Bihari driver, for more AC touring.

On Anna's second day we drove from Gurgaon to Agra to visit the Taj Mahal, and then we flew to Udaipur for the forts and palaces for which Rajasthan is famous. A Jet Airways flight full of Italians, and an hour later, we arrived in Udaipur. Upon arrival we were reminded by our taxi driver that Bond's 'Octopussy' was filmed at the Lake Palace, now a Taj Group hotel. Although we tried for drinks there, popularity means that prix fixe is now the only sky-high reservation option. We spent the day meandering through the serpentine streets, playing Lewis Hamilton with the cows and rickshaws that kept us alert.

Low season in Udaipur means high temperatures, but little traffic. We had a private tour of the Monsoon Palace, another gorgeous vista over the arid Aravalli Mountains. As we looked Westward, little obstructed our view toward Pakistan. We had lunch at the nearly deserted Devi Garh, a five-star palace hotel featured in my Bollywood favorite, Eklavya. While it was the preferred location for Liz Hurley's wedding, its intimate size precluded it from being a finalist. With JW Blue Label on rocks in hand, we took a tour of its offerings.

After two days in Rajasthan we set off for Bombay, and our last stop before I had to return to Hyderabad for my final week of work. Mumbai offered stark contrast, and as we flew down Marine Drive at sunset, looking at the glowing orb set over the Arabian Sea, illuminating the skyline of Malabar Point, nostalgia began to set in. We settled into our Churchgate hang-out, and walked Colaba for a night out with two Nariman friends in Indiana Jones-style, Leopold Cafe. After street-side paan, and snaps of betelnut faces, we headed for 'Not Just Jazz by the Bay,' a trendy establishment in Churchgate that, at 1am, offered pretty faces and unlocked doors.

At 5AM I jumped a taxi for a 7AM flight to Hyderabad. In a rattling suicide mission to the airport, my taxista got me from Churchgate to Bombay International in 15 minutes flat. It was the type of drive for which the flicker of headlights and horn suffice as warning for our intersection crossing. Brakes are not used. While I could have buckled-up in the back-seat, what good is it at 'Mach 2 with your hair on fire.'

Amritsar - Kes, Kangha, Kara, Kirpan and Kachcha

On Saturday our Air India flight touched down on the scorching runway of Amritsar, Punjab (and our landing gear did not fail)! When we arrived, we were met with heavily armed and bearded men on the tarmacadam, but an otherwise tranquil airport surrounded by languid construction. I say languid because in 48 degree C heat nothing moves fast. While Felipe stopped to smoke a cigarette at arrivals, we observed the slow unloading of bricks from a large truck, the half-constructed drive that was to facilitate taxi drop-offs, and were soon swarmed by the pre-pay taxi brethren. Upon arrival the crowd provoked my assumption -- Adam Smith's hand might work even in the Punjabi desert, and this means fair price -- but alas, all worked for one price-fixing pre-pay taxi monopoly that charged us an outrageous 450 Rs for a 5 minute drive to our hotel. With absolutely no alternative, scarcity was on their side, and not ours.

We arrived at La Cascade, a boutique hotel in Amritsar after a bumpy ride inside a non-AC Tata Indica. Passing turban-clad auto drivers, motorcycle enthusiasts, charrioteers on horseback with large bullock carts piled sky-high with everything, we made our way through the small city of 1 million plus. After a relaxing AC stint, fantastic lunch of border-style food served by a dapper gentleman with a dedicated mullet, we took an auto to the famed Golden Temple.

The Golden Temple is serenity in marble. Using the same Pietra Dura style of the Taj, with inlay marble designs, the Golden Temple is surrounded by a grand and shimmering pool, and white marble portico. Men and women with heads covered slowly shuffle bare-footed over the cool white marble, between you and the sparkle of the water. Bright and matching turbans punctuate the piercing white reflection of marble, water, and gold, and accent the flowing cotton that hangs toward the smooth marble walkway. Reds, blues, greens, pinks, intricately wrapped atop the heads of tall, bearded men with grand features, penetrating eyes, and aloof, friendly stares. Men who embody and espouse the Sikh panj kakke, or five symbols of faith, men with uncut hair (Kes), comb (Kangha), clinking steel bracelet (Kara), slung knife (Kirpan), and undergarmets (Kachcha) reverently glide by.

Many ask to snap pictures with us. I too ask a man and his young son to pose, showing them the magic of Panasonic in recreating the Golden Temple and them in miniature. Though the rectangular walk around the pool is small, we spend 2 hours in rotation, as prayers echo through the heavy hot Punjabi air. With my covering and beard, I trade my sunglasses for laughs with a few local kids who flip their collars for my film, grin and giggle, and demand nothing more than conversation.

From the Golden Temple we took a rattling Tata 30km to Wagh, the border between India and Pakistan. Over good roads, we drove at speeds that should have driven cool air into the cabin but at 116 degrees F, I had trouble keeping my eyes open. In the oppressive heat the glare of the sun was omnipresent, dry, and heavy, and I found my body beginning to shut down. Unconsciousness was closer than sleep, but there was little alternative. After an hour on the road, we arrived at the frenetic border area. Immediately accosted by flag, beer, food, and DVD vendors, we soon traded currency for refuge at the cost of 120 Rs and an overpriced, fly-encrusted 'Thunderbolt' Beer (only sold in Punjab). When the gate opened at 5pm, we were the first through.

The Wagh border ceremony occurs daily between Indian and Pakistani troops. Crowds gather on either side of a heavily fortified border, and military pomp and circumstance elicits innocuous, but nationalistic pride on either side. Chants of 'Hindustan' echo over the razor wire to the similarly-dressed, kurta-clad fans on the Pakistan side. The safron of the Indian flag unfurls in the wind before we sun dropping westward over Pakistan. And the green and white crescent of the Pakistani flag flutters before those who've made the trip from Lahore, capital of Punjabi Pakistan. After much trumpeting, chanting, stomping, marching, and stepping, the flags are lowered in tandem and folded, the border gates closed, and ceremony closed.

At dark we returned from Pakistan by road, a period that was reminiscent of driving in America not because of sanity so much as driving on the right side of the road. Our driver, in an attempt to pass every moving truck and bullock cart, every motorcycle and auto, every lingering animal and rival Indica, drove at least 75 percent of the drive home on the wrong side of the road. Regardless of oncoming traffic, a flicker of brights, honk, slight swerve, and nonchalant glance at the passengers sufficed for survival. In support of Darwin, we tipped him well upon hotel arrival.

And after a 90 rupee Punjabi Thali dinner at a local hole-in-the wall with bingo night, an outdoor stroll, and cycle-rickshaw home, we made rest for fantastic day two in Punjab.

Tandoor in Tollywood

Last Wednesday we were invited to a restaurant opening for 'Tandoor,' a nice new joint in the Hyderabad Lifestyles building. Upon entry, the flashbulbs were popping as they mistook us for the important guests. We shook hands with the owners, two friendly Punjabi men with bright turbans, flowing beards and clinking Kara, the iron bracelet that's symbolic of bondage to truth and freedom in the Sikh faith.

The scene was one out of Hollywood, or Tollywood, rather, as the glam and glitz crowd began to gather under the dim lights and lightly pumping music. The sparkle of glass, swish of fabrics, and the ever-important glazed eye stare as though one were looking for everyone and no one in the transitory moment of flashbulb bliss. We were amidst that languid mix, partaking in a night of free drinks and revelry, punjabi food, sitar and tabla, and self-important entertainment.

While they rolled out the red carpet for Tandoor in Tollywood, our photos didn't grace Page 3. Next time...

Priyanka to Punjab

While I was quick to exalt the glories of the Little B's new bride, Aishwariya Rai, I overlooked another Indian Miss World in Priyanka Chopra, the stunning Punjabi beauty. Last week I watched the Bollywood stunner, 'Don,' also reputed as the Matrix-reloaded-in-India Shah Rukh Kahn response to Ethan Hunt. While thrown for some laughs by Shah Rukh's one liners, I was also enraptured by the skillful martial arts of Priyanka Chopra. Upon reading that she's a former Punjabi Miss World, I decided a trip to Amritsar, Punjab was in order... well, only half kidding. I already had my tickets to Punjab, but Priyanka was added impetus.

On Friday, after a hilarious night out at a testosterone-heavy Hyderabadi joint, we boarded our 03:45 SpiceJet flight for Delhi. Due to allegedly bad weather, the flight was inevitably late, closing the ever narrow margin of time we had before we were to board our Air India flight for Amritsar. Once our two-hour window had shrunk to 25 minutes, and after meek apologies and mumblings by our half-conscious stewardess, we dashed from the plane with an impossible task. Delhi Airport, unlike any airport in the world, is disconnected from its international counterpart. And not only are they disconnected, there is no shuttle (or an infrequent one at best) that forces one to take a 15-minute pre-pay taxi to get to the other side of the airfield. Fun, sure, but not when your flight is departing in 25 minutes. We shoved our way into a taxi, demanded speed, and then stuffed a hundred rupee note into the complaining fingers of our driver when he demanded $10 for his trouble. To his indignant huff, my only laconic response was, 'We don't have time for this,' before our dash inside.

Once we'd entered Delhi International through the staff entrance, as it was closer and we were nearly maniacal at this 7AM point, the Air India counter for Amritsar was closed. This was a half-relief, as the last two Air India flights about which I've read have involved failed landing gears, but we were still on a mission, so safety came a close second to Priyanka. Shuttling between the counter and the back office, I audaciously cut in line. To the hypocritical holler of those aunties standing nearby, whose conception of 'Line' was dubious at best, I tried to apologize for SpiceJet's typical negligence, and eventually got a point across. Utilizing the magical approach of one in-front, one behind-counter, we managed to convince an automaton employee that the customer is always right. A non-existent flight materialized, we passed through customes and into a departure hall filled with flights to unlikely destinations like Kabul, and 30 minutes later we were boarding a Dubai-bound flight with a stop-over in Amritsar.

We were finally Priyanka, and Punjab, bound. And what we found was not only miss-world hot, but other-worldly hot.

Indian Futbol

Last week I stayed up all night to watch the Champions League semi-finals in India. Liverpool and AC Milan will again meet in the final, though this time Athens, and not Istanbul, will be host to the inevitable magic. Football is the global game, and I can attest to its veracity. I've juggled a ball with a beach-side Rastafarian in Jamaica, played pick-up at the base of Annapurna in Nepal (above), performed slide tackles on gravel roof-tops in Quito, played over a net in Brazil, inside a netted pitch in Italy, and on an imacculate court in Hong Kong. But I've not played in India.

If you consider India, you realize that football is really only 5/6 global, because 1.09 billion people in India do not play football, or if they do, they're not good at playing football. Since being in India I have seen football. All the EPL matches are broadcast and Champions League gets great coverage on Asian ESPN. But hardly any youth plays, and the pockets of passion seem few and far between. Goa and its Portuguese past is an enclave of football, and West Bengal, with Pele's brief '60s visit, has inspired a predominately Brazilian following. Kerala too has a smattering of futbolistas who I did see cristening some wet sand near Kovalam, but games are Spartan at best, and skill levels paltry. Although there is a domestic league, anecdotal evidence suggests that it's only minutely popular in those states listed above.

It's hard for me to imagine how a country of 1.1 B can't put 11 good players on a pitch, but it's true, and FIFA's Blatter had no qualms saying this in his recent visit to India. India is ranked 165 in FIFA global rankings, a dubious distinction that places them as ranking worse than St Lucia, Turkmenistan, and Andorra.

If you think of having a one-in-a-million athlete, India has 1100 of them, and they only need 11 footballers to create a winning roster. That means that they need one good player out of 100 million people. And this one person out of 100 million doesn't even need to be Kaka or Messi or Sevcenko or Drogba... just a player able to propell India to rank higher than Turkmenistan.

When India requested that FIFA revise its WC team allocation to include more from Asia the response was curt but frank (no, not the proper nouns). India and China can do a lot of things well, but putting the ball in the back of the net isn't yet one of them. When I want to watch the Champions League Final on May 23, it may be with some local friends. But when I want to kick the ball around, it'll be Felipe, my ex-pro Futsal buddy from Murinho's pre-Stamford Bridge home of Porto, Portugal.

Ruminating

Three weeks from today my Indian Airways flight will depart from Hyderabad for Bangkok. After a week in interim, between Cambodia and the beaches of Krabi and Samui, and the quick highlights of Seoul, Korea, I'll arrive back home in San Francisco, California. It's currently a mix of emotions, as my departure will mark a close to the time I lived in India. It will end an exciting and fascinating chapter in my peripatetic life abroad, and has broadened me infinitely.

Six months ago I did not know that I'd have the chance to live in India. Nor did I think I'd have to chance to visit 10 more countries, explore secular Turkey, travel solo through the Middle East, relax in the Maldives and trek in Nepal, bathe with elephants in Malaysia, and hopefully see the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat in Cambodia's Siam Reap. Life comes at you fast, but opportunities are not inspired by fortune; I firmly believe that they're the consequence of assiduity and resolve. In my final weeks in India, I'm trying to take a step back from my experiences and enjoy the day-to-day nuances of life here that make it different from my life in California. India cannot delude itself into yet thinking that lifestyle here is on par with that of other developed nations, but there are unequivocally pockets wherein you can find parallels.

I've undoubtedly lived a privileged life in India. Between 11 drivers and a 2000 sq ft marble-floored apartment, I realize that my daily life has been the furthest thing from ordinary. But it's hard to apply Western, or American, conceptions of luxury in a country where population, labor supply, and a generally low cost of living allow for formerly upper crust services to become simply above average. What I mean is that in India, even non-essential services are quite cheap because the demand for work is high. I saw an ad for a local Hyderabad apartment in which for under 4k Rs, (~$100) you could live in a furnished, all-amenities apartment fit with daily maid service. That standard cannot compute in the US. So while I accept, and sometimes deplore, our extreme privilege in India, it's not entirely accurate for me to judge my living standards with an American eye.

Many of my co-workers dine at the fanciest restaurants and call their favorite pub "Dublin," the posh underground bar at the ITC Sheraton. Granted they're IT wizzards who are doing well by local standards, but it's difficult to know exactly where to draw the line. There are discrepancies in certain prices, for example Hyderabad rent vs San Francisco rent, but flight costs are identical. So while local wages are based off the purchasing power parity of essentials like food and rent, there are certainly global disparities. The fact that I'm paid in dollars affords me certain relative privileges not shared by my Indian co-workers which are accentuated in certain spheres, such as travel, when no alternative exists. An Emirates flight to Dubai costs the same despite the currency of the salary. And that flight is cheaper to a Brit, and cheaper still to the Maltese.

Reflecting on this allows me to understand, if still feel indignant from, specifically "foreigner costs". Ecuador does it terribly with flight costs to the Galapagos Islands. It's less extreme in India, but a 1000 percent mark up for a white face is common. Charminar in Hyderabad, but one example, charges 10 Rs and 100 Rs depending on skin color. Despite my beard and floundering Hindi, I can't escape the "foreigner tax."

Some of these ponderous situations require introspection for which words do little justice. I should pay more, but yet I don't feel as though it's fair or right. And while I'm happily willing to donate, and likely would, I'm indignant at the fact that the color of my skin demands a higher price, especially despite my local status, burgeoning knowledge of Hindi, and growing appreciation of India's rich diversity. It's the typical, 'I'm not a tourist, so don't treat me like one,' mentality. But at root, I am a tourist, I am paid in dollars, so wihle it's "unfair," it's probably "right."