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."

Sherwani Fingers

During my last weeks in Hyderabad, I’ve tried to take in as much as possible. Last Sunday was my day to don the Sherwani at my friend, Mandar’s, wedding reception. After a brief Saturday Maharashtran ceremony, we met up Sunday for some snaps with the couple, mingling, and banquet hall dinner. It was a fantastic night full of laughs, as friends from office came in jeans and polos while I dressed to the nines in traditional garb. Though I lacked the curl-toed shoes fit for Sherwani, my traded sandals with Sayeed, our driver, accented my attire, and saved me from the brunt of the jokes.

My one frustration for the night stemmed from the inevitable trauma that standing and eating creates. It’s worse in India, because not only are you standing and eating, but also it’s hot, and you’re eating with your hands. Sure, by using your hands you avoid those awkward fork-knife moments when gravity and dexterity demand the need for more hands, and there’s that unfortunate reality that one must hold the plate. But then there’s the added problem of sullied fingers… dal and rice in the nails, butter paratha smeared on the knuckles… and the non-existence of napkins! Oh no, I thought, in my internal Jerry Seinfeld voice, what am I to do? I had just finished dinner and conversation, was asked for a photo with a few new arrivals, and went briskly for a napkin. None to be found… and what with the plates, you might ask? Yes, I thought of that too. But the napkins were maliciously stacked in with the plates in an alternating color-coded pattern, white plates and yellow napkins, and all napkins from the top had been swiped. Think, think…

Now only napkins 15 plates deep still protruded their angular corners from beneath the circular rims of heavy porceline. I tried for one, but after a moment of slippery fingers sliding over the napkin, dripping delectable masala from their tips over the pristine white plates that would serve others, I cringed in embarrasment. Now what? Smiles, the offer to shake my hand… 'I’m sorry, one second.' All at once I was struck with an epiphany – my pants! Of course - beneath the side of my Sherwani lay a slit up to the thigh, and beneath, the textured cotton of my pijama that knows its place as substitute. With a deft and furtive swipe amidst askance onlookers, I made my move and shuffled the painted fingers over cotton, front and back. At long last, I was free… free of the dal makhani and murgh malai that had encrusted my right hand.

In a moment of triumph I almost called out, beckoning the curries. In perhaps my greatest challenge in India, I had prevailed. I had escaped the impossibility of the napkinless moment when my fingers became my nightmare.

Living on all Sides

I started my Saturday morning with the Times of India and a Kenyan coffee at Cafe Coffee Day. While not as posh as Barista, it's an Indian version of Starbucks that offers a cosmopolitan touch to any morning. From behind tall windows I sat inside over a frothy mug, staring out at the busy street ahead. Tall buildings and billboards surround, and only upon lowering one's gaze does one see the manifold rickshaws and passers by who betray the fact that I'm still in India. From the menu I cannot tell, but from the prices, it's apparent that we're not in Kansas anymore... ok, maybe Kansas.

Pockets of developed middle-class life exist in India for sure, but it's still pockets. In watching Guru, a recent Bollywood hit, this weekend, I see these pockets exemplified and magnified. Perhaps for few, but not for many. The Bollywood sets do bring India to life to the tune of a snappy beat and to the scene of a beautiful gyrating human, but it's India in a vacuum. I would never argue that Hollywood exemplifies realism in America, but I do think that more Americans can draw parallels and empathize with Hollywood storylines. The dichotomy between the average American life and the Hollywood movie life, and the average Indian life and the Bollywood movie life, is in my opinion, larger in the latter. But that's my opinion after 4 months and movies...

It's interesting to me because even after over four months in India, after two hours of watching Guru, beautiful Aishwarya Rai whirling under a Karnatakan waterfall, and second-class sleeper train Bollywood sets, I forgot that India has immense development challenges ahead. The Bollywood set glazed over poverty with a little make-up, avoided sanitation issues by showing Aishwarya plowing a pristine field in the rain, and convinced me that even a second-class sleeper car could be fun... with a soft 40-watt glow, bobbing beauties, and a bit of hay tossed on the floor for that agrarian touch, I had an idyllic longing to be stuck in close-quarters for an overnight journey... with Miss World Rai.

As I spent Saturday afternoon plowing through the Charminar crowds of central Hyderabad, surrounded by poverty, extreme population density, unsanitation, and the gamut of street animal life, I can only hope that my perception of Hollywood is less obfuscated by American idealism than Bollywood's is for India.

After shopping for glass bangles, and removing my shirt in-shop for a free Rajasthani block printing lesson in Charminar, we retired for dinner and later for drinks. As we paid the 1200 INR ($28) cover for Ahala, a posh Hyderabadi club, I looked around the linens and skirts that fluttered under the strobe light and undulated to the pulsing music. The pocket is undeniable, but in a city of 5 million, it's hard to imagine that many more people than were in the room could have afforded to be in the room. When we exited we got a hug and hello from a messy-haired guy in a Monaco Grand Prix t-shirt. Turns out he's a movie director. I guess if this is the life you live, the Bollywood set don't look all that inaccurate.

Extreme India

India offers, like most large countries, a diverse topography. From the dry Deccan plateau in the south, hemmed in by the Western and Eastern Ghats and sub-tropical southern lowlands... to the Gangetic plane in the North, spanning across Uttar Pradesh... to the tea plantations of Darjeeling, Scotish highlands of Shillong in the far North East... to the Himalayan hill stations in Himanchal and Kashmir in the Northwest, to the arid deserts of Rajasthan in the far West... it's diverse. Many of my Indian co-workers see it as unparalled in scope, but this is myopic, for America, even Ecuador, have impressed me with equal diversity. In truth, topography is never, or rarely, distinct. But one trip abroad will prove this.

In the last few weeks, I've experienced extremes of India. I participated in a Rajasthani pilgramage to Amer Fort outside Jaipur in the sweltering, parched heat of the desert, and two weeks later was admitted alongside sadhus into a South Indian temple for the solar new year in Tamil Nadu. Both locations meant friendly inquiries, crowds, heat, beauty and squalor. The walkway up to the Amer Fort in Rajasthan was lined with beggars of every deformity, in the worst states of penury. With an arbitrary flip of a coin, the sari-clad women ahead of me would pass unsentimentally to the top. My throat was clenched, and my coins were not enough. The futility, the sadness, the reality of life, the stoicism, the shallow feeling of support, the coyness of philanthropy, it was frustrating.

Two weeks later, on the road between Trivandrum, capital of Kerala, and Kanyakumari, the southern-most tip of the sub-continent, I stopped off at famous temple. I was traveling alone, and hired a car for the day, as the bus schedule would not permit for my hasty Hyderabad return. My driver, a worshiper of Devi -- an incarnation of Parvati, wife of Shiva, (yea, it's complicated) -- was pretty excited to be headed to Kanyakumari. It's not only the tip of India, but it's also a sacred Devi city, and the location of Vivekanandra's famous meditation and spiritual epiphany. And Sunday was a festival day.

So after roadside puja for the Devi idol on the dash, we stopped at a Tamil Nadu temple. At 7am I was admitted to the temple despite the fact that I'm non-Hindu, a rare event. Without a shirt or shoes (though not in mandatory dhoti or sari), I was allowed inside in Hawaiian-bought O'Neil boardshorts. I was the only foreigner, and stood alongside sadhus and other worshipers as we passed through the darkened, damp, stone passageways which were lit mainly by oil lamps. There were men chiming bells, many colorful women crowded around idols, waiting patiently to catch a glimpse of an elusive golden statue comprised of Brahma, Vishnu & Shiva, and shuffling past me with eyes fixed. Toward the end of my time in temple we encountered the hoisting of a Devi, Shakti or goddess, and Nandi Bull, carrier of Shiva, statue by a dozen skinny-armed, dhoti-clad men. Amidst candles and chanting, under the cool canopy of stone that encapsulated us in time and moment, the men hoisted the statues above their heads for a Tamil Nadu solar new year procession. It was truly exceptional.

We continued onto Kanyakumari, where I was taken in by a local Karnatakan family who escorted me around the Vivekanandra temple and monument. I survived the over-cramped barge ride to the island thanks to the reassuring grip on my bicep from my host-father. He did not speak English, but would nod and smile, and held both his 14 year old son, and my arm as he guided us onto the undulating barge.

Boarding anything in India is sheer chaos. The transportation is invariably moving, and single-file "lines" are notoriously wide and convergant. Once aboard, I was given a seat and a history lesson. The exciting thing about traveling solo in India is that you're never alone. My cricket jersey prompted innumerable questions about whether I was affiliated with the BICC, and my beard meant half the time the hello was in Arabic. Salaam Alaykum. At all times I was surrounded by five people asking where I was from, if I was married, and how I reacted to the spicy food. California, not married, food no problem. Same same. Sunglasses prove refuge from eye contact and engagement, and I found myself wearing them more to secure moments of solitude amidst the inquisitive but friendly crowds.

India's diversity allows a panoply of experience, sometimes extreme, trying, always fascinating, and invariably expanding.

Operation "Malaysia"

Over the long Easter weekend I was able to rally three others for a trip to Malaysia and the Petronas Grand Prix Formula 1 race at the Sepang Circuit. I'm not an F1 afficionado, but I firmly believe in coupling experience with exotic location. We did international cricket in Chennai, and a horse derby in Mumbai. If you're going to ride a camel it should be in Dubai. If you're wanting to ride an elephant and see F1, why not Malaysia?

Upon Friday arrival from Hyderabad via Chennai (Anna International Airport), we checked into the swish Mandarin Oriental at around 7am. Upon arrival we knew we were in for a weekend, as aside from innumerable Travel & Leisure awards, the lobby was adorned with the F1 Ferrari pit crew. I say adorned because an F1 entourage is comprised of more than just drivers and mechanics. Let's just say Ferrari isn't the only *model.

Our Petronas Tower suite was pretty sweet, and our 21st floor vista put us 20 under the double-decker skybridge that made 'Entrapment' more than just another Catherine Zeta-Jones film. We spent Friday meandering the city, snacking on dubious roast duck in a dingy streetside eatery, pondering the notorious Durian and its unfortunate smell. After Chinatown, we survived the scorching equatorial heat by absconding to the shaded park where the national mosque and butterfly farm were kept. And following a poolside evening, mojito in hand, watching the sun set over a James Bond infinity pool and South Asian skyline, we dined at a hard-to-find, but exceptional, restaurant.

Our concierge at the Mandarin, a man who not only remembered all our names, but our room number and preferences, recommended the Gulai House. A former mansion used to house visiting heads of state, when we arrived we realized that we were the only table. Dining with a wait-staff of half a dozen on an immaculate jungle-fringed, white-pillared veranda, we thought of our fortunate circumstances. As thunderclaps and gray rain clouds obscured the moon and bats circled above, there was an eerie perfection about our grand solitude and privileged night. But a car was called, and we returned to the Mandarin for our next adventure...

On Saturday we journeyed north two states to an elephant sanctuary called Kuala Ganda for relocated elephants. Surprised by the immaculate and streamlined Malaysian infrastructure, we were able to cruise at nearly 180 kph, autobahn-style. When we arrived, after feeding the elephants by handing them chopped bananas, cucumbers (which most did not enjoy), and watermelons, we rode elephants bare-back until it was time for them to bathe. With half a score of baby elephants only 2-3 feet tall, we splashed around in a muddy-banked Malaysian jungle river. Their vibrant energy, loud playful shouts and trunk waving induced euphoria in the cool water. Hairy-backed, big-eyed, and clumsily independent, the elephants were truly endearing. After an hour in the water, and half a day at the sanctuary, it was time to return to Kuala Lumpur (Kuala=river, Lumpur=muddy, this name in reference to its former history as a mining town, primarily for tin). Upon return to KL we unsuccessfully attempted to enter a VIP BMW F1 party. Given our elephanty smell and disheveled appearance, our surprise was that we were not ejected sooner!

On Sunday we made our way from the Mandarin to the Sepang Circuit, the F1 course 50km south of KL. Via subway, train, bus, taxi, running, and bus, we made our way to the race. The incredible infrastructure of KL proved itself again with enabled remote check-in for Malaysian Airlines from the train station, 12 hours pre-flight and 50km from the physical airport. Not to worry, we got our seat assignments, boarding passes, and confidently checked our bags before watching BBC and seeing Google news on the speeding bullet train to the airport. Coming from India, the word novelty is a relative understatement. Once to Sepang the traffic was appalling. A bus and taxi proved ineffective so we ran for it, 2km down a sweltering freeway through bumper-to-bumper traffic. At the checkpoint, the impetus for chaos, a cop asked us how we'd arrived. When we stated we'd ran, he smiled and said 'Welcome to Malaysia,' a funny line at the time given that his response indicated that he thought we'd literally run from abroad.

We eventually arrived at the Sepang Circuit about 20 laps into the 56. The audible buzz of cars signaled our arrival before sight could confirm affirmatively. We mounted the hill station that was our uncovered 40 ringit seat ($13), and endured the heat that was 56 degrees C' on the track. I'm not quite sure how we survived, but we managed to track Alonso and his McLaren car to the checkered flag, and enjoy our debut with the global F1 craze.

Next year, Monaco.

Indian Work Bash

Whereas in the States a corporate party will yield sparse turnout, terse small talk, jaded mumblings about office goings-on, and on the whole, the material that served as muse to Scott Adams and the director of Office Space, in India it's quite the contrary... at least at my job. Weekend offsites and team building camps are known to inspire 100 percent turnout, even when they spill over into other holidays. A going away party last week that ran late into the night proved no different.

After renting a local hotel space, and convincing (with little effort) 100 percent turnout, general revelry ensued. While we initially presented gifts to our departing manager in the form of framed pictures, books, a t-shirt, a 7 minute video produced by a teammate, the night soon devolved into a jack-of-all-trades variety show. The mike was passed, and no one could escape the eyes of 25 co-workers fixated on you as you had your limelight. Even those cowering in brightly colored saris could not escape the inevitable move of the mike, and one girl was literally forced into Kashmiri song.

I decided to make the most of my moment, as hesitation merely signalled weakness but offered little escape, engaging the rest of the group into chanting and clapping while I did my favorite Bollywood dance to the beat of Dhoom 2, a catchy number from a recent Little B (Bachchan) film. Others were far more cultured. Although we heard a less than PC impression of an American President, we also heard songs and dances from Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Maharashtra, Karnataka, Kashmir, and Manipur. It was a fascinating look at the diversity of India. On my team of 25 we had six states represented in song, dance, and language.

Following a plate of Indian grub, more Bollywood dancing and multilingual songs, we took off for the night. Although this picture is completely unrelated, it's my good friend Arjun fondling his precious Luminary Award, offering at my request, lines from Lord of the Rings. As he speaks 15 languages fluently (including Swedish, Tamil & Swahili), he's lucky I don't ask but in English. Arjun is not only my cube-mate, but his namesake is the historical hero of the Mahabarata, the fabled archer who faces moral dilemma. I'm fortunate to still have my thumbs (see Eklavya).

Hyderabad Nights

This past weekend, due to inadvertant flight mishaps, we spent much of the weekend in Hyderabad. On Friday night I organized a night out to a local pub called Escape that is known to host the Cricket World Cup on big-screen. An email chain, drivers, and and a rampage stop at the local Nike store for last-minute India team gear later, we arrived en masse at Escape in time to watch the boys in blue take to the pitch.

With an embarrassing loss to Bangladesh behind them, and up against Sri Lanka, it was a must-win situation in intro play. To advance to the Super-Eights, they had to defeat the Lankans. Wearing an Indian flag wrist band, armed with Kingfisher and dutch courage, and sporting the Indian jersey, we excitedly began our night of cricket. India was bowling first. Having held the Lankan team to around 180 runs after 42 overs, a reversion to pace bowlers coupled with aggressive batsmen left the target at a solid, but doable, 255. Having conceded more runs in the final 8 overs than in early powerplays, the last of the bowling was dubious, but didn't set the stage for impossible.

While the pub closed after the first inning, at the end of Indian bowling, we returned home to a couch and cokes for a bit of into-the-night cricketing that left us missing our SpiceJet flight to Jaipur (read post below). After a bit of duck hunting by the Lankan bowlers, Malinga and company, Sachin and other Indian stars had fallen. Indian dreams of an '83 repeat died with each wicket, and the swan song for Sachin was a duck, or getting bowled for a wicket after having scored no runs, a pitiful parallel to Zidane's football World Cup exit, albeit sans tete.

Well, and so you have the Indian World Cup story, as told from the frontlines of a Hyderabad pub. Saturday night was an local expat melange that ended with paparazzi and the girls making the 'Hyderabad Times' above the fold. Us lads weren't so lucky as to make the newspaper, but lucky enough to share the table.

Despise Spice

This morning we made our way to Hyderabad's domestic airport at 5:30AM. After a night out watching India's unfortunate Cricket World Cup loss to Sri Lanka, we were running a bit late, and asked our driver to speed a bit. Asking one to speed in the States means adventure; in India it's nearly asking for an accident. At 100 kph, we sped over curving roads, darting through red lights with a flicker of brights and a smatter of honks, braking only slightly to allow careening buses to rage past us. At 5:45 AM we arrived at the airport. With no bags to check, a guarantee from Spice authorities on the phone, and tickets in hand, we were sure we'd make the 6:10AM flight. Flights are notoriously late, lines are short, and without bags, we could, and literally were expecting, to do this in our sleep.

When we arrived at Hyderabad airport, we were met with the staunchest intransigence I've ever faced. Not only were SpiceJet employees unhelpful, their strict interpretation of rules and policy became entirely unreasonable. While we attempted to reason with them for minutes, as our flight time approached even nearer, we grew impatient with their meek rationale for why their 'closed system' would not issue us a boarding pass. The SpiceJet employees, a quibbling, mumbling cadre of red-clad, brain-dead automatons who were hired only for their desired ability to mindlessly repeat policy tag-lines, were perhaps most frustrating to encounter at 5:45AM. When reason fails to make an impression, braun may prove equally ineffective, but far more enjoyable a method to vent frustration. At one point I shredded a paper, widened my eyes, slammed my hand down on the counter yelling through the still falling confetti of SpiceJet paraphanelia at a camel-eyed supervisor who stared back with indifference.

After forcibly missing our flight, exiting the airport in a frustrated 6AM huff, our only consolation was that SpiceJet would offer us a ticket on the next available flight, tomorrow morning, same time, same place, same automatons. So tomorrow we embark on a 10-hour stint to Jaipur. Faced with sunk cost, the allure of a day in Rajasthan only slightly outweighs the unenjoyment I've come to expect from SpiceJet that's sure to again be our morning rooster.

Paradise Found

Paradise exists in a cluster of coral atolls a few hundred miles west of Sri Lanka. In the equatorial archipelago of the Maldives, marine life abounds just off the white sand beaches and palm fringed coast line of nearly 2000 islands.

My direct flight from Bangalore on Indian Airways landed me in the capital city of Malé, a densely populated muslim city housing around 300,000 sardine-packed into small alleyways and streets. The fifth ward, not New Orleans but Malé, is actually a separate island accessible only by ferry across the turquoise water.

According to the Economist, Malé is the most densely populated city on the planet, and is riddled with poverty, squalor, and saddness. What I found in the capital city was quite the contrary. Friendly, relaxed individuals ambled through streets that, by comparison with India, seemed empty, clean, and tranquil. Those with whom we spoke had a calm ease, and did not seem worried by over-population or global warming. Our travel agent spoke about 'consulting the Google God for answers,' the latest NBA scores, where Madonna stays when she frequents the Maldives, and why he admires Steve Jobs for creating beautiful machines. Abbu, introduced himself in jest as 'having the same name as the monkey in Aladdin,' a '90s Disney movie.

The people we met in Malé were traditional in dress, relaxed in spirit, and cosmopolitan in view. They had exposure to composite culture through their resort status, and seemed to make the most of such adoption in an admirable global perspective. Abbu works in a travel agency, but owns two power macs, an ipod, does web-consulting, and is building his own home. He frequents coffee shops alongside the coastal football pitches in the evenings, measures distance in the number of cigarettes it takes, and explained that an island taxi operates on a flat rate. Abbu was not exactly what I expected from the Economist article, but he's demonstrative of another side to Malé in the Maldives.

Outside Malé, we stayed at a resort called Lohifushi, now renamed Hudhuran Fushi. About 40 minutes North of Malé by speed boat, aside Club Med and Four Seasons islands, the all-inclusive resort is stunning. Turquoise and blue water laps at white sand on all sides, and palms nestle with thatch-roofed beach bungalos. The island hosts beautiful house reef and thousands of butterfly, sun, and parrot fish. Snorkeling, we saw two black-tip reef sharks about 3-feet in length, with fins and shape to make you think twice about following them around. On two scuba dives, we dove to 12m off an open-ocean coral shelf, and were able to see inside a small cave.

We also endeavored on a surfing expedition to Sultans and Honkeys, a beautiful point break hosting both a left and right, just outside Lohifushi. We surfed the 4-6 footers, bantered with a group of local sea-plane pilots, and confronted one of our ship-mates on her surfing ability only to find out she was the European Champion. After getting caught inside, battling through the chop to re-board the dhoni, I gnawed on a bit of coconut and enjoyed the placid waters that are truly host to paradise. With salty skin, board upright aside, coconut milk on my hands, I gazed into the green and watched a large Moray Eel slithered its way through a glittering rainbow of fish just below the surface.

Bangalore

My second trip to Karnataka was on the famed 1 Rupee Spice Jet flight from Hyderabad to Bangalore. This was my first trip to the capital to the south of Andhra Pradesh, and I was pretty stoked to arrive in the IT hub about which I'd heard and read so much. I was impressed with Bangalore. While the IT mecca is undoubtedly still India, and Indian in its frenetic energy, traffic, polution, smells, character, and feel, its tree-lined streets with large banks and corporate giants were perhaps even reminiscent of the Bay Area, California.

I spent my Wednesday stint in Bangalore with two friends with whom I'd traveled to Corbett Tiger Reserve in Uttaranchal a month or so back. We had a wonderful evening near Bangalore's MG Road (Mahatma Ghandi Roads are in every city in India). Flanked by international chains such as Lacoste and TGI Fridays, we ate atop a building at a lounge called the 13th Floor. With Australian cricket on the tele, a cold Kingfisher in hand, and a vista over the skyscape of Bangalore and its Ministry building, we could have been anywhere. It was a glamorous setting fit for New York or any cosmopolitan setting, with the prices a good bit lower than our vista.

After riding motorcycles into the night, slowing only gradually to cross major intersections, I was struck as we pulled into the parking lot of an HSBC. Nine months ago I stood at the base of the HSBC tower in Hong Kong. Tonight I was sitting on the back of a speeding bike through the balmy Bangalore night, pulling out midnight Indian Rupees at a local HSBC, en route to surf in the Maldives. Life is fast, and the opportunities afforded are both fleeting and enriching, and those simple moments of contrast, reflection, and appreciation really bring to life the exceptional.

Ode to Frankies

First off, this blog post is long overdue. Never did I imagine that I would wait so long to recount the delicious wonders of Indian street frankies, the delectable 32 rupee morsals bought at steaming Tibb's Frankie stand in Begumpet, Hyderabad near the Lifestyle Building... ah yes, these are the days. Frankies are not of the Ballpark. They are not squeezed from a tube, nor are they endorsed by Michael Jordan. A veritable Indian taquito, the Tibb's Frankie adds an egg, chicken tikka and onions in a sub-continental slam dunk to what I've otherwise found south of the border.

In California we have a place called In-and-Out, a place where a 4x4 is more than a truck, and more of a dream. It is a venue for which mere thought inspires salivation and longing, a place where cows and potatos meet their maker, or at least their eater, and a cleanly joint where a dreary day can turn, at times, even magical.

Tibb's Frankies is this, and so much more, because in its greatness are layered the surprise and wonder borne from the fact that such a tastey, joyous thing can be created out of so dubious a location. From the sullied parking lot of the Lifestyle building, from the dreary street corner aside perpetual construction, a small glowing red sign beckons one to stop, to question, to order, and to taste greatness in all its Mumbai, franchised glory. An unlikely turn landed us at the sign that was to be our siren song, and though we have tried to blind our eyes to its ebullient glow, to wax our ears and to bind our hands like Odysseus to the mast, it is of no use... we eat Frankies at least twice a week.

I know not what Frankies will do to me, but what I will do for Frankies...

ISB Balling & Liquid

While we're still missing out on the Indian 'national sport,' hockey, by Wikipedia's definition, we have played a bit of local basketball pick-up at the Indian School of Business (ISB). ISB is an enclave of slience and peace in the midst of an otherwise hectic but vibrant Hyderabad. It's, to my knowledge, a one-year MBA program that's expensive and taught by American faculty from Wharton and Kellog. This week we took to ISB, and introduced the Iverson cross-over to the sub-continent. After about three hours of pick-up basketball on a slippery concrete floor, we left the manicured lawns of ISB's idyllic setting.

Although the week was incredibly hecitc, with conference calls at 7AM and 1AM on the same day, Champions League games to watch, dinners to attend, trips to plan, etc, we made due. Tonight we topped it off to a trip out to dinner at Fusion 9, and a night at the club with Liquid. Convinced that we'd seen Tollywood stars, we ordered a hookah and kicked back for the evening, looking out over a glassy skyline filled with half-constructed edifices and cranes. Actually, the term Tollywood star is a bit of an oxymoron, so we sat ponderously gazing into the reflective glass, slightly jaded at the fact that we'd been moved from our table to make room for those more C-list spenders than ourselves. While not the skyline of Barcelona or Istanbul, not the scene of Dancatoria or Leb-i-Derya, the atmosphere was a contrasting alternate-side to the faces we see on Hyderabadi streets daily. India continues to strike and enchant me as a nation of extremes.

Holi Hyderabad

After a momentus but hectic 10-day trip throughout Northern India and Nepal, we were in good need of rest this week, and so decided to remain in Hyderabad. It only eased the decision that our company cover band was playing at a pub on Friday evening, that we could play cricket on Saturday, and that I'd be able to fully recharge with some downtime and good old-fashioned reading about pirates, namely, 'Cup of Gold' by John Steinbeck. I'm usually a proponent of reading where you are, but after a tepid experience with Rushdie I figure the read where you're from logic with Steinbeck applies as well.

After a fitting at the tailor, we spent Friday evening raging away at a local hotel club. The band, which is comprised of our friends and coworkers, does ecclectic covers from the Cranberries to Metalica to Bon Jovi. The turn-out was great, and we closed the place down, staying out near to midnight!

On Saturday it was rise-and-shine, a 7am wake up and drive to the cricket grounds for our match. A 12-over match, we were up to bat first. I was happy, as I didn't get bowled for a duck, and I did eat a mean Frankie on the bench (veg or non-veg taquitos a la Indian). I was, however, bowled out on the second toss, but with one ball wide I'd scored a run (inadvertantly). After setting the target at nearly 170 runs, we took to the field. I managed to field a few balls without error, and would have had an ESPN highlight-reel catch if the short concrete wall had not jumped out to undercut me mid-stride. Luckily my complaint about no warning track and subsequent wipe-out was after I'd already bowled out my buddy Greg!

Sunday was officially 'Holi,' a strange but playful Hindu holiday that consists of 'throwing color' at other people. Colored flour and tastey chemical dies create a rainbow of colors at street-side stands and shops. A few rupees buys a whole array of fun to throw at your friend, and ruin his morning if he's bound for a five-star brunch. Well, we didn't 'play Holi,' but 'Holi played us.' We were attacked by a pack of hot-pink youth on our morning 5k run, and were again targeted by our own managers in the parking lot. Our ride to the Taj Krishna hotel, and lavish bruch thereafter, was tainted, literally in color, by the Holi flour that covered us from head to waste.

An afternoon clean-up, Bob Marley at our complex pool, and a dinner at the Mariott topped off a rather lavish day of hotel brunches and relaxation. All and all, it was what we needed post-trip, laying the groundwork for more inevitable adventures to come.