The Love Issue

Lado Sarai, South Delhi

Sunday 13^th February 2011

Who’s reading this?  The thought occurs to us from time to time.  Mostly, we’re writing for ourselves as a record of the adventure and the ‘moment’ in our collective family history.  I’m personally enjoying doing a bit more ‘creative’ writing (and attempting to model this for M who struggles with writing, finding it a bit of a drag) rather than the drier, technical meter I have to use for my medical writing.  But we also hope that it’s keeping our family and friends in-touch, beyond what we’d ever manage in individual emails, letters, fuzzy Skype encounters and texts.  It’s important to us all, the kids particularly, not to feel forgotten in that Other World where we really belong – and will return to, soon (too soon? WD and WM sat on the steps of the Mosque yesterday, revelling in the other worldliness of Old Delhi, trying to figure out how we could stay all summer, longer  – but, fear not, we will come back as and when we’ve promised).   We apologise if the blogging is too long or too tedious – dip in and out, please don’t feel obliged to read the continuous output, comment, let us know you’re out there… (We long to hear your news too, however February-ish and full of economic and political gloom it is.  It’s a bit like our need for toast and Marmite…) And perhaps there are other interested or lost-on-the-internet parties out there too? I looked at the blog statistics the other day for the first time and was astonished and slightly alarmed to see that our pages have been viewed in South Korea, Denmark and China.  What must they make of the WolfGang?

It’s very nearly Valentine’s Day (surprisingly a big deal here) so let’s do a themed ‘love’ issue…

We love the Delhi Metro. We rode it from Saket to Chawri Bazaar and back yesterday, 16 rupees (c. 20p) one way. The concourses are huge and clean-ish; it’s speedy and efficient  (compared to an hour in stalled traffic in the back of an auto on Sri Aurobindo Marg, breathing in a lifetime’s quota of particulates this afternoon) ; public information is polite (‘Contact customer care centre for guidance if required’) and you know where to wait for the Ladies’ Carriage by the pink floor tiling (which reminds me of a certain brand of tampon’s branding) and even the unruly men are herded into queues when awaiting the arrival of the next train.  ‘Ladies’ only’ happens in India in acknowledgement of the ‘Eve Teasing’ and worse that women routinely get round here.  Beware the wrath of women where the sanctity of the Ladies’ only carriage is broken – there were reports of a long delay on one busy train, where men tried to ride in the less crowded ladies’ carriage – police had to be called after the ladies took off their shoes and started beating the male imposters.  I love the civilised, friendly, gentle atmosphere: women smile at us, there’s a mutual appreciation of each other’s ‘babies’ (even M is my ‘baby’), people invariably make space for children or older women to sit down.  There’s even interesting targeted advertising: emergency contraception, ‘Toss it’ (still not entirely sure what this product is for, your hair or noodles?) and Lip-Ice (‘Nice Girls Pray, Lip-Ice Girls Prey’).  It is probably the only time I access this female version of India. We feel so sorry for WD riding in the packed next carriage. I love the young urban Delhi women getting out there, with their gazelle eyes and tight jeans, reading text books or listening to their MP3 players.  W was given a pink rose by one of this glamorous breed  – he’s  announced  that he’s going to keep it ‘forever’ and wasn’t in the slightest embarrassed by all their blown kisses.

School girls in the Jami Masjid

We love Old Delhi, Shah Jehan’s city, a bit changed by the intervening years.  The density of the place is overwhelming. Stepping out of the metro and into a street stuffed with a continuous column of people and cycle rickshaws, motorcycles,  porters carrying great boxes and loads on their head, the pavement a chaotic, living river of barbers, beggars and pedlars and tea stall boys, is both thrilling but terrifying, especially with the three children in tow.  Forget trying to cross the road here, even surviving the pavement is challenge enough.  Watching out for our combined 100 digits as cycle rickshaws came perilously close through the narrowest of back streets or dodging vats of frying snacks demanded full attention. The bazaar meanders off in every direction, through tiny dark alleys, with each area a different, specialist ‘department’ – we wandered through plumbing and bathroom fittings, engine widgits, bike repairs, electrical goods and wedding stationery.  We managed to  turn up to the jami or Friday mosque, just as it was closing for lunchtime prayers so had to find alternative distraction in the Jain bird hospital.  This animal sanctuary had an intensive-care ward full of poorly, bandaged pigeons (“Mummy, what’s the matter with that one?”) and a semi-comatose kite being sat on by a less sick peacock.  They really need Rolf Harris.  It made a big impression on M but L was more interested in the naked Jain ‘sky’ monks. WD’s base carnivore needs (fuelled by a session at the Jain Hospital?) were more than adequately met by Afghani grilled chicken and roti. I was a little affronted on our return to the mosque to be made to wear a pink and orange polyester sac, over what I’d considered to be respectable and culturally sensitive clothes – I’d even brought a headscarf.  I was certainly exposing less flesh than the Indian ladies going freely about in saris.  My ire subsided a little, as I realised that every Western woman, regardless of age or outfit, had had the same treatment, and was replaced by mirth at how ridiculous we all looked.

But you do have to wonder about what it is we represent, that is so troubling as to require universal bagging?  M and L are also beginning to question why some Muslim women cover-up (and some don’t) and the degrees of their cover (from the headscarf, to the hijab to the burkha), so we’re into all those perplexing arguments of culture and religion and identity and personal freedoms…Reassuringly, we met some splendidly sassy school girls there who entertained our children no end.

We love Laila o Laila! (a famous song from the 1978 Bollywood film, ‘Don’, starring the one and only Amitabh Bachchan).  Click on the link to check it out on U-Tube. Our L is named for the Layla that drove Majinun to madness in his love for her.  Important to have a legend to live up to, isn’t it Juliet?

We love fizzy drinks (in moderation, of course) – whether Fanta, Sprite, Coke, Pepsi, Limca or Thums Up - the more lurid the colour and sweeter the better.  In the absence of alcohol, nothing else is quite as much fun.  W wonders what would happen if you poured Sprite in your ear or Coca-Cola down your willy.  An experiment we’re not proposing to carry out…Fizzy drinks are first-aid for frazzled and over-heated kids, when more nutritious refreshment is on hold and things look likely to deteriorate fast... An instant sugary, teeth-rotting, diabetes-inducing, perk-me-up that we just wouldn’t succumb to at home, but here makes sense on occasion. 

  We love Mughal tombs (in moderation also though).  South Delhi is full of dead Mughals. I particularly loved Humayun’s tomb where we went this morning.  Humayun is the Great Granddaddy of Shah Jahan and the guy who fell down the library steps, distracted by the call to prayer.  It’s supposed to be the model (WD: or one of the key architectural antecendents) for the later (by 60 years) Taj Mahal. We got up early to try to reach it before the tour buses arrived and before the early morning light deteriorated into the dirty daytime haze, whilst there was still dew (or sprinkler water) on the grass, whilst the birdsong was still vibrant…and just about managed it. Arriving with the merest hint of mist still, the white dome of the main tomb did have a heavenly glow about it, above the ornamental fountains and tranquil gardens.  W and L occupied themselves constructing their own tomb and gardens out of gravel and twigs whilst WD did his photography, getting especially filthy in the process.Their efforts lacked the symmetry and proportions of the Mughal architects but nonetheless had charm.

L and W tomb building



We love the Simpsons.  Of all the DVDs we’ve brought, the Simpsons rank as the top family viewing. We are getting to the stage when almost anything can be illustrated by reference to the relevant episode:  choice of faith (when Lisa opted to become a Buddhist and made friends with Richard Gere), alcoholism, GM food (when Marge was driven to grow her own veg), Hamlet… L was wondering if we’re a bit like the Simpsons – durr! That’d make WD Homer and W Maggie, so I’m not so sure….

And I love the WolfGang - slushy moment of public affection, allowable on the grounds of diminished responsibility, after three months away.  I know that the children’s fighting, and sometime unruliness, is a frequent theme of the blog but that doesn’t in anyway diminish my pride in their resilience and fortitude.  We’re asking so much of them every day and they just mop it all up, leaving me way behind on details of Mughal dynasties, reminding me of Hindi numbers out shopping and teaching me Vishnu’s various avatars. I know I will miss the intensity of this time together when it’s over.  Loving and kindness is the key, to quote my eldest daughter.  She’s on to something there… And WolfDad, you know how I feel about you, even on a bad day when things are really not going right, so I won’t embarrass you - although it’s quite tempting - by putting it out there in cyberspace.  Before this gets more saccharine than orange Fanta, or even Mango Frooti, I’m going to say I’m really happy to be here with you all.

Anyway, we send you lurrrve (minus the flowers and cupids and…) W is making Radhika a card, L is sending tonnes of animated e-cards (check your inbox) but M thinks it’s a silly nonsense. I felt touched (or slightly stalked?) when I received a text valentine –only to realise that it had come from Airtel, my mobile provider.