Travel, 27 July

It was short day of travel today, as we went to only three places of interest. We began with a visit to Sector-1 in Chandigarh. It is here that the state Assembly and High Court buildings are located along with the symbol of Chandigarh, the Hand.


The architects of Chandigarh had planned for the Republic Day parade and other large gatherings to be held in this location. As such, a large paved space exists in front of each building – stretching close to a mile between the Assembly and Court buildings. However, the Chandigarh politicians have chosen not to implement this policy. As a result, apart from an open field popular with youth playing cricket, Sector-1 remains atop a hillock, distanced from the rest of the populace and desolate in appearance.


We next visited Manakpur Sharif, a Sufi shrine dating to the 18th century.

The Sufi saint was of some importance as there is a large gate at the entrance of the compound with many other Muslim graves and mosques surrounding the main tomb.

In addition, there is a large water tank with steps in front of the gate. This tank implies that the shrine was an important place of pilgrimage and celebration, water representing cleanliness and life. Reaching the shrine requires a rough drive over a washed out muddy road and flowing stream. In a sense, this shows how history is hidden in the Punjabi countryside.

I’ve visited this place several times over the years and each time the gate has been gifted with new coats of paints and given more attention to the details of its beautiful architecture. For its age, the gate has been immaculately preserved. Many a Bollywood film and Indian music video have used this place as a backdrop.



Along with a visit to the shrine, we walked around the village of Manakpur – situated in the immediate vicinity. The design of the village is similar to most others in Punjab. The narrow streets are cobbled or dirt, with high compound walls on each side. There is a single main street, representing the outer ring of the village, splitting into narrower alleys to reach other homes. Gates open to reveal courtyards, in which buffaloes are tethered, and cots laid out for sleeping, Living quarters surround the courtyards.

There is an open sewerage system with narrow channels lining the sides of the main street, merging into a large canal that empties into a large tank. The tank is full of duckweed, an aquatic plant known to cleanse and add nutrients to water. The economy of the village revolves around agriculture, with plots lying outside of the village. In addition, persons would be employed outside of the village.

Our last visit of the day was to the Pinjore Gardens. These Mughal gardens were designed in the 17th century during the rule of Aurangzeb. Unlike other Mughal gardens, the seven terraces at Pinjore descend instead of ascend into the distance.

It’s a lovely spot spanning many acres and includes an elaborate system of waterways and fountains, orchards of fruit trees, and other plants common to the Indian subcontinent. In addition, there is a Japanese garden, vulture sanctuary, lawns for picnics, and a variety of birds.





Before returning to the hotel, our drivers dropped us off at the McDonald’s. Though we ended up eating somewhere else, I would like to note an interesting tidbit. McDonald’s in India offers four sizes of drinks and French fries: small, medium, large, and Patiala. Patiala, formerly a princely state, is a city in Punjab. Patiala is known for larger things, huge turbans, billowing pyjamas, and the Punjabi peg. It is for the latter that McDonald’s has created a unique size.

As the story goes, the Indian cricket team was to play the better English team. The night before the match the Indians convinced the English that in Patiala people drank a 6oz peg of whisky versus the normal 2-3oz. The next day the Indians easily beat a sluggish and very hung over English team.

Another night out

25 July

A large number of us went out to a club last night. Dj Sanj was playing and rumors promised that he would play bhangra and other Indian music. We were not let down in this regard, as he played to the desires of the crowd. Much like club going in America and England, we got ready then gathered in a hotel room and preceded to booze it up. As one person put it, it really sucks to stand in line sober. In reality, the heat and humidity here guarantees that whatever alcohol you put in your system is sweated out while you’re standing in line.

I almost didn’t make it inside the club. I had paid my Rs.500 ($11.50) and had my wrist stamped with the word INVINCIBLE when the burly bouncer patting me down felt my kirpan (Sikh religious dagger). At once he denied me entry and rightly so, many confuse the kirpan as a weapon. To come to my defense, it wasn’t as if I was just some white boy wearing a kirpan. I was representing a form of traditional Punjabi-Sikh identity, replete with a neatly tied navy blue turban and a full-length white kurta. I protested my case to the bouncer commenting that a Sikh’s kirpan is not to be removed to fit the desire of others.

I continued, inquiring if amritdharis (Baptized Sikhs forbidden to part with their kirpan) were also banned from entering the club. Still denied entry, I lifted my voice and said that the kirpan, like the turban, is a gift from the Guru. It was here that I saw some sympathy flash in his eyes. An older man with his beard tied and a baseball cap covering a bandana, covering his hair, (i.e. a Sikh) moved next to me and spoke up. He argued for me, stating that I was Khalsa (another term for amritdhari). To be historically correct, Guru Gobind Singh declared that all of his Sikhs were the Khalsa.

The bouncer let me in. Once inside, the older man stopped me and shook my hand, commenting that he was proud I was sporting my Sikh identity and not backing down when questioned. He said that too many youth in Punjab today are not wearing turbans and shave their beards – fashion rather than tradition leading their lives. I really enjoy tying a turban; I take great pride in completing my attire with it. Besides, if women can accessorize with a handbag and heels, why can’t men sport a colorful turban.

We danced up a storm and had plenty of energy after the club had closed; too much in fact. Outside the club, we were told by a police officer, wielding a lathi (wooden club), to stop making so much noise. We had been singing and dancing in a circle, practicing songs we had been learning all week from a traditional singer and dholi (drummer). The young Punjabis around us enjoyed our presentation, too bad Mr. Grumpy Pants in his silly khaki beret didn’t.

Travel, 20 July

It was a long day of travel today. We went to Paonta Sahib, on the West bank of the river Yamuna in the state of Himachal Pradesh.

It was here that the tenth guru, having been forced out of Anandpur by the Mughals, settled for some three years and patronized Sikh art and literature.

On the way back to Chandigarh, the car I was riding in had some excitement as a passing motorist scraped along the right side, tearing off the driver’s mirror and denting in the front panel. Were it not for the quick reaction of our driver, sliding to a stop and turning to the left, the oncoming driver would have clipped the front-right side of our car and either spun us off the road or worse.

Travel, 19 July

Not the best morning for me. Many of us had partied hard the night before, drinking games and charades. My stomach and head were suffering but all seemed to be well for the journey ahead. In the end, Indian driving (weaving, horns, and sudden breaking) and traffic fumes facilitated our driver making a sudden stop so that I could jump out and projectile vomit my breakfast on the ground – much to the delight of several large black ants who hurriedly collected bits of muffin and curd.

We first visited Punjab Agricultural University, located just outside of Ludhiana. A museum has been set up that features information about and articles used in Punjabi villages. There are examples of farming equipment, a Persian well, musical instruments, clothing, vehicles, and homes. We also looked over the private collection of books and manuscripts of M.S. Randhava, an important figure in the preservation and presentation of Punjabi and Sikh art. In fact, it was under his tutelage that the village museum was begun and maintained.





Our next stop, and my favorite community to visit, was with the Namdharis at Bhaini Sahib. On the way there, the monsoon arrived and dumped much rain on us with gale force winds. It was a spectacular drive and I recorded some of it on video.


The Namdharis are a sectarian group within Sikhism who recognize a living guru. They are best known for wearing white homespun cotton (khadi), strict vegetarianism, patronage of traditional musical forms, and beliefs & practices that deviate from mainstream Sikhism and lean toward Hindu practices.



During colonial rule, the Namdharis, then known as Kukas for their cries of devotional ecstasy, were against the modern practices introduced by the British. In reaction to the British law courts, the Namdharis instituted village panchyats (village councils). They also created their own telegraph & postal systems, patronage for indigenous forms of learning, and began the movement for swadeshi (Indian made goods). Gandhi took up the practice of wearing homespun cotton, though little credit has been afforded to the Namdharis. In addition, the clothes I have made in India are of this type of cotton.

Evening walk

19 July

After dinner tonight Punnu, a participant in the program, and I went for a walk. Wandering through Sector-22, we saw the [Saturday] nightlife of Chandigarh. Shops remaining open were quite busy with many, and more than usual, middle-age men crowded at the edge of the parking lots. Young men were apart from them, crouching on scooters and standing in pairs talking on their mobile phones.

Punnu and I concluded that if we were to walk in a square, as Chandigarh is divided into grids, we would eventually make it back to where we started. That sort of worked out until we followed a curved road. We discovered and paid a short visit to a gurdwara, recharging our spirit for a jaunt through darkened streets and past people hurrying home to their families. As we walked the landscape changed from a partial shopping district into residential housing units and later, apartment buildings. At one point, we were walking down a narrow street and heard a motorbike approaching from the rear. Despite moving to the side of the road, there was the squeal of a brake and the bike gently rear-ended Punnu – pushing him forward but not injuring him. The rider muttered, “I’m sorry” and then struggled to straighten his bike and rode off. From his original trajectory, I assumed he was pulling into a driveway but I guess his judgment was a bit off in thinking that a pedestrian would not assume the side of the road.

Eventually we found our way back to the business side of Sector-22, having gone in an adjacent circle to our original square. It was there that we discovered the earlier crowds had disappeared and the shops closed.

In place of sardars (Sikh men with turbans & beards) and other Punjabi shoppers, the Bihari migrants were out in numbers. Biharis are distinct from [ethnic] Punjabis by their facial features, build, and skin color. Men were washing clothes via the bucket method, pounding the soap and dirt out on the marble tiles lining the shopping arcade. Other men were crouched at propane stoves, with oversized pots of water coming to a boil. Women were gathered, with sleeping children, in small groups in parking spaces.

This is the side of Chandigarh, of the nightlife, that people miss or turn a blind eye to. Could any of these migrants foresee coming to the city, living on asphalt, arriving after the populace had left, only to clear out before being seen in the dawn. The Biharis and other migrants operate below the service class, much like day laborers in America. They live a life of toiling service to meet the needs of their basic subsistence, unable to purchase goods from the high-end stores they peddle in front of, rent the homes they clean, or eat alongside the people they transport in their rickshaws. On a number of occasions I have seen, and been told by, turbaned Punjabi men not to associate with them. Yet, Chandigarh would not function as the City Beautiful without the men I see at sunup sweeping the streets and collecting leaves from the gutters. Nor would the city businesses function efficiently without someone there to open the door for customers, sweep the floors free of debris, sow garments, or deliver goods.

A night of dancing

16 July

A number of us went out dancing last night. Many of the participants on the program have family and friends in India. We met up with a young man who lives in Chandigarh. He picked us up and took us to a lounge, Oriental Lounge, and then a club, Voodoo. Both are located in Sector 26, nearly next to each other. Regardless, we were hurried back into the car after the lounge; only to be driven 100 feet to another parking space in front of the club.

Entering before 10:30pm and as a couple, admission is free. Not to worry, they charge ridiculous prices for alcoholic drinks. For instance, two shots of Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky is Rs.550 ($12.75). However, a bottle of water is the common price of Rs.50 ($1).

Last year, Chandigarh passed a citywide ban on smoking. It has cleaned up the air in public places, restaurants, and clubs. In past years, I was disgusted visiting clubs. The air was thick with smoke, people blowing smoke in my face. Traditionally, it was polite to ask everyone around you if lighting a cigarette was ok. For example, Sikhs are not permitted to take tobacco nor are they to associate with persons who do so. Smoking in front of a Sikh, without getting permission, may have resulted in many loud words and a beating. Now, clubs have a smoking room with a fan separating the rooms that prevents smoke from traveling between rooms. Regardless, people coming out of the room reek of smoke and look deprived of oxygen. By the end of the night, my lungs hurt and my clothes smelled of cigarettes. Yuck!

The elite youth of the city, in their best Western clothes and sans traditional clothing – turbans, kurtas, and salwar kamizes – rock the night away in a trance-induced haze. House and techno reign, bhangra (Punjabi music) is only played after 1:30am. The reason behind this is that because it is so popular, no one leaves the dance floor to buy drinks.

He who shall remain nameless

13 July

At Fategarh Sahib, two women in our group were pick-pocketed. After a brief search of the crowded gurdwara (Sikh temple) we just come out of - good for the mind, useless in practice – we went to the office of the manager. Video cameras were in place all over the complex and within the gurdwara. With some difficulty we managed to rewind and review the security tapes but without any success. Apologetic, the manager offered us a private air-conditioned room to rest and then invited us into a meeting hall for the SGPC (Sikh gurdwara governing body) and presented us with langar (free meal).

After eating, He who shall remain nameless used the restroom attached to the SGPC hall and was overcome with the Chandigarh chits. Without toilet paper and only a bucket of water, He was desperate. Chit was everywhere and He was in a foreign land. Then He spotted it, the terry cloth towel for wiping one’s hand and face at the sink. Yes, He who shall remain nameless used the SGPC hand towel to cleanse himself of chit.

Travel, 13 July

Another turban for me today but this one worked out better and we made it to breakfast too. Yesterday’s turban was hampered by a bit of starch remaining in the fabric. A turban holds its shape as each layer of cloth is wound around the layer before it. Starch, however, prevents this bond from being maintained and a sprinkle of water must be applied to the cloth as it is wound. Thus, when the fabric dries it has the tendency to slip.

We began the day’s travels with a visit to a Jaina mandir (temple).



Next, we traveled to Sirhind, a medieval Punjabi town with a large Muslim population. Our specific destination was Rouza Sharif. Ahmed Sirhindi, a Chisti saint, founded this mosque. It is a very popular pilgrimage site for Muslims with strong ties to Afghanistan and its rulers. In fact, all but the last Afghan king have been entombed at Rouza Sharif.


Our travels continued and we arrived at Fatehgarh Sahib. It was in the now basement of this gurdwara that the Mughal governor brought the two young sons of the tenth Sikh guru, bricked them up alive and then beheaded them for not converting to Islam. Upon hearing of this punishment, their grandmother collapsed and died.

We next traveled to an archaeological museum in Ropar where Harappan and Buddhist remains from the surrounding area have been put on display. Similarly, we visited the foundation of a Buddhist stupa (monument, for relics) in Sanghol.


Although the foundations for several stupas and other buildings were placed, the Buddhist community in the area dispersed before the buildings could be completed. Mounds of other remains remain visible in the landscape but little archaeological work has been done to identify them. The Archaeological Society of India has an odd practice, at least in the West, of excavating sites, bagging the artifacts, but not writing up a report before moving on to the next site. Thus, bags of artifacts remain in museum collections that may never again see the light of day let alone receive a detailed analysis.

Travel, 12 July

We had an excellent first day of travel in the region. Determined to wear a turban today, we began tying one at 6:45am and ended just after 8. We had to retie and redo the lars (wraps) several times. In the end, both our turbans had been retied as so-so products of human achievement and we missed breakfast. In addition, I was supposed to learn how to use the video camera before we left on the travels but our tardiness forced a crash course on videography at the first stop. I got the hang of it quick, just point, and shoot.

The day’s lineup included a Christian chapel and school in Kharar, where Sikhism scholar W.H. McLeod used to worship and teach.

Next up was Henderson secondary school, offering a glimpse of how classrooms and science labs are set-up.



We then began the trek to Naina Devi. Situated in the Shivalik Hills atop a peak overlooking Anandpur and the Punjab plains, the Goddess temple is a pilgrimage spot for Hindus, Sikhs, and others. It was uncharacteristically cool – in the 70s – with thick clouds obscuring our views of the valley and eventually a thick monsoon downpour. As we started to leave, a landslide blocked the road and we were forced to wait as a backhoe cleared the debris.





Making our way back down to the plains, we visited Anandpur. Established by the tenth Sikh guru, Anandpur features several gurdwaras and forts associated with the guru. We visited Kesgarh Sahib, the location where Guru Gobind Singh declared that all his Sikhs were the Khalsa and began the institution of khande di pahul (baptism of the double-edged sword).


The highlight of our visit was a meeting with the Jathedar of Anandpur Sahib. Siri Singh Sahib Trilochan Singh is one of five elected figures in charge of religio-political issues in the Punjab-Sikh community. He was very gracious, offering us tea and answering our questions. In addition, he gave a high honor by awarding all of us saropas (ceremonial saffron cloth) and Pashmini shawls.


Before leaving Anandpur, we visited Anandgarh Sahib – a model fort rebuilt on the site of historic fort. Although most of the original fort was destroyed or fell to ruin, a baoli (large well with steps) remained. Walking down into it is an amazing experience as the temperature changes and the musty smell of old water.


My last valiant for videography that day was atop a lookout with a panoramic view of the area. There were several Sikh youth crouching there as well gave me the courtesy of ducking as I filmed in a circle. After I had finished filming, I commented bahut khubsurat (very beautiful) and was met with approving sounds. As I climbed down, I was told ‘thank you’ and ‘see you soon’.

Putting the 'Pun' in Punjab

Let me clear up any confusion about how to pronounce ‘Punjab’.

We’ll begin with how to transliterate Indo-European languages. Consonants represent the actual sound produced in the mother language. For example, ‘ch’ in the English ‘chair’ is the same as in the Punjabi ‘cha’ (tea) or Hindi ‘chai’ (tea). Vowels, however, can be tricky. The indigenous scripts used in Indo-European languages use vowel markers for 9 of 10 sounds. The missing vowel marker is the one that throws everyone off. Thus, we are here learning how to properly pronounce ‘Punjab’. The vowels, in transliteration, are represented as: ‘a’ [but], ‘aa’ [balm], ‘i’ [bit], ‘ee’, [beet], ‘u’ [bull], ‘oo’ [boot], ‘ay’ [bake], ‘ai’ [back], ‘o’ [bore], ‘au’ [bough; The Golden Bough]. The last sound, ‘au’, is the trickiest because its counterpart just doesn’t exist in English.

With the basics of transliteration laid out above, we can move on to the pronunciation of ‘Punjab’. Don’t worry; when the British first came to Punjab, they were convinced that the local people couldn’t properly speak the language either.

Transliterated from the Gurmukhi script of the Punjabi language, ‘Punjab’ becomes PANJAAB. It is not POONJAAB, nor is it PANJAB. In early British texts, it was spelled PANJAUB.

Destination Chandigarh!

7 July

I sit here at 3am, unable to sleep and reflecting on my arrival in India. My body has no idea what time it is, besides nighttime. I’d really like to go for a walk and watch Chandigarh wake up but my legs refuse to move.

Waiting in the airport today was an exercise in patience, water consumption, and a nagging feeling of ‘I told you so’. Gurinder gave me my travel option at 11:20am, explaining that his driver would pick me up at 5:30pm. Those 6+ hours were agonizing, especially when I misread the clock in the terminal thinking that it read 4:50 instead of 14:50 (so I was a little bit delusional).

I was there for so long that the cleaning crew came through and cleaned the floor, forcing the few people to shift their seats in an odd triangular movement across the terminal. We literally got to a new point only to see the cleaning crew quickly approaching with the lead man throwing out small buckets of bleach and water on the floor, quickly followed by two men with mops and a third man with a large squeegee. I must say they were quite efficient but not at all apologetic if they tossed water on someone. In addition, there was a small group of men using scaffolding to change out screens over fans. Metal scraping over marble is such a pleasant sound…not.

Most of the 3 o’clock hour was spent in utter exhaustion, dozing off for 2 or 3 minutes here and there. People came and sat next to me but had disappeared when I startled myself awake. I started to think I was imagining people or that I was in fact imaginary. Eventually I roused myself out of my chair and purchased an unusual mocha. Supposedly, it was two shots of espresso-coffee mixed with chocolate milk and chocolate sprinkles on top. Whatever it was, it kept me awake for all of 40 minutes. Not much to complain about when you buy a drink for Rs.40 ($0.90).

By 6pm, I had neither had word of my driver or the other program participant I was supposed to meet. Of course, I had no idea what other person looked like, besides one being Indian and the other a tall white male. Telling me to meet a tall white male is not the best line. Many planes with many disembarking passengers arrived between 4:30 and 6. So many in fact that I was constantly getting out of my seat to see if any of them were looking for a random white guy they didn’t know (i.e. me). I felt a little forlorn, tossed aside like a used tissue. Watching travelers being picked up by their loved ones did little to advance my dreams or fears. By that point, I was without a rope to hang myself, a victim of circumstance. Yet, I felt safe and a friend was only a call away.

The bodiless airport announcer was running a post for a Mr. John A. As well, info was being announced about a Kathmandu flight with the call letters J (as in John), O (as in Oscar), and something else that sounded garbled each time it was said. Trying to find out where the announcer was or how to respond to a possible announcement was just like trying to get help at the Help Desk.

My driver showed up late, there was traffic, and he stood where he could see the arriving passengers – not me lounging in the now all too familiar seating. Besides, he didn’t look like any of the drivers I knew Professor Mann used. Mohan was short, dark skinned, and holding a sign with my name in orange ink. He was nearly on top of me before I could read his sign. At least he spelled my name right.

In addition to me, Mohan was to retrieve Trevor who was supposed to have arrived at 4:45pm. He wasn’t there and we couldn’t find him. Another fiasco ensued as we tried to locate him and any info about his arrival. We had his name, he had arrived on Air India at 4:45, and it originated either in Newark or New York. The Terminal Controller sent us to the Air India office. The office sent us to the Controller. The Controller again sent us to Air India. On the way to and fro, I had caught the attention of a Sikh police officer and his junior partner. Unlike in America, in India, a white man in a turban attracts positive attention and downright curiosity. They had the right plan, use the info we had gathered and exploit the staff window for ticket and airline flight manifestos. With this trick under our sleeve, we learned that Trevor had been on the correct flight. He was still nowhere to be found, having probably taken a taxi or private car.

Mohan and I saddled up in his ‘Tourist’ economy car for the six-hour trip back to Chandigarh. Much to my delight, seriously, the car was without air-conditioning. To experience the true India, one must sweat and feel that bodily waste slide down one’s sides and back. Once we got out of Delhi and its ring roads – and smog – we began to pick up our pace and our spirits lifted. Mohan seemed to know a fair amount of English until I asked him questions. There was a fair amount of uncomfortable silence. We left around 7:30; by 9:30, Mohan was tired so I suggested he stop for coffee. At 10, we stopped again, this time at a dhaba (roadside restaurant). Dhabas are quite unique, serving a quick turnover of Punjabi food, bottled beverages, and tea. It’s a bit like fast food with a feel of eating a homemade meal. There are insects everywhere, cockroaches scuttle across the floor and flying insects are constantly exploding in black lights placed on the floor. Nevertheless, the food is clean – although the glasses certainly aren’t.

Mohan had every right to be tired. I wasn’t the first person he had picked up from Delhi that day. He started out from Chandigarh at 6am, picking up our program participants at the airport in Delhi and dropping them off in Chandigarh. Basically, he dropped them off only to return to Delhi to pick me up. Tomorrow, he’ll do the same thing but for another group.

We made good time, driving hard on the horn and flicking the dimmer switch. He dropped me off at my hotel at 1:30am. That’s good considering we stopped at two dhabas for a good 20 minutes each time. Mohan knew the road and the characteristics of driving in India, having grown up in Haryana. My check-in was smooth, especially since my heavy luggage is AWOL. Trying to get a tip, the bellhop tried to carry my tiny guitar bag to the elevator. Not a chance bub.

Arrival in India

6 July

I’ve arrived in India, nothing can go wrong now…

Wrong!

Bad things seem to come in 3s.

Something happened to my back while trying to sleep on the plane. I can’t sit upright without leaning against a water bottle that is pressing against the left side of my back.

We arrived in Delhi about 20 minutes early. Quite a bit changed in three years. I actually felt welcome waiting in line for customs. There were new ceiling lights and tiles, pain in the appropriate places and amounts, and actual organization in the staff. The international airport finally caters to its clientele. The foreplay ended there. Once I parted from customs, I was greeted with the same airport I remember. The baggage claim is situated in a huge hall with conveyor belts that go on for 100 feet in an S shape. The Help desk is not helpful, unless answering your own questions counts. In addition, if Indians know you are in a hurry or getting impatient, they drag their feet even more. On the positive side, the Duty Free shop is 100% alive and kicking: stocked with whisky and cigarettes just like any other in the world. It’s for tourists and NRIs (Non-Resident Indians). The majority of Indians can’t afford to purchase global brand name products.
Outside of the ‘security’ area – patrolled by turbaned Sikhs with submachine guns – are a number of rows of seating, 3 AirTel booths, an ICIICI ATM, cash exchange, and 5 sweets shops. One can purchase large bottles of drinking water for Rs.40, chocolates, dairy treats, small sandwiches, coffee, soda, and tea.

I waited and waited but my checked bag never appeared. I went to the Help Desk – 1st mistake. Outside of family owned artisan stores or restaurants, customer service has not found its way to India. The woman at the desk directed me to ‘the man in white’. Lots of men in India, myself included, wear white shirts or all white. I quipped back, ‘Oh, the sardar in the blue phug?’ He was wearing a huge peaked royal blue turban, more noticeable than his white shirt. Before I could get to him, an overtly helpful (i.e. not helpful) woman approached me and directed me to the Help Desk. Upon explaining myself, I was redirected to the airline baggage counter. Apparently, they set up a special counter for lost luggage. They must have a lot of problems because the young man on duty, Abshtek, was quick and incredibly helpful. After he filled out two forms in triplicate, I wandered over to the customs window to declare my baggage missing. Of the 5 men at the window, all were trying to answer a coworker’s questions that all obviously had no idea about. I was completely ignored. After their selfish moment passed, I discovered that they couldn’t help me without a supervisor. Nor did they know how to locate a supervisor. In a typical Indian moment, I could see the stamp I needed but I suppressed the urge to self-stamp my forms. Frustrated I looked for the most in-charge person I could find. I spotted a large sardar (Sikh man who keeps a turban and beard) and four men in white with military insignia. Briefly explaining my situation, I was interrupted by the sardar who asked, in broken English/Punjabi, if I was a Sikh. I replied in Punjabi: Han ji,mai Sikh ha. Pur, mai tori tori Punjabi bol sakda ha (Yes, I am Sikh. However, I am only able to speak a little Punjabi.). I was met with large grins and my papers were quickly taken care of.

After getting my papers completed, I was informed that a message exists in the airline system declaring that my luggage was not placed on the flight from Munich to Delhi. There was something about connecting flights and little time between them. I guess the 3 ½ hours between my flights was too little for them or perhaps it was the distance between my arrival and departure gates.

I walked out of the airport thinking that my luggage would arrive the next day (it did) and that my attention should now be directed at waiting for a prearranged bus to pick me up. This was my second mistake. There was no bus. According to the website where I made my reservation there are a number of buses including 8 and 11am. When I purchased my ticket, I was informed that I would be met at the airport. Trusting the Indo-Canadian bus service was my third mistake.

It’s a Sunday and the rail ticket office at the airport is closed. I know that a 3:30ish train exists, a Shatabdi Express to Chandigarh, but it could be sold out of cancelled. I could get a taxi to the station but in all likelihood the ticket windows would be closed. So why don’t I call the train station you ask? Phone calls are rarely answered, commonly hung up on, and very often of bad sound quality. Not to mention the language barrier. English will be spoken but many Indians speaking British-Indian-English need to be seen and heard as they speak.

Nothing but helpful people showed up when I asked around about the bus pick-up. The guards at the airport terminal door let me back in without charge and tried their best to accommodate me. One guard found the local number for the bus company. Half a dozen men, armed with signs and waiting for flights and arriving passengers, availed themselves to solve my problem. They passed around my ticket stub, each reading it with great concern (all 3 lines of it) as if it were a proclamation from Emperor Akbar himself. They knew where the bus agent would stand though they hadn’t seen him recently. A lone sardar, of robust build and dressed in white with a royal blue turban, sought me out, eager to lend a helping hand. He called the bus company on his mobile. It took him three times to get through, having been hung up on twice. He solemnly collected all the information and informed me that the bus company was not aware of my reservation and recommended that I come to their office and wait for the 8pm bus (a 6+ hour ride to Chandigarh).

Next, I went to the AirTel booth where a kind employee helped me call the bus company and double-check the information I was given. It’s not that I didn’t trust the sardar, rather in India; one should double-check all information received. I then called the hotel I would be staying at in Chandigarh in the hopes that I could reach my advisor. Alas, he was not there. The AirTel employee knew a taxi driver and helped me arranged for a taxi, a quite costly taxi. In the end, I didn’t take the taxi. Despite my need to cover the 6 hours between Delhi and Chandigarh, a taxi for Rs.5000 ($120) replete with air-conditioning and all costs covered is not a good deal. It’s outright extortion of foreigners. I called the hotel again and this time spoke with Professor Mann. I explained the situation and told me to stay put, he would send his driver from Chandigarh to pick up me and another incoming passenger.

I obtained a comfortable seat in the rear row of seats, commanding a superb view over the incoming passenger hallway, both exits, and the food court. Immediately I began to doze off. Not much else to do when you have some 7-8 hours to wait for a car. My dreams were a confusing blend of my Indian reality and memories of my apartment and school, seemingly left only hours earlier. I found myself searching for books, only to wake up and realize that my dreams had not become reality. Sleep, deep sleep, eluded me. How I wished to nap without startling awake every 3 minutes. I had been up for some 32 hours plus time changes; not yet cranky, I was still enjoying the thrill of traveling alone. Hardships aside, I had made it to India and was eager to get on with my summer program.

Thoughts of sleep suddenly left me and I was wide-awake, though not refreshed. My surroundings and journal became the focus of my attention. Two and half hours passed and the repetition of airport life was beginning to affect me. I thought about how the cab driver’s eyes had swelled up when I told him he was losing my Rs.5000. His smile and friendly attitude towards me had melted into a frown of disgust.

A sardar sat down a few seats from me, put a foot up on his suitcase, and promptly began to doze off. I mention this because of his odd actions half an hour later. I thought he was dozing but then I began to think he might be drunk or on some elicit substance as he methodically unwound his turban. Sikh men don’t uncover their hair in public. Other turbaned Sikh men walked past and examined him closely. It was really a strange sight. Eventually he rolled up his turban and began to retie it without a mirror. He had obviously done it that way before as he only needed to redo the two final wraps to make it fit properly. Upon finishing his retie, he promptly began to doze off.

A flight arrived from Karachi (Pakistan) with many men in the traditional Punjabi-Muslim dress of white kurta-pyjama (shirt-trousers) and kufi (small round cap). Some men had a round white turban wrapped around the kufi with a shawl upon their shoulders. I even glimpsed one man in traditional dress who really looked like Osama bin Laden. A flight arriving from Kabul brought a contingent of Indian UN soldiers in their camouflage fatigues and sky blue turbans and berets. As I sat watching passengers arriving, I thought back to some odd experiences on my Munich to Delhi flight. At one point, an older woman stood in the aisle and provocatively slapped her ass half a dozen times. One of the female flight attendants repeatedly rubbed her ass against my hand and arm. At first, I thought I was in the way as she served drinks, but when my eyes met hers, she smiled and pushed her ass into my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to return the favor as she was wearing a marriage pendant around her neck. I’m sure anyone else would have jumped at the opportunity but my shyness and manners got the best of me.

In America, young people are all about the iPod. In India, it’s the cell phone/Mp3 player – with a ridiculously loud speaker. In addition, Indians of all ages have long musical ring tones – played in full whether or not the call is answered. At the moment, young Indian women employed by the airport but on a seemingly endless break surround me. This could be audio hell: with a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world.

In transit...

5 July

It’s about 8:30am in California, 5:30pm here in Munich. I have some 2 hours before I board my flight to Delhi. Good thing, rest is welcome after walking the distance of the international terminal – some 2 ½ football fields. Not to mention the knot in my back, courtesy of napping while sitting upright. I napped in two batches; the post-dinner and beer was a general sleepy try. In the end, it was just too hard to accomplish with toddlers screaming and plane noise. I probably managed less than an hour before turning on a film. There is nothing like dozing off to a visual presentation, the heavy eyelids accompanied by blurry vision. I slept but was unable to adequately stretch my legs, feet, and back. In addition, the airplane food I had just ingested faced constricted movement due to my posture (i.e. trouble brewing in my belly). I was just as groggy, nodding off several times, as I woke up. Hard to be productive when you’re strapped into a seat with little freedom of movement and lined up like cattle – force-fed visual images, calming them before the slaughter.

I’ve joined the public iPod generation on this trip. Lost in my aural experience, I sit in Munich. Sia, Zero 7, and Porno for Pyros color my auditory experience. Compared to California, the majority of people here are without iPods or other devices requiring headphones. I really cannot understand how people, usually young people, can go throughout the majority of their day plugged into an iPod. I prefer having music playing in the background, allowing me to multitask with all my senses.

Lost in my iPod-induced psychosis, I found myself staring at the shiny floors of the airport terminal. As people approached, the floor reflected their gait. Sleep deprived, I began to imagine myself in a real-life surrealist painting. I closed my eyes and saw Nosmo; he had just turned rapidly after cleaning his shoulder blades, pausing as if pondering his grocery list. I opened my eyes to see a woman walking quickly, her hands full. Her body moving forward, her head turned to look at me; perfection in motion.

*Life was so simple when I wrote this. If only I knew what was to come…

Trip preparation

4 July

I began my adventure with a 6pm flight from Santa Barbara to Los Angeles. I’ve never had an evening flight before; it was nice to pack slow and relax waiting for my departure. Just the same, I knew it would be a long and tiring trip: SB to LA to Munich to Delhi and Delhi to Chandigarh via an air-conditioned bus.

Preparing for this trip was a nerve-racking nightmare. It began with the simple exercise sending an application and my passport to the Indian Consulate in San Francisco. My bliss soon faded as the Consulate claimed that they never received my mailing even though I had proof that my package was signed for. When I presented this proof, the Consulate changed their story and said they lost my passport. This was a month before I was scheduled to leave for India. Then began the arduous task of applying for a new passport. All the while, airline prices were going up but I couldn’t bring myself to purchase my ticket without a passport or visa. I received my new passport two weeks before my departure and sent it, plus the appropriate paperwork, to the Indian consulate in San Francisco. It wasn’t lost this time though the same person signed for it. The passport with visa arrived on the 2nd of July. I purchased my bahut menga (expensive) plane ticket late that night and flew out of Santa Barbara on the 4th July.

If that wasn’t enough, I had problems purchasing my ticket online with incorrect charges applied to my credit card. When I called my bank to clear it up, the bundar (monkey) of an associate I spoke to deleted the wrong charges and not the ones I asked him too. A second phone call and remaining on hold for an hour cleared that up.

On to better things, away from the smoke plumes, the ominous evening cloud of ash and debris, the power outages, and all those orange & magenta flames dancing up the hills and illuminating the sky. As the plane took off, I counted 8 smoke plumes. Wednesday evening I counted, from left to right, 53 fires independent of one another. The number increased when I glanced back over the area. Oddly, the air smelled like Delhi or Chandigarh.

Ode to the security guard who frisked me at LAX:
Thank you for touching my turban;
My spiritual crown, my gift from God;
Thank you for touching my turban without asking me.

For the record, he grabbed my turban from behind without warning and in essence, felt me up. Any other time and my elbow would have made contact with his solar plexus.

Blog explanation

The purpose, not porpoise, of this blog is to connect my friends and family to my experiences in Punjab, India this summer. Communicating via telephone or e-mail while in India can be difficult. Obtaining a cell phone is a laborious project requiring a copy of one’s passport, a passport sized photo, and a letter from one’s place of residence in India. Internet access, although quite cheap – Rs.30 ($0.70) per half-hour – is subject to one’s ability to find an Internet café, cleanliness, safety, power cuts, and crappy connections. The hotel I’m staying in offers wireless Internet. Although convenient to have this in your room, with your own computer, the cost is Rs.113/hour, Rs.169/2 hours, or Rs.330/24-hours. In addition, the allotted time begins when you first sign on and expires exactly when the hour, etc. is completed.

Why am I in Punjab? My thesis advisor, Gurinder Singh Mann, directs the Punjab Summer Studies program, offered through the Global Studies department at UC Santa Barbara. The program is now in its twelfth year and has hosted scholars and heritage seekers from the United States, Canada, the UK, Germany, Sweden, Pakistan, and India.

The program is based in Chandigarh – the state capital of both Punjab and Haryana. Chandigarh (the fort of Chandi, epitaph for the Mother Goddess) lies about 240km or 6 hours north of New Delhi. It is also known as the City Beautiful, designed by the French architect Le Corbussier in the 1950s. Nehru, India’s first prime minister, intended the metropolis to be India’s first modern city following Independence and Partition in 1947.



The program includes:
• Visits to sites of religious and historical importance located in Punjab and Himachal Pradesh
• Attending lectures in Punjabi literature, history, education, political science, ecology, art, and music presented by top scholars from universities in Punjab
• Language training in Punjabi
• Script training in Gurmukhi (of the Sikhs)
In addition, I have customized my experience to include language training in Hindi and Farsi, and script training in Devanagri (Hindi script) and Nastaliq (Persio-Arabic script). As well, I have assumed the responsibility of recording our travels with a video camera.

Our daily routine keeps us quite busy.
Monday to Friday:
7-9am, Breakfast
9-10:45, Beginning and Advanced Punjabi
11-1pm, Lecture on historical topics of Punjab
1-2, Lunch
2-3, Free time (i.e. Siesta)
3-5, Lecture on contemporary issues in Punjab*
5-7:30, Free time
7:30 Dinner

* Friday afternoons are without an afternoon lecture, providing personal time for shopping or visiting places of interest. In addition, we have constituted an entertainment committee that organizes social events such as films, lounges and clubs, and evening walks.

Saturdays and Sundays are used for travel in the region to various places of tourism, pilgrimage, and learning. Please refer to my entries on travel for more specific information.