day to day india: Mehndi magic

Back at the hotel we have just enough time for a quick nap before showering and changing for the evening festivities at Mehkri Circle, where  Addu's mother has coordinated a house party and Mehndi to celebrate Dinky & George's marriage. On my first visit to their home we spent the time at their apartment and today we explore the rooftop of the building where the party is underway beneath a purple, red & yellow tent.  There is an elevated stage at the front of the and seating area. In a separate room off to the side three henna artists painted the hands and arms of the female guests, intricate designs made freehand. (Note: Dinky's arms and feet were beautifully decorated this afternoon before everyone arrived.)

Up until now I haven't met a lot of the family and it is at the Mehndi that the multigenerational women come together.  Friends and relatives are seated on the folded futon to the right waiting their turn for a sitting. Here I meet Shakuntala (Bangalore) and her daughter Priya, who is from Bombay. Shakuntala is a longtime friend of Ramani. Tanvi joins, as well as Addu's cousins, 18 year old Pritika and 15 year old Priyanka. Both are stunning and sure to be heartbreakers in a few years (if thethaten't already).  Then there is Indu and Sabrina, other friends of Ramani.  We chitchat as the three artisans decorate the hands of those ahead of us. It is a contrast of colors, the artists in neutral muted colors, the guests in bright party clothes the bridge between forged by symbols on skin. The artists work the design as if in a trance, the brown ink piping curlicues and scallops, ribbons and feathers like a Happy Birthday message on a Carvel sheet cake. Your individual body temperature determines the outcome of the color once the design dries, and a debate breaks out on whether or not you should brush on a paste of lemon and sugar water to make the color last longer.  It takes 10-15 minutes plus an additional 10 for the ink to dry; there is an element of eucalyptus oil in the ink that cools the hand.
 
This is not the first time I've had a henna tattoo.  A few summers ago I bought a Living Social deal for Akiyo, a local artist and had a piece done as decoration for an upcoming event. She worked out of her home, a sunny and airy railroad in Queens. I went by myself and having experienced the real thing, I think I prefer the camaraderie of a Mehndi party with friends, it's much more fun.

Hands painted it's time to join the party, in the outer room on the terrace. Here they are getting ready for the performances where members of the bridal party dance for the bride and groom. First there is Addu and her mother, than the bridesmaids, the groomsmen, and a combination of the two. Then Advaitha comes out for a solo--I'm sure I knew that she could dance the traditional folk style but it's a nice surprise to see her in moving her hands and head in a fusion of classic and modern mudras. Next Divyanka who is a vocalist by trade serenades George with an a cappella version of "Can't Take My Eyes Off of You."

day to day india: mysore

The alarm vibrating from under the pillow stirs me from sleep way earlier than I want to wake up.  I'm still in a haze of jet lag but force myself to get up as I will be joining Amanda & Pat, friends of the groom from Boston, on a day trip to Mysore, an ancient city with a 600 year legacy of royal heritage.  I'm not certain how prepared I am for the 3 hour drive to and from Bangalore but adventures are not had by sleeping in.

We arrive in Mysore at 1/2 past nine, our first destination is Chamundi Hill where the Sri Chamundeswari Temple sits at its summit. The temple comes into view way before we reach the top, a quadrangle structure that most resembles a cross between a pyramid and a pagoda. It's buttery gold tower is covered with detailed carvings and contrasting white goddess statues, alternating between seated and standing position.

The temple is an amazement but nothing inanimate can compete with the color and playfulness of the people swarming around us.  The temple is active and many a family has made a pilgrimage to make an offering to be blessed; the queue itself is 5 lanes deep (think Radio City Music Hall at Christmas) of barefooted worshippers.  A procession makes its way through the sea of people, carrying a miniature float (made of flowers) of the temple as two men move it from the chariot into the temple.  There are numerous distractions including live chanting, a dog and owner playing catch, and our quartet of 3/4 Caucasian and 1/4 African-American clearly stands out among the crowds.  A rare combination for these parts, we are approached incessantly by peddlers, beggars and curious onlookers wanting to take photos.

On the way down the hill we stop at Nandi, a 5m high statue of the goddess Shiva's bull carved out of solid rock (c. 1659).

Next the Maharaja's Palace, the grandest of India's royal buildings once ruled by the Wodeyar maharajas.  After purchasing our tickets, hoodwinking (or so we thought) the security check about our cameras and checking in our shoes, we proceed to take a self-guided tour of the grounds and palace interior.  The concrete is surprisingly not hot and the tiled floors are smooth from all the wear and tear of walking feet on ceramic. At the entrance to the palace building we pass through a metal detector where a security guard threatens to confiscate my camera unless we tip him. Not surprising he directs all talk of bribery to the sole male in the group, and after we slip him some cash we are encouraged to pass through, camera and all.

The magnificent opulence of the palace interior (photos here: http://www.esamskriti.com/photo-detail/Mysore-Palace.aspx) is mesmerizing. I am most impressed with an interior room with intricately painted stained glass windows depicting peacocks and feathers. The adjacent hallways and rooms offer a kaleidoscope of color from palettes of red to shades of blues, accented in white and gold.  One courtyard in particular features a pair of bronze cast panthers at its entryway and an intricate spiral staircase on its exterior leading up to what might be considered royal box seats.

As we pass through an interior hallway, one of the patrol guards approaches and asks where I am from. Once I share New York, his eyes light up and he leans in to tell me about the secret chambers that lie behind the locked doors in front of us.  According to lore, the royal family would use the rooms to gut animals they had hunted and prepare to mount them. He conspiratorially adds that if we wanted he could arrange access for us, for a price, of course.  Touring the palace is a lot like practicing magic in Storybrooke, everything comes with a price. We passed.

After collecting our shoes, we make our way back to the closest of the four gates that guard the grounds to exit. It is amusing how many times we are approached (or nonchalantly included) about having our photo taken. The Americans are seemingly a better attraction than the palace structure itself.  At one point, Venus laughingly demands 30 rupees for the opportunity. No one concedes.

We conclude the outing with a buffet lunch at La Gardenia, Hotel Regaales on the outskirts of Mysore.

day by day india: fashion forward blessings

The traffic patterns in Bangalore mesmerize me. The amalgamation of vehicles is like the Palio, the running of the bulls, i motorini of Rome and the taxis of New York all rolled into one.  The people walking in between the cars and rickshaws, the dogs--so many strays--taking on human mannerisms as they too weave their way through the mayhem. I felt braver today and it was a little less stressful crossing the streets as I made my way down Primrose to Magrath to Brigade (the main shopping area) to Church street, taking photos along the route. There is so much color and life in every nook and cranny of every street. As I strolled down Church street one of the local drivers fell into step beside me and aggressively attempted to sell me a (1) hour tour for 30 rps ($.50)--even direct No's and No Thank You's didn't deter him. Later on in the morning I turned the street corner and there he was again smiling, as if karma had brought us together for that rickshaw tour. I crossed the street.

*~*~*~

Two days in the jet lag still lingers. I took an ambien before bed last night assuming I would get at least an 8 - 10 hour respite of zzz's but I woke up at 6am raring to go. I crashed after my morning walk and had the craziest dreams. I attribute that to the heat, which is very different than what I'm used to. Every time you are outside walking it's as if your body goes through a detoxification, you don't realize of course until you return to your residence soaked from the sweat.

*~*~*~

Addu picks Venus and I up at 3pm for a shopping expedition to FabIndia and then Commerical street.  We each pick up blouses, saree accessories, chuppas and I begin an ardent search for the dhotti harem pants. Molly my yoga instructor wears them to class and they look so comfortable, in prep for the trip I searched the selections on Etsy, where a pair ran anywhere from $6 - $50 depending on the style and color. At the local shop on Commercial street they sell for 175 rps, or the equivalent of $3 each. Looks like everyone may get a pair as a souvenir.

Next stop Muniswarmy Tailors at 75 Dispensary Road, just off Commercial street where we've hired a local tailor to peephole stitch our saree hems and make blouses--mustard for me; light blue for Venus.

*~*~*~
While we're out I'm assigned a roommate, Tanvi is a friend of the bride's. They met at college and she is from Delhi. I ask if she'll be attending the blessing ceremony but she opts out to rest from all her travels. I shower and dress before meeting Venus and Addu in the lobby.

We arrive at the Grand Magrath hotel, and are introduced to Addu and Dinky's family members, as well as those of the bridegroom. The ceremony takes place in large room of a reception hall, a slightly elevated stage stands front and center. Divyanka is wearing a red/pink and gold saree and sits in the center of the stage. The groom's family brings out a large silver tray, placing a variety of offerings upon it: an urn of sandalwood paste, censers filled with rosewater and coconut oil, bowls of fruit and sweet meat and garlands of jasmine. Next the married female members of both sides take turns administering each of the elements onto Dinky's person. The sandalwood paste on her face, censers douse her head and body, they each feed her fruit and/or the sweetmeat and then offer flowers for her hair and hands.

After the ceremony there is a buffet dinner of Mangalorean and Bangalorean cuisine and dancing until midnight.
*~*~*~

day by day india: bangalore

I leave the hotel turning left onto Brunton Road walk west toward MG (which stands go Mahautma Gandhi) Road and follow that to the intersection roundabout near Commissariat Road and soak in the scenery.  First off let me start by saying that walking Bangalore requires one to be extremely mindful of their surroundings.  The sidewalks have been through a war with who knows what, concrete slabs are broken in two and in some cases multiple pieces, revealing a trough one feet deep filled with garbage and stale water. If you are a fast walker with tendencies for accidents take heed unless of course you're the adventurous type and hell bent on cracking a bone and visiting the ER.

Crossing the street is a whole other matter, jaywalking similar to other cities is prohibited.  Traffic lights are few and crosswalks even less, once you find a momentum of courage there is no other way to cross the street than at your own risk. And the risk involves collision with cars, busses, trucks, bicycles, stray dogs, motorized rickshaws, motorcycles and mopeds, some of which carry a whole family (father, mother, baby, child), and groups of pedestrians.

Somehow I made it safely to and from, taking photos of the traffic and surrounding scenery which included the wide wing span of kites (a breed of hawk famous for scavenging) circling the air space above the buildings and butterflies (the size of hummingbirds) flitting through the leaves of "fire of the forest" trees lining Brunton Road.

~*~*~*

Karron, Addu's friend picks Venus and I up from the hotel. We are bound for Malleswaram Street to purchase saree accessories--an under blouse and petticoat--for the week's festivities. One part open air market, one part fashion district the street is pure mayhem with people shopping and haggling.  Women in colorful sarees criss cross the streets from store to store. Others sit on the sidewalk selling fresh peanuts and stringing jasmine garlands by hand.

Afterwards Ramani and Advaitha take us together with Karron and Parvathi, Addu's auntie to BGC, the Bangalore Golf Club for cocktails and dinner al fresco.

~*~*~*

One full day in Bangalore is complete (2 hours shy for those readers who are sticklers).  Somewhere on Brunton Road someone is watching an Indian novella on TV, another is listening to the news, still another the crooning of a singer. There are trucks on the road nearby and the air is still, carrying cigarette smoke from somewhere. The moths take up residence near the overhead and I can feel the mosquitoes biting.  A whoosh on the wind sounds more like a spoken hush, and I catch my breath as I close the door. My tired mind hearing things in the stillness reminds me that it is time to sleep.

day by day india: settling in

Chai tea and english biscuits, it is 3AM and  Addu and Ramani, her mother, and I sit at the dining table. I am awake and aware but nowhere near coherent, my mind cannot compute how I am here (in India) when once I was there (in New York). Dinky, the lady in wait is asleep in an adjacent room, a sash on the door marking her as the "bride-to-be." The family dogs, Devon, a german shepherd and Chennai, a golden retriever doze at our feet. Chitchat gives way to yawns and soon we make our way to bed.  It feels amazing to lie flat with enough room to stretch arms, legs, hips, back. I fall asleep to the stirring of a city about to wake.

Morning reemerges and there are introductions, first with Divyanka then with Rehka and a mini stream of other family, friends and staff who make their visitation during mid-morning. Freshly made hot chocolate follows with breakfast dosas. First the savory Indian crepes are served with coconut chutney, pickled tomato and gunpowder (a spicy remoulade of spices and oil). Then they are followed with the sweeter version served with granulated sugar and a selection of marmalades and jam. The meal is accompanied by sweetened coffee steeped in milk (not water) and served in metal demitasse cups.

Another friend of Addu's arrives from New York, and after breakfast we are transferred to Brunton Heights (with the British Indian intonation sounds a bit like Downton Abbey), a hospitality hotel where we will be lodging for the week. The hotel suite is lovely and has a balcony overlooking the frangipani tree in the garden.  Once unpacked and settled,  I shower (loving the rainwater faucet set up), change, grab my camera and go.

day by day india: first impressions

Addu in describing Bangalore, India in general spoke about amora and its arresting invasion of the senses. Senses that is how you experience a foreign land, through sight and sound, touch and taste.  The first thing I notice is that Bengalaru airport is silent, meditatively quiet. Yes, I know it is just past three in the morning but there is something calming about seeing people through glass but hearing the sound of birds fluttering above the hangars,  catching glimpses of fireflies dancing in the flood lights, the scent of curry and a dozen spices I cannot identify permeating the air.

Exhausted, I am parched in dire need of water walking past Shiva gods placed (strategically?) near entryways and exits, there is no kiosk or boutique selling food in sight. I make my way to the carousel and find by bag quickly and immediately queue up to customs, where the crowd is a brown ombre wave. We all fall in, standing behind the yellow lines with cursive writing warning us to "Stop. Stay here to wait your turn." The agents ahead stoically great each tourist and resident, processing their papers. When I realize I am in line #13 I feel a peaceful presence, mom is with me today on this journey. It hits me like a tidal wave, remembering all those 13 years lost, all the time we could have spent on adventures like this. The irony that it is Mother's Day does not escape me, though it does remind me that today is also my Dad's 88th birthday and I find comfort in having left him a card and a gift just before leaving.

Past customs there is yet another security checkpoint, this one to screen your hand baggage lest you have something dangerous hidden in the bag all these hours while in flight. I see one lone metal knife on the floor camouflaged in the rug, a stolen souvenir from an Emirates flight. Out in baggage claim I locate my trusty navy LL Bean suitcase with brown piping, recognizable by the cursive "Lucy" stitched on the front cover and a snowflake pompom tied to its handle. While waiting I see a sign for a bridal jewelry store I see a reference to "seven vows" and contemplate what that could mean.  A woman in her mid-30s is also waiting for luggage and she is wearing a modern embroidered fashion set and nude platform stilettos. My feet ache looking at her. Despite all the people around the area is silent, and save the whirr of the carousel itself and the beep from the strobe lights it is eerily quiet.

Entering the main greeting area there is a swarm of people flush against the gate, some searching my face others waving a sign in hoping I am the name on it. I hear Addu before I see her, it is an emotional reunion. Whether it is exhaustion or emotional fatigue I cannot tell you but it as if we have not seen each other in years, not weeks. Some friendships are like that where the depth of care and the absence of time, truly reiterate the solidity of the relationship. Advaitha, Claudia, Lisa. It's these female friendships that give us strength.

day by day India: in flight

The trouble with arriving early for any flight is the chance it may be delayed. As was my long haul flight to Doha, Qatar, every 1/2 hour adds to the 10+ soon to be in the air. Terminal gates 16 and 17 are packed, a small city congregating in anticipation of flights to Doha UAE & São Paulo Brazil. My only wish is that all the children crying out loud will sleep sleep sleep once they are on the plane. The crowd is mixed a cross-section of races and nationalities, mostly male and almost everyone is connected to one device or another: smartphone, cell phone, laptop, tablet. 

~*~*~

Daybreak in the afternoon. Eight hours in on the long haul journey to India. my body aches, my mind fuzzy. Not knowing what to expect with meals and bathroom breaks, water replenishment, I opted to not take the ambien, it seemed less important to take one if I was already sleepy. I am most grateful for having the foresight to take a hatha yoga class earlier today, the stretching certainly helped with the scrunched up wear and tear. 

Seated on an aisle in a center three-seater row my seat companion, Kanish, and I are lucky to share the absent middle seat which offers more stowage and a little more leg room (although on an angle). We have 3 hours left before landing on the Qatar peninsula, at Doha International Airport. All that planning and research on the latest movie releases is lost, and instead I crack open 1 of the 4 books (plus my Kindle) that I brought with me: The Yard (Alex Grecian). Ambitious challenge I realize but two weeks is a lot of time for the brain to still itself, I must feed it a little as well. 

When I first boarded the plane I had passed the luxe seating in first and business class, one of which had Jetson like pods to sleep in. I wonder if those passengers feel as uncomfortable as I do? The worst part is my backside, airplane seating does little to support the lower back, sacrum and rear--when seated for extended hours the pressure can result in the absence of feeling, a numb sleeping body. I have high hopes that I will have enough time in Doha to stretch. Breakfast is served with a side of turbulence, as we begin our descent.  

~*~*~

We arrive at dusk into a waking dream of midnight skies and starlight. It is Saturday evening of the quickest weekend ever.  I step outside onto the portable staircase and my mind races back to the first time I visited Siracusa as an adult: the balmy weather, the easy transfer from tarmac to terminal, the simplicity of moving from runway to walkway. The terminal is a pristine structure of white marble, granite and glass. The duty free shopping area lies just outside the security checkpoint, it is the size of a small mall--I catch a glimpse before dashing off to gate 17 and my transfer to Bangalore. Another full flight, again a lot of men, some in traditional dress others in modern wear. There is a woman in full burqua and perjida (sp?) with just a slit for her eyes, even her hands are covered in black gloves. She is with a gentleman in white robes straight out of a history book.

For this route I am on the aisle of a two seater, next to a young woman returning home to Bangalore. There is time for a movie (The Great & Powerful Oz) and more reading, and a nap or two or three before we make our great way into Bengalaru.

Star Struck: Isabella Rossellini

Elevator rides are normally drab; you get in ride up, ride down, and get off. Sometimes you see someone you know, most times it’s just you and a bunch of strangers quietly thinking, ear buds activated to favorite music or a podcast. That’s how it usually is for me day in, day out. Until yesterday afternoon when my normal lunch time elevator jaunt had a bit of a lift.

An older woman with short dark cropped hair, wearing a raincoat accented by a red and whitea floral scarf stood across from me, an animated twenty-something talking about the traffic and the weather stood nearby. The woman looked familiar and my brain and I couldn’t place her on first sight. Kaleidoscopically whirling about the inner archive in my mind, pulling out a snapshot from Casablanca and a magazine ad from the early ‘80s, and then it came to me. Isabella Rossellini, daughter of Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini, famous Lancôme model, and animal activist.  She was stunningly beautiful, with kind eyes and a settled poise about her. I am not normally star struck but I found myself gleeful at this chance encounter and couldn’t help but make eye contact and express my admiration for her work. 

When I returned to my desk I shared my experience with a few co-workers, one had no idea who Isabella Rossellini was and when I used Bogie & Bergman as a cultural reference I only received a blank stare. I rang another colleague who like me knew her and her work and together we reveled in my chance encounter. Ms. Rossellin who is in New York on a press tour for her new project Mammas, a series produced for the Sundance Channel. She was at our offices to promote the project on HuffPost Live, you can view it here if you like.  

Let go: India

in this hour, fourteen days from now I will be settling in for a transatlantic flight of grand proportion spanning two continents and multiple time zones en route to India. India the land of contrasts, of color, of spiritual lightness of being. i can't remember when I lit upon this idea of traveling this far east, of adding this country to my travel list. my earliest  recollection is caught in a haze of literature, Bollywood films and basement bhangra. I remember  when i penguini would get together and talk about travel Kristin and I would project our future on the streets of Mumbai, taking trains cross-country to Goa, swimming in the Arabian sea.  

Every moment in our lives informs and guides us toward our future. Who would have known that a friendship forged on the dance floor at a holiday party would result in my visiting India just a few years later? It all begins with  Addu. If she were a color, I wouldn't be able to choose just one and instead envision a prism of lights, a rainbow spectrum. Smart, carefree, focused, trusting and doggishly determined in her accomplishments, just last year she competed in a triathlon here in NYC--biking, running, swimming the East River. Her vibrancy, bearing witness to its vividity has offered perspective on how I might live life differently. It was she, along with Claire-bear, who encouraged me to participate in our company talent show. And it is through her friendship that life has taken on a different sheen, has been enriched in ways I cannot even articulate and some of which are still percolating. 

After meeting her mom this past summer, it all became clear. A strong soul is born out of necessity and sometimes gifted by blood. If nurtured correctly, it thrives a boundless spirit. I could see after spending time with the Arunkumar's that goodness was inherent in the family lineage. I was honored and charmed when Addu extended the invitation attend her younger sister's wedding. It was like a dream awakened, and these last few months I have seen a metamorphosis of self evolving in anticipation of this voyage. 

In mentioning my plans to friends and strangers, the responses have run the gamut from wonder and glee to disgust and outrage. I've been told on more than one occasion that it will be a life altering experience--almost always with the question mark lingering, as if I didn't realize what I was getting myself into. Of course it will be a life-changing experience, I am counting on it being a positive and rewarding one. No one travels halfway across the world to a place so utterly foreign with the unabashed notion that they won't be affected by the journey. Or maybe they do? I don't know, maybe they do. I have no expectations other than the excitement of being immersed in Indian life during a celebration for Addu's sister.  I've taken the necessary medical precautions, including vaccinations and preventative care (typhoid, polio, malaria, hep-a, cipro, ambien). I've coordinated my visa, health and travel insurance.  I've decided to release the reins on my life, grab a suitcase half-filled with clothes and my camera and let go. 

#13 stands for change

(c) onelovephotography

According to numerology, the number 13 is a karmic number that represents change, upheaval, where it allows for new ground to be broken. In some instances the fear of change has resulted in an irrational belief that the number itself is a symbol of evil. Research will bring up data that cites both sides good and bad, one particular citation, notes that 13 has great power, and that going with its flow, adapting gracefully to its change will only bring about strength. I personally have always leaned toward the positive side of its meaning. 

Thirteen was Mom's favorite and lucky number. For her there was nothing more glorious and self-defining as the number thirteen. She often wore a gold-plated #13 charm she found just outside our house. An omen or homage of sorts. For awhile she wore it with the medal honoring St. Lucia, her namesake. 

2013. Change. Yes I can feel it coming. Lately I have found myself feeling tremors, and maybe one might call it subtle seismic shift. Its an unsettling with equal parts nervousness, fear and excitement. And during these days I really wish I had someone to talk to, someone who really gets me. Someone who understands my head and will not think twice about calling me out on my shit, forcing me to answer to myself. You know who I mean, we all have (or have had) that person in our lives. I feel like I am that person for many but no one has been that person for me, not in a long while. 

It makes it difficult to quiet the crazy-talk, and easier to slip beneath the murkiness of indecision. It would be nice to have a champion to guide me towards the next phase of my life. I don't mean lead me, I know I have to get there on my own but in those moments of doubt to help me to remember everything that I've accomplished, all who I've come to be. When I pause to think of who I want that person to be, I feel a sharp pang and I have to catch my breath. It's a bevel that cuts through my psyche, awakens the siren and the beast. I won't deny that at this point in my life I thought I would have a partner to lean on, someone to comfort me when the dull ache of  life temporarily blindsides you and leads you sideways into a spiral of emotions over what comes next. Inevitably in these moments I conjure my mom when her absence is felt the greatest. I can go months without realizing she is not here, and in one instant am painfully cognizant that I am missing something, someone, that I am an island.