Dreams of veggie omelets, pancakes, and oatmeal danced in my head as I munched on my Sunday morning breakfast of a grilled potato sandwich. I watched tentatively as my host mother piled a mound of mashed potato and spices between two pieces of white bread, painted it with oil, and grilled it on the stove. Compared to my usual breakfast of papaya and banana, I know it was considered a ‘special’ breakfast, something like the equivalent of a stack of Belgian waffles on a Sunday morning. Needless to say, I accepted it graciously and smiled it down.
After fending off the second one that was quickly coming my way, I sat at the table to enjoy my morning chai and biscuit ritual. I knew that Sundays are the day that the woman who cleans the Sharma's house comes. She wears the most vibrant pink and gold scarf. She arrives barefoot and always in the same dress, yet the little bells that hang from her anklets, her turquoise bangles, and her head scarf add a certain beauty to what many here would consider anything but. The caste system is a a component of Indian culture that takes getting used to. It bears a complexity that never ceases to confuse me, as the divisions that I previously understood seem to have endless sub-castes and exceptions. There have been many moments that, as an outsider to this normalcy, have been hard to stomach. On this Sunday morning, like all Sunday mornings, she takes her chai crouching on the floor next to me as I sit in only one of the four chairs at the table. The weight of the potatoes suddenly felt even heavier in my stomach.
In the afternoon, I hopped on a bus to meet Sukie in another part of the city to enjoy the freedom our Sunday. Our first stop was this little roadside South Indian food joint, a small stall that smelled of chili powder, oil, and coconut. We split a plate of idli- cold fluffy rice patties with coconut chutney and spicy yellow curry. When we realized we'd scrapped up every last drop from the bowls, we decided we should probably order another one. We then went for Indian facials, 'fresh fruit facials' to be exact. The woman lathered my face with scrubs, lotions, and masked as she finger painted her way through the layer of sweat, and dirt that had already accumulated at my 1pm appointment. It smelled like, well, fresh fruit, and was wonderfully relaxing. I couldn't stifle my laughter when a few Now 8 hits come on over the speakers to add to the mood.
The cleansed feeling lasted only a few minutes after we walked back out into the real 105 degree world, but hey! A few minutes later I found myself standing in a little old cobbler's flip flops on the side of the road as he hand sewed my flapping sandals back together. In only a few short minutes we were back on the road headed towards the final destination of the day, a little temple Sukie had been telling me about located up into the rocky hill. We walked up hot paved roads that made me feel like an egg being fried over easy, through backwater neighborhoods, and among groups of boys playing cricket in the streets. A few wrong turns later, we stood that the bottom of a long, narrow, and steep stone staircase that, with the heat and our shortness of breath, seemed like a cruel joke. But up we went passed curious onlookers, basically walking inside peoples doorways as it grew ever narrower up at the top. Finally, we saw the little white-washed temple, painted with red 'Oms' and decorated with prayer flags, nestled inside the hill. The hill overlooked the entire blue-washed city. From above, you realize how much life exists beyond the eye can see at street level; the roof of each house becomes a stage on which the lives of each family overflows. Each cement roof was spotted with the bright headscarves of women cooking or hanging clothes. I was amazed by the layers of activity the view from above exposes. Inside, we found the little stringy haired guru wearing baggy shorts sweeping the tiled floors quietly singing to himself. He greeted us with a bowing 'Namaste' and welcomed us to sit on the cool floor. The walls, one of which was the side of the rocky cliff itself, were painted with murals and filled with posters of Shiva. Figurines, picture frames draped with malas, and flower offerings filled the little room. The breeze was cool and filled with incense. As we sat, drank chai that he prepared for us, and meditated, the little guru keep sweeping, singing, and enjoying the serenity of his nirvana. We stayed there until the huge orange sun set behind the hills and the moon took its place behind us.
After fending off the second one that was quickly coming my way, I sat at the table to enjoy my morning chai and biscuit ritual. I knew that Sundays are the day that the woman who cleans the Sharma's house comes. She wears the most vibrant pink and gold scarf. She arrives barefoot and always in the same dress, yet the little bells that hang from her anklets, her turquoise bangles, and her head scarf add a certain beauty to what many here would consider anything but. The caste system is a a component of Indian culture that takes getting used to. It bears a complexity that never ceases to confuse me, as the divisions that I previously understood seem to have endless sub-castes and exceptions. There have been many moments that, as an outsider to this normalcy, have been hard to stomach. On this Sunday morning, like all Sunday mornings, she takes her chai crouching on the floor next to me as I sit in only one of the four chairs at the table. The weight of the potatoes suddenly felt even heavier in my stomach.
In the afternoon, I hopped on a bus to meet Sukie in another part of the city to enjoy the freedom our Sunday. Our first stop was this little roadside South Indian food joint, a small stall that smelled of chili powder, oil, and coconut. We split a plate of idli- cold fluffy rice patties with coconut chutney and spicy yellow curry. When we realized we'd scrapped up every last drop from the bowls, we decided we should probably order another one. We then went for Indian facials, 'fresh fruit facials' to be exact. The woman lathered my face with scrubs, lotions, and masked as she finger painted her way through the layer of sweat, and dirt that had already accumulated at my 1pm appointment. It smelled like, well, fresh fruit, and was wonderfully relaxing. I couldn't stifle my laughter when a few Now 8 hits come on over the speakers to add to the mood.
The cleansed feeling lasted only a few minutes after we walked back out into the real 105 degree world, but hey! A few minutes later I found myself standing in a little old cobbler's flip flops on the side of the road as he hand sewed my flapping sandals back together. In only a few short minutes we were back on the road headed towards the final destination of the day, a little temple Sukie had been telling me about located up into the rocky hill. We walked up hot paved roads that made me feel like an egg being fried over easy, through backwater neighborhoods, and among groups of boys playing cricket in the streets. A few wrong turns later, we stood that the bottom of a long, narrow, and steep stone staircase that, with the heat and our shortness of breath, seemed like a cruel joke. But up we went passed curious onlookers, basically walking inside peoples doorways as it grew ever narrower up at the top. Finally, we saw the little white-washed temple, painted with red 'Oms' and decorated with prayer flags, nestled inside the hill. The hill overlooked the entire blue-washed city. From above, you realize how much life exists beyond the eye can see at street level; the roof of each house becomes a stage on which the lives of each family overflows. Each cement roof was spotted with the bright headscarves of women cooking or hanging clothes. I was amazed by the layers of activity the view from above exposes. Inside, we found the little stringy haired guru wearing baggy shorts sweeping the tiled floors quietly singing to himself. He greeted us with a bowing 'Namaste' and welcomed us to sit on the cool floor. The walls, one of which was the side of the rocky cliff itself, were painted with murals and filled with posters of Shiva. Figurines, picture frames draped with malas, and flower offerings filled the little room. The breeze was cool and filled with incense. As we sat, drank chai that he prepared for us, and meditated, the little guru keep sweeping, singing, and enjoying the serenity of his nirvana. We stayed there until the huge orange sun set behind the hills and the moon took its place behind us.
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