An Imam and a Swami Walk Into a…

Last year, I spent the holiday of Shavout at a Jerusalem yeshiva (religious school).  We studied all night long, and in the morning we watched the sunrise over the city from the Tayellet (promenade).  This year was somewhat different:

The Delhi synagogue is a tucked away but decent-sized structure that thankfully wasn’t hard to find.  On the front they painted a long list of donors, including families who donated 100 INR (about $2) or more.  I arrived on time, so I was the first Jew to arrive, other than the community leader.  (He’s the closest they have to a rabbi.)  He introduced me around to the non-Jewish guests, including a pastor and his family, and asked me to explain Shavuout to them.  Then they asked me a series of follow up questions, including, “I hear the Jews are the best people in the world.  All rich.”  (I wasn’t clear on the question.)   After others arrived – a good 30 people or so – the leader asked me to join him at the podium.   (He also invited me to his daughter’s wedding.  Nice guy.)  He then chanted a Hebrew psalm that I’d never seen and pointed at me to keep reading.  I tried to chant in the same Sephardic melody, but it didn’t quite work and was one of the more awkward moments since I arrived here.  (And I’ve had plenty of awkward moments.)  I stood up there quietly for the rest of the service, as he led us in what appeared to be the Sephardic weekday evening service.  I guess you use the books you have.  There was also a small Kiddush afterward, where I tried many new Indian foods, including something that looked like cake but was wet and tasted like sour milk.  That was a surprise.

An amazingly diverse group of people showed up, including a 92-year-old man who fought in seven wars since World War II.  He was particularly proud of his role in the Bangladesh Liberation War.  The most surreal moment was in the middle of the services when an imam and a swami walked in to visit, both decked out in full religious gear.  It might take a while before any sight in shul matches up to that of watching a swami following along with “Adon Olam.”

How Bazaar

I’ve been trying to ease into India, but this past week I managed to see two very famous Indian cultural sites.  They were two very intense experiences.   Both were amazing, but after the second one, I may need a break for a while:

1) Chandni Chowk is a labyrinthine bazaar in Old Delhi, and it’s so much fun.  (See picture.)  It’s packed and pushy, but you can find everything on sale from chickens and goats to jewelry and clothes to every kind of halal meat.  (There were also cows wandering around, but not on sale.)   The streets were filled with fruit carts, tons and tons of pedestrians, bicycle rickshaws, and motorcycles.  (Because of course you would drive a motorcycle through a teeming bazaar.)  I bought lychees and mangos – the best mangos of my life.  Maybe they’re just the first thing I’ve eaten that wasn’t spicy, but they were pretty amazing.  I had a different variety of mango today, and an Indian friend showed me how to mush up the fruit inside the peel and suck it out the top.  I feel very authentic now.

While in Chandni Chowk, we took a bicycle rickshaw to Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India.   The emperor who built the Taj Mahal also built this mosque in the 17th century, and it fits about 25,000 worshippers.   They overcharge foreigners for entering (about 10 times the rate as for a native Indian), but it was worth it; in most other countries I haven’t been allowed to enter mosques at all.  We had an incredible sunset view of the red fortress walls of Old Delhi, and it was fun to stroll around  the grounds with bare feet (see other picture). 

2)  Last night, I traveled through another crowded bazaar to see the legendary Sufi singing of prayers – called Qawwali – at a temple called Nizmuddin Dargah.  Locating the temple was an adventure.  After traveling to another part of the city, you have to get sucked into a very narrow bazaar and hope that you end up going the right way.  The sea of people pushed me along, and I knew I was close once a series of Sufi men told me I had to take off my shoes (as is the custom when entering the Dargah).    They took my shoes and tried to give me plates of ritual flowers.  I wasn’t entirely clear what was going on, so I eventually doubled back through the bazaar to rescue my shoes.  (My feet are still pretty disgusting though. )  Fortunately in doing so I also met some Brazilian travelers, and we braced the Dargah together.   The Dargah was the most crowded I’ve ever felt in my life, and an absurd number of people came up to talk to me and try to be my friend.   We stayed for the beginning of singing, which was quite beautiful, but the room was so overwhelming it was hard to feel very spiritual.  I lasted longer than the girls, but after all the beggars honed in on me and literally wouldn’t stop poking me, I decided it was time to go as well.  Maybe I’ll try it again sometime; I’d like to try to see more of the music.   

We Really Are the Heart of It All

I can tell you the exact moment it hit me that I’m living in India.  In my first few days here, I was so focused on logistics that the larger sense that I was on the other side of the world somehow eluded me.  But yesterday, sitting with a friend under an arch of a thirteenth-century madrasa, overlooking a giant medieval royal water reservoir, and watching exotic birds and Indian families pass by, it suddenly registered.  I am on the other side of the world.  When did that happen?

Of course, the other side of the world isn’t quite out of the reach of my family.  I went out to dinner the other night with my roommate and some of her colleagues.  At one point I mentioned that I was from Ohio, and her colleague from Nepal told me that he went to school at Kenyon.   I was surprised to hear familiarity with Ohio, but I casually mentioned that my sister went to Kenyon as well.  “Oh, Stephanie?  Of course, we lived in the same dorm freshman year!”  Life is weird.

Namaste

Welcome to Indian Jordan, the newest version of my travel blog.  (Putting Buddha’s face in the background may be a bit ambitious, but I liked the layout.)  I just moved to Delhi for a 10-week stint at a local NGO, and today is my second full day in the country.  Already this place is unlike anywhere I’ve ever traveled.  It’s dusty, hot, and crowded, but it all seems to function in some form or another.  The “supermarket” down the block is basically piles of cookies and juices in a dusty corner, next to small statues of the Hindu god Ganesh.  Around my apartment, there are vendors selling fruit from horse-drawn carts, women carrying bushels of rocks on their head (to a construction project), feral dogs running all over the place (and curling up in front of my door), and motorcycles and cars driving in both directions down small paths that were not meant to be two-way streets.  Cars drive on the left here, like in the UK – though in my neighborhood, it’s kind of hard to tell.

My apartment here is about the same level as my Israeli apartment.  It’s on the second floor across from a small market, so there is a lot of noise during the day.  (It’s immediately across from a place where they only sell varieties of packets of milk.  I’m still figuring out how it works, though I do know you have to boil the milk before you can drink it.)  Our kitchen is little more than a sink and a plug-in gas stovetop, but the maid does most of the cooking anyway.  That’s right, we have a maid who comes every day to cook, clean, and call me “sir" (and my roommate "madam").   I wasn’t looking to have a maid, but everyone assures me that this is common practice here.  She does make fantastic Indian cuisine.   (Side note: every time I say “Indian,” I want to correct myself and say “Native American.”  I imagine I’ll get over that soon.)