City of God

Gopal and I have never been very good Hindus. We sometimes go to temple in Atlanta, sometimes we pray (usually when the Braves are down by 2 in the 11^th inning), but usually, we just don’t do anything. Going to Tirupati was a way to erase everything bad we had done as Hindus and start over. The temple, we were told was built on 7 hills and was built at the site where God (Balaji) came down from heaven. So, the temple there is one of the holiest sites for Hindus.

Stories are abound about the power of this temple. People go when they are ill, when they are weak, when their family needs help, and pray to Balaji—and things come true. But, in return, you need to give something to Balaji. When that promise is made, that promise is kept, Balaji is said to always receive what it promised. A story I was once told was that there was a man whose wife was ill, he came to Tirupati and prayed that she would get better, in return, he said that he would give up his wedding ring. She miraculously improved and he returned to Tirupati to keep up his end of his promise, but he got cold feet at the donation box (hundi) and gave the cash equivalent of his wedding ring. As he put the donation in the box and removed his hand, he noticed that his wedding ring was missing—it had slipped off and had fallen in the donation box as well. Balaji had received what he was promised.

Gopal and I had talked about taking part in the typical offering given to first time attendees at Tirupati—our hair. Shaving your head before entering the temple is common, and I had done it before, so it was a no-brainer for me. Gopal was concerned about how close the shave would be, I assured Gopal that he would look fine, but he had gone back and forth about the decision in the days leading up to the shaving.

Our car picked us up from Gopal’s Great Grandmother’s (Uva) house at 6:00 AM. We were joined by Gopal’s cousin, Mohan, and his friend Mr. Jayraman. Gopal and I slept most of the way, but were awoken by an intense security check of everything inside the car. Glove compartments, luggage, bags—everything was opened. Gopal and I were jarred from our sleep as we left the security checkpost and zoomed up the mountain for the temple. We made a quick stop at a small Ganesh temple on the way (Ganesh is the elephant god who is prayed to in order to remove obstacles, very popular for trips). We continued to speed up the mountain at a dizzying pace (we were in a Government car which had an experienced driver who took the trip up to Tirupati often, again Gopal and I were treated like some sort of Indian government officials). As we were driving to the top, I informed our guide—Mohanthat we needed to purchase some silver items and also that Gopal and I were thinking of getting our heads shaved…

It was as if we had told Mohan that he had won a million dollars (which is 4.5 crore rupees); he was overwhelmed with joy. He quickly told the driver where to go. Gopal and I followed him to the basement of a multi-story hotel. The scene was chaotic. There were about twenty people getting their head shaved as they sat on the edge of the trench as the barber sat on the other edge. Mohan was quickly buying our tickets and Gopal was asking if there was any way that they would ‘buzz it down.’ Gopal apparently had thought we had walked into a Great Clips or something. I went first, the barber pulled out something that looked like a neon green comb, at the end he placed a razor—like one of the segments of a box cutter razor. Then, he poured a mixture of shaving lotion on all the hair on my face, including my eyebrows—I was soon about to ask if they did buzz cuts as well. Then, he went to work, small quick cuts, and in 15 minutes—it was done—beard, moustache, hair—all gone (he did keep the eyebrows).  He poured another dollop of the shaving cream/water mixture on my head. I have shaved my head a few times, but nothing was as cleansing (both physically and spiritually) as this hair cut was. As I got up, I saw Gopal’s eyes meet mine and then scan my head. Gopal knew that we did it big—and this wasn’t a time to quit. I walked over to the lady who pours a bucket of water on your head (she stands there and yells at you until you give her 10 rupees). I turned and saw Gopal’s head bobbing bald-ly over the landscape of the other shaved heads. At first, Gopal felt self-conscious about the head, but you can only be so self conscious as men, women, children, people of all ages, all have shaved heads. We were now prepared—to visit Balaji.

The line is long. The horror stories are countless of how long it took your mother’s cousin’s daughter to go through the line. We heard times like 4 hours, 8 hours, 16 HOURS! And not for a long time, just for a moment—literally a second before they pushed you along. The time, energy, and devotion that it takes to complete the trip is literally exhausting—but it made you think. If you had only a moment to pray for someone or something—what would it be? Would it be for a significant other, for your family, maybe an ailing relative, maybe for those who have passed on, maybe a general one—for world peace, for the Braves to win the World Series. All viable options. But, we had time to think, so it probably wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.

There are two lines to go see the actual idol, there is a ‘fast’ line and a ‘slow’ line. The fast line, is as the name implies, faster, but is 300 rupees ($7-8), while the slow line is 60 rupees ($1.25). As everything else is in India, things can be helped along with monetary lubrication. The line was moving quickly and we were having a good time, then an unexpected obstacle—they had reached capacity in the main temple and a metal gate closed—only to be opened in one hour. There was a certain annoyance that had settled over our group of four, but, there has to be challenges—it demonstrates your devotion. But, Mohan was on the case—he had called over one of the temple officials and started talking to him. Soon Mohan ushered us out of the line and through another doorway and up a flight of stairs—at the top of the stairs he slipped the guard a 500 rupee note. The guard led us to a wide open stair case and we rejoined the line. To give you an approximation of how much time we saved—we were later told that the walk from where we were to the idol was 3 km, but now, it was only 1 km. We had cheated time, I was certain Balaji would get that time back from us in some way.

We were now in line, so close to our goal. The lines converge at this point but are still separated by a cage-like fence. On our side were refreshed, happy people. On the other side, it was packed, people who you envied for their devotion. You were enveloped in sound as people yelled: “Govinda!” (one of Balaji’s other names). The crowd began to swell larger and larger as you approached the main gopuram (altar). One of the things that is amazing about the temple is that you cannot see the main gopuram from anywhere in the temple until you are standing right in front of it. Once we reached it, we realized what all the raving was about from the hundreds of relatives who would detest the crowds and the wait, but would rave about the temple. Since, cameras cannot be taken there, again, I will try my best to describe what we saw:

Our temple in Atlanta, which has marble altars and idols, is said to be based on the temple. The only metaphor that I can think of is that our temple in Atlanta is based on Tirupati, like the Lion King is based on Hamlet—though they may be the same, the former looks like child’s play compared to the latter. The gopurams are covered with intricately detailed gold, adorned with hundreds of idols. It is—breathtaking. The crowds are thick, there is no need to move, because the crowds will move you. People will push and elbow you, but for a moment, you are in the house of God, completely at peace. I started this post by saying that Gopal and I were never good Hindus—the moment we saw it changed our perception of who we were as Hindus.

But, still we had to go inside to see the actual idol. Still, I hadn’t figured out who or what I would pray for. The moment was approaching—my mind was racing. Only one second to see the idol, I pressed my palms together in anticipation of prayer. And there Balaji was—magnificently dressed in garlands, jewelry, etc. People all around were being pushed, but for some reason, the line stopped and I quickly realized the temple guards (specifically the one that was trying to move me, a 5 foot tall woman who probably was left there to push children) had no chance against Gopal and myself. Gopal and I had three to four minutes to pray, and though noise surrounds you—for just a moment, you felt a real connection. I prayed for everyone that I could think of, my family, friends, Gopal, the Braves—just anyone who could come to mind. It was truly a special moment.

In all, the trip had taken us four hours—not too bad, since that is the amount of time people spend in line. I would remiss to discuss Tirupati without discussing its place among the other places of worship. On a yearly basis, it competes with the Vatican for ‘richest house of worship in the world.’ Tirupati sees almost 100,000 visitors a day (sometimes it can get closer to 500,000). At the end, you usually offer an offering to God and the temple in the form of donations (in the Hundi). To put that in context, Gopal and I each spent 1,000 rupees at the temple—now multiply that times the number of visitors and you are looking at a very influential region of India. The money is supposed to be used to help surrounding temples grow and flourish. But, any time that kind of money is involved, some corruption exists—but I, for one, will not regret a single rupee that I spent there and would jump in an instant at going again.

Gopal and I had a quick lunch. I changed out of my dhoti and we went to the Lakshmidevi temple in at the base of the mountain (it is the home of Balaji’s wife—behind every strong man is a strong woman). As Gopal and I walked into the temple, the guards stopped me and said—“You are not allowed in the temple with shorts.” So they sent me to go get my dhoti. By this time, the sun had come out—and the asphalt was hot. I didn’t know where the car was parked so I aimlessly wandered around for fifteen to twenty minutes looking for the car (I had no shoes, because we were instructed to leave them in the car). I stepped on a rock and bruised my heel. Finally, I found the car, wrapped the dhoti around myself and headed across the sea of hot asphalt back to the temple. As I walked up, everyone had been waiting outside for me. We went in the temple an received our offerings and left. As we walked back to the car, Gopal and I both had to suffer through the hot asphalt once more. Balaji had gained back the time that we skipped at his temple—hopefully that means the Braves will play into October.

Back to the Roots

So we packed up our bags once again and headed to the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. Andhra Pradesh is not only known as the “rice bowl” of the south or the “hydroelectric” capital of South India but also as my parent’s native region. I had become even more excited to visit my family after talking to Hari when he visited his family in Madurai. They showed him where his dad used to play and the rest of Hari’s genetic paternal originations. So with the same intent in my heart, we boarded an overnight train to the capital city of Hyderabad, AP.

Our tickets were for the 3^rd AC compartment where we would share a 3 level bunk bed with four others. Next to us sat a couple of IT engineers whom we struck up some convo with ( But I was more excited about that I could understand  the Telegu they were speaking. The one guy reminded me of my dad. Hari goes “Venkat?” but got no response). The other seat partners were a lot less understanding. It was a young couple and spent about 25 minutes talking in Hindi about how they wanted to sleep but since we were talking and the seats were the beds they couldn’t go to sleep. They were real surprised when I knew what they were talking about as I told them to just take our top bunks. So with some new IT friends, a surprised Hindi couple and Telegu ringing in my ears we pressed on into the Andhra night.

Hari and I woke up to a tea walla yelling “Chai!” and someone in the next bunk playing music. The funny thing is that it was 6 on the morning when this all was happening. We managed to sleep for a couple more hours and woke up to the train slowing into the Secunderabad station. This is when it finally hit me about where we were. I was in the same train station my parents had once left from. The same city where my grandparents live and call home away from the U.S. The same state where my parents, now nearly 30 years ago, boarded a plane to begin a new life in America. I am not a really sentimental person but I wrote to my folks back home this email:

I can’t tell you how awesome it is to be here homies. I wish you guys were here also though. To be in the place my parents are from and meeting great grandparents is really amazing. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate you guys.

They obviously appreciated the sentiment and of course it came from the heart.

We got off the train in typical fashion with our khaki shorts, ball caps and backpacks. This look probably explains why my grandfathers friend and driver Hamid, who hasn’t seen me since I was 4 years old, spotted me from across the station. He came along with my grandfathers close friend Dr. Rao and my relative from Nellore (my ggma’s home) Mohan. From the start we felt like we are at home thanks to the generosity and helpfulness of this dynamic trio. We left the train station and began our journey into Hyderabad. We went straight up to my grandparents house, who were actually in the U.S. till September. The house is actually behind the house of V.V.S. Laxman, a cricketer on the Indian Test team. We unloaded our stuff, and headed off to lunch at the famous Shambagh Hotel. We ate our first of 6 doses of Andhra meals within the next two days and filled to the brim with Sambar and Gongura chutney, we marched on to Charminar. Charminar is a relic mosque right in the center of Hyderabad, providing a nice vantage point to look at the city in all four directions. We paid our dues to the great Nizam building and walked into the neighboring bangle bazaar. Hari and I found some nice gifts to take back home to our friends, using my grandpa’s driver to translate haggled down prices in Urdu to the shopkeepers (Urdu, similar to Hindi, is spoken by the large Muslim population who inhabit Hyderabad). So we bought some bangles and then went on the Golconda Fort, the great fortification built in western Hyderabad by the Qutb Shahi Kings. The place was beautiful and you can see all of Hyderabad from the 400 ft. top tower (We walked all the way up, got even thinner than what we were at the bottom of the Fort). As we were leaving Golconda, a Tamil movie shooting was going on. Hari and I, hoping to be the ray of light and inspiration the director may have been looking for, aimlessly wandered in front of cameras and boom mics hoping to find the director chair. To no avail, we walked out the 20 ft. iron spike studded Golconda doors and left back for home. The next morning we went to the Birla Mandir, a beautiful hilltop temple overlooking Hussain Sagar Lake which is situated right in the heart of the city. We paid homage to the Hindu gods, ate breakfast and then set out to find some famous Andhra chutneys. For our American readership, chutney’s are a highly coveted side dish or main meal for Indians. It is made from mangoes that are left in vinegar and other oils for days. The mango juices come out of the fruit and are cooked with the salts, providing an explosion of flavors. Many other vegetables are also cooked up in the same manner. I walked into the Vellanki chutney store and looked the store worker dead in the eye. “I want 3 kg’s of your best.” She looks back at her other coworkers, mumbles, and says, “We don’t have that much in stock.” I backed off and Hari and I walked out with about 1 kg of the mango goodness, all internationally packed to take home. We then had a chance to visit my dad’s mom’s apartment. Unforunately, like my mom’s parents, she too is in the U.S. It was nice walking up to the 1^st floor door as Hamid asked me if I had remembered any of this area. Last time I came I was four years old so Hamid filled me in on things I couldn’t remember. So we shortly thereafter ate lunch and left for the Secunderababd train station once again ( Hari for lunch had these sweet Mexican Tacos that were bomb.com. Well done Hyderabadi Mexicans!). Our next stop was Nellore, home to my great grandmother, birthplace of my mom’s mom and also playground for my mother when she was young. This trip would be one I would never forget.

We arrived in Nellore at 8:30 in the morning. I had a warm feeling about the place. The same warm feeling I had when I saw my dad’s mom’s house in Hyderabad. The same warm feeling I had when I spoke to my dad as I was standing in the same place he once had at the banks of The Ganges when I called him from there. We jumped into a Toyota minivan and drove through the pleasant streets of Nellore. There wasn’t too much honking and the skies were bright blue. We entered my great grandma’s (Ava as I call her in Telegu) neighborhood through an archway that had some Telegu script on it. We turned through a couple small side streets. Children were playing cricket down one road, a lady hanging up her clothes down another and we finally slowed onto the bright blue gates of my Ava’s house. I got out of the car and she was standing in the doorway, bright eyed and with a warm smile on her face. I walked up to her and immediately touched her feet, a common Indian custom for young people to do when they see their elders. My eyes have watered before when I have left family members houses but for the first time I teared up when entering a relative’s house. It was the first time I had seen my Ava in 18 years, The last time I saw her I was just a goober little baby rolling around ( literally rolling as I was round as sonic the hedgehog when he curls up to do that crazy spinning thing). This was the same house she had lived in for 36 years. The same house where my mom had played with her siblings and essentially the direct maternal roots of my existence. The first sight of my Ava was filled with different emotions and I’ll hold that feeling close to my heart for a long time to come.

So my Telegu isn’t something to write home about, but I was surprised to see my skills in action. I spoke the language real well until I came to grade school, where I lost most of the speaking ability. Only time I’ve had to use it was to talk to my Ava on the phone or get those crazy resident tickets in Agra. Besides that English was the just the way I rolled. But when you are thrown in a situation that you are forced to use another language, the language will come. My Ava was disappointed that she couldn’t make anything for us. I said, in my best possible Telegu, “Naku meetho matladam okuti kavali” which LOOSELY translates to “All I want to do is talk with you Ava” except without conjunctions or proper sentence structure. (Sorry about the spelling Telegu speakers, correct me as you wish). My Ava could also speak Tamil, so Hari could jump into conversations every once in awhile. This day in Nellore was the quietest I had ever seen Hari. Perhaps he was soaking the Andhra Pradesh culture in or more likely the Telegu dominated conversations had him quiet. Hari never complains and he seemed to enjoy himself also.

We spent most of the morning with her and then visiting other family friends in the area. My mom’s good family friend was the first house we visited and they spent some nice time conversing with us . He should us some old books, giving us one book of local history in which my mom’s dad was pictured. He then asked us about our biodata. Hari was very specific in saying that he majored in Buisiness which caused some confusion. Hari said that he was majoring and my uncle would say, “oh, business of law.” Hari would respond, “no, Buisiness marketing with a technology focus.” Another question would then come about Buisness Law from my uncle and now one household in Nellore has given Hari good blessings on his “Law” Business degree. We then ate some local food off a banana leaf and visited some other relatives. We then went back to my Ava’s house and I spent the afternoon looking at old pictures with her. I watched her dig through an old closet in her bedroom and pull out a couple albums. They were mainly pics of m family members and my mom’s sibling’s family’s. She asked me how they were all doing and we reminisced about all of them. We just sat there in the warm glow of the Nellore afternoon and talked. It was just a fantastic way to spend the day. Later that night we visited a couple temples, and watched the sunset over the Penar River in Nellore. We went back to my Ava’s house, spending a couple more hours talking wither her. We closed the day after Hari and I spotted a lizard floating around the walls of the house. My Ava asked why we were scared and laughed. A lizard is actually known as a sign of good luck in Indian households. If that legend is correct, the lizard spoke the truth. I can’t begin to even write or think about how lucky I am to be able to visit my Ava. Lucky to be here in Nellore, India, visiting my real roots. If the goal of this trip to India was to really discover where my parents came from and my foundation as an Indian, this day in Nellore and trip to Hyderabad helped me achieve what I set out to do. Hari and I left the next morning for Tirupati. I made sure to get her blessings once again, and with a tear of happiness in my eye I waved goodbye and in Telegu promised I would visit again soon, only that time with my whole family. This experience will forever my entrenched in my memory, completing my trip to India as an unbelievable success.

Mumbai Chat Adventure

Gopal and I are no strangers to eating. All we do is eat. But, there was one type of food we had not really tried out; not out of flavor, but out of fear.

Street food is the most popular form of eating in India, and easily the least hygienic. There are no health inspectors, no cleanliness grades, just bold flavors. There is no better city in the world to experience Street food, or chat as it is commonly called here, than Mumbai. We arrived at the Airport in Mumbai at 11 PM and I grabbed a croissant because I was feeling hungry—which would soon turn out to be a huge mistake. My cousin Adi picked us up from the airport. I was worried he wouldn’t know what I looked like, so Gopal and I dressed as American as possible with shorts and t-shirts. I was also worried I wouldn’t be able to identify him in the 8 years I hadn’t seen him, luckily Adi looked exactly the same. He picked us up from the airport and took us immediately to my Aunt’s house—which was an hour and a half away by Fiat taxi (there are no rickshaws in Mumbai because they are outlawed, a similar move is being tried in Bangalore now). When we arrived, we were served a meal of peanut rice and curry—we ate until we were full and then ate some cookies; we would need the energy for the following day when we toured the city.

The next day it poured. Not regular rain, but as if the heavens had opened and unleashed an ocean on the city. The sheets of rain were so thick that we couldn’t see past six inches in front of our face at times. I put on my yellow GT poncho, Gopal put on his purple jacket, and we headed out to go see the city. We ate a full breakfast of rice and curry, and then left for the main part of the city. We took the Mumbai city train into toward the main station. The train was packed and silent, except for when a man selling a English reading and writing book/whiteboard for children entered the train (it was odd, because all the people in our car were grown men). We arrived to the VT station (the Penn Station of Mumbai) got off the train and ate Jumbo Cheese Vada Pav, a sandwich made with a fried potato filling, spices, chutney, and shredded cheese. It was delicious, but it was our third meal of the day, and it was only 10:30—Gopal and I could quickly see where this day was headed.

We left the station and starting walking to the main shopping area. We stopped by to eat some corn. Corn here is prepared over an open charcoal flame. It is cooked until charred, and then is rubbed with a lemon slice that has been dipped in masala spices. Therefore, it has a spicy, sour taste—actually very good. Gopal and I were starting to enter a state of delirium as our stomachs started to become full with the delicious street food. We walked over to Marine Drive, a spot that is famous in Bollywood movies. It is a street that runs by the bay and is marked by triangular stones. It was a cool moment, because as the rain came down, as we were at this site, there was an outside chance that Gopal and I would break out into a romantic song filled with hundreds of choreographed back up dancers. But, alas, there was nothing of the sort and we moved on.

We were then going to take a bus to Mumbai’s main beach—Chowpatti. But, we first needed to find a bus, Adi quickly navigated his way to a bus stand and asked until he pointed at the one we needed to board as it sped toward us. Before I continue with what happens next, you will need a context for what the city is like. Mumbai is the fast-paced, Western version of India. Everyone is in a hurry to go somewhere, everyone is willing to leave you even if you wait for one moment. For that fact, the bus starts just before the last person gets on, as to provide some additional challenge for the riders. Unfortunately, Gopal was not informed of this, and as usual, he politely waited as others boarded the bus. I was right before Gopal, and as I boarded, I felt the bus move and then my heart dropped—Gopal was still outside. As you may know, Gopal and I have never been noted for our immense agility—so boarding a moving bus a la Keanu Reeves in Speed is not our list of attributes. The next thing I feel is someone grabbing at my poncho and then Gopal crashing into the bus. Apparently, Gopal was so surprised by the bus movement that he was holding on to the railing for the stairs as the bus started slammed into the side of the bus, then did a quick agility step and had found himself on the bus—well played, Gopal, well played.

We arrived at Chowpatti as the rain started to let up, we walked up to the small strip of beach and dipped our toes in the ocean. Then Adi announced, “Time for lunch!” I was amazed, Adi’s metabolism must be incredibly high, because he seemed like a thin, lanky guy—who apparently devours pounds of food at a time. If consulting didn’t work out for him, I’m sure competitive eating would. At Chowpatty, there are dozens of stalls that all have the same thing—Pav Bhaji. There, the owners of each of the kiosks stand outside and holler at passerbys: “PAV!…PAV BHAJI! HELLO SIR! PAV!” (Each stand is almost identical, exact same menus, exact same names, so I guess yelling is their only form of differentiation). We went to one in the back and got an order of cheese pav bhaji.( If you remember, this is a similar meal to the one that got us sick in Goa at the very beginning of our trip). It is two rolls of bread served with some spicy curry with melted cheese on top. We were eating under a large blue tarp area that all of the stands had tied together, and then it started pouring again. So there we were, in Bollywood-style rains, eating delicious food, under a tarp, at the beach—a truly 5-star moment. We finished the pav bhaji and then ordered a round of dahi puri, small fried bread cups filled with onions, chutneys, chickpeas, and finally topped with a sweet yogurt. Adi then took us to desert at another stand, we had falooda—a drink made with ice cream, milk, kulfi (Indian ice cream), and semia (sweet noodles)—I would list off more ingredients, but at this point both Gopal and I were entering food-induced comas.

We then boarded another bus for the Gateway of India. Gopal and I had a chance to show what we had learned from our previous encounter. We were running after a bus, luckily, we thought, it would wait until Gopal had to board last. But this time as we got to the bus, Adi held the railing as he waved us in and the bus started. Now, Gopal and I would have to both run and jump on the bus, and Adi would have to essentially run at the pace of a car so that he could also board. So, Gopal, who had had some difficulty last time was the first to board this time. So there we are, the bus is leaving, Adi is holding the railing ushering us in, and Gopal says, “No, Adi, please you go first.” For the first time, Gopal’s kindness and chivalry were not necessary or wanted, in fact, it was more of a hindrance. Gopal jumped on much more easily than before (one down, two to go). Then it was me and Adi, strafing as the bus was picking up speed—and for some reason, I attempted to offer the same kindness and chivalry to Adi, “No, please you get on first.” Adi just yelled at me to get on, I took two steps, boarded the bus, but slipped on the wet stairs, regained my composure and got to my seat. Adi, a relative pro, had no issues as he jumped on the bus effortlessly. We sped on to the Gateway of India.

The Gateway of India is a big arch constructed by the British that stands near the shore. In the past, it had stood in the ocean and the incoming ships would sail through it. But, now it is on the shore. The rain was coming down harder than ever, we were fuller than ever, and all of a sudden, very sleepy. We took the train back to my Aunt’s apartment, struggling to stay awake. When we arrived, food was ready, so we had dinner—and then a desert of Kulfi—I was certain I never wanted to see food again. We watched reality shows into the night as the rains continued to pound the city.

The next day we spent the day with family, getting Hindi lessons from Adi and Jayanthi while watching Hindi movies and news. It was nice not to do anything for a day, finally a trip that felt like a vacation rather than working for National Geographic. Gopal and I told stories and watched old cricket games, then watched the ESPY awards, then watched BBC News. Gopal and I had the best day ever, because we did nothing and ate throughout the day. We finished off the night with an all-you-can-eat Gujurati meal. At this point, we just were tasting food, I guess our bodies had now assumed that we were preparing for hibernation or a nuclear holocaust or something. We left the next morning, our bellies full and ready to meet Gopal’s family in Andhra Pradesh next week.

‘Whatever makes you happy’

Our travel was becoming arrogant. We were like Ruth in his prime, we called our shot and then went. No issues, just travelling. This weekend appeared no different. We were headed to the Southern Tip of India to watch the sunrise at the point where the Bay of Bengal, Arabian Sea, and the Indian Ocean met. We left at 6:00 PM on Friday. Our trip had gone from just Gopal and myself to Gopal myself and another girl to Gopal, myself, and five other people. Luckily we had rented out a van that holds 8—we were told that 8 could go, but seven would be very comfortable. Our driver, Gopi, pulled up in a minivan. Yes, technically this could house eight people, just like a thong can technically house your unmentionables. We packed in and headed directly South, hoping to make the trip before the sunrise came.

We drove all night and were awoken only when the trip became very bizarre at about 4 AM. We all awoke to the car shaking and suddenly being surrounded by piles of dirt. Our driver was lost and it was only another two hours until sunrise. All hope was lost. We emerged from the dirt hills even more lost than before. It was now 4:15, and we were travelling down dirt roads and detours asking people the way to Konyakumari (the Southern tip), each gave us an answer that was more confusing than the one before it. Then we came to a man dressed in all white, riding a bike in the darkness. We rolled down our window to ask him directions, but before we could ask—he pointed at the road ahead of him and said in a clear voice ‘Konyakumari.’ He boarded his bicycle and left, as Gopal turned in the darkness (he had to yell across another person who was sleeping between us because some poor girl had made the choice to sit between myself and Gopal for the nine hour car ride) and said “Was that the Prophet Muhammed?” and then fell asleep. We arrived in Konyakumari within the hour—thanks, angelic man, I wish you the best for your two-wheeled adventures.

We arrived in the darkness and grabbed some coffee to shake the cobwebs from the ride. We walked down steps to the ‘Bathing Gate.’ As this is the meeting point of three bodies of water, it is a holy place for Hindus to take a bath. We followed the huge crowds to the best vantage point for the sunrise. And when it came, it was beautiful. The crowd had a collective gasp as the temple behind us played religious songs as the sun peeked its head out over the horizon. To our right was a huge statue and temple that stood out in the ocean (go see Gopal’s pictures to get a better description of what we saw).

We took naps and woke up to eat breakfast. At breakfast, the waiter had trouble understanding everyone’s accents so I think he randomly assigned our drink orders. We saw the aforementioned temple and statue and then proceeded to the Gandhi memorial. When Gandhi was murdered, his ashes were sent across India, and Konyakumari was one of the sites. We entered and immediately greeted by a man who introduced himself as a ‘tsunami watcher.’ (He was clearly a tour guide looking for money, anyone who helps you too much in India is trying to get money out of you. I asked him how much and he said, ‘Whatever makes you happy.’) He yelled in broken English about Gandhi and why his ashes were there and how the tsunami came (apparently he did a very good job protecting the area from tsunami since the tsunami entered the building and the water went up toward the top floor of the two story building, yet miraculously nothing was damaged). He then asked us for money and we each gave him 10 rupees, which he started pleading that he needed more. Then he asked for Gopal’s camera—which only meant that he was going to run away with it, but we gave it to him. Gopal looked like his child had just entered a hostage situation. His face dropped and turned ghost white.  I often like to imagine situations where Gopal’s camera and I are trapped and he can only choose one—I often lose in those scenarios. The tour guide then took the camera and started directing us around the memorial a la America’s Next Top Model—getting us to stand straight, move positions, smile, etc—all in silence. Then he exclaims, ‘GANDHI MADE THIS QUOTE!’ Then he hands Gopal his camera and asked him if the pictures were ok. Gopal seemed relieved and perturbed at the same time, and then complimented his pictures. As we left, the tsunami watcher asked us if we had any dollars because his daughter ‘collects foreign currency.’ We said no, then as he left he gave me his hand to shake and then said, “I broke my shoulder.” I said. “Sorry” and left. In all it was a bizarre situation; we let Gopal sit outside for a second to collect his thoughts and catch his breath. It was starting to drizzle and everyone was tired, so we headed back to the hotel to catch a quick nap before sunset.

Sunset was not as we expected. It had continued to rain for the three hours we napped. The sky was covered by dark clouds as we ventured to the same place we saw the sunrise. But, then the rains came—and they came with ferocity. We were trapped with water everywhere. We were between three bodies of water and it seemed as if another sea was unloading on us from above. We waited, but there was no sunset as we huddled inside a stone gazebo. We waited for the rain to let up a little and we ran to a nearby restaurant to get our fill of cheese nan and cool banana drinks before we turned in for the night.

The next day started with an early viewing of the sunrise again and then a morning drive to Madurai. Madurai is famous for one thing—Meenakshi Temple which is the focal point of the city. The temple was constructed in the 16^th Century and holds true to many traditions. For example, shorts are not allowed in the temple and men must wear pants or a traditional dhoti (a long sheet of material that is tied around the waist). Sections of the temple are only reserved for Hindus and Indians, not for foreigners. Meenakshi is also known for its intricate architecture and statues throughout the temple.

But, Madurai holds a special place in my own heart. It is the location of a house that has been in my family for over 70 years. My grandfather, who passed away last Spring, first went to that house when he was only 15 years old. The city and the house gave me a chance to reconnect with my own family history.

We arrived at the temple in our traditional garb (even our friend David, an Engineering student from University of Arkansas had purchased a dhoti). I had forgotten to pack mine from home, so earlier that week, I had visited my grandmother who lives in Bangalore and she gave me my Grandfather’s old dhoti. I wore that and Gopal wore a free one that he got from an overly friendly man who met us at the temple. We did a quick tour of the temple (which is beautifully painted and rich with history), and I left the students to shop as I headed to my family’s home.

I was met there by my uncle Chinu who quickly led me to a nearby house where an old woman sat at the stoop. He said in Tamil, ‘This is Gopal’s son.’ Her eyes lit up and she brought me in for coffee. She spoke only Tamil, so I tried my best to tell her about myself in my broken version of the language. She then told me that my own father used to spend time there and play. I was asked many questions (“Are you married?” “Have you been to Hu-stun?” “Tell me about your educational system in the United States.”) and then was taken over to my uncle’s home after being served delicious coffee.

There, I met Chinu’s father, mother, and son. His son Vijay is the same age as my younger brother, 13—he met me and then said, “How old are you?” I replied with 21. And then he asked me, “What is your ambition, man?” I was taken aback, because no one had asked me that question since I was his age. I roughly described to him the business plan that Gopal and I were working on, because at the time it seemed correct. Then we talked about cricket, Argentinean soccer, and his friend’s ambition to become an astronaut. Lunch was then served. I was fed until I could not move, I was given rice and dosais and vegetables and water. And at the end, I got choked up, because though I came essentially unannounced—I was treated like family. The same way my father would have been treated, the same way my grandfather would be treated. I was there for only an hour, but in that hour I was told stories about my family, I was cared for, and though I was thousands of miles away from anything that I had ever known, I felt like I was home—even if just for a second.

The phone rang, it was the driver—everyone was waiting. I wish I could have spent longer, I wish I would have budgeted more time, but most of all, I wish that Chinu and his family understand how much those 45 minutes meant to me. We arrived in Bangalore that night at 8 PM, our whirlwind tour had ended, and we had to rest up for the coming week.

Mysore is definitely not Agra

Everything has lost its flavor after visiting the Taj Mahal. I am certain we are spoilt, because this weekend we headed to the beautiful city of Mysore. Well—everyone called it beautiful, but the trip had stumbled out of the gates.

The trip was organized by our program, so we rolled up, three buses deep, to Tipu Sultan’s palace. Tipu Sultan and Hyder Ail, led Indian forces against the British as they tried to take over India. After their deaths, the power vacuum allowed the British to easily take over the area. So essentially they were the final lines of defense. Our first stop was Tipu Sultan’s palace. We turned the corner and found the remains of an ancient building. But there were no intricate carvings, no marble mausoleums, just a bunch of bricks. We were told that the British stormed the palace and destroyed it after his death. We then walked over to the ‘Watergate.’ The Watergate was the source of water to Mysore that was protected by Indian forces. We walked over and saw a stream that looked dried up. I sarcastically said aloud, ‘Why would anyone protect this?’ Some girl in our program started explaining how the British could have poisoned water sources. I tuned her out, because if there was anything worse than seeing mediocre historical sites, it was my sarcasm being taken seriously by overeager Americans.

The rest of the day was a bizarre blur. At one point, we stopped at a dairy depository where farmers will bring their milk and if it meets certain standards, it will be collected, the farmer will be paid, and the milk will be sent off to be pasteurized. Here, somehow they had tricked a handful of students into trying the unpasteurized milk. Bizarre.

Then, we headed to Brindavan Gardens. This area is very exciting, I had been here once already. All I remember is I met the tallest man in India also, there is fountain show that featured dancing fountains, Bollywood music, and a light show. It was like Stone Mountain in Georgia without the racist and segregationist overtones replaced with Indian themes and all the loud rednecks replaced by loud Tamilians. We arrived at the fountains, then got lost, then took a bunch of pictures with Indians (by took a bunch of pictures, I mean Gopal and I played a game to see how many pictures we could get in front of, or in the way of). We then rode a boat covered in moths and insects to the fountain. The show itself was fun, and then it started to rain. We got back in the bus, sang a few camp songs, then Gopal and I played our favorite game where we sit on opposite sides of a bus and narrate what we see. On the way back, we took pictures of the Mysore palace and Gopal ran into a guard who asked if he was into computer software, when Gopal responded, he said, “I am into hardware” and held up his billy club.

In all, we were unimpressed.

On day two, we saw a couple temples, and a lookout point on a ‘mountain’ (which seems silly, because we have seen the Himalayas). This day didn’t seem much better, but there was a surprise that our program coordinator, Jacob John, had promised us. Jacob is the kind of guy Gopal and I would be friends with, a short, slightly rotund man with a bizarre sense of humor. Last semester he had to administer our final when our teacher was not present and a student asked him a question. He took the paper from her hand and then hands it back and he said, “Just write some bullshit and turn it in. You will be fine.” On another occasion, there was a man who was going around scamming students. He said if we found him to tie him up and then put a sock in his mouth and then that he would come over and beat him up. This would have been a funny story if Jacob hadn’t been so serious about it. In fact, he told us two to three stores where we could buy rope and also the best techniques to use when putting a sock in someone’s mouth. Jacob was a joy to be around—and now he had promised us a surprise.

Our bus had pulled up to the Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel. The hotel is India’s most exclusive five-star hotel in the area and was a palace before it was renovated into a hotel. As the bus stopped, Jacob exclaimed, “This is your surprise. We will be having lunch at this five-star hotel. I want you to have a chance to be treated like princes and princesses!” We unloaded the bus and did a quick tour of the hotel (including a stop in a suite where Bill Gates and numerous Prime Ministers of India have stayed). Then, we were served a buffet lunch with tons of food and a live sitar player (Jacob kept coming to every student and telling them that there was a ‘Pasta Bar!’). This is how Mysore would be put on the map for Gopal and myself, it needed to do something extraordinary the second day—and this was a good start.

Our next stop was the most important, the Mysore palace. For a long time, the seat of the state of Karnataka was in Mysore (in fact, Karnataka was called ‘Mysore’ until 1976). We were visiting the palace of the Wodeyar Kingdom. Finally, something for Gopal to take pictures of. Our bus stopped at the front gate and as we were about to exit, Jacob boards and tells us that cameras are not allowed inside. So, I will attempt my best to describe to you with words what the inside is like.

The Mysore palace is stunningly beautiful. Additionally, because shoes and cameras are not allowed inside, the palace is almost exactly as it was when it was first constructed. It is a testament to international trade in India: marble from Italy, wood from England, and the ornate gold plating is from France. Inside there are huge jaguars made of stone, high cathedral ceilings covered with opaque glass, and huge paintings depicting the parades given for the Wodeyar King that would occur once a year. Inside, there were boldly colored rooms (dark reds, bright greens, etc.) and huge portraits of the royal family. Additionally, the peacock throne is hand engraved and is spectacularly carved. But, the most exciting part, was none of the above…

Our tour guide was old. Not old like…65…but old like he had to stop at the beginning of our tour to cough—for 3 minutes. I was worried that he would be unable to finish the tour and then somehow our tour group would have to dispose of the body. He walked with a cane, so I knew the tour would move slowly, but I was not prepared for what came next. He gave the tour in a staccato format as if he was reading bullet points. In addition, his accent was thick, so thick that I could not understand it—also he would yell and not make eye contact, making for a jarring experience. He also would stop at inopportune areas (staircases, in the middle of hallways, etc.) to explain significant things. Additionally, he held up an album filled with pictures to augment what he was saying. Also, he would give life advice. So, let me describe to you what one of the stops was like:

<We are stopped in a stair well, people are jostling us>

Guide: HELLO. EVERY. ONE. COME. HERE. 19-67 <Inaudible> KING. FIVE THINGS. (Showing them on his hand, unfortunately he had only four fingers, so I was not entirely sure he was telling us about five things). SWORD. ELEPHANT. <inaudible> YOU. WHAT IS <inaudible>.

Student: I’m sorry…what?

Guide: WHAT. IS. WOMEN. BEST. FRIEND. WORST. ENEMY.

Student: I don’t know.

<Guide proceeds to call on other students, some who guess randomly, some who don’t understand that he is speaking to them, because he is not making eye contact with us>

Guide: HUSBAND. HOUSE. IS. MADE. OF. LOVE.

That was the whole tour—for about 2 hours. Everyone got on the bus confused, bewildered, tired, etc. But then something amazing happened. Everywhere you go in India (especially if you are a group of Americans) you get accosted by guys selling knickknacks. The most popular knickknacks in Mysore are these wooden flutes that are usually sold at 1 for 100 rupees. But as we are sitting on the bus, the flute dealers start slashing the prices of the flutes (I imagine that the flute market just crashed). Two hundred rupees and seven minutes later, Gopal became the owner of 17 flutes which he started passing out to the students on our bus. After one more student made a purchase, there were enough flutes for each of the 30 students to have their own. Needless to say the next portion of the bus ride was tantamount to being inside the World Cup stadiums in South Africa as the bus was filled with high-pitched shrieking noises. Gopal convinced himself that he was going to try and learn the Titanic theme, while other students just blew into it, apparently, trying to make the loudest sound they could. This lasted for thirty minutes. I’m not sure what I would have wanted more to continue the bizarre tour, or to have to sit in this bus as it emitted 30 siren-like sounds as it sped on its way back to Bangalore.

The only thing I did know, it nothing shines as bright, or tastes as sweet now that we have seen the Taj.

Check out all the updates!

We have been working real hard to get back on track and it’s finally happened. Please:

1. Read all the new posts below!

2. Check out all the new pictures. There are well over 200 new ones to check out.

Also, our new song: General Patton by Big Boi (new ablum is amazing)

-GP

Fully Indian in Agra

The Taj Mahal is one of the most photographed and visited relics in the world. I figured the actual moment when I saw Shah Jahan’s masterpiece it would be underwhelming, as I have seen it enough on Google images or Incredible India commercials on ZeeTV back home. Fortunately I was mistaken. The architectural masterworks built in memoriam of Mumtaz Mahal, Shah Jahan’s wife and mother of his 6 kids (She was actually pregnant 14 times, and only 6 children survived. She passed during the birth of the 14^th child, more on this later), was mind blowing. To comprehend how advanced the structure was for its time and how ornate every inch was tremendous. Again similarly to the Himalayas, describing the Taj through pictures and words is not enough. Seeing it in person is the only way to grasp the true beauty.

So we started the day in Delhi at 5 A.M. A shower, idli’s compliments of my cousin Raju, and a two hour homage to Indian Standard time as the bus rolled in much later that expected started the day right for us. Agra takes about 5 hours from Delhi, situated in the state Uttar Pradesh. We were graced with a standard Indian bus crowd. A group of rowdy college Tamilians yelling in the back of the bus, a newlywed couple to our left from Bombay with fanny packs, a small child with a Gilligan bowler hat holding his dad’s hand (More on this crazy bus to come). So we packed in and drove off the Agra. The bus slowed its roll as it crossed into the Agra city limits, picking up a gentleman in a light purple shirt and matching shawl tight around his neck. This man would be out tour guide for the day. He pulled out the bus mic to address us. He spoke in Hindi, but would translate the same thing into English after every sentence (This would provide very handy in the near future). He began to speak in a low, let’s get ready to rumble voice that boomed over the mic. The mic however would go in and out as he spoke. Then everyone began to yell when they couldn’t hear the tour guide after the mic went out. The tour guide then began to yell into the mic as he thought it was still working. So in Hindi he asked everyone for tickets money for our first stop at the Agra Fort. He said that for non-residents the ticket price was 300 rupees but for residents only 20 rupees. He comes to us and we cooly say were residents. He then asks in Hindi where we are from and fortunately “Aap kahan se ho” was a phrase in my small but potent Hindi Arsenal. I said “Humara Bangalore Se”.  We only had a 100 rupee note and he promised change for our resident tickets.

We took a nice tour of the Agra Fort and the beautiful red sandstone architecture from the Mughal Era of India’s history. Agra Fort served as protection for Mughal leaders but also served as Shah Jahan’s home for the last 15 years of his life. After he began the construction of the Taj Mahal, his son Aurangzeb overthrew his father and the throne, taking over the Mughal Empire at its biggest size. Aurangzeb exiled his father to a palace within the Fort grounds. You can see from the picture a clear view of Taj Mahal was provided for Taj Mahal. The overlook to the right was where Shah Jahan watched his Taj being built. But as he grew older his eyesight became worse. So Aurangzeb installed mirrors to reflect the image of the Taj into the Palace grounds so that Shah Jahan could watch the construction. So as we were leaving the Taj Mahal, I got real arrogant with my Hindi and suddenly a “pro”. The tour guide still hadn’t given us our 60 rupees change for the tickets. So I pieced together any Hindi words that I knew but needed to be confident enough that he still believed that we were reg Indians. I said “Tum mera chiller hain bhaisab?” which essentially translated to “You my coins have sir” in retrospect. He understood and also understood that I had no idea what I was talking about. Since I essentially bombed I tried to make it by yelling at this guy that was trying to sell my a Kodak film camera while I clearly had my Nikon around my neck. I yelled real loud so the tour guide could hear, “Humara camera hain bhaisab, chalo!!” which essentially translates to “We camera have sir, go.” I then realized I was done with Hindi for the day, and perhaps I would try again later.

Our next stop before the Taj was the world’s second largest Taj Mahal. Our bus stopped at a Uttar Pradesh government souvenir shop (which are very popular because you know you are getting the best price, however there is no haggling). And outside the shop we all gathered around a Taj Mahal replica in a 5’ x 5’ glass casing. The tour guide then went on to tell us that this was the second largest Taj in the world. It just had begun to rain also and I had my camera under my shirt in anger as I stared at this 1:100 scale dumb baby Taj Mahal in this small dark alley when the real Taj Mahal was down the street. I pouted my lips and sat on the bus (After Hari and I bought gifts at the store. Also the tour guide began only talking English to us now, and we began to prepare in case he accosted us about lying earlier. Hari would start yelling in Tamil and I would yell in Telegu. Then I would start speaking Spanish to get him real confused). We stopped for lunch and it was pouring when we were leaving. As I stood watching the rain I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the husband of that couple I mentioned earlier that was on the bus. He said his name was Satish and we exchanged some pleasantries as I tried to use as little English as possible because right behind him was our purple super trooper tour guide. Satish wans his wife Sushma would soon become our best friends on the trip as we approached the real Taj Mahal this time.

All of the buses have to park at least 1 km from the entrance to the Taj grounds to protect against pollution. You take a small electric bus to the gates and as we were on the bus I asked Satish if he would buy the tickets for us at the gate. The tickets for non residents was 750 rupees each while for residents 20 rupees. He gladly agreed and we waited quietly outside the ticket booth. Hari and I’s first mistake was talking to this jackass Taj guide that was trying to get us to take his tour. He said in his broken English (his chipped yellow teeth glimmering as he spoke) what part of the U.S. are you from. We said Bangalore as Satish came back. Satish handed us the bright yellow “resident” tickets and the fake guide caught on and started yelling about how they are going to catch us at the gate. Yellow teeth man left and we approached the main security gate. We handed the guard the tickets and he immediately started questioning Hari and I. We replied with nothing and let Satish so the talking. He asked us if we were residents in Hindi and we just nodded. Then asked us another question waiting our response this time. Hari looks at me and with a stroke of genius starts talking in Tamil. I was just about to open with a Telegu/Spanish fusion when the guard began speaking to Hari and Tamil ( I began to day dreaming on the spot how I was going to have to call me parents about bailing me out from Agra city jail, or perhaps they throw liers into the basement tomb of the Taj and never tell anyone). He asks Hari what part of Bangalore we were from and Hari sharply responds, “Yenneda? Na Tamil pashekunda.” (“What? I only speak Tamil.”) The guard angrily rips the stubs off the tickets exclaiming that if they catch us inside as NRI’s a huge penalty would be there. I wanted to start yelling in Hindi again like I did to the camera but I caught myself (At that point since I had no more Hindi in my arsenal, I was going to start yelling Hindi movie titles hoping one would stick). We marched through the gates and into the grounds, saving 1460 rupees with the help of Satish, Hari’s Tamil, and me keeping my mouth closed.

The rain continued to fall and my frustration increasing. I had never had my camera out in the rain and would refuse to even if there was a chance of rain. I pulled it out for a few snaps here and there as we got the first glimpses of the building through the arches of the entrance house. Hari had his poncho (which he actually kept Satish’s satchel under, least we could do for their help) and me Hari’s GT umbrella. Hari would hold the umbrella for me as I took pics. But this was a special umbrella. IT would close in on itself as Hari’s held it above me. We battled the rain, the crowd and my immense fear of ruining my camera. We walked through the soggy footpaths toward the majestic sight that is beautiful in any weather or any mood. We walked in and I couldn’t resist taking pictures even as the no picture sign glared above and guards moved about. A few candid shots inside the Taj, we moved on through the building and through the back that overlooks the Yamuna River. This trip has also been about conquering fears for us. This is the point I realized that I will probably only come to the Taj once in my life and what a regret it would be not to take pics. I pulled out my camera to satisfy my photo craving and knock a fear off the checklist. The moment was well worth it, as it was too easy to take good pictures from any angle at the Taj. The place was amazing. The rains began to clear and this light orange and purple hue came over the sky, really illuminating the whole Taj Mahal. Please take a look at the pics and try to envision how beautiful the place was in person.

So we left the Taj Mahal. I collected the Ganesh they confiscated from my camera bag, and fended off a street vendor that was trying to sell me a camel for 300 rupees (I said if he could package it up and get it onto the bus I would do it). Hari and I were wet and tired but fully satisfied.

On the way back to Delhi we stopped at Krishna’s birthplace in Madurai. The temple was beautiful but with limited time we walked in, bought a souvenir and left. We then stopped by Brindavan gardens where Krishna supposedly played and lived his young days. We just stayed on the bus but became inquisitive when we saw 20 boys outside holding these huge lamps. Behind them was a man sitting on a car with a mic. The car had 3 sets of amps and he began to sing. As he started to sing, 10 brass players began to play along and then a man dressed in traditional north India clothes mounted a horse. We realized we had stumbled on a marriage as the parade began down the dark streets of Brindavan. It was awesome! 10 minutes later a blackout hit and the tour group that went into Brindavan began to stumble back to the bus. We all boarded and left for Delhi. We had a different tour guide for this part of the tour. He wasn’t as good as the first tour guide, only speaking in Hindi. The rowdy Tamilians apparently didn’t understand Hindi too well, so they paid no attention to the tour guide. Until the tour guide abruptly stopped speaking and began to yell at the guys. Shortly before this, the bus driver had turned off the A.C. as punishment. Several people refused to close their windows while the AC was on. This open window campaign was led by an older gentleman sitting right behind us who was yelling in Hindi about how everyone was going to catch pneumonia from the AC because we were all still wet from the rain ( Coming from a Biology education, I turned around and try to explain to him that it was impossible for us to catch pneumonia and that heat stroke from the 90 degree weather outside might be more pertinent to discuss). As the pneumonia guy was yelling, two Columbian nationals sat down in front of us. They were traveling just like us but their tour bus had left them earlier that day. So they along with 6 other defected passengers boarded our bus. People now began to yell about no seats on the bus as the Colombians began yelling in Spanish about how they were overcharged and asked us to be witnesses that they had just unfairly paid the extra 300 rupees to ride our bus. So here we were on this bus back from one of the most serene sights in all the world. As the Tamilians continued to yell in the back, the Colombians now yelling in Spanish, pneumonia guy giving everyone a healthcare lecture, the tour guide scolding everyone for not listening and the no AC punishment still in effect, we barreled through the dead heat of the Uttar Pradesh night back to Delhi. I looked to Hari and said “hey, wake up for a sec……we are on a crazy bus in the middle of north India coming back from Taj Mahal.” He laughed and we both fell asleep.

-GP