'Gainst My Window...I Can't Stand The Rain

I feel like all I've done in the last few days is eat and study and get rained on. Which is kind of accurate. It's kind of cool hanging out in the computer room at the PGI library, where people in white coats and stethoscope necklaces swim in and out. And when I get my bag checked as I leave the library now, I think the old librarian dude recognizes me. It's like my Lamont away from home (yaddadasayin tho, where my Harvard peeps at?)

But when it rains here, it pours. You think you hear white noise and then realize it's just raining outside, like movie rain for hours on end. As I was leaving the library one day, I realized that it was raining really hard. I had an umbrella on me though, so I was like, no sweat. But as I was opening my umbrella it, well, sort of...basically it broke in half. "Oh God!" I said rather loudly as I struggled to put the two halves back together. Caught up in trying to bring my umbrella (ella ella eh eh eh) back to life, I soon realized that I was ankle-deep in water. Not fun. I had my jeans rolled up and all, but my favorite silver flats were basically soaked in muddy water. The exit out of the parking lot was basically flooded. I saw a couple of guys trying to get out another way, so I followed them, tore-up-from-the-floor-up umbrella in hand. Squish squish I went through the soaking grass. Alas, the other exit was flooded as well. Rickshaw drivers proved to be the heros of the day, pulling up rickshaws to the sides of the road so people could get out unscathed. I got onto a rickshaw alright, but didn't stay on for long because there was no way I could go from Sector 12, where PGI is located, all the way back to Sector 44B, home, (Chandigarh is a totally planned city, constructed as a grid of sectors) unless I really felt like chilling in the rain for another hour.

So I tried to find an auto. This is quite possibly the most difficult and aggravating task I have to accomplish on a daily basis. I recognized one of the auto drivers and went over to him. Face scrunched up because of the rain, I said I needed to go to 44B. He shook his head no. "No?" No, he repeated. "Why not? You took me the other day." "Because it's raining." "Then where are you going to go?" "Home." And then he proceeded to chill there for a while longer. I rolled my eyes and cussed a little under my breath. Seriously, homie? No shit it's raining. That's why I need an auto. Why the fuck are you still standing here if you're not looking for business?! Ain't nobody stopping you from going home.

Once I got home, I took a nap to make myself feel better. When I awoke, I saw that the rain had stopped. Apparently the nap had really worked, because I jumped out of bed and decided to wander out to Sector 17, the shopping sector. I was home alone because my mom had gone to get Moneek from the airport, and I was feeling adventurous. Or maybe I just wanted to prove that I could brave the drivers and the weather and the Sector 17 shopkeepers myself. Fine, I admit I called for an air-conditioned taxi, but I braved the rest. Newly purchased Indian suits in hand, I went to all the little jewelry shops I could find, determined to find perfectly matching earrings for each outfit, because you know that's how I do. Much success! ...Except for the random fact that at one point this bird was trying to eat my foot or something. Seriously. There I am looking into a store window and I feel something on my foot, and look down to find a bird hanging out on it. So random, haha. Once that ordeal was over, I proceeded to ball out, wiggling my way through crowds, bargaining my way through the sector. I have to give the salesmen a lot of credit too, though. When I was unsure about a pair of earrings, they would have me come behind the counter where there was a full-length mirror, encouraging me to try the earrings on and helping me hold up the kameez of my suit. "Bohot acha match, Madam. Very good. Ek dam fit." I felt rather accomplished, even if the rain had owned me earlier. I even remembered to pick up a couple of balloons for the little kiddos I live with at home. Yay.

And if you didn't already get it, the title of this entry is a Missy Elliott reference. "The Rain". Quite a funky and revolutionary song, I recommend.

Thank You!

...for reading. I love all your comments, emails, gchats, and facebook wall posts. Maybe you all are just really bored, but I really appreciate you taking the time to to reach out and keep yourself updated on my life and admire your patience to read my rambling. I have some really awesome friends. =) xo n

What You Think This Is, A Game? This Ain't No Game! (Part 2)

Oftentimes, research sucks. Or for me it has way too many highs and lows. I've found only a handful of interviewees who open up, and I still don't know if I have enough material to write a thesis. It's hard tracking people down, explaining the point of the study, following up with them, and communicating in the mixed form of Hindi/English/Punjabi that I speak here. I mean I've met a lot of really nice people who have welcomed me into their lives and their homes, and their families are usually really happy to meet me and know that their daughters have someone to talk to and share their stories with. But while being an outlet is a great skill and also a great gift, I think, it is also challenging because it gets personal for both people. Immediately after interviews I find myself satisfied that I have had the opportunity to connect with another human being in such an intimate and rare manner, happy that we have both perhaps undergone some healing, and that I may be a living example of rising above a lot of issues that may worry them. But given a few moments to reflect upon the interviews, I find that I am often upset, overwhelmed by people's need to pray for me, recommend treatments, ask about how it is in the U.S., show types of curiosity and concern that I just find bothersome most of the time. Maybe it is my privilege that allows me to brush certain social issues aside more easily, that fuels the anger and annoyance that I feel so strongly but others don't dare to feel. I think it would be condescending and judgmental to classify the difference as enlightenment. But the fact of the matter is that the difference exists, it's a tough pill to swallow, and I find myself choking.

The Fashion Issue

This is the fashion issue. All about style, trends, and shopping in C-Garh. First you have two major categories: Western wear and Ethnic (who the fuck came up with this name, I hate this word) wear. When it comes to Western wear, errybody and they mama wears jeans, it doesn't matter that it's 100 degrees outside. And when I go into bougie shops, I've noticed that they tend to have skinny jeans in stock...

...Which is the bridge to what's hot right now as far as Indian suits (aka salwar kameez aka tops & bottoms) go. You have churidar pajamas, which are the skinny jeans of salwars. Tight, well-fitted, gathering nicely at the ankles. These go well with sleeveless kurti tops, which are super popular right now whether long (down to the knees) or short (waist-length). Patiala salwars are traditional hella Punjabi big MC Hammer type salwars, which are also common, but I myself lean toward churidars. Traditional kameezes/kurtis have many great qualities, I've noticed. They can be worn with almost any type of salwar and can totally be worn with jeans when you want to switch things up (and totally cover up any ass crack that may be peeking out if you happened to go with riskay extra low-rise jeans, haha).

Unfortunately, I'm trying to blend in here, and people (read: guys) already stare a ridiculous amount (seriously, do they have nothing better to do but loiter and stare? why is that okay? girls wouldn't be able to get away with it), and I feel like it cramps my style. Or at least, I would be much more creative with my style here if it would attract less attention. Leggings and churidars can be interchanged for fusion outfits with long kurtis or the longer tops, be they tight- or loose-fitting, that are in style in the States. Chunnis (traditional long scarves) can be worn in a variety of ways too, not just across the neck, but around the neck the other way, more like scarves, or not at all, if that's acceptable. There are also a million different accessory options. Cute, closed flats can be worn not just with jeans, but suits too. Sandals, of which there are a wide variety- V-shaped straps, back straps, straps or beads around the big toe- can be worn with jeans too, and not just suits. As far as earrings go, simple hoops or long, beaded, dangly earrings can work. As far as bags, clutches or big bags in metallic colors would complement almost any type of outfit.

Finding the right clothing is pretty tough. Half the battle is finding something that is sophisticated and not overly gaudy. The other half is learning how to deal with pushy salesmen. I've been in dozens of stores, and have bought barely a handful of outfits. I'm rather unimpressed with what C-garh has to offer in terms of suits (salwar + kameez) and lenghas (skirts and short tops). Suits are either way too simple, overly floral (I never want to see floral prints ever again my life), or come in big, funky shapes and sizes. Lenghas tend to be way too over-the-top (when this one salesdude was showing my mom and I some hella fancy lenghas, my mom was like, if my daughter wears this, what's the bride supposed to wear? Good one, mom!), come in the most hideous colors imaginable (lime green, loud magenta, fart yellow), and try way too hard to be modern when it comes to the tops (I'm down with switching things up, but corset lenghas are not okay). Most of the ones I've tried on make me look like the Little Mermaid. Do I look like my name is Ariel?

Worse than one's own disappointment is dealing with the disappointment of the salesmen. "You don't like any of these? You're only going to buy two suits? I thought we were going to make more money out of you." What really pisses me off is when they think they know more than me, or have better taste than me. "Madam, this is fresh piece, one of a kind. People buy these right off the manican. Madam, of course the lenghas are going to be a little heavy, a little fancy. This is what everyone is wearing these days."

Trying stuff on is a whole other process. I don't know who told the salespeople it was alright for them to be all up in my fitting room. I open the door a crack to have my mom come look at an outfit, and somebody sticks their head in. "Maam, how is it? Maam, we can do alterations! Maam, should I pack it for you?!" I'm half-naked, please get off my grille and let me show my mom the outfit. At first I tried being polite, but soon I gave up. I know you can do alterations. I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my mom. Be patient. I don't care what you think, I know what I like, so please keep your opinions to yourself.

It's great that they alter your outfits for you, it really is. Nothing would fit me otherwise. But for some reason there's a tendency to make stuff really tight around the bust, with stuff big and funky at the hips. Homie don't play that. "Maam, this is the style." No, it isn't. If that was the style, I wouldn't have bought the outfit in the first place. Why am I even talking to you? Call the tailor. I've learned by now that they never get it right the first time, and trying stuff on has become a daily workout. One also has to be weary of sketchy tailors who "accidentally" graze your butt while taking your measurements while your mom isn't looking. The bust measurement is awkward enough.

Shoe shopping is a whole other ball game. It's quite exciting. Some of the guys are very charming. They have you sit down, basically put the shoes on for you (this still makes me a little bit uncomfortable- I can put the shoes on myself, they really needn't serve me so much), and have options B, C, and D lined up in case you don't like the first. When you like something and ask for a size, they should out a style and a number to the guy upstairs (no, not God, the guy who runs the stockroom), who proceeds to shout orders back and throw boxes down from a hole in the ceiling to the guy on the ladder, who tosses it to your salesman, who slips it onto your foot. Guys yelling, boxes flying...it's a fun experience.

When I find the right outfit, with the right accessories, it's a high like no other. After long days of studying and research, I admit I'm a total sucker for retail therapy.

What You Think This Is, A Game? This Ain't No Game!

I knew research would be intense, but I didn’t know it would be this intense. Age, personal experience, language (even if rusty at best)- these all allow me to delve deep into my interviewee’s lives, allowing them to communicate with their mouths and not just their skin. But the more I get to know, the more their families opens up, the more personal it gets, the more I feel sucked in, involuntarily at times, and find it hard to distance myself. It presents me with hurdles I have worked hard to overcome, places I don’t necessarily want to revisit. Doctors are often told not too get involved in their patients’ personal lives. I didn’t see myself as the Izzy Stevens type, but it’s a fine line. As if the physical exhaustion of trekking out in the scorching heat or thundering rain, and dealing with cultural differences and abrasive auto drivers weren’t enough, the research I do is emotionally taxing.

show, tell

stop, stare

spotting, spreading

lapsing, relapsing

show, tell

stop, stare

no knowing, no hiding

no biding, no confiding

don't want to show, tell

why do they stop, stare

no more trying, stop hiding

white. out.

Money Hai Toh Honey Hai

The electricity went in and out four nights in a row last week. Vitiligo Clinic didn't give me any exciting patients, either. It was time for the freakin weekend and I needed to have me some fun. Lucky for me, Ellora was visiting C-Garh (as she calls it). We met at one of the air-conditioned malls, Fun Republic (weird name, huh). Her cousin and best friend came with, and these have to be the nicest guys in Chandigarh. We had some initial trouble with a security guard when she noticed that Ellora had somehow brought her camera into the mall (you checked her bag, apparently you suck at your job), so she had to leave, but came back a few minutes later, getting past security with the camera tucked into her pants pocket, haha. After chilling at the mall for a while, the guys gave us a great tour of Punjab University, where they go to school, and where my mom got her Masters in English some thirty years ago.

Later that night, my mom took us out for dinner at a bougie restaurant in Sector 17. Really great food, funny service. Ellora's 21st birthday is coming up, so we decided to order drinks to celebrate. The drink menu appeared some fifteen minutes after we had sat down, whilst we were ordering our food. When the food came, the waiter began to serve each dish to us individually (vegetable rice, naan, malai kofta, paneer, yogurt, mmm). Ellora had already put a piece of naan into her main plate, not the small side plate, which was apparently wrong. She later told me that the flustered waiter had said, "Put it here!" and made her move her naan before putting the sabzis into her plate. Then at least twenty minutes after we had gotten our drinks, and I was actually sipping on mine, this other waiter come by and put straws into each of our drinks, and left the straw-holder, packed with at least another ten straws, on our table. Bringing us four straws each doesn't make up for bringing out the straws hella late. Ellora and I were cracking up...I don't know if the situation warranted so much laughter, but I'm assuming the alcohol helped a bit. It was so great to see Ellora and be able to chat and share our ups and downs and connect on the other side of the world.


The next day, my mom and I finally went and saw a Bollywood movie. This is a super popular thing to do here, sort of a national pastime. We went to see Money Hai Toh Honey Hai, literally translated to "If you got money, then you got a honey." Of course we were lucky enough to be seated next to the only large family in the whole theater, complete with crying baby and all. Two minutes after we sat down, they showed this really patriotic footage showing Indian troops planting an Indian flag at the top of this mountain in the middle of a blizzard. The national anthem was playing in the background, so everybody in the theater got up, my mom included. I was thrown off. "Mom! Do I have to stand up?" I initially got up so as not to be disrespectful, but I have to admit the instrumental version of the anthem sounded damn good and was quite touching.

After that scene of Indian pride, the movie started, and all concepts of traditional Indian society and culture(s) (I'm an anthropologist- I can't be comfortable believing there is one umbrella "Indian culture") were thrown out the window. Two seconds in, the title song began and made fun of Chinese people. I can't do this, I thought to myself. Soon enough, Govinda appeared on the screen and I felt better. This man is hilarious, and may be over 40 years old and slightly overweight, but is a damn good dancer and entertainer. It was also refreshing to see that one of the male leads, Upen Patel, was treated like a piece of ass just like all the dancers (a weird trend of mostly scantily-clad black and white females) in the music videos. Overall, the movie wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be, and I actually did a laugh a little (thankfully, it was supposed to be a comedy). Of course the director was not taught the concept of "showing, not telling", but that's nothing new when it comes to Bollywood. I had a read a review of the movie in the local newspaper that lamented the appearance of the rather portly director in one of the hip-hop music videos, but I actually found it pretty entertaining watching him brushing his shoulders off and putting his stunna shades on. Size don't matter, the man can move. 2.5 hours of creative choreography, sexual innuendo, unsubtle nationalism, and female objectification later, the movie ended with the message that every person is beautiful. This message was completely lost on the slightly critical thinker, who only had to look at actors conveying the message to see through its bullshit- ridiculously fair-skinned girls with blue contacts and hourglass figures.

Relieved that the movie wasn't a whole three hours long, I had the energy to do some shopping. This is a totally different experience in India. There's people opening doors for you, people serving you tea if they make a sale, oftentimes men modeling the clothing they're trying to sell you, and people constantly watching and waiting on you. To buy a pair of jeans, I just went in and told the shop owner my waist size and he started unfolding dozens of jeans, and I would just say whether I liked it or not. I sort of had to ask him to look at stuff myself to make sure he wasn't taken aback by it. The best part of buying jeans in India: they alter them for you! This is great for me, since they're almost always too long for me. The worst part of buying jeans in India: getting stuck in them! I sort of got stuck in one pair of super small jeans and my mom had to help me out of them. I got them on alright and everything, it was getting out of them that was impossible. I definitely would have had to buy them and wear them out of the store if there wasn't another person helping me pull the sides together while I sucked in and undid the button. Let's just say it's the most exercise I've gotten in India. I hope the owner didn't see...

I feel like my shopping experience exemplifies the title of the movie. AC malls are only accessible to a certain portion of the population; not everyone can enjoy a movie from a decent view with snacks, have doors opened and closed for them, salesmen at their beck and call. It was a slightly unusual and uncomfortable experience for me, but the advantageous exchange rate from dollars to rupees puts me in that socioeconomic category here, I guess. If money hai toh honey hai, there must be a lot of single hunnies out there.

It Was The Three Indian Ladies, In The Kitchen, With The Candlestick

Last night was the second night in a row that the power went out at 10-something pm, just as I was getting to bed. Don’t laugh at my senior citizen bedtime; by 6am I can feel the scorching sun permeating my room, and can hear the neighborhood dogs barking, cars honking, and the milkmen and the vegetable venders calling out inaudibly, so I need my beauty sleep. Anyhow, I figured that the power would be back in a few minutes, so I just used my cell phone as a flashlight while I brushed my teeth, carefully balancing my toothbrush in one hand while keeping the other free to press a button on the keypad every 10 seconds so I wasn’t left in complete darkness.

Twenty minutes later there was still no power, which also meant that the AC unit wasn’t working. Which basically meant that I couldn’t breathe because it was so hot. So I decided to take my pillow and light cotton bed sheet downstairs, where one light is always on and backup power keeps one of the fans working. I may not get any sleep, but I knew I’d at least be able to breathe underneath the fan. As soon as I got downstairs, I discovered I wasn’t the only one awake. I was greeted by the maid, (yup, there’s a maid…I will problematize this in a later entry) Usha Didi (didi = older sister, used as a term of simultaneous respect and familiarity). Two seconds later my mom came down. The three of us laughed about how funky the power was acting for a few minutes. Then I decided to push a bunch of chairs together and make a bed for myself next to the dining table, above which the backup ceiling fan was located. I felt a little silly, but had to make do if I wanted any chance of getting some shuteye.

Some ten minutes later, the power came back. Yipee! I thought, running back upstairs to my trusty AC unit, without whom I would be lost in life. But I had jumped the gun. Another two minutes and the power was out again. I sadly gathered my blanket and bed sheet, went downstairs where my makeshift bed was waiting for me, and eventually fell asleep.

...

I woke up quite groggy this morning as a result of last night’s events, so when I discovered a little lizard on the bathroom wall, I yelped like a little girl in the shower. It’s not so much that lizards scare me, just that they surprise the shit out of me. They come out of nowhere and move at lightning speed. I’ve seen them around the house a couple of times, and I’m cool with them as long as they keep their distance. This one apparently did not receive my restraining order: Please stay at least 5 feet away from Nita at all times, especially when she is trying to take a shower. The least it could have done was eat a few more mosquitoes; I woke up with a mosquito-bite triad on the back of my thigh, bringing my grand total to like fourteen or something. Not okay. I feel like I’m 5/8 mosquito or something. A few more bites and I’m bound to sprout a couple extra legs and some wings. Attractive, eh?

The rest of the day was pretty uneventful. I studied for the MCAT at the PGI library and prepped for more patient interviews, since tomorrow is vitiligo clinic. On my way back, I was sharing an auto (auto rickshaw), and cracked open a biological sciences MCAT prep book. The lady sitting next to me got really excited and thought I was a doctor at PGI or something, and asked me if I could help her interpret some laboratory test results. I was flattered, so I thought I’d at least try and take a look, but of course nothing made sense to me and I could barely read it because Doctor’s Handwriting is apparently a cross-cultural syndrome. I apologized and told her I was just a visiting student, and she was really sweet about it. I also felt like it was a small victory that she couldn’t tell I was foreign. When she was dropped off a few minutes later, we exchanged a warm smile and a nod (the Indian kind, which involves sort of cocking your head to one side). It was nice.

If the mosquitoes strike again tonight, I’m taking the lizard to court.

Don't Hate The Player, Hate The Game

The weekend in Dehli was just for fun. A few days ago I arrived in Chandigarh to get down to business. My mom and I took the Shatabdi Express, the newest and fastest AC train available, to get there. It was a tough ride- pretty smooth and all, but within the first 10 minutes I discovered I had to go pee. Little did I know this innocent call of nature would cause me to almost flip my shit. To my surprise, the toilet was a squatting, not a sitting, toilet, but I rolled with it anyway. I know how to aim, I thought. Then there were 3 different buttons to press for it to flush, apparently they kept dying and had to be replaced. But I eventually figured that out too. The really tough part was when I was all done and had to get out. I couldn't open the door. It was the kind of door that you had to pull in to open and push out to allow it to spread out and close. I tried and tried to pull it hard enough for it to open, trying to stay calm. After about three minutes, the claustrophobia started to kick in. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to open the door within the next minute. Another 30 seconds stuck in there and I might've started to cry. Now that would have been really embarrassing, not good for my street cred at all.

On a more serious note, I found it rather hard to ride in the air conditioning, devour the breakfast that was served to me, and sip on my little carton of mango juice while the view outside was largely a long string of slums, of hardship and poverty, of people planting and plowing with only their manpower to aid them. It really sunk in that the gap between the rich and the poor in India was in fact a gaping, bottomless pit. Like I said, it was a tough ride.

...

Most of you vaguely know that I'm here to do thesis research, and that's about it. In more detail, I'm working with a couple of dermatologists at the Post Graduate Institute of Medical Education and Research (PGIMER or just PGI for short) to recruit patients for an ethnographic study that will hopefully be the basis of my thesis in medical anthropology and health policy. My research revolves around vitiligo (aka leukoderma aka safed daag aka phulveri), which is a skin condition characterized by a loss of pigment, or basically an appearance white spots onthe skin, which I have myself. Vitiligo is often reduced to a cosmetic condition, and the psychological, emotional, and social health of patients is largely ignored. My research will focus on the lived experience of a handful of Punjabi women with the skin condition, and explore if and how vitiligo is gendered in the context of socially accepted ideals of beauty, normality, and marriage customs. I’ll also be interviewing patients’ family members to get an outside perspective on the condition and learn more about the social stigma surrounding it. In addition, I hope to interview some doctors/hospital administrators to investigate if there is a health policy component to the condition, like a glaring inequality in access to treatment.

But enough of the academic speak. My first day at PGI had mixed results. An autorickshaw took me to Nehru Hospital on campus, and the first thing I thought was, this is rather mediocre-looking (the picture on the right is the New OPD, which is where I actually do my research). Then on my way in, there were sick people (you're probably thinking no shit, it's a hospital), but they were everywhere- not just inside, but outside as well, which made me kind of sad. Then as I got closer to the dermatology unit I went into Christina Yang mode and started to get really excited about the rawness of the medicine conducted there.

I arrived at the office of the dermatologist I had been in touch with. He was exactly as his profile picture had captured him, except he smiled underneath his large mustache when I came in. He was on the phone explaining how to treat some toe infection involving a lot of puss, so I decided to make myself at home and jump into anthropologist mode, taking notes on the ethnographic space. I looked up at his whiteboard, and the first thing I scribbled down was the William Osler quote he had written there. "The practice of medicine is an art, not a trade; a calling, not a business." Brilliant. I looked to his desk and found a little calendar of daily words of wisdom. That day's quote was that all things are difficult before they are easy. Then I recalled all of his groundbreaking research and published articles on vitiligo treatments. I grinned and thought to myself, I want to be just like him when I grow up. He left for a brief while to tend to a patient, while I did some more snooping and note-taking. At one point, the power went out (a common occurrence here, only Americans freak out about it), and I sat there thinking, hmm, it will be a little odd if he finds me sitting here alone, in the dark, or worse, if someone else comes looking for him and finds me sitting here alone, in the dark. Luckily the power was back within a few minutes and I acted like it didn’t phase me.

Next stop was his boss’s office. He wasn’t nearly as cool. Unforch, he's the one I work with on a daily basis. I went into his office, and gave him a bag of pistachio nuts and almonds and shit in a gift bag (you'll only get this if you're Indian), to which he said, "Oh, you shouldn't have!" and proceeded to half-place and half-throw it aside. "So what is your research about again? If you don’t mind me asking, are you taking some treatment for yourself? So you’re not an actual doctor?” I was a bit annoyed (didn’t you read the email I sent you hella months ago foolio?), but I began to explain. I was cut off somewhere in the middle when his cell phone rang and he quickly said something bossy to the person on the other end in Punjabi. I continued, in English, because he was thoroughly unimpressed by my Punjabi, something to which I took great offense. Two minutes later his regular phone rang. It was then that I noticed this scared looking guy sitting in the corner of the room. Throughout my visit to the office, my boss (if you will) barked orders at him. Poor guy. Grow a backbone for god’s sake. Sort of reminded me of Peter Pettigrew- not to extend the metaphor to his boss and put him on the level of Lord Voldemort (yeah, I said it) or anything.

At the end of our convo, I smiled and thanked Mr. Boss profusely, because I knew he expected it. I was a little annoyed at myself for mimicking the behavior of his backbone-less intern or whoever he was, but oh well. The man must be brilliant or something, because he is the head of the dermatology department. And I probably don’t know him well enough to judge him, but I respect the kind of doctors who don’t just treat the biological component of an illness, but who choose to take a more comprehensive approach and treat the patient, the person as a whole, because there is usually so much more to it. When treating a patient with vitiligo, if all a dermatologist sees are white spots, they aren’t much better than any other person on the street who chooses to stop and stare or ask inquisitive questions laced with judgment. Skin conditions are unique, and such dermatologists are only putting band-aids on wounds that are much deeper and require much more healing and attention than most patients get. This practice is in no way unique to India, though. Nearly every American dermatologist and every curious American passerby I've met has had the same mindset. So maybe I shouldn’t hate the player, I should hate the game. Better yet, maybe I’ll try and change the game.

Honk Please, Use Dipper at Night

I've been in India for over a week now, and have talked to a total of about three people because I've found it nearly impossible to get competent wireless at home, and it's been tough getting out in the merciless heat to grab a rickshaw and go to the nearest cybercafe. Still, I thought I'd try my hand at blogging to keep people updated en masse, since errybody and they mama seems to be doing it. I'm clearly new at it and most of it will be me rambling, but do read if you have the time and internet capabilities (and know that I am deeply envious).

The 18 hours spent in the air were surprisingly painless, as I was asleep for over 50% of the trip. Only the last couple of hours from Hong Kong to New Dehli were particularly painful when a set of little baby boys were having what I could have sworn was a screaming contest. If you ask me, they both won.

After all that sleep, I was ready to quickly check in with Mamaji #1 and get to shopping (mamaji = mom's brother; mamiji = mom's brother's wife. Technically these are my mom's mamajis and mamijis, but I call them the same thing...Indian family trees are complicated. Note that I will be using numbers and not names to denote all the mamajis/mamijis I will be meeting along this trip, because it's just easier that way, not because I am completely heartless). This has to be the most awesome pair of 70+ people in Dehli. Super sophisticated, educated, appreciative, and basically just really awesome. Mamiji was really sweet and kind of hilarious. "You're too sweet! You have such good taste! You're so fair! (as she touches my bare knee) Why don't you wear some lipstick before you go shopping?" Er, I don't really wear lipstick, mamiji, but if you'd like I can put on some lip gloss...

Maybe it's because her grandson is a model. Seriously. You'd think a bunch of my family would be doctors and engineers (that is, if you adhere to ludicrous stereotypes), but here's a model whose face can apparently be seen at your local New Dehli McDonald's. "You have to see his portfolio! He has such a great body!" Umm, sure...if you...want me to, mamiji. Semi-awk, indeed.

Over the next couple days, I shopped til I dropped, visited Mamaji #2 in Ghaziabad, and visited Bangla Sahib, the big local Gurdwara. If you've met any dramatic old Indian women, that about sums up my visit in Ghaziabad, combined with the joys of playing with barbies and helping her granddaughter with her homework. It was surprisingly soothing to hear the six year old read and help her count backwards from 30 to prepare for her math quiz. The highlight was definitely watching her rip off the dolls' heads to change their dresses, though. Some of them were even interracial, if you will...picture a brown face on top of a white body. Hilarious.

Bangla Sahib was as huge and magestic and crowded as it always was. The Sarover (holy water people bathe in) was being renovated, but it was still really cool to see it. Now organized religion makes me a bit uncomfortable, but I grew up Sikh, and maybe it's because I visited that very Gurdwara dozens of times during my last trip to India with my dad, but there was something about visiting that kind of place of worship that can get you emotionally like nothing else can. It was a familiar, surprisingly comfortable feeling.

Shopping in Dehli really varies depending on where you go. The AC malls in Rajouri Garden are bougie and the tandoori chicken pizza was actually pretty damn good, the only drawback being that my mouth felt as if it were on fire afterward. Hella spicy. Now if you go to Ajmalkhan Road in Karol Bagh or Palika Bazar, that's where you gotta whip out them bargaining skillz. It's a madhouse. "Madam! Suits, kurtis! Madam! Pure leather bags! Madam! Yeh deklo!" I watched and learned from the best, mi mama. And then I got the owner of this shoe shop to go from 650 rupees all the way down to 200 rupees on these cute red sandals, roughly the equivalent of $5. So what if they turned out to be so cheap that the humidity made them stain my feet red like mendhi? I think I'm a winner.

The last thing I should address in this post is the title. First let me explain that there are various modes of transportation sharing the same roads in India. Bicycles, regular man-drawn rickshaws, auto rickshaws, scooters, family cars, trucks, taxis, and AC taxis (this last option is heaven sent, saved my sanity in Dehli). Now you may be wondering how all of these function in harmony. The short answer is that they don't. Basically, lanes are just for decoration. You honk in order to say "yo I'm coming" or "move, bitch, get out the way". On the back bumpers of many vehicles you'll read, "Honk Please, Use Dipper At Night", asking other drivers to kindly honk like mofos to announce that they're coming, or to accompany this by politely flashing their high beams when it's dark outside. I have a lot of admiration for every driver in Dehli, takes mad skillz and constant vigilance. Dilli main aap ka swagat hai. More to come soon.