A Walk Around My Block

The following is the article that appeared in the Sunday Perspective in The Times Argus and Rutland Herald. I thought I'd republish it here for those who are out of town.

Every day I try to take a walk around my neighborhood. After each outing, I return having discovered a new food, tradition, or personality. Let me take you around the block with me; I hope you will discover something new yourself.

I begin by turning right and walking down a relatively quiet residential street. I know a few people on my block, but I am sure they all know me. I pause briefly to avoid a cricket ball. An impromptu game has begun, and four teenage boys are practicing for the national team. In case you had not heard, India won the championship for cricket this year. It was an exciting game, and I watched the last 2 hours as the match turned for India. I even picked up a few of the rules.

The road shortly dead-ends onto a more bustling street. In front of me is one of the myriad bangle stores that characterizes Hyderabad. I passed dozens of bangle shops during my first month here, but I did not make a purchase as I felt a certain loyalty to the local man who never demanded that I enter. Instead, whenever I passed his shop, his face somehow said, "Why don’t you want to buy my bangles? Where else could you be going?" Two days ago I had no good answer to this question, so I went in and made a few purchases. "A few," meaning quite a few. Let’s just say his patience paid off.

So today my bangle man looks up from the counter, and I wave, shaking my bangles and greeting him, "Assalam alai kum!" This is the Urdu greeting used by Muslims. He nods and laughs, as everyone does when I speak in Urdu or Hindi. Across from his shop a temporary hut shelters a clay oven called a bhatti. Since the beginning of Ramadan, a man has been pounding a dough-like mixture made of meat and wheat in a large kettle. This typical Muslim food will be eaten after sunset, when they break their fast. During Ramadan Muslims are encouraged to fast, thus redirecting the mind from world affairs and cleansing the inner soul. It is celebrated during the ninth month, when the Qur’an was first revealed.

I turn right and pass a dumpster. At first I was impressed at the sight of dumpsters in Hyderabad. Trash cans are hard to find in India, and I’m accustomed to looking for the local "pile." The presence of dumpsters, however, does not inhibit the practice of throwing refuse on the ground. The garbage is strewn in front of the half-full dumpster, and the smell would shock even the man on the Dirty Jobs TV show. A sad-looking stray cat, one of thousands, picks through the trash. I move to the other side of the road.

Now I pass a little girl, dressed in one of the frilly dresses that I see in the bazaars. She hides behind the curtain at the entrance to her house, but her eyes betray curiosity. Noticing the bindi on her forehead, I greet her in Hindi, "Namaste." She puts her hand to her mouth in surprise, her eyes opening wide. Perhaps she is thinking similar thoughts to one of the fifth grade students at my school who pointed at my arm and asked, "Are you sick?" My pale skin does indeed look sick to an Indian child, and I hope the media does not teach them otherwise. Too many students and teachers touch my skin with envy; too many products in the stores read, "whitening!" Ironically, it is only in India, where my skin is so contrasting, that I don’t feel self-conscious about my paleness. People here would think I was out of my mind if I tried to get a tan.

When I turn right again, I am greeted with a lane that is strewn with lights. Music blares from a podium on which sits a large statue of Ganesha, the Hindu god with an elephant’s head. The most common story of his birth tells that Parvati, one of Shiva’s consorts, created Ganesha one day to guard the door while she bathed. Shiva returned to be denied entry, and he cut off the figure’s head. When he discovered that he had killed Parvati’s son, Shiva ordered his attendants to bring the head of the first animal they encountered, which turned out to be an elephant.

Ganesha is the Lord of Beginnings and currently Hindus are celebrating his Birthday, Ganesh Chaturthi. The festival lasts ten days during which elaborate Ganesha sculptures made of plaster of Paris are displayed throughout the streets. On the tenth day, the Ganesha idols are paraded through the streets. Drums and dancing often accompany the procession, and colorful powder is thrown onto everyone—even the local foreigner holding two cameras, I discovered.

In Hyderabad, the parade ends at the great Hussain Sagar Lake, where the idols are immersed. I am sure I am not the only Vermonter to wonder about the environmental impact of this tradition. Apparently the idols were originally made out of natural, local materials, and the immersion represented the return to the earth of all things. The rise in the popularity of this festival, however, also stimulated commercial interests that preferred the lighter, cheaper, and more malleable plaster of Paris.

After walking down the decorated lane, I make a final right turn and narrowly miss a motorcycle that is veering around a rickshaw. My heart hardly skips a beat, however; in India these close calls are so common that they cease to be alarming. Ironically, I think I am more laid-back here, despite the fact that the traffic is literally controlled chaos. The lack of sidewalks makes any walk life threatening, and I have gradually improved my ability to be a tourist while keeping one eye always on the road.

I pass a stand of vegetables, a cage of live chickens, and a man pushing a cart of tin objects yelling something that sounds like, "Kureeaa!" People in burqas pass me, their unreadable eyes staring. Last week I met a young, Muslim woman who had been visiting my landlady. She was on her way out when we met, and she was already obscured by her black robes. I felt very awkward because I could not tell how she felt about me—was she scowling under her head covering? My landlady sensed my insecurity and told her to unveil, revealing a beautiful and big smile. I like to imagine that all of the burqa-clad women I pass on the street and ride with in the rickshaws have similar expressions.

Now I am nearing my apartment, and I see that I am just in time to get an ear of roasted corn. I pick out a piece with soft kernels and husk it before handing it over to the weathered man. He places the piece of corn on a bed of coals and entices the fire with a cardboard fan. After a few minutes, he takes the piece from the fire and rubs it with lemon, salt, and chili powder. Four rupees (ten cents) later, I’m enjoying my Indian snack that reminds me just a little bit of home.