"Five minutes, madam"

... or: How I spent a day at the FRRO

The FRRO? What on earth is that? Is it contagious? Is there a spray against it?
If you're a foreigner, lucky/stupid/adventurous/adjective of your choice enough to go to India and are planning to spend more than six months here (which I am), you will have to register with the FRRO, the Foreigners Regional Registration Office. "They don't trust you people", you said and that is probably true. Registering sounds easy: you go to an office, passport, work contract and possibly copies thereof in hand, show them to a friendly clerk, fill in a form and that's that, right? Wrong.

The adventure "registration" starts online where you fill in a form, upload a photo and get an appointment. You are supposed to show up no later than two weeks after arrival in India. Note: the day OF arrival counts, too. So in my case, the last fee-free day - I arrived on the 16th August - would have been the 29th, not, as my calculation of 16+14=30, the 30th. Anyway. So you filled in that online form and sent it off into the world wide .. you know. When you're about to choose an appointment date, the site tells you that the next possible one is after your legal period of registration, the above mentioned 14 days, and you better "rush to the FRRO" immediately. Which I did. Not the next day but the one after that, the 30th, because I was waiting for another document to bring in.
 
During about an hour of standing in line, I notice that everyone else seems to have a form on top of their paper pile that I didn't think of bringing: a printout of the online form. Why would I print that out, I had thought, I sent it to them and they acknowledged its receipt. Turns out, as the friendly man at the "Help & Scrutiny desk" let me know, you need it in print. Knowing their potential clientèle, several copy shops, stationery shops and even a travel agency offer this service for a small fee. Armed with my Application ID, I entered one of those shops and requested them to print out my application. Now in order to do that, you have to choose an appointment date. Travel agency guy did that and the 4th September was printed on top of my form. I didn't pay much attention to this, the "scrutiniser" all the more. "Your appointment is the 4th", he informed me, and that's also where I learned about the two weeks having ended the day before. No, they could not process my documents today. "Come back on the 4th. We don't have your application in front of us before that." Fine, I packed up, a little frustrated and decided to make the best of my remaining day off.
 
Fast forward almost a week. The 4th September had arrived. I had decided to be there particularly early so that I would definitely be done by noon and arrive for class on time (in retrospect, I'm giggling about my naive ideas). So let me give you a little overview about the D-Day .. err .. R-Day:

6:30 am. My alarm goes off. I beg it for an additional 9 minutes of slumber which it grants. Then I haul myself out of bed, shower, have breakfast, get dressed etc. I re- and double check all of my documents with the list another teacher had sent us after her successful registration just two weeks prior. I grab copies of everything, my passport, pictures and head out at 7.30 am.

8:00 am. Although the FRRO officially opens at 9.30 am, a relatively long and colourful line has already formed outside the gate. Roughly an hour later, the gate opens far enough to start letting the masses in. First stop: Help & Scrutiny Desk (believe me, I'm not making that up).

This time, the 'scrutiniser'has nothing to say about my documents, he tells me to proceed to the "Tokens & Queries" counter to get my token, a piece of paper, stating that I have token number 7A. This surprises me a little because there were definitely more than 6 people before me. The mystery is solved on the 1st floor (or second if you count the groundfloor as 1) where there are five counters, lettered from A to E.  My first impression of the large waiting room is however that it is freezing in there. Fans whirring, A/Cs blasting at full power. 'Poor employes', I'm thinking, 'working in this freezing hell day in, day out'. 'Poor me' is what I think later, and not just because of the cold.

9:35 am. The clerks are starting to take their seats, two people behind each counter, to work more efficiently I'm sure. The token numbers are lit up as well as announced over speakers. When the sign at counter A shows 7, I head over there and present my documents not without pride, considering their comprehensiveness. You would think. First point of critique is something that I initially hear as 'Viginals, viginals! Where are the viginals?'. Seeing the question marks on my face, the employe repeats slightly slower 'Where are your originals?'. Oh. Oh damn.
I need the originals too? Apparently yes. Ok, my mistake. He keeps going through the paper pile, grabs my rental contract and is unhappy again. Since the institute I work at doesn't own the property I stay in, I will either need the contract between institute and house owner or a personalised letter, stating that 'we, the ... institute provide accomodation to Ms. ...'. To my question if I can bring that tomorrow, he vigorously shakes his head no. Today and only today or I have to get a new appointment and start a-fresh.

10:20 am. Fine. I start to run home (which is just a half hour walking distance) to grab my "viginals', call N.K. in panic who promises to email the responsible at the school to write a letter that I can then pick up before running back to the FRRO.
The auto drivers outside, not unlike a flock of vultures, offer me a ride for the mere cost of 100 rupees. Just for the drive home naturally. I laugh and decide to walk instead. After about 500 metres, there is a lone auto standing and the driver offers thedistance for 30 rupees, still a bit too much but a lot more reasonable. He drops me home, I'm about to pay him when the idea hits me to keep him for the entire tour FRRO - home - school - FRRO. He agrees, demands 200 for the entire trip, waiting times included and I sighingly agree.

10:45 am. When I reach the school, Ni. hasn't received any email and does not have a clue of my predicament. Quickly, I explain what I need, she seems to understand the urgency, tells me to wait in the teachers' room because it will take '5 minutes'. (Btw, whatever you're waiting for in whichever situation in India, the waiting time will always be '5 minutes') I remind her that I have an auto waiting, she nods and I close her door from outside. After '5 minutes' that can hardly have lasted more than 15, she hands me the document, I make a copy (just in case) and hop into the waiting auto.

11:15 am. I walk past the line, show my token number to someone who then lets me pass and walk right up to counter A, as previously agreed. He takes my original documents and then pauses at the letter Ni. just composed. 'It doesn't have your name' and points to the part where it says 'guest lecturers' instead of 'Ms. S.T.'. In my mind, I am strangling Ni. right now, outside I say something along the line of work contract, guest lecturer and please. The employe is human (super-human? humanoid?) after all and lets it slide.
 
I am aware that I will have to pay a fee for registering late, after that legal period of two weeks. How exactly that is going to happen however, I don't know. One of the two behind "my" counter is about to send me off to the bank when the other one intercepts. Let's get the approval first and then you go is the essence of his statement. Fine, I sit back down and wait. And wait. And then wait some more. Slowly, I'm starting to panic. My class starts at 1:30 and I'm not sure I will be done by then. Another frantic message to N.K. She promises to start my class if I don't make it in time. Message to K. who assures me that she can take over after the break, just in case. Phew, I'll owe them forever but that's settled then.

1:40 pm. A board downstairs announces that lunch break is between 1.30 and 2.30 pm. And while there was no sign of slowing down one floor up, my stomach is starting to grumble. Breakfast at 7, now it's almost 2 - you do the math. In the waiting room, there are officially no "eatables permitted", a rule people seem to stick to, as opposed to the no mobiles rule that we collectively ignore.
The employe from counter A waves me over, tells me that it's lunch break now, I should go grab a bite and be back in 30 to 40 minutes.

1:45 pm. Outside the building, I blink into the unfamiliar daylight and ponder where to eat. I remember the rule K. and I established the other day: it's good where many locals go. Looking around, I see a cafeteria type place (not unlike Chaitanya's - the gobi manchurian place for the initiated) and walk in. A few minutes later, I'm enjoying tea and a veg grilled cheese sandwich, washing it down with a cup of water.

2:10 pm. I am back in the waiting room, announce my presence to the duo behind counter A and sit down again. A few minutes pass until I am called over. Oh and being called doesn't mean by your name. No, by now, I had become 'Number 7, Germany'. They hand me a paper slip, to be taken to a bank of my choice and exchanged - together with the required cash - for a DD (demand draft) in favour of the DDO, Bureau of Immigration, Bangalore. A friendly Korean lady who is here for the second time advises me how to get to the nearest bank. She also tells me that I need to be back within an hour, the process takes 20 minutes and the bank is 10 minutes away if you walk (with two children maybe but it took me hardly more than five minutes), 'so you need to hurry'.

2:20 pm. Out on the street again and just when I'm turning towards the given direction, one of the vultures approaches, starting to tell me tales about a bank. 'I can walk' I tell him and walk I do. Without a problem I find the bank, hoping that it's not their lunch break now but luckily, that was from 1:30 to 2:00. I enter and approach the first person sitting there and tell them what I need. They send me to a grey-haired gentleman who asks me to 'takeapinkchallan'. 'Sorry, what?' In slightly reduced speed, he repeats 'Take a pink challan!'. No idea what a challan is but I walk towards the spot he points at and see a number of differently coloured papers, the word challan on a sign above them. I pick a pink paper and turn questioningly back to the gentleman. He nods his approval and I return. He sends me to another desk. 
I explain the story again, drop my 'challan' and the slip from the FRRO on his desk and wait for things to happen. Passport and a proof of residence, please. I hand him my passport and rental contract, the only document they didn't need in 'viginal'. He looks at both and asks if I don't have a copy. No, sorry, I don't. Well, we need a copy to proceed here. And of course there is no copying machine in the entire bank. Offfff course not. I ask him for directions to the nearest copy shop but either I misunderstood him or he wasn't all that sure himself, there were no copy shops to be found anywhere near. At another travel agency, I stop and ask the guy where I can get a copy. Not here, so sorry, although I clearly see a fax/copying machine/printer combo sitting there. He directs me to another place that indeed does photocopies.

2:40 pm. Back at the bank, slightly out of breath. Finally, the clerk dictates my data to yet another person who then types them into a computer. We fill in the 'pink challan' as well and I am being sent to - believe it or not - a fifth person in this bank. After handing her cash and challan, picking up my passport and asking if that was definitely all, I head back to the FRRO.

3:05 pm. I show my DD to the person who decides - somewhat similar to Petrus - who can go up and who stays down. 'Do you have a xerox copy of that?', he asks. Of course I don't, so I rush out again to get another copy. Better make it two. Copies in hand, he lets me pass.

3:10 pm. Reporting back to counter A, I see them slightly impressed at my speed. They send me over to the DD counter, yes, they have one just for that purpose where I hand in the note and return. 'You can collect it at 5 - 5:30' I am told. No point in leaving now, so I sit down, take out my book and wait. Every now and then, I glance up but actually I am sitting close enough to the counter that I wouldn't miss 'Number 7, Germany!'.

5:35 pm. As even the longer time has elapsed by now, I walk up to the counter again to check how things are progressing. 'Five minutes, madam!' Apparently, my registration is ready and just needs to be signed. I sit down and go back to my book.

6:05 pm. 'Number 7! Germany!', I hear and jump up. They tell me to sign here, here and here, hand me the 'Registration Certificate/Residential Permit' and I am free, free! I am finally done dealing with them! 
Until December of course.
 

Bonding in Gurgaon

Some of my readers may know that I'm just starting out on a new adventure: living and working in India. How did I do that? Well, I guess I just really wanted to. For more details, please re-read Bangalore, part II.

Oh yes and while I am going to write every now and then, I will not commit myself to a post every day or even every week. I'll write when I'll write, when I'll feel like it and have nothing better, sorry, nothing else to do. So check back here from time to time, I might just have spilled out a new post.

Exactly a week ago today, I left home for Delhi, on the one hand because a direct flight was a lot more expensive but mainly because one of my best friends, N., lives here. He was the first person to talk to me on my first Indian chat site and for the past six and a half years, we've been close through thick and thin. Last year, he got married and as I couldn't be there for technical and other reasons, we thought it a brilliant idea if I interrupted my journey there for three days and spend the weekend with him and his wife Su.

He arranged to have me picked up from the airport - with a very personal placard (poor driver had no idea why I was laughing out loud) - and dropped at his office where he received me with open arms, regardless of the pouring rain. Oh yes, the weather in Delhi seemed very unusual to me: It was warm but rained regularly so that the streets were muddy and clothes and linen were always a bit damp. Another surprise: in addition to the ever present biscuit coloured street dogs and the occasional stray cow, there were black pigs running around in their residential area. At night, they had disappeared and nobody cared enough to know where they were going, until I asked Su. who told me that they sleep in the bushes, where else could they hide?!

The first night at their place was spent chatting, bonding, drinking, eating and all this fun stuff. They live in Gurgaon which is quite a bit outside the city of Delhi where we were invited to a party the next night. Covering 75% of the distance took an hour, the remaining 25% about another hour, just to give you an idea of the Saturday evening traffic. R. and V. who held the party had not heard of me until that very day but welcomed me into their home as if I was part of the family. We ate, drank, danced (me too and nobody got hurt!), drove around, singing in the car and eventually spent the night there. 

After a quick tea the next morning, we did what I would call 'sightseeing light': Qutub Minar, the Old Fort, India Gate (towing of the car included, luckily, freeing it was a rather painless and quick affair), Dilli Haat (which is like a smaller Shilparamam with more food) and of course lots and lots of chaats. 

Sunday evening was meant for shopping (Sunday! Evening!), beauty parlour (where my designated guy attempted to wake up every cell in my feet, legs, head, arms and shoulders with repeated tight slaps and a vigorous massage - more details available on demand in a separate post, just let me know), mehendi and eventually a movie. Since Hindi movies don't normally come with subtitles in cinema, N. picked an English one, The Conjuring. A horror movie worthy of the name, not that I have a lot to compare it with. It was scary and during more scenes than one, my hands covered my eyes until I felt it was safe to continue watching. In retrospect, I would have preferred a non-subtitled Hindi movie, heck, a movie without subtitles in any language as long as it isn't horror!

After the movie, we had a quick snack based dinner in a nearby mall (On Sunday night!!) and eventually headed home. It was decided that we would all sleep in the same room as nobody felt up to staying alone in one room ('Look what she made me do!' - those who saw the movie will shiver at the reference.). 

The next morning, I was picked up by the same driver as on Friday ('You have my number?' - 'Yes, yes.' - 'Ok, you call me because - all India permit.') and safely deposited at Delhi's domestic airport, headed for my new home: Bangalore.

Heaven shall burn*

I was going through the Wacken interviews of the last couple months or years and came across one with Maik, the guitarist of Heaven Shall Burn (*yes, that's what the title is all about, don't read anything more into it please). The band has the same origins as me, they hail from a town no more than 50 km from my own hometown in the lovely state of Thuringia. They're metalcore representatives  - to me, metalcore is a genre of metal, think whatever you want about that - and pretty thoughtful guys altogether, a fact that shows in their lyrics as well as their statements. Vegans for the environment without judging anyone who isn't, opposed to hunting as a hobby for the upper class and capable of wording their thoughts very eloquently.

In this interview, Maik was asked about their first song in German that appeared on the new album, how come and why haven't there been German songs before. He gave a very interesting reply, in fact, it is pretty much the reason why I don't blog in German either: 'It is very difficult to write good German lyrics [or texts, in my case] that sound neither embarrassing nor solemn'.

Writing in your native language should be the easiest thing. But if that language is not English, a few factors speak against it. First of all, you can reach a larger (net) audience, using English. Most everybody who regularly roams around the world wide web has at least a basic understanding of it. Then, using your own language, you tend to use clichés, commonplaces and platitudes, the above mentioned 'embarrassing and solemn'. You are tempted to show off your command of the language by using 'big words'. In English, you are - ok, I am - forced to write simpler. If I want to express a thought, I have two, maybe three ways of doing so, not an endless number of options and synonyms. I will usually be short, preferably clear, understandable and not overly (I said usually, ok?!) long-winding.

Makes sense? I thought so.

Reality bites

I don't like to lie. Call it laziness, lack of imagination or whatever you think is apt. Of course I had a phase in my childhood (funny how everything seems to go back to one's early years) where I discovered the magic of lies. 

My parents asked me something and instead of telling them the truth which would doubtlessly get me into trouble, I served them a convenient lie. Ok, they'd say, and in my mind, I would go 'Huh. That was easy. Who knew.' I, the little child, had won a (however small) battle over the all powerful, all knowing parents. I got away with a lie, I avoided the ugly consequences the truth could entail. In the future, I used this trick more often because it was just so easy. Until one day, they knew. Mum knew. Nevertheless, she asked me. I lied, denied, made up a story, tried to cover up the results. But she knew and told me so. 

In the course of my life so far, there were often situations where a (white, grey or outright black, to stay with the colour metaphors) lie would have been the easy way out. Mostly, I chose the truth .. and regretted it occasionally. I'm far from perfect, in fact, I screw up as often as the next person. Disappoint friends, forget appointments, hurt loved ones and generally do things that I'm not proud of. 

If it concerns people I don't care much about, I might lie. Missed a dentist's appointment - 'Oh, sorry, I wasn't feeling well'. Late to class - 'Traffic was horrible today'. 

But when it comes to the people I feel close to, like, love, I tend to choose the truth. Even if knowing it might hurt them. Even if I leave it to them to deal with the facts. Even if it is something that I'm not proud of and that I'm emotionally detached from.

A few times, I later found out that someone close had lied to me. In retrospect, I questioned the entire relationship. Where else have they lied? Why did they have the impression it would be better to hide the truth from me? Was I imagining the closeness? Finding out about the lie hurt me and made me angry, a lot more than the ugliest truth would have. 

So besides being too lazy to cook up a storyline and stick to it, telling the truth is a question of respect in my eyes. Omitting information is a different matter to me though. If something doesn't matter anymore, I don't feel compelled to bring it up. If an answer is bound to hurt me, I will not ask the question. If it doesn't concern me, I don't need to know. If it's in the past, it doesn't influence my present.

(PS: I am well aware that this is not just a question of truth and lie. But since it happened and you asked, I had to be open about it - we have always been ourselves with each other. And I'm insanely sorry about having hurt you.)

Swing swing

The working title for this post was 'Mood swings' but that does not quite hit it. My mood doesn't swing all by itself, rainbow blues probably excluded. It is rather so that other people have quite a strong influence on it. Not random people of course - I'm not psychologically instable (I think) - but those close to me.

My mother is in a bad mood because her knees hurt or because my father exasperated her - I look for the fault in myself. 

My close friend is monosyllabic bordering taciturn because of a stressful day at the work she hates - I wonder what I might have done wrong.

You leave abruptly and with an unusually cold goodbye - I nearly cry myself to sleep from worry.

Why is it that the people around me influence my mood and my thoughts to that extent? Shouldn't I be stronger, more independent than that? Is it low self-esteem, not enough positive feedback at a young age? A mix of all I reckon. 

So dear readers, if you have children, please encourage, support and reinforce them, they'll need it.

Gone

The spring from my step,

The spark from my face,

The smile from my eyes,

The lightness of my being.

Bring them back!

The One

When I think of my favourite accessory, a few things come to my mind: The silver payals I was given in India and that I haven't taken off since then (pretty uncomfortable in boots though). The purple pashmina stole that has saved me from freezing several times but whose best quality is that it was chosen by you. My iPhone that is my camera to go and my connection to the world everywhere I roam.

Yes, these might be valid options but they are not the one. To make you understand which one it actually is, I have to back up a bit, almost 15 years to be precise.

It was the summer of 1998. My semester in Geneva had reached its peak; with the visit of my friend, I had finally met some locals, and now these locals invited me to a Celtic festival in the bordering France. Of course I went, expecting a fun day but not much more. Upon arrival, the music, the atmosphere, the information about the Celtic culture and origin spoke to me immediately. I felt the music inside me, resonating and vibrating in me as I described here before.

In retrospect, I wonder why I was so surprised about this. All the signs pointed towards it. First of all, I'm from Thuringia, and Thuringians are the epitomic children of Thor, the Norse god. Consequently, I am a legal descendant of these Thor worshippers, the Celts. 
And then my name! If you know my full name or even the name I would have gotten if I were a boy, you know that they couldn't be any more Nordic if they tried.

Anyway, as the night advanced, so did the magic. The sounds moved me, I even joined a Celtic dance without hurting myself or others! In this summer, we went to another festival of this kind and as a memory, my friend from Geneva bought me a pewter necklace with a Celtic cross pendant. Is that it, you may wonder, the mysterious favourite accessory? Breathe easy, it is not.

For this, we have to jump closer to the present time, to the year 2002. At the time of the 'millenium flood' in Germany and Poland, my friend and I spent a sunny vacation in Brittany, Northern France. Now this area, Brittany, Normandy and around, is the heart of the Celtic culture. You can tell from the architecture and jewellery, the monuments and cemeteries as well as the language, Breton, one of the Celtic languages like Gaelic or Welsh.

At a small town market that we visited, I finally saw it: a pair of small silver triskele ear studs. Triskeles are one symbol of the Celtic art and so they practically called out to me. Initially, I wore the ear studs as a pair but since I have an uneven number of ear piercings, wearing just one was simply more practicable on the long run. 

Since that day about 11 years ago, not a day has passed when I wasn't wearing at least one of these earrings. It is my good luck charm, a remembrance of my heritage and yes, a pretty piece of jewellery:

Must love dogs*

The first dog in my life was Danny, aunt I.'s and uncle H.'s giant collie. He was a huge jumpy fur ball that was obviously not aware of his size. Full of energy and excitedly curious about every visitor, he fascinated as well as scared little me, no more than 4 years old at the time. So after some high-speed patting and cuddling each time we visited, I became overwhelmed and aunt or uncle would put Danny back into his den.

Different village, different dogs: My mum's cousin and her husband, also known as aunt and uncle M. - coincidentally, both their first names began with the same letter -  had Daisy and her son Blacky. Daisy was an adorable white spitz, Blacky (no points for guessing here) her black fuzzy-furred son. They both lived in aunt's and uncle's large yard and garden, without permission to enter the house at any point. The closest they ventured were the few steps that led up to the entrance door where they used to settle down peacefully.
Believe it or not but in the first years of visits there that I remember, I haven't been  - just like the dogs - inside the house even once. We used to visit for no more than an hour or two, a time span not remotely long enough to get enough of these two creatures who, while announcing every visitor with menacing barks, turned into the sweetest pooches on earth as soon as the door opened and they were patted hello.
I was so taken with them that I begged to take one home with me. 'Okay, if you manage to carry him to the car, you can take Blacky home.' Never underestimate the willpower of a 5-year-old who really wants a dog: I picked up the 20 kilo canine and half carried, half dragged him to our Dacia. To my major disappointment, my parents had only been joking and I had to leave him behind again.

Somehow, there was never a right time for me to have a dog of my own. Not when we lived in the village because we all were out of the house for a big part of the day. Not when I was a university student because I always lived in shared apartments and spent a year studying abroad. Not now that I'm renting a place by myself because it is on the fourth floor (nope, no elevator, it's an older house) and tiny and the dog I envisage to get is at least knee high (my knee). And not even in India where there is no dearth of dogs in all shapes and sizes - not colours though: four out of five Indian street dogs are biscuit coloured, probably to be camouflaged in the dust where they spend their days. If I bring back a dog after my stay there, it would have to go into quarantine for four (!) weeks .. and I could never do that to a dog. Of course, I can't leave it behind either, so no dog for me in the foreseeable future.

My parents on the other hand never showed any particular interest in owning a dog. So when one day during my semester in Geneva, I received a letter, containing a piece of half-melted candy that had a bit of light brown and grey fluff stuck to it and the words 'we have a surprise for you', I was not sure what to make of it. Turns out the surprise was my parents' brand-new puppy, a cuddly little Havanese by the ferocious name of Zorro.
Cute thing but somehow, our relationship never evolved beyond friendly-polite with a dose of respect from his side and a pinch of indifference from mine. There are probably two reasons for that: the fact that I wasn't 'home' very often and so couldn't spend a lot of time with him. And then I blame my mum. Ok, 'blame' is a bit of a strong word but the problem is that she sees dogs as humans. Free will and freedom of choice included. However, if you don't train a dog and show him who's the boss, he takes this role, and so Zorro more or less ruled the house. But not with me, mutt! I will not let a dog walk all over me, as dinky as he may be.

Since then, a good number of four-legged ones crossed my path .. students' dogs, friends' pets, strays. The latest addition to the canine parade is my parents' new pup, Miro, formerly known as Eduard:

*PS: The title of this post was borrowed from the movie by the same name.

The small, the big and the scary

I tend to boast of being a village girl. And while it is true that I have grown up and lived in a village for the first 16 years of my life, I'm not what you  would call a typical village girl. Grand-parents living in a small town, parents in intellectual professions - mum a biology/chemistry teacher in the village's school (even years after moving away, I would be recognised in the village and addressed as 'Oh, you're the teacher's daughter!' - apparently, she wasn't just one of several teachers but the teacher of the village), dad a mechanical engineer, we never had any animals bar Mucki, my guinea pig, and the odd rabbit here and there nor did we own fields or other kinds of agricultural land. Of course there was a garden attached to our building (which also housed the school library and the chemistry classroom - very convenient for mum) with the usual flowers, berry bushes, cherry and pear trees, a wooden fence that separated it from the street and a brick wall between ours and the neighbouring estate.

Where am I going with this you ask? Well, what prompted it was my awesome friend D.'s Chicken Blog where she describes the root of her fear of chickens. I have a few of these unfounded animal fears as well so she told me to 'Blog about it! Do it, do it!" which is what I'm doing here. (Don't worry, J., I'm keeping the dog prompt in mind for my next post.)

With me, the objects of my fear grew. It all began with spiders. Not cute little colourful ones but those huge (in my little-child eyes) black hairy ones. In an oldish building on the countryside, they seem to be everywhere and where they were, I couldn't be. This house was simply not big and my fear not small enough for us to coexist. So whenever I encountered one of those hairy beasts in the bathroom or worse, my room, my dad had to come and dispose of it asap. I know that spiders can't bite or even 'peck out my eyes' but I was irrationally afraid of them weaving me up in a net real quick :|.

Living in a village involves the encounter with all kinds of farm animals on an if not daily so definitely regular basis. The neighbours' pigs - cute and ready to share their grist with me. The big herd of woolly sheep that marched past our house - fluffy but too scared to let me touch them. Ducks, geese, chickens - they went their way, I went mine. But the really scary creatures for me were cows. Now don't tell me cows are peaceful and wouldn't harm a fly. No, to me, cows are huge, scary, hard-hoofed and uncontrollable. On my way to school which was in the next village for the first three years of my school life, I would irregularly come across them, being herded from one pasture to another (they were, not me - just to be clear). And do you think they would walk in an orderly line? Oh no, they were all over the place, blocking my path and practically running me over. I was being polite (ok, scared out of my mind) and moved out of their way ... wayyy out of their way, down to the school garden which was at the foot of a small hill. But argh, even there, the occasional stray cow would follow, leaving me completely terrified. In my nightmares, I saw a cow climbing up the seven steps to our front door, giving me barely enough time to lock myself into the entrance hall of our house.

And the third fear was one that was instilled into us by our teachers. Our area being quite woody, there has always been the risk of rabies. Rabid foxes were, if you can believe our teachers, lurking everywhere, unusually tame and ready to bite and infect us at the drop of a hat. Since I've always had a vivid imagination, I saw foxes trying to get to me, running after me in the backyard, watching me from the street through the garden fence and threatening to dig their way through to me.

At the age of 16, we left the village and hence all the ferocious cows and sneaky foxes behind. Spiders kept being present but by then I had found a different method of dealing with them: I would go as close as I could and yell at them until they disappeared...

Bangalore, part II

or: I need a week here

So after switching hotels, the next two days passed pretty smoothly. On Sunday, M. got to pick up her salwaars which, I have to admit, had turned out beautifully, we spent a good amount of time by (and a considerably shorter time in) the pool and all in all were spoilt around the clock by the staff of 'our' hotel.

Now to make you understand the next part, I will have to go back a bit, almost one year, to be precise. I had been to India for the first time almost exactly at this time last year. Bangalore, Mysore, Hyderabad, Pondicherry, Bangalore again .. you get the picture. Having spent a few days in India, I worded the following doubt to D. on whatsapp: 'What if I don't want to go back at the end of this trip?'. 'Just wait, maybe you will without any problem', she tried to calm me. Ok, I thought and continued to live my first Indian adventure. 

So far so good but a few days before my scheduled departure, I started to panic. I noticed that I really didn't want to leave, at least not without the option of coming back to stay. Feverishly, I looked around for job opportunities (Call centre employee? Not really. Shop assistant? I hardly think so. Maid? Hell no!), when an idea suddenly struck me: the Goethe-Institut or as they call it in India: Max-Mueller-Bhavan. I looked up the website and ta-da! they were indeed looking for me (ok, they worded it differently, something about guest lecturers with experience for four to eight months, but you have to agree that this basically describes me)! Immediately I called them. The nice lady at the other end told me to e-mail the head of department, spelling out her address, which I did right away. Just for your orientation: It was Thursday morning by then and my flight back was going to leave on Sunday morning at 3 am. 
I added my phone number to the e-mail and headed out. In the middle of souvenir shopping, a call reached me and a female voice introduced herself as I.T. She started grilling me about my intentions, work experience, methods, time remaining in India and a lot more. At some point during the interview, she apologised for asking so many questions. 'You can ask all you want if you're going to employ me', I replied with a smile. She laughed and then noticed that there probably wasn't enough time to set up a test lesson. Reluctantly, I had to agree but we decided that I would send in my résumé, CV and references from current and previous employers as soon as I had returned to Germany.

So upon returning, I bugged my employers to write me references, found one from a previous school, received one new one and the promise to give an excellent oral review of my performances to anyone who would ask for it. Once I had gathered all that, I e-mailed it to I.T. and her colleagues and waited. And waited. And then waited some more. My colleague C. had, as I found out, done an internship at the same institute a few years prior and had stayed in touch with I.T. all this time. He offered to approach her on my behalf - turns out that she wasn't in charge of guest lecturers anymore but told us who was the one now. 
I e-mailed the new person in charge. Nothing. A couple months later, I followed it up with another letter, again, to no avail. By then - around November 2013 - I thought that maybe MMB and I were not meant to be and started looking elsewhere, applied here and there but nothing really came of it. And then, out of the blue, N.K., the new person responsible sent me an e-mail, asking if I was still interested in the post. Yes, I replied directly, very much so. Besides, I would be in India in April, how about meeting in person then. Perfect, came her answer, thanking me for my quick response, and could I please let her know my exact dates of availability maybe by mid/end March so we could set up an appointment. Most definitely I would do that and so another e-mail found its way to her from Mumbai, informing that the week from 2nd to 7th April would be the one. Excellent, she replied, and how about meeting on the 2nd itself, at 3 pm? Hell yes! 

Jump back to the present, 2nd April. I dressed carefully in a business casual attire (white long-sleeved blouse, black jeans, black sensible heels and a pink-black-white scarf), hopped on (ok, into) an auto (oh did I tell you about our new auto game? It's called: 'Put on the meter?' and in case of a negative reply, we move on to the next one) and made the driver drop me right to the place. N.K. turned out to be very nice and this meeting nothing I needed to worry about as it was pretty informal. She showed me the library, the classrooms (super modern, motivating with state of the art equipment), the cafe with German style marble cake and introduced me to a few of my potential new colleagues. Then came the time to talk business: On the following day, I was supposed to visit one of her classes (and did I prefer 5 pm or 7.15 - 5, please) and in the same group, I would conduct my test class the day after, complete with meticulously elaborate lesson plan to be handed in before. 

The visited class was a breeze, I took loads of notes, asked a number of questions afterwards and noticed that N.K.'s style of teaching doesn't differ all that much from mine, phew.

On Thursday, the day of the actual class, I was a nervous wreck. I could barely eat anything for breakfast (Breakfast! In India!), just had some tea and stole a bowl full of fruit for later. M. considerately absented herself until shortly before the time I was going to leave so that I could work on my lesson plan in peace, call a few people to have them assure me that everything was going to be fine and we'd celebrate afterwards, and hoping against hope to chat with you for a moment to calm my frayed nerves. Anyway, I left, copied the aforementioned plan neatly during the auto drive (!) and arrived a little while later, pretending that all was normal. Sitting in the teachers' room, printing out something I needed for a game, I glanced at N.K.'s computer screen where I could see my contract-to-be. If the director of the institute (who was going to be present but would have to leave earlier, not to return before Monday) was convinced of my suitability immediately, I would get my contract, signed by her, the very next day, otherwise N.K. would have to convince her upon her return.

Two representatives of the institute (I.T. being one of them) sat down at the back of the classroom, next to N.K. They were holding copies of my plan, following the class strictly but not without interest. And - wonder oh wonder - I even made them laugh here and there! The students were every teacher's dream: extremely motivated, curious, hard-working and game for anything I suggested, the games including ;-). When the other two had left and N.K. signalled me to end the class, the students left with 'Danke! Auf Wiedersehen! Bis morgen!' (Thanks! Good bye! See you tomorrow!), having fully accepted me. And yes, my performance had been taken very positively by everyone, the only point of criticism was that I had been a bit fast at times. Anyway, my contract (for four months at first but with the option of extension, yay!) was signed and would be ready to collect on the next afternoon. 

Very relieved, my breathing back to normal, I walked out after the post-class conversation, squealing inside. Looking at my phone, I saw a number of missed calls and a few 'How did it go??'-texts. 'I'm coming back now and will tell you everything', I replied to one. 'Will tell you when you come over' to another, and 'I got the contract!! Boy, I was so nervous, I almost called you at 4 am your time' ('You could have', D. replied. Muah.).

End of story: My contract begins in August, with the new term. Apartment in walking distance and friends living in the same area. Woohoo!! Bangalore! India! Yes!!!

Bangalore, part I

or: A complaints choir

As I had already mentioned, Bangalore was going to be the last and a rather big portion of our trip, ten days, from this Saturday to Tuesday the week after. And we had big plans for this time (more later), starting with a two-day trip to Mysore from Sunday to Monday because outside of festival season, the palace is only lit on Sunday evenings at 7 pm (keep that in mind, it might be important unless you're travelling with me .. but I'm getting ahead of myself again).

I left Hyderabad with the feeling that I had some unfinished business there, nothing I could really put my finger on but something .. something that seemed to not want to let me go. Anyway, we arrived at Bangalore Airport and took a Meru cab like the pros that we by then had become. It really is as easy as that. Plus you don't have to negotiate the fare. 

So we reached the hotel safely (not the one where we had stayed during the first two days of the trip, the website had shown it as unavailable for the second period of time) and as promising as it had looked and sounded on said website, as uninviting ('Oh look, construction right outside! :|') was it in reality. Never mind, it won't be all that loud and maybe it is super from the inside. Maybe. Possibly. Turns out it really was not. Dust in corners and on window sills, worn out carpets, broken shower head - you name it. We might have tolerated all that if, yes, if the service would have made up for it. 

The truth however was different. When we entered the lobby, one receptionist looked annoyed at best, probably because we disturbed him in a task that was considerably more important than checking in mere guests. The other receptionist hesitantly started dealing with us. Hesitantly not because she was shy in any way but because she had to weigh the pros and cons at first. The pros, such as having the opportunity of being sniffy, unfriendly and even outright rude to us must have outweighed the cons. Who, for example, would have thought that handing out a second key card to two individuals who are visibly not joined by the hip was such an exhausting task nor that the card we politely asked for was so precious that before handing it over, one has to make sure we understood that the loss of it would be punished with a fine. (The irony: in the end, M. forgot that she still carried hers and accidentally stole it when we left.)

A rather indifferent bellboy carried our mountain of luggage upstairs (well, not actually carried, he pushed the cart into an elevator and then out again at our floor) and we moved into the room. Granted, it was huge. And it looked out over the race track which would have been even nicer if the window had opened. Well, never mind, there was a roof terrace, so we could easily live with a window that didn't open, that had been the case in most hotels anyway. 

One thing that I demanded each hotel should have (in addition to M.'s wish for a restaurant, a bar and a pool) was unlimited free wi-fi. Not an unreasonable demand, given the fact that we were a few thousand kilometres away from home and yes, did want to keep in touch with the world outside. All the bigger was our shock when we learned that the wi-fi was indeed free here but limited to an hour per day. 'Absolutely unacceptable' was both M.'s and my reaction to these news and that's what we told the manager (btw. the only person who tried to make our stay more pleasant or actually to try and make us stay in the first place) as well. 'The booking website clearly stated that the free wi-fi was unlimited, otherwise we would never have booked this hotel.' The manager had that fixed too, we would get unlimited access, a fruit basket and a well equipped mini bar instead of the empty fridge we found upon arrival if only we stayed. 

The pool, we had been told at the reception, was in a different building so we would have to get out, walk around the entire hotel and into that other building. No, the manager told us (I forgot his name but remember that the first thing which struck me when he opened his mouth to talk to us was his castrato's voice - men with squeaky voices are such a turn off!), there was another way to get there, down unlit dusty stairs and over an equally unlit "bridge" that connected the two buildings. The pool itself was beautiful but somehow, that didn't quite make up for everything else. 

Neither did the roof terrace which was partly dusty and partly drowned in puddles (and no, it had not just rained). The music that was coming from the bar TV was so loud we could barely hear each other let alone the person on the phone that we had to talk to about leaving the hotel and getting a refund on the money M. had already paid. The waiter on the terrace was more interested in the latest cricket results than in what we might want to order. (Ok, I don't really blame him but he could have hidden it better...)

'Let's go pick up my clothes, that'll put me in a better mood', M. suggested. Off we went to the general area of Commercial street, using the big white and green mosque as a landmark on our way to "Star Plaza". We found the place but none of the young salesmen we had dealt with when we first ordered the salwars. The only person we recognised was Simran (they called her so often to do this and that in the time that I spent waiting there two weeks before that I remembered her name), the young girl friday of the store. She took us a few stairs up (I had no idea that the building was so high) into the busy tailoring area. And if I say busy, I mean busy: One cubicle after the other, filled with two to three efficiently working tailors, cutting, sewing or measuring some piece of clothing or other. When she brought us to 'our' tailor, it turned out that M.'s clothes were not ready yet, they simply must have forgotten that today was the day she was coming to collect them. After a disappointment short of yelling at the guy on M.'s part and embarrassment on his that showed by laughing uneasily, they agreed to give it another day and she would pick up the beauties the next morning.

Anyway, after returning, we decided to stay for one night and make up our minds tomorrow at breakfast. Very well, the manager said, hoping against hope that we wouldn't pursue our attempt to leave his hotel. Dinner that night was alright as was the next day's breakfast, nothing to really complain there save a slight inattentiveness on the part of a waiter. Nevertheless our decision was made: After having found out that our original hotel was indeed available and M.'s friend having called there to get us a better price, we were ready to move out. The hotel's designated driver refused to take us to the other hotel, claiming that it was too short a distance to make it worth his while (he didn't use these exact words but the general tone made it clear). So while M. made other arrangements for our transport, the manager requested me to fill in a feedback form, describing our experience at his hotel. 'Are you sure you want me to do that?, I asked him. 'In the mood I currently am, the result will be less than favourable for your hotel.' Yes, yes, he insisted, and that it was exactly what he needed to show to his superiors. Alright, I thought and sat down, not before noting down the name of the particularly unhelpful receptionist, not that she really cared. A few minutes later, M. returned, beaming and excitedly telling me that we'd take an auto. I seriously wondered what was going to happen to our luggage when the driver artistically stowed it all (and us) away in his vehicle. Those things do hold a lot!

Long story short (I know, I know, that ship has sailed about half an hour ago), we finally reached 'our' hotel and were immediately consoled by the overwhelming friendliness and helpfulness of the staff there. Phew.

Oh and before I forget: When we talked to S. on the phone the previous day and told him that we would postpone Mysore to a more auspicious time, he informed us that a close friend of his manages the palace and would show us rooms that are unavailable to the general public, including the roof, we would be allowed to take photos inside (!) and, cherry on the cake, he would switch on the palace lights on any day we wished. And yes, that was an unlimited offer. So if you want to experience all that, you better be careful to stay in my good books ;-).

Next chapter: Why I needed to stay in Bangalore for an entire week.

Hyderabad

or: The city of pearls (oh yes!)

Hyderabad has a special place in my heart (of course because of wonderful friends like U., M., A. and now K., but mostly because it is your city), so I was pretty excited to come back here again, although I could have stayed in Mumbai some more to enjoy our budding love story. 

We reached the city on the afternoon before Holi, settled into the hotel, admired our room from all sides ('Wow, a huge window!', 'A view all over the city!', 'Have you seen that bathroom?!') and decided to hail an auto downtown. After Mumbai with actually working meters, having to fight for a fair fare (;-)) was a bit of a challenge but you have to admire the excuses auto drivers found for not switching it on. From 'The meter is not working' to 'It will be 50 extra with the meter', we got the full range, meeting each one with an increasingly annoyed eye-roll. After having negotiated a more or less acceptable price for my chosen destination, Charminar, we board the auto downtown. 'What's Charminar?', M. asks me and I give her the same reply as to her repeated question 'Are we there yet?': 'You'll know :-)'. 
Charminar at dusk (ok, dusk doesn't take very long to turn into darkness in a tropical country), lit from underneath by a thousand lights is just beautiful, I could stand there staring up at it forever. And when I'm done staring up, I would start looking around, at the life, the people, the stalls exhibiting everything that is colourful or glittering. Oh btw, this is where we acquired our new name 'Kss kss madam', the beckoning call of Hyderabadi salesmen. Speaking of 'kss kss': In the hotel where we stayed (name and contact details available on request), the staff would read our every wish from our eyes. One evening, we were sitting in the restaurant, 'our' waiter standing about 7 metres away, busy with whatever work. I don't even remember what it was but I had a request and so I tentatively 'kss-kss'-ed in his general direction. Immediately, he lifted his head, looked at me and stormed over to our table, grinning. I laughed, slightly embarrassed but also pleased.
What else happened on that day? I met A. for the first time in real life after having known each other online for almost six years. We recognised each other immediately but what I couldn't refrain from saying - after noticing that we were about the same height - was that I thought he was a bit taller. 'And I thought you were a bit shorter', so his grinning response. All in all, it was a fun evening, apart from the fact that his car had decided to breathe fire, ok, smoke, which is bad enough.

The next day was the long awaited Holi that we had been dreaming about for years, enacted in the park here once and now practically planned this trip around. I've prematurely described the events of that day here, so I won't repeat it now. 

For Thursday, we had big plans. Since Hyderabad is the city of pearls, we decided that we needed to do some pearl shopping. 'The best person to go pearl and gold shopping with is my mum.' We took Mu.'s suggestion to heart and picked up Sh. the next morning. She was as friendly-reserved as I remembered her from last year but seemed genuinely pleased to see me again. Sh. told the driver (I just notice how decadent that sounds, taking a driver here and a driver there but in India, it's an affordable luxury for us) where to go on the hunt for M.'s golden nose ring and a general selection of pearly stuff. A few hours, an assortment of jewellery and a pair of new shoes each (M. had busted the strap of hers, stepping out of the car, and seeing the choice in the second shop, I couldn't resist buying a pair of green rhinestoney ones to match the salwar kameez I was wearing) later, we dropped Sh. back home, thanked her profusely for her expertise and patience and headed for our next destination: Shilparamam. Doesn't the name alone sound mysterious and inviting? It's a big area with a hundred arts and craft booths, eating places, open air theatres, statues and just spots to hang out and have a good time. We looked, smiled, negotiated and shopped quite a bit before giving in to the calls of the mehendi ladies near the entrance/exit of the park. 
What follows will be known in history as the great peacock competition: I don't even remember how it started but in the end, M.'s artist and mine, Anitha (again, contact details available - I asked for her card), tried to outplay each other in the number, size and beauty of peacocks they applied onto our hands, arms and feet so that we got more than our money's worth in henna designs.
The evening was spent having dinner with Mu. at Taj Krishna, a hotel M. had also considered for our stay in Hyderabad. But while it is beautiful and the waiters super nice and attentive as well, I'm glad that we picked the other one in the end: the staff at ours was much better looking ;-).

A. wanted to show me around a bit, starting with an excursion to Osmansagar, a lake and reservoir outside the city, an adjacent park and later a visit to the locally famous Golkonda Fort. He was even ready to let me drive his car on the road outside Hyderabad when - of course! - there was smoke coming out of the motor compartment again. So all his time spent in the garage the previous day had not amounted to much and our trip ended with us going back, me being dropped to the hotel, him visiting his mechanic once more.
So after catching up on some sleep and M.'s return from Birla Mandir, a beautiful white marble temple that looks out on the city, we payed a last visit to the Charminar area, looked at everything with eyes and hands, I bought and munched on a small bag of popcorn (nearly perishing from a coughing fit about halfway through before being narrowly saved by a shop assistant who offered me a glass of water) as well as avoiding (me) or giving in to the last 'kss kss'es (M.) and finally returning 'home' to get spoilt at dinner one more time.

And once more, it was time to pack our bags. How I hate packing! I seriously considered calling the reception or simply offering some money to one of the bellboys to do this unpopular job for me. Long story short, I pulled myself together and did the packing on my own. Just before leaving, we had another look at the pearl shop in the lobby, a look that turned into another small shopping spree. Well, you can never have too many gifts..

That was that for Hyderabad and our next and last big stop on this journey, Bangalore, was only one flight away.

Mumbai

"Mumbai is the most vibrant and lively city of all!" "This is the place I would choose to live." "You will love it!"

After the beauty and calm of Jaipur, we arrived in Mumbai in the late morning. The drive from the domestic (more to that later) airport to our hotel didn't take long but on that 20-minute-trip, I was everything but impressed. Not repulsed either, don't get me wrong, but my first impression was "meh". Admittedly, the fact that I was still a bit ill might have played a role but anyway. The area we had chosen was Juhu, yes, the one with the beach by the same name. And since said beach was no more than a couple hundred metres away from our temporary home, we decided to pay it a visit (after a nap on my and a quick excursion on M.'s part). I've said it before and I'll say it again: I can never be unhappy by the sea, so that is a definite plus for Mumbai. People had warned me about the beaches, so I was pleasantly surprised by the fine sand and the relative cleanliness of Juhu beach (I noticed the black streaks on my feet only later..). Not having had any problems or weird reactions to food so far, we went right away for one of several snack places. Dahi puri (as good as the best I've ever had, in that restaurant in Mysore last year - Ha., if you're reading this, do you remember?), dosa and the cutest pizza I had seen so far. Not much more to do that evening so we turned in after our little walk.

The next day was intended for some touristy sight seeing: Gateway of India, Taj Hotel, Victoria Station.. And that morning, we found out how Mumbai works: We caught an auto, the driver spoke reasonable English, a fact that should not be taken for granted in this city, so we told him that we wanted to go from Juhu to the Gateway of India (you might want to look that up on a map). No, he shook his head, he could take us to Bandra where we should hail a taxi. Confused, we agreed to this suggestion and noticed further along the way that there were really no autos going beyond Bandra. Oh, one more thing in favour of Mumbai: You don't have to put a gun to a driver's head to make them switch on the meter, no, they would do it of their own accord. "In Mumbai, no one has the time to negotiate fares" is what I have later been told, hence a working meter seems to be mandatory. 
The Gateway was as impressive as expected, as was the number of flying hawkers around the place - luckily I have the gift of selective blindness. We turned around and then an idea struck us: "Let's be daring and have a cup of tea at the Taj hotel!". No sooner said than done, we walked in, were received very friendly and pointed to the requested place. Before settling down, we took a little walk (and a number of photos) through the hotel, admired it from top to bottom and finally found ourselves a nice little table. The tea turned into a meal and decadently happy, we left the place some time later.

"You should go to Colaba. It's the old Bombay, the Southend of the city. Victorian architecture." As M. had other plans for our third day here, I headed for Colaba on my own, the usual way: hailing an auto in Juhu and switching to a cab in Bandra. At the main road where the taxi had spit me out, Colaba didn't seem very special. Shopping stalls lining it on both sides, offering the same things as everywhere and since I don't care much for shopping anyway, I didn't even give them a second glance before I turned left. And then right. And left again. The cityscape had changed a bit here. The Victorian houses were present, displaying a neglected charm which gave reason to the thought that nothing had been done to maintain them since the time the British had left.
After a couple more turns, I found myself on a market. Not one of those fancy clothes-shoes-jewellery markets but a food market: fruits, vegetables and fish in various stages of freshness. 
I kept walking and either I took a wrong turn somewhere or the market simply turned into a residential area with houses that were barely two metres apart. But except for a few children waving and yelling an enthusiastic "Helloooo!" at me - and that's something else I like about Mumbai: people's 'I don't give a damn' attitude - nobody really took notice of my presence, nobody stared, pointed or looked at me disapprovingly. When I came back to the main road, I decided to walk the other side of Colaba as well. Neat three-storey houses, well kept Victorian building, guys playing cricket on the street, large cars standing in freshly swept driveways. 
So here it happened; Colaba did what the rest of the city couldn't manage: It made me fall in love with Mumbai.
In the evening, I caught up with M. and her "son" V. V. is not actually related but a common online friend of ours from several years ago that she decided to e-adopt one day. We got to meet his pretty wife P., his parents (I'm particularly fond of his mum and I think that was mutual, she would be a good incentive for me to improve my Hindi) and eventually his brother.

Their plan for the following  day - our last complete one in Mumbai - was to spend some more time together, the young couple and M., and mine to visit my friend H. at her college. H. is a girl that I've met online when she was an ambitious 15-year-old schoolgirl. Now she is 20 and on her way to becoming a doctor. She is still ambitious, has learned to play with the cards life is dealing her and will get very far one day. H. lives in Navi Mumbai which judging by the time it took to get there (yes, I could have checked a map too) must be on the opposite side of town. Her college was just preparing for a festival but nevertheless I got a glimpse, she introduced me to a few of her teachers and gave me a general tour of her department. (By the way, some of you might remember my yearning for silver anklets since last year. And probably by telepathy, H. had picked exactly that as "an exciting gift" for me: a pair of silver anklets that make a noise, yay!!) After that, we both discovered an unknown to her as well as me part of the city: Dadar. A friend recommended that I'd have a look at the Portuguese church, a sacral building with an in every aspect very unusual architecture and the Five Gardens, five small parks that would be a nice place to hang out and play if you live in the area.
The wondrous finale of our day together was a visit to a - not her, as originally planned, but still - Gurdwara (Sikh temple). H. introduced us (because by then M. had joined us, too) to her religion, giving us an in-depth insight into its customs and conventions.

Oh and if you think that people are not genuine just because you met them on some chat or social networking site and not in "real life" first, I have to tell you that you're wrong. If you hit it off with someone online, chances are good that this will be the case at a "real" meeting as well. The proof in this story: H., V., K. and R., to name just a few.

Our flight to Hyderabad the next day was scheduled for the early afternoon, enough time for one last visit to the beach (sigh) which as it turned out, was even closer than I thought. 
Oh yea, the flight. Mumbai has two airports, a domestic and an international one. Since our next flight was going to Hyderabad, it seemed only logical that we would leave from the domestic airport, so that's what we told the driver. He dropped us and our constantly increasing luggage there. I sat on a bench inside the building, M. went out for a smoke and returned coughing hectically a few minutes later with the information that our flight only had a stop-over in Hyderabad before leaving the country. Hence our destination would be the international airport - argh! After a short but intense debate, we embarked another taxi and reached the correct airport on time, heading for the place of our next adventure, the City of pearls.

Jaipur .. ah!!

M. had made it pretty clear from the beginning that we were not going to take a bus, so after saying good bye to R. - who was going back in the opposite direction, feigning urgent work  - we entered a car, complete with local driver and Hindi music galore. *hums in her head*

The drive went smoothly, with a few stops for M. to smoke and for the two of us to change between back and front seat, a process that seemed to greatly amuse our driver. We passed by a few camels on the way (well, ok, not on the highway but on smaller roads) and then we were there.

Ah Jaipur! How can you not love Jaipur! And for that matter: How can you not love Rajasthan!?! The colours, the ancient and modern buildings, the art, the clothes, the people and did I mention the colours? When we reached our hotel, there was an arts and craft festival going on, with typical Rajasthani handicraft being displayed and sold, painters at work and musicians showing their skills tirelessly. 

But even the hotel itself was a piece of art. Built in the typical Rajasthani style with open balconies looking down upon two large inner yards. The rooms furnished with appliances in the same style, wide yet cosy. This is where I acquired my new favourite colour, switching rainbow for Rajasthani. Followers of my facebook album will get an impression of all that this entails. In Jaipur, I decided that if I get the job I applied for in Bangalore, I would go back to Jaipur or any other city in that area to buy all things Rajasthani for my flat.

What did we do in Jaipur, what's there to see? On our first evening (out of  - sigh - just two), we hired an auto driver (coordinates available if you are interested) with his vehicle who took us to an ancient Hanuman temple (yes, I was allowed to take pictures and even had to buy an official ticket for my camera - M. and I were free although she donated generously after having had a good talk with the local priest). On the next day, the same auto driver drove us all over town, dropping me to the fort (and M. to a nearby café) which I climbed in the heat of the midday sun. The walk was not very steep, the sun not too merciless and my brain not too scattered to remember taking water with me. I came across a few guys, had a nice chat, one of them trying to undertake the impossible: explaining cricket to me. By now, I have a slightly better insight into the game but I still don't understand why it needs to last for five days (no, please don't waste your energy trying to make me understand that phenomenon now). 

Fort visited, others found, off to the next stop: Hava Mahal. The palace is under construction or rather repair, so there is scaffolding all over it. Although it looks less monumental this way, you still get an impression of its size and beauty. Quick picture taken (the driver would barely let me get out, claiming that this was not a good area) and we were on our way again. 

At the recommendation of my friend H. (thanks, lil one!), I asked for a quick detour to Raj Mandir, a cinema hall with beautiful mirrorwork. Since they made it impossible to take a quick peek just like that, I bought the cheapest ticket available, wandered around in the hall, took photos a-plenty and was about to sneak back out when an elderly usher asked to see my ticket and accompanied me to my seat. Whyever not, I thanked him, sat down and watched a few minutes of a presumingly new Hindi movie without any subtitles at all. A few minutes of this experience sufficed, I left and answered the usher's question whether I was coming back with a non-committal "Maybe".

Now for the less agreeable part: shopping. (All in all I must say that I've never done so much shopping in such a comparatively short time before in my life and I'm not keen on repeating the experience any time soon.). The fun part is however that I've become pretty efficient at bargaining. I'm sure I still pay tourist prices but at least I put up a fair fight.

On the last evening at our colourful jewel of a hotel, we enjoyed a lovely meal in the garden, accompanied by live music.

The next day, off to new adventures in the shape of Mumbai.

Agra

It was late evening when we finally reached Agra. It being dark and none of us (not me, not even R. and definitely not M.) having been here before, we - ok R. - asked our way through to the hotel. (All in all, having him around was a big help, especially when it came to asking for places, things or directions since my Hindi - as we all know - is beyond limited.) We found it eventually and after some mix and match, we settled on the final occupation of the rooms. M. got the room with the balcony to go out and smoke and give access to mosquitoes and flies while I got to share the room with a spoilt brat who kept complaining about the allegedly not working A/C (which blew cold wind at me where ever I was) but who to his credit was a really easy person to stay with plus he doesn't snore ;-).

"I'm dying to shoot Taj Mahal at sunrise." Those were the words I repeated when someone asked me what I wanted to do in Agra. A time lapse film, possibly some HDRs, that was my idea. Sunrise was going to be around 6.30, so we left the hotel for the West Gate about an hour earlier. First setback: the gate wouldn't be opened before 6 a.m. Second one: the queue at the ticket counter was huge. And number three after having solved two with the help of the world's best Taj guide: no tripods allowed.

Ok fine, I swallowed my disappointment, settled for HDRs and started making a run for the palace, leaving the other two far behind. A guy who appeared to be a guide asked me a few details of my life ("Which countrrry, madam?") and showed me a few places to take the standard Taj pictures from. Guy pointed behind me and asked: "Are those your friends? They're calling you." I recognise R., then M. behind him. They point to our guide, signalling me to wait. 

When the guide catches up to me, he proves that he is determined to give us our money's worth. In a speed I slightly struggle to keep up with, he shows me to the best (I mean seriously best) spots to take photos from, pointing out what exactly to go for from what position. On the run, he tells me more about the story of the palace and forces me into ridiculous poses to take my picture. I'm not sure you'll get to see them as they are plain embarrassing.

Catching our (metaphorical) breath, we walk up to the other two, "your mum and your friend", as the guy assumes.

Walking more slowly all over the area, the guide explains and shows the magic of the precious stone inlays in marble which, as either the sun or his flashlight hit them glow like fire. We once again come across K. from the Netherlands, henceforth known as "the stalker". Speaking of: The squirrels here are small and striped, so of course I had to do some squirrel stalking. A few flamingoes aka schoolgirls in pink uniform near the main gate and we had left the Taj ground.

Upon our return to the hotel, we had (a very meh) breakfast and after another fight about the A/C and even a change of bed, went back to sleep for a while. Later going outside, grabbing a bite and taking nocturnal pictures of Agra Fort. Quite impressive, rather majestic but together with Taj Mahal the only reason Agra gets so many visitors. My general impression of the city is rather negative. Crowded, dirty and extremely touristy are just some of the adjectives that come to my mind. Besides, the traffic is crazy (and I have seen Delhi, Bangalore and Hyderabad) given the comparatively narrow roads.

So after one last evening on M.'s balcony, I wasn't too sad to leave Agra behind, just wished for a moment that the brat could have kept travelling with us. 

Next morning: off to new adventures in the form of a cab drive to Jaipur/Rajasthan ... but that will be a new chapter.

Holi Hai!

Conversation on chat a few weeks prior.

Me: You're from Hyderabad, right?
D: Yup.
Me: Is Holi big there?
D: Oh yea! I mean, not as big as in the North but still pretty big.
Me: Awesome, thanks.

Today, 27th March, Holi. 

Where do we go to play Holi? No, we don't want to celebrate in some hotel. Yes, we know that it's not as big in the South but still! 

After breakfast, around 11 which is - as we know now - kind of late to play Holi, we have an auto take us to Charminar as someone confirmed that this is a good place for Holi. On the way there, we see coloured individuals and even groups but around Charminar itself, there is no play going on whatsoever. We are close to tears with disappointment and the sales people with their usual "Ks ks ks madam!" irritate the hell out of me. 

"Let's ask an auto driver", I suggest. M. walks up to the nearest one, he speaks decent English and promises to take us to the action (Begum Bazar, according to him). Off we go and upon arrival, we notice that, yes, there are quite a few colourful figures so I'll at least be able to take some nice photos if nothing else. The figures don't mind having their picture taken but we're not really part of the game yet. That is until M. decides to take out our own (ecological and non-toxic) Holi dyes and throw a handful in the general direction of my face and phone. Oh well, it wasn't the last one today and after a momentary shock, I reach into my own yellow and toss it right back at her. 

And that's how it took off .. I don't remember where all the next portions came from nor who threw them and how fast. After the blur of the next minutes, I take a breath to admire M.'s and my own colourful appearance. So it goes on .. "Happy Holi!!", colour dabbing on shoulders, wet colour thoroughly rubbing into cheeks, water sprinkling on head, carefully mixing with the powder to create a lasting mess and last but definitely not least throwing water balloons that - after an initial shock - are pleasantly refreshing. We sprinkled powder on everyone - humans, dogs, cows (ok, I did) - and left traces on everything - a pinch of powder on a motorbike, a pink handprint on the black of an auto rickshaw. 

At some point, we had run out of our own and then even the big bag of pink dye (gulaal), that some well-meaning strangers had thrusted into our hands. "We need new paint!", we decided, even though the actual game was practically over. But oh well, the seven heaps of bright colour - they even had turquoise! - were just irresistible, so we bought a few spoonfuls of each. Let's see what we'll use them for now.

Back at the hotel, the personnel was looking at us with a mix of pure horror and utter amusement. 'Happy Holi's came from all sides, while we pretended that there was nothing unusual at all going on ;-)

After sprinkling a lot of pink and a bit of everything else with every step, I decided to at least wash my face before meeting up with Mu. Bye bye blue, green, orange and yellow, hello very VERY persistent gulaal! Well, at least one could guess that there was a human face behind all the pink.

We spent a couple hours in a comfy little café, bringing each other up to date about the events of the last couple months and just having a relaxed time with cold coffee and snacks.

Returning "home", I decided that I should indulge in a shower after all. I admired my originally light green t-shirt from all sides before entering said shower, armed with soap and shampoo. The water that was running down me gave the impression that I was bleeding pink from a massive wound whereas the dye on my scalp and body didn't show much sign of diminishing. Not to worry, we're good at pretending to be normal anyway, so we bravely decided to eat in the (rather elegant) hotel's restaurant instead of calling the room service. 

The waiter was on the same track, he didn't acknowledge the obvious traces all over my face and neck at all while straight-facedly taking our orders and thanking M. for the honour of opening and pouring her coke.

Another employee was less discreet. He, cracking up, stated that we must have played Holi today. Yes, we confirmed, asking him if there was any secret for getting rid of the unmoving pink dye. No, we'd just have to shower a few times, after 3-4 showers, the colour would be gone, he said, still laughing. And meanwhile, we were clearly adding to his amusement although he laughingly denied that.

And finally even the waiter asked us about our adventure with colours. He himself didn't play but confirmed that it would take a number of showers to entirely get rid of the leftovers. Turning to me (M. had somehow managed to look nearly as human as before), "But until then you will look very beautiful. :)".

Shame that this beauty will pass with the pink ...
;-)

Mathura

The next morning breakfast at the hotel in Delhi. Ironically, that was the best breakfast I had had so far. In Bangalore, I tried coconut chutney and found it too spicy (not that I have a problem with spices, I don't, but coconut chutney is not supposed to be like this), the paratha too chewy, the idli ok (but then how can you ruin idli anyway?), the vada too hard. But in Delhi, it was perfect with a capital P ;-). 

After having stuffed myself at breakfast (and having answered a call from R. who was running late because his poor dog had suddenly decided to fall ill), I went out in search for an ATM. Asked in the hotel, they pointed me into the general direction, asked two guards of a nearby firm and eventually a policeman who told me to "go strrraight and then rrright" while pointing vigorously to the left. When in doubt, go by gestures rather than words and so I found it, returned and settled for a little nap in one of those comfortable chairs in the lobby. Next thing I remember was a male voice, asking "Sol?". Slightly startled, I opened my eyes to look at the guy mustering me from above. For the fraction of a second, I couldn't place him but then it dawned on me and yelling his name, I jumped up to hug him.

And with that, we were on our way to Mathura, a destination M. had picked and that I never even heard about before this trip. Legend has it, that Krishna was born there in a dungeon opposite of the temple that is dedicated to him now. Until then, I didn't know that gods were born - in my understanding, they just materialised out of thin air but well, apparently not. 

The temple itself is undoubtedly beautiful and impressive and gives the entire town its purpose of existence. Because other than that, the city resembles a holy place much less than a (not very elegant) touristy rip-off. But back to the temple. Large area, big crowd of followers, believers and spectators. Beautiful wall and ceiling paintings, depicting Krishna at various stages of his life, interesting architecture. The downside for a photographer is of course that you couldn't take photos. And to me, beauty that cannot be captured in an image is just wasted. So temple visited, prayer done (M.), spectacle watched (me), stories told (R.) and stories heard (K., a lone traveller from the Netherlands that we came across), we were back in the car, left the locals and their not very pleasantly smelling streets behind and moved on to Agra.

Delhi

Before this trip, well, even before my last (or first) one, everybody had tried to scare me about Delhi: "Even Mumbai girls don't go there alone", "rape capital of the country" (which is sadly true as we all know now), "Dress and behave sensibly", "Don't go out alone". They succeeded in making me completely paranoid, to the point that I barely dared stepping out of the hotel on my own. But since M. was gone off with her friend and K. still didn't show any sign of appearance, I decided that I was not going to waste the afternoon in my hotel room, packed up (sensibly dressed), left the hotel and started walking. After about 100 metres, an elderly auto driver caught up to me and told me that if I kept walking in that direction, everything would be closed, the day being a Sunday and that the market was the other way. He offered to drive me around, wait for me while I shopped however long it would take (I wanted to shop? Oh ok, if he said so.) and all that for just 20 rupees. "You'll be like my daughter." 

Why the heck not, I thought, entered the auto (btw, whenever I say "auto", I refer to an auto rickshaw, also known as "tuk-tuk") and told him that first of all, I needed a pharmacy (followers of my facebook album will remember the vicious mosquito attack at my person) and some water. After that, I replied to his repeated question to what I was interested in "jewellery" and he took me to a jeweller's shop of his (def not my) choice. After wriggling/talking my way out of there, I told that driver that it's more costume jewellery what I had in mind, not super fancy precious stone stuff. So he took me to a silver jewellery store in some side street next where I bought the loveliest set of connected bangles for myself and a little silver Ganesha for M.

After that, back to the hotel, some more communication with K. who was gonna be more delayed, then M. came back full of stories and adventures and we got ready to meet her friend Sa. at the hotel. And sitting there with the two of them, chatting, eating, drinking - that's when it hit me: I had arrived. I was happy. I had my India back. That too in Delhi of all places!

Eventually, K. showed up too, we had a good time walking the streets of Delhi and just sitting in a rooftop café chatting until work reclaimed him. Oh well, better luck next time.

And that was about it for Delhi - not as bad as expected, possibly interesting enough to visit again (locally accompanied of course) and ready to leave for Mathura with R. the next morning.