Arrival in Cochin, India

January 6, 2010

I have landed in my new place of study, which is Cochin, India, where the great Vasco da Gama built his spice empire out of in the early 1500s.

Flying into the Indian state of Kerala, I could tell that Cochin wasn’t going to be anything like Chennai. The airport was clean and well kempt. There were black, wrought iron light posts giving off a very charming European style and they were fastened to concrete pillars with clean, sparkling bolts. It was like a dim light at the end of the tunnel for Indian infrastructure.

The airport is about an hour from the booming center of Ernakulam and the quaint seaside port of Fort Cochin—both are enveloped under the city of Cochin (Kochi). On my way into the city I caught a glimpse of some incredible tropical sights. The landscape was scattered with mango trees, coconut palms and banana trees, and wild bison and buffalo roam the plains. In fact I saw a bison with a huge rack of antlers (horns?) fording a river. As I made my way into the outskirts of the city, I saw stands with green coconuts and men with scythes to chop their tops off. The people here call them tender coconuts and it’s a customary greeting gift. Usually, you drink the refreshing liquid in the center of the coconut with a straw, and then the cart keeper chops the coconut in half, produces a spoon--chopped off the side of the coconut--and then scrapes the tender portion of the coconut meat onto the spoon for you to eat. Does it sound tropical yet?

There were many large billboards touting jewelry, diamonds, clothing and Indian “treasures,” no doubt for the groups of tourists motoring along. Also common were large hotels, no doubt to house the motoring tourists.

The city actually progresses in steps. The first district you arrive in is Ernakulam, the bustling city center. The second is Willingdon Island, which lies just off the coast, and the third is Fort Cochin, an island of its own and the historical center. While crossing the bridges to each island, I could see the many fishing boats making there way on the water, some modern and many very old looking. I could actually see people throwing their nets off of their wooden boats, which I thought was amazingly anachronistic. I also saw a large wooden boat in the distance that had 10 men sitting in it. Five large oars jutted out on each side and moved up and down, propelling the banana-shaped wooden vessel through the water. My jaw dropped.

I met up with my contact, Suravendra (if you remember correctly, the last contact’s name was Raghavendra…I sense a pattern), in Fort Cochin. He runs one of the two diesel and petrol stations directly on the harbor and owns a large palatial-colonial style house right on the island. He took me to my Malabar Court Hotel and helped me book a room for the night (about $14/night). After I had delivered my stuff to the room, we took off on his motorcycle through the small post-colonial town on the way to the beach and harbor. I couldn’t believe my nose…the smell of garbage was almost non-existent and was instead replaced by the smell of coconuts from the coconut oil used in the restaurants. My mind hearkened back to a line from the hit-musical Annie that goes, “I think I’m gonna like it here.” (that was cheesy)

On the way, we stopped off at a little roadside hole-in-the-wall restaurant. It was very narrow and only had two rows of rickety, planked wooden tables along each wall. The only places to sit were on the long built-in concrete benches along each side. We ordered a typical South-Indian fare of vadai, onion utthappam, and some deep-fried breaded item filled with bhaji (a blend of potatoes, mustard seeds, curry leaves, turmeric, green chilies and onions). The vadai, which are small, deep-fried, ring-shaped, lentil-based items with cumin seeds, onions and green chilies were served with some coconut chutney, mango pickles and sambar (a South-Indian soup consisting of vegetables, tamarind, mustard seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns, green chilies, onions, curry leaves and a powder made of red chilies, lentils, and coriander seeds…everyone’s recipe is different). The spice of the vadai nicely complemented the milder, sweeter flavor of the white coconut chutney to which they added a side spoon of grated coconut, just in case it was too spicy. The onion uthappam was served last, with the same chutneys and soups. It is a fermented lentil and rice flour based food that is cooked in pancake-like fashion on a griddle with some ghee or oil. It is especially tasty with the onions and has a little bit of a sour taste from the fermentation. Utthappam and the thinner dosas are two of my favorite breakfast or snack items with some nice gravies or chutneys. We ended the meal with a typical creamy and sweet South-Indian coffee before heading off again to the beach and harbor.

The first thing that I noticed at the beach was the line of carts selling all sorts of fish and seafood. There were heaps of sea lobsters, deep-sea lobsters, big fish, little fish, red fish, blue fish, tiger prawns, squid, king crabs, soft shell crabs, and blue scampi (a cool looking shrimp with very long and narrow royal-blue claws). I marveled at the selection. Just down the way was a fish auction with long benches. This is where the fishermen offer up the days catch to the waiting merchants. There was a tarp right behind the benches that had hundreds and hundreds of pounds of fresh (large!) squid.

Suravendra and I took a walk down the rocky beach and watched the sunset, apparently a common thing to do judging by the number of French, German and British tourists occupying the beachside. The sun was a dim red-orange sphere on the horizon that popped out in a 3-d fashion. I realized that it was my first sunset on the Arabian Sea.

Afterwards, Suravendra and I headed off to the stalls again to buy some large, juicy tiger prawns, which we did. It cost us a little less than $10 for 2.2 pounds (1 kg.) of those suckers…steal! And that was even a high price! We took them to one of the seafood stand restaurants across the way and had them grilled with chili powder, ginger, lemon and salt…mmm were they delicious. I ate about 90% of them though, because Suravendra is not a big fan of fishy tastes. That was perfectly fine with me…the vegetarian cuisine of Tamil Nadu and Chennai was a bit stifling for my carnivorous appetite. I actually hadn’t eaten that much meat since the Zwiebelrostbraten in Vienna! Oh, and I would love to say that Suravendra and I were the only ones at the dinner table; however, we had a host of man-eating mosquitoes to accompany us. I actually noticed some of the fishermen lighting huge bonfires to ward them off by the sea.
Before returning to the hotel, Suravendra and I stopped off at his house so that I could meet his wife and 15-year-old daughter. We were greeted with his two dogs, one a German shepherd and the other some scruffy white thing. His house had all marble floors and big open spaces. There were columns all over the place too that looked to be hard wood, but were actually concrete with the wood pattern painted on. I looked closely and couldn’t even tell…impeccably done. The house was also accompanied by wooden, handcrafted ornamentation. All in all, a lovely abode.

As I slid off the edge of the motorcycle at my hotel, I wished Survendra a good night, and then headed up to my room to drift into a tropical induced slumber.

India: 1 month in (another email)

I'm sorry to flood your inboxes again...I am just so excited after spending 8-9 hours on the phone and videochat yesterday with family and friends. I've effectively received my 30th wind.

Fashion alert the first: Grab your bellbottoms from the back of the closet. THEY ARE IN!!! Well, “in” in India. It’s actually funny though. The majority of those wearing the bellbottoms are the super skinny ones; the more rotund ones (and yes there are lots of those) tend to wear a more conservative straight-legged trouser.

It’s been 36 days in India and things are just peachy (mangoes are out of season)—phew, thank God my jokes are still so fresh. I haven’t lost my mind, or my wallet, or my dignity yet. Maybe the jury is still out on the losing my mind thing. I wish I could say that I was starting to fit in; however, the fact that people still stare me up and down and poke me tells me that “fitting in” will never be an option.

One part of me that is certainly fitting in is my smell. The curry makes a nice bouquet when mixed with the generic Indian laundry detergent. After meals it’s just impossible to get the smell of curry off my fingers and I’m sure that my clothes wreak of it. But that’s all part of the game. I wanted the curry smell and I got it; I wouldn’t be a true spice traveler without it. But here are two things that I don’t think I’ll conform to:

1) Holding hands with an Indian man who just met me. A large proportion of men hold hands and hang onto each other’s waist or shoulder. It’s just normal, but I can’t help but be uncomfortable when there are a bunch of Indian guys that want to hold on to my waist. Last week I went to see Avatar with these guys from the gym. The whole night, one of the guys was trying to hang onto my waist…not cool, dude!

2) I will not be hocking loogies to and fro in crowded streets! It’s very common for both men and women to spit in the streets and in the train station…really anywhere. In a ten minute rickshaw ride, your rickshaw driver is guaranteed to spit at least 7 times!

Now for some general observations on India.

One thing that is very obvious is the lack of drainage. When I saw pictures before I came to India in November, they portrayed streets filled with 2-3 ft. of water after monsoon rains. The fact of the matter is that the smallest rainstorm will flood the streets with over 1 foot of rain. Small rainstorms are rare, however…when God turns the faucet on over here, he really turns it on. One of the first things I noticed when I came here was that the curbs on the streets are extremely high…hmmm, it seems like investment is going toward building the wrong thing. Build drains!! The other thing that is obvious about this problem is that stagnant water is here to stay. As a result, mosquitoes will always be squatting in peoples’ homes. Disease will also continue to be a problem, especially considering that half the population still walks barefoot through the streets!

India has just been declared the most polluted country in the world, and I will definitely back that. There are no trash cans and that means that every single person will throw their garbage on the sidewalk or street. I can sense no compunction when I see someone throwing their sandwich wrapper in the street…it’s crazy and drives me bonkers! As I sit in the coffee shop at this moment, I can see a man washing his mouth out and spitting it into a very large body of stagnant water in the street filled with garbage. Eeee gads!

The curious smells that sting the nostrils also emit from these bodies of water. When you cross the river in Chennai, you will notice a couple of things: one is that the river runs brown and emits a very pungent raw sewage smell; the other is that the straw hut slums line the banks of the river. Yes, the people still bathe and wash clothes in that water.

Most of the people that I meet are very nice and almost too polite. The deference that I’m paid is very disconcerting. I’ll tell you what would make my day…if my waiter at the coffee shop came up to me and punched me in the face instead of asking me if he can clear my coffee cup from my table. I would greet that act with a smile.

I don’t want to make this email too long, so I’ll briefly comment on some of the food goings on in this country. Basically, you have two categories of food, veg and non-veg (as they are affectionately called). Non-veg almost certainly means chicken and mutton; however, I visited a southwestern (Kerala) restaurant the other night and had beef for the first time in a month. It was marinated in coconut, coriander, black pepper, salt, cilantro and probably cumin and chili powder. I’m getting pretty good at identifying the spices used in different dishes without seeing it cooked. Kerala, the area of the country where this restaurant originates, contains Syrian Christians, Jews and Muslims, and they certainly do not have any qualms about eating beef. Watch out Bessy!! I know that the coexistence of those three religions in a small area sounds like a ticking time bomb, but they have been living in harmony over there for hundreds of years. It’s where Vasco Da Gama built his spice empire and I will be traveling there on January 5, so I’ll report more then.

Here in Chennai, you will find that the food glistens with butter and ghee (if you were to melt butter and let it sit, the ghee is the clear stuff that separates on top—clarified butter). The chefs insist on telling me that the copious amounts of fat in the food are necessary for the dispersal of the spices’ volatile oils, but I know that to be false. You only need a small amount of fat for dispersal. The common vegetables used in dishes are cauliflower, peas, carrots, potatoes, drumsticks (like a big okra), bottle gourd (like zucchini), beets, peppers, onions, lotus flowers, turnips, green and red chillies, and corn. You’ll notice that a few of these are “new world” adaptations, namely corn, peppers, chillies and potatoes. What I mean by “new world” is that they came from the Americas back when Christopher Columbus and Vasco Da Gama were rockin’ the waters. Who can resist a potato, right?

So, not only are ghee and butter added to these dishes, but, the ingredients are commonly deep-fried in sunflower oil before being sautéed. The dishes will usually fall into another two categories besides veg and non-veg; that is, they are either a gravy dish or a dry dish. Gravy just means that the dish is a little more liquid and can be sopped up with some rice or wheat based “sponge.” I’ll save the description of these “sponges” for another post.

So, wrapping things up a bit, this means that the Indian diet (I’m generalizing a lot here because the cuisine is so diverse) is predominately carbohydrate and fat based. This produces a lot of fat people…a very gelatinous fat, not the typical American rotund fat because there is not as much muscle to back up the fat underneath. About 4 weeks ago I had my fat content measured at the local gym. According to the charts, a typical Indian male will have a fat content that measures anywhere from 18-24%. Females usually come in at about 10% higher than males. I came in at 11%, if you must know, which means that I am (or was) 2% fattier than when I left the states. I guess that’s not too much of a surprise considering that I’ve been gourging on international cuisine for 6 months or so. Interestingly though, I conducted an experiment over the course of the month, which consisted of me doing intense weight training about 4-5 days a week while eating only the typical Indian cuisine. After 30 days, I can report that I have not succeeded in gaining any muscle mass. I’ve only become a bit stronger and leaner. If I were eating my typical American diet of 65% protein, 25% carbs, and 10% other, I would probably have gained a solid amount of muscle mass. Conducting this experiment cost me a couple of dollars a day. Can you imagine how much I would have to pay to do the same experiment in the states? Consider this: a typical Indian meal in Central New York will cost me between $10-15. Yikes!

I realize that my Christmas note sounded a bit downtrodden. Upon later inspection, I determined that I wrote the note in the five-minute span when I was most wistful and homesick. Yes, there are some things over here that can really pull at your heartstrings; however, on the whole, I am still bubbly and bright-eyed, ready for my next adventure. Bring it on!

Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! And a blissful New Year!

My wistful Christmas email to family and friends

As I sit below my stocking, I can't help but realize the stark contrast this Christmas poses against all former Christmases. When I open my window, I'm greeted with heat and humidity, not the cold winter chill that initiates the drinking of hot chocolate. When I walk outside, sweat beading across my forehead, there is no snow to pick up and throw at my friends. Glancing about, there are no trees, no tinsel, no lit up houses--just my stocking above my head, swaying in the breeze of the fan.

My home away from, well, my guesthouse has been the little coffee shop up the road that has set up a very small plastic Christmas tree next to its counter. I sit in that coffee shop for hours brushing up on some economics readings, but the real reason is because I can order ginger snaps with whip cream on top and listen to Christmas music coming through the speakers. It makes me homesick, yes, but my time could not be better spent any other way.

I just received a package full of candy and gifts sent by my family; the stocking above my head was enclosed. I felt like a little school boy as I rushed to the balcony with my brown parcel and placed it on the ground between my legs. Times like this don't need a chair, just an open piece of floor and lots of space for throwing wrappings. Two of the guys that work at the guesthouse, Ravi and Rajesh, brushed aside their duties of cleaning my room to rush to the balcony also. They've never experienced Christmas. I think their faces were just as lit up as mine as I pulled package after package of candy out of the box. I had a hard time explaining why my Christmas card was all scribbles...my nephews were degraded to little people in order to get my point across.

I immediately fetched a plate from the guesthouse kitchen and piled it high with all sorts of goodies for the guys that work here. I don't think they experience too much kindness. They all work 7 days a week and don't even have a space to stay. When I come home at 1 or 2 am sometimes, I can see them all scattered about on the floor, many of them cuddled up with each other, a single candle lit in the corner to keep the mosquitoes away. Some are in the lobby, some in the dining room, and the remainder in the kitchen. There are about 10 of them. Just the smiles and ambiguous excitement that ensued from the sight of the candy laden plate was enough for my Christmas present. One of the smaller guys walked up to me and shook my hand saying, "Happy Christmas!" Wonderful.

So on this Christmas Eve, I want to thank all of you for your love and support, your kind wishes, and your season's greetings. You've all influenced my life in some way shape or form, and for that I am forever grateful. From my religion to yours, Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Season's Greetings! Happy Holidays!

With much love,
Ethan

My first day in India

November 23, 2009; 8 pm:

The morning of November 21 at 9:30, I awoke to a knock at the door. I was greeted with a smaller guy who looked at me and said, “brefa,” which I took to mean breakfast. Just to make sure, he made the motion of eating. I told him I’d be right down…in so many charades. I quickly slapped on a pair of jeans and bustled down the narrow stairway to the dining room. There was a single table with about 6 place settings. There were two men sitting at the table, one very large and jolly looking with a pair of rectangular specs sitting on his face, the second one a smaller guy wearing a red and black nylon jersey. One of the servers came up to me and said, “omele?” I of course agreed to that, because it sounded a lot like the familiar English word ‘omelette.’ He brought me out a delicious milky and sugary coffee, no doubt the famous Chennai filtered coffee that I’d read about, followed by a plate sized omelette with onions and jalapenos in it with 5 pieces of white toast on the side. Do they think I’m American or something? Haha. I gladly accepted and got to work quickly, but soon noticed that they were bringing Indian food to the other men across the table, so I put on my “I’m really curious” look and pointed at what they had. The server’s charades indicated that he understood that I wanted some of the Indian food also, which he quickly produced. The food consisted of a bowl of lentil soup made with red chillies, parsley, basil, anise, and some other spices, rice pancakes (dosas), and some other paste that was just as spicy as everything else I was eating that morning. I found out later that all of that food cost me only 50 cents…I was shocked!

Seeing the men across the table, I did what I do in every other situation where there are people, I started a conversation in English hoping that the others speak English. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I could understand the large gentleman quite well. I asked them how long they were staying, and the big guy said he’d been here for 3 years and probably would be staying a bit longer. The smaller guy also was there for an extended stay. Next question: What do you do? The big guy, whose name I learned was Ivan, said that he was a regional manager for a company named Datacraft, which is a software development company partnered with Cisco sytems in the U.S.. Yet another sign of the Indian IT and technology boom. He’s a business and marketing guy. The other guy, whose name is Patma, works for Tata motors. Tata basically deals with everything from salt to motors. The fact of the matter is that Ivan and I are now really good friends based on that first conversation. We talked all about the stock markets, Indian companies, market cap, blah blah, finance, blah. We make a good pair. After our conversation, I hurried back up the stairs to my room, because I knew that Raghavendra, my contact in Chennai, would be back for me.

It was my first rickshaw ride and I was pumped! Raghavendra, my contact in Chennai, had flagged down one of these motorized yellow buggys with three golf cart wheels, bike handlebars for steering, and a very rickety bench in the back. He had agreed on a price of 120 rupees. Barely had my butt hit the vinyl bench before the barefooted driver pulled an emergency brake looking lever in the floor, sparking a throaty dirt-bike noise from the engine of the vehicle. We were off! First of all, I’m just completely confused by this driving on the left hand side of the road thing, but if that’s not enough, then the people crossing four lanes of traffic, sudden stops, impetuous u-turns, and honking certainly pushed my mind into boggledom. I looked at my knuckles, the capillary action turning them white as I clenched the thin, rusted bar in front of me. I didn’t loose my grip.

I eyed the now sun-bathed and bustling shops on the street, most of them in Hindi, but some throwing in some English words. Most of the signs are dingy pixilated with a worn, pastel look to them. There were people lying, sitting, kneeling, standing, etc., etc.. Some were cooking dosas on their wooden carts with bike wheels, others lentil soup (dal) with chapatti (a bread). There was no sign of hygiene amongst the dirt and trash, but they didn’t seem to care. There were vendors of every kind—electronics, baked goods, lime sodas, freshly pressed sugarcane drinks, a neon sign advertising insurance every now and again. The heat and the humidity seemed to temper as the breeze swept across me.

I felt like a 19th century British explorer making my way to an archaeological dig or something. I could just imagine having to loosen my belted coat and wipe the sweat just below my pith helmet. My khaki pants were all a jumble and sticking to my legs, and my mustache was way too much facial hair for the heat.

“Come!” I heard amidst the daydream. Raghavendra was paying the man the agreed upon 120 rupees ($2.40) for our half-hour ride. We were parked in front of a gigantic white building sporting impressive front gates, mustached guards, and groves of palm trees. The sign on top said Le Meridien Hotel. ‘Yup, that’s the one,” I thought to myself. Raghavendra and I strolled around the asphalt cul-de-sac as our rickshaw melded into the line of traffic, not having bothered to look both ways before diving in. We made our way up the broad marble steps and then were greeted with a hello and a smile from an Indian guard with a large, 19th century British mustache dressed in a green uniform, boots, and a pith helmet…coincidence? I think not. As the guard opened the door, I just looked up and gazed. “Damnit, I’m such a tourist,” I thought in disgust. Nonetheless, I was intrigued by the dome ceiling and star-shaped skylights. My gaze shifted downward and I observed a large foyer with Indian carpets, fine wooden furniture, and glass tables, servants bustling to and fro. It was just too much.

We approached the front desk and asked for the managing director. The kind clerk pointed in a direction and told us to ascend the stairs. “One step at a time,” I thought in a practiced manner. “Smile and say thank you, you dope,” I chided myself.

“Thank you,” I said with a large grin on my face.

Raghavendra and I made our way up the stairs and then approached a door labeled “Managing Director.” We walked in. There was a large leather sofa and a glass stand with six different newspapers on it. I could see workers behind a glass wall in front of me typing away on their computers. A man came out and asked us if we’d like coffee, tea, or water. “Water!” I bursted out. I hadn’t had any water since dinner on my Lufthansa flight the night before. I calmly gulped the water down and reached for a copy of The Hindu, India’s National Newspaper, established 1878. The front was slathered with IT news. I got through about half an article, when the door to the managing director’s office opened and a thin Indian man with gold-rimmed specs emerged. He was well mannered and spoke better English than I was used to hearing. A copy of my resume and a cover letter that I’d written a year ago lay across his desk. “Good old Arvind!,” I thought to myself.

The man said, “so, tell me about your project, it sounds very interesting.” So I did. Then he said, “I hear you’re a musician.” He had certainly read my resume and maybe talked to Arvind. I told him that, yes I was a singer and I was really excited to visit with the Indian culture. I also offered up that I might sign up for Indian dance classes, trying to get a laugh or a smile out of him. It worked. We talked at ease about some Chennai music festivals and then I asked him about himself. He deferred back to me, spurring conversation for a moment longer. Then he said, “well, we have three restaurants, one is continental fare, one Indian fine dining, and one a seafood restaurant. Which one would you like?”

“Jackpot!” I thought. Raghavendra and I shared a glance. I didn’t even hesitate…”The Indian fine dining,” I said assuredly.

“Good,” he said. And then he typed some number into the phone and said something in Hindi. Two minutes later, the manager of the restaurants and the head chef of the Indian restaurant were there shaking my hand in greeting. In short, they told me that I could come and go as I please and they’re huge staff would be happy to have me and answer my questions. Then they asked how long I was staying.

“One month and fifteen days,” I told them, which was fine with them I suppose because they just nodded. All three of the men handed me their business cards and wrote down their personal cell numbers. They each said that if I need anything to give them a call. I could start when I wanted.

My first day in India

November 23, 2009; 8 pm:

The morning of November 21 at 9:30, I awoke to a knock at the door. I was greeted with a smaller guy who looked at me and said, “brefa,” which I took to mean breakfast. Just to make sure, he made the motion of eating. I told him I’d be right down…in so many charades. I quickly slapped on a pair of jeans and bustled down the narrow stairway to the dining room. There was a single table with about 6 place settings. There were two men sitting at the table, one very large and jolly looking with a pair of rectangular specs sitting on his face, the second one a smaller guy wearing a red and black nylon jersey. One of the servers came up to me and said, “omele?” I of course agreed to that, because it sounded a lot like the familiar English word ‘omelette.’ He brought me out a delicious milky and sugary coffee, no doubt the famous Chennai filtered coffee that I’d read about, followed by a plate sized omelette with onions and jalapenos in it with 5 pieces of white toast on the side. Do they think I’m American or something? Haha. I gladly accepted and got to work quickly, but soon noticed that they were bringing Indian food to the other men across the table, so I put on my “I’m really curious” look and pointed at what they had. The server’s charades indicated that he understood that I wanted some of the Indian food also, which he quickly produced. The food consisted of a bowl of lentil soup made with red chillies, parsley, basil, anise, and some other spices, rice pancakes (dosas), and some other paste that was just as spicy as everything else I was eating that morning. I found out later that all of that food cost me only 50 cents…I was shocked!

Seeing the men across the table, I did what I do in every other situation where there are people, I started a conversation in English hoping that the others speak English. I was pleasantly surprised to find that I could understand the large gentleman quite well. I asked them how long they were staying, and the big guy said he’d been here for 3 years and probably would be staying a bit longer. The smaller guy also was there for an extended stay. Next question: What do you do? The big guy, whose name I learned was Ivan, said that he was a regional manager for a company named TCS, which is a software development company partnered with Cisco sytems in the U.S.. Yet another sign of the Indian IT and technology boom. He’s a business and marketing guy. The other guy, whose name is Patma, works for Tata motors. Tata basically deals with everything from salt to motors. The fact of the matter is that Ivan and I are now really good friends based on that first conversation. We talked all about the stock markets, Indian companies, market cap, blah blah, finance, blah. We make a good pair. After our conversation, I hurried back up the stairs to my room, because I knew that Raghavendra, my contact in Chennai, would be back for me.

It was my first rickshaw ride and I was pumped! Raghavendra, my contact in Chennai, had flagged down one of these motorized yellow buggys with three golf cart wheels, bike handlebars for steering, and a very rickety bench in the back. He had agreed on a price of 120 rupees. Barely had my butt hit the vinyl bench before the barefooted driver pulled an emergency brake looking lever in the floor, sparking a throaty dirt-bike noise from the engine of the vehicle. We were off! First of all, I’m just completely confused by this driving on the left hand side of the road thing, but if that’s not enough, then the people crossing four lanes of traffic, sudden stops, impetuous u-turns, and honking certainly pushed my mind into boggledom. I looked at my knuckles, the capillary action turning them white as I clenched the thin, rusted bar in front of me. I didn’t loose my grip.

I eyed the now sun-bathed and bustling shops on the street, most of them in Hindi, but some throwing in some English words. Most of the signs are dingy pixilated with a worn, pastel look to them. There were people lying, sitting, kneeling, standing, etc., etc.. Some were cooking dosas on their wooden carts with bike wheels, others lentil soup (dal) with chapatti (a bread). There was no sign of hygiene amongst the dirt and trash, but they didn’t seem to care. There were vendors of every kind—electronics, baked goods, lime sodas, freshly pressed sugarcane drinks, a neon sign advertising insurance every now and again. The heat and the humidity seemed to temper as the breeze swept across me.

I felt like a 19th century British explorer making my way to an archaeological dig or something. I could just imagine having to loosen my belted coat and wipe the sweat just below my pith helmet. My khaki pants were all a jumble and sticking to my legs, and my mustache was way too much facial hair for the heat.

“Come!” I heard amidst the daydream. Raghavendra was paying the man the agreed upon 120 rupees ($2.40) for our half-hour ride. We were parked in front of a gigantic white building sporting impressive front gates, mustached guards, and groves of palm trees. The sign on top said Le Meridien Hotel. ‘Yup, that’s the one,” I thought to myself. Raghavendra and I strolled around the asphalt cul-de-sac as our rickshaw melded into the line of traffic, not having bothered to look both ways before diving in. We made our way up the broad marble steps and then were greeted with a hello and a smile from an Indian guard with a large, 19th century British mustache dressed in a green uniform, boots, and a pith helmet…coincidence? I think not. As the guard opened the door, I just looked up and gazed. “Damnit, I’m such a tourist,” I thought in disgust. Nonetheless, I was intrigued by the dome ceiling and star-shaped skylights. My gaze shifted downward and I observed a large foyer with Indian carpets, fine wooden furniture, and glass tables, servants bustling to and fro. It was just too much.

We approached the front desk and asked for the managing director. The kind clerk pointed in a direction and told us to ascend the stairs. “One step at a time,” I thought in a practiced manner. “Smile and say thank you, you dope,” I chided myself.

“Thank you,” I said with a large grin on my face.

Raghavendra and I made our way up the stairs and then approached a door labeled “Managing Director.” We walked in. There was a large leather sofa and a glass stand with six different newspapers on it. I could see workers behind a glass wall in front of me typing away on their computers. A man came out and asked us if we’d like coffee, tea, or water. “Water!” I bursted out. I hadn’t had any water since dinner on my Lufthansa flight the night before. I calmly gulped the water down and reached for a copy of The Hindu, India’s National Newspaper, established 1878. The front was slathered with IT news. I got through about half an article, when the door to the managing director’s office opened and a thin Indian man with gold-rimmed specs emerged. He was well mannered and spoke better English than I was used to hearing. A copy of my resume and a cover letter that I’d written a year ago lay across his desk. “Good old Arvind!,” I thought to myself.

The man said, “so, tell me about your project, it sounds very interesting.” So I did. Then he said, “I hear you’re a musician.” He had certainly read my resume and maybe talked to Arvind. I told him that, yes I was a singer and I was really excited to visit with the Indian culture. I also offered up that I might sign up for Indian dance classes, trying to get a laugh or a smile out of him. It worked. We talked at ease about some Chennai music festivals and then I asked him about himself. He deferred back to me, spurring conversation for a moment longer. Then he said, “well, we have three restaurants, one is continental fare, one Indian fine dining, and one a seafood restaurant. Which one would you like?”

“Jackpot!” I thought. Raghavendra and I shared a glance. I didn’t even hesitate…”The Indian fine dining,” I said assuredly.

“Good,” he said. And then he typed some number into the phone and said something in Hindi. Two minutes later, the manager of the restaurants and the head chef of the Indian restaurant were there shaking my hand in greeting. In short, they told me that I could come and go as I please and they’re huge staff would be happy to have me and answer my questions. Then they asked how long I was staying.

“One month and fifteen days,” I told them, which was fine with them I suppose because they just nodded. All three of the men handed me their business cards and wrote down their personal cell numbers. They each said that if I need anything to give them a call. I could start when I wanted.

Breaking down curry powders

As you may know, curry powders are easily available at almost any supermarket given the piqued interest in Indian cuisine, but I bet you can't guess what the difference is between these curry powders and the "curry powders" used in traditional Indian cookery. So let's take a look.

Most curry powders that you buy at the store come with a blend of spices that go something like this: dried coriander seeds, red chillies, turmeric, cinnamon, cardamoms, cloves, black pepper, cumin seeds and poppy seeds (sometimes fenugreek and garlic). This is all well and good and it certainly includes many of the spices that are used in Indian cuisine; however, it just doesn't do it justice. First of all, these powders can only be kept on a shelf for a matter of weeks before they start to lose their piquancy. Second, curry powder producers tend to use cheap spices in order to lower the price of production, which most western users won't be able to tell, because they've never been to India or had true Indian cuisine. Third, they completely omit or use very little nutmeg and mace due to their high costs. These spices are pivotal to bringing out flavors.

If you really want to go traditional, then poppy would not even be used. This spice was first used in the mid-1800s when the British mandated the growing of poppy fields in the Northeastern state of Bengal in order to participate in highly-profitable trade with the western world and China. As a result of this mandate, the fields that traditionally grew the fruits and veggies for the Bengali cuisine were replaced by poppy plants. With so much of it being produced, the people of Bengal eventually found a way to use it in food. Thus, this spice has only existed in the cuisine for about 150 years.

So, you might ask, what are the traditional spices used in an Indian "curry powder." To that I would say, it's not easy, because the cuisine of India varies far and wide, just as the culture and language do. But here are some standards:



******Garam Masala (A North Indian curry mixture)
This mixture consists of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, black cumin seeds, nutmeg and mace. Depending on your specific taste preferences, you can change the proportions.

Start by adding equal parts cloves and black cumin seeds. Then, add equal parts cinnamon and cardamom seeds (the little black ones inside the cardamom shell), each of them being 3x as much as the cloves and black cumin seeds (for instance 1/4 ounce cloves and black cumin seeds would mean you need to add 3/4 ounce cinnamon and cardamom). Next, add a good pinch of nutmeg and mace. Grind all of them in with a mortar and pestle or coffee grinder, pass through a fine sieve and then store in an airtight container. Use within a couple of weeks for best taste.





*****Variation on Garam Masala used by Kashmiri chefs (Kashmir is the northernmost state in India)

This mixture includes black cumin seeds, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, mace, black pepper, and nutmeg.

Add equal parts black cumin seeds, cinnamon, cloves, and black pepper. Then, add an amount of cardamom that is 4x as much as you used for the first spices listed. Last, add 1/2 as much mace and nutmeg as you used for the first spices listed. Grind, sieve, and store.

*****Madras Rasam or sambhar powder (from Chennai, formerly called Madras)

This mixture is from down south. It includes split black beans (a type of lentil/bean), white cumin seeds, coriander seeds, black pepper, and fenugreek seeds.

This one is a bit different, as you have to fry each of the ingredients separately before mixing, grinding, and storing.

Add equal parts split black beans, white cumin seeds, and coriander seeds. Then, add 1/2 as much black pepper as you used for the first spices listed. Last, add 1/4 as much fenugreek seeds as you used for the first spices listed. Grind and store.

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These recipes are quick fixes for producing the flavors that you will find in Indian cuisine. Once you have mastered (which I haven't yet, by the way) the art of adding spices individually to a dish, then you can perfect your recipes by bringing out and suppressing certain tastes.

Indian Cookery

I have started my internship at Le Meridien Hotel in Chennai, India and I've purchased several books on Indian Cuisine, so we're going to begin learning Indian cuisine from this point forward!