Elephant Festivals, The Lost Draw String Bag and a Visit to Slum Dog Millionaire Country

Ganpatty-The Elephant Festival

            The neighborhood where I live is pretty calm. During the day, you hear the regular shrieking horns and the shrill calls of hawkers peddling their goods and services. But by night, the honking reduces to a hush, the young children scuttling to school are tucked away in bed and neighborhood dwellers have retreated to the comforts of their apartments.

One of the many Ganesh Idols Throughout Mumbai this week

 

A Ganesh made out of flowers near the Matunga Flower Market

            That hasn’t been the case the past week. Every night, my neighborhood has turned into an outdoor street festival as Mumbai and the state of Maharashtra celebrate the Ganpati festival. Last week, a large flatbed truck was outside our hostel carrying a 10 foot wall of its speakers on its back. Behind the truck, a group of teenagers and adults danced to Punjabi pop songs. Later that night on a main street about 100 feet from my hostel, another group of festival goers danced to a drum line and threw red dye on each other.  On Sunday, thousands of people congregated at my favorite park to cast off their Ganesh idols into the ocean, a custom done after 1, 5 or 10 days of the festival. Taxis were crammed with children chanting “Ganpati” and clutching Ganesh idols. Limbs dangled from small delivery trucks as the trucks plodded their way to the park in the traffic jam. The main field of the park, usually a haven for soccer and cricket players, became a makeshift parking lot for taxis and cars. 

Have you ever seen a flatbed truck with a 10 foot high wall of speakers?

            The festival celebrates the birthday of Lord Ganesh, the god with an elephant head and human body. The festival was a purely family affair until the 1890s, when Lokmanya Tilak, an early Indian freedom fighter, made the holiday a public affair in hopes of promoting greater unity in Indian society.

Babba’s Bag

Baba and his exclusive B'nai Jeshurun drawstring bag

All I wanted was to look at a gorge in silence for 10 minutes. I was in a sour mood after vendors trying to sell me fake minerals and Indian tourists asking me to take a photo with them as if I were their favorite Bollywood actor.

            For five minutes I had the peace I wanted. I looked out onto the gorge, admiring its waterfall, and thinking about the Buddhist monks who had built the Ajanta caves next to the gorge about a thousand years ago. It was turning into one of those “Wow, I am so glad I came to India moments to study abroad.” Then Baba came.

            “Hey will you come to my village? It won’t cost any money,” he said with an impish smile, and gentle, innocent voice. He was a student at a local college and was returning from getting a haircut. He lived in a village on top of the gorge about a 10 minute walk from the gorge. 

            “I’m fine. I need to leave soon,” I quickly responded. I shifted my eyes back to the gorge to indicate to Baba I was not interested in visiting his village.

            “I promise no money involved.” 

            “I’m sorry I’m not interested.”

            Ten minutes later, I was swimming with Baba and little kids from his village in their local swimming hole. T

            “This is every traveler’s dream to go and see how locals actually live,” I thought as I walked past the shanties in Baba’s village.

            Every where I walked in the village, people called me “gora”, a word for white person. Baba said I was the first white person to ever visit their village.

            After a refreshing swim, Baba and I headed back to the gorge overlooking Ajanta. We spoke of how we would stay in touch and wished each other look in the future. Then Baba popped the question.

            “So, we will never see each other again, do you have a gift for me?”

            “No, I don’t have a gift for you.”

            “But I showed you my village. Please give me a gift so I can remember you.”

            “What do you want?”

            “Your shoes,” he said pointing at my sandals.

            I was shocked. Baba was supposed to be proof that there were strangers at Ajanta actually interested in getting to know me, that I was not just some potential customer. Swimming with the kids, walking around his village,  was it a piece of rehearsed theater, or a gesture of kindness?

            “No you can not have my sandals. Do you want 500 rupees?” I snapped back, annoyed with Baba’s request.

            “I do not want money,” he said.

            I shuffled through my bag looking for something to give to Baba. I finally settled on a draw string bag with my synagogue’s logo.

            “Will this bag do?”

            “Yes, thank you. I will remember you forever Gabriel,” he said.

            As I walked back to the gorge, Baba put his new bag on his over his shoulders. The empty bag gently fluttered in the pleasant breeze. Baba had a new bag to show off to his fellow villagers. I had a cracked confidence and a strong desire for a cold drink to wash down the taste of confusion Babba left with me.   

Village Boys cooling off

Cowabunga! I'm the fair skin blob in the background.

Dharavi-Slum Dog Millionaire Country

            Dharavi is famous around the world, because it is the slum where Slum Dog Millionaire is set.  Today I toured Dharavi with my advisor Smriti and the other international students and saw where 1 million of Mumbai’s residents live. It is the second largest slum in the world. Dharavi is referred to by its residents as the heart of Mumbai for a few reasons. It is situated in a prime location between the suburbs of Mahim and Sion and not terribly far from South Mumbai. Additionally, when seen from above it loosely resembles a heart shape.

            There are three distinct areas of Dharavi. There is an industrial section filled with plastic factories. The owners of the plastic factories do not live in the slum. They live out in the suburbs and according to our tour guide, drive around in fancy cars and look your typical upper class Indian. The factory workers though, are migrants from the states of Gujrat, Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh who toil for 10 hours a day in factories without wearing protective gear for a hefty salary of 150 rupees (about 3 dollars).  Scrap pickers pick up plastic from around the city and lug eight feet long sacks of plastic bag to the Dharavi on their heads. The plastic is then sorted, crushed and finally processed and then sold off to companies who use the material in materials such as plastic chairs and computer parts.

            The second area is a commercial district with a market and the third area is residential. Some parts of the slum were wide open and comfortable. Sun flooded in, children flitted around staring at different Ganpattis in between asking us for money, and bright pastel colored apartments dotted the landscape. But in other areas, the slum was narrow and dark. If you didn’t watch your head, you would have been hit by a low hanging beam and potentially lost your way in the slum’s labyrinth. 

Ajanta and Ellora Caves

I visited the Ajanta and Ellora Caves near Aurungabad a few backs. Ajanta is a series of Buddhist caves from about 1000 years ago. Ellora has Buddhist, Jain and Hindu caves. 

Ellora Caves

Ellora Caves

Kailasa Temple, Ellora Caves

Panaromic Shot of the Ajanta Caves

Sleeping Buddha at the Ajanta Caves

Cave Painting at Ajanta

 

           

Pune, Bombay's Great Rains and The Deadhead's Love of a random Ohio Governor

Arvind, Gaurav, Naval and me after enjoying some milkshakes

A Visit to Pune

            Before I discuss anything else, I must thank Anand Gupta  and his family for being fantastic hosts during my visit to Pune. In the midst of preparing for an engagement party (Anand’s older sister got engaged last week) and hosting a number of out of town guests, they made sure I was well fed and rested, tried teaching me Hindi and provided excellent advice for my future travels in India.

            Spending a few days with an Indian family reinforced my belief that underneath the surface differences between cultures such as language, dress and geography humans have the same fundamental tendencies. Anand’s mother and aunts spoke to me in Hindi hoping I would decipher the meaning of the sentence, the same way my grandfather hopes I will understand his requests in Yiddish. His grandfather sat quietly among his chattering children and grandchildren, with the same calm smile and watchful eye my grandmother has during large family gatherings. Like any good family gathering, the engagement party festivities went late into the night.  Me, Anand, his cousin and uncles finally plopped down on mattresses in his living room at about 1:00 a.m. 

After the party, Anand, his sister and his cousins did the ceremonies of Raksha Bandhan, because Anand was in the United States when the festival happened.

Anand's grandfather, Anand and his aunt before the party

Anand's sister wraps a bracelet around his arm as part of marking the Raksha Bandhan Festival

           Another highlight of the trip was meeting up Arvind, Gaurav and Naval, three friends who I met when I came here in December and the first picture of the post. Watch out for all of them. They are all impressive guys who will make an impact in their respective fields of linguistics (Arvind), medicine and nonprofits (Naval) and business and politics (Gaurav).

     

 Bombay's Great Rains

           

A public bus floats in a flooded street as walkers wade across the road

  

               I was warned of Bombay’s great rains. Minutes after I landed in Bombay, my advisor’s husband told me that during monsoon season the rains can be so heavy that people have to wade through the streets in waist high water. I hoped that would never happen to me.

            When I arrived at school this afternoon, it was raining steadily. By the time I left, it was pouring. I planned to wait out the storm and hitch a ride with a friend from the hostel. But another friend convinced me to walk home with him.

            Within two minutes, our feet were drenched in ankle deep puddles. Cars sprayed water as they drove past our school. Two blocks away from our school, the entrance to a train station was submerged under water. The street leading to my school, usually ruled by flower hawkers, fruit sellers, clothing vendors, and howling cars and motorcycles, was now the domain of walkers fleeing from the rain. The journey had a romantic charm. The pavement of the street, under a constant assault from tires and feet, could renew itself in the warm rain.  

Soldiering through the flooded streets

            The second half of the journey was Mumbai at its best-a symphony of chaos. When we hit the halfway mark, we entered a stretch where water was waist high. As scores of commuters trudged through the brown water, the scent of trash and storm water wafted through the air. As we waded down the sidewalks, we passed waterlogged city buses and taxis and people crossing the water filled streets to escape to areas with lower water levels. Eventually I crossed the street onto a bridge closed to traffic. On one side, the bridge was filled with walkers, while the other was clogged with buses, trucks and cars headed toward South Bombay. Drivers knew they were going nowhere and stood outside their cars underneath umbrellas, enjoying a moment of calm and relative stillness in city marked by constant struggle and noise. 

Nice and wet after a walk through the flooded streets

My shoes aren't usually this dark.

            I never understood Indians fascination with the monsoon rains until today. For me, the monsoon cut my summer short and was the source of too many grey days in an already disorienting and challenging environment. But as I walked through the water, climbed over street barriers and cleaned off in the shower, I began to understand the love of the rain. It provides a sense of relief and calm, a reason to slow down, relief for crops and a moment to be thankful for having a room, a warm meal and a home to go back to every night.

            James A. Rhode’s Biggest Fan 

            If you were to ask an average Ohioan who James A. Rhodes was, most would probably have no idea that he served four terms as a governor. The only reason I know who he was, is because LeBron James played most of his high school games at the University of Akron’s James A. Rhodes Arena and I drive on the James A. Rhodes Appalachian Highway on my way to Ohio University.

            But to my international business professor, The Deadhead, Rhodes is a rock-star. A group presented a case study about Honda’s operations in North America, specifically their manufacturing plants in Ohio. Rhodes engineered the deal during the 1970s. 

            “James A. Rhodes is the smartest cookie in the world,” he said during class today. “He went to Japan in a private jet and knocked on every businessman’s door asking if they wanted to come to Ohio. He took a cactus-infested state and said it has to be turned into a green area. He made an area with nothing and that was part of the rust belt into something.”

            Ok, he may have embellished a bit here. Cacti are not native to Ohio and Honda’s manufacturing plants have not made the state an economic heavyweight. But The Deadhead’s praise of Rhodes definitely drove home the point to the class that American states, just like states in India, are willing to lure companies to their state with generous subsidies.

            The Deadhead ended our final lecture with some final nuggets of advice, analysis and predictions about the future of the country.

            He told students who are thinking of settling in Bombay and in the state of Maharashtra to pack up now before they get settled because of the ineffective state government.

            “My advices if you want to settle here- run away.”

            India may be a country on the rise, but he predicted a rough future ahead for the women in my class.

            “Girls will always be at a disadvantage. If a guy comes back at 4 in the morning, his parents will ask questions. His father might even be proud of him. But if a girl comes back that late people will say things.”

            He concluded by returning to a theme he addressed in one of our first lectures, Indian culture’s strong family bonds and children’s lifelong attachment to their parents.

            “We aren’t independent. We stick with our parents all our lives and we’re proud of it. My father didn’t tell me to f*** off at 18. He paid for my college, but I had to pay for MBA. We might talk about how progressive we are but if you go home and say I got a job and I’m moving in with my live in girlfriend....” He stopped talking and mimicked getting slapped.

            The Deadhead’s lectures were some of my favorite classes. To me they were more of anthropology class, Anthropology 200-Introduction to Indian Culture, than a business class. My mind trailed off when he got into the minutiae of negotiating an export deal. I was captivated though when he launched into a sermon about his encounters with the Russian mob or how he felt uncomfortable rearing his children in Germany. It provided one of the most direct windows into the thought process and cultural background of Indians that I have gotten here.  

Random pictures

Hanging out at the Global Pagoda, a replica of a Buddhist shrine in Burma. The Pagoda is in the northern suburbs of Mumbai

Ringing the Bell at The Global Pagoda

Hostelite Rishab leads a late night study session before an accounting exam

 

Rishab's chalkboard. It's normally a dresser

An elephant walking down the street in Pune

Mumbai Gets Smashed, "This is India", Bombay Traffic, and a visit to the Kalwa Slum

Mumbai Gets Smashed

A team competes in a Dahi Handi as part of the Janmashtami festival

            Last Friday, groups of men and women, hung off the sides of pickup trucks and cruised on motorcycles looking to get smashed. They had no intention of sipping suds of alcohol. They were on a quest to smash pots as part of the Janmashtami festival. The Janmashtami festival celebrates the birth of Lord Krishna, a major Hindu god.

            One of the most elaborate parts of the festival is the “dahi handi” ceremony. In the Dahi Handi ceremony govinda mandals, groups of about 20-30 men, create a human pyramid in order to smash a pot hanging from a wire. Over the years, the stakes of the dahi handi ceremonies have been raised with the introduction of major cash prizes. Govindas usually practice for a month or two before hand with hopes of breaking as many pots around the city as possible with hopes of accumulating a handsome prize.

            We took a tour of the city that day and saw several dahi handis. Music thumped from speakers, and the crowd erupted when the person at the top of the ladder, usually a boy around 10 years old, smashed the pot and was showered with a pinkish dye. After participating in the dahi, teams would pile into pickup trucks for a joy ride until they reached their next destination. 

The ascent begins

Building the foundation

 

Almost There

So close yet, so far

Victory!

Enjoying a Gatorade Bath and a post victory bus ride

            There were some injuries involved in these acrobatics. Two people died and 225 were injured as a result of falls or other injuries such as coming in contact with electrical wires.

“This is India”

            

The source of Indianized polka music I heard in my neighborhood last Wednesday

       Everyday, I notice something, that from the eyes of a white, Jewish suburbanite is seen as radically foreign.  One day while ordering a sandwich at Subway a pack of 20-30 Muslim men drove by the store holding Muslim flags (which may or may not have been related to riots that had taken place at a major train station that day). This week on my walk home from school, a street performer paraded up and down the street with a thick piece of rope. Each time he hit himself, a loud “thwack” thundered through the air. On Wednesday, at 9:30 at night, a local group that had done well in the dandi handi ceremonies paraded through the street next to my hostel, celebrating their accomplishments dancing to what sounded like Indianized polka music.

            But there are certain things that can be explained with a simple phrase: “This Is India.”

             Last Friday at 1 a.m. a pack of 30 honking motorcycles rolled through my neighborhood, the passengers and drivers hollering at the top of their lungs. I watched the motor rally from the balcony of my hostel. I asked two Indian guys what the occasion was. Was the motorcade related to Janmashtami? Was it just a rowdy group of dudes who were taking a joy ride through town? The answer: “This is India.”

            I was supposed to take an economics exam last Saturday. I spent the night going over my cost curves and memorizing theories. After an eventful taxi ride, a 10 minute ride turned into a 30 minute odyssey because the cab driver had no idea where our intended destination was, I finally arrived at school to a locked room. The international education coordinator and I later learned that the exam had been cancelled for student council elections. For whatever reason, this had not been put on the school’s website, though they preach the importance of checking the schedule daily to ensure mix-ups like this do not happen. When I asked my adviser why things like this happen, at of all places a school specializing in management education, her answer was, “This is India.”

            Later that night at the main railroad station a woman told my friends and I to make sure we protected our wallets, cellphones and keys on our journey to the Matheran Hill Station. Her explanation for her advice: “This is f****** India.”

            A Visit to Kalwa

            About 93 million people live in slums in India. It has been estimated that 60 percent of Mumbai’s residents live in slums. About two weeks ago, my room mate Peter and I spent a few hours with members of the Gabriel Project Mumbai to learn about life in Kalwa, a slum in the northern suburb of Thane.

            The Gabriel Project is a new nonprofit that just launched in June. It is a Jewish nonprofit focused on eradicating hunger and illiteracy in Kalwa. Its volunteers prepare hot lunches for students at a local after school program and teach English and other skills in the classroom where the meals they prepare are served.

            The moment we got off the train we knew we were in a slum. Shanties practically come up to the train tracks and from the bridge of the train station, you can see a long stretch of corrugated roof homes. Peter and I enjoyed getting to know Gabriel Project volunteers and interacting with the warm and friendly residents of Kalwa. I am writing an article about the Gabriel Project which will hopefully be published within the coming weeks in New Voices  magazine.  

Random Photos

 

Enjoying the view at Malang Point at the Matheran Hill Station

Malang Point, Matheran Hill Station

Echo Point, Matheran Hill Station

About to go on the zipline for 300 rupees. A little less than $5.

Into the fog.

Drenched and Muddy From My Zip Line Into Echo Point

A game of Cricket at Juhu Beach.

Beach goers look at the skyline at Juhu Beach. Juhu is known as being the playground for Bollywood actors and actresses.

Playing some good old fashioned horseshoes at Juhu Beach

Bombay Traffic

Traffic rules which for the most part are never followed

 

As an ode to Jimi Hendrix and Mumbai's terrible traffic, I made a pardoy to his classic song "Crosstown Traffic." 

The lyrics are below. They'll make sense if you listen to the video and read along with the lyrics I wrote. Its an inspired by  the wonderful taxi drivers and traffic patterns of the city. 

"Bombay Traffic"

I jump in front of your cab when I,

Know all the time that,

Ten minutes away, is where you won't drive.

You tell me it’s alright, you don’t mind me waiting in the rain,

You say you just tell me to wait for another ride

You’re just like Bombay traffic

So hard to get through to you

Bombay traffic

I don’t need to wait in you

Bombay traffic

All you do is slow me down

And I’m tryin to get on the other side of the town

You’re not the only soul who’s accused of almost killing an innocent son

Faded paint all across your back

I can see you had your fun

But bhai can’t I don’t see your signals turn from left to right

And with you I can see a Bombay traffic jam ahead

You’re just like Bombay traffic

So hard to get through to you

Bombay traffic

I don’t need to wait in you

Bombay traffic

All you do is slow me down

And I’m tryin to get on the side of the town

 

The Consul's Visit, Dirty Clean Laundry, Photos Galore, Batman in Mumbai and Shabbat at Chabad

Chilling at the Kandheri Caves- Hop to the Photo Montage for more pictures from the caves and other places around Mumbai

The Consul’s Visit

U.S. Consul General, Peter Haas, photo courtesy of http://mumbai.usconsulate.gov/consul_general.html

            Last Thursday, my eyes lingered on the following day’s lecture schedule when I noticed the head of the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai, Peter Haas, was scheduled to give a special guest lecture. An accounting quiz, finalizing my lecture schedule made for a long, exhausting week. The prospect of listening to an American accent and hearing American diplomatic jargon for an hour had me giddy.

            The auditorium full of students and faculty treated the Consul as if he were Barack Obama. Everyone stood when he entered the room and remained standing until he took his seat. No one took up the consul’s offer to take off their sport coats during his speech. Every questioner, addressed him as “sir”, the same way students address professors and authority figures. 

             The conversation touched on everything from how the United States and India are working together to improve the status of women in India and security in the Indian Ocean, an area of rising geopolitical importance (check out Robert Kaplan’s Monsoon for more information about the role of India in Indian Ocean geopolitics). Indian students were particularly interested in Haas’s advice on how to improve India (according to Haas, India needs to focus on fighting corruption, make its economy more friendly to business expansion and make education more widely accessible) and why so many B-1 business visas are rejected. The question was asked with a hint of snark and elicited a strong response from Haas.

            “It’s not something we’re ashamed of,” Haas said about rejecting B-1 visas. He explained that many Indian companies have misused the B-1 visa over the past few years, prompting the state department to be more stringent in granting visas.

            My favorite part was when Haas answered my question about the U.S.’s relationships with China and India. At the moment, the U.S. is more interested in China because its GDP is three times larger than India’s and it has a better manufacturing infrastructure he said.  But that could change in the future if India, the world’s largest democracy, morphs into an economic behemoth, freeing the U.S. from having to rely on a communist government that routinely silences its citizens in hopes of stifling pangs for democracy and freedom.

            “The one we watch more closely now is China,” Haas said. “But in the future we hope to rely more on India.’

U.S. Consul General Peter Haas opening an umbrella, a gift from my school, to use during monsoon season

Dirty Clean Laundry

The Dhobi Ghat: Valley of Fresh Laundry

           
       I have a new appreciation for washing machines and dryers after having lived here for a month. At the hostel we air dry our clothes on racks and on clothes lines in our rooms. For washing their clothes, some Mumbaikars send their clothes to the Dhobi Ghat, a large outdoor laundry facility near the Mahalaxmi Rail Station. A series of laundry trough canals connects allows the Dhobi Ghats residents to clean thousands of clothing articles a day. Beneath the glint of South Mumbai’s skyscrapers, freshly laundered clothes flutter lazily through the air in this valley of clothes lines and laundry basins. 

We dry laundry the good old fashioned way at my hostel

Taking down laundry in the Dhobi Ghat

            Initially I did not end up at the Dhobi Ghat observation point. I ended up on what I think was the actual path that led to the Dhobi Ghat. Hawkers lined the streets offering neighborhood dwellers fresh eels still jumping in the sales container, dead fish with flies hovering around their heads and pineapple cut in star shaped patterns (which legitimately looked good). When  I first arrived, I left this street fairly quickly. I did not want to mess around with foul smelling fish. But I went back after looking at the laundry cleaning process. I wanted to take a better look at the dead fish. I needed to figure out if people actually ate those eels and try the star shaped pineapple. In the Dhobi Ghat, no one bothered me (or at least no one had the courage or chutzpah to when I was there). It was a chance to walk around for a little bit and observe with a feeling of invisibility. A way to tell myself that not every eye ball was scanning my facial features and trying to guess which country I came from. It was a brief period of time to reflect and observe in silence.      

Nothing like a bath in Dhobi Ghat.

 Photo Montage 

Getting my zen on at the Kandheri Caves at Sanjay Gandhi National Park

Chilling with a gigantic Buddha at the Kandheri Caves, Sanjay Gandhi National Park

Tourists take a break from the caves to refresh in random pools of water at the Kandheri Caves

A local neighborhood group practices a routine for the upcoming Janmashtmi Festival, which honors Hindu god Lord Krishna

Dabbawallas, who deliver food to men and women at work, load up their bicycles

A hostelite, Animesh, shows off bracelets he received from his cousins for the Raksha Bandhan festival

Roommate Peter shows off his Raksha Bandhan bling

A spider at the Kandheri Caves

Hanging out at the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sanrahalaya, aka the Prince of Wales Museum, the home of many artifacts from all over India

Batman in Mumbai

            I finally saw The Dark Knight Rises this week after many failed attempts. I enjoyed watching Christian Bale kick ass and listening to Bane’s voice, which sounded like a deep Barney the Dinosaur voice mixed with a smooth British baritone accent. But when gun shots first littered the screen, I flinched. It’s something I do during movies, but this time it was not out of my instinctual reaction to loud noises. It was out of fear. The image of James Holmes’ and his frizzy red hair bobbing in his court room chair played in my head. I snuck looks  at the theater entrance, to ensure no suspicious onlookers arrived during the film.

            It was a silly thought to have. I watched the movie at an upscale mall with a high level of security. You have to pass through at least two security checkpoints to enter the complex. Additionally, guns are difficult to obtain in India. Perhaps my discomfort during the movie was not a fear that a gunman would enter the theater, but my way of coping with a national tragedy while being thousands of miles from home. Ten minutes of intermission and a few swigs of Snapple eased my fears and made for a more enjoyable second half of Batman. But for me and thousands of others, James Holmes has tainted my memories of the Dark Knight.

Shabbat at Chabad

            After three weeks of eating a steady diet of chappati, daal, rice and other Indian dishes I was craving challah, matzo ball soup and the other staples of a hearty shabbas meal. Thanks to my lovely mother, who worked her connections and put me in contact with Chabad of Mumbai, I have enjoyed a delightful shabbas meal at the local Chabad house the past two weeks. Due to difficulties with its previous building, it is temporarily housed in a hotel in South Mumbai with a view of the Arabian Sea.

            I spent the first few minutes of my first visit giggling as I acclimated to my surroundings. When I first arrived at the hotel, I was greeted with a warm smile from the hotel receptionist, dressed in a starched white uniform and hair tied back in a neat bun. At my hostel, I am greeted by frumpy security guards who try to cajole me into signing back into the complex. The stark differences continued when I entered Chabad’s suite. The suite has two bathrooms flanked by glass walls and a bath tub (which one of the Chabad leaders joked is never used). At the hostel, water has the tendency to seep from the base of the toilets. For a while, one of the hot water knobs routinely fell off when you turned it.

            In India I constantly hear a foreign language. It’s usually Hindi, but it could be Urdu, Gujarati, Marathi, or another language that is spoken throughout the country. But at Chabad, Hebrew was the preferred foreign language.

            A trip to a Jewish place, would not be complete without establishing some random mutual Jewish friend. It took about 5 minutes for me to discover that one of the dinner attendees was an AEPi brother of an old childhood friend.