The real Delhi Belly

The contents of my breakfast are swilling ominously around my stomach like a washing machine on the wash cycle with a pair of tackies inside. I feel decidedly sea sick in this landlocked town. I think a bout of the infamous Delhi Belly may be coming on.

The car makes it worse. The sudden accelerating and braking and the smell of petrol fumes wafting through the window as we crawl along. It's a forty minute drive to the cool, crisp sheets of my bed and the fan in my face. I don't think that I can make it.

Testing the boundaries

Living immersed in a culture other than one's own constantly challenges one's perceptions of what is socially acceptable. Sometimes something happens that is so COMPLETELY off the charts in terms of what you know that you are at a complete loss as to how to react.

Such was the case on the train to Varanasi. The eight of us were playing cards, wiling away the time until we arrived at our destination. I was absently watching the wife of the family sitting next to us. As I watched, she shifted her weight onto her right butt cheek to face our direction, lifted her left butt cheek into the air and let out a steam-train-like fart that lasted for at least five seconds and would have made even the most well practised and enthusiastic teenage boy proud.

For a good thirty seconds we stared at each other in silence, completely dumfounded that such a little lady in such a pretty sari could possibly be responsible for the noise to which we had just been subjected. After our aghast silence we all collapsed into fits of giggles not knowing how else to react.

The family looked at us a little confused as if to say "whAAAATTttt???"

Different strokes.

Varanasi

Varanasi or Benares as it has long been called is on the Ganges and considered the most auspicious place to die since expiring here offers Moksha – liberation from the otherwise eternal circle of life and death. Millions of each people each year make the pilgrammage to wash away their sins on the ghats in the Holy Mother. These people bathe, undeterred that the water of the Ganges is so heavily polluted in this area that it is classified as septic – no dissolved oxygen exists. To be considered bathable, water must contain no more than 500 faecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water. The Ganges contains 1.5 million!

OBSERVATION - We speculated that the original g-string may have been invented by the Indian men of Varanasi who bathe in these rather crude g-strings (pictured right) to preserve their modesty.

This weekend it was a group of eight of us. We were well represented with France, the Netherlands, Austria, the US and (of course) South Africa in attendance.

We fortuitously arrived on the weekend of the annual chat puja which meant that for sunset of Saturday evening and sunrise of Sunday morning women half submerged themselves in the water to pay puja to the sun. We took a rowing boat along the ghats at sunset and again at sunrise.

On Sunday morning, we were awakened long before our alarm clocks by the crackers that the children were setting off as their parents readied themselves for ceremony at sunrise along the riverside. Elodie was heard to mumble into her pillow at about 4.30am “What is this? Baghdad by night”. I think Elodie, like myself has had her fill of crackers after the madness of Diwali.

We all clambered into the boat half asleep swathed in grey tendrils of mist. The only light came from the warm glow of the candles lining the river. As dawn lightened the sky we watched in awe at the spectacle before us. All along the ghats, thousands of vibrant saris jostled up against one another in a melting pot of humanity. Drums and trumpets intermingled with prayers and the shouts of children to create a continuous wall of sound. Cupped hands faced east patiently waiting for the sun to make its appearance. As it quietly appeared over the horizon the noise crescendoed as all around us as everyone started praying

The atmosphere became more sombre as we passed Harishchandra, the burning ghat where the dead are cremated by the Doms or Untouchables. The Doms are one of the lowest castes but also conversely one of the wealthiest in Varanasi as they are the only people that are allowed to perform the cremations. Cremation here is not affordable to many people. The wood for each cremation is carefully weighed and the family of the deceased are charged accordingly. Only the rich can afford to cremate their loved ones with sandalwood, the most expensive of all the woods.

Lepers, pregnant women and children are not allowed to be cremated. They are tied to a stone and thrown to the bottom of the Ganges. Sometimes, the string holding them to the stone wears through and they rise to the surface as we realised when we saw the wrapped corpse of a pregnant women (according to our boatman) float past us.

We also had the great privilege of seeing (to Elodie’s delight) none other than the inimitable Amitabh Bach-Chan. Amitabh is perhaps one of the greatest Bollywood actors and is revered across India. If I had to compare him to anyone it would probably be Sean Connery but there really is no adequate equivalent in the western culture who holds the same demi-god status. He is making a movie in Varanasi at the moment and drove past us in his boat, also watching the ceremony. Elodie almost tipped over our little boat she was waving so viogourously.

Our lovely weekend concluded with a 19 hour train trip of which I think about 9 of those hours were spent playing a continuous game of asshole. There is still a great deal of speculation as to who held the greatest reign as president. Chanda, Clement and Laura/Lauren are the top contenders.

Nizamuddin's Qawwali

A thick, pea soup like fog has descended on Delhi trapping in the pollution. I can almost see the little pollution particles taking refuge in my pores in the absence of anywhere better to go. Like a good brownie I am prepared, armed with cotton wool soaked in rubbing alcohol which I brandish at the smallest opportunity. Does this herald the end of warm, summer days? For all my complaining about the heat, I hope not.

Last night we went to qawwali at Nizamuddin's tomb to watch the Sufis dancing and singing. Sufi devotional songs called qawwali are performed every Thursday evening in the open air in front of the 16th century marble shrine of Sufism's greatest saints, Nizamuddin Auliya. It's an unforgettable experience. Last night was especially festive as it was an Eid celebration. I was secretly hoping I would get to see a dervish whirl but alas there was no whirling to be had.

Kitchen antics

So the other night I decided to attempt a couple of the recipes I learnt in my cooking course in Udaipur. My logic was that I should try it at least once before cooking for others and the ultimate acid test, other Indians. So I started with a basic korma. I threw the onions and whole spices into the hot pan and looked at the recipe to see what to do next. Add the garlic, ginger and onion paste. Paste? I didn't remember making a paste at the cooking course.

And this ladies and gentlemen is why cooking courses continue to be so successful by giving people the (not necessarily true) impression that they can cook a dish when in fact they (the chefs/cooks) do a lot of the pre-preparation behind the scenes. I hurriedly did a search of the kitchen. I was in luck - there was a hand held blender in the bottom drawer. I plugged it in and plunged it into the ingredients to smoosh them into the required paste. The pieces of ginger, garlic and onion stubbornly remained in the same roughly chopped shapes in which they had entered the bowl. Oh well I reasoned, it's obviously because it is such a small amount. So I took them out and laboriously chopped them into finer pieces.

Right, next. Add the tomato and onion paste. What! Another paste! Ha ha. Well this time I will be able to use the blender because the tomato is a far more smooshable ingredient. Once again I plunge in the blender. Nothing. I add a little water to facilitate the process. Reality slowly dawns on me as I watch the water bubble. I am trying to blend food with a milk frother!!! Oh the embarrassment. Mental note: we have a milk frother for cappucinos!

Despite this my korma came out quite well and my biryani was quite delicious if I dare so myself. I still have not put them to the ultimate acid test but I think that I will leave that for another day.

PS. Last night I was looking for something in the fridge and what do you think I saw innocently sitting in the fridge door? Yip, a big jar of garlic, ginger and onion paste!

Mystic Pizza

Indian culture is shrouded in superstitions and folklore based on both religion and customs being passed down from generation to generation. As in a lot of Asia, luck and good fortune are highly sought after.

Astrology is also a HUGE part of every day culture here. It is taken very seriously and regarded as an arm of physics. Before a marriage is agreed upon, horoscopes are carefully consulted to ensure that there is a match. Noone will dare to get married on any day other than the few deemed auspicious by the astrologer. As a result, hundreds of thousands of couples will get married on the same day – and we thought we had issues with wedding venues!

The guy that sits next to me at work helped me to put a list together of just some of the more bizarre customs and folklore (he even admitted that he doesn’t know why some of these things are done):

• Add a one to every price for luck. For instance, if you are bargaining with someone (particularly in the smaller towns), you will end up paying 101 rupees for an item rather than 100.




• Don’t buy anything metal on a Saturday including jewellery. My colleague wanted to buy a new car. The weekend was the obvious time to do it but his parents insisted that although he paid for it on the Saturday, he could not pick it up until the following day




• Don’t cut your nails after sunset (???). Also, grow your baby nail REALLY long for good luck.




• Don’t wear black, especially to weddings and other celebrations




• Don’t go out if somebody sneezed (I pity the person with hayfever!)




• Hang a shoe/sandal off the rear bumper of your car to ward off the bad spirits

How many consultants does it take to read a map?

Definitely more than two if it is Chanda and I reading the map. The other night we set off to join our friends Elodie and Lize at the Indian Dance Festival at the Old Fort. We asked the rickshaw driver to take us there but all we got from him was a very blank look (in hindsight we realised we probably should have known the Hindi name Purana Qila).

“It’s near Connaught Place” we confidently told him having both carefully examined the map. To be completely honest, I confidently told him this but Chanda did confidently support me.

We were running a bit late to start with and got stuck in some traffic on the way. By the time we got there we were seriously late but quickly discovered that the Old Fort was nowhere near Connaught Place but was in fact near the zoo and India Gate which we had passed about 5 minutes into our journey! Fortunately the concert was on India time (often worse than African time if you can believe this) and we made it just as the concert was starting.

Needless to say we whipped the maps out as soon as we could only to see to our great embarrassment that we were very much mistaken. In our defence though, it was quite a large picture of the fort on a very small map so it was kind of understandable.

Diwali - the festival of light

World War II veterans and domestic pets alike cowered in corners on Saturday night as Delhi simultaneously exploded with Diwali fireworks. We sat on the terrace awe struck as all around us the night lit up with the most phenomenal, continuous, 360 degree, 8 hour display of fireworks. Every single family came into the streets and lit an array of fireworks. Hotels vied to outdo each other in the magnitude of their displays. I was completely and utterly blown away (sorry, I couldn’t resist). We even put on our own display of rockets, flowers and the most gigantic sparklers you have ever seen. By about 10pm, a thick blanket of smoke blanketed the city from all the festivities. Unbelievably there were fewer fireworks this year than they have been for the last three years. I can’t imagine how there could possible have been any more!

For the last week the streets glittered with vendors selling diwali boxes and shops windows screamed out their Diwali specials as everyone geared up to celebrate the festival of light. Every corner of every household was lit up by candles this weekend to ensure that Laxmi, the Goddess of Wealth felt welcome to enter. Even at work we had a Pandit in who did a puja (blessing) over the accounting books of the company to ensure wealth and prosperity for the upcoming year. For many smaller companies, the financial year ends at Diwali because it is considered the most auspicious time to start a business. Nuts, sweet meats (not actually meat strangely) and dried fruits abound and Bengali sweet shops double their turnover for the year. Diwali, like Christmas, is a family time. In the absence of family a whole lot of us expats joined together for a huge potluck lunch followed by a massive party.

I think I got the black lung Pop

Cough, cough. Splutter, splutter. Sniff.

Being in India has not deterred my body from developing it's biannual changing-of-the-season cold. I maintain that it has been bought on by the air conditioning. Air conditioning is a status symbol in this incredibly tropical climate and the attitude is very much if you've got it, flaunt it. The better the establishment the greater the velocity and lower the temperature of their AC.

The trains are the worst. By the end of the 5 hour train trip to Amritsar I must have resembled the abominable snowman as I gradually layered myself with every scarf and item of clothing in my bag to prevent myself dying of exposure in my thin summer shorts and t-shirt.

The concept of seeking refuge inside an AC room is so foreign to me as I am conditioned to take advantage of every day of nice weather by spending as much time outside as possible. I tried that a couple of times but I quickly realised that it is actually REALLY hot - and I wasn't even here for summer! Sadly, I think I am going to have to bid farewell to my dream of coming home as brown as a berry.

Pimp my ride

I finally worked out why there is so much hooting on the roads. Every truck and bus has "horn please" beautifully hand painted on the back. This, from what I can work out is so that they know when someone is driving up beside them. Side mirrors are not big here. They have either been knocked off by a motorbike that drove too close or are bent in to prevent them from getting hit. There is no fear of missing someone in your blindspot however, as they will very loudly declare their presence, often with a hooter that plays the motif of a popular tune.

It's all about the customisation of your vehicle here in India. Every truck and a large number of the rickshaws compete for the most intricate and colourful paintings on their chassis. The hipper rickshaw drivers even have paintings of popular icons on their mudguards. There is no branded signage on any vehicles. Nowhere will you see a truck with "Woolworths. Quality for life." branded on the side. Everything right down to the number plate is hand painted.

Talismans swing from every rearview mirror and India flags are the order of the day. The cars on the Cape Flats are given a serious run for their money. One taxi I went in even had a picture of Shiva on a clear plastic screen attached to the dashboard that flashed variations of blue and red for the entire four hour journey. I kept thinking we were being followed by the cops! My personal favourite though is the plastic wrapped sun shields. Without fail, every second vehicle's sun shields are wrapped protectively in plastic. Some cars even wrap their headrests and seats in plastic.

Matrimonials

“Son of a top-notch ultra rich Rajasthani Brahmin family of international fame having multifaceted business of reputed companies maintaining very high tastes in life, having a palatial residence in Mumbai and abroad.

He is non-manglik 1984 born/167 cms in height, handsome, smart, intelligent, social and with broad outlook towards life, convent schooling, widely travelled, wishes to hear from vivacious very beautiful girl hailing from Brahmin families well established in India/abroad. Exceptionally beautiful is the main consideration. Reply in confidence with attached Bio-Data and horoscope. Photograph a must.”

This is a matrimonial I saw in the newspaper on Sunday. Word for word. I kid you not. You may not believe me but if you take a closer look at the slightly blurred picture you will see that it is true.

Marriage is a HUGE deal over here. I would go so far as to say that you are defined by your marital status, especially if you are a woman. If you are pushing 26 and still not married eyebrows will be raised and it will be assumed that there must be A VERY GOOD REASON why you have not tied the knot. For instance, I work with an amazing and phenomenally successful women in her early thirties whose mother weekly laments that she allowed her to pursue her career because of where it has got her (unmarried in her thirties).

Matching prospects is also very important. Matrimonials take up a good twenty pages of the daily newspapers not unlike job vacancies I can’t help but think. It’s a 180 degree mind shift from the western ideal of being passionately swept off your feet by someone myterious you know sweet nothing about but somehow, it seems to work. Perhaps also because divorce is often not an option and there is no other alternative but to make it work.

Food for thought…

Amritsar and the Golden Temple

Sadly I had to bid Coreen, my partner in crime farewell but Chanda who is equally cool has taken her place. I think the two of us cause a little confusion – the Caucasian South African and the African American.

This weekend our motley crew - Chanda, Nic, myself and Ravi the Super Sikh from the US - missioned off to Amritsar and the Golden Temple. Unfortunately Laura/Lauren had to pull out at the last minute because of a bad attack of Delhi Belly. This time we travelled by train in style – second class, AC. We were in Amritsar for all of 18 hours but we managed to see some awesome sights and eat the most delicious food for which the Punjab is famous:

• The Golden Temple is the most sacred shrine in Sikhism. Sikh devotees, for whom the Temple is a symbol of freedom and spiritual independence, come to the Temple from all over the world and ritually dip themselves in the water that surrounds the building. It is inlaid with more than 750kg of gold and breathtakingly beautiful. Respectfully bowing turbans and prayers reverberating around the enclosure combine to create an indescribable air of reverence and an almost tangible positive energy. What amazed me was the sense of community. Everybody works together and everyone is welcome, no matter creed or colour. As we were standing on the edge of the water, a group of about 100 people came past us washing the marble. Everyone helps no matter how young or old they are or how much value they add. There is also a 24 hour kitchen serving a free, simple meal of ciapati and dal serviced by volunteers. The boys bravely slept at the temple whilst Chanda and I copped out and opted for the decidedly more comfortable hotel beds.

• The changing of the guards at the India-Pakistan border was incredibly entertaining. The area gets completely packed and the atmosphere is set by school kids merrily dancing to the patriotice music blared over the loudspeakers. The guards, somewhat incongruously dressed with large fans protruding from their hats and chests swelled with self importance, nightly go to acknowledge the Pakistani border guards on the no mans land between the two borders. The atmosphere turned a little political when the guy behind me starting making machine gun noises!

• The Amritsar orphanage houses many of those orphaned in the 1984 attack on the Golden Temple. Ravi raises funds online for them so we had an opportunity to go and visit them. It was a completely humbling experience. We arrived in the evening in time for their prayers and were invited to join them. I think we were more of a disruptive influence then anything as for most of them we were probably the first foreigners they had met. Nic gained instant favour with the cricket bats he had bought along as gifts. We also arrived laden with an enormous crate of bananas which we handed out with their dinner. The funniest part for me was trying to take a group photo. Every attempt was foiled as the kids repeatedly launched themselves up right in front of the camera just before the photo was taken. Some of the kids were even lifting up their friends by the pants (resembling a rugby line out) to ensure they were the primary focus of the picture. I also received my first marriage proposal! One little kid started with the question and then before long about ten kids had joined in. Although incredibly flatter, I suspect they didn't really know what they were saying.

Culture Shock

There are a few things in India that I am taking longer to get used to than others:

1. Drinking water from water bottle without putting my lips on the rim. I am a spilly person at the best of times and those that know me well will corroborate that I have a chronic hand eye coordination problem when it comes to getting food and/or beverages into my mouth without spilling. You can just imagine the carnage of trying to get the water into my mouth from a distance. I have given up and now drink directly from the bottle. I figure I would rather run the small risk of getting amoebic dysentery then the large risk of dehydration
2. The pollution that caused such a bad break our on my forehead I was convinced I was having an allergic reaction to something. I now have to clean my face daily with rubbing alcohol. Somehow I don’t think the people at Dove would approve.
3. The hocking and spitting done by a lot of the men with great gusto. The pleasure derived from this national occupation appears to be directly proportional to its volume and the amount of time spent doing it.
4. The mandatory three spoons of sugar in every cup of tea or coffee. The sugar is added right at the beginning of the brewing process. Ask for no sugar (cini) and you will be met with a blank stare. Except of course for the very nice guy at work who brings our coffee round and makes me a no (more like low) sugar cup especially.
5. The dearth of beefy Bovril. No explanation required.
6. No Pick n Pay where you can go and do all your grocery shopping.

A love story

I always thought that Indira Gandhi, previous prime minister of India, was related to the great Mahatma or Gandiji as he is affectionately know here. The real story is far more romantic…

Once upon a time there was a man named Nehru. He became prime minister of India after the Partition in 1947. This was a very big task because the situation was fraught with political tension. West Pakistan and East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) had been separated from India. Although they tried to create the borders to encompass predominantly Muslim and Hindu areas, thousands of people found themselves having to leave the land on which their ancestors had lived for generations and relocate. Often they didn’t have an opportunity to take their belongings with them. A large number of the people were very unhappy.

Nehru had a daughter Indira. Indira fell in love with a Farsee. When her father found out, he was furious. He told her that marrying him was just not an option and it would just undo all the work he was trying to achieve. Distraught, Indira turned to her godfather and close family friend Gandhiji. Together they devised a solution.

The next day, Gandhi went to Nehru and said “I have had a brilliant idea. I think that Indira should marry one of my sons”. Nehru was very pleased and agreed immediately. But when he saw Gandhi’s son he realised what he had agreed to. “But this is not your son! This is the man that Indira wanted to marry. I cannot allow it.” He said.

“Aaggh” said Gandhi “But he is my son now as I have adopted him”.

And that is why Indira Gandhi has the surname Gandhi.

NOTE: I was relaying this story to a colleague and he took great delight in telling me that although a common opinion, it is in fact completely incorrect. Feroze Gandhi (Indira’s husband) had the same surname merely by coincidence. He was not the adopted son of Gandhi.

Damn! Why did he have to go and pop my balloon like that? I think I’m going to go with common opinion on this one. It makes for a much better story.

ANOTHER NOTE: My faith in romance has been restored! I spoke to the original narrator of the tale and is willing to bet his life on the fact that it is true. He apparently did a paper on it at Varsity with lots of research etc. etc.

Delhi Belly

Everyone warned me about Delhi Belly but with all this good food the only Delhi Belly I have to worry about is the one of the more permanent affliction. This morning in the shower I composed a song about my favourite meals/snacks in Delhi

My favourite things
To be sung with gusto (preferably in a shower with good acoustics) to the Sound of Music hit sound track of the same name

Paneer (discovered in SA and still a hot favourite);
Mutton kebabs at the stall at the back of Kahn Market;
Dal at the guest house and sweet lime juice;
Chicken momos at the Gymkhana and pomegraaaanaaaaaatttte...

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I’m feeling sssssssssssaaaaaaaaaaaaaadddddddddddd, I simply remember my favourite things and then I don’t [rousing crescendo] fffffffffffffeeeeeeeellllllll sooooooooo bbbbbaddddddd.

PS. Jennifer at the Linksfield Netcare travel clinic, you were completely over exaggerating. The lettuce here is absolutely fine and I haven’t even cracked open my bottle of Milton yet. I even ate Pan Leaf from the side of the road (the original breath mint) and was fine. I only found out afterwards that they often wash the leaves in dodgy water.
PPS. Asian 2 minute noodles are so much better than the SA equivalent. I had a couple of Coreen’s old stock. They have the powdery stuff and then soy sauce, chilli flakes and this cool flavoured oil

The Midnight Express

So it turns out the sleeper class on the train is neither AC first or second class nor the separate compartment that one might expect from the name. Coreen and I clambered onto the train only to realise that both the lights and the fans were not working in our very stuffy carriage. To make matters worse, a wallah leered menacingly at the window rattling a collection of dangerous looking locks and chains which we realised with horror were for the express purpose of securing our luggage to our beds.

As the thought "What have I got myself into?" reverberated around my head the train stuttered to life and with it the lights and the fans flickered on. Thank goodness. The light highlighted the fact that the bed covers had clearly seen cleaner days but it was nothing that an entire pack of Coreen's antiseptic wipes could not remedy. Coreen, what will I do when you go? The journey actually turned out to be relatively pleasant. At one point in the evening it got decidedly chilly and ill prepared for any cold weather as I was, I was decidedly relieved that we hadn't ended up in the AC compartment as I would have frozen my ass off.

In true style, I had demolished all my padkos before we had even left Delhi. Oh for the day when I haven't finished my popcorn and coke by the time the movie starts.

Highlights of Udaipur

1. The jewellery shop. We arrived a little drowsy but ready to hit the town. We dropped our bags off at a guest house situated right on the edge of the lake and ventured out only to be lured almost immediately into a jewellery shop about 10m up the road by the jewellery seductively glistening in the display case. Magpies that we were we couldn't resist. THREE HOURS LATER we reemerged completely exhausted from painstakingly deliberating and ineffectually bargaining over the equisite pieces. Needless to say we completely blew our budgets.
2. The Crystal Gallery at the City Palace houses the rare crystal Maharaja Sajjan Singh ordered from England in 1877. The maharaja died before it arrived, and all the items stayed packed up in boxes for 110 years later to reveal excess such as a crystal table, couch and even bed!
3. The Rajastani Dancers at the Bagore-Ki Haveli reminded me of bright parakeets with their bright colours and graceful moves
4. The biggest turban in the world is vaguely reminiscent of a large piece of pink boerewors
5. Dinner in a cuppola overlooking the lake with Octupussy playing in the background. The movie was filmed here more than twenty five years ago and today it is still played nightly at all the rooftop restaurants. The full moon joined us for dinner. This is possibly the most romantic place I have ever had the pleasure of eating dinner. I would have quite liked to have swapped Coreen with Brian for the evening although she still made very pleasant company
6. The cooking course at the Spice Box. I can now cook chai masala, paneer, aloo ghobi and biryani with the best of them
7. Learning to play the tabla

Dengue fever

Anyone heard of Dengue? I hadn't before I came over here but this morning 2 of the prime minister's grand children were diagnosed with this potentially fatal disease. Like malaria, it's carried by mosquitos and rife after the monsoon when there is a lot of stagnant water around. YIKES. Apparently they only bite during the day. More than 400 people have been treated at public hospitals for Dengue - nearly double last year this time. This doesn't include the statistics from all the private clinics!

Dussehra

Monday was Dussehra; the day that Ram rescued his love Sita from the evil Ravana in Hindi mythology. It was also a public holiday and Gandhi’s birthday which was great. We went to watch the festivities in one of the markets. Had I been 10 I probably would have wet my pants. I’m 24 and I was completely frightened. Dance companies acted out the story of Ram and Sita impressively covered from head to toe in adornments and face make up. At the end of the show, they burned enormous 10 metres effigies of Ravana and his brothers. They were stuffed with straw and strained at guy ropes holding them in place. I was fully prepared to watch them burn gradually to the ground. I was not however prepared for the 16 million fire crackers secreted in the chest of each of the effigies to go off simultaneously. I think the locals found the height I jumped from fright far more entertaining than the burning of Ravanna.

Lou’s Top 5 Indian reads

I hope that some of you will be joining me in India in the next few months. I have not had too many confirmations thus far but I remain optimistic. With this in mind I have included my top 5 India related books.

1. Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts
   A crazy but true auto biography of an escaped Australian convict. You’ll be booking your ticket as you finish the last page.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Noteworthy Nine
   
2. Q&A by Vikas Swarup (the deputy high commissioner of India in SA incidentally)
   An illiterate and uneducated boy from the slums wins the Indian show “Who wants to be a billionaire?”. The outraged show organisers accuse him of cheating. The story unfolds as he explains why he knew each of the answers. A delightful* read. *I’ve always wanted to say that – does it sound like something Barry would say?
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven and a half
   
3. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
   The auto biography of a women in her mid thirties who escapes the claustrophobic pressure of real life by running away for a year. She spends four months in Italy eating in Rome, four months in India praying at an Ashram and the final four months in Indonesia - yes, you guessed it – loving.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Scintillating Seven
   
4. Shalimar the Clown: Salman Rushdie
   A harrowing tale of love and betrayal set in the foothills of war-torn Kashmir [hey, I am really getting into this].
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight
   
5. City of Djinns; a year in Delhi [from whence this blog name comes]: William Dalrymple
   A beautiful portrayal of Delhi and its history. This is the man that helped me to understand Delhi traffic. I’ve included my favourite passage.
   
   “Balvinder Singh [Dalrymple’s taxi driver], son of Punjab Singh, Prince of Taxi
   Drivers, may your moustache never grow grey! Nor your liver cave in with
   cirrhosis. Nor your precious Hindustan Ambassador ever again crumple in a
   collision – like the one we had with the van carrying Mango Frooty Drink.
   
   Although during my first year in Delhi I remember thinking that
   the traffic had seemed both anarchic and alarming, by my second visit I
   had come to realize that it was in fact governed by very strict rules. Right of
   way belongs to the driver of the largers vehicle. .. On the road, as in many
   other aspects of Indian life, Might is Right. ”
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: An Evocative Eight