Category Archives: India

We just completed our first Indian train journey, between the tongue twisting Thiruvananthapuram and Kottayam in Kerala. Any mode of transportation in India is an adventure, but hopping onto the largest rail system in the world is an experience all its own. The Indian Railways has over 8,000 trains and carries over 14 million passengers a day.

A common saying is that the best thing the British left India is its train system. I wonder how much has actually changed since the British were here. For example, rail road crossings continue to be manually operated. Here’s a crossing guard watching our train go by.

A single train has a dizzying array of classes to choose from. Given the distances traveled and glacial speed, most of the compartments are arranged to allow for overnight sleeping.

Second Class – Unreserved open floor bench seating and cheapest mode of transportation. If you really want to get up close and personal with Indians, stake a seat here. Expect no privacy and be ready to share anything you have. The compartments get very crowded and at nighttime expect to find your peers sleeping on the floor or on you. The views are great since the windows are wide open. Despite this, packed quarters often have passengers literally hanging out.

Second Class Sleeper – Reserved sleeping benches and the way the middle class goes. Beds are grouped into 2 columns of 3 stacked beds, allowing for some privacy. Windows are open.

AC Three Tier Sleeper – Similar to Second Class Sleeper, but with air conditioning, linen, blankets and a pillow. The view is obscured by windows in need of a good bath.

AC Two Tier Sleeper – Like the AC Three Tier except beds are grouped into 2 columns of 2 stacked beds, offering more privacy. This is the way more affluent Indians and most business travelers go.

AC First Class – The most luxurious (and cleanest) way to go, with bedding and meals provided.  These compartments are available on very few long haul express routes.

AC Chair Car – Reserved individual seating in an AC compartment. Some meals are served. This class is generally available only on shorter haul journeys.

The results of all these classes are long trains that each ferry thousands of passengers throughout the country.

The Kottayam station has separate windows for ‘Enquiry” and “Tickets” which meant that we had to ask all our questions at one counter and then buy our tickets at another. Enquiry has updates on train timings, but Tickets doesn’t get the same memo. On our way to Tiruvananthapuram we purchased our tickets at Tickets only to find out later from Enquiry that the train was 45 minutes delayed. This sent us back to Tickets to trade in our tickets for an earlier train. Tickets in hand and enquiries answered, our next challenge was to find our compartment among the 14 carriage train and maneuver the family to our seats.

Our choice was the AC Two Tier Sleeper, the most comfortable option for the 150 kilometer three hour journey. That’s 31 miles an hour, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you can drive any faster. The train journey cost $8 per person, cheaper than a movie ticket in New York City and multiple times the entertainment. If we really wanted to, we may have been able to claim one of the many discounts available. There’s the rather vague “Amature Artists” and one the Occupy Wall Street gang would love “Unemployed Youth Up To 35 Year Age To Appear Job Interview”.

The advantages of traveling by train were that the kids could move around more than they would in a car, Ava didn’t get motion sick, and we were able to enjoy some great views. Since the windows were too grimy, taking any pictures meant that we had to hang out of the open doors flanking the compartment.

It was entertaining to watch people wait for us to go by.

One of the most exciting things about Indian railway travel is the array of food served on the train. Every few minutes a seller marches down the corridor chanting “chai chai”, “coppee!”, “Biryani”, “Soft drinks”.

Other vendors, like this cotton candy (candy floss in India) seller, wait on the tracks for passengers in transit.

I love the stimulus of an Indian train journey. Just don’t go in with too many romantic notions. The smells of the lavatory still find their way to first class and the chaos on the railroad tracks may have you turning around before you board. If you decide on a journey, the Indian Railway System is ready to welcome you to a colorful side of the country.

Sources: For more on Indian trains, visit Indiamike and the Indian Railway Website.

Every time we visit India we end up hopping about the country seeing relatives. One grandmother is in Pune, near Mumbai. Another is in Goa. The third is in northern Kerala and the fourth in the southern end of the state. Neither Sandeep nor I knew any of our great-grandmothers, so we’re making it a point for our kids to know theirs.

The trips back and forth are made easier by the fact that all four live in fabulous locations. Pune is by vineyards, Goa is Portuguese-influenced beach heaven, and Kerala has the backwaters and a sandy coastline.  We took the opportunity to savor Kerala’s beaches between our visits to Sandeep’s two grandmothers. We chose to stay at a sleepy Ayurvedic resort, Coconut Bay, in Vizhinjam, a fishing village adjacent to the tourist outpost of Kovalam.

When compared to the rest of India, Kerala is relatively new to tourists. A few places such as Kovalam and the backwater centers of Kumarakom and Allepey have become hedonist tourist destinations. However, much of Kerala still enjoys a traditional lifestyle that has been lost further up the western coast of India. In Goa, for example, most traditional coastal fisherman have traded in their boats for water-sport outfits, beach shacks, or some other more lucrative arrangement. By contrast, Kerala still maintains much of its coastal fishing culture.

The entire family, kids included, were particularly lazy during our Vizhinjam stay. We started our morning flattened to hammocks, counting the coconuts on the trees that supported us. Then Ava astutely asked, “How do the coconuts come down?” My logical mind won the battle with my lazy body and we traded in our hammocks for the beach.

We were content to spend the rest of the day watching life on the water. I took this video when we first set out to the beach. By my commentary, one may think all of Kerala is a utopia of harmonious religions and cultures.

What I realized afterwards is that the church and the mosque at the end of the peninsula were built out of competition from their respective communities. The mosque overlooks the Muslim quarters of town, home to a few thousand fishermen, and the church serves the several thousand Christian fishermen. Tensions between the two occasionally culminate in riots, giving some notoriety to this otherwise sleepy fishing village. I suppose I was being seduced by the ocean when I took the video.

Fishing in Vizhinjam goes on as it has for generations. We watched fishermen row their boats out and net their catch. As the day wore on, the boats were welcomed back to land by waiting family members. The men took the boats out while women waited ashore to sort the loot.

Flocks of crows and gulls also waited to greet each boat. The fishermen and birds engaged in a well practiced dance. A few fish were thrown on the beach to satisfy the birds while the catch was quickly loaded into buckets and hauled away.

With the catch safe from beaks, the boats were put to sleep for the night. The sight of a melting sun must never tire a fisherman, because as dusk fell, the fishing families and us watched the sky turn from blue to orange to pink.

Shuttling between families was always a tiring experience during our shorter trips to India. Now that we have more time, we are able to appreciate the journey as well as our destination.

Pants aren’t comfortable attire in tropical humidity and blaring sun. During our travels through the Middle East and Asia, we’ve seen men wearing varieties of skirts and gowns. Malayalee men have perfected the mundu as their solution to heat. A mundu is a rectangular cotton cloth worn in a similar fashion as a sarong and is preferred attire all over the state of Kerala. In fact, Sandeep attended half our wedding in one. Mundus come in various assortments, all either solid or with a stripe border. Any further designs or prints demote a mundu to a lungi. A lungi is worn in a similar manner, but is usually made of lower quality cotton and, as per Sandeep “is like wearing your gym clothes or pajamas.”

Historically, men wore lungis most of the time, as they worked at home or in farms. Mundus were reserved for occasions such as religious observance and celebrations. Hence, after one wear, they were washed, pressed and ready for the next occasion. Today, with more of life occurring outside the home, men prefer cream mundus, which are better at hiding dirt and can be worn a few times. Just like jeans.

Even as much of the country trades in traditional clothes for ‘Western’ attire such as pants, jeans and dresses, conservative Kerala holds steadfast to its roots. It’s no wonder, the mundu serves so many glorious functions.

Most importantly, it’s cool. The light cotton provides a natural ventilation system, churning up cooler air from the ground with every step.  If you desire an even cooler walk, feel free to lift up one or both ends of your Mundu to increase the breeze.

If you’re really hot, go ahead hike it up into a mini skirt.

A Mundu can even serve as a towel when there is none.

The free flowing fabric makes it easy to perform all sorts of tasks, from playing cricket to straddling a bike.  So inspired was I by the mundu that I bought my first sarong. The only problem is that it won’t be acceptable in Kerala for me to hike it up. Women don’t show leg here, but it’s perfectly acceptable for men.

Inspired by the Mundu? They go for between $5 and $15 depending on the quality of the fabric and border design. Wear it as you would a towel, just be sure to pull it tight. Match the border with an appropriate shirt. The only other direction is that you may want to consider a religious allegiance before you proceed. Hindus and Christians wear the mundu left to right. Muslims wear to right to left, as the Koran is written left to right.

India, our motherland, has been the most difficult country for us to adjust to. Most of this has been due to lack of control. In the past, we’ve stayed for no more than two weeks, and were happy to go with the flows that our families set. However, we’re spending two months here now, and relying on others for everything is becoming uncomfortable.

In every other destination, our we have had to figure things out for ourselves. We’ve chosen to stay mainly in rentals as opposed to guest houses or home stays because we value some privacy. After a few days of scouting around for grocery stores, transportation, and babysitters we fell into a basic rhythm. We maintained control over our comings and goings, and the people we relied on were generally reliable. Our independence may have cost us the ability to truly live as locals, but it’s enabled us to maintain some normalcy for us and the kids.

We arrived in India expecting to rely on the system our families have established. We’re here to spend time with our parents and extended family and are staying with them. However, what this means is that rather than doing our own groceries, we add to an existing list. Instead of calling a tuk tuk, we negotiate around the rest of the house’s schedules for the cars and driver. A basic errand turns out to be a detailed conversation of who knows who and how and where the task should be done. We love having this time with family, but needed to establish our own routines.

One challenge was mobility. We solved that problem when Sandeep braved the Indian wheel.

Another challenge was eating and drinking what we want. Fo example, coffee in India is a dessert-like concoction involving liberal amounts of sugar and whole milk. After much hunting we found the only espresso machine in town at Third Place. Like most establishment here, its shutters don’t rise until 11 AM. After some negotiation and a promise to patron every morning, the manager agreed to serve us cappuccino at 9:45 while she readies for the day.

We love Indian food, and can’t go a week without it on the road. Even in Thailand, with it’s diverse cuisine, we caved in and sought Indian. But days on end of spice laden dishes, coconuts, and hearty meals had our stomachs begging for a break. We resurrected Sandeep’s parents barbecue, which hadn’t seen a spark since it left New Jersey four years ago.

Another goal was to find the kids some friends. They’ve had unlimited time with us, but minimal time with their peer group. We decided to use our block of time in India to enroll them in a morning pre-school. It’s an adjustment for them, since the children all speak Malayalam, but Ava and Kayan are excited to see their new friends each morning and are filling out their vocabulary with Malayalam.

Our persistence has led to a morning schedule. Sandeep and I drop the kids at school at 9:30 and then go on our speak easy cappuccino date. Back home, I make a bland egg breakfast, after which we park ourselves on the terrace. Sandeep works, I write, and we both watch the morning unfold along the backwaters and rice fields.

The rest of the day is a commotion of family errands, visitors and visits. But the days as a whole end with a good balance of extended family time and nuclear family independence.

I have an Indian driving license. My accomplishment was the result of completing a certain number of hours at a driving school. The school car had two sets of gears, pedals and wheels, which meant that the instructor drove the car and I just sat back and waited for the hour to finish. I never took a driving test – just paid and received my laminated card.

This process may explain the lawlessness of Indian roads. One ways, lanes, shoulders – none of these things mean anything to the average Indian driver. In Varanasi, our driver turned into the opposite side of a national highway for a few kilometers because he didn’t want to double back to our exit. The only road rule that is followed, most of the time, is the traffic light. When we asked a driver in Mumbai why he blatantly ran a red, his response was “It’s night time. You don’t have to follow the lights at night.” We also learnt that a right indicator does not always mean a person is turning right, but that they are giving others permission to overtake on the right. That’s a guessing game I don’t want to play.

We both went through the process of getting international licenses before we left home, so decided to put his to use today. Naturally Sandeep was somewhat hesitant to get behind the wheel here.  Here are some shots I took from the front seat during the 1 km drive from home to town.

Even the kids were somewhat confused at to why Sandeep was driving. We didn’t have a car in New York City, and save for a few vacation rentals, they don’t see him behind the wheel. On our trip so far, we’ve relied on others for transportation.

Ava: Why is Dada driving in your seat?

Diya: The driver sits on other seat because the cars drive on the opposite side of the street here.

Ava: No they don’t.

For once Ava wasn’t just being argumentative, she was correct. The cars drive wherever they want.

The busiest intersection in town doesn’t have a traffic light. The solution is that a policemen stationed at a rotunda holds up a miniscule stop sign (look closely) – sometimes in a particular direction and sometimes to no where in particular. As we approached him, he sternly held up the sign to the car on our right, but motioned to us to keep moving forward. There was no logic behind the differentiation, and there is no one stationed there at night.

Sandeep started driving because it seemed silly to ask his parents’ driver to take us on short runs. We also wanted some freedom to roam around on our own. Sandeep’s been amazingly calm about the entire experience. I asked him, his father and the family driver if anything bothers them about driving in Kerala.

Sandeep: The lack of any signs. I don’t know what’s one way, there are no speed limits, or stop signs. I just try to go with the flow. I do like the fact that I don’t have to worry about breaking the law, because it is 100% unenforced.

Sandeep’s Dad: The potholes, because my car has low clearance.

Jos the Driver (has been a family driver for 15 years):  The lawless bus drivers just want to over take the cars. They’re always driving in the opposite direction of traffic.

We never paid much attention to our garbage in New York City. Sure, at home we meticulously recycled. We even toyed with cloth diapers but settled on the convenience of disposable ones. We reused plastic bags on our dog walks. But once our garbage left home, we never thought about it again.

After coming to India we are acutely aware of what happens to our garbage. Both our parents live in areas where there is no garbage collection system. They compost their wet refuse and arrange for recyclables to be picked up by scrap collectors. The rest is burned in a designated area. Yes, it is terrible, but the alternative is to dump it in some random location.  At Sandeep’s parents’, the garbage is dumped at a designated spot about 100 yards from their gate, where it is burned every evening. Many people in India don’t have private transportation, so the government chooses dumping spots that are convenient to reach but relatively uninhabited. In this case, relatively uninhabited involves a handful of houses, a tea stall and a beauty parlor around the corner. This is the scene of our garbage burning this morning.

We have taught the kids not to litter, no matter what other people do. We pass the dump every time we go to town and it’s hard to explain to Ava why diapers (likely Kayans!) are lying on the side of the road.

With our garbage literally staring us in the face everyday, we’ve altered our already frugal consumption habits. We’ve cut back on juice boxes and soft drinks and Kayan is an intense experiment at potty training. It’s not going very well.  He’s projecting a bit – this afternoon he made his dog use what he claimed was a potty.

Most of us forget about our garbage once it leaves our home. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, for us, we’re forced to face our garbage every morning. The positive impact is that the entire family is more responsible about how and what we consume.

A year ago, Sandeep left his corporate life to join a home furnishings company, Surya. I found this hilarious. Sandeep is a minimalist and opposed every item I brought into our house.

So I found it rather curious to be in North India, accompanying him to various rug making villages. He asked me to join the business trip and serve as Hindi translator (also hilarious) and photographer. After spending a few days getting intimate with the rug making process, even Sandeep started pointing out rugs he liked.

I had a cursory understanding that handmade items are more unique and involve more care, but I didn’t appreciate the labor or skill specificity required. Save for some artwork, we own very few things that are truly handmade. As much as I remain an Ikea aficionado, I now have a better appreciation for the stories that go behind hand crafting.

The rugs are made in farming villages by artisans who supplement their agrarian income with more stable employment. Each village specializes in a task, such as weaving, cutting or washing. As with many traditional artisans, those in the Indian rug industry have learned their art from their parents and plan to pass it to their children.

The industry remains extremely traditional, with women and men performing separate tasks. Women focus on work that requires patience, like separating wool. Apparently (I was told), men have no patience. Many of these artisans are camera shy. Despite laughing together as I took pictures of the rugs, their faces sprung into somber poses when they saw the lens. Here are some faces behind handmade Indian rugs.

Once the rugs are woven, trimmed, and washed, they are laid out in the sun to dry among the village crops. As the rugs pass through various stages of production, life in the villages goes on. The cows sleep and the wheat dries.

Given how labor intensive the entire process is, it seemed out of context to see a huge truck arrive to transport the finished goods. And then we saw this, which reminded us that, no matter how modernized things get, we are still in India.

We tend to buy most things for convenience, price and design. Where we do have a few handmade items, we don’t fully appreciate the community, labor and skill behind them. Some of these rugs involve dozens of artisans and several months of work to complete. Moreover, many of these skill specific trades are dying as a new generation becomes more educated. After seeing the stories and people behind these rugs we intend to spend more of our travels getting to know similar cottage industries. Once we are back home, we hope to support such artisans by including more handmade products and the stories behind them in our home.