Honeymooning

The immensely talented Allyson Murphy has a web site called Real Honeymoons, which features, well, real honeymoons! I'm her guest blogger this week and am fortunate to have Adeet's photos to illustrate my posts. There's a new installment every day. Today you can get a little bit of Spain and a little bit of North Africa all in one place: Melilla!

My earlier posts are on the site or you can get to them here:

First installment:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/2-weddings-3-month-honeymoon/

Second:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/3-month-honeymoon-india/

Third:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/3-month-honeymoon-england/

The Typists of Bombay

During my recent trip to Bombay, I discovered an area I dubbed "Typists' Row." Adeet and I walked down Picket Road, where rows of men sat typing in open stalls. I stood enthralled by that inimitable clack-clack that no computer keyboard can replicate. (I often fantasize about writing posts on my antique Underwood and shamelessly romanticize typewriters.) I asked Adeet to shoot a video, but after a few seconds the typists shooed him away. "Maybe they think we're spies," he suggested. I wanted to ask them if they were typing love letters or novels or top-secret government dossiers and considered giving them notes from my Bombay excursions. Maybe they could turn my scribbled observations into respectable rows of neat serif type.

I've been hesitant to share my own Bombay stories since the recent terrorist attacks, afraid that my happy memories might seem trivial after such tragedy. I've appreciated everyone who's asked me if friends and family in Bombay are safe, but struggled to articulate what I felt. I've sat crying at work after viewing photos of the Taj and am enormously thankful that people I love—Papiyama, Prateik, Adeet's grandparents, his cousins, Mitali, Shahnaz, Tushar—and so many others are safe. And I can relate to my friend Sandhya's recent blog post, a discussion of her delayed blogging reaction to the attacks.

But we do need to share stories so that people and places aren't completely erased. During our honeymoon, Adeet and I spent several afternoons in the Taj's Sea Lounge, gazing out at the boats in the harbor. He teased me mercilessly for eating pani puri, classic street food, in such a posh setting and I laughingly ordered a second helping. When the Taj reopens, I want to go back and eat chat and remember.

Now I keep thinking of the men typing so earnestly, and I hope they are still there. Perhaps they are writing their own Bombay stories, remembering those who were lost, remembering their city as it was—as it never can be again.

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

Road Rules

A truck is barreling toward us in the passing lane, and I am convinced that the last words I will ever read are “Goods Carrier”—the sign emblazoned above the oncoming truck’s windshield. Suddenly we swing back into our lane and the truck skims past us. Welcome to highway driving, Indian-style.

Drivers take every opportunity to overtake the vehicle in front of them. It doesn’t matter if their lane is bumper-to-bumper or that three trucks, two cars, a scooter with a family of five, and an auto-rickshaw are in the passing lane. There is no room for hesitation—seize any opening and speed forcefully ahead. Even on four-lane highways, traffic invariably ends up in the wrong lane, as cars suddenly cross the median, perhaps for a detour or simply a change of scenery. Oncoming traffic might be mere feet, even inches, away from causing a head-on collision. But then, miraculously, the passing driver returns to his lane, until it’s time to overtake the next car.

Cars and motorbikes often hover between lanes, as if it were a "Middle Way" to highway salvation. But drivers aren't alone in their roadway exploits. Dogs nonchalantly dodge speeding vehicles, while random water buffalo wander past on the shoulder. The only time traffic halts obediently is at railway crossings or when a herd of cattle has to get to the other side of the road.

The government has taken steps to urge caution. A sign might warn “Accident Spot, 200 Meters,” though it is unclear what distinguishes that particular area as more accident-prone than others. Some signs employ platitudes such as “Slow and Steady Wins the Race,” but my favorites attempt word play—“Safety on the Road Means ‘Safe Tea’ at Home”—or beseech, somewhat suggestively, “Be Smooth on My Curves.”

There’s good reason for promoting prudent behavior. However, highway driving here doesn’t strike me as a game of chicken but as an intense exercise in negotiation. There are so many people, all in a hurry, and there isn’t enough road for all of them. The system of constant overtaking addresses the problem, if not solves it. Bombay is far too crowded for such compromises and drivers there can sit for hours, barely moving. Drivers outside the city, however, have developed a strategy for avoiding traffic jams.

Of course, it helps that I am not the one behind the wheel. Adeet and I sit in the back as our driver expertly weaves between lanes. I trust him, and after an hour or two I can begin to relax. I enjoy the view—candy-colored temples, roadside dabas that serve fresh meals, and stalls selling everything from pots and pans to brooms to bangles. This all helps distract me from the trucks charging toward us, though I still hope “Goods Carrier” aren’t the last words to flash before my eyes.

photo by Kate Deshmukh, enroute from Nasik to Shirpur

Grief, Untranslated

Today Adeet and I traveled to Shirpur, a village 400 kilometers from Bombay. We came to see Walmik, a driver for Adeet’s grandparents, who is more family member than employee. Although Walmik doesn’t speak English and my Marathi is rudimentary, we found ways to communicate during my first trip to India. Adeet and I had both looked forward to seeing him again, but shortly before leaving New York we learned that his wife, Vandana, had died unexpectedly. Walmik left Bombay for Shirpur, where his wife and children lived while he worked in the city.

When we saw Walmik, he was sitting cross-legged on a mat in the entrance to his home. His young teenaged son leaned into him. They had both shaved off their hair in mourning and this made their eyes look wide, allowing more room for the grief that welled up there. His two daughters watched us silently from the doorway.

I hugged Walmik but said nothing. I realized then that I know only positive words in Marathi. I can tell people how happy I am, exclaim over their beautiful homes and delicious food, compliment their children, and assure them that I love India. But I have no vocabulary for sorrow.

My parents had traveled to India in 2007 and quickly learned to rely on Walmik’s expert navigation skills and calm, confident demeanor. They had met Vandana at my Indian wedding, and when I told them about her death, they asked me to give Walmik their sympathy. What could I say?

I asked Adeet to write in phonetic Marathi, “My mother and father are thinking of you.” I practiced until I could say it from memory, but I kept the folded piece of paper with me for reassurance. We spent more time with Walmik later in the evening, and I said my line, nervous that it would lose all meaning when it left my mouth. Somehow he understood me.

I wanted to tell him, too, how happy I’d been to meet his wife at my wedding. How she immediately embraced me, and how youthful and beautiful she looked in her sari as we posed together for a photograph. Instead, I strung together all of my Marathi words with occasional English conjunctions to make small talk.

Then I stood next to him, quietly. It occurred to me that I struggle to express grief even in languages that I speak fluently. All I can ever say is, “I’m thinking of you.” Even if I were to suddenly become fluent in Marathi, I would remain inarticulate.

Walmik, I’m thinking of you. I wish I could say more.

Food, Memory

Food is memory. We tie food to place, to holidays, to family. We eat certain foods out of nostalgia, or in an attempt to recapture the past. I recently bought a saffron lassi at a Midtown Indian deli, hoping to match the ones I drank at Swati Snacks in Bombay. But more than that, I wanted to relive the feeling of sitting across from Adeet in that restaurant, savoring our honeymoon and imagining our future. There are also foods that trigger memories, reminding us of repressed or unremembered events in our personal histories.

When Proust famously bit into a madeleine, it unlocked a forgotten childhood. I recently had my own "madeleine episode." I took the train down to the Financial District, where rival falafel vendors Sam and Alan battle for lunchtime revenue. I spotted Alan's cart first but arbitrarily chose to buy lunch from Sam. At least 20 other people had the same idea. I got in line behind them and had my $3 ready. One man (Sam?) took orders, while two others fried up the falafel. The service was brisk, with none of the banter I've heard from other street vendors. I didn't mind; the food smelled delicious.

I found a bench in Zuccotti Park and bit into my sandwich. It was a windy afternoon, and I struggled to hold onto my food while keeping my skirt from flapping immodestly. Despite the distraction, I couldn't help noticing how perfect this falafel tasted. It had been fried the right amount of time, crispy with no hint of grease. The tahini enhanced the falafel's chickpea flavor, instead of smothering it.

I hadn't had falafel like this in NYC, but it tasted familiar. And then I remembered.

In 1996, before starting graduate school, I spent several months in Jerusalem. I attended an ulpan, an intensive crash course in modern Hebrew, at Hebrew University. I lived with three Ukranian immigrants who had little patience for my shaky Hebrew and spoke to me in English. Our flat had a kitchen, but I seldom used it except to break open my emergency jar of peanut butter. I almost always had falafel for dinner. I was ecumenical in my selection of falafel stands, buying sandwiches from both Arab and Jewish vendors. 

Eating this sandwich made in lower Manhattan, I suddenly remembered the taste of those Israeli falafels. Then I turned around, and the sight of construction cranes at Ground Zero startled me into another memory.

One February morning during my stay in Jerusalem, a suicide bomber blew himself up on a #18 bus, the line I rode to Hebrew University's campus every day. The blast killed 26 people, including two American students. I wasn't on the bus, but I felt shaken. This was the closest I'd been to an act of terror. My classmates and I consoled each other the best we could. "At least our bus line won't be attacked again." Fear has its own peculiar logic.

The following week, another suicide bomber blew himself up on a #18 bus, killing 19 people. Our logic had failed us.

I didn't want to leave my room. I stayed in bed and canceled plans. When I finally agreed to venture out, my friends and I debated transportation methods. "Let's take a taxi. It's safer." "But what if the cab's behind a bus that blows up?" someone would counter. We cautiously returned to routine, and I went back to the falafel vendors. It surprised me to see me so many people walking around, getting on city buses, eating at outdoor cafés—making new memories.

My "falafel flashback" occurred a week after the seventh anniversary of the attacks on the Twin Towers. As I looked around Zuccotti Park, I wondered at the number of people so close to the site. Tourists admired fruit pies at a farmers' market, and office workers considered their lunch options. But why should I wonder? People need to eat. And make new memories.

Sam's Falafel

Zuccotti Park (formerly Liberty Plaza) • NY, NY

photos by Kate Deshmukh

Unforgettable: Bollywood in New York

New Yorkers aren’t immune to star power, but anyone ogling, gushing, or asking for autographs is immediately marked as a tourist. Indifference, even when feigned, is considered the proper response to a celebrity sighting. This blasé approach wouldn’t translate in India, where people openly and unabashedly worship their Bollywood actors—literally. In Bombay I saw pictures of the god Krishna displayed alongside photos of heartthrob Hrithik Roshan.

Adeet and I recently had the chance to join in the idol worship. A troupe of some of India's most popular Bollywood stars performed in New York as part of the “Unforgettable” tour. Amitabh Bachchan, his son Abishek, daughter-in-law Aishwarya Rai, Preity Zinta, Riteish Deshmukh, and Madhuri Dixit, danced and lip-synced for a sold-out crowd at Long Island’s Nassau Coliseum.

Thanks to the generosity of our friend Deepak, Amitabh Bachchan’s makeup artist, Adeet and I had backstage passes for the event. We wandered past tables piled with costumes and admired larger-than-life puppets propped against the wall. Dancers adorned in fake jewels and Day-Glo leotards ran past us. One of the production coordinators asked if we were hungry and led us to a room with a buffet table filled with samosas and tandoori mixed grill. Bollywood catering!


After we ate, Adeet and I passed Preity Zinta rehearsing her dance moves in the hallway and then found ourselves standing outside the stars' dressing rooms. Suddenly Aishwarya Rai Bachchan was standing in front of me, so close I could see the vaccination scar on her arm. A thick layer of glittery makeup set off her famous eyes and her hair fell in curls down her back. Adeet commented, “I thought she’d be taller,” but he also remarked that she looked just as beautiful in person as in pictures. We were both enjoying the very un-New York experience of acting star-struck.

Abishek, however, looked slightly less handsome close up, but my judgment might have been influenced by my husband’s own Bollywood good looks. He looked serious, while Aishwarya appeared bubbly and happy.

That evening marked the 61st anniversary of India's independence. Before going on stage, the stars stood in a circle and held hands as they sang their national anthem. Amitabh’s rich baritone carried the song, especially during the final "Jaya hē" ("Victory to thee"). The actors then paused for a prayer thanking God for their final performance in the States and the tour's success, despite some glitches. Sometimes even divine intervention can’t prevent technical difficulties.

Adeet and I had seats in front, off to the side of the stage. We usually had an unimpeded view, except when effusive fans tried to rush past us. Before each actor emerged from the wings, film clips played on giant screens. Then, in a Purple Rose of Cairo moment, the actor from the screen appeared on stage, ready to entertain thousands of screaming fans. Riteish Deshmukh, known for his comic roles, opened to a dance routine involving oversized dollar bills. (Wouldn't euros have been flashier?) When fans screamed, "I love you, Riteish!" he quickly responded, "I love you, too."

Abishek arrived in a caged platform that swooped over the crowd before descending. When he danced across the stage and encouraged the crowd to clap along, he appeared much more animated than he had backstage. Aishwarya appeared for her first routine wearing black pants and a silver bustier-type top. Although still attractive, her outfit seemed oddly unflattering. In later numbers she looked radiant in traditional Indian clothes.

Aishwarya took a few moments to make a pitch for the Green Globe Foundation, which hopes to provide villages with solar-powered lanterns. Her somewhat awkward appeal won’t lead to a public speaking tour anytime soon. She then introduced her mother-in-law, Jaya, who encouraged us to do our part to help reduce global warming and to donate a lantern.

Between the actors' routines, singers Vishal and Shekhar sang hits such as "Om Shanti Om." The song is ubiquitous in our Jackson Heights neighborhood, and I joined in the English refrain. The crowd kept the security guards busy as they left their seats to dance, and two especially exuberant women near us were eventually banished.

Amitabh is a firmly established deity in the Bollywood pantheon. Dramatic music accompanied his film montage, and the emcee made declarations such as, "The Indian the whole world recognizes." (He is instantly recognizable with his dark hair and white beard. But what about Gandhi?) The crowd didn't question the hagiography and roared when the actor took the stage. 

Later Amitabh joined in some song-and-dance numbers, but for now he was more thespian than entertainer. The dance troupe got to rest from the relentless, near-manic choreography as Amitabh recited lines from his father's poem "Agneepath" and his film Deewaar. Although I couldn't understand the Hindi lines, I appreciated the resonance of his deep voice.

Despite the crowd's obvious adoration of Amitabh, the audience gave actress Madhuri Dixit one of the evening's most enthusiastic responses. Some women sitting near us left as soon as her performance was over—nothing else could surpass her. Madhuri danced gracefully, and even when Aishwarya joined her, she demanded the most attention.

For the final numbers, Preity joined Abishek for a “rock-and-roll” dance routine. She twirled expertly, evidence that her hallway rehearsal had paid off. I especially enjoyed one of the closing dances that featured Amitabh, Abishek and Aishwarya (see the video clip below).



The evening’s performance lasted four hours, but I hadn’t grown tired of it. As a child, I frequently enlisted my two younger brothers to join me in a dance line, my choreography consisting mainly of high kicks to Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer." For years, my family staged elaborate lip-sync performances every New Year’s Eve. Perhaps that's why I have a fondness for Bollywood, with its "Let's put on a show!" enthusiasm, flashy costumes, fervent dancing, and yes, lip-syncing.

When the lights went up, I turned to Adeet and said, "I never need to go to Las Vegas." How could anything there top the spectacle we'd just seen? But as much as I enjoyed the elaborate extravaganza, my favorite moment had occurred backstage. Jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya hē.

Unforgettable Tour

Nassau Coliseum • Long Island, NY

"Unforgettable" poster from: http://www.theunforgettabletour.com/home.html

photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

Bombay Frankie

A sure way for a New York restaurant to get our business is to put the name “Bombay” in it. Adeet and I both associate Bombay/Mumbai with eating well, and any mention of the city triggers a discussion of our favorite foods. When we heard about a NYC spot called “Roti Roll Bombay Frankie,” we didn’t hesitate to give it a try.


A frankie is Mumbai’s version of the wrap. A griddled roti (flatbread) is piled with lamb, chicken, egg, vegetables, or paneer (cheese). Other parts of India have kati rolls, but Mumbai claims the frankie as its own. [Thank you for clarifying this, Mitali!] We overheard a customer ask, "Do they really call them 'frankies' in Bombay?" They do. Mumbaikers eat a fish called "Bombay duck.” Why not name a sandwich "frankie"?

Adeet ordered a chicken frankie, and I opted for unda, or egg. We watched the multitasking cook crack an egg on one side of the griddle and heat pieces of chicken on the other. He efficiently slid the fillings onto the rotis, added tomatoes, onions, and green sauce, and then wrapped them burrito-style. Adeet commented that in Bombay the sides are left open, but I appreciated the New York variation, especially since I had on a cream-colored top.


Frankies are street food, so the restaurant’s utilitarian décor didn’t surprise me. We sat on stools at a narrow metal counter and ate quickly. The atmosphere doesn’t encourage lingering, but at least the large front window allows for people watching.

We had asked for “medium spicy,” but my eggs could have used an extra dash of masala. Still, our meal was cheap and filling, and I imagine the wraps are popular with nearby Columbia students and late-night drinkers. The frankies don’t compare to the Bombay snacks we can get in Jackson Heights, and they’re no match for the gyros from Sammy’s. But we’ll go back, despite having to take two subways to get there.


Before we left, we told the owner how glad we were to find frankies in New York. It turns out he's from a Bombay neighborhood we know, and he and Adeet began chatting in Marathi. He appeared genuinely touched when Adeet complimented him and said it meant a lot that we liked his food.

We love the food in Bombay, in no small part because of the family and friends who share it with us. Our conversation with the owner gave us a Bombay connection here in New York, which is why we'll get his frankies again. Sometimes it’s the people, and not just the cooking, that bring us back.

Roti Roll Bombay Frankie
994 Amsterdam Ave. • NY, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Bombay, American-Style

Today I had Bombay flashbacks, perhaps induced by the heat. The temperature in NYC hit 97 ° F (36° C to the rest of the world), and my own unscientific calculations put the humidity at 98%. As I walked down 74th Street in Jackson Heights, women in salvar kameez hurried by me. I passed shops selling bangles (expensive gold ones and cheap flashy ones) and wedding saris, while speakers from a Bollywood music store blared into the street, providing my own filmi soundtrack. Stacks of mango boxes towered near the entrance to Patel Brothers' supermarket, and a row of sidewalk vendors sat behind tables piled with copies of the Qur’an, belts, vegetables, and flashing, whirring toys.

Since Adeet and I were feeling kitchen-shy from the heat, we decided to stop for chaat (snacks) at Rajbhog, my favorite place for Bombay-style food in New York.

I walked in expecting a 20-degree drop in temperature, but the a/c must have been overtaxed. Several fans were set up around the restaurant, and the women behind the counter looked deflated. They normally have at least a slight smile for us (especially when Adeet orders in Hindi), but now their faces showed nothing but suffering.

We ordered quickly: sev puri and khandvi.

Sev puri is the perfect combination of hot and cool, crunchy and creamy. I’m sure there are as many variations of this snack as there are chaat vendors in Bombay. This particular recipe included crispy puris the size of small, round tortilla chips, boiled potatoes, raw onion, tamarind chutney, and masala mixed with yogurt and sprinkled with sev, crispy vermicelli noodles. It is the culinary equivalent of jumping into cold water on a scorching day—heat and relief; you can't truly appreciate one without the other.

Khandvi resembles pasta. The noodles are made with chickpea flour, then rolled and garnished with mustard seeds and parsley. It is mild and soothing, but after finishing the sev puri, the khandvi was almost neglected. Almost.


We sat by a fan and as we ate, the room began to feel more comfortable. Perhaps the a/c had started to cooperate, or maybe it was a chaat-induced miracle. Soon Adeet even considered ordering chai, forgetting that hot liquids might not be the best thirst quencher. Instead he drank Limca, the Indian soft drink with which it is fair to say he is obsessed. I had a mango lassi (similar to a yogurt smoothie) that possessed Goldilock proportions: not too thick or too thin, too small or too big. Just right.


One of the guilty pleasures of eating at Rajbhog is the chance to watch a continuous loop of Bollywood music videos on a flat-screen television. We were slightly dazed by the sight of Sanjay Dutt dressed like a hip hop gangster but felt compelled to watch. It provided our empty calories for the evening.

When we left the restaurant, I heard people speaking Spanish and English, not only Hindi and Bengali. An Eastern European family strolled down the sidewalk, followed by a young Hispanic girl cruising in her "Power Wheel" mini SUV. On the walk home, we passed a Colombian restaurant, a Polish deli, and a Korean stationery shop. This may have burst my Bombay bubble, but it's why I love this particular New York City neighborhood. And Bombay is still in the picture. It soon started thundering and pouring rain, and I remembered—it's monsoon season.

Rajbhog
72-27 37th Ave. • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

My Devi Days

Adeet and I spent the winter of 2006–2007 in India. During that time, we stayed with his family, traveled, and had a traditional marriage ceremony. We will be returning for a visit this fall, and I find myself thinking often of India and my experiences there.


On December 15, 2006, I became a goddess. Not in a New Age sense of feminine self-affirmation. Instead, I entered the Mumbai home of my husband’s grandparents as a ghar ki Lakshmi, or “the Lakshmi of the house.” The devi, or goddess, Lakshmi is the bringer of wealth and good fortune. Traditionally, an Indian bride comes into her in-laws’ home with a dowry, and she might truly bring substantial wealth with her. I brought no material assets, but my new family still generously declared me their Lakshmi. They mixed kumkum, a scarlet powder made with turmeric and lime, into a pan of water and instructed me to step into it and walk through the house. I left a trail of vermillion footprints behind me, which signified the arrival of the goddess. Over the next few days, the footprints gradually faded, and I imagined that part of me had seeped into the tiles of the floor, literally making me part of the home.

What does it mean to be a goddess? Vijutai, the family’s cook, showered me with generosity. Nearly every day, she would call me into the pantry, open a drawer crowded with kitchen paraphernalia, and pull out a pair of earrings. Pink, purple, turquoise, orange, and green “gems” dangled from metal hooks, ensuring I had jewelry to match every outfit. When she learned that I had a craving for galub jamuns, she made dozens of the sweet, deep-fried dumplings. Vijutai also took me shopping, showing me how to bargain for saris and bangles and then sending me home with more treasures.

Vijutai has a quick laugh and is easily affectionate, betraying none of the hurt she has suffered. As a young wife, her husband beat her unconscious, landing her in the hospital. Her mother gave her an ultimatum: Stay with your husband, and consider your mother dead. Or return to your mother, and leave your husband forever. Vijutai chose her mother and later moved into my inlaws’ home, where she has worked for almost 20 years. She never had her own children but considers her employers’ family her own. My arrival meant she now had a daughter.


I learned that my role as Lakshmi went beyond receiving gifts. Vijutai has an altar in a small room to the side of the kitchen. It is crowded with gods–Hanuman, Ganapati, Mahalakshmi–as well as images of swamis and gurus. Vijutai talks to them, and her gods do more than bring wealth or remove obstacles. They listen to her. All homes have worry and heartache along with happiness, and as the ghar ki Lakshmi, I could offer empathy. My footprints had permeated the house, but all the love and joy and grief in the household had also become a part of me.

No longer in Mumbai, I often think of my devi days and long to be back, breathing in the spicy kala masala that fills the kitchen and listening to Vijutai. The altar might be cramped, but I know she would make room for me, her Lakshmi.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Accidental Pilgrim

The map of India is a lesson in sacred geography. Point a pilgrim, whether Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, or Jain in almost any direction, and she will have no trouble finding a holy site. However, I did not come to India with a spiritual agenda, but with a curiosity about my new family’s country. A few days after my husband, Adeet, and I arrived in Mumbai, we visited a Jain temple in Malabar Hill. We took pictures, carefully following the posted rule requesting that we not turn our back to any of the idols. Later, we visited a Hare Krishna temple in suburban Juhu and watched as people prostrated themselves before the deities. Worshipers swooned at the sight of an ornate Krishna and reminded me of devout Spanish Catholics I had seen weeping before bejeweled saints. I took off my shoes and joined the others who processed before Krishna and the other idols, but I was an outsider. Adeet and I visited these temples the way tourists to Europe wander through cathedrals, admiring the artwork and the architecture, but having no intention to enter the confession booth or attend services.


In late December, Adeet and I traveled 180 kilometers from Mumbai to Nasik with his father, Shank, to meet his relatives. According to the epic Ramayana, Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, spent part of their exile in Nasik. Our own visit lacked mythological significance, although the number of meals we ate each day and the photos we snapped with each family reached legendary proportions. The relatives welcomed me without hesitation, smudging kumkum, turmeric powder turned red from lime, on my forehead as a blessing and smiling at my broken Marathi.

On Christmas Eve day, Shank took us to the Trimbakeshwar temple outside of Nasik. The temple is a jyotirlinga, one of twelve shrines in India devoted to worshiping Shiva as a “lingam of light.” Lingam is the phallic symbol associated with Shiva. The Trimbakeshwar temple is different from other jyotirlinga because it houses a representation of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, instead of only Shiva.


When we reached the temple, we saw hundreds of people waiting in the type of line I’d seen only at museums and amusement parks. My father-in-law did not want to wait, and soon a guru-for-hire escorted us behind the temple, away from the queue. In the temple courtyard the guru instructed us to touch a stone representation of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. It was a model of the one inside the temple, which we would see only from a distance. I touched the stone, still feeling like an observer. However, as soon as we entered the temple, I realized that my husband and I were meant to be participants. Shank had brought us here to perform a puja, or ritual, to bless our marriage. We sat with the guru on the temple floor, and he flicked water on us. He then alternately placed water and rice in the palm of Adeet’s right hand. I was instructed to place my right hand on Adeet’s right forearm. My husband had to repeat a list of gods’ names, and I listened carefully to see how many I could recognize. I caught Lakshmi, the goddess of good fortune, but the other names were unfamiliar to me. Soon it was time for us to approach the front of the temple, where worshipers had waited to give their offerings. A crowd of people, anxious after waiting so long in line, shoved me forward, and Adeet fell behind. When he made his way to me, we hurried to the front and quickly peered down at Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva before impatient pilgrims pushed us back toward the door.

Adeet and I were relieved to be outside, away from the fervent crowds. The guru led us to his home, a clean, quiet flat with a plant-lined terrace and open windows overlooking the dusty village streets. My husband and I sat on a wooden swing suspended from the ceiling, while the guru gave my father-in-law his business card. When we left, we headed to a bathing area where water from the Godavari River fills a shallow pool. It is said that bathing in the sacred Godavari cleanses a person from sin. Shank asked us to step into the water. I rolled up the bottom of my silk churidar to keep the purifying waters from staining my trousers and then quickly dipped my feet into the pool. Adeet was more hesitant and needed some convincing before he reluctantly stepped into the water. Once Adeet and I finished the rituals, we went back to honeymooning, taking photos and admiring the scenery.


On Christmas Day, we drove up into the mountain village of Vani with Shank and several other relatives to visit the Saptashrungi temple. The devi, or goddess, Bhagavati is said to live in Saptashrungi—“seven mountain peaks.” The temple is tucked into a mountain, at the top of 500 steps. I joined in the barefoot climb to the top, declining a lift in a long-handled doli. We entered the temple to find a number of people already waiting to see the goddess. The Christmas holiday had allowed more pilgrims than usual to visit this Hindu site, a benefit of a cross-cultural calendar. As we waited in line, two of the women in our group prepared an offering to the goddess: a green sari, a coconut, flowers, sweets, and rice, all carefully balanced on a metal plate. I watched this with interest, but then the tray was thrust into my hands. I had gone from being a spectator to suddenly taking the lead role.


When we neared the front of the temple, a guru took us to the side, away from the line of pilgrims. Adeet and I sat with him on the floor and repeated the type of ritual we had done the day before. There were several differences. This time we threw rice at the goddess, who stared wild-eyed, her 18 arms fanned out around her body. One of Adeet’s cousins told me the goddess’s image had appeared naturally in the stone. The devi no longer sported a natural look, however, since devotees had painted her body bright orange and given her black, dilated pupils. The sari we had brought was draped across her stone body, and I identified with a goddess who appreciated new clothes.

Temple workers escorted Adeet and me to a side room, where men wrapped an orange shawl around my husband’s shoulders. They led us to the goddess and instructed us to place our foreheads on her kumkum-smeared stone altar. Then we returned to the main temple area, our faces and hair streaked with vermilion powder. Shank considered this altar call auspicious and remarked that he had never been so close to the goddess. How then had I found my way to this devi?

Adeet and I stepped back, staring at the stone idol. “Ask the goddess for whatever you want, and she will grant it,” someone told me. What should I ask of a goddess I had only recently met? Should I focus on the greater good and request an end to poverty, so much of which I’d recently witnessed in Mumbai? Or could I risk impertinence and ask for personal wealth and fame? Perhaps it would be best to simply demur, “Really, I don’t need anything. Whatever you’d like to give me would be lovely.”

As we descended the 500 steps, Adeet and I both stopped to gaze at the Ghat Mountains. I understood why a goddess would want to live in these peaks, above the fields and villages, where even auto-rickshaws couldn’t reach and smog and petrol fumes didn’t choke the air.


The day after Christmas we traveled to Maral, the rural village where my father-in-law lived as a young boy. There is a small, brightly painted temple on his brother’s farm. Statues of the elephant god Ganesha and a small cow flank a figure of a family ancestor. We had come to ask the patriarch’s blessing. The guru obtained for this ceremony was annoyed because we had arrived late, and he grew impatient when I forgot to keep my right hand on Adeet’s right forearm. I felt emotionally exhausted from the previous pujas and wanted time to process the experiences of the past few days. As we sat on the temple floor, I fixated on a small black bug inching toward us and hoped it would find its way outside. During the puja, Adeet and I had to walk clockwise three times around the temple. As we turned a corner and faced a wheat field, I lingered before returning inside. I would have preferred watching the sun glance off the grain, but we had to go back, where the black bug still crept across the temple floor and Shank insisted it was safe for Adeet to drink the milky liquid the guru poured into his cupped palm. When we finished the rituals, the guru blessed us, but not without scolding Adeet for our late arrival. He then sped off on his motorbike, the wind catching his white khurta.


I had started the trip as a tourist but ended it as a pilgrim. I did not know the significance behind all the rituals or the list of gods’ names my husband recited, but I had caught glimpses of the divine—in the mountains, in the wheat fields, and in many of the people who welcomed me into their homes. And after climbing 500 temple steps, I did know what to ask the devi. But that’s between the two of us.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh
(except photo of Godavari River bathing area, by Kate Deshmukh)

Snake Gods

The narrator of Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss complains about English writers writing about India, for “delirium and fever somehow went with temples and snakes and perverse romance, spilled blood, and miscarriage; it didn’t correspond to the truth.” Although temples did form an integral part of my Indian experience, I felt confident that none of the other “exotic” themes would feature in my travels. My husband, Adeet, and I had posed with a snake charmer and his cobra outside Jaipur’s City Palace. However, we knew this was a tourist attraction, more stereotype than archetype. I certainly didn’t intend for snakes to slither their way into my narrative. Then we went to Kerala.

Kerala is a small sliver of the subcontinent, a chili-shaped piece of land along the southwestern coast. The state is known as “God’s Own Country,” and although the appellation is derived from Hindu mythology, there are enough churches, mosques, and synagogues for worshipers to interpret “God” from a variety of theological angles. Kerala might also earn its heavenly reputation from its rich biodiversity. Mountains are carpeted with tea plantations, and tigers and elephants roam nature preserves. Tourists lounge aboard kettuvallams, Chinese-style houseboats, on a series of lagoons and canals known as the Backwaters. There are rain forests, too, where the infamous king cobra builds its nests.

Adeet and I traveled from Mumbai, Maharashtra to Thrissur, Kerala by the Konkan Railway. Our train tickets proclaimed “150 Years of Glorious Service,” but any glory was lost on me as I battled a cockroach infestation in our compartment. I ended up spending much of the 20-hour journey sitting in the open door of the train car. This is where the railway redeemed itself. Although I quickly grew sooty from the swirling dust and diesel fumes, I had a view unavailable from the tinted windows of our air-conditioned berth. The winter-parched countryside of Maharashtra eventually gave way to Kerala’s green rice paddies and coconut groves. Women with saris draped above their knees worked in the fields, and children waved as we chugged past their homes.

We disembarked in Thrissur and our host, Mr. Nair, drove us to the nearby village of Urakam. When we reached his home, he suggested in Indian vernacular that we “get fresh.” After a shower and nap we felt less train-lagged and were ready to go exploring. We walked with Mr. Nair down palm-lined streets and visited Krishna and Kali temples. I had seen people grow openly emotional in a Krishna temple in Mumbai, but Mr. Nair acted quietly respectful, as much tour guide as disciple. That evening we stood on his rooftop terrace and listened as he explained Kerala’s history of matrilineal descent. The state is unique in India for having a high female-to-male ratio, a reflection of the valued position women enjoy in Keralan society.

If we had left Urakam then, my lasting impression would have been of the village’s numerous coconut palms and of our host’s pride in his state’s history. However, before Adeet and I left for Athirappilly Falls, the next stop on our south Indian journey, Mr. Nair wanted to show us his childhood home. We walked to the large, multi-level house where he and an extended family of cousins grew up, and where his mother still lives. He took us to the backyard, a shady area of palm trees, and showed us a small temple set up in a clearing. Six snake gods sat coiled on the altar. I knew these were stone cobras but still felt wary of their flared hoods. The calmness Mr. Nair had shown at the temples the previous day was replaced with an intensity bordering on urgency. “Do namaste,” he requested. Adeet and I both folded our hands and bowed toward the altar. “Now circle the temple,” our host said. “If you don’t show the proper respect,” he explained, “you will have bad dreams about snakes.”

After my turn around the temple, I asked Mr. Nair if his devotion provides him protection. He told me that although snakes have bitten several of his family members, none of them died from the attacks. His temple allows him to exert a degree of control in an environment that might otherwise threaten him. The snake gods are confined to a walled-off altar, perhaps indicating the boundaries that both snakes and people must observe to coexist.

As Adeet and I continued our travels, we learned that snakes play a significant role in Keralan mythology. The tongue-twisting name of Kerala’s capital city, Thiruvananthapuram, refers to an important snake god. Snakes even insinuate themselves into boat racing. Every year the Backwaters teem with long snake boats, characterized by serpentine prows, that glide down the canals and lakes. I often thought of Mr. Nair’s snake gods and began to see how they fit into this cultural context. I realized, too, that my walk around the temple had taught me a lesson that’s as valuable in New York City as it is in Kerala: Respect what might hurt you, but don’t let its lethal potential overwhelm you. After all, the snake gods might raise their regal heads not to menace, but to bless.


photos by Adeet Deshmukh