Toto’s family home is made up of various immediate and extended family members. Because I come from a fairly small clan (I think I have twelve relatives in the world, and that includes two I’ve never met), I am fascinated by big, rambling families, especially when they all live under one roof. The household includes: his mother, Alka, his grandmother, his aunties Moon and Rita, uncle Good-do, cousins Koko and Jojo and his sister Kiki.
Alka, is a government social worker, and all-round mensch. When she was in labour with Toto, Alka had to walk ten miles to the nearest hospital. This was in 1984, just after the assassination of Indira Gandhi, and there was mass Anti-Sikh violence in the streets, so she had to hop over all sorts of limbs and dead bodies on her less-than-merry way. And this was just one of many astonishing stories.
Toto’s family on his mother’s side are Brahmins - the highest Hindu caste - but his father was from a Kshatriya family, the Warrior caste (It’s all very Mulan.. she said, well-informedly). When Toto’s parents separated, and after much hand-wringing and bridge-mending, Alka, Toto and Kiki moved back into the family home.
Toto’s maternal Grandmother doesn’t speak much English, and to say that my Hindi has room for improvement would be delusional at best, so our relationship didn’t progress much beyond smiling at each other benignly. In her beautiful saris (mostly lilac or robin’s egg blue), she would sit in the same chair all day, sometimes gossiping and sharing the news of the day with whichever family member happened to pass by. She was positively offended if we ate less than ten chapati in one sitting.
Moon, Toto’s aunt, is the CEO of the TARA Project (Trade Alternative Reform Action) and his other aunt, Rita, has tuberculosis of the spine, so her doctor told her she has to stay in bed for a whole year. When we arrived she was three months in, and suffering from terrible anxiety, so her husband Good-do stayed at home with her almost all the time. When we were talking about it one morning (his eyes bright red from not winking) he said ‘When you think about it long and carefully, then you understand that family comes first.’
The family employs a security guard, a driver, cook, a general servant, and a lady to do their laundry. This was as much out of civic duty - the desire to give jobs to people poorer than themselves - as it was for comfort. Being a Brahmin family, only Hindus were allowed in the kitchen (although apparently Ellie and I would have been allowed, because we are white). The food we had in the house was fairly simple - perfect for our delicate western tummies - and very tasty. Rice with peas and beans for breakfast, with coffee, Coffee Mate and sugar. For lunch and dinner there would be lots of roti (plate after plate, brought in by Prakash (their very smiley servant, who was always listening to his iPod), and Dhal, with pickled lemon rind and mango, or potato curry and mint chutney. Then perhaps some fresh melon for pudding.
The day we arrived was the general election, so India now has a new prime minister - Narendra Modi. Everyone in the family went out to vote so they all had a brown ink stain on their middle finger nail, which is the proof of voting. When they proudly showed it, it looked like they were giving everyone the finger. This was endlessly amusing to me, because I’m so mature and culturally sensitive.
On our second day (having accidentally slept away the first - living each day like it’s my last, as per usual) we went into Old Delhi to see the Red Fort - the huuuuge red sandstone building with an enormous moat which was the home of the Mughal emperors for almost 200 years, and one of the iconic symbols of India. Thank you, sign outside the Red Fort. Although I added the ‘huuuuge’ bit myself, for emphasis. There were tourists there from all over India, but no other white folks, so we were peered at quite a bit. Even in our kurtas and leggings - kindly lent to us by Alka - Ellie and I didn’t blend in.
A pop-up temple outside the Red Fort. Apparently once a temple has been erected, nobody is allowed to take it down, regardless of its location.
We spent much of the day wandering around the markets in Old Delhi. We went to Cannaught Place, Lutyen’s Delhi, Chandni Chowk, Jamamasjid, and Lajpatnagar. I realise that it’s a total cliché to say this, but the assault on the senses is really something I hadn’t experienced before. The streets are alive with the sound of … cars and autos (automated rickshaws) honking. It was just constant. Toto: ‘Some honks are angry, some are saying ‘Get out of the way or I’ll run you down!’, some are simply ‘Hello!’ honks’. My favourites were the Hello! honks. It was incredibly dusty (lots of lovely black snot at the end of the day) and the smells made the Jorvic centre seem positively fragrant. Having said that, the smells weren’t just bad - there was also a lot of heady incense and perfumes from the tiny pop-up temples everywhere, as well as heavily spiced food, carts of fruit piled up in vast quantities - especially melons, papayas, berries and slices of coconut - and stations selling sweet fried dough everywhere. That evening, Ellie said ‘I don’t know why, but my shirt smells like a fig newton that’s been left in the sun too long. That’s the only way I can think to describe it.’ This was eerily accurate.
Sari (not Sari) - that would work better if I had an American accent.
There were more stray dogs than I had ever seen, some wandering around, others just dozing in the streets, and there were people - both workers and beggars (including lots of tiny children) - napping wherever there was shade. For me this definitely fell into the category of things where you can’t look but you can’t look away. The most popular street drink in Delhi is lemons squeezed into water and mixed with heaped spoonfuls of both salt and sugar. Good for dehydration apparently, but as Western Weaklings we couldn’t drink the pump water. Although it is worth noting that these so-called lemons were actually limes! They call lemons limes and limes, lemons! Now I’ve heard everything.
We went to a very well known restaurant called Al-wahar for lunch. Toto told me that although this was one of his favourite spots, his cousins and grandma would never eat there because as it was a muslim restaurant, the would be considered impure. Impure or no, I tucked in. I had the most delicious naan bread there I’ve ever had in my life. Not even Peshawari naan (my top favourite naan, as you probably all know if you’ve been following my naan preferences over the years) just regular naan, guys! The mind boggles.
After lunch we did some more exploring, and I bought some excellent and extremely voluminous pink trousers, and we were home again in time for dinner - roti, dhal, curried potatoes and cauliflower, with sliced watermelon for pudding. It was no regular naan, but still very delicious. I learnt how to use my chapati as a lil scooper for curries and so on. I may or may not have spilt some on my first attempt. And my second and third attempts, but who’s counting?
One quite funny thing (as in odd, not ha ha, but perhaps a little bit of both) was when Alka knocked over a jug of water on the table - Ellie and I both rushed to get the kitchen roll, but she said 'Nono! We just sweep it onto the floor.’ So we spent a good five minutes just sweeping and sloshing all the water onto the floor. Then Good-do came in, and was quite surprised to find himself paddling around the living room.
A little snickleway in Old Delhi and some v good advice.
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