Rollin' On The River

Traffic in Delhi is very different from anything I ever saw in Arizona. I have been told that a former expat, who lived here until just over a year ago, once said that traffic in the US is like a production line in a factory while traffic in India is more like a river. Now, he was a pretty smart and eloquent guy, so I am sure it sounded a lot better when he said it, but the message is still true. It really doesn't matter where the lines are, whether or not there is a traffic light, or even if a small child is selling magazines in the middle of the road, everything just flows around it.

I have always loved people watching, and on the streets of Delhi there is always something to see. I have actually considered keeping a camera in the car to document some of the bizarre things we see everyday as we move about the city, but, just like Alice in Wonderland, although I give myself such very good advice, I very rarely follow it. Luckily, it seems that almost every electronic gadget has a camera in it, so we have caught a few good ones.

This first one is a video I stole from YouTube. It isn't here in Delhi, you can tell because if it was in Delhi there would be about a thousand more cars and several cows, but it is a good example of the free for all driving that is common here.

We were recently sideswiped by...

An ox cart! No lie.

This is a very common sight.

(See the leg from passenger number 4 poking out?

Don't even get me started on the whole side saddle thing!)

If you study very hard while you are here...

Perhaps you can land a job here!

Speaking of jobs, I don't see this one in my future.

(Of course with the market being the way it is, who knows?)

Despite the spelling being a little off, the thought of an automated mohel had

Mr. Smith crossing his legs.

Speaking of the spelling being off...

I hope you enjoyed our little show. Maybe I'll put that camera in the car after all.

P.S. I hope you like the special October pictures over on the left. Don't worry, I still hate Halloween.

"Things That Go CRASH In The Night" or "What Did You Say?!" as told by Mrs. Smith

It was a dark and stormy night, the wind howled angrily as lightening flashed across the sky. Suddenly, Mr. and Mrs. Smith heard a loud rumble followed by several ear splitting crashes! Knowing from experience that this could only mean that large stone tiles had fallen off the side of the house, Mrs. Smith ran out into the violent storm yelling, "Where is the guard?! Find the guard!" You see, Mrs. Smith secretly feared that one day a stone tile would fall and crush the poor guard who often placed his chair up against the house. Luckily the guard had taken refuge from the storm in the utility room and was safe and sound. "Thank goodness!" said Mrs. Smith.

A few days later some very nice men came to replace the broken tiles. Some other men brought large pieces of stone to be cut into tiles and still others brought a large pile of dirt to help make a magic glue that would hold those silly stones on the wall.

"But wait," one man said, "even this magic glue made of dirt will not hold these large pieces of stone up. We need something stronger."

"Hmmm..." said the men who brought the dirt.

"Hmmm..." said the men who brought the stone.

"Hmmm..." said the men who came to replace the broken tiles.

Finally someone came up with a brilliant idea. "Let us drill a hole...

in every corner...

of every tile...

over the whole house.

Then, we can put a post in every hole in every corner of every tile over the whole house to make it a very strong house indeed!"

"Yes, let's!" cried the men who brought the dirt.

"Yes, let's!" cried the men who brought the stone.

"Yes, let's!" cried the men who came to replace the broken tiles.

So, that is what they did. They drilled, and they drilled, and they drilled... and they drilled. Soon, people in the neighborhood began to wonder why that nice American family up the street all looked so cranky and why they were all plugging their ears, but mostly the people wondered why they had all developed eye ticks. "Those funny Americans," all the people exclaimed, "they really are too amusing! What would we do without them to entertain us with their crazy antics?"

The moral of this story is two fold. First, when living in India one should always own a reliable pair of ear plugs, and second, American Sign Language is awfully useful.

The End. (What? You couldn't hear me over all the drilling?)

The End!

The E... Oh forget it!

In the mean time, Skater Girl wants to make sure everyone knows that tiles aren't the only things that have been falling out of place aroung the Smith household.

Skater Girl's current stats: 5 teeth lost, 1 grown back, 1 loose.

Mrs. Smith's Wish List

I wish I didn't have to write this post. I knew several days ago that I was going to write it, but I put it off because it presented me with two problems: First, it deals in part with subjects that I have purposely avoided on this blog. Second, I find it difficult to write about the evil that men do.

I wish I was surprised. On Saturday evening a total of five bombs went off in three market places in Delhi. Markets that we like to visit, but luckily were nowhere near. More than 20 people were killed and many more injured. In the last year there have been bombings in several major cities around India, so it was only a matter of time before they hit Delhi. Actually, according to the local paper it has been going on for three years and it was in October of 2005, almost three years ago exactly, that Delhi had it's last large bombing. This latest one was claimed by the Indian Mujahideen who says the bombings were in retaliation for the oppression of Muslims in India.

Before we become too comfortable with our stereotypes, there is a group of militant Hindus that are causing just as much death and destruction in southern India. Everyday we read about beatings, stonings and church burnings. Those responsible say that their actions are in response to forced conversions of Hindus to Christianity. Obviously India is experiencing religious unrest on a large scale right now.

I wish my story ended there. It seems we are experiencing some religious unrest on a small scale in our neighborhood. My family belongs to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, also known as the Mormon church. For the first several months of our stay in India we attended church in Delhi. Eventually we were asked to hold meetings in our home. The hope was that having services outside of Delhi would make it easier for those who lived further out to attend. A few months ago we outgrew our living room and the church rented a building for us to meet in. I was excited about the new building because it was within walking distance of our home but not actually in our home. (The only thing harder than getting a bunch of kids up and ready for church is keeping your house spotless while you do it.) We knew that we might have some problems establishing a new Christian congregation in a country that is 80% Hindu, but we were still surprised when the problems started.

I wish violence was not a political tool. First it was our sign. Most Mormon buildings have a plaque on an outside wall identifying it as a church. Within 20 minutes of putting our plaque up, we received a call from our landlord saying that he was receiving complaints from the neighborhood watch group. We knew the sign fell well within the rules for signs in the neighborhood, but we also knew it was a fight we would not win, so we removed the plaque. Next came rumours about what our members and our missionaries were doing. The rumours were false, but I am sure they hit their mark before we were able to set the record straight.

Finally, last Sunday, as we were gathering, a woman approached the church and told those in front of our building that we had to stop holding meetings. According to her there were those that wished us harm. She claimed to have stopped two such people already. She assured us that if we tried to meet this coming week, the rocks would fly and she would be unable to stop them. After a little investigation into the situation, it appears that someone hopes to gain local political power by using the ousting of our small congregation as a rallying point.

I wish it wasn't true. Religion and violence seem to be linked, despite the fact that most religions preach against it. I wonder how much of it is justified and how much is caused by ignorance and misunderstandings. For example, I considered including three pictures at the top of this post. First, a picture of Ganesh, second, a picture of Jesus and third, a picture of Muhammad. As I looked for images I was surprised by how few pictures there were of Muhammad. The explanation I eventually found was this, Muslims don't have images of anything with a soul because it could lead to idolatry. If that is true, how many people might have I offended with my innocent banner?

I wish I didn't know. Now as I walk around the neighborhood I find myself wondering about the people I see. Would the boy who sells us bread throw a rock? Would the men who say hello to us in the park turn a blind eye? Would the women who smile and nod when we pass in the street come to defend my children? It hurts to think that the people with whom we have tried to become friendly, could turn to violence with a few emotionally charged phrases.

I wish I understood.

The Gangrene Gang

When Glamour Girl told me on Monday evening that her stomach was hurting, I must admit, I thought it was a ploy to postpone going to bed. Perhaps she had noticed that the phantom backache she had been complaining about for the past two months wasn't bringing in the sympathy that it used to, but as the night moved on and the tears continued, I started to doubt the accuracy of my "baloney" divining rod. I was never very good at using it anyway.

One skill I have acquired in my 17 years of motherhood is the ability to check for rebound pain. I knew one day that one of my children was going to develop appendicitis, and when they did, I was going to be ready. So when I quickly pulled my hand off of Glamour Girl's abdomen and she cringed big time, I knew it was show time. Mr. Smith came home from work only to turn right around and take us to the Emergency Room.

Unfortunately the hospital was full (as was the ER) and the doctor that looked at her wasn't totally convinced. Two hours later we were headed home for the night. When Glamour Girl vomited in the parking lot, we probably should have turned around, but the doctors had assured us that there was no emergency, and we were all exhausted, so we went home.

The following morning we woke up early and sang Happy Birthday to Book Lover who was turning 13. We could tell that Glamour Girl hadn't improved, so we passed out the gifts, we oo'd and ahh'd over them, then we headed back to the hospital. This time we were more determined. When they informed us at 9:30am that there were no hospital beds available we stuck like glue. When gurney after gurney was lined up next to Glamour Girl's, we stuck. When they continued to run tests and the afternoon got hotter, we stuck. Finally, finally, after standing in the ever shrinking spot next to our daughter for seven and a half hours, we were informed that there was a bed for her and surgery was scheduled for the next morning. Even then the surgeon came around and told us he still wasn't convinced because her pain wasn't very severe and it seemed to be all over the place.

I knew better. I knew that Glamour Girl had inherited a trait from me. She wants to please the people around her. This means that when she is sick she masks the pain in front of the doctor so he doesn't think she's a baby, and her need to give the right answer makes her overthink her response when the doctor asks "Does it hurt here? How about over here?" So... I coached her. I felt a little guilty, but at no time did I tell her to misrepresent her pain. Mostly I just said, "When the doctor comes in to check on you tomorrow morning, if it hurts when he pushes on your tummy, say 'Ow! That hurts!' Now, let's practice."

I guess our little practice session worked because Wednesday morning Glamour Girl was wheeled into the Operating Theater (despite it's fancy name, we were not allowed to watch and no popcorn was served). Mr. Smith and I were ushered into a small, stuffy waiting room.

Let's fast forward a little, shall we?

The surgery ran long enough that Mr. Smith and I had time to imagine all kinds of terrible things, but it was successful and Glamour Girl came through like a champ and slept for the rest of the day. On Thursday morning the surgeon came around to check on his patient and to inform Mr. Smith that it had indeed been appendicitis. When Mr. Smith told me that the words Acute Gangrenous Appendicitis and Acute Pelvic Peritonitis had been used, I no longer felt guilty for coaching. Gangrene is never a word a mother wants to have associated with her children (even the naughty ones) unless they are referring to the Gangreen Gang from The Powerpuff Girls, which is spelled differently, but pronounced the same.

On Saturday evening Glamour Girl was finally released with plenty of medication to take home. We were all glad to have her home safe and sound. Oh, and guess what? The phantom backache I had been rolling my eyes at for two months? It's gone. It seems to have left along with the gangrenous appendix. Great... now I feel guilty again.

I Say Humor, They Say Humour!

Humor is important to me, very important. It always has been. The truth is, in school, I always had a crush on the funny ones. Not necessarily the class clown, but the quiet, intelligent ones that made me laugh. For instance, in 5th grade I had a long term substitute teacher named Ms. Bennet, who will always be my most hated teacher because she was the only one that ever found it necessary to tell me to shut up. She actually used those words. I was crushed and humiliated. Luckily for me Jason Williams was sitting next to me that day. Jason Williams had blond curly hair, blue eyes and an awesome digital watch with a calculator in it. Justin Timberlake, only manly. As Ms. Bennet turned around to write a math problem on the board Jason leaned over and whispered, "See how she crosses her sevens? That's how the Nazi's wrote their sevens. I knew she was evil!" I giggled, and loved Jason Williams for the rest of the year.

As a mother it is always fun to see my children developing a sense of humor. This week Number One Son has returned home to us and brought a lot of laughter with him. Yesterday he was trying to shove his very slender sister, Glamour Girl, off the couch. He grunted and groaned and made a big show of it, then collapsed, exhausted. This is the exchange that followed.

• I can't move you, you're just too fat!


• It's my super power.


• So......you're super fat?


• It's more useful than you think.

See? I love that!

One of the problems we face here is that very few people understand our jokes. Those of you who know Mr. Smith can imagine how this kills him. Two years ago when just the two of us were here for a "take a look and see what you think" trip we had a beautiful guide named Ambika taking us around. Now, Mr. Smith loves any audience, but the number of jokes he tells per minute increases in direct relation to the hotness of the women around him. With Ambika in the car for 7 days he was in fine form. Jokes left and right on any subject, I half expected to see him pull out a hat and cane and begin to tap dance. But the best part? Poor Ambika didn't get a single joke. Not one. On one of our final days in India, after one more joke had failed to hit it's mark, Mr. Smith and I were sitting quietly in the middle seat of the van while Ambika was discussing our next stop with the driver in the front. I leaned over and whispered, "It's just killing you isn't?" "What?" he replied, defensively. "The fact that there is a beautiful woman in this car who doesn't think you are funny. Personally, I'm loving every minute of it!"



To be fair, Mr. Smith is not the only one who has suffered. We Smith's tend to think of ourselves as fairly funny people and we find it disconcerting to live in a country where the majority of the people just don't get us. Number One Son was recently visiting Red Fort with Mr. and Mrs. Jones (our summer visitors) and a sweet, intelligent, young woman from around here named Leeza. Number One Son and Mr. Jones were lamenting the fact that, by and large, Indians did not understand sarcastic humor. Leeza took exception to this and defended her countrymen, and their sense of humor, admirably. Number One Son and Mr. Jones apologised and politely let the subject drop...for about 30 seconds, at which point Number One Son looked at the acres of red stone buildings around him and asked, "So why do they call this 'Red Fort' anyway?" Leeza, suspecting nothing, immediately answered, "Because the stones used to build the fort are red in color." Really?

Today Is Raksha Bandhan!

After we had been in here for a while we noticed that Indians celebrate a lot of holidays. I mean A Lot. So many that they all start to slide by in a blur that hardly catches your attention. Raksha Bandhan is not one of those holidays. Right from the start you can tell that this is an important day.

In a nutshell, today is the day that sisters honor and express their love for their brothers. If a woman is married and lives in a different town, she will often leave her husband's family's house and go back to her parent's house for the few days surrounding this holiday. (Personally I think this has a lot to do with the popularity of the holiday, but that's just me.) You can easily spot the brothers that have been honored by their sisters because they are wearing a Rakhi. Go ahead. You can ask. Remember, their are no dumb questions. (Mrs. Smith, what is a Rackhi?) I'm so glad you asked! According to Raksha-Bandhan.com - A Rakhi or Raksha is a sacred thread embellished with sister's love and affection for her brother. On the day of Raksha Bandhan sisters tie Rakhi on their brother's wrist and express their love for him. By accepting a Rakhi from a sister a brother gladly takes on the responsibility of protecting his sister. In Indian tradition the frail thread of Rakhi is considered stronger than iron chains as it binds brothers and sisters in an inseparable bond of love and trust. Nice, huh?

Last year on this day, during a normal conversation at the office, a young lady asked Mr. Smith how he was doing. "Oh Shashi," he said, "I am so sad today because I have no sisters." Immediately the young women told him to come over to her desk. When he arrived she pulled out a Rakhi and tied it around his wrist. "From now on, I will be your sister!" she declared, and thus, Mr. Smith gained a beautiful (you'll see what I mean in a minute) new sibling.

So today, being Raksha Bandhan again, Mr. Smith's sister, Shashi, invited the two of us to her parent's home to celebrate.

First She Blessed Him

Then She Decorated Him

Then She Fed Him

(just one bite, cuz, well, that could get awkward)

We had a wonderful time, although it made me miss my own two brothers a bit. They are both tall and handsome and provided me with lots of fun stories to tell about my childhood. Someone told me that one of my older sisters who was still single at the time (I won't tell which one) once said that none of the boys she met had turned out as well as her brothers. High praise indeed. On a whim a couple of weeks ago I actually bought them each a Rakhi, but I couldn't think of a reasonable way to get them to Arizona in time. So, for now, they will have to settle for a virtual Rakhi. I'll let them decide who's is who's. No fighting!

Good Grief!

I seem to be channeling Charlie Brown this week. You would too, in my position.

While in the US last month Mr. Smith and I were under a bit of pressure. Grandpa Smith hadn't decided whether or not he was going to "go into the light" and each day he seemed to lean a different direction. Grandma Smith was doing better, but still not great. I was on large amounts of pain killers and looked liked I had lost a fight with a car grill (which I had) and our kids were cranky because they were spending a lot of time babysitting each other and not much else. Then came The Letters. Dun dun duuuuuh!

Mr. Smith and I each received our own copy of a letter from our old friends at the Eye. Are. Ess., if you know what I mean. (Sorry for the code but there is no way Google is going to get me on that one!) It seems that our mid-April bill collector wanted to take a closer look at our numbers for the year 2006. Particularly the number of dependants.

What? Isn't seven kids the norm?

Oddly enough the same thing happened last year. We received a letter asking for the same information for 2005. We called the gentleman assigned to our case and explained to him that we couldn't make our scheduled appointment with him, and we certainly couldn't bring our kids and the documents to prove they had lived with us in 2005, because we were currently living in India and most of our documents would be living in a storage pod for two more years. We all had a good chuckle, he approved our 2005 return and the case was closed.

Until this year. Once again we crossed our fingers and called the woman assigned to our new case, hoping to have the same pleasant, yet short, conversation. No such luck. She was very understanding about our situation and agreed that we couldn't show up in person...however, she still wanted us to magically produce documents proving that our seven little deductions existed, were ours, had the Social Security Numbers we said they did, and had lived at the same address we did during 2006. Lovely.

(Excuse me for a moment while I compose myself and control the urge to rant and rave against a very powerful agency in very a public forum.)

So, this week we have spent hours upon hours searching, scanning, emailing and faxing every scrap of paper that has a child's name and a 2006 date on it and generally trying not to have a nervous breakdown. I think we may have pulled it off.

Until next year.