Tree's made

There are no sleigh bells ringing. It's just the sound of the wedding brass band at the illegal wedding hall around the corner. For not only is Christmas coming, it's also the marriage season! An important part of the marriage ceremony is the Baraat, or marriage procession. This is where the groom, in his wedding finery, rides a white horse, often for the first time in his life, to meet the bride at the wedding venue. To keep him company, and possibly give suggestions to the amateur equestrian on how to ride the horse, his friends and relatives and a brass band (including men with gas powered chandeliers on their heads so everyone can see where they are going) follow him. I am sure the bride's heart swells with joy when she hears the band. Ours, however, do not, because it generally means the band is going to block the road for at least half an hour and cause traffic chaos! And they're going to be playing "Man Dole Mera Tan Dole", a huge hit from 1954. Possibly more than once. Who can tell...

Today we put up the Christmas Tree. Longtime followers of this blog will note it is much bigger than last year's tree. Rod and I discussed whether we should put some of the Diwali lights on the tree. We felt considering the high standard to which they had been manufactured (not!) we could be pushing our luck. The fire engine's not going to be able to get past the band...

A mighty big quilt

Just to prove I am still quilting I thought I'd show you the latest quilt I've finished. It belongs to Anju from my quilt group, and is the largest quilt I've done on my new 10ft table. The top was 93" by 101". Rod had to unscrew the rubber endstop so I could park the machine clear of the backing. Even with it gone I only just cleared the needleplate. It's one of Anju's smaller quilts, and she only made it that small because I told her I couldn't quilt it if she made it any bigger. You can get away with saying things like this when you're the only longarm quilter in the country!

Christmas cards - tick!

Today I wrote and sent my Christmas cards. Was this an exercise in futility, as the cards are unlikely to ever reach their destinations, or a reaffirmation of the "glass half full" optimist in me? I suppose time will tell!

Writing the cards wasn't difficult. I admit to not putting too much blood, sweat and tears into the messages inside, after all, there's no guarantee they'll ever get to someone who can read English, let alone the person named on the envelope! I had a dozen to do, and Rod six. He barely manages to write cards to more than his immediate family each year, and getting him to complete this task always feels like drawing blood to me. He asked if I needed him to write a little letter to go in the cards. I want to post them today, I replied, which was the answer he wanted, and within an hour we were done. This was really good going, I mean, it was still December 11th. I don't think getting the cards done had ever been so quick, or pain free. Then Raju and I drove to the post office. Things went downhill here...

We've used the post office in Sarojini Nagar before. It looked like a relic from the 1960's, which, on previous visits, was when it last appeared to have been painted. But it was a relatively efficient and straightforward post office, much more orderly than the one I used in Gurgaon once. Some of the cards I sent last year even reached their destinations. But this year...well...someone had taken a big pot of paint to the building and spruced it up. It was white and shiny, with red trim and a white, gleaming floor. Unfortunately, the improvement in the surroundings was matched by a decrease in the service provided...

When they painted the hoardings above the counters they forgot to paint in which counter did what. In the past there was a counter for stamps, one for parcels and international mail, one for postal orders and railway ticket bookings. Every post office has a counter for railway ticket bookings. No idea why, they just do. There were still three counters, but no indication which counter was the right one. The tellers behind the counters weren't very interested in explaining which queue was the right one. Actually the tellers behind the counters weren't interested in doing very much at all. The soldier, the uni student, the three wideboys (one wearing pinstripe trousers), the man trying to get a postal order filled, a couple of regular guys, Raju and me were left trying to get served at a post office which looked like it was trying to shut up shop for the night, even though there were still four and a half hours of trading time left, if the newly painted sign on the wall was anything to go by. We queued at one counter for a while, then the teller packed up her bags and left. So we all shuffled to the next counter and waited. The teller here was working, but not really working. He certainly wasn't serving anyone. Then he sold a stamp to the soldier, I suppose it's important to get him out of the post office and back on the streets. If he's in the post office he can't pick up Pakistani terrorists, which according to Raju are everywhere.

Now that the soldier has gone, Raju, not really one for authority figures, has managed to get to the front of the queue, if it could be called one. The queue doesn't form in an orderly fashion, single file, back from the counter. It sprawls along the counter, a barrier to keep the masses away from the stamps the post office isn't trying very hard to sell. But Raju is dead centre, and waving my 18 envelopes. Raju asks how much to post to Britain and Australia. The teller hears, clocks he might have to do a little bit of work to determine the correct answer, and decides to serve the uni student. Raju persists, and the teller takes my card and weighs it. Rather than finish with my transaction, he begins to serve the wideboy with the pinstripe trousers. Money, Ma'am, Raju says, in the hope that flashing some notes will help the teller work out what price the stamps need to be. He needs to tell me what it costs, Raju, I say. I can't get the money for him until he tells me how much it will be. Wideboy laughs. It is decided, I am not sure how, that postage will be 25 rupees for each of my cards. I have 18. If any of this discussion had been in English I could have done the sum for the teller far faster than he. Raju and the man trying to get the postal order filled tell the teller the stamps cost 450 rupees. He takes my money, serves one of the regular guys and gives me my change. I still don't have any stamps.

Raju turns to me and asks do I want to put stamps on every envelope. He hasn't posted many letters in his life. He'd never been inside a post office before I needed to send last year's Christmas cards. Then another discussion takes place, between Raju, the postal order guy and the teller. The only bit I understand is "panch" - five. "Panch panch", the good guys on my side of the counter keep repeating. Eventually teller guy either decides they do know what they're talking about, or decides he doesn't care if they're wrong, and gets out his sheet of stamps. It's a big sheet, 100 stamps, 10 rows of 10. With his finger he counts the rows across, and then the rows down. He carefully detaches the row at the bottom. I think, that's 10 stamps, I need another eight. But he counts the stamps across the sheet again (it's still 10) and counts the stamps down one side (now it's 9). He counts the stamps down the other side, just in case it's a different number. Is anyone shocked to know it isn't, it's 9 too? Then he keeps the strip of 10 and gives me the sheet of 90 stamps. It turns out he only has 5 rupee stamps, and I need five for each card, hence the "panch panch".

So Raju and I retire to a bench and I try to separate these poorly serrated stamps into strips of five for Raju to stick to the envelopes. I get the glue stick out of my bag. Indian stamps aren't very gummy, and UHU glue stick makes a much better bond. It makes it harder for the postal workers to peel the stamps off your letters once you've handed them over and left the post office, to be resold to the next customer. We both take turns making sure the stamps are well stuck to the envelopes. Then we take our nearly posted cards to the "delivery area" around the back. We get directed to the desk of the man who has the cancelling stamp. Once the stamps are cancelled they cannot be reused. This reduces their resale value somewhat, thus increasing the chances of the cards getting out of the post office. The man tells us to just leave them on the table, he's busy now and will cancel them later. He does not realise I've been in India for 18 months now, and I know this scam. We'll wait until they're done, I say loudly and clearly. Amazingly he gets less busy rather quickly, and cancels the stamps. Raju and I both counted each card, him in Hindi and me English, as they were cancelled to make sure each one was done. This is not our first experience of the Indian postal service...and we know at least some of their tricks!

So Christmas is coming. Maybe cards are coming too. Who knows!

Call in CSI, I need to dust for prints...

Isn't technology marvellous? Back in March, the Municipal Corporation of Delhi started tracking the attendance records of it's 127, 094 employees biometrically. When they turned up for work, they had to sign in with their biometric cards or give a thumbprint impression. What's remarkable is that in the last eight months, 22,853 of these employees failed to turn up for work once. Do you think it's possible these 23, 000 employees, who have paper records only, never really existed? The paper says, and I quote "there seems to be a scam as the MCD is spending 20 million rupees (more than a quarter of a million pounds) every year on the salaries of ghost employees". I'm not sure the phrase "seems to be " really sums up the situation fully...

The Mayor of Delhi has declared the introduction of the biometric cards a grand success. Not only has he found he employs 23,000 people fewer than he thought he did, those who do actually exist have become so much better at timekeeping. They are more punctual than they've ever been. Not only can they turn up in time now, they don't seem to need to work overtime either...

If you're happy and you know it clap your hands

But be careful if you're in India. It might be misinterpreted...

This afternoon, on the way to collect the kids from school, I saw something new...

When our car stops at red lights, I am used to people coming up to it, trying to attract my attention. Sometimes it's kids selling magazines; sometimes it's women, in dirty clothes and holding a baby partly clothed in rags; sometimes it's urchin children. They knock on the car window in the hope that I will pity them, wind down the window and give them some money. The urchin children usually repeat the mantra, "No Mama, No Papa, No Chapatti" (My friend Kehi tells me the correct reply to this is "No Country Club Membership"). But today the person trying to attract my attention didn't fit into any of these categories.

While waiting for the lights to change on Lodhi Road, a lady wearing a long woolen shawl walked elegantly down between the rows of cars. Her face and clothes were clean, she was wearing lipstick and her hair had been brushed. Between the fingers of her left hand she had notes folded lengthways, 10 rupees, 20 rupees, 50 rupees. Alongside every car she clapped her hands once. After she had passed our car, I asked Raju if she was a beggar. Yes Ma'am, he says, she's a beggar. But, I say to Raju, she doesn't look like a beggar, and she doesn't act like one. The beggars knock on the car window and, because we're white (therefore wealthy, and possibly a pushover), they wait until they are sure we won't give any money. Raju waits a moment. Ma'am, he says, she's not a beggar. And loading as much innuendo into his voice as he could muster he added, Ma'am, I think you know what she is.

Oh, I say, just a little surprised. I check my watch, it is 3pm. Isn't it early, I say, for the ladies of the night to be out? Raju replies with a laugh, Ma'am, she isn't a lady. *

The lights change and he drives on, still chuckling to himself. After a minute or so he looks in the rear view mirror, catching my eye. Ma'am, he says, she was fresh. I take this to mean not all the clapping ladies of Lodhi Road are as pretty, and wholesome looking, as this girl.

* However, I would put money on her being a woman. I've seen hijras (the Indian third gender, neither man nor woman) and this lady was incredibly feminine compared to them.

Lana's Bananas

I feel like I've fallen into Cafe World...

Today I've been attached to the stove, just like the little cartoon me in my Facebook Cafe, Lana's Bananas. While the little Lana cooked Triple Berry Cheesecake and Spitroast Chicken, the real Lana (a great deal bigger but still little, to be honest), cooked up a huge pot of basic meat sauce. I knew I was on to a good thing when the kids got home from school and rather than "School. Moan. Boring. Can I have some money?", Thalia's first words were "Mmm, smells like Bolognese". Not quite right, because I'd decided the first batch of basic sauce was going to be Chili Con Carne. Tonight, Matthew, I'm going to be... The freezer is now stocked with plastic containers, ready to be turned into Bolognese sauce or Shepherd's Pie relatively easily. And there was enough Chili made with the other portion of basic sauce to pop another family meal in the freezer as well. It's a little like trying to keep enough food available to serve in Cafe World. I'm not sure this qualifies as life imitating art, though...

Got a light?

Having dinner by candlelight is old hat. To be truly cutting edge, you have to cook it by candlelight! Okay, so it's not really a candle, rather our emergency light. But the effect is about the same...

We had a power outage just after 5pm. These outages are less frequent than they were in the peak of summer, and usually don't last more than five or so minutes. The longest ones are about an hour. But 6pm came and went, and the power still hadn't returned. I knew dinner, chicken and vegetable pie with a filo pastry topping, would need to cook for at least 45 minutes, so I couldn't risk leaving it much later. I'd found one packet of filo pastry in the supermarket, something I'd not seen since Tesco, July 2008, so nothing was going to get in the way of me using it. Not even not being able to see. So I took the emergency light into the kitchen so I could distinguish between my fingers and the vegetables. Luckily the hob and oven are gas, otherwise the lack of light wouldn't be my only problem! Power came back just as dinner was ready.