Mary's Boy Child, Jesus Christ

Was born on Christmas Day. He was. Truly. Because if we were unsure about the order of events, the restaurant in the Galaxy Hotel, Gurgaon, was prepared to set us straight. We arrived at 1.15, a full 15 minutes later than our booking (see, we're making small inroads into that Indian timekeeping thing), to discover there was only one other couple at the restaurant, and they weren't ready to eat yet. As we walked in, Boney M were singing Mary's Boy Child. We were shown to our seats, funky white leatherette numbers and asked if we'd like mineral water. Now water is essential during the summer to prevent dehydration, but it's now winter, and it's a whole 21 degrees celcius. 21 degrees shouldn't feel cold, but in Delhi 21 degrees feels as cold as 26 degrees feels a bit warmer than pleasant in London. Strange that. Anyway, it's Christmas, and we decide we should have wine. We've never ordered wine in a restaurant in India before, because we've never seen a bottle on the wine list that cost less than 3,000 rupees. That's more than £40 ($63 USD/$100 AUD). We ask to see the wine list, and are pleasantly surprised to be told red or white imported wine is included in the buffet price. Red, we chorus. The wine guy (sommelier is surely a step too far) proudly shows us the label, and boasts it's French, Piat d'Or. We've never drunk Piat d'Or by choice before, because in Tesco we could buy it for £3.69 a bottle. But we're not shopping in Tesco, we're in Delhi, so Piat d'Or is perfect. Rod and I smile at each other, and to the sounds of Boney M's Mary's Boy Child, go up to the buffet for our cold first course (smoked salmon, salami, mozzarella and tomato slices, crudites). The first course is perfect. So the wine guy refills our wine glasses and while Boney M sings Mary's Boy Child, we go up to fill our plates with Roast Turkey, cranberry sauce, brussel sprouts, baby carrots, asparagus, broccoli and garlic fried potato cubes. We sit down, and Rod remarks the music selection is a little limited. They're playing Mary's Boy Child every second song he says. Are they, I answer, what's the other song? Upon reflection, all four of us cannot name the other song they're playing between Mary's Boy Child. We then come to the conclusion that the only Christmas song they own is Mary's Boy Child. If only I had one of my Christmas compilations in the car, then we could inject a little variety into the mix - Cliff Richard, anyone?

The restaurant manager comes over to ask us how we're enjoying our meal. Thalia turns to him, smiles, flashes her not quite 12 year old blue eyes and asks, do you have any other music to play? He leaves, and once Mary's Boy Child has come to the end, we hear the opening chords to Johnny Mathis' "When A Child is Born". Result! But before Johnny gets to do more than hum, he is replaced by Boney M singing Jingle Bells. Boy they like Boney M at the Galaxy Hotel.

We finish up with a third glass of wine and the dessert selection. Mince Pies, Plum Pudding, Yule Log, Butterscotch Cream Parfait, Bitter Chocolate Slice, Chocolate Pyramids sprinkled with flaked almonds, Sugar Free Strawberry Cream Choux Buns. Because it's important to show a little restraint.

The bill came to 1,400 rupees a person, extremely good value. Our only complaints: well, as nice as they are, garlic fried potato cubes are no substitute for roast potatoes...and I've now heard enough Boney M to last me a lifetime!

If at first you don't succeed...

...or third time's a charm.

Regular readers will know I've spent a fair bit of time searching for a number of things over the last couple of weeks. There was one more thing I needed, and I'm happy to say this time I found it!

One of the things that signifies Christmas for Rod is Mince pies. We're probably lucky that as a family we don't need snow, or chestnuts roasting on an open fire, to make it feel like Christmas. Because judging by how much effort went into finding the mince pies, I'm glad I didn't have to source snow in New Delhi.

Rod loves mince pies. For the benefit of those who are unaware of the constituents of this traditional Christmas fare (I remember Kate's mum, Kathy, said they "weren't big in America"), mince pies don't contain minced meat any more. Instead the filling is a combination of raisins, apple, candied fruits, suet and, in the better mixes, alcohol. I can’t abide mince pies, because of that list, I only like apples... and alcohol. So I tried all the usual expat shops, as they were my best bet. None of the shops had boxes of mince pies on sale. So I decided I'd make some. I thought I'd buy a jar of mincemeat and make my own pastry. The internet has lots of recipes. I need lard for the pastry. Obviously pigfat is really easy to find in India (not!) so I search on lard substitutes. A vegan chat site tells me I should use Crisco. Chances of finding Crisco in New Delhi, only slightly better than that of finding lard, but another website tells me I can substitute the lard with butter, but the pastry won't be as light. Thought that counts, I think, so I'm happy with the pastry plans. So on my next expedition to all the expat shops I try to find a jar of mincemeat. Americans, do not be embarrassed you were unaware of the constituents of mincemeat. The look on the face of the assistant in Le Marche tells me you are not alone. Why was I not convinced he understood that mincemeat has no minced meat in it... So I decide I'll have to make my own mincemeat. Back to the net. I find a mincemeat recipe and I just know while I can probably find a substitute for the Bramley apples, suet is going to be tricky. Because if finding pigfat is hard in India, the dense fat which surrounds beef kidneys is going to be a breeze to track down, right?

So I decided I might have to admit defeat. But yesterday, on a tip off from Alison, Rhiannon's Mum (Rhiannon is Keir's best friend at school), I found some. So Rod got an early Christmas present...and I got the chance to put a tick next to one of the things on my list...finally!

Mince pies. There were six, but not by the time I took this photo!

Banned Aid- Do They Know it's Christmas?

All I was trying to do, Officer, was buy a Christmas present for my husband. I wasn't trying to incite civil unrest, honest. I wasn't trying to purchase illegal goods, either.

Rod's never easy to buy for, hey what man is? So when I worked out there was something he could use, something he often spoke of wanting but hadn't purchased yet, I was really pleased with myself. I'd buy him an Atlas for Christmas. Then every time we had one of those conversations about how far away such and such a country was, we'd have a reference book to look it up in. Last week, for example, it was Mozambique and Belize. Can you see how the atlas came to mind?

So, while I was searching (unsuccessfully) for the perfect diary last week, I was also checking out the Atlases. As it turns out, that was also an unsuccessful quest. I did find a few, but they were all school atlases, and much more juvenile than I wanted. This was a present for my husband, and I like him too much to hand him a kid's book for Christmas. I mean, what subliminal message does that give? Ever so helpful assistants would show me, after I told them I wanted a grown up atlas, a book described on the cover as an atlas. Inside, in a book obviously designed for an 11 year old, were lots of facts of the type used in school projects, and outline maps of countries. The maps didn't show which countries were next to each other, or the size of the countries in relation to each other. I remember handing in a project when I was 11 and I drew a map like that. My teacher, Mrs Anstee, commented that the map looked like a fried egg and was as useful as one. You can't tell where it is in the world, she said, and if you can't tell that, it's not a good map. I don't remember what country my project was on, but I remembered the lesson for 30 years. She was right, of course,so I couldn't buy those atlases. I told them I wanted a traditional atlas that showed maps: Collins; Oxford; Readers Digest. They look on their high, dusty shelves and shake their heads. So off to the next bookshop I trudge.

On Wednesday at Galleria, I asked for an atlas for an adult, one that had more maps in it than other text. The lady says "Maps of India?" "No", I reply, "the world. I want the world!" She laughed, and told me with an attitude like that I'd get what I asked for. She was wrong. She offered to order a Collins atlas for me, I could collect it Monday. Well, today's Monday, and the atlas has not arrived. "The weekend happened", she told me. No Sh*t Sherlock, that catches me out all the time too!

There's another bookshop at Galleria, so rather than wait for an atlas to arrive at a bookshop that seems surprised by the concept of a weekend, I thought I'd try there. They had the usual kid type atlases, but understood completely the kind of atlas I wanted (one with maps, perchance!). The man there offered to get one in for me. He even understood that I wanted it in time for Christmas. This afternoon he phoned me. There's bad news. He can't get me a Collins, Oxford or Readers Digest atlas, because the Indian Government has banned them. The Government doesn't agree on the where some of the borders have been drawn (that'll be Jammu and Kashmir then), so the atlases are illegal. It just might be possible, he says, to find an edition published in 2005. They're not banned. It's only the ones printed 2006 or later that are banned. Having trawled most of the bookshops in Gurgaon already, I know there aren't any Collins, Oxford or Readers Digest atlases out there. I could buy a contraband atlas on Amazon and get it sent here. Or I could go to Pakistan and buy one there. If the Indian Government's complaining about the borders, it's fair to assume the Pakistanis are fairly pleased with them!

'tis the season to be jolly

Because today was the last day of the school term and my alarm clock won't need to be set again until 11th January! Fa la la la la, la la la la! Nothing's going to get me up early for the next three weeks, apart from the milkman ringing the doorbell when he leaves the milk (why does he do this in winter when it's cold in the mornings when he didn't do it in summer, when it wasn't?), the rubbish collector checking we want the rubbish taken away (hello, why did you think we put that big black garbage bag there?), and Malina the cleaner, who is supposed to start at 10am. I say supposed to start, because the Malina Unpredictability Factor has kicked in and she's taken to turning up early more often than not. Sometimes even an hour early. My kids won't get me up early, they know better...

I'm trying to make it a date...

Yesterday I tried to buy a 2009 diary. It seemed like a good thing to do, what with Christmas being just around the corner (hoteliers - please take note!). But it fell into that category of things that is "Just Harder Than It Should Be". Tragically, this category is just bigger than it should be too. You can’t browse in a shop this country, it’s imperative that someone has to help you. Unfortunately the people trying to help you often know less about the product they are trying to explain to you, than you would, if only you’d been left alone long enough to turn it over and read what’s on the back. So I’m faced with a table of 2009 diaries. They’re all A4 or larger. And leather, or plastic to look like leather. And they have one day to a page, broken up into hourly slots. Now it might surprise you, but my life isn’t anywhere near as busy as all that. I've seen the speed at which most Indians do things, trust me, their lives aren't either. What I want is A5 size or smaller, one week to a page or one week spread over two pages. My 2008 diary, given to me last Christmas by Miss Julie, features the "Violent Veg", a comic placing vegetables in amusing scenarios with witty captions. Now I am being realistic, I’m not expecting to find anything anywhere near as perfect as this down MG Road. I did however, find one A5 diary that claimed to be a Humorous Scientific Diary. One of the small cartoons had this caption: “Why can’t I hear anything on my MP3 player?” “Because you’ve plugged it into the wrong socket” . Have you stopped laughing yet? I know I have…

In the next mall, the bookshop had a sign in the window advertising 2009 diaries and planners. It also had another “helpful” sales assistant. I told him I wanted a small diary, one week to a page. He showed me an A4 diary, one day to a page. I told him I wanted a smaller one, one week to a page, so he showed me a thinner A4 diary, one day to a page. I told him I wanted a smaller one, one week to a page. I even pointed to the page, and told him I wanted the whole week to fit on the page. I'm thinking to myself, are these not small, simple words I'm using? Are small, simple words being formed in my head, but big, complicated ones coming out of my mouth, and I'm completely unaware of it? Bugger! He then showed me a beautiful book, about 7 inches square, half an inch thick, with an orange and pink patchwork cover. He asked if that was what I wanted. Yes, I told him, if it’s a diary. He removed the cellophane. It was completely blank. I told him I didn’t want to write my own dates in the diary, I wanted one with the dates printed on them (Hello! Have I mentioned, one week to a page!). So he showed me an A5 diary with two days to a page. It’s thicker than I wanted, because it has many more pages in it than I need. But when I opened it up, it did at least show Monday to Thursday. I turned the page. Rather than show Friday, Saturday, Sunday and a space for notes so the next week would start over on the next page, it went Friday to Monday. The page after that was Tuesday to Friday, and so on. Never in a million years, or longer, was I going to be able to keep up with where the weekends were. This diary was not for me either. So I came home with nothing.

Planning ahead

Christmas is coming, you'd think it would be a good idea to plan ahead. It would be a good idea, but in India, planning ahead isn't always easy. We want to go to one of the hotels to have Christmas lunch. One because we think it would be lovely. Two because I have no idea where to get a turkey. And three, because even if I knew where to get a turkey, there's no way I'm cooking it in my kitchen. I have an oven and a roasting tin. And I have a three ring hob. The hob's so small (compact and bijou, peut-etre?), I can only use two of the burners at once. Depending upon the size of the pans, it's generally the medium fast burner, which at it's lowest has flames dancing up the sides of the pan, and the fast burner, which surprisingly (not!), is even faster. In the middle of these two is my slow burner. When I put a pan on that one I can't get pans to balance on the other two. So I stick to simple recipes. This suits me just fine, because it means my kitchen's not rostered on for Christmas lunch.

So on the weekend we tried to book somewhere. More than one of the hotels told us we were too early and they hadn't decided what they were doing yet. I'm thinking, come on...it's 11 days to Christmas, what do you mean you haven't decided yet! So I asked my new quilting group. Except for our leader, Anju, they're all expats. Lots of Australians, some Americans, a Canadian, a Venezuelan, a Sri Lankan and a handful of Belgians, Swiss and Germans. The Delhi long-timers said the hotels do Christmas lunch every year, so we needn't worry. Anju thought we shouldn't try to firm anything up before Dec 23rd. I told her if we'd left booking Christmas lunch until December 14 in Britain they'd say "Christmas 2009? No madam, we booked the last table, the one next to the kitchen door, in October". In Australia they'd just laugh at us. Loudly. For quite a long time.

PJ problem

Rod is wondering exactly who these XS pyjamas were made for...

An oxymoron, perhaps?

Note the funky jootis (camel skin shoes) bought on our Rajasthan trip.

Tree's Up!

Okay, so it's a little more compact and bijou than last year's tree, but it's a tree!
There was actually an even more compact and bijou tree on offer, but that was just too compact (about 15 inches high, including the pot). Thalia and I bought the tree for a whole 99 rupees after school on Friday. As that's about £1.20, Archies must be using it as a loss leader. It must have cost more than that to produce, surely. Even with child labour. Speaking of child labour, the kids decorated it that afternoon. I say the kids decorated it, Keir wrapped a little of the sequin string bought from Mr Chawla's Fancy Store that we used instead of tinsel around the tree and then asked if he could play on the Wii. I suppose he felt he'd done enough... I'd bought some fabric decorations at C. Lal & Sons at Jor Bagh market, an embroidered and beaded star and heart, and a peacock, camel and elephant. All the best Christmas trees are wearing camel this year.

On Saturday we went to Chattapur to a small mela (fair) organised by the aunt of one of Thalia's school friends. There more Christmas decorations were purchased, including the velvet stockings you can just see under the tree. That purple one is Keir's. We also fell in love with this:

They actually has some brown and grey elephants, but it's Christmas time, why be restrained!

Serendipity

I received an email recently from Jane, another British School Mum who lives in Gurgaon. She decided that there was probably quite a large number of families who didn't know each other and that we should all meet up to say hi, swap phone numbers and pool information. She suggested meeting in a coffee shop in one of the malls. Great idea I thought, so I went along.

We'd set the meeting time as 11, so when I turned up at 10 past only Jane and one other lady had arrived. She was Indian, so her watch must have been fast. I got my mocha and sat down. We got to chatting about how a yahoo group would be a really useful way for us all to keep in touch. I told Jane I'd owned a 700 member quilting group for the past five years, so if she needed any help she could call me. Quilting, she says, I belong to a quilt group. I'll give your details to the group owner.

A little later, when our numbers had swelled to a dozen, Arup (the dad with the hand cancelling stamp advice), came over to chat. He wanted to know where I'd come from. I told him Surrey. He'd lived in Camberley so he wanted me to be more specific. I said Motspur Park. Because no one has ever heard of Motspur Park as it's really a very small place, I added it's between Wimbledon and Kingston. Jane turned to me and said, My grandparents had a house in Motspur Park. I was obviously supposed to meet this lady!

Boldly going...

Captain's Log: Star date 5 December, 2008

This is the voyage of the star ship HR26 AR 9690. It's mission: to seek out new civilisations; to boldly go where no Raju has gone before...inside a Post Office to post a letter.

Luckily for me, the Post Office at Galleria was closed for lunch. This surprised me somewhat, because it was 1pm, and it wouldn't have opened before 11. Anyway, I had these Christmas cards that had to be posted, and two children that needed to be picked up from school at 2.20, so Raju and I headed into Delhi in search of a Post Office. He knew there was a post office near Sarojini Nagar Market, and a good Post Office it was. It was like stepping back into the 1950's, except it was a 1950's where they only spoke Hindi. We walked past five or so counters with older Indians milling in front of them. They were probably queueing...in the Indian way. I think they were the Post Office bank accounts counters. Around the corner there was another counter, with a man sitting behind it doing nothing. We showed him our Christmas cards. He didn't sell stamps. And he didn't tell us where we could buy them. But another customer did, so we moved to the next counter along. There was a younger man sitting behind the counter. I'd say he was doing nothing, but that wouldn't be quite correct, because he was listening to his Ipod. We showed him our Christmas cards, he weighed them and told us 25 rupees. I had 15 cards, so I got out a 500 rupee note. Raju turned to me and said, no 25 rupees. I told him, "each". The man gave us 15 20 rupee stamps and 15 5 rupee stamps. Raju asked the man which stamps went where, and that is when I realised Raju had never posted a letter before. So I got out my glue stick (because these stamps are neither self adhesive nor gummed) and showed him how to stick the stamps onto the letter. We then left the Post Office proper and went to see the Postmaster in the office next door. He's the man with the big postmark stamp, the one that ensures your stamps have no value to anyone else. He stamps each letter hard, re-inking each time. This is a man who enjoys hand cancelling these stamps, he knows the value of his job. I can see, clearly, that there is a real benefit in using a Post Office near the Diplomatic Enclave, home to most of the embassies. This guy's actually seen Airmail letters before, he knows what foreigners want done with them. I could even hope these Christmas cards will go somewhere, maybe not as far as the addresses on the envelopes, but at least beyond the confines of this office.

Wishing...and hoping...

I have just spent the last couple of days on a possibly futile exercise...but I live in hope :-)

Back to the beginning: two evenings ago Rod brought the mail up from our mailbox. In with the Airtel bill and redirected British catalogues from companies I informed months ago we no longer live in Motspur Park is a Christmas card, our first for the year. It's from my friend Marlene's Mum, Nettie. Marlene and I met in 1972, on the first day of school. We were seated next to each other, because we were the smallest girls in the class. All through primary school Marlene and I were seated together, because while some years I was the taller of the two, and other years she was, there was never anyone else who was nearly as short as we were. Thankfully Marlene and I got on very well, because even in secondary school, when we were no longer arranged by height (even though we were still the smallest), we shared many classes. We spent time in each other's homes, and Marlene was always mortified when her Dad, Ron, called me "Lana who plays the Piana", torturously rhyming piano with Lana every time he saw me. If I turned up at their house tomorrow, it would seem strange if he didn't. When I left Australia for Britain in 1991, Nettie sent me a Christmas card. So every year I send her a card with a short message about the past year, and she sends me one, outlining what she and Ron have done. So it was lovely in a year where so much has changed, to receive a little bit of constancy. It made me feel good. I got to thinking if I enjoyed receiving her card, maybe others would like to receive one from India. I had originally thought I wouldn't bother, because we have had so much trouble with our mail. Very few parcels have made it to me, and I've yet to hear if the postcards Mum sent five weeks ago have ever made it to Perth. But if just one Christmas card got through, and made just one person feel as good as I did, then it would be worth it.

Then I actually tried to buy Christmas cards. In Britain, Australia and America you'd be hard pressed to find a shop that didn't sell Christmas cards in December. The shop here that's closest to Walmart or Target - no cards. The Department store Stationery counter - no cards. I did find Christmas cards in a card shop, but I had to ask the assistant if they had any, because the five packs were nestled between the "Happy Anniversary Daughter and Son-in-Law" cards and the "Congratulations on Your Surgery" cards (They really do have "Congratulations on Your Surgery" cards. I didn't make that one up.). So I bought two packets and the most festive roll of wrapping paper they had. It's red. It does have hearts on it, but the only other roll said "Happy Birthday". India may celebrate every festival going, but the usual Christmas paraphenalia is going to be a little harder to source.

So I've written my cards, and tomorrow afternoon I will go, glue stick in hand, to the post office to post them. I received some advice from one of Indian dad's at school, to ensure the clerk at the post office manually cancels each of the stamps with his hand stamper while I watch. Once the stamp has been hand cancelled it has no value. Without that stamp it can be peeled off my mail and resold. Maybe that explains where Mum's postcards got to...

Ommmmm

Before I left Britain, every Monday morning (in term time) for the last six years was spent in a yoga class. This was something I enjoyed very much, both the exercise and the social element. I vowed to keep up my yoga habit when I moved to India. It took me four months, but I'm back "saluting the sun" on a regular basis.

My friend Nitti arranged with her friend Parul to get a yoga guy to come and teach us in our homes. So on Monday and Wednesday afternoons at 3.10 we lay out our mats in someone's living room waiting for Ranvijay to put us through torture, sorry, teach us yoga.

The six years previous practice has certainly helped, but Ranvijay's yoga is really a world away from the yoga I did with Brigitte at the Malden Centre. Brigitte also spoke with a heavy accent, but hers was French, and her classes were yoga with a small element of traditional exercise. Ranvijay's accent is obviously Indian, and while we do some yoga (like salute to the sun, quickly, six times without stopping!), most of the class is exercise. This doesn't bother me, because while I really enjoyed the slow stretches we used to do, I'm not getting anywhere near the same amount of exercise I used to, just going about my normal day. Can't walk to school, can't walk anywhere outside the apartment complex we live in. Because it's not safe. Nothing to do with bombs, but all to do with the scant regard Indians seem to place on driving down the correct side of the road combined with a lack of footpaths. That and the cow, pig, donkey and dog poop...

But back to yoga...Ranvijay is determined to make us fitter, flatter and more toned than before. We don't always get to the end of his repetitions, or hold our pose for as long as he likes. On Monday he had us doing sitting forward bends, touching our toes. This is something I can do quite well (thanks Brigitte!). Parul found it challenging. She excused herself, complaining to Ranvijay, "LanaMam has shorter legs than I do". "ParulMam", he counters, "LanaMam has shorter arms than you do".

Indian yoga is also a lot noisier than British yoga. There's a quite a bit of chanting. Whenever Nitti, Parul and Ranvijay chant in Hindi, I stand there and rest. I've told them that until they provide written words, I'm unlikely to get much beyond "Om". We never chanted much at the Malden Centre, what with that British reserve and all. But the "bumblebee" is really rather pleasant. Put your index fingers in your ears, close your eyes and chant "Om". Go on... try it, you just might like it...