The Many Version of Shabari

If you have some knowledge of Indian mythology, chances are that you have heard of Shabari. While welcoming the Hindu god Ram, Shabari, an elderly tribal woman who is devoted to him, bites into all the berries she is about to offer him as refreshment, so that he only tastes the sweetest ones. Brahmanical Hinduism, which lays emphasis on caste purity, would not sanction Shabari’s actions – but Ram does, because he sees her offering of half-eaten fruit as a sign of her pure love and devotion. It’s a poignant story, but minor in the greater scope of the Hindu epic Ramayana.

Shabari’s image has appeared in several places in the past century, especially in artistic and political spheres. She features in famous paintings, poetry, prose, and in the newly constructed temples in Gujarat and Sikkim, and even at a temple maintained by the Indian Army in Sikkim. Her popularity spans the ages – the Vijayanagara kings claimed her as a resident of Hampi, their political and economic capital. Even today, it is possible to cross the Tungabhadra River and visit the dwelling from where she allegedly served her guru every day. (It is obvious why the Vijayanagara kings chose to make this connection – if Ram had indeed visited their capital, it would create political legitimacy for their divinely sanctioned empire). Despite, or perhaps because of, the lack of historical evidence, the Ramayana lends itself to geographical reinterpretation. It can be located in several parts of India, which is a lucky break for emperors and artists alike. Shabari’s story, a part of each of these re-tellings, is as timeless as the epics.

Read the entire article, the product of my Fulbright research, here.



Fulbright Endings and New Beginnings

It’s been just over a month since I left the subcontinent and the question I am asked most often is–do you miss it?

To be honest, I’m not completely sure. August was a whirlwind of a month–my departure from India was a drawn out one: I left Santiniketan only to spend a weekend in Kolkata with Rachna, and then go on to Hyderabad where I spent another five days, repacking and reorganizing and getting in some last hours of quality time with my grandparents. I did cry–I teared up in Santiniketan and wept copiously while leaving Hyderabad, but the departure journey was not even close to finished. Really, it was just the beginning of the end. Instead of flying home, I took my three monstrous suitcases to Spain, where I met up with Nicole and spent a sun-kissed week exploring Madrid, Toledo, and Barcelona.


I finally got home to Portland in late August, jet-lagged and harboring a cold, an unwelcome side-effect from the intense travel. After a brief week home–and a quick weekend trip up to Seattle–I flew out to DC to start my new job at the Federal Reserve and attend the wedding of a close college friend back in Lexington.


Between all the shuffling around, I’ve hardly had a moment to think, let alone to reflect on the journey I’ve completed. Fulbright year is over–my bucolic life has been replaced by a bureaucratic one as I begin my professional journey. As I wake up at 6:15 AM to get ready for my day, I can’t help but reminisce on the simplicity and slowness of my life in Santiniketan.

Small things continue to surprise me: the efficiency of doing a batch of laundry, the variety of breakfast cereals in the supermarket, the freedom of wearing clothing without social repercussions, and the seemingly-supernatural speed of wifi.

I miss my friends, my grandparents, and cycling across the Bengal rice fields-I miss the 25-rupee lassis, the chaotic Indian railways, and haggling with shopkeepers in my broken Bangla. I especially miss blending into a crowd and being simply Indian, instead of having to constantly qualify my Indian-American identity.

There is so much I miss but there is one part of me–an especially large part I might add–that is just so happy to finally be home.

Santiniketan Secrets

If I’ve learned anything after 9 months in Santiniketan, it’s this: most everything worth seeing/visiting/frequenting is kept secret. It takes a lot of sleuthing and exploration to find Santiniketan’s sweet little cafes and charming boutiques—most a bit off the tourist track. I’ve compiled a list of my favorites as a resource for those who don’t have months to discover all the hidden gems in this quaint little town.

Aarhani: Aarhani is one of the best lunch spots in Santi. If you want some amazing home-cooked Bengali food, there’s no better place to go—you can eat as much as you want for a very reasonable fixed rate—Aarhani is a great place to hold gatherings as well, since they have a large outdoor eating space. You have to make a reservation a day in advance by giving Rini a call—and if you’re lucky, she might make her okra or eggplant curry. (Everything I’ve ever had though is absolutely delicious) 

Alcha: One of the trendiest places in Santiniketan, Alcha is a sustainable fair-trade certified boutique located right in Ratanpally. (It’s a bit hidden, but is pretty navigable from the main market—ask anyone who works in the area) You can buy handmade clothes, jewelry, bags, and home items—and feel good while doing it. At Alcha, every piece is one-of-a-kind and the quality is second-to-none. (They also have a well-received café out by Santiniketan Tourist Lodge but I’ve never tried it myself)

Bonolakshmi/Barashaler Ranna Ghor: Bonolakshmi and Barashaler Ranna Ghor are run by the same family and are located opposite each other in Sriniketan (toward Ilaambazar). It’s a bit of a hike to get out here (around 10 km) so either hire a toto for the afternoon or take the bus down. The restaurants are adjacent to a hotel, organic farm, and gardens, with many of the vegetables sourced on site. There are also a lot of great eatables available for sale (jams, honey, sweets, etc.) The place is especially popular with holidaying Bengali families so you need to make a reservation in advance, preferably by 9 AM, to guarantee a spot for lunch. 

The Chhayaghar Café: Located just a few steps from Alcha in Ratanpally, the Chayyaghar café has all the requirements of a wholesome evening hang out spot: economical and tasty eats, a cool space, and even a rotating art gallery in the main hall. The cold coffee here is one of my favorites—not too sweet, and very affordable at just 20 Rs. a glass.

Ocampo: Ocampo is a café/boutique located in Shyambati. The food is decent—and the rooftop view at sunset makes the café a must-visit. I haven’t purchased any clothing here but the cuts and styles are unique and modern. Right beside Ocampo is Sonar Beni, a cute little jute-products shop and on the lower level of the shop, is one of my favorite hidden spots: Bachu-da’s yoga studio. Open every weekday from 6:30-9:00 PM, it’s a lovely space where members of the community gather to practice yoga, chat, and more than often, enjoy some mishti.

Park Guest House: Park Guest House is probably the finest dining that you can find in Santiniketan proper. The North Indian food is delicious—the garlic naans, paneer butter masala, mushroom matar, etc. are really fabulous and the other items have a good reputation as well. Park Guest House is located by Deer Park, and is a bit hidden: to get there—you can either follow the signs by Siksha Bhavan, or take a dirt path from Shyambati (the path begins beside Nataraj Lodge). I like to go and work there, when possible, as their wifi is amazing.

Tanzil: Located right beside the Santiniketan Residency in Shyambati, Tanzil has a cute little outdoor café (the brownies are undoubtedly the best—and perhaps only—in Santiniketan). They also have a great collection of home décor and clothing, but it isn’t Santi-specific and pieces come from all over India. (The café is only open in the evenings) 

Sonajhuri Haath: Haath is definitely not off the beaten path—it’s probably the most popular tourist attraction in Santiniketan. I do have a couple tips though: go all the way down by Shakuntala Hotel—it’s the original Saturday market and is the most charming part as well. When you’re there, try the momos right in front of the Ram Shyam Hotel gate—they’re easily the best in Santi. Many weekends, I cycle all the way out just to eat the momos before heading back to the department. And whenever you’re at haath, just keep in mind that the entire place, though aesthetically pleasing, is a complete tourist trap–so haggle accordingly.

Ankita Handicrafts: Haath is always one of my must-visits but if you want quality goods at a reasonable price, it’s worth making the trek to Ankita Handicrafts. Located in Amar Kutir, Ankita handicrafts is run out of Sonali Dey’s home and has great prices on saris, scarves, fabric, etc. (If you ask around at the leather factory, someone should point you in the right direction—there are no signs unfortunately). The main shop at Amar Kutir has a great collection of clothing, purses, and décor, as well—it is a fixed price store, which for me is actually a relief. 

Studio Boner Pukur Danga: If you like ceramics—or just appreciate well-curated spaces—go by Studio Boner Pukur Danga. Lipi, who graduated from Kala Bhavan, runs the ceramics studio and shop (just down the street from SVAAD) and employs almost 20 locals in her business. There are often international students at the studio who come to learn from her—every piece is handcrafted and beautifully glazed.

Due to my cycling constraint, I tend to stick around Santi but do know a couple of fun spots in Bolpur as well…

Ghare Baire/ Bichitra: Located in the Gitanjali heritage complex (next to the cinema hall), Ghare Baire is an adorable café (indoor/outdoor seating available) that is adjacent to Bichitra, a lovely little boutique that sells ceramics, clothes, and home goods. The gardens are beautiful as well and you could easily spend an afternoon in the complex.

The Green Chilli is located in Bhubandanga, en route to Bolpur. It’s a typical Indian restaurants serving up “continental” cuisine—Chinese and Indian both. The food is solid and reasonable and it’s a popular place for visitors who might be lodging close to Bolpur. The portions are huge so order accordingly! 

9X9 is a continental restaurant located right by the Santiniketan Tourist Lodge. The tandoori food and Indian cuisine is pretty good—but I would steer clear of the western dishes. (Fun fact: when I first moved to Santiniketan, I ate at 9X9 everyday for a week—I actually didn’t tire of it, either!) 9X9 also has great wifi and is a good option for solo dining as they have a significant collection of magazines. 

SK—I’ve only ever had home delivery from SK but it was absolutely delicious. It’s located near Gitanjali and the parathas and paneer dishes are wonderful. (The chicken is rumored to be tasty too)  

While all the places I’ve listed are wonderful, you might be interested in the student scene as well. My most-visited student spot is the shops in Ratanpally that pop up every evening after 5 PM. You can find delicious and inexpensive food and drinks here—from mango lassi to kathi rolls and dosas. If you want a home-cooked lunch and find yourself around Kala Bhavan, drop by Manoj-da’s house—he prepares a number of items right on his front porch and you can pick and choose whichever dishes you’d like to try. (To get to Manoj da’s place from Kala Bhavan, cross Ananda Sadan girls’ hostel, take the first right past the metal gate, and follow the dirt path to his home.) Oroshri Market is also a great place to grab a quick bite in the evenings—my favorite place is Suruchi: the laccha paratha is to die for and the veg chow is fantastic as well. Kasahara is also a popular student spot that is right behind Sangeet Bhavan—the service is incredibly slow (I once waited 45 minutes for a cold coffee), but if you have the time, it has a fun rural ambience with outdoor seating and some colorful mural work outside.

Reading through my recommendations you might be struck by a few things: my love of cold coffees, and my emphasis on wifi and AC–all are luxuries, especially in the humid Bengal summers.

This list is by no means exhaustive—but it is a good start to begin your own journey in Santiniketan. Though I wish that I had a similar list when I first arrived, every new place that I discovered made me feel like an explorer on a worthwhile mission. I’m leaving Santi at the end of this week so my mission I suppose, is finally coming to an end.

Anyway, I hope that you find this resource helpful and I know that you too will grow to love Santiniketan as much as I do.

Sunday in the Sundarbans

This past week, Lalita came to West Bengal. (You might remember Lalita from my post on Mumbai—we’re good friends back from Oxford). Due to the protests up in Darjeeling and Kalimpong, we had to scrap our original plans of going up into the hills and focused on areas around Kolkata instead: we spent a couple days in Santiniketan, did some intense sightseeing in Kolkata, and then decided to visit the Sundarbans, the largest mangrove forest in the world.

During my senior year of college, I spent a week kayaking and camping in the Everglades, the second-largest mangrove forest in the world, and was excited to compare my experience there with the atmosphere and sights of the Sundarbans. Despite it being the height of monsoon season, we braved the weather and set out on a day trip down to Jharkali, one of the entry points of the Sundarbans and the home of India’s first tiger rescue center.

The Sundarbans are very accessible via public transit: you catch a local train down to Canning, and then transfer to a local bus to either Jharkali or Godkhali. From there you catch a shared auto to the nearest jetty where you can hire a launch for an afternoon.

We left Ballygunge local station around 6:30 AM and when we told fellow passengers about our plans, they asked “tumi ki pagol?” “Na na, amra pagol na” we told them but when we disembarked in Canning into the pouring rain and began wading through the submerged lanes on the way to the bus stop, we second guessed ourselves—“are we crazy?” Rachna, Lalita, and I agreed that we had committed to this journey and continued on, boarding the local bus and admiring the flooded fields and lush greenery along the way.

Once we got to Jharkali, we took a shared auto down to the jetty where we were promptly told that no boats would be going out into the jungle due to the inclement weather. Monsoon season is apparently the worst time to visit the Sundarbans because the rains create choppy waves that make it impossible for boating. (For those of you who want to visit, apparently wintertime, from about November to February, is best). We ate our sandwiches on the dock and looked across to the mangroves before going to the adjacent tiger reserve.

Despite being flooded, the reserve was open so we managed to see a couple of the majestic creatures—though from a distance. The Bengal Tiger is endangered due to deforestation and as of now, the Indian portion of the Sundarbans is home to about 70 tigers. The other animals present diverted our attention—some aggressive monkeys and a bloody fight between some street dogs and demure goats meant that we departed quickly, truly aghast at the violence present in the circle of life.

Once we got back to Kolkata, almost four hours later, we crashed for the afternoon and went to the movies in the evening. Rachna’s mom seemed surprised at our quick return (she warned us against traveling during heavy rainfall) but we assured her that we had a lovely time and had finished all possible sightseeing before commencing the journey back.

Some advice, though I’m sure you’ve already caught on: don’t visit the Sundarbans during Monsoon. Really, don’t visit anywhere—sightseeing while soaked can be rather miserable. If you have good friends though, you’ll have a memorable time anyway and a getaway from the city, no matter the circumstances, is almost always worth it.


Victoria Memorial

Loitering in Ladakh

For my last major trip of this year, I decided to go to the Western Himalayas–specifically to Ladakh, the mountainous border region of Jammu and Kashmir. Ladakh is a high altitude desert which means that it’s both barren and freezing: the air is dry, cloud cover is almost nonexistent and the region is inhospitable to most creatures, plants, and people. That being said, Ladakh is one of the most beautiful places in India–the juxtaposition of the remote mountains, verdant valleys, and clear blue skies truly create a visual masterpiece.

I had been planning to go to Ladakh ever since I took a Buddhist Art History Class and we studied some of the regional monasteries–almost 2 years later, I was more than excited to finally make my way to the region. Jacob, one of my favorite Fulbright friends, and I flew up to Leh, the capital of Ladakh, and spent about five days exploring the area.

Because of the high altitude, tourists are recommended to rest in bed for the first day so your body gets accustomed to the elevation. After napping up most of the afternoon, we visited the market and Leh palace in the evening. What we didn’t expect is that cell service and wifi in Ladakh are rare to come by–for most of the week, we were cut off from the rest of the world. Luckily, Jacob and I had each other for company–we’re both leaving India within the next few weeks and it was a great way to reflect on our respective Fulbright experiences.

Our first full day in Ladakh was spent visiting Tibetan Buddhist monasteries. Tibetan Buddhism was brought to the region centuries ago and Ladakh itself is part of the greater Tibetan Cultural Zone, that spans the Himalayas. Our morning was spent at Thikse Monastery, one of the most splendid hilltop temple complexes I have ever seen. We ambled up the mountain and explored the different parts of the gompa–the highlight being the 49-foot Maitreya statue that was installed in 1979. Because the Dalai Lama was in the region, most of the monks were at Diskit, in Nubra Valley, to receive his teachings. This meant that many parts of Thikse were closed–disappointing, but as we would realize a few days later, ultimately rewarding.

After Thikse, we visited Shey Palace, Alchi, and finally, Basgo. As we realized, 40-foot tall statues of the Buddha or Bodhisattvas really were the norm, with every single monastery displaying at least one such massive idol. Alchi was especially meaningful to me: we had done an in-depth lecture on the monastery in class and I was excited to see the details in person. It is hard to appreciate Tibetan Buddhist art without some knowledge of the depicted figures or stories–so much of the message relies on visual symbolism. Luckily, most of the monasteries have some kind of explanation or guidebook to make the material more accessible for tourists.

It might seem surprising that such a remote area of the world has such a rich material culture. However, Ladakh was a key part of the Silk Routes for centuries and a major byway for traders crisscrossing Asia. Now, because of border disputes and the high security risks in the region (Ladakh borders both Pakistan and China), trade is completely absent and the economy depends heavily on tourism, especially during the summer months.

For the next few days, Jacob and I decided to spend time in Nubra Valley, a more secluded part of Ladakh and booked ourselves onto a shared car for the journey. About 130 kilometers from Leh, the car ride takes over five hours (if you’re lucky) and winds up and down mountain roads in what can only be described as a nauseous experience. The road to Nubra goes through Khardongla Pass, which is advertised as the world’s highest motorable road, and passes through numerous picturesque villages as well. We stopped at Diskit Monastery which is home to a magnificent Maitreya Buddha, and spent the evening at Hunder Village, where we were able to ride some Bactrian camels–supposedly, Hunder is the only place with two-humped camels in India.

The second day in Nubra, we decided to try to find the Dalai Lama. Locals told us that he would be giving teachings nearby Diskit Monastery so Jacob, a Frenchman on our trip, and myself woke up early to track him down. We were indeed blessed by our efforts and spent over an hour in the presence of His Holiness. Back in August, I had written in my journal that I wanted to see the Dalai Lama while in India–I was in disbelief that I actually got to do so, and that too, without actively trying. There were thousands of devotees there to hear him speak but luckily, foreigners are allowed to go all the way up till the main pavilion and we got to relish his company. Though his teachings were in Tibetan, I was still moved by his presence and spirit.

The road back to Leh was rough: there had been some landslides and we were delayed for hours. There is a heavy army presence in Ladakh however, and with their efforts, we managed to get back to the city by mid-evening. After an Italian dinner, we walked around town and packed up for our early afternoon flight the next day. Most people who go to Ladakh like to go trekking in the region–I know that if I return, I’d like to as well. Even without trekking however, I was truly enchanted by Ladakh’s barren beauty and left with a deep sense of humility that only the massive Himalayas can inspire.

A Final Summer Break

Nearing the end of my Fulbright grant, I gained an unexpected opportunity: a month’s respite from Santiniketan. Visva-Bharati went on summer recess—so I did too; I flew down to Hyderabad to spend the break with my grandparents, trading Bengal’s intense humidity for Telangana’s scorching heat.

I had assumed that my previous summer break—the one post-graduation—would be my last…until I decided to pursue graduate school anyway. But now I had a bonus break—to spend time with family, pursue my research, and work on some side projects—learning how to cook, attempting to learn the Telugu script, sketching more regularly. Siva-da, my advisor back in Santiniketan, sent me copies of books to read and annotate and I added some other material to my reading list—most notably, Will Durant’s The Story of Philosophy, my first foray into the discipline.

I dedicated a day to each chapter and worked my way through, from Plato and Aristotle, to Voltaire and Nietzsche. Though much of what I read confounded me, I found a great deal of solace as well. Earlier that spring, Siva-da mentioned that I was quite impressionable—“don’t worry though,” he assured me, “all young scholars are.” Imagine my delight when I realized that Francis Bacon had written in a diary, “As is not infrequently the case with young men, I was sometimes shaken in my mind by opinions.” I was facing the same problems as Bacon? I felt committed to continue my readings—who knew what other traits I shared with the greats?

Besides the existential questioning, this had to be my most relaxing summer break yet; there is a well-circulated Lewis Mumford quote, “every generation revolts against its fathers and makes friends with its grandfathers.” I found this to be especially true—I was happy to oblige my grandparents with chores and early morning wake-up calls; such cooperative behavior would shock my parents back in Oregon.

Halfway through my stay in Hyderabad, we took a short trip to Kerala, visiting Munnar, Alleppey, and Kochi. The couple days away broke up my visit nicely and allowed my grandparents a change of pace. We did typical Kerala things: bought Ayurveda products, spent a night on a houseboat, and tried to track down elephants in the forests. The air was refreshing and cool and I was glad to take my grandparents on a vacation—though I was on holiday for the entire month, my very presence meant that they were busier than usual. I loved our time away in the hills, but coming back was a comfort—growing up, I never had the opportunity to spend time living in Hyderabad and within just those few weeks, their home already felt like my own.

It was a luxury, to have a place so cozy and clean to retreat to for those hot summer weeks. But of course, the best part was not the house itself, but the company. I adored being part of my grandparents’ structured life. Every other morning, the municipality granted water access and we would have to store enough water for washing, drinking, and cleaning for the next 48 hours. Every evening, members of the community gathered on our rooftop to practice group meditation led by my Tata. (Often times, young children would meet for an earlier session to learn mindfulness practices) Mealtimes were strictly observed—because I woke up “late” (past 7 AM), I usually ate breakfast alone; lunch was at 1 PM, afternoon tea at 3 PM and dinner at 7:45 PM. At night, we would set up a camp bed in their bedroom so that all of us could all enjoy the AC.

I was especially taken by the neighborhood dynamic. Because houses were so closely built, neighbors were uniquely entangled in one another’s lives, helping with tasks big and small, from pickling mangos to assisting with water tank maintenance. One afternoon was particularly rowdy: construction workers hired by the Valluru’s—a family already unpopular for fostering rabid street dogs—decided to knock down some mangos from the Kothari’s massive tree with a long metal pole; they missed and knocked down the power line instead. The whole street lost electricity for the afternoon and after a fair bit of yelling, everyone seemed to migrate toward their front steps: Ammama kept up a conversation with 6-year-old Lallu while his mom was at work, selling vegetables in the market. The next morning when Lallu refused to listen to his mother, she brought him over again: “Amma, please yell at him. He’s not listening to me.”

Though Ammama, with three daughters and five grandkids, could play the part of a disciplinarian, her congeniality is far more prominent—every day, old friends and relatives called, and neighbors dropped by. 96-year old Swarajya Lakshmi would come by every week to discuss important matters—at her age, important matters basically meant spirituality and yoga—maybe a discussion on acupuncture or homeopathy. Because of the regular meditation sessions, almost every evening saw visitors as well: the core group, made up of Lakshmi and Durga Aunty, Sathish and Suma, along with the stragglers, who showed up for a couple sessions a week.

The level of friendly interaction amongst neighbors and friends was something I wasn’t used to—I recently read an article that distilled a sad truth: for many Americans—especially those who work remotely or independently—consumption facilitates a majority of our in-person interactions. On days we don’t buy anything, there is a high likelihood we haven’t interacted with anyone. How different it was from India, where the social bonds are much tighter: even conversations with Kondamma, our part-time maid, were intimate—not simply small talk, like most conversations back in the States.

The week of my impending departure, I felt incredibly sentimental about my stay. I shadowed Ammama everywhere, chattered to her incessantly, and tried to gain more insight into her previous life. As she told me one day, “I have over three times the experience you do.” She talked to me about her childhood and working as a young mother—stories about her siblings, parents, and herself. I learned that Ammama went back to school mid-career to get a degree in Sociology but dropped out halfway. “You could still tell people you have a Masters!” I told her. “No one will question you!” “Why would I do that?” she asked. I told her that I wasn’t sure—but it would probably increase her social capital and was worth a try. “Meera, we will miss you,” Ammama told me gently. “Yes,” Tata chimed in. Though generally stoic, he added, “The Mother herself has sent you to us. I am so proud of all you have accomplished.”

Tata is always telling me that he is proud of me—even when I haven’t done anything significant. “My granddaughter is always typing so fast on her laptop,” he told Ammama’s brother one day. “She is very adept with technology. And she got a job next year! She is really smart.” Though a retired headmaster, Tata prefers that learning new technology be left to the younger generation. (Though, when he needs urgent help with the iPad, he does resort to asking Ammama) Later that weekend, he asked me to describe Twitter…and could I book a train ticket for him? —I sufficiently addressed both matters and he seemed beyond pleased. “Chaala santhosham,” he said. “I am very happy.”

Vanasthalipuram is a place that I am very happy—enjoying the sweet compliments and the simple living. I thought about what I would miss most—eating juicy mangos at every single meal; learning about our family history and genealogy; running errands confidently in my half-baked Telugu? The answer, I realized, was simply being present with my grandparents—even when sitting in silence, I felt a deep sense of contentment. Their wisdom, kindness, and unconditional love taught me more than I could have ever expected—I am so very grateful for this serendipitous summer break.

Let’s Vizag

At the Cochi airport, our boarding passes had an Andhra Pradesh tourism ad on the backside—a train passing through a verdant valley accompanied by the slogan, “Let’s Vizag.” I had been to Vizag, a coastal city on the Bay of Bengal, over a decade prior and was already interested in revisiting to see my cousins. The ad felt like a sign that I should go: the very next day, I booked my tickets to Vishakapatnam. Because Vizag is halfway between Hyderabad and Kolkata, I was able to visit as I made my way back home to Santiniketan after a month-long summer break. Tata, who hadn’t been to the city since the mid-1950s, accompanied me on the trip; we took an overnight train from Hyderabad and arrived before schedule at the train station—a rare and near-miraculous occurrence.

My cousin Vinay picked us up at the station and drove us back to his home. During the five-minute car ride, I was struck by how clean and well-maintained Vizag was, almost rivaling the standards set by Chandigarh or Gangtok. After freshening up and having tiffin, we visited Simhachalam, a famous Narasimha Swami temple located in the Eastern Ghats, the mountain range that provides Vizag with a dramatic and lush backdrop. The temple dates back to the 9th century and has been heavily patronized by different dynasties. The idol itself is not visible: because Narasimha Swami is known for having a rash temper, the deity is covered in sandalwood paste to keep him cool and calm.

After a leisurely lunch of catching up with relatives, Vinay, Samhita, Dedeepyaa, Tata, and I headed out on a speed tour of Vizag. The city has a lot of offer and we tried to make the most of the afternoon, visiting Kailashgiri, a beautiful park with stunning views of the ocean, Andhra University, one of the oldest colleges in the country, Central Park, Vizag’s natural harbor, and several other scenic viewpoints. We also included stops for street food—ice cold gola and tikki chola chaat.

The entirety of the next day was spent at Araku Valley, a hill station about 100 kilometers from Vizag. Araku Valley is accessible by both rail and car so we decided to take a tour through AP Tourism that combined both transit options—in the early morning, we boarded a train and winded through tunnels in the Eastern Ghats till about noon, when we disembarked and boarded a bus for sightseeing and the journey back. The mountains and valleys were beautiful but the best part was the company—Dedeepyaa, Samhita, and I talked all day and really got to know each other better. Growing up abroad can be culturally isolating and one of my favorite parts of living in India this year has been the opportunity to become closer to my cousins.

Araku is home to a number of tribes and we had the opportunity to visit the Tribal Museum as well as see some tribal dance performances. I found the museum essentializing and was disappointed in how our tour guide handled talking about tribes in the area as well. He managed to disguise his opinion as facts and presented us with statements like “80% of families here are women-led households because the husbands are all alcoholics.” India’s tribal peoples have a similar plight to the Native Americans back home—few opportunities, minimal community infrastructure—many have also lost their homes to multinational companies. If anything, they deserve our attention and support, not callous judgment.

On our bus back, we had several stops, the most notable being Borra Caves, one of the largest caves in India. I have been to multiple caves in the US before, but this was the first time I’ve seen cave temples that are in use. After visiting the caves, we had a long journey back to Vizag and reached the city right around 9 PM.

The next day, I flew out in the early afternoon, which meant that we had just enough time to check out Thotlakonda, an ancient 2,000-year old Buddhist monastery complex that now lies in ruins. I love visiting stupas in general and this one also provided a particularly beautiful view. I made it to the airport right in time—the final boarding call was announced as I made my way to the gate.

On the brief flight back to Kolkata, I realized that Vizag was one of the most livable cities that I’ve visited in India—over the past 10 months, I’ve visited over 30 cities in all parts of the country, from Punjab to Tamil Nadu. I have been trying to identify what factors make a city a great place to live—the most important ones being an good air quality, less traffic, walkability and transit options, reasonable real estate, options for entertainment, an easily accessible airport, and greenery. Vizag fits all my criteria and even has a good “cultural fit”—with my Telugu, I felt right at home.

Mango Spell

If I had to pick a noun to describe my summer, it would be: mango. Before coming to India, I was a passionate mango-advocate, preferring mango ice creams, sorbets, and fruits whenever possible. After arriving here though, I realized how much I had yet to learn about the sweet seasonal fruit.

Mangos are the saving grace of Indian summers. Bursting with flavor, sweet as nectar, and cool to the touch—ideally having been chilled in the refrigerator—only mangos that can bring me a few minutes of juicy relief, the perfect antidote to the Hyderabad heat.

Perhaps the most surprising part of mango season is the sheer abundance of the fruit: mangos are available on every street corner, atop each produce cart, strewn across blankets laid out by the bus stand. They are are not restricted to the market—our neighborhood is home to several old trees, each providing a bountiful harvest. These trees can become a site of discord, as passerby readily avail themselves to the fruit without permission. Luckily, I don’t have to succumb to such temptation as my grandparents’ home has access to a mango tree. Though technically in our neighbor’s yard, the branches cross into our property—using some ingenuity and a long wooden pole, we too can collect buckets of mangos to be shared with family and friends.

In the summertime, mangos accompany every meal—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, a minimum consumption quota, so to speak. If we run out of mangos by dinnertime, Tata makes a late night run to the market; after all, we can’t risk having an incomplete meal. There is no need for desserts all season—despite my keen sweet tooth, my appetite stays satiated.

Not all mangos are sweet however—and as it turns out, the tart fruits too have a purpose: they get pickled. I helped Ammama make mango pickle, a laborious process that is an annual ritual in Telugu households. After a week’s worth of work—cutting, cleaning, mixing, marinating, packing, and storing—we ended up with over fifteen kilograms of spicy mango pickle, enough to last the extended family for the year.

I couldn’t help thinking back to the last summer I spent in India, the summer of 2004. I was 9 years old, on the cusp of turning 10, and still learning how to navigate two languages effectively. After I woke up from a nap one afternoon, Ammama called me into the kitchen to have a late lunch. She spooned some pickle onto my plate—“Avakaya pachadi, your favorite,” she told me. “No! I only eat mango pickle!” I cried, confused and still in my post-nap stupor. “Meera, that’s the same thing…” she explained.


Making avakaya pachadi

Thirteen years later and look how far I’ve come—I can (theoretically) make my own avakaya pachadi!

One evening, after returning from visiting relatives, I gasped: we were out of mangos and the markets had closed. “How can we have dinner?” Ammama pulled out a few of our garden mangos—but they were still unripe. I was working through my disappointment when Ammama went outside to finish up some chores and came across a heavy box wrapped in twine in the outdoor shed—“Meera, bring some scissors!” she yelled. We cut open the delivery—a surprise from my uncle in Tirupati—to find almost thirty perfect fruits.

Now that is some mango magic.

A Glimpse of “God’s Own Country”

I was able to spend a couple days in Kerala with my grandparents last week. Our neighbor and friend, Sathish, also joined us on the excursion. The trip was splendid—we stayed around central Kerala and visited Munnar and Alleppey with an afternoon in Kochi. Kerala is called “God’s Own Country” and after exploring the state, I couldn’t agree more: the scenic panoramas, the coconut-infused food, the tropical climate—it truly was a relaxing getaway away from the suffocating Hyderabad heat. (I’m currently spending some time in Hyderabad while Visva-Bharati is on summer recess)

The trip was a departure from my usual budget approach to traveling. We hired a car and driver for the four days and stayed in nicer accommodations—including a luxurious houseboat on Lake Vembanad. Splurging a little ended up making the trip far more enjoyable for all, especially considering that we didn’t have to rely on public transit during the sudden downpours that marked the beginning of Kerala’s monsoon season.

The first thing that struck us upon touching down in Kochi was the greenery. As we drove up into the Munnar hills, the mountains and valleys became more pronounced, waterfalls seemingly manifested, and symmetrical tea plantations spread across the vistas. We stayed at Drizzle Valley, a cozy homestay outside of Munnar proper and really loved the experience—our hosts cooked us Malayali meals and treated us like family.

We spent our time in Munnar exploring gardens, visiting Mattupetty Dam, and enjoying the fresh air and fabulous views. Kerala is famous for its Ayurveda heritage so we also toured a spice garden where they grow many of the herbs and plants used in Ayurveda treatments. Munnar is also famous for its chocolates—I definitely sampled an extensive variety.

While visiting Mattupetty Dam, I began thinking about the “infrastructure tourism” phenomenon in India. People are always telling me to visit dams and I don’t know whether it’s because dams tend to be close to picturesque areas or because dams themselves are a feat of engineering. While at the Port Blair airport two months ago, a woman told me that I must visit a certain town in Madhya Pradesh to go see the dam there—I smiled but was confused by her logic. Growing up in Arizona, I visited Hoover Dam multiple times and while I can appreciate the structural grandeur, I wouldn’t classify it as a “must-see.” (Perhaps I would be less indifferent if I were an engineer…) Then again, massive infrastructure is still pretty novel on the subcontinent—perhaps by visiting these places we are engaging in a (literal) form of nation building.

It was difficult to leave Munnar, one of the loveliest places I have ever been. Luckily, our next stop, Alleppey, was just as magical. On the way to Alleppey, we stopped in Kalady, where Sri Shankaracharya, the great philosopher and religious leader, was born in the 8th century. My grandfather was thrilled to visit Adi Shankara’s birthplace on the banks of the Periyar River—legend has it that young Shankara prayed to Lord Krishna to reroute the river beside his mother’s house so that she wouldn’t have to travel as far for her daily bath.

Once we arrived in Alleppey, we boarded our traditional houseboat and set out exploring the backwaters of Kerala. The houseboat was incredibly comfortable, with wood-paneled bedrooms, two sitting rooms, and a full-time staff to cater to our needs. We ate our meals on the boat and spent the night as well—because of strict guidelines from the Kerala government, the houseboats have minimal environmental impact. The waste is dumped elsewhere, there are strict hours maintained for fishing versus tourism, and the boat mainly relies on natural cooling and wind from the lake to regulate the temperature. There are over 2,000 houseboats roaming the backwaters of Kerala—from the bow of the ship, it really is a marvelous sight to see all the houseboats circling the fishing villages surrounding Lake Vembanad.

After disembarking from our houseboat, we drove to Kottayam to visit some family friends. Sheba and John were my uncle’s roommates in Dallas and moved back to Kerala a couple years ago; I hadn’t seen them in almost a decade so there was quite a bit to catch up on. Their property is absolutely beautiful, situated on ancestral land going back nine generations and we were treated to a wonderful spread for lunch. Speaking with them, I learned quite a bit about different parts of Kerala’s history and culture—from the presence of Syrian Christians (who trace their roots to St Thomas) to the changing of family property laws due to Mary Roy’s landmark lawsuit.

Driving across Kerala, you see a lot of diversity: churches, temples, and mosques are all in close proximity and there are substantial followers for all three major religions. While the rest of India becomes more religiously divided, Kerala is the anomaly. A little anecdote John told me illustrated it perfectly: John’s Christian grandfather bought their family elephant (apparently the norm for local elite families) from a Brahmin in Northern Kerala. The elephant’s name was Kutti Krishnan (Baby Krishna) and lived with their family for generations. A Hindu name for a Christian’s elephant? It’s nothing new in Kerala where coexistence is the norm and has been for thousands of years.

After lunch, we said bye to John and Sheba and headed over to Kochi where we spent the afternoon at Fort Kochi, the historical area where the Portuguese and Dutch set up their colonies. (Vasco da Gama actually died in Kochi as well—he was first buried here before his remains were taken back to Portugal) The area is reminiscent of Pondicherry—or even South Bombay—with European architecture, heritage hotels, and shaded cobblestone streets. One interesting fact that I learned was that Kochi’s name comes from the Chinese! When the Chinese came to Kochi in the 14th century, they thought it looked a lot like China and called it Co-Chin or like-China. There still is a Chinese influence, most notably with the continued practice of fishing with Chinese nets.

After our afternoon in Kochi, we headed to the airport to fly back to Hyderabad. It was a fabulous few days in Kerala and we only touched the tip of the iceberg! There is so much more to see, from Thekkady to Trivandrum—but that’s for another time. While Kerala is definitely blessed with natural beauty, I do believe that its development achievements are also something to take note of—under Communist leadership, Kerala has achieved almost universal literacy, extensive land reform, and high standards of healthcare. (West Bengal, the other major state in India that has had extended Communist rule, has not been nearly as successful in these measures) A beautiful landscape with a high standard of living—there’s nothing not to love about God’s Own Country.

Fulbright Tips (Round 2!)

I have posted a couple of Fulbright Tips before, for the aspiring applicant. Along the way  however, I have learned a lot that I wish I had known post-acceptance but before heading to India. Here are a couple of the more practical things I’d suggest you consider too before leaving for your grant:

Plan for the Future

Perhaps my biggest Fulbright-related regret was not applying to jobs during my senior year and deferring. I spent most of senior fall applying to fellowships—and spent the spring waiting to hear back. Once I received the Fulbright, I was relieved and didn’t really consider the fact that I’d have to go through the entire job application process—from India. If you think applying for positions is already tough, imagine applying and interviewing through low-quality Skype conversations and disjointed phone calls.

Even after getting through rounds of interviews, I was told that I would have to attend in-person finalist days back in the US, something that wasn’t timely or financially possible. Being out in Santiniketan, my Wi-Fi can be spotty and even my phone line acts up. (The university I’m based at doesn’t have a career-counseling center or the infrastructure to arrange conference rooms either) Employers, understandably, view unclear phone connections unfavorably—I have been hung up on without explanation. It’s hard to make a positive impression when you can barely hear the person on the other side of the line.

A few weeks ago, I had to take a 3-hour phone interview during a heavy monsoon. Thankfully, that was the last phone interview I had to take: I accepted the position and will be moving to D.C. this fall.

That being said, it was a painful and long process to get to this point. If you have the ability and the time, apply beforehand! Try to lock down a position while you’re still in school and can go through on-campus recruitment, travel for interviews, and make some crystal-clear phone calls. If you’re planning on going to graduate school, the same advice holds! Send your applications and make your campus visits while you are still home in the states—and then defer.

Assimilate ASAP

This advice can be applied to broader life experiences but is especially important when moving abroad. One of the first things you should do when moving to a new place is finding out standard costs for basic necessities, from cabs to apartment rates. Once you know the norm, you can make decisions off of that baseline. Despite having lived abroad on many different occasions, I found this harder in India—there are so many smaller monetary interactions to negotiate and I never know how to respond. How much do I pay my landlady’s maid if she tidies up my place one day? How much do I tip a cab driver for an afternoon’s service? When I first got to India, I definitely overpaid for most of these situations. Luckily, at this point, I mostly figured this out. (If in doubt, I call my grandma)

More than just monetary behavior however, it’s importantly to assimilate culturally as well. This extends past appropriate dress and behaviour. For example, Indians never queue—it’s always chaos, whether at the train station or at a temple, with people cutting in front and squeezing past. It can be hard to adopt such behavior—it’s so rude! Right? Wrong—as I told a friend the other day, assimilate or die. If you don’t call someone out for cutting you in line, you will never get to the front yourself. Be assertive—not just in queues, but also in any public interaction. That’s how the locals are and that’s how you too can survive.

Be Realistic

It’s essential to be realistic in all spheres, most importantly with regards to your research, travel, and health.

Many people embark on a Fulbright with a clear-cut research plan and hope that they’ll have something publishable at the end. If you’re a PhD student, this is a valid goal. If you’re a recently graduated student-researcher however, the chance of that happening is quite slim. When I met with my Santiniketan advisor, he told me to make my goal to write, read, and learn as much as possible. At the end of everything, if I could publish something—that would be wonderful. But don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t happen. His advice turned out to be sound: I ended up having to change my topic of research about two months into the grant—my original project was not feasible. I have learned so much though and even if I don’t manage an academic publication, I do believe that the entire experience has been a worthy one.

Travel goals have to be realistic as well. Grant guidelines are strict on overseas travel but relaxed in terms of in-country trips. I decided to interpret the lack of regulation as loosely as possible. Before coming to India, I made a list of the places I hoped to visit—mostly art historical sites—and counted on making at least one trip per month. If you’ve been following this blog, you know that I’ve been travelling quite a bit—even more than I had initially expected. By the time I returned from Darjeeling—my fourth trip within the span of a month—I was beyond exhausted. I’ve decided to travel less for my remaining time and instead spend time at home in Santiniketan and with my grandparents. If I don’t end up making it to Khajuraho this year, I’ll just remember that I can visit the next time that I come to India.

Health is another factor you need to prepare for. India is especially tough on foreigners. Even if you are a generally healthy person, know that the food, weather, and mosquitos will collude against you. You will get sick often and when the weather is incredibly hot, feel lethargic and wearied as well. This ties up with the travel point neatly—if you travel too much, you will overtire and become even sicker. (Believe me!) Stay hydrated and eat lots of (thoroughly washed) produce but know that moderation is key. Know that you won’t be functioning at peak health and once you accept this, you’ll be far more adaptable to whatever obstacles come your way.