My broken Havaiana and the Mochi

Today I was walking to LSR along the highway, in a bit of a rush to get back to class after a sneaky salad break with Chrissie, Anjali and Emma. We were dodging parking cars, swerving scooters and an array of mechanics that line the main road doing their work on the sidewalk. We passed people waiting to jump on the next bus. Getting on buses is an admirable skill in Delhi; half the time the bus barely comes to a complete stop before it is off again.

I was busy musing over bus-boarding skills and delicious, fresh salads when my thong (flip-flop for all you Brits) broke. I stumbled and didn’t know quite what had happened. Then I realised my shoe was dragging behind my foot. The little round plug was gone and it didn’t look like there was much hope for repairing my three-year old, fake Havaiana. I tried dragging my foot along, plastering it to my thong for a few metres, yet the attempt was clearly futile. How was I going to tackle the last five hundred metres back to Lady Shri Ram without walking bare foot on the rather dirty road? We were now five minutes late for class.

At that moment a helpful autowala (auto-rickshaw driver), seeing my plight, pointed to a shoe repairman and said,

He’ll fix it.

The mochi was sitting on the street right beside where my shoe had broken. When I handed him my Havaiana he turned it around, upside down, set it down and got to work. He passed me his sandal before he began and I stood there watching, wearing a big rubber sandal, on the side of the highway, next to the bus station. He found an old piece of suede, sewed it to the rubber part of the thong that was now missing a plug, poked it through the hole on the sole, stitched it all together and handed it back to me. His speed and skill were impressive. My Havaiana has been given new life.

I asked him how much it would cost, Kitna lagega?

He looked up at me from his cross-legged position on the pavement and said,

Jo aap khushi se de. Whatever you give with happiness.

Day One, Take Two

My subsequent impression of LSR was vastly different to the previous day’s experience. What was an empty college with echoing halls and hostile looks on the twenty-second became chaotic, loud, colourful and welcoming on the twenty third of July.

'Svaagatam'. Welcome.

Feeling slightly seedy, as is common to a 2pm wake-up, I walked in through the front gates of what seemed a different college. A constant stream of girls flowed in through the gates next to me, wheeling person-sized suitcases and being trailed by their family retinue. All the newcomers were looking around just as curiously as I felt, pointing out the big, faded-red ‘LSR’ sculpture and the lawns of freshly mown grass. I strolled along beside them in the same outfit I had worn the day before (I had washed it and hung it up to dry under the fan in the B&B dorm at 5am that morning): a flowy Anokhi skirt over my Solomon trekking boots, a plain blue t-shirt and my fake Ray-Bans. Not that you could see much besides my boots as I was all wrapped up in my front and back trekking packs, which I had to peer around to see where I was going.

Through the front gates

Again I made my way to the reception office and this time I was met with clear instructions to find the college Hostel – my home for the next six months. I had begun walking when two girls, Charu and Avanika, came up and informed me they would be my guides for the day. It was a relief to have friendly and welcoming faces that knew what was going on and were willing to spend time helping me figure out how things worked. Charu took me into the Hostel and managed to squeeze me past the hordes of freshers waiting to find their new room numbers and parents queuing up to officially relinquish the supervision of their beloved daughters for the next three years. Charu showed me to my room, which turned out not to be my room but one shared between Chrissie, the other Aussie exchange student and myself.

As I walked into the room Chrissie stumbled off the top bunk bed looking sleepy, happy to see me and apologetic; both of us had been under the impression we were to have our own rooms. Looking at the four by three metre space, the two tiny desks and neighbouring wardrobes, the pull out bunk beds that would clearly take up the whole room and block the front door when we used them I wondered how Chrissie and I would make it work without killing each other. We would be living on top of each other for the next six months. Our initial conversations went something along the lines of:

How about we alternate times for going out for walks, that way we’ll have more space,

We will have to make sure we won’t be in the same tute classes,

Or if we are in the same classes…we could sit on the opposite sides of the room!

and so on.

Babin' babes Chrissie (my wonderful roomie), Jordy and Emma. The other exchange students from Aus.

Looking back on those conversations I am impressed by how easily we coexist. We have transformed our twelve metres into a pretty awesome home, complete with Tibetan prayer flags from Leh, chalk boards, magazine cuttings of sexy Indian men and a couple of cool monkeys. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Welcome to the Hostel.
Featuring Oshin.

This is our room.
How to turn 12m of space into a wonderful home AKA Mandir de Chruby.

Top right featuring my new Indian crush.

Our study coves. I have to shut the door to sit at my desk. My desk is my place; I referred to it as 'my room' by mistake the other day.

This cupboard contains the contents of my life in India. And displays more of my cool Indian model man.

We recently purchased what we see as essential additions to our family: Dory, Frank and Elma (left to right).

There are always new sand mandalas created for festivals and other special occasions. This one is for Diwali Mela.

Opening assembly by MG (Principal). Welcoming in the new year and using many metaphors to inspire us newbies.

Opening dance performance

The march of Indian Independence.

LSR National Service girls escorting the principal to the Indian flag

The view from LSR's hallways.

Monsoon in the courtyard.

No classes in the pagoda today.

A Monsoon classroom

Puri the neighbouring cow!

Day One at Lady Shri Ram College for Women

22^nd July 2013

Early morning wake up, a flight over the stunning mountain-scape of Kashmir, arrival in 36 degree Delhi and an hour getting lost on Delhi’s smoggy flyovers with a taxi driver.

I trudged into Lady Shri Ram (LSR) on Monday to be informed I was a day early and had to find my own accommodation. My arrival at the college felt quite humorous at the time but looking back on it, it is even funnier. Frustrated from the taxi ride and carrying twenty kilos on my back and my front I trudged into college in full trekking gear. I was dusty and my boots suddenly felt huge as I walked into the reception office to find myself surrounded by neatly dressed parents and college girls. Perched on wicker chairs, wiping foreheads with handkerchiefs, doing business on shiny smart phones.

The receptionist told me to wait. No explanation, just wait. So I sat in the Visitors’ Room amongst my towering backpacks receiving funny glances and developing a graceful sweat patch on my back. I felt more than slightly out of place and everyone else seemed to think so too. Compared to the silk sarees, well-pressed whites and shiny Ray Bans of the waiting families, my lone presence and array of crumpled clothes – actually I think I had my yak wool vest around my waist too – I suppose I don’t blame them for the glances I received. So I occupied myself by rummaging through my backpack and reading the LSR Powerful Women publication; Aung San Suu Kyi and a range of impressive Indian feminists, Bollywood stars, economists and NGO heads all brought me a sense of anticipation for the education I was about to receive and a slight sense of intimidation.

A view of LSR with the metro passing on by

After an hour I realised the receptionist was pointedly ignoring me so I went to pester her. It worked and Sanjay, the International Office admin guy, came to greet me at around one pm. Admittedly it did not feel like much of a greeting because rather than being relieved of my backpacks and shown to a cool shower, which was all I wanted by that time, I was politely informed I was a night early. Sorry ma’am you can’t stay, if you want I can help you find an auto (rickshaw). Where to? Sorry ma'am, I don't know where you can stay tonight.

Spot one of our neighbourhood cows in her favourite hang out zone.
This is what I step out into the moment I leave the gates of LSR, so you might imagine how daunting it was to begin with.

The view across the road to Zamrudpur and more cows

Feeling dejected and a bit stuck without a phone I managed to get onto Emma and Jordy, the two other exchange girls who would be staying outside college in their own accommodation. At two thirty I reached their place in Saket (one hour away in the auto) after bargaining down their B&B owner to 500 rupees for a night on a dorm bed. I was frustrated by the situation and after my 300 rupee, three-person room overlooking the mountains of Leh, 500 rupees for a dinghy dorm room didn’t help.

Things began to look up as I got my cool shower, ate my first meal of the day (a delicious paneer tikka role), chatted to the girls about our respective trips up in Himachal Pradesh and finally lay down and forgot about my bags. In the evening we went out to Hauz Khas, a place I hadn’t heard of but would soon come to frequent, and ended up having a bigger night out than anticipated. Waking up at two pm the next day I felt prepared for Day One, Take Two at LSR.