Category Archives: bio

More Things to Buy in India – The Growth of a Consumer Society

^ Buduram the mochi (shoemaker), Landour, Mussoorie, 1980

When I first went to India in 1977, there wasn’t a lot to buy anywhere in the country. The basics – food, clothing, shelter, transport – were all available, but the consumer goods industry was severely undeveloped, thanks to a government attitude of “Be Indian, Buy Indian”, enforced by high import tariffs and strict foreign exchange controls.

You bought food (and many other staples) at street stalls or open-air markets, or from vendors who came to your door with baskets on their heads – there was no such thing as a supermarket, and very little packaged food. Milk, for example, you got from a local dairyman who brought it to your door, fresh from the cow that morning, in a tin container with a measuring cup. (In cities there were dairy cooperatives which aggregated the output of many small dairy farmers.) You had to pasteurize the milk yourself by boiling.

^ milk delivery in Mussoorie, 2007 – not much has changed

The variety and quality of foods was limited, especially in smaller towns like Mussoorie.

^ subziwallah (vegetable seller), Mussoorie, ~1981

Shops, even in Connaught Place (then Delhi’s poshest shopping area), were mostly dim and frowsy. Once you had exhausted your need or desire for gorgeous hand-woven textiles and other handcrafted items (of which the Indian middle-class consumer already had quite enough, thank you – these things look far more exotic when you don’t live there), there simply wasn’t a lot on the shelves. The branded goods available were few and poorly packaged, nothing like the overwhelming slickness and variety available in the US.

The first time a modern American car showed up in Mussoorie (driven by a US embassy employee) in 1981, children ran up to look at themselves in the mirror-like surface. The two models of car then available in India did not come with glossy paint.

Times Have Changed

On my recent visit to Mussoorie (which is still, in many ways, a dusty little town), I was astonished to see this:

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It’s a retail store for Himalaya Herbals, a line of skin, hair, and personal care products and herbal medicines – very good ones, at prices which are, by my standards, quite reasonable. But Rs. 150 for a bottle of shampoo can be expensive for millions of India’s buyers – they have more money than they’ve ever had before, but still far less than you and I. Companies operating in India have adapted cleverly to this market, for example offering single-use packages at Rs. 1.50:

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Food is available in far greater quantity and variety than ever before:

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^ subziwallah, Mussoorie, 2007

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What’s remarkable in the photo above are the fruits which were not even grown in India in the 1970’s: plums, grapes, apples, pears… I’ve also seen strawberries, nectarines, and out of season mangoes transported from south India to north. India is growing olives and wine grapes, and producing some decent wines (I like Sula‘s rosé).

Though you can still get it from a local milkman, milk can also be bought in shops in tetrapak cartons, UHT-treated for a long shelf life. Amul Dairy was already a national company when I was in school, but in Mussoorie we knew it for butter, cheese, and chocolate, not milk. Note the water buffalo on the carton. Indians prefer the flavor of buffalo milk, which has a higher fat content than cow milk. (In Italy, mozzarella di bufala is considered the best for the same reason.)

There are national chains now: in the above photo, taken in Dehra Dun (the capital of Uttarakhand), you can see Habib’s (beauty salon), Himalaya Herbals again, and Café Coffee Day, one of at least three coffee chains in India today. Barista was bought last year by Italy’s Lavazza coffee company. There are supposed to be a few Starbuck’s outlets in India, but I never saw them. I did see Costa Coffee, another international café chain, in Delhi and Mumbai.

And there are shopping malls and supermarkets (this is in Dehra Dun):

In India’s large and mid-sized cities, you can buy many of the same brands (even at the same prices) that you’d find in any world capital, as well as attractive and well-made Indian brands. On the other hand, low-cost and hand-made goods are still easily available – the shoemakers in Mussoorie still make great shoes, and nowadays have more outside influences to inspire them:

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^ mother-daughter cowboy boots, handmade in Mussoorie

As I keep saying: now is an interesting time to be in India…

Decorating in Italy – Asian Style: Adding Some Eastern Touches to Our Lake Como Home

When we moved to Lecco, we consolidated the contents of our household from Milan with Enrico’s parents’ stuff from their apartment in Rome (they were by then retired to a much smaller place on the seaside in Abruzzo).

In this way we acquired some beautiful furniture, fixtures, knick-knacks, and paintings – all lovely stuff, but… it wasn’t mine, and didn’t reflect anything about my life, nor even our life together.

I did have a few items to contribute, such as these paintings – the one on the left my mother commissioned for Rossella from Iowa artist Killy Beard, the one on the right Mom had done for me by a Thai artist many years before that.

Our ground-floor half bath also displays some of my Asian history (along with our collection of humor books, for those who like to read while enthroned).

There’s a Balinese mirror frame (from my stepmother, Ruth) and two Javanese shadow puppets (Samar, the dwarf protector of the city of Semarang, and Arjuna). Reflected in the mirror is a Kathakali dance mask I bought in India in 1980.

^ During my recent trip to India, at Dilli Haat I bought some leather shadow puppets, if I remember correctly they come from the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh. The figures are (left to right) probably Sita, definitely Ganesh (who else?) and probably Lakshman.

But my favorite is this guy:

Ravana: there were several versions of him, but I couldn’t resist the shit-eatin’ grin on this one.

Finally, as you can see in the photo at the top of the page, I have hung outside a long string of Tibetan prayer flags that my classmate Teeran gave me for my birthday this year. I probably failed to observe the auspicious time and style for hanging them, but at least we are in the mountains!

post script: I later returned to Italy after a trip to the US (or maybe after I’d moved back to the US) to find  that Enrico had taken down the prayer flags. “The neighbors asked about them,” he said, “wondering if we were having a party.” Sigh.

Shopping for a Sari in Bombay – Part 2

You might think that shopping for a sari ends when you purchase the actual sari, but you’d be wrong.

You don’t even get to take it home right away. First the salesman cuts off the blouse piece, a section of cloth woven together with the sari that you will have made into the choli – blouse – to wear with it. You take that home with you, pending discussions with your tailor. The shop keeps the rest of the sari for a few days to sew in a fall, a strip of lining along the bottom, to add weight at the bottom and help it drape gracefully, and stitch up the raw edges. This service is included in the price of the sari.

Some saris don’t include a blouse piece, so you need to find material in a matching (or contrasting) color. For that you go to a shop like the one pictured above – the photo shows only a portion of the goods on offer! – where you can find the precise shade of silk or cotton desired, with or without a decorative border.

matching cloth for sari blouse, red and gold

Alternatively, you can get a gold or silver crepe or brocade.

This shop is also where you will buy the petticoat, a drawstring-waisted skirt that goes underneath, into which you will tuck the pleats and wraps of the sari. The petticoat is chosen both for color (more critical for a transparent sari, obviously) and for a material which complements the sari material and helps it drape better.

matching cloth shop assistant

As always, every shop bustles with smiling salesmen ready to make helpful suggestions!

Shopping for a Sari in Bombay

Though some articles on this site might lead you to believe otherwise, I am not usually an enthusiastic shopper. Shopping, for me, is not an end in itself; “retail therapy” has never worked for me. I don’t go out just to see what’s there – I like to have a specific mission.

Ross is good at providing me with shopping goals (one of her life’s missions seems to be to spend all my money!). Right now, we are on the hunt for a sari for her to wear for her Woodstock School graduation in May. (Mussoorie offers very limited choices, and she won’t have other opportunities to look elsewhere before school ends.)

So my classmate Deepu has been gamely escorting us all over Bombay, on the hunt for the perfect sari. This has turned out to be an endurance event, though the shops strive to make it pleasant.

A sari shop usually features a soft surface covered in taut, spotless white cloth. In the first place we visited, this was a counter that the salesman stood behind, and we had comfy chairs to sit on – refreshments were offered as well.

In the next shop (pictured above), the surface was a low platform, wide enough for the salesman to sit on, while we sat on cushioned benches.

In the third and most traditional, we sat on the cloth-covered floor (shoes off at the door) and reclined on bolsters, while the salesman sat cross-legged in front of us. This was very hard on the knees after a while – I’m too creaky to sit that way for long.

Once you’re settled and have established a range of what you’re looking for, the salesman begins to pull out long cardboard boxes…

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…from which he unfolds meter after meter of textile miracles.

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These are Benares brocades, an ancient art that may be dying out because it’s not in sync with modern tastes.

I love this material so much that I’m tempted to buy practically everything in sight, though I have no idea what I’d do with it, having no particular occasion, nor the necessary skill, to wear a sari myself. (I don’t even know enough to buy one without help, there are so many styles and origins and other factors…)

As the mind begins to boggle with colors, borders, and styles, saris to be kept for further consideration are tossed aside rather casually:

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…while the rejects are folded back into their boxes. Like every other organization in India, sari shops swarm with employees – assistants stand ready to do the folding.

Prices range from Rs. 2000 into the stratosphere, depending on the quality of the material, whether the gold is real, and how much of it is woven into the material. A very fancy wedding sari can be heavy to wear from the sheer weight of precious metal in it. Though they can be expensive, a good sari lasts practically forever, always fits (you can have new blouses made to wear underneath), and can be handed on to your daughters.

When you find something you really like, someone will help drape it around you (over your clothes – no need for a changing room) so you can judge the effect in the mirror:

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later – It took us until this evening – and an hour at a fourth store – to actually buy anything. But I won’t describe it, so as not to spoil the surprise. Suffice to say that Ross will look stunning!

photo top: At a large sari shop in Santa Cruz. The gentleman got nervous after a while and asked me to stop taking photos.

next

 

Delhi Sunday Morning

I’m sitting on a rattan footstool in order to be close to the modem – the wifi doesn’t seem to be working, but there’s an Ethernet cable, and the ADSL connection is good. Outside the window is a small, presumably ancient tomb, I have no idea whose, another of Delhi’s many semi-abandoned Mughal relics.

But the patch of land it sits on seems to be protected: there are trees enough to attract bright green, long-tailed parrots, and the little chipmunks whose backs are said to be striped because Lord Ram stroked them in thanks for helping build the bridge to Lanka.

We arrived in Delhi late Friday night on the Shatabdi Express from Dehra Dun, along with about 200 Woodstock students “Going Down” to return to their far-flung homes, and 14 staff members who were responsible for getting them onto myriad flights. A Woodstock staffer’s job emphatically does not end with the end of the semester! Some will have been on duty for 24 hours before they saw off the last of their charges yesterday afternoon – even longer if departures were delayed, as they so often are in Delhi’s foggy winter.

Fortunately for us, we only had to go across town to Green Park, where we are staying in a guest house/apartment belonging to a Woodstock alumna. It took us a while to find the place – our hired driver, being from Rajasthan, doesn’t know every corner of Delhi. But, then, I’m not sure anyone does.

The apartment is a third-floor walkup, nicely, if simply, furnished. The location is fairly quiet at night, though I suspect that we are due for some disturbance as the neighbors have had a huge awning put up for some sort of celebration. This morning I was awakened around 7:30 by steady drumming. Seems an odd time for a wedding rite (and also the wrong time of year for weddings), so I wonder what this is about.

As the city wakes up, more sounds impinge. A man on a bicycle pedals through the neighborhood crying: Kabadi kabadi kabadi (“second-hand goods” – he’s looking to buy them, including scrap clothing and paper). Another shouts Koel – I don’t know what that means. Cars make strange chirps and whistles to alert us that they are backing up. But mostly right now I hear parrots, mynahs, and pigeons against a muted rumble of traffic (relatively less – today is Sunday).
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Delhi wildlife: can you spot two green parrots and a stripey squirrel?

I’m breakfasting on fresh papaya, bought from a well-stocked fruit stall around the corner, and Nescafé. Yes, this latter is a terrible comedown for a long-term resident of Italy, but India’s coffee culture is still developing. When I go out I’ll find a Barista or Café Coffee Day and have a decent espresso – Barista was recently bought by Italy’s coffee giant, Lavazza, a brand we drink at home.

I would be happy to sit around and work and listen to the morning symphony, but I’m cramped and chilly. Delhi is much colder than I expected at this time of year, but everything here is built for the fiercely hot weather of summer. Rooms which are doubtless delightfully cool and airy then are shivering cold now, with no possibility of heating. The shops, on the other hand, tend to be too warm without their habitual air conditioning. I’m going shopping!