Vinay hired a driver to take us to Nagpur in a car. Before leaving town, we picked up an Indian man very professional in appearance. He was meticulously dressed in pressed gray cotton pants and a matching button down shirt. Later, Vinay informed me his attire, called a safari dress, was the mark of an officer. However, I was not introduced to him and it was sometime before I learned exactly who he was and the important service he would provide us. An hour into the drive to Nagpur, we pulled into what appeared to be a restaurant/motel. Apparently, it is customary to buy your driver a drink, such as tea or coffee, every few hours if you are traveling long distances. Driving in India is very tedious, it only makes sense. While our driver refreshed, I observed my surroundings and snapped some photos. Here is a picture of an ambulance parked nearby:
Trash is everywhere we visited; I hardly ever spot any waste baskets. Any garbage is apparently just thrown somewhere on the ground. This was a typical sight next to every home and business throughout every city I visited: 
Just before our arrival into town, we stopped at a restaurant to use the restrooms. Clean, public restrooms (especially western style) are rare in Chandrapur and Nagpur. This restaurant inside a hotel was one of the few places with a western bathroom worthy enough to be used. Neeta said it was impolite to use the restroom without ordering something, so we sat down to drink tea. Several pictures were taken. On the right is Vinay’s mother, Mary, and to the left of her is Vinay’s eldest sister, Neeta:
The five of us (the man at the head of time is Ganesh Babu, our officer friend): 
This is a picture of the restaurant walls; they were decorated with musical instruments: 
A picture of our meal: 
More pictures: 
Note - There will be more pictures of the entire family posted on Saturday; everyone will be dressed up for a special event.
There are few utensils used during an Indian meal, hands are used in place of knifes, spoons, and forks. I have become quite good at eating with my fingers.
After we finished eating at the restaurant, we dropped Vinay’s mother and Neeta off for the doctor’s appointment. The rest of us drove to Nagpur University.
Nagpur University is not an actual building with classrooms; it is simply a large complex with administrative offices. College classes are taught within colleges located throughout various cities in India. Vinay received his bachelor’s degree from Nagpur University at the Chandrapur campus. However, all documents and paperwork are processed with the administrative offices at Nagpur.
Motor bikes, (actually called scooters I have just now been informed) lined the streets leading up to the University. Once we exited the car, our friend, the clerk, took the lead. Vinay and I followed his brisk step, weaving through several lines of people. We trailed him up four flights of dimly lit stairs. I noticed splatters of dark red staining every stair, growing into clusters at the wall corners.
Vinay noticed my strange inquisitive look. “It’s spit. Men chew a beetle leaf called pan mixed with tobacco, a peculiarity of Maharashtra State.”
I was quite stunned. The spit was everywhere. Only a photograph would have truly depicted the extent of the habit, but taking pictures of campus was frowned upon.
A few stairs later we were led into a rather gloomy room outlined by 10 tables. Each table stood in front of shelves haphazardly stacked with papers. Men sat behind a few of the tables. Our friend, the clerk, walked purposefully to one of these tables. A few Marathi words, documents, and hand gestures were exchanged. I didn’t really understand what was going on, but I knew Vinay needed a copy of his diploma, his mark sheet (equivalent to a transcript in the US), and a description of the actually coursework completed. How this was actually accomplished I still don’t know, but watching the process was exhausting.
I discovered that Ganesh Babu was employed at one of the colleges for the University. Apparently, he was also a long-time family friend. His knowledge of the inner complexities of the University and of the employees was of upmost importance. Paperwork was his specialty. His appearance was carefully groomed for this very reason. The gait of his walk, the safari dress, the brief case, and the mannerisms were all signs that he deserved respect and could gain access to all areas of the school. Any security guard that saw the three of us together allowed us passage without question. Vinay assured me that if Ganesh Babu had not been with us, we would have been detained many times.
We spent 2 or 3 hours at the University and visited 5 or 6 different employees, some more than once. There were no signs labeling offices or floors. Vinay would never have been able to find out where to go or who he needed to visit without knowing someone like Ganesh Babu. Our friend did all the talking and explaining.
Vinay explained to me later that the University system had little organization. A person had to know someone or have a wealth of disposable money in order to accomplish anything. We did manage to take a picture of the filing system. All of the offices looked like this:
Vinay further explained to me that time frames did not exist for processes in India. For example, requesting a mark sheet might take 2 weeks or 2 months. It all depended on who you knew, or the disposition of the person taking your requesting, or how much money you handed them. Vinay and Ganesh Babu were attempting to get the transcript processed in 2 days or less, before we had to leave India.
At one point, Vinay and I did have to wait in line. The clerk had been unable to use his reputation to cut through. The line itself was completely disorganized. Individuals were constantly pushing against one another and slyly trying to cut in front of someone else. It is hot and sticky because air conditioning is nonexistent. I felt claustrophobic. We got a picture of the chaos:
It is so amazing to me that a University could be so chaotic and unpredictable. At the University of Oklahoma, I can walk into an office and have a sealed or unsealed copy of my transcript within 5 minutes. No bribes necessary. If I need any other paperwork, even if it is not available same day, I will have a promise of its completion. If it is not completed, there is a process of recourse outlined by the University. Apparently, this is not the case in India.
I became even more amazed as the day went on. Not all of the needed information could be obtained at this one University location – we also had to retrieve documents from a library and get a signature from a provost at another site. Then we had to return yet again to the main University campus. It took us 5 hours to get 3 documents that would take me 10 minutes at home. My personal visit would not have even been necessary in some instances – I could have simply faxed or telephoned my request.
Vinay said this was typical India – everything was a fight to get anything accomplished.
Several hours later we thought we were nearing the end of our adventure. All we needed was a signature from the provost. I was sitting in a chair outside the office playing a game on my cell phone while Vinay and the clerk took care of business. A few minutes later Vinay asks me to take his bag out to the car and wait for him there. He returned a few moments later trembling with anger. “He wouldn’t sign it because he didn’t like the fact that I brought you in with me.”
I looked at Vinay in shock. “WHAT?”
Vinay was furious. “He asked me who you were. I told him you were my girlfriend. He said why do you have to bring your whole family here. I explained to him you just wanted to see the campus. He said there is nothing here to see. You should not have brought her in here. Come back tomorrow.”
Even the clerk could not convince the provost to change his mind.
I couldn’t believe it. We had made the 2 hour drive to Nagpur and spent 5 hours running back and forth, driving here and there only to have some man tell us that because I was sitting in a chair outside his office, he would not take 2 seconds needed to simply sign his name.
My face must have been white and I felt I was going to cry. Was it because I am a foreigner, or because I am a woman? “I’m so sorry Vinay!”
He shook his head. “This is not your fault. All I could say was okay because if I say anything else he will never sign the papers. I’m going to write a letter after this whole ordeal is finished.”
There is nothing much that can be done when a higher official gives a final say, unless you personally know someone higher in authority. Apparently, it is all about who you know in India.
We would not be able to make the long drive to Nagpur again the next day. Ganesh Babu decided to take it upon himself to obtain the required signature alone. We picked up Neeta and Vinay’s mother to accomplish our final goal, buying a sari and other necessary items in town.
Most of the streets of Nagpur did not appear much cleaner or organized than those in Chandrapur. They were, however; even busier. It is interesting to note that, for the first time, I saw some attempts at landscaping, creating a much more organized look in certain parts of the town such as the government housing section. I took many pictures of the street:
Driving in a larger metropolitan city was not any better either. I actually saw street lights, but evidently it is up to individuals to decide whether or not to follow them. We were at a 4 way stop intersection, but the light was ignored and everyone was still driving whichever way they cared to go however fast they could get there.
Beggars are bountiful in Nagpur. Women holding babies clothed in rags, men stumbling with canes, and children of all ages wander along every street. It is a heart wrenching sight. Initially, they will ask you politely from a distance. Seeing a refusal or turn of the head will prompt them to walk right up to you and ask a second time. If they still do not receive the desired note, a hit on the arm or back will follow. They will even trail after you if you try to walk away. We could not simply walk from store to store without being confronted, especially because I am easily spotted. Once, we were already in the car pulling away from a store when a child, a little boy of not more than 7 or 8, ran up to the car and hit it with both hands. I am not used to seeing children by themselves begging on the streets.
We gave out as many rupees as possible. Vinay acknowledged that it is difficult to see the plight of poverty, but he also informed me that begging is a professional art in India. There are many who beg that are not actually poor. For those that have seen Slumdog millionaire, the depiction of the cultivation of beggars is accurate as per Vinay. Children are recruited at a young age and taught the art of manipulation.
Vinay told me that rich and poor live side-by-side throughout Chandrapur, Nagpur, and other parts of India. It is common to see a wealthy Indian family living next to a slum or shack. In my experience, in the US, it seems to me that rich and poor are more segregated into neighborhoods. One would never see a poor family living in Brookhaven. Yet, in India, it seems to be often the case. Vinay’s mother‘s house is a good example of this. Her home is a fairly nice home, yet right across from her in the front, is a very wealthy home:
Then right across from her in the back sits two shacks that barely make for a suitable dwelling. Neither of these two shelters have any sort of running water in the home. Every day women come from the home to the community well, a governmental source of clean drinking water. The women fill buckets to take back to the home and wash their clothes. I took several pictures of women using the well and washing their clothes:
Back to Nagpur…
We went to several stores in Nagpur, and purchased several salwar kamees for me, but we never found a sari. Neeta said we could go try shopping in Chandrapur tomorrow. Here was the shop selling salwar kamees:
By the time we started our trek back towards Chandrapur, darkness had fallen. I have mentioned the action-packed moments of day driving on the streets of India. Let me tell you, those adventures were nothing compared to the thrilling death-defying adventures of night driving. There are no over head street lights, so a person can only hope that the car driving in front or behind has functioning car lights. There are no shoulders on the road, so if a car or truck needs to stop, they will simply do so in the middle of the road. Hazard lights are not flashed; rather rocks are carefully placed in a circular fashion a few feet around the stopped vehicle in hopes of preventing a deadly crash. It is truly exciting.
I started feeling sick on the drive home.
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