As has often been the case on this trip, it wasn't until we had already arrived in Jodhpur that we began to scan our guidebook for a sense of orientation and a plan of attack. The famous Mehrangarh fort was a must-see, and after some deliberation we decided to investigate the peaceful gardens at the Jaswant Thada tomb.
But the highlight of our stay in India's "blue city" was hiding in a seemingly innocuous tip to check out the masala mixtures at a store called M.V. Spices. The name, in fact, had almost slipped our minds as we browsed through the market around the clock tower. Feeling bolder than usual, we snapped photos of stalls without our normal pretend-you're-taking-a-picture-of-me-so-you-can-secretly-photograph-that-gorgeous-old-woman subterfuge. We even tried the world's greatest lassi (our much maligned guidebook pulls through with another win).
Eventually our wandering took us pass a small, cheery spice store, with the inviting title of M.V. Spices. Outside was the familiar figure of the hawker, calling out to tourists and touting the store's wares. Be tried to balance the hassle of a pushy salesman with our desire for cardamom and cumin. In the end, our culinary curiosity won out (as it usually does), and we stepped into the shop.
Hours later our arms were filled with teas, tonics, and spice mixes. Our budgets were feebly protesting, to absolutely no avail. And our cups (of delicious chai) were filled with our good fortune at meeting Neelam, who along with her six sisters had been running her late father's spice stores for the past seven years.
Their story is impressive in respect to their age alone: the sisters were still young when their father died, and the oldest were already running the stores and keeping the books at 21, 18, 16. But their success becomes truly remarkable in the context of women's rights in modern Rajasthan, where women are normally not allowed to hold jobs of any kind. (This practice has contributed to our growing impression of traveling in a country composed at least 70% of men.) On the day that Neelam's oldest sister, Usha, arrived to open the store for the first time, she had to push her way through a group of protesting men that included even her own uncles. For the first months she would shake and tear up when she had to step outside the shop and face the stares and comments of the watching men. For years she and her sisters put up with jeers, lewd comments, threats, and even attempts at violence. Their father - the first person to open a spice store in Jodhpur - had eventually gotten his name in the guidebooks and had made connections and formed friendships all over the world. Now jealous imitators popped up, with names like M.M. Spices and Maha Vin spices, in an attempt to mislead tourists and steal away some of M.V. Spices' success. Faced with so much opposition, their determined mother had told her daughters that you can't run from threats and stares: you have to get stronger and fight back.
I devoted much of my last entry to my impressions of the opportunity gap in India, and so I won't belabor the point here. Suffice it to say that Brianne and I were blown away by the strength of these women, who were fighting battles that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers had won for us long ago. We were dumbfounded by their grace in dealing with the constant stares that Westernized women attract, stares which already - after only two and half weeks as visitors here - had made us feel at times like throwing bags over our heads or going on a pepper-spray rampage. We waxed lyrical about the aroma of saffron and the flavor of anis seeds. We momentarily entertained the idea of throwing graduate school out the window in order to open an Indian-inspired tea shop in the United States.
Most of all, we fell in love with the incredible chai and outstanding spirit of these women, whom their father called the Seven Wonders, whom an Australian documentary called the Spice Girls of India, and whom we called inspirations, future friends, and our lifetime suppliers of masala.
But the highlight of our stay in India's "blue city" was hiding in a seemingly innocuous tip to check out the masala mixtures at a store called M.V. Spices. The name, in fact, had almost slipped our minds as we browsed through the market around the clock tower. Feeling bolder than usual, we snapped photos of stalls without our normal pretend-you're-taking-a-picture-of-me-so-you-can-secretly-photograph-that-gorgeous-old-woman subterfuge. We even tried the world's greatest lassi (our much maligned guidebook pulls through with another win).
Eventually our wandering took us pass a small, cheery spice store, with the inviting title of M.V. Spices. Outside was the familiar figure of the hawker, calling out to tourists and touting the store's wares. Be tried to balance the hassle of a pushy salesman with our desire for cardamom and cumin. In the end, our culinary curiosity won out (as it usually does), and we stepped into the shop.
Hours later our arms were filled with teas, tonics, and spice mixes. Our budgets were feebly protesting, to absolutely no avail. And our cups (of delicious chai) were filled with our good fortune at meeting Neelam, who along with her six sisters had been running her late father's spice stores for the past seven years.
Their story is impressive in respect to their age alone: the sisters were still young when their father died, and the oldest were already running the stores and keeping the books at 21, 18, 16. But their success becomes truly remarkable in the context of women's rights in modern Rajasthan, where women are normally not allowed to hold jobs of any kind. (This practice has contributed to our growing impression of traveling in a country composed at least 70% of men.) On the day that Neelam's oldest sister, Usha, arrived to open the store for the first time, she had to push her way through a group of protesting men that included even her own uncles. For the first months she would shake and tear up when she had to step outside the shop and face the stares and comments of the watching men. For years she and her sisters put up with jeers, lewd comments, threats, and even attempts at violence. Their father - the first person to open a spice store in Jodhpur - had eventually gotten his name in the guidebooks and had made connections and formed friendships all over the world. Now jealous imitators popped up, with names like M.M. Spices and Maha Vin spices, in an attempt to mislead tourists and steal away some of M.V. Spices' success. Faced with so much opposition, their determined mother had told her daughters that you can't run from threats and stares: you have to get stronger and fight back.
I devoted much of my last entry to my impressions of the opportunity gap in India, and so I won't belabor the point here. Suffice it to say that Brianne and I were blown away by the strength of these women, who were fighting battles that our grandmothers and great-grandmothers had won for us long ago. We were dumbfounded by their grace in dealing with the constant stares that Westernized women attract, stares which already - after only two and half weeks as visitors here - had made us feel at times like throwing bags over our heads or going on a pepper-spray rampage. We waxed lyrical about the aroma of saffron and the flavor of anis seeds. We momentarily entertained the idea of throwing graduate school out the window in order to open an Indian-inspired tea shop in the United States.
Most of all, we fell in love with the incredible chai and outstanding spirit of these women, whom their father called the Seven Wonders, whom an Australian documentary called the Spice Girls of India, and whom we called inspirations, future friends, and our lifetime suppliers of masala.
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