Good morning all.

 There have been several power outages today and it made me think about how infrequently the power had gone out since I had been in Delhi. Power loss in Gaya was an every-so-many hourly event. The internet cafe owner <power outage> would hope that the UPS caught the computers, he he had a UPS. Most had them on some computers, few had them on all. The <power outage> is something I will type everything the power goes out while I am typing. Let's see how many we get. Obviously I am on a UPS or I would not be able to keep typing. When I was at the hotel in Gaya and the power went out, I could hear the bak door open and a cord being pulled, like on a lawn mower, then the generator would rumble to life. Seconds later the fan would restart and the lights would come on. The TV was not on the generator circuit. I was sitting in the lobby here at the Y moment ago when the inspiration for this post came to me. When the powe went out, I looked up and wondered when it would come on. A member, I presume, of management here was walking across the lobby talking to another memeber of management and someone else when the power failure hit. They continued walking and talking, despite being in about the only place in the lobby which is somewhat lit by the electric lights during the day. They seemed not to even notice. It is a normal part of the day. Of course the power here is back up in seconds. I am not sure if there is someone within a few moments walk of a generator or if the blackout is simply a short interruption of service here in Delhi and quickly returns through the powers that be who operate the infra-structure. Anyway, these were my thoughts on the power siutation here.

Now, to the incredible newspaper. I mentioned before that is is commonly used to wrap things up. I bought a few posters for my classes and these were wrapped in newspaper.  But this morning I found two more, more surprising uses. When I unwrapped my laundry, done here at the Y the day before yesterday, I pulled out a clean pair of pants and found in the neat, crisp (actually it was more crunchy) fold of the legs was a piece of newspaper. I assume it was doing something like that bit of tissue paper inside a packaged shirt, newly bought, but it still struck me as odd. Until, that is, I remembered the same thing from the last time I was in India. They do go to some lengths to recycle here. Now, even better than laundry separator: window cleaner. I kid you not. I just saw an employee wipe the full glass front doors with windex and a piece of newspaper. And he got all the fingerprints off with no more than usual effort. I did not inspect for streaks, but I am only so curious about newspaper.

A couple of funny moments to share too, despite the fact that they don't quite fit in here. Not sure they fit in anywhere, so I want to get them out before I forget.

Yesterday I hailed an auto-rickshaw from Connaught Circle, an upscale shopping area near here, told him where and aksed how much. He said fifty (I had paid 30 to get from the hotel to that very corner only an hour or so ago) and I scoffed and said 30. He did that minimalistic head shake that amounts to a blow off and I push to haggle. "40," I say. "10 rupees is so little to you," he said as he gestured for me to get in.  I did, and as soon as my butt hit the seat he said, in English, "I am a poor man; you are a rich man." So I was called out for haggling over 25 cents. Of course I felt like a jerk. But I thought about it. I can spin it another way too, he up charged me 66%. But 66% is 25 cents, jerk. This got me to thinking about what my responsibilty is as a rich American. Do I give in, thinking that when they charge me an extra 10 to 250% that I can afford it so I should let it slide. If I should not balk at 10% but I should at 250%, where do I draw the line? What is a dollar or two (or ten) to me, when for the person I am dealing with it is so much more. Do I go with the old addage, when in Greece. This is a haggle culture, so you haggle. And that clever auto-wala used what he knew about me as leverage in the haggling. Should I then simply walk away and find another auto-wala who will accept 30? That is the rule of thumb for any negotiation, if you don't like it walk away. And there are plenty of autos around. When I went to Karol Bagh Market today to shop for the cultural trunks that James and I are trying to assemble, I had all this in my mind, well at the beginning I did. I decided I wasn't going to haggle. Partly I was tired (the innumerable, ceaseless differences become oppressive. I am trying to write about this right now, but it is still gibberish, so I will get back to you), partly I felt like this market, much less visited by foreigners (I saw more than a dozen at Connaught Circle and the surrounding areas in my meanderings last night), so I figured the prices would not be marked up as much. For the most part it was true, so I did not revisit my decision not to haggle. The venders there were also much less aggressive, and the ones with whom I dealth were all very helpful, and not only with my purchase at their store. So what do I do about being rich in a poor country. I have no idea. I guess it will depend on too many things to make an easily followed rule, but it something I think about a lot.

Can't end on such a heavy note: Earlie that day, walking around Chandni Chwok I had a barber, way back in one of the deadend galis, ask me is I needed his services. I pointed at my head (I admit it is only nearly bald, I have about an 1/8th of an inch growth) and asked what he intended to do. "You need a shave," he replied.

I guess the power is back to stable. So much for my silly demonstration.

I hope you day is haggle free and filled with as much joy as your newspaper can handle.