At the Deli...New Deli! India!

I am writing this with Ross' funky retro writing pencil. It is kept in a special, tiny case. His parents gave it to him, which makes complete sense.

We've learnt a lot so far. We learnt that gin and tonics are free, that my father has a pathological hatred for tempera paint, and even how to share.

Ross' headset doesn't work. I told him this is what Indians call "karma." He looked dour.

(Here Ross insisted I turn on my light. "You'll go blinder," he said.)

I am writing in my travel notebook because I have relinquished my working monitor for Ross, who is watching as many music videos as he can.

"Life is meaningless without a screen," Ross says happily, not even bothering to put on his headphones. The four gin and tonics we've had between the two of us have worn off.

I don't blame him for only watching music videos. There was a neat camera mounted at the front of the plane that doesn't really work anymore, and I already watched two (terrible) movies from their pitiful selection.

(There is a music video that takes place in a heart. GROSS.)

Last night, Ross' mother and stepfather treated us to a delicious dinner, and Ross' father did the same at a swanky brunch joint today.

Dad had similar plans when he met us at the airport, but there was nothing to eat at the terminal except soggy tuna fish sandwiches.

My father is currently displeased with my mother, who insisted he fill his suitcase with at least thirty pounds of gifts that can be bought in India.

His face fell when he saw the meagre food selection, and again at the Duty Free Store. He gave me a look when he saw me eyeing their scotch selection.

"There are deals in India," he whispered, "where you can buy three and get three free. That's three black label bottles for gifts, and one each for me, you, and Ross. Your mother need not find out."

"Dad," I said, "I couldn't turn 21 fast enough for you."

"Your mother doesn't drink. I've been waiting for 21 years."

--

Ross' mother is always interested to know what I plan on doing with my future, but this time she quizzed Ross as well.

"The thing is, Mother, none of us have any idea what we want to do..."

"Well, Pranks seems to have some idea..."

"Pranks is an exception," Ross said with some exasperation, and shot me a look that was equal parts pride and envy.

(This was before I explained that I was applying to jobs, not accepting them, and that I merely wanted to hear the inevitable rejections before I became a hobo.)

--

The emigration process was quick and easy, and way more efficient than American airports. Ross was excited when we were accosted by a street urchin on the way to my uncle's car, and again when we were nearly plowed into by a truck in horrible New Delhi traffic.

We were wined, dined, and put to sleep, but not before getting fitted for suits. Ross chose dark blue with pinstripes, and I chose more of a solid navy color.

Ross is astonishingly patient with my nine-year-old cousin. He played Uno with her, talked with her about New York, and generally spoke to her in an extremely warm and tolerant way. I am a little jealous. She calls him "Ross bhaiya", which is Hindhi for Brother Ross.

Ross is wearing sandals and socks. I took a picture of them surreptitiously.

Today, we're going to the President's house! Pictures to follow.