Delhi life

22/02/11

Delhi life if you know the right people is electro-rock bands and late night clubs in classy hotels blasting techno and serving fancy cocktails til five in the morning. The clientele a mixture of westerners and rich Indians. Nothing too showy, they all seem to be there to party hard, the floor is full of sweaty bodies, mostly men. Inside these places it doesn’t feel like india.

The next day it all feels real again. At the post office we befriend Amlata, a proud Kashmiri women who is excited to meet us as she has children in both the UK and USA (she boasts). She lives alone here in Delhi and whilst she showers us with advice and compliments about living and travelling as single women in india there is a sadness to her and stains on her sari that she no longer notices herself. She asks us to come and eat and spend time with her, i nod emphatically knowing that it probably will not happen in the limited time i have left here. On the walk home there are dogs everywhere, a group of skeletal puppies scavenge slowly and lethargically, one attempts to pick the flesh off a rat in rigamortis but gives up and lies back in the heat, it’s tiny body heaving with exhaustion.

The next day is hot and the air feels wet to, it’s good to while away some hours outside of thought, to read and soak sun a little. As the day wears on and we decide to go out and take a walk around another part of delhi, the sky turns purple, the air is thick with moisture and everything is intense. We tentatively pass up the fashion and craft boutiques to our left and right to see what seems like some old, ruined stone temples in front of us (something one stumbles upon in India). In the grounds children are throwing balls but there is no laughter, boys hang gloomily around the ruins staring ominously into the lake and there are pockets of lovers hidden in corners. The wind whips up. Red dust flying in spirals, beach-sandwich-teeth and blinded eyes. We make a run for it, back past the boutiques, shining and glittering designer saris, sequin minidresses, antique rajasthani anklets and gramophones on plinths and hide in a bar which is cosy and atmospheric and more resembling something you would find in London that in India. We settle down on the sofas and order hot chocolate and tea, only to be told that no tea is available and that these sofas are reserved for the owners. We move begrudgingly and order milkshakes, most inappropriate for the booming thunder surrounding us and I for one am immediately aware that the paleness of our skin did not allow us privileges for a change. Later I look around and see that this place is a popular spot for our type and modern, well-off Indians alike. We are approached by a young, smart Indian man, who asks about the game we’re playing. A conversation about who, where from and why we are here ensues. Our new friend seems putout by our working as English teachers and states that it is useless in the slums. We patiently explain to him about Asha’s work, training women from the slums to work within the community as health-workers. My friends are as animated as I, we have all seen what these women have achieved, we’ve seen healthy, happy people, decent sanitation, paved slums and we are all falling head over heals with the students we teach. He continues to huff and puff and refuses an Asha business card when I offer it.

Finally it’s all there at once. Not the rich and poor but the attitude towards the poor or misfortunate and the mistrustfulness of all. Monday brings my dreaded visit to the Foreign Registration Office to get a stamp allowing me to leave the country come june. Bureaucracy coming out of my ears, I sir, madam, ji my way through the process as I’m shouted and gestured at like everyone else. We take numbers but it means nothing, you have to push for a place. Covered in other peoples sweat, I reach the front to be told my documents are no good, I needed this and that, photocopies, signatures, leases, utility bills… I DON’T LIVE HERE I want to shout, no amount of grovelling is effective. I dejectedly turn to leave walking past the queue of weary looking families, gripping scraps of paper, no glimmers of hope as they approach fat-bellied men with shiny, bushy moustaches and mean eyes, past the mass of Afghanis in the other section getting shoved and hit by toothy, nasty, suspicious looking men in uniforms and out into the street.

I find a chai wallah, there's the normal stares from his other customers and then as he begins to hand me the cup he takes it away again and pours it back into the pot and heats it on the stove. carefully pouring it through the sieve once more he hands me the cup, i taste it. it's scorching hot, creamy, gingery chai, the finest of chais. my amiable chai wallah doesn't have the right change and purposely undercharges me, kindly smiling and declining as i offer his change back. my day is fixed.

i breeze through the next three hours of bureaucracy and come out smiling as i jump into an autorickshaw to jeevan nagar. the kids greet me like a celebrity, the women have a feast ready for lunch. as always i don't remember till later that theses folk have nothing to their name and still give everything of themselves.

daily

21/01/11

Smoke choke rickshaw rides back and forth to jeevan nager's centre, the indian sun now begins to warm the air. more and more barefeet in flipflops appear clad in bells and polish, the air thick with dust and smog shimmers. the children get restless also, back at school and attending these extra english classes, each willing to be there , keen to learn and have this free opportunity but no less children(or brats to quote myself after a bad lesson).

Jeevan Nagar

11/1/11

an ugly concrete building surrounded by a concrete yard and walls with iron gates, opposite heaps and heaps of rubbish are surrounded by a makeshift market. the rickshaw stops here, jeevan nagar, my place of work for the next two months.

A squealing roar greets us and we're mobbed by an array of children, some small, some brightly coloured, sequins glinting, some with matted hair and barefeet, each showering us with rose petals and adorning us with garlands of marigolds. little hands shaking mine, kisses on my cheek and the women shyly shoo them away until we're sitting with eight shining women, each with a different colour salwar kameez and matching thick scarf wrapped around them. they beam as they tell their stories. Some are community health volunteers(CHVs) and some supervisors.

Halima looks into my eyes as she talks, she doesn't even seem to blink as she tells of a life transformed. once a muslim women who couldn't leave the house, now a pillar of the community, caring for 200 families and petitioning the government officials about sanitation in the slum.

Back to Delhi

7/1/11

In the search for my bed for the night on the 19hour train to delhi i find a choice travelling companion, a polish phd student in india looking for sanskrit manuscripts. straight talking, smart and savy. we have a sleeper bay to ourselves but it quickly fills with a group of men playing some form of trumps on a table cloth held across their legs. a group of korean tourists dressed in tourist turbans and fake beards snake down the isle as the delhi express creeps in one direction for 20 minutes before creeping back again.

8/1/11

Vast and colourful and tragic and vibrantly alive. the railway tracks are playgrounds, kitchens, bathrooms. back and back the breeze-block and corrugated iron shacks sprawl out from the tracks, two or three stories tall. fires, washing, carpenters, barbers, a community of great magnitude built from rubbish and performed to commuters daily.

it is dry and cold as we creep through the outskirts of delhi, the part i am to familiarise myself with over the next few months, so far away from the brahmins of pushkar and the hoteliers of jaisalmer. so far away from the whiteman's travel size knowledge of what india is and needs.

3/1/11

Daliesque landscapes of undulating sand. Talia, my desert steed, takes me through the shrub and dunes. I have so many questions about the animals and plants but the almost peace is a rarity to be treasured. The camel’s bells chime and apart from us there is no other sound at present.

In the stillness my conscience wavers. These camels appear healthier than in other places but mine cannot open her left eye and there is a smell of disease about her, the metal pins through their noses are used to guide them and whilst i am glad to see the desert, and not from a jeep, i resolve that the conditions would have to be very different for me to take a trip such as this again.

The desert where time and distance disappear, While time seems irrelevant the position of the sun and stars dictate all and what seems far can be right in front of you but more often than not what seems near is so far away. The sun sets in the distance illuminating Pakistan too before it disappears out of view.

Here in the desert the observation and acknowledgement of sun-up sun-down comes to life for me. In Pushkar i felt separate from its religious significance, grateful as i was for the suns presence and consistency. But in this environment it holds so much weight, the heat it brings or takes away is immediately tangible, the scars it leaves on the sky, the multitude of stars that follow and their clarity. All of it brings an overwhelming sense of life, the universe and everything and a deep seated gratitude to and for what i do not know.

Nye Sal kee Badhai ho

1/1/11

A strange collection of europeans and indians gather on a roof top to see in the new year. strange stories and life theories pass from mouth to ear; feuds and gossip and anecdotes alike. the early hours awaiting new years GMT were whiled away with a bottle of dirty indian rum and the last man standing, brilliantly named Aladdin.

Into the desert

29/12/10

Hot, bright, dusty desert sun and everything matching. Sand walls, sand floors, sand forts.

Jaisalmer

Up into the sandstone fort and along the winding lanes and alleys in search of Bobby, not only famous for henna and massage but for her vibrant character. As you weave in and out you can ask anyone where Bobby's is, they all know and no one acts surprised that you walk past countless other henna and massage parlours without a glance. She sits cross-legged amongst a myriad of beautiful handwoven textiles of every colour and design, her smile fills the room, her laugh oozes out of the room and into the alleys and bounces around the ancient forts outer walls, second only to my sisters wonderful guffaw.

This women is strong and courageous, kind and intelligent. She is brutally honest in her opinions of arranged marriage and the mistreatment of women in marriage and when widowed. Her shop sells the produce of women from her village who have no education. She provides them with some income, advice, shelter in the rains and to me an example second to none.

Everyday in India I contemplate what a privilege it is to be here at this time, it feels so precious and in such a state of flux. Older travellers revisiting say the change is so evident already but to me there is still so much of the ancient, fragile and fading as it is. Bobby, though fully entrenched in the overbearing tourist trade, reminds me that change can be positive as she talks of more children being educated and berating their fathers violent behaviour towards their mothers. With good education and more role models like Bobby change doesn't seen so ugly.

sun-up sun-down

18/12/10

Drums play the sun in and the sun out everyday, it's entrance and exit is marked, rejoiced. Tonight a legless man plays the tabla drums with a backdrop of the holy lake and it's many temples. The last bathers drip dry from their holy wash, the gypsies continue to sing and play their handmade instruments, musicians from all over join the cacophony in harmony to the setting of a big pink hazy Indian sun.

Pushkar escaped

28/12/10
At first i was voluntarily stuck there, after meeting good folk the shock wore off and it seemed the perfect place to spend an inchristmassy christmas. xmas night played out by drums and spinning fire balls and then i resolved to leave at last the next day. it wasn't to be. Road blocks strikes, cancellations, the whole place shutdown. Destination scrubbed i decided to jump on the first bus out, which puts me in Jodphur, sitting on the city wall of a fort, looking down at a cloudy city of blue houses. Drums still play, the unescapable sounds of Rajasthan continue to beat and sing, multicolored turbans and tales of the glorious battles of the maharajahs all around.

The road to Azmer

23/12/10

To be on 2 wheels again, gearless clanking bike over rutted road, wild west scenery to the left and right, hot dry sun cracking my face, bare landscape interspresed with patches of calling children taking rides and asking for pens and pennies.

Pushkar rooftop

19.12.10
Invited to paint the rooftop of a new restaurant for all the pakoras and chai you can take. Kites flutter above and monkeys jump around, stealing food from the street below to gulp on their playground of once luminous green domes belonging the only muslim temple in town. The moon rises, threatening fullness within two days and deep dark mountains are illuminated in the setting sun.

Pushkar

14/12/10

The town surrounding a holy lake, it is a place of pilgrimage, so relaxed the travellers get stuck there, some forever. The first evening boasts the well known shops and offers from street tauts, a nice lake but not idyllic, ghats of interesting and beautiful sounds, amazing turban clad men bathing and requesting blessings.

It begins for me when the gypsy girl and her uncle spot me on the holy bridge, $ in their eyes. They play and sing. The song is about a deceased brother returning to his sister in a dream. It’s in some wonderful desert language and her voice has guts, his playing is sharp and poignant, my heart sings too.

16/12/10

Pushkar continues to pound it's rhythm. In the evening a conversation around a campfire acquires a guitar, and another, a flute and a double sided drum. Somebody pulls out two big clay jars and completes the percussion section. Another stringed instrument appears, i cannot name it. The dancing begins.

The night is full of music and smoke and it rings in my ears as i trace the lake around to find my present home, hopping from ghat to ghat, no "holy brahmin" to take my money now for a contrived blessings. Just me, water and moonlight.

This morning i moved to a treehouse below which music is played, food prepared and stories told in broken english, filled in with hindi, spanish, hebrew, etc.

The Spanish have gone in all directions and the moon cafe hotel empties then slowly starts to refill. Cyclists part-way through their journey from devon to sydney tell a new type of story.

This holy lake town has a thin skin and many layers beneath it, tales of treachery and cheating, the smell of forbidden alcohol, the remains of discarded needles and the out pourings of an old mans heart.

Jaipur

14/12/10

It is not beautiful.

Banks and electronic shops, dirt and dust, stark poverty, traffic upon traffic puffing out black plumes of smoke. But up close, or low down the colours, the women decorated from head to toe, the vibrant produce on offer, it's there when you're open to it and well hidden when you're not.

In the middle of the dusty industrial streets there is a palace which definitely boasts beauty but tells a story of war and riches. Maharajahs who's hobbies are truly indulged dwelt there. One was the size of a town, another a world polo champion and one who's interest in astrology meant that a second sundial standing 27 metres tall was built so as to be accurate to the second.

Into Rajasthan

13/12/10

Sitting in a restaurant in Jaipur, a hectic Rajasthani city jam packed with sights, i negotiate my first food in 48 hours and it tastes good but feels wrong. I've left my present partner in crime, a bulshie and enthusiastic London lass with a nose for travelling and endless curiosity, suffering the classic complaints of "The Delhi Belly" back in the hotel.

The 6 hour train journey was mostly taken up embarrassedly passing the three other pale people on the train on the way to the toilet, looking even paler than before.

Delhi was a whirlwind of amazing sights and stark contrasts. Half a kilometre from crumbling beggar-filled streets a metropolis of high-end clothes shops and continental restaurants all with telling signs that you are still in India. LONELY PLANT recommended restaurants and DELUXE TOILETS crawling with cockroaches aplenty. The energy and bustle is constant .

Getting on

11/12/10

Rapid self-made tours of Delhi distract me temporarily from the shock of senses, collision of worlds going on all around, under and on top of me. I gather strength and curiosity with it, i ditch some of my worry over clothes and etiquette and hold my head a little higher and speak my refusals with a little more authority.

The Shock

8/12/10

... now the smell! Cumin, excrement, incense, heat.

Decorated cows pulling rickety wooden structures full of rice and pulses.

Ankles of girls, that sparkle and shimmer, sing a marching jingle.

Lame, broken, starving amongst shiny watches and sharp suits, amongst us in our rich white skin.

Is this to be my home? Am i to fall for and into step with this city of constant noise and pungency?

Relax, inhale, exhale, be.

They'll be tears before bed and whilst i can't be lonely yet, i am not lonely, i know i need an ally.

It's too big, too intimidating alone.

Heathrow to Indira Gandhi

7/12/10

I can't taste it or smell it yet but I can hear and feel it all around me. Seat negotiations like market haggling. Hindi and English spoken interchangeably. Every button is pressed, wrapping on blankets, eye shields, toothbrushes, ripped off. Rows of turbans and red dotted foreheads.