Birds, Booze and Bandits: my time at the Las Vegas of Old India

Tribal women making maulwa, a liquor made from a flower

A few months ago, I was lucky enough to stay a night with an Adivasi (tribal) family while in the Bastar region, part of the eastern state of Chhattisgarh. Chhattisgarh, hewn from the giant state of Madhya Pradesh in 2000, only makes fleeting appearances in national news – typically because of an ambush of government troops by the Maoist rebels, commonly known as Naxalites (or ‘human wildlife’ by our guide) who inhabit the region’s labyrinthine forests. Thanks partly to this ongoing conflict, as well as a lack of any obvious man-made or natural attractions, international tourists are few and far between; indeed, I did not see a single white face during my time there. My reason for coming to this forgotten corner was to try to observe, and experience if possible, some Adivasi culture. 

Adivasis are the descendants of the original inhabitants of India, and are some of its poorest and most marginalised communities – an impressive, if dubious, accolade in its own way, given how rampant poverty is in India. Despite these problems, they remain proud guardians of their unique culture and way of life, steadfastly refusing, according to my pre-conceptions, to be assimilated and absorbed into modern, ‘New India’. 

A tribal women going to a haat (market)

Since independence in 1947, visions of a brighter future for India, unshackled from the ghosts of its colonial past, have been interminably bandied about by politicians, academics, rich and poor alike. John F.Kennedy’s ‘New Frontier’ of the early 60s might as easily have been conceived in the sub-continent; a 2004 election campaign slogan by the BJP, ‘India Shining’, while scorned by many, is just one of many recent examples of this aspiration. This ‘New India’ is envisioned as a nation which, having reluctantly welcomed capitalism and globalisation in the 1990s, finally manages to punch its weight on the international stage. Providing a brilliant example to the world of how to manage a culturally, ethnically and religiously disparate population of millions and millions, it can send missions into space while caring for its legions of poor and needy, while its acting and cricketing superstars are watched and adored around the globe. From my fleeting time in the village, it seemed that traditional tribal life was thankfully holding its own against the onslaught of New India, in all its globalising, modernising, homogenising glory. 

As the sun set on the arid Bastar plateau, the cockerel reeled away from the fight, its blood already mixing with the red earth of the arena. Vainly trying to maintain its balance, it slumped to the ground. Within a few moments it was dead, its stint as gladiator having provided rich entertainment to the hundreds of adivasis who had come to this illegal cockfight. As we watched this macabre yet enthralling spectacle, yet more cockerels were sent in to do battle. Feathers soon littered the arena, and crimson spots darkened the earth. Cockfighting is a brutal affair; a further three birds were to die during our time at the ‘Las Vegas’ of Bastar, as our guide Awesh succinctly put it. With the reek of mahuwa (the local tipple of choice), the sound of rolling dice and the yells of ecstatic and despondent punters rending the air, it was a fair description. 

Returning from the cockfight to the village where we would stay the night as guests of the ‘Nag’ (Snake) family, I started to take a look. The home of our hosts was, as expected, one-storied, its walls constructed from mud yet painted an eye-catching blue-green. Our host’s cockerel, which had lost its bout but thankfully not its life, strutted around unconcernedly, accompanied by a chicken and her flock of chicks. Goats wandered freely, except when threatening to graze on the dinner being cooked in the kitchen, its walls blackened by smoke. All of this tallied with my pre-conceptions. The satellite dish, perched atop the slanting tile roof, did not. 

The home of the Nag family

Later that evening, after a hearty dinner of rice, chicken and chutney (which I later understood to be made from the ants we had bought at a local market and gifted to our hosts), I talked to the eldest son in the family. Wearing torn jeans, a Tommy Hilfiger shirt and wielding a phone substantially better than my budget Nokia, Viru represented, in my hasty judgement, the imminent destruction of tribal culture in Bastar. The older generation, brought up on cockfights and mahuwa, probably viewed the local town of Jagdalpur, 40 minutes’ drive away, as their Mumbai. But if this man of nineteen had already shunned the traditional dress of his tribe, the limits to his world, broadened by the Internet and Bollywood film music on his phone, must have surely extended far beyond this small corner of Chhattisgarh.

Having introduced ourselves, I began to steer the conversation towards contemporary, popular Indian culture. It soon turned out that Viru was a keen fan of Shah Rukh Khan, the smoulderingly handsome veteran of many a camp, cheesy Bollywood flick. Cricket was undoubtedly the sport of choice. 

‘Do you like the IPL?’ [The Indian Premier League, an annual multi-billion dollar cricket tournament played in the Twenty20 format, featuring both emerging domestic talent and established Indian and overseas superstars, and watched around the world by millions.]

‘Of course’ replied Viru, who then proceeded to reel off each of the eight regional teams. When I asked which was his favourite side, he chooses the Delhi, Punjab and Rajasthan franchises. So far, despite his environment, Viru seemed very much a child of New India. Yet when I asked him what he wanted to do in the future, the response startled me. He said he wanted to become a bell-metal craftsman, like his father, creating representations of tribal deities and animals from scrap metal. His limited English and my non-existent knowledge of his language meant I was unable to find out whether Viru wanted to practice this traditional tribal craft for life. 

Although fascinating from my perspective as an outsider, tribal living should not be romanticised. Data released last month by the Socio-Economic and Caste Census revealed that the main breadwinner in over 90% of households in rural India earns less than 10,000 rupees a month, or £100. Dependence on subsistence agriculture, characterised by inefficient methods and rudimentary technology, and casual manual labour is the norm. Tribal households returned the worst data, with Chhattisgarh being one of the states with the greatest indicators of poverty. I wouldn’t have begrudged Viru, aware of the world out there beyond the wooden fence of his village, if he had wanted to leave his home and, like millions of other rural Indians, try to find a place for himself in New India. Yet I was encouraged that he identified in this crucial way with his heritage; whether this was out of respect for his father or because his ambitions did not amount to making the fateful plunge into New India I did not know. The well-maintained Honda motorbike he owned suggested that money might not have been the impediment. 

This aim of emulating his father, and the fact that his cockerel, a regular competitor in the arena, seemed to be his proudest possession showed for me, that although Viru might wear the garb of New India and indulge in its culture, his tribal heritage hadn’t been erased by any means. India is not a land frozen in time, contrary to the preconceptions of many foreigners who have and have not visited this ever-changing land. But, as V.S. Naipaul – the Trinidadian writer whose grandparents came to the Caribbean from India in the 1880s as indentured servants – put it in 1977 (and I think his words still hold true), ‘Sometimes Old India, the old, eternal India many Indians like to talk about, does seem just to go on.’

Why the Delhi Metro's better than the London Underground

I am a Delhi Metro-lover. If the rickety, expensive London Underground epitomises the banality of the suburban rat-race lifestyle, its anthem ‘The Sound of Silence’, then the Delhi Metro is its exuberant alter ego, encapsulating (literally) the vicissitudes of life in this manic, enthralling city.  Not only is it cheap and efficient – I can be in the city centre from my university hostel in 20 minutes for the paltry sum of 15 rupees (approximately 15p)  – it also gives my lungs a bit of breathing space from Delhi’s filthy air, which I’m sure has shaved a few months off my life expectancy.

But the Metro’s so much more than this – it’s also a great place for people-watching and interacting. As a gora (white man), I’m often, happily or otherwise depending upon my mood, the subject of much curiosity from my fellow Metro-users. Frequently, as in the outside world, interaction takes the standard form of ‘Where are you from?’, ’What are you doing here?’, ‘What is your good name?’, What is your father’s job?’ etc etc.

Thankfully however, these subterranean encounters often take a more interesting turn. One time I was brazenly propositioned on the Metro by an inebriated (male) passenger, giving a new meaning to the term ‘metrosexual’. I think my firm rejection of his advances disappointed him, although it kept the numerous commuters watching the hapless firangi (foreigner) writhing with embarrassment entertained.

Another time, I was treated to the sight of a man campaigning for himself before local elections, declaiming to one and all while thrusting leaflets left, right and centre to anyone (un)fortunate enough to be in reach. Given the paucity of credible political parties operating in India’s capital at the moment, if I could have voted this one-man band would have got my backing, just for his sheer flamboyance and enterprise rather than on the basis of any polices he might have had. While such characters would be tut-tutted at, or steadfastly ignored on the London Underground (including by me), Delhi-wallas love a spectacle, particularly if it involves a firangi trying desperately to extricate themselves from the situation with dignity intact.

Even if there is nothing much happening on a journey, it’s still easy to pass the time discreetly admiring the luminous saris of middle-aged matriarchs, or the bright-orange, henna-stained beards of elderly Muslim gentlemen. Every-time I step on-board, I inwardly laugh at the various improbable rules and regulations set by the august Delhi Metro Rail Corporation. Any daredevils seeking to make the Metro their amphitheatre are swiftly stopped in their tracks; riding on the roof of a train will set you back a princely 50 rupees (50p) for example. By contrast, the heinous crime of ‘causing obstruction to Doors’ could land you with either a 5000 rupee fine or a 4-year stint in jail, or even both. Quite how the Delhi Metro Rail Corporation decided that the liberty of their patrons is worth the equivalent of £12.50 a year is beyond me.

The Metro isn’t without its flaws. The ladies-only compartment, located at the front of each train, reflects a sad fact of life in Delhi: that many women, for good reason, do not feel safe in public. Most of my female Indian friends feel that it is necessary, while understandably wishing that it wasn’t required. Should any man dare to cross the invisible line, in theory he faces a stiff fine of 250 rupees (£2.50). A cursory trawl through YouTube shows the penalties can be greater however; videos show delinquent men being slapped off the train both by female civilians and police officers, or even forced to do squats to atone for their sins. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdShqJyeNrs

Corruption, a scourge of Indian society, also occasionally rears its head. It was reported a few weeks ago that staff at one station had been lining their pockets by collecting the tokens passengers buy when entering the metro – which are then supposed to be dropped into the exit gates – and selling them on. Less trivial is the trial next year of employees of Alstom Network UK, the British arm of the French engineering company Alstom, for allegedly bribing Metro officials to win a contract for the first phase of the Metro’s construction.

On a more ordinary level, Delhi’s huge population means trains can get very cramped at any time. Not quite as in Black Hole of Calcutta-cramped, but cosy enough that attempting to move your limbs voluntarily can sometimes be a challenge. At one particularly busy station, while attempting to disembark I was once pushed back into the carriage by the surge of commuters who didn’t want to wait for me to get off.

Despite these issues, riding the Metro is, for me, still invariably an enjoyable experience. For the weary foreign traveller, the Metro might seem to offer an enticing escape from the bewildering intensity of Delhi, with its array of entertaining, colourful and dubious characters and bizarre unwritten social conventions. It doesn’t, and for that I, a regular Metro user and Indophile, am eternally grateful. 

The Elephant in the Room

Spectacular, yet sinister

I was lucky enough to attend my first Indian wedding last week. It was an experience I will treasure for a long time, and is the topic of my next post later this week. 

En-route to the wedding, we stopped off for a day’s sight-seeing in Lucknow, the state capital of Uttar Pradesh (or 'the Northern State'). During the twilight of the mighty Mughal Empire in the first half of the eighteenth century, Lucknow emerged as a hub for Islamic arts and culture thanks to the patronage of the Nawabs of Awadh. The Bara (or Grand) Imambara, a complex built in 1784 and boasting a magnificent mosque - sadly closed to non-Muslims - the largest vaulted hall in the world and a labyrinth is the foremost monument dating from this period and was an interesting first stop on our tour. From an Anglo-centric perspective however, the city is most famous for being the site of a five-month long siege of the British Residency by Indian sepoys during the Mutiny of 1857. Empire folklore has it that the surviving female members of the garrison refused consolatory offers of tea from the Highland troops that broke the siege, as they didn't have any milk available! A gentle wander for an hour around the battle-scarred ruins and the museum in the afternoon heat prepared us nicely for a traditional lunch of delicious, spicy Mughal-style kebabs and parathas.

To round off the day, we went to the sprawling 107-acre Ambedkar Memorial Park in the heart of Lucknow. Named after Dr B.R. Ambedkar, a famous leader of the economically and socially-disadvantaged dalit (or Untouchable) caste and a framer of India’s constitution post-Independence in 1947, it was ‘constructed’ (the park is completely bereft of green space, and made entirely out of sandstone from Rajasthan and marble imported from Italy) between 1995 and 2008. It had been built during the ministry of Mayawati, a dalit politician who claims to champion the cause of her fellow Untouchables. She became (in)famous during her time in power thanks to her penchant for commissioning statues of herself and trying to have a shopping mall built next to the Taj Mahal. I had visited the park on a previous trip to Lucknow in October; my feelings about it had been ambivalent at best. The pantheon in its centre – containing a statue of Ambedkar uncannily like that of Abraham Lincoln’s in Washington D.C. – the rows of giant stone elephants and towering statues of Mayawati's associates littered about were certainly remarkable. Yet the conspicuous absence of greenery, the numerous security guards prowling about, the lack of children playing and the sheer scale of the place left me uneasy. Discovering that the elephant is the symbol of Mayawati’s Bahujan Samaj Party further increased my doubts about the place, evoking in my mind an unpleasant comparison with the totalitarian, soulless architecture of Stalin’s Russia and the Third Reich.

A more thorough walk around the park last week helped to confirm my reservations. A giant plaque I found declared Mayawati to be ‘one of the most powerful women in the world’ (please let me know if you've heard of her before) and her creation to be ‘in the public interest in its every nuance.’ As I looked around, I did not see street-sweepers or rag-pickers (common occupations for dalits) enjoying a place supposedly dedicated to them and one of their heroes – the security guards had made sure of that. Instead I saw only middle-class families and the well-heeled, selfie-loving, gilded youth of the city strolling around in the evening light. Ironically, Mayawati’s 7-billion rupee pet project – with a 10 rupee (10p) entrance fee that’s an unjustifiable luxury for any beggars, sweepers or any other ‘undesirables’ who might dare to enter – further perpetuates the culturally-sanctioned segregation that is a hallmark of the lives of her fellow dalits. Built in a state in which a third of its approximately 200-million people live below the poverty line according to UNICEF, the park is in reality a shrine to misrule and megalomania, and an abysmal betrayal of the dalit community and the ideals of Ambedkar. To those who subscribe to the idea of India as ‘Shining’ (a campaign/marketing slogan coined by the now-ruling BJP party in 2004), Ambedkar Memorial Park is a sobering reminder that such optimism is lamentably naive. 

As we left, a familiar sight greeted us: three young female beggars, no doubt eternally grateful to Mayawati for having such grand surroundings in which to ply their trade, rushing towards us.

Abraham Ambedkar?!