tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80876184718502131392024-03-14T03:36:06.002-07:00Dispatches from DelhiAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-84306830065904016992017-03-24T12:19:00.000-07:002017-03-24T12:19:09.073-07:00A Week in South India: Three Train Journeys and a Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9EeVbCBvFIEZYsgpiOylHk6yp9cIVbKeEq4y68qBVluDG4TDFUetblOnHRtC8fpcb-PMHA9_yAZvUXEJOA3VvPY-C2wxjm8DzYu5jSAOakxJjKaOB8jaBqxOc6SILZCgocbQCF67i_DB/s1600/P1030831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9EeVbCBvFIEZYsgpiOylHk6yp9cIVbKeEq4y68qBVluDG4TDFUetblOnHRtC8fpcb-PMHA9_yAZvUXEJOA3VvPY-C2wxjm8DzYu5jSAOakxJjKaOB8jaBqxOc6SILZCgocbQCF67i_DB/s320/P1030831.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Charminar in Hyderabad</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week I used an invitation to the wedding of one of
Nivedita’s cousins in Bangalore as an excuse to do some travelling in South
India. On the first leg of my trip, a 22-hour train journey down the spine of India
took me to the city of Hyderabad, known in the past for the ostentation of its Muslim
rulers (the last Nizam had 11,000 servants, 38 of whom were tasked with keeping the chandeliers clean) and now reinventing itself as a technology and IT powerhouse. Following
a day and a half visiting its historical sites and loafing through the streets
of the Old City, I moved on to explore the ruins of the medieval Hindu city of
Hampi, scattered across an extraordinary landscape of granite outcrops strikingly
interspersed with green sinews of sugarcane plantation and coconut trees. So, after
approximately 1400 miles of train travel, multiple dancing-related
humiliations, 1 lost voice and 0 cases of sunstroke, here are a few thoughts
gleaned from my sojourn in the south. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
**************************************</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re attending an Indian wedding, make sure you’re
neither the bride nor groom! Friends and family really have it easy; the only
entry requirements to a <i>desi </i>wedding
are a willingness to dance at any opportunity (age being no barrier) and eat an
inordinate quantity of <i>rogan josh</i> and
<i>jalebis</i> (ditto). By contrast, the lot
of the happy couple is to be spectators to their nearest and dearest’s capering
and gluttony as they endure the interminable rigmarole of religious ceremonies.
Despite my best endeavours to understand the meaning of these rituals, their
exact significance wasn’t always apparent even to those who did manage to tear
themselves away from the dancefloor or buffet to indulge my curiosity. By the
time Neha and Shivam had become man and wife – at an apparently auspicious 4am
on Monday morning – after four days of ceremony, and with most of the guests
having been whittled away by fatigue, over-eating or simple disinterest, I
could appreciate why they were sharing thousand-yard stares. Nevertheless, for
me – who only had to suffer the indignity of having to dance freestyle in front
of several hundred presumably pitying guests – it was a welcome and joyous weekend
of frivolity and gastronomic body abuse after a lean week backpacking (as I
write this I’m enjoying the sweets given to me by Neha’s mother the day after
the wedding). I wish Neha and Shivam all the best in their new lives together. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
**************************************</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9O9uughyn81Rp7Nggu0zdEMjVYcmjdSR3a8POymh2hjRVitCm_slogs8Z7ecm78Giufr8YYBp0YlWHt9wzXGzuFle_0hshFBlye5ApTMaiyR08wvumMs_NYtfzgUGruEMvZK_wJ1xd2f/s1600/P1030836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx9O9uughyn81Rp7Nggu0zdEMjVYcmjdSR3a8POymh2hjRVitCm_slogs8Z7ecm78Giufr8YYBp0YlWHt9wzXGzuFle_0hshFBlye5ApTMaiyR08wvumMs_NYtfzgUGruEMvZK_wJ1xd2f/s200/P1030836.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'So what are you in for?' 'Picking flowers.'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of India’s historical monuments seem to teeter between nurture
and neglect; Hyderabad – which I had learnt had already seen much of its
heritage lost forever in its rapid transition to IT hub– is a case in point. Extensive
restoration work was being carried out on the Charminar (Hyderabad’s premier
landmark) while I was there, yet it was easy to find other sites still to benefit
from the city’s belated conservation efforts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiAEmbJTBX40RH9Ju_L7v_jL1m24sJTo6XJt_nBZZtvO8pjjLp6m4PHqjVXFouyuEEg2a1LCKyeZkrY4ntFX8r4STixn_wx2euscoxrhCWTqAqkYsis668ENYz-1Rq40IQXXH_leB-6U4r/s1600/P1030838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiAEmbJTBX40RH9Ju_L7v_jL1m24sJTo6XJt_nBZZtvO8pjjLp6m4PHqjVXFouyuEEg2a1LCKyeZkrY4ntFX8r4STixn_wx2euscoxrhCWTqAqkYsis668ENYz-1Rq40IQXXH_leB-6U4r/s200/P1030838.JPG" width="150" /></a>Golconda Fort is one such place. Once the stronghold of the
Qutb Shahi dynasty, whose legendary wealth came from the diamond mines of the
region that spawned the Koh-i-Noor, any visitor today could be forgiven for
being underwhelmed by what is billed as one of India’s most spectacular forts. As
soon as I had passed through the fort’s gate (embedded with spikes to ward off
elephant charges), self-appointed guides eager to reel me in demonstrated the
acoustic capabilities of the portico by clapping: the echoes could allegedly be
heard on the distant hilltop citadel. It was a nice party-trick but, not
wanting to start my visit by haggling over payment for a tour I may have
regretted taking, I quickly peeled off, passed through the fort’s pleasure
gardens and began a steady ascent towards the citadel. Soon pausing to catch my
breath in the heat, I noticed that the fortifications rising above me were bolstered
and occasionally supplanted by massive boulders, making for some great photo
opportunities. As is so often the case with India’s lesser-known monuments
however, zooming in failed to bring reward. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NObGjy3HcRc9YcMp5X5OioVSB_sG4yn9gU6m0UqE0Vxsg4pHGYmCDdJ8Je3d3Gkt8hLlsBABsLe6YzhWVZXcLYur5gguBLqR0RzPToHbsuBmTqP_1GeY7PJF9aP83fqt9y4jCDNBVnVD/s1600/P1030851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7NObGjy3HcRc9YcMp5X5OioVSB_sG4yn9gU6m0UqE0Vxsg4pHGYmCDdJ8Je3d3Gkt8hLlsBABsLe6YzhWVZXcLYur5gguBLqR0RzPToHbsuBmTqP_1GeY7PJF9aP83fqt9y4jCDNBVnVD/s400/P1030851.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Golconda Fort</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having reached the acropolis, it quickly became clear that where
once there must have been beautiful and precise Indo-Islamic ornamentation, now
the citadel’s structures were crudely adorned with lovers’ graffiti, unerringly
gouged into fraying plasterwork. Most
pitifully of all, someone (perhaps an overzealous official who had got the
wrong end of the stick about conservation, or perhaps a well-intentioned but
still misguided visitor) had scratched ‘Remove footwear before entering’ into
the wall of a dilapidated mosque. Large areas of the hill had been given up to
weeds, shrubs and the detritus of tourists. Looking out beyond the walls of Golconda
and across the arid sweep of the Deccan plateau, the suburbs of the New
Hyderabad, ‘Cyberabad’, seemed menacingly close. As a fellow visitor who shared
my dismay put it, although the fort withstood multiple sieges it could not
escape neglect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Golconda still seems to have sufficient gravitas for now. As
I wended my way down the path from the citadel, I spotted a film-crew shooting
what looked like a Mughal costume drama. But it can only be for the spectacular
backdrop. Ignorance, indifference and nature’s steady hand have long stripped
away the furnishings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<o:p> </o:p>**************************************</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDNmchBDL8Xc8XHa67t8XwTZqItVfAfCxsV1otQ2sUbf3bgodW2v6yhBO3q4lL_fPvmQ9OB7hGtNmhWrx9EyQdlRwtw-IgM_UEgBRWDA2TSx1Hjlvxz2GzyXOgjrBFQmQ8XahrMA_E4jR/s1600/P1030929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfDNmchBDL8Xc8XHa67t8XwTZqItVfAfCxsV1otQ2sUbf3bgodW2v6yhBO3q4lL_fPvmQ9OB7hGtNmhWrx9EyQdlRwtw-IgM_UEgBRWDA2TSx1Hjlvxz2GzyXOgjrBFQmQ8XahrMA_E4jR/s320/P1030929.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Virupaksha Temple, Hampi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Despite many years of traumatic colonial rule and Britain’s
best attempts to deter bright Indian students and workers from coming to the UK
through hefty university fees and stringent employment laws, there’s still an
immense amount of interest in Britain and its cultural heritage amongst
middle-class educated Indians. On the train to Hyderabad I was grilled on my
reasons for voting Remain in the EU referendum by a software engineer the same
age as me, caused my Golconda friend consternation at admitting to never having
seen Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator or read any of Jane Austen’s novels (although
we both shared a love of Withnail and I) and, a few hours after the wedding, sat
nodding mutely as Nivedita’s uncle waxed lyrical about David Copperfield
(again, another omission in my cultural compass). Whether you put this goodwill down to the
innate appeal of the UK’s ‘soft power’, or attribute it to the workings of an
Anglophile education system and the ‘colonised mind’ still in thrall to all
things British, I hope that Britain’s politicians remain conscious of how
fortunate they are to have this stockpile of social capital as leverage in
their post-Brexit dealings with India. Regardless, these chance encounters,
even when exposing my philistinism, provided the keenest memories of the week
and demonstrated why solo travel can be so rewarding.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0bj7622yejgpV21fN_wha8wnN7vuavsCweOlnOfnoJ8QLTXwgJc8l5KC9NESoPNMAxXGS1RG5Kg8pk3LnJnspalQxCE3SQqSjmudQ-sWiU_Z08g97BECn1MX9AUvIIvGzr-72vbhFLzL/s1600/P1030918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja0bj7622yejgpV21fN_wha8wnN7vuavsCweOlnOfnoJ8QLTXwgJc8l5KC9NESoPNMAxXGS1RG5Kg8pk3LnJnspalQxCE3SQqSjmudQ-sWiU_Z08g97BECn1MX9AUvIIvGzr-72vbhFLzL/s320/P1030918.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And finally, some wedding photos!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IFLzsh92d2ScSiZkAzRpxog1vkjfcId1iKvN26qBbFLqFriUGsxDsy7mWD6gkNS1DwWj9m1jjYxaKpf9ZaKfyUmyxsbGXd804ImPvDbj_JzbJtnc3cMP32KwHPJ_-JcpFPeHG-_YlhMx/s1600/P1030933.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5IFLzsh92d2ScSiZkAzRpxog1vkjfcId1iKvN26qBbFLqFriUGsxDsy7mWD6gkNS1DwWj9m1jjYxaKpf9ZaKfyUmyxsbGXd804ImPvDbj_JzbJtnc3cMP32KwHPJ_-JcpFPeHG-_YlhMx/s400/P1030933.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQhX11H8g7hL2PTruj3dcYDKZLmX2eVBL06hDOxh_TV6-E18gCDR3lADWiyX7qQXWOq2HufJAo12B-xl8nnYpPeXDPqKWlAXAjYqvpOZ3HDEwrnIWWdNE1OnG0MmozVvRAZpFtRJlAc4Y/s1600/17270947_10211902101530054_699948430_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRQhX11H8g7hL2PTruj3dcYDKZLmX2eVBL06hDOxh_TV6-E18gCDR3lADWiyX7qQXWOq2HufJAo12B-xl8nnYpPeXDPqKWlAXAjYqvpOZ3HDEwrnIWWdNE1OnG0MmozVvRAZpFtRJlAc4Y/s400/17270947_10211902101530054_699948430_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not even in step</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiarxIJGflHPDN1-8VNUn5YyCtZQn7ESY5y0Pu5jS21qKbOaUlEilFhtZdg82WcDCNm3IaknqgDFYYC5Cw5BMlRsqRwhH1VLZYwjQcKEV0iCFeDcEduNHbaegeGgHj8MYIyhRFn9SNJMcfh/s1600/P1040027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiarxIJGflHPDN1-8VNUn5YyCtZQn7ESY5y0Pu5jS21qKbOaUlEilFhtZdg82WcDCNm3IaknqgDFYYC5Cw5BMlRsqRwhH1VLZYwjQcKEV0iCFeDcEduNHbaegeGgHj8MYIyhRFn9SNJMcfh/s400/P1040027.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The night of the wedding</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMVJJkQQjotlT1qpkbk_4uuELFw1SNgxk5kTVwDCcoySc_8eOZ68GVySP7fY-3r5ZKSzaH3sXfgvDJsKkcupqMCR7B-sLIBO7hJUT5gPygNych7VBTFSB0CIozhJIdvFCeHGIhDjv3HQ5/s1600/P1040044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHMVJJkQQjotlT1qpkbk_4uuELFw1SNgxk5kTVwDCcoySc_8eOZ68GVySP7fY-3r5ZKSzaH3sXfgvDJsKkcupqMCR7B-sLIBO7hJUT5gPygNych7VBTFSB0CIozhJIdvFCeHGIhDjv3HQ5/s400/P1040044.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">3am and it's still going...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-19919566024742040772016-12-17T11:04:00.000-08:002016-12-17T11:04:55.793-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 28.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Freelance
gun for hire, and going slow in Udaipur</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Apologies for it being all quiet till
now<o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, I’ve finally had to forfeit my life of leisure and get a proper job. The highlight
of a brief and inglorious career as a freelance writer was receiving my first offer
from a Bangladeshi chap, who wanted some ads written for Black Friday – I was truly through the looking glass when he sent me a sample entitled ‘Best
Gun Deals on Black Friday 2016’. $1 dollar an hour in exchange for promoting
the sale of guns, DVD players and cheap jewellery to the good people of America? I rated my market value at slightly greater than that. Now I’m in the travel racket, interning at a
(legit) travel agency in southeast Delhi, editing and creating web-content on
their English-language site. Being the corporate lackey I am now, here’s a link
if you’re interested: </span>https://parallelsandmeridians.com/</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVK9P4PKCU9wDh8y7d191FPrbt20QSW-bIrlmIh_2ajwGnBmC_b28HwK8u4IMDakeseBeOaoJwpBKWKyEHBEE0jOqSE1uIQ0WCBJLyiG9MXBjJ_hyCbkBDKzpRRf8IXwUTnu1p5rx7J-Uj/s1600/Copy+of+IMG_20161126_144729952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVK9P4PKCU9wDh8y7d191FPrbt20QSW-bIrlmIh_2ajwGnBmC_b28HwK8u4IMDakeseBeOaoJwpBKWKyEHBEE0jOqSE1uIQ0WCBJLyiG9MXBjJ_hyCbkBDKzpRRf8IXwUTnu1p5rx7J-Uj/s320/Copy+of+IMG_20161126_144729952.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jagdish Temple, Udaipur</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Life in Delhi has been as entertaining as ever, with the
added twists of bird flu, even more abysmal than usual air pollution and
demonetisation to deal with. How have I handled these three Indian horsemen of
the apocalypse? With my usual grace, flair, élan, sleights of hand etc…In all
seriousness, I appreciated getting out of Delhi recently for a weekend trip to
Udaipur in Rajasthan. Here’s what I got up to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
**************************************<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Despite having lived in Delhi for over a year and a half all
told, I have seen precious little of neighbouring Rajasthan, aside from two
trips to Jaipur. The first time round I took in the sights of the Pink City
from a hospital bed while my family had fun exploring, while the second foray was
dedicated to attending Jaipur’s prestigious literature festival, allowing no
time to explore the city itself. So I was delighted when a weekend excursion to
Udaipur was proposed by friends; I felt I could start to fill a gaping hole in
my travel-map of North India. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLm0YOXZLvp1k8lf0piMmuOa_13Uf6e08i7n1QEYpmNUXJAah2ImIZ31_mbIXIn3NG-jXnNS2EJdtGE32w4_3eO9C9wS_cLzzyHb3vKmtIRhgqd5f0IFBPx5xJV8sFU7iHB4yN4xbaXt6z/s1600/IMG_20161128_162755281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLm0YOXZLvp1k8lf0piMmuOa_13Uf6e08i7n1QEYpmNUXJAah2ImIZ31_mbIXIn3NG-jXnNS2EJdtGE32w4_3eO9C9wS_cLzzyHb3vKmtIRhgqd5f0IFBPx5xJV8sFU7iHB4yN4xbaXt6z/s320/IMG_20161128_162755281.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Gangaur Ghat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Following an overnight train – during which I communed with a
friendly aunty over a bag of almonds I had brought for the journey – the first
two days were spent with my friends seeing the city’s famed array of sights and
sampling Rajasthani cuisine. I have found throughout my travels in India that
the best and most satisfying food is sometimes that which is neither
overly-complicated nor necessarily served in the most salubrious of
surroundings. Talking to fellow Indophiles, I know I am not the only one to hold
this belief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And so it was in Udaipur; a lunchtime stroll north of the City
Palace took us to one such place, a <i>dhaba</i>
(road-side canteen), perhaps slightly worn around the edges but welcoming enough,
where we enjoyed a Rajasthani classic: <i>kachori</i>,<i> </i>fried discs with a filling of lentils,
potato or onion and, of course, spices, accompanied by a rich tamarind chutney.
In the midday heat, a few <i>kachori</i>,
washed down with my poison of choice (chai, if you’re interested),<i> </i>were more than enough to sate my
appetite until evening. I came back again before I left and, over one final
round of <i>kachori</i>, managed to successfully
summon up enough of my meagre Hindi to convey my appreciation to the proprietor,
a trivial yet still satisfying achievement in my mind; while visiting the
Jagdish Temple the day before I had confidently informed a purveyor of
Udaipur’s famous miniature paintings that his work was delicious, but sadly not
for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
**************************************************<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw6VGrys7CTMZu0ORq31FE9dHXD_mMCLXs0z-McKNSP68-9UaoPohA3YZwZCWDga9d3CQZoo4X4FsgQzjHZ4AKvhrLfiGOL0Je5nAHepG62_nt7SO-s_Cc3fv0zQF3SuIGjaiEJRezGIGZ/s1600/IMG_20161128_121144105_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw6VGrys7CTMZu0ORq31FE9dHXD_mMCLXs0z-McKNSP68-9UaoPohA3YZwZCWDga9d3CQZoo4X4FsgQzjHZ4AKvhrLfiGOL0Je5nAHepG62_nt7SO-s_Cc3fv0zQF3SuIGjaiEJRezGIGZ/s400/IMG_20161128_121144105_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the streets of Udaipur</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Eager to take in some of the local culture however, I spent an
evening in the elegant eighteenth-century courtyard of <i>Bagore-ki-Haveli</i>, one of the city’s historic mansions, enjoying
performances from across the spectrum of traditional Rajasthani culture. The
show began with a dance by women from the Gujjar tribe, whose type of dance –
used for felicitous occasions – had gained recent viral fame thanks to a video
of two Gujjar women singing and dancing buoyantly in the incongruous setting of
the Delhi Metro. Despite the familiarity, it was still a wonderful experience
seeing it in person. With the Mewari sitting dance, it was difficult to decide
what should command one’s full attention: the fluid swaying back and forth of
the dancers, or their deftness in playing a pair of small cymbals
simultaneously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Despite the artful guile of each performer, the most
enthusiastic applause of the evening was undoubtedly reserved for a woman who
slowly yet surely danced while balancing an eventual total of eleven water
gourds on her head, and briefly treading delicately on shards of glass. The
acclaim of the audience only increased when the master of ceremonies revealed
her age afterwards: 70 years! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKudm_WFB60LGg3Ahs6My_0QJnhjrm-h0jLPwuJks9S4FZMSVLlNXaiGY8etoLfB5nog4rqAkwhNLrwPedC_vG4HbRXVoDmLDwFGFj6EVzueLgukOBaitv4qXVQKKYxkApQM3uvJzSMvJi/s1600/IMG_20161128_121428547_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKudm_WFB60LGg3Ahs6My_0QJnhjrm-h0jLPwuJks9S4FZMSVLlNXaiGY8etoLfB5nog4rqAkwhNLrwPedC_vG4HbRXVoDmLDwFGFj6EVzueLgukOBaitv4qXVQKKYxkApQM3uvJzSMvJi/s400/IMG_20161128_121428547_HDR.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
**************************************************<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Unlike my hard-working friends, I was lucky enough to have an
extra day in Udaipur before having to make tracks back to Delhi in the late
afternoon. As such, I decided to embrace my inner <i>flâneur </i>and take an unhurried walk through Udaipur’s neighbourhoods,
ostensibly to visit <i>Sahelion ki Bari</i>,
or the ‘Courtyard of the Maidens’. From what I had heard, its tranquil setting
of fountains and gardens seemed a fitting destination for a day of leisure.
That day was in fact meant to be a ‘day of rage’, or shutdown, in cities across
India as a protest by opposition parties against the recent demonetization measures.
In reality, as I stepped out of my hostel mid-morning, Udaipur seemed calm and
distinctly unperturbed – calm being a relative concept in India of course! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As I roamed, my eyes guiding me down alleyways, towards
well-maintained <i>havelis</i> and into the
thrum of markets, I was offered a road-side shave, a massage, a smoke, coconut
juice, spices…women adorned in the ubiquitous yet dazzling panoply of
Rajasthani colours diligently weaved reed baskets in the heat; tourists pawed
the leather bags hanging from shops, as the proprietors – very much in business
– looked eagerly on; locals offered a hasty prayer as they walked past
road-corner shrines. In wanton oblivion to the lofty words of the politicians<i> </i>in Delhi, life was assuredly carrying
on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Turning around a bend in the road, I saw up ahead a rickshaw
clatter into another, a sharp exchange of words follow, and the inevitable audience
hastily assemble as motorbikes formed an increasingly lengthy queue of blazing
horns. A policeman, sporting a fine black beret, spiritedly yet
inconsequentially blew his whistle. An elderly man, his beard luridly streaked
with henna, walked insouciantly through the commotion, only briefly glancing
sideways before shuffling on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdV9Xk4QqqLC7J2B-JrjdmyNlo_bqf54EDPu7OAxJExUOa2CzglSUSwLkHbDvRcOafNNSmVi_hg_JsFaZPUkRBthcPRbIGYIeUKQvz3pBqiGgX9x8NLPwjo1bGmoKsIRyigkxLCPoh0Xs/s1600/IMG_20161128_171217984_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdV9Xk4QqqLC7J2B-JrjdmyNlo_bqf54EDPu7OAxJExUOa2CzglSUSwLkHbDvRcOafNNSmVi_hg_JsFaZPUkRBthcPRbIGYIeUKQvz3pBqiGgX9x8NLPwjo1bGmoKsIRyigkxLCPoh0Xs/s400/IMG_20161128_171217984_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In the end, I never reached my intended destination; I didn’t
really mind. In India, there is so much joy, amusement and profundity to be
found in the everyday, the mundane, if only you take a moment to pause and
watch. ‘People-watching’ is an inexact, somewhat clumsy term for this method of
travelling – as if one were going on a human safari. I’ve yet to think of a
better name for this fine art, but I’ll let you know someday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">On the train back, I thought about my wanderings that day, as
well as my immediate surroundings. For me, taking the train in India is like
entering a library…but that’s a thought for another time.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-23816111900376517912016-11-09T11:28:00.001-08:002016-11-09T11:28:24.422-08:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjQSbmsB3_4tlHThxGdLa0VFfvzEcsLSGOQwPhrkaWaaBrXdkCNfeIC2VYsjQJ20goYbc8Jr8JutTcEWfigRoTT72XaJJqpmeL4xq9QiMONhRS4fwq59R7q9QE62Cmgco2ee70BRMjjMiK/s1600/DSC_0564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjQSbmsB3_4tlHThxGdLa0VFfvzEcsLSGOQwPhrkaWaaBrXdkCNfeIC2VYsjQJ20goYbc8Jr8JutTcEWfigRoTT72XaJJqpmeL4xq9QiMONhRS4fwq59R7q9QE62Cmgco2ee70BRMjjMiK/s320/DSC_0564.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting into the Diwali spirit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 24.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The Curious
Case of <i>Ae Dil Hai Mushkil<o:p></o:p></i></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead
of spending Diwali in Delhi getting slowly asphyxiated and deafened by a constant barrage of fireworks, I was lucky enough to enjoy the festival, for the second time, in the east of the state of Uttar Pradesh with my friend Shiv and
his family. Once again, I was treated to a sumptuous array of superb vegetarian food during my time there, much of which, being local to the area I was in, I had never tried before. Above all, it was a pleasure spending time in a traditional Indian household and again meeting various members of the extended family, whose exact relationship to Shiv I have, to my shame, still yet to completely work out! Anyway, here are my thoughts on the controversy surrounding this year's Diwali blockbuster: <i>Ae Dil Hai Mushkil</i>. </span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> ************************************************</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Diwali blockbuster has become as much a fixture of the
festive season as fireworks, smog and sweets. This year’s offering was <i>Ae Dil Hai Mushkil </i>or ‘Difficulties of
the Heart’ (Hindi film titles tend not to translate well!). Were it not
for the fact that the Pakistani actor Fawad Khan – who had already starred in
two Bollywood films without fuss – had been cast in the film, it would be yet
another anodyne entry into the Bollywood annals of love and heartbreak. But with
the two nations engaged in more grand-standing and skirmishing in Kashmir
however, such blasphemy proved too much for some right-wing nationalists;
threats of attacks on cinemas in Mumbai choosing to screen the film forced Karan
Johar, the film’s director, to give way to the mobocracy (which included
several political parties) and issue a statement before its release declaring
he would no longer employ actors from ‘the neighbouring country’ in any of his
future projects. Aware that this might not be enough to placate the
chauvinistic vultures picking apart his film, Johar also saluted the Indian
Army and condemned terrorism emanating from across the border.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bewildered, yet keen to see what all the fuss was about, I watched <i>Ae Dil Hai
Mushkil </i>in a shabby, packed-out cinema in the city of Gorakhpur, 800km east
of Delhi, two days after Diwali.
With the help of friends translating at key moments, I just about managed to
navigate my way through the fairly simple plot. As is often the case with
‘controversial’ cultural works, the reality in no way justified the frenzy surrounding Johar’s creation (Salman Rushdie’s ‘The Satanic Verses’
perhaps being another case in point). <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HIBwXuTldLoUdoA1HcH0Vr1p4AWM3N_2e4E-dzgjlxMVnQbce-VnkZ111FjaO2V6FVYSRmJhYiPySMPjNL_v8TztFdTDVOK72Mjt_VXbQGYSfRS-nRtTaqgNgSD8WXoGZZcdvVGO6Qd3/s1600/IMG_20161101_150009035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HIBwXuTldLoUdoA1HcH0Vr1p4AWM3N_2e4E-dzgjlxMVnQbce-VnkZ111FjaO2V6FVYSRmJhYiPySMPjNL_v8TztFdTDVOK72Mjt_VXbQGYSfRS-nRtTaqgNgSD8WXoGZZcdvVGO6Qd3/s320/IMG_20161101_150009035.jpg" width="320" /></span></b></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><i>Aloo chaat</i>, Uttar Pradesh style - fried onions, chopped tomatoes, fried potato, various spices combined to make some of the best street food I've had in India! </b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much like the film itself, Khan’s character was fairly
innocuous, a London DJ who temporarily separates the main protagonists (played
by Indian, not Pakistani, actors Ranbir Kapoor and Anushka Sharma) by marrying
Sharma’s character, before leaving her, setting the whole romantic tension
between Kapoor and Sharma off on another drawn-out tangent. While watching the
film, I made sure to scrutinise this heinous individual closely for any signs
of anti-India behaviour – eating beef while on set, burning the Indian flag as
an encore etc. – but, alas, failed. When his character did appear on screen, there was no
reaction from the audience. I’m guessing (or perhaps naively hoping) that most
watching didn’t really care that a Pakistani was gracing the big screen; they were
there to enjoy some classic Bollywood fare and see their favourite stars. Indeed,
the wildest cheers of the night were reserved for the entrance of megastar Shah
Rukh Khan who, in a typically effervescent 5-minute cameo, dispensed some
worldly wisdom on love to Kapoor’s rather hapless character.</span></b></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlqrQc5Tsvy-nh8LQ_dH6XCYsfYm53PkdmOkTEM-bd7W9vYjvtGUu82TbyGsP9uEJXpIR7usHBPftA26JP1EnT8j8ye-AiV341c90q6hHUxUomy-ayXQSOteSg9BPdpxfn3uHl_qjZcKF/s1600/DSC_0486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlqrQc5Tsvy-nh8LQ_dH6XCYsfYm53PkdmOkTEM-bd7W9vYjvtGUu82TbyGsP9uEJXpIR7usHBPftA26JP1EnT8j8ye-AiV341c90q6hHUxUomy-ayXQSOteSg9BPdpxfn3uHl_qjZcKF/s320/DSC_0486.JPG" width="320" /></span></b></a><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s both sad and alarming when dull-minded gnomes, clad in the protective garb of patriotism, can so brazenly manipulate popular culture to suit their cowardly, odious agenda, by attacking ‘soft’, apolitical targets such as actors and directors.
It seems clear that it's not just on Indian news channels that the maxim ‘He who shouts loudest
wins’ seems pertinent - and when there's nothing but deafening silence (not for the first time) from Prime Minister Narendra Modi on such a clear-cut case of bigotry, it's easy for illiberal, nationalist voices to reverberate without check in the void. But if such people want to deny Indian people the simple
pleasures of seeing Bollywood stars caper to camp dance music and chase each
other across the world in the pursuit of love, just because one of them was
born on the wrong side of a line hastily drawn on a map in 1947, then they’re
not only dull-minded. They’re plain dull.</span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqoU_vq1brMMhPyBZrme-WANQJeFWsro9XSizJQzwFzN88go-mscEH3b16_zJZn5COqD-Q1pu722vcxu1mOp894ksjWE82SK35R8qHEhYBf131drmnpIbuYleJuxgIpFlxXBJKy7LqByI/s1600/DSC_0427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxqoU_vq1brMMhPyBZrme-WANQJeFWsro9XSizJQzwFzN88go-mscEH3b16_zJZn5COqD-Q1pu722vcxu1mOp894ksjWE82SK35R8qHEhYBf131drmnpIbuYleJuxgIpFlxXBJKy7LqByI/s320/DSC_0427.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-2281686437202674422016-10-24T10:33:00.000-07:002016-10-24T10:33:47.206-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; font-size: x-large;">My Week: Indian parents, 'Sikhing' some peace and quiet, Gandering after Gandhi, and the perks of looking for a flat in Delhi</b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETLyVhHNs1KXcYWNPwzfPmzFDtMCVQvj7CT0_zh8ofFtYj7PdmsmVi9LrYN7gXaimk2yOTTZ0ICcgyQMaNPwsKQrFOlpbacHnjfGETtTp1Am-4T2lTowR2thODkieELm69DfHiArCOsHf/s1600/IMG_20161023_161242434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjETLyVhHNs1KXcYWNPwzfPmzFDtMCVQvj7CT0_zh8ofFtYj7PdmsmVi9LrYN7gXaimk2yOTTZ0ICcgyQMaNPwsKQrFOlpbacHnjfGETtTp1Am-4T2lTowR2thODkieELm69DfHiArCOsHf/s400/IMG_20161023_161242434.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Hauz Khas complex - the ruins of a 13th century village, just 30 seconds walk from where I'm living</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>After over a year away, I’m back in India – the weather is
sublime (despite my phone telling me each morning it’s smoke outside) and with
the coming of Diwali, Delhi is showing off its finest gladrags, with festive
lights adorning neighbourhoods across this vast, beguiling city. I’ve found
somewhere to live, and now getting down to the important things in life, namely meeting
old friends and reacquainting myself with the myriad cuisines on offer, from
simple yet delicious street-fare to the more refined, rich meaty curries of
northern India and exquisite vegetarian <i>thalis</i> from the south – fuelled by
regular cups of sweet chai! Anyway, here goes a series of random, disconnected
vignettes from my first week. Enjoy!</b></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">**************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I<b>t’s almost seen as axiomatic that in India there is no such
thing as privacy, and that young adults lack control over their lives, with the
close scrutiny of the family and Indian society at large quick to thwart any
‘deviant’ behaviour, whether it be in love, recreation or work. A recent
feature on BBC News described the efforts of Stay Uncle, a pioneering start-up
in Mumbai, to provide some relief for beleaguered unmarried couples by helping
them book 10-hour stays at hotels which promise discreet, non-judgemental
service. Yet Stay Uncle has struggled to overcome conservative social norms; only
three hotels have chosen to participate so far, with others fearing police
raids or simply refusing to endorse the concept. For those couples caught
committing such ‘indecency’ (which, incidentally, is not illegal under Indian
law), they potentially face public humiliation, familial ostracism and the
possibility of being forcibly married, under the auspices of ‘moral policing’. </b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ohMn4i_TaDWmb6qBbP51tk9V0GU7jShQ8cHAb9xrpzhfKVVrO-kZz50MkxPDejX4jHxUi2AGNW2NEz42humv1sNvQOyj895I-hGJj_2nTcyCqh7fDDnSLft5VEQz12D0vX1OkFOJJiiN/s1600/IMG_20161023_202908073.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ohMn4i_TaDWmb6qBbP51tk9V0GU7jShQ8cHAb9xrpzhfKVVrO-kZz50MkxPDejX4jHxUi2AGNW2NEz42humv1sNvQOyj895I-hGJj_2nTcyCqh7fDDnSLft5VEQz12D0vX1OkFOJJiiN/s400/IMG_20161023_202908073.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cartoon in The Times of India</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Undoubtedly such beliefs lend themselves to easy
exaggeration about Indian society; the parks of Delhi are well known as
lovers-hangouts, offering a tacitly accepted sanctuary for those seeking some solitude.The
bars a stone’s-throw from where I am living are packed at weekends with
well-heeled young adults, suggesting that urban India, at least, has relaxed
the straitjacket. <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:n%20woodroof%202" datetime="2016-10-24T13:23"><o:p></o:p></ins></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Equally, in many stereotypes lies a kernel of truth. Reading the venerable <i>Times of India</i> the other day, I spotted a notice taken out by a Mr
and Mrs Bisht – nestled amidst the latest news on the interminable
India-Pakistan conflict and editorials bemoaning the lamentable state of
Delhi’s air quality – informing the general public that they were disowning
their son and daughter-in-law, Mr Sharad Bisht and Mrs Anupama Bisht, for
‘their ill behaviour with us.’ Anyone foolhardy to deal with these miscreants
‘will be responsible for every pros and cons at his own cost’. You have been
warned. </b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">**************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEll6c2uwlFdqvCQhzqEKn7rx8NQWpOH91CEM_okXo9EgcVJ5HtMIHOI0TMOV-x8_54jpmyxU1HafYuLKK9_Ug_TCE_MEr6A-mepYFmvXMsSO0bHtB5Y7Z2FhEAh22titXAh69Q7IIx-PX/s1600/IMG_20161021_111027240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEll6c2uwlFdqvCQhzqEKn7rx8NQWpOH91CEM_okXo9EgcVJ5HtMIHOI0TMOV-x8_54jpmyxU1HafYuLKK9_Ug_TCE_MEr6A-mepYFmvXMsSO0bHtB5Y7Z2FhEAh22titXAh69Q7IIx-PX/s400/IMG_20161021_111027240.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Paying my respects to the Mahatma</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>The last time I was in India, any evidence of the legacy of
Mahatma Gandhi residing within the fabric of contemporary India seemed in scant
supply (a film released last week called ‘Gandhigiri’, promising to ‘enlighten
the audience on forgotten Gandhian values’, has been universally panned by
critics – judging by the trailer, I can’t blame them: </b></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><b>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IpnqlNuRWWg</b></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>).</b></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><b> </b></span><b style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", sans-serif;">Those friends at Delhi
University who I had asked about Gandhi were uniformly scathing, casting him as
a misogynist and no longer relevant to today’s India. The closest I had come to
the Mahatma had been in the back of a rickshaw careering along the chaotic
Mahatma Gandhi ring-road in Delhi, and when handling rupee notes, which bear
his portrait. For a man indelibly perceived by many around the world as the
anti-materialistic, austere <i>dhoti</i>-clad Mahatma, whose finest moments arguably
came when marching on foot against the British Empire and Hindu-Muslim
violence, these tributes to Gandhi seemed bafflingly inappropriate.</b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ugi9UJYCDgf6KUGGR6UKsWOYlM1QYJN5xFt99x53jPfHxm1T2eoOvmrSGb2BgYiZgdWYxJReuf1Bnt6AqSor7hCiFts8ALrAxWYL8CM76hHGWYwWTnykfLyC_xMVOE3iNzi0e1pKMjqk/s1600/IMG_20161021_105152188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5ugi9UJYCDgf6KUGGR6UKsWOYlM1QYJN5xFt99x53jPfHxm1T2eoOvmrSGb2BgYiZgdWYxJReuf1Bnt6AqSor7hCiFts8ALrAxWYL8CM76hHGWYwWTnykfLyC_xMVOE3iNzi0e1pKMjqk/s400/IMG_20161021_105152188.jpg" width="225" /></b></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Getting too excited about Gandhi</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>With this in mind, and having taken a year-long course on
Gandhi and the Indian nationalist movement in my final year at Edinburgh, I
decided a visit to Birla House – where Gandhi spent the final 144 days of his
life before his assassination – was in order. Lodged in what is now the leafy
diplomatic enclave of Delhi, the two-storey house was undoubtedly a comfortable place of
residence for an increasingly frail Gandhi, worn down by his valiant efforts to
stem the communal violence raging across the sub-continent following Partition
in 1947. </b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Unsurprisingly, the treatment of Gandhi’s life was hagiographic; one
portrait of Gandhi inside the house juxtaposed him alongside Christ hanging on
the cross. To walk around the spot where Gandhi was shot the removal of shoes, as
with entering a mosque, temple or gurudwara, was mandatory, the ground
sanctified by the spilling of the Great Soul’s blood. Troops of schoolchildren
walking past the shrine, urged on by their teachers, dutifully cried out
Gandhi’s final, divine words: ‘He Ram!’ (Oh God!) In the museum, almost no
mention was made of one of the most controversial episodes in his life: his
decision to ‘fast unto death’ in 1933 in protest at attempts by the British to
give the downtrodden Dalit, or Untouchable, community the right to elect its
own political representatives. The (successful) fast was condemned by Dr
Ambedkar, the leading Dalit activist of the era and the framer of India’s
post-independence constitution, as a ‘foul and filthy act’, and it irrevocably soured
Gandhi’s legacy amongst many Dalits. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Despite this, it was undoubtedly still a poignant experience
to retrace the final steps of a titan of twentieth-century history, and view his plain
room and motley collection of personal effects, including a pair of his iconic
round glasses. Outside on the well-manicured lawn, a faithful acolyte weaved on
a <i>charka</i>, the spinning wheel which
Gandhi hoped all Indians would learn to use. As I left Birla House, having
decided not to honour Gandhi’s memory by buying something from the souvenir
shop, a street-hawker came towards me, armed with Gandhi figurines. </b></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">**************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YXeTHoUKGAdIFOSRkpfbYv-XZZCTdGic8TDFsL1ZWAdAsIuQGZXUKkfGRLjY0xwJtK5VpL_5X-JqqckxeFkw81DYCdHSwiMz2269b3sm89-yiKe04brdf4pB4FgoRB_wCi4J78ogXAFk/s1600/IMG_20161019_195106425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3YXeTHoUKGAdIFOSRkpfbYv-XZZCTdGic8TDFsL1ZWAdAsIuQGZXUKkfGRLjY0xwJtK5VpL_5X-JqqckxeFkw81DYCdHSwiMz2269b3sm89-yiKe04brdf4pB4FgoRB_wCi4J78ogXAFk/s320/IMG_20161019_195106425.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Gurudwara Bangla Sahib</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>After several days of flat-hunting, I spent a welcome evening at
the Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, the largest Sikh temple in Delhi, with a friend
from when I was on exchange at Delhi University. I am neither religious nor
spiritual, but I admire the egalitarian and charitable streak in Sikhism.
Sitting on the spotless marble floor of the <i>langar</i>,
or communal mess, rubbing shoulders (almost literally) with hundreds of people,
me and Harbajan took a simple, yet delicious meal of rice, dal, <i>sabzi</i> (vegetables) and chapattis,
finishing off with <i>kheer</i>, the local
equivalent of rice pudding. Anyone, regardless of ethnicity, gender, religion
or wealth, can eat without charge at the <i>langar</i>,
which is open for up to ten hours a day, every day of the year, serving lunch
and dinner and manned solely by volunteers. Afterwards, we walked around the
sacred pool adjacent to the gurudwara, as monks would in a cloister, and I soon
felt calm and far removed from the hustle of the city, as devotional music from
the inner sanctum drifted through the cool evening air. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">**************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPOZEcEwzZUFGdMKPGuEW8RCJT_fi-Ij0qSN-ok3RmIZNEMBzIeut47NhQ-Y3KZ4-YTqFzxxewjKHQHEu0bGDOlwgmp6JWd1la3IwwcwcxhyphenhyphenzBQC28iB2ubl6y9Rz5yw30IXK-57h4yRA/s1600/IMG_20161024_102818932.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGPOZEcEwzZUFGdMKPGuEW8RCJT_fi-Ij0qSN-ok3RmIZNEMBzIeut47NhQ-Y3KZ4-YTqFzxxewjKHQHEu0bGDOlwgmp6JWd1la3IwwcwcxhyphenhyphenzBQC28iB2ubl6y9Rz5yw30IXK-57h4yRA/s320/IMG_20161024_102818932.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b>Not all experiences in India are memorable or capable of
being romanticised. I’m sure flat-hunting in Delhi is no more or less banal a
process than anywhere else in the world. The absurd and surreal is never too
far away though, and I found it in the tiny office of a property dealer in
South Delhi, who regally dispensed advice from the comfort of a well-worn sofa.
For any client also seeking some cosmic
wisdom and reassurance, a notice outside her tiny office proclaimed her skills
as an astrologer and ability to ‘see through you’ – a somewhat unfortunate
choice of phrase, given she had a lazy eye. </b></span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2FLL3wPRmFAqivU09xqW9fWKfBLMaQVlTaZNzH3Z4YhCSPn2q7S27WlXg0vQ6_ychRY50ZFU81no7JrMvveF_s7Du6sx63gRfUoCXn-REWniNErmJDKsSkBGpGYWDKTyQiU31vzx_8G6/s1600/IMG_20161024_104332367.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy2FLL3wPRmFAqivU09xqW9fWKfBLMaQVlTaZNzH3Z4YhCSPn2q7S27WlXg0vQ6_ychRY50ZFU81no7JrMvveF_s7Du6sx63gRfUoCXn-REWniNErmJDKsSkBGpGYWDKTyQiU31vzx_8G6/s320/IMG_20161024_104332367.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-58795179469716998412015-08-09T11:22:00.000-07:002015-08-09T11:22:06.017-07:00Birds, Booze and Bandits: my time at the Las Vegas of Old India<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtj2KL-cv58nI9YMMTxfZLJidYgaYWv7PervZvVzDD15jHnSjCH3yihiVZ5iM-NlG2oJtrc3FC0bW5VBNXN68Yh-rj0s6-8Lf-gZTQUZP0CmF2xZvymcvO6s2lH9RgbBVCXRCanQ36vbN/s1600/P1020235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrtj2KL-cv58nI9YMMTxfZLJidYgaYWv7PervZvVzDD15jHnSjCH3yihiVZ5iM-NlG2oJtrc3FC0bW5VBNXN68Yh-rj0s6-8Lf-gZTQUZP0CmF2xZvymcvO6s2lH9RgbBVCXRCanQ36vbN/s400/P1020235.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tribal women making maulwa, a liquor made from a flower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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’. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc1QEyT421q6kvrz_CIkaaUTzQlTikGTae36r8-USBpdn_dmLr95A2_P1T2BIjxgCQllSOECM4qKDnIMF9hJeD16fz7OEw3yGGQyhm3hA1161-HL1ba0MSjO3wy2uwZxvVl5Sh-olVe0E/s1600/P1020231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwc1QEyT421q6kvrz_CIkaaUTzQlTikGTae36r8-USBpdn_dmLr95A2_P1T2BIjxgCQllSOECM4qKDnIMF9hJeD16fz7OEw3yGGQyhm3hA1161-HL1ba0MSjO3wy2uwZxvVl5Sh-olVe0E/s320/P1020231.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tribal women going to a <i>haat </i>(market)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlpw_lCIEYO-o0gu__csTA7jKUI8OpAbhJoAseI2-McizUw0Yctqs3jWxmF-vvOX979EP8H9Wux28-pjJOViKqxa_7cIksUK4iBOyyctxmfh6_8IHtcnp9ICeQ_jqw1Y4Mitj5cv0hqYp/s1600/P1020251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlpw_lCIEYO-o0gu__csTA7jKUI8OpAbhJoAseI2-McizUw0Yctqs3jWxmF-vvOX979EP8H9Wux28-pjJOViKqxa_7cIksUK4iBOyyctxmfh6_8IHtcnp9ICeQ_jqw1Y4Mitj5cv0hqYp/s400/P1020251.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmGEIKTk289iTRDM-4JjCTZUO1Z1WnDf84Mt-WQ4ISN0dqEQrymT3s_m_zrfA2P7t_ZlkN8KfUPCdUGWMJ8XWG7R0jk5b033zhiqqEWyAgG4RbXbMXSYtdZuOGR9gBjZIflsuk468AkeA/s1600/P1020278.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmGEIKTk289iTRDM-4JjCTZUO1Z1WnDf84Mt-WQ4ISN0dqEQrymT3s_m_zrfA2P7t_ZlkN8KfUPCdUGWMJ8XWG7R0jk5b033zhiqqEWyAgG4RbXbMXSYtdZuOGR9gBjZIflsuk468AkeA/s320/P1020278.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The home of the Nag family</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘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.]</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmx2lbfXFc61q6SmCuqWfAhO3YYMar-ywVf3Wkw9m-w4UHNWvgJpawoOUprW7WVJ5mRu_a77vVzLumH_96GU0xC0UaucTp_gXMmpNjCbzY72LqH_CDBtRudAH0o7VeyHStMjk9z44p9z7y/s1600/P1020260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmx2lbfXFc61q6SmCuqWfAhO3YYMar-ywVf3Wkw9m-w4UHNWvgJpawoOUprW7WVJ5mRu_a77vVzLumH_96GU0xC0UaucTp_gXMmpNjCbzY72LqH_CDBtRudAH0o7VeyHStMjk9z44p9z7y/s400/P1020260.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc_vHqZ3QoC5EQYKsHq6mbN0K23hqN5yS8X4E5ArHgfcm2xVWbx_uMLMRWRymtAySYnseTNyMuGrNV0vHC8sQmGXFP03Hjo8__3LgRQuqaK7RHl8UkQaisZ053Do9rIrjaq8k0oQ-muoV/s1600/P1020243.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFc_vHqZ3QoC5EQYKsHq6mbN0K23hqN5yS8X4E5ArHgfcm2xVWbx_uMLMRWRymtAySYnseTNyMuGrNV0vHC8sQmGXFP03Hjo8__3LgRQuqaK7RHl8UkQaisZ053Do9rIrjaq8k0oQ-muoV/s400/P1020243.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">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.’</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-78363338367159251762015-06-01T10:04:00.000-07:002015-06-01T10:04:10.679-07:00Why the Delhi Metro's better than the London Underground<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">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) </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">– 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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But the Metro’s so much more than this – it’s also a great
place for people-watching and interacting. As a <i>gora </i>(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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Thankfully however, these subterranean encounters often take
a more interesting turn.<i> </i>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 <i>firangi </i>(foreigner) writhing
with embarrassment entertained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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 <i>firangi</i> trying desperately to extricate themselves from the
situation with dignity intact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdShqJyeNrs">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BdShqJyeNrs</a>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-39122915940863502002015-03-02T10:25:00.000-08:002015-03-02T10:25:47.872-08:00The Elephant in the Room<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATTMamcmDnGBXYADZWi4vysh2jCSoT9tLX-V9RE8yAolMLuf4MEFvj9vR9J9_Pwq3zcn8e2-HkrGLLPRwbXbxO3LRaR5G2SRIFJIGTPlTiK26yBqyz_ELDVYh4RUbC_6beFlxGG1IO-mr/s1600/P1000958.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhATTMamcmDnGBXYADZWi4vysh2jCSoT9tLX-V9RE8yAolMLuf4MEFvj9vR9J9_Pwq3zcn8e2-HkrGLLPRwbXbxO3LRaR5G2SRIFJIGTPlTiK26yBqyz_ELDVYh4RUbC_6beFlxGG1IO-mr/s1600/P1000958.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectacular, yet sinister</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeaiv_PRQjTQA8zAvlfgHchiaCEkYd6xnCdDXPjIC3U330P0nh1zkWLv0NMHU6aZ00yS6UeR8-7FRu2GFrmuIO6ROYtHXT3TkRBLaKGk03b1BNgB4Kgj4PN278XqAS3DN_Kk2_tmLop1QH/s1600/P1000960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeaiv_PRQjTQA8zAvlfgHchiaCEkYd6xnCdDXPjIC3U330P0nh1zkWLv0NMHU6aZ00yS6UeR8-7FRu2GFrmuIO6ROYtHXT3TkRBLaKGk03b1BNgB4Kgj4PN278XqAS3DN_Kk2_tmLop1QH/s1600/P1000960.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>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 <i>dalit </i>(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 <i>dalit </i>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. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vhUFL8sEBl47-71xVbCZp5pt8rkPcKIafNkQjMrnpJ8RgDnL4sUdhxVudT3dTglSCiCHHnhH1ooCk9HxuaosK1aZwteK9epX546t5VcRW3zXGCTo_XtnOZln_2nhiollrwR3-h-M20fw/s1600/P1000964.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vhUFL8sEBl47-71xVbCZp5pt8rkPcKIafNkQjMrnpJ8RgDnL4sUdhxVudT3dTglSCiCHHnhH1ooCk9HxuaosK1aZwteK9epX546t5VcRW3zXGCTo_XtnOZln_2nhiollrwR3-h-M20fw/s1600/P1000964.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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 <i>dalits</i>) 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 <i>dalits</i>. 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 <i>dalit </i>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. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrRRR3yTYvsn0aR6dFA7Ux-pTb6MZJI7hhNWUaqBCnyosSvqYw4OOGuRgRuAkmfEdWv5IPvXCqq_B_2suZl9E2M5t_p1AZvp-SDqC5JnAa7WjkxwvxtP9LKp-1Y_dIXu7DUtHtkyvdHBn/s1600/P1000970.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrRRR3yTYvsn0aR6dFA7Ux-pTb6MZJI7hhNWUaqBCnyosSvqYw4OOGuRgRuAkmfEdWv5IPvXCqq_B_2suZl9E2M5t_p1AZvp-SDqC5JnAa7WjkxwvxtP9LKp-1Y_dIXu7DUtHtkyvdHBn/s1600/P1000970.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihc2RIxE8cOnT1MtAsMOCr7b99ybZ_ylGwADiaIXQfSDZAQYiHyqDYshUlkZpu7dNY7xwoc_af7LYvrUJZ0ymzbpCm6V1TMJakNMG5dg-NY_HYmPK4YvYtL5avub3-hwUehSiqvankPnWB/s1600/P1000980.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihc2RIxE8cOnT1MtAsMOCr7b99ybZ_ylGwADiaIXQfSDZAQYiHyqDYshUlkZpu7dNY7xwoc_af7LYvrUJZ0ymzbpCm6V1TMJakNMG5dg-NY_HYmPK4YvYtL5avub3-hwUehSiqvankPnWB/s1600/P1000980.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abraham Ambedkar?! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdvSnpZWc3AxyJlKM81cn28PL595cITJPsPtvv8ETj7Ynk8g-EzlXz4_QR4adE_j__Wzm3BJxvq5BlQD6uYs4umE93i8PRtxMPznnRvg08x3iSVCAvxHN-6a1_B1aXKG_nucYpK4p5Zft/s1600/P1000995.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdvSnpZWc3AxyJlKM81cn28PL595cITJPsPtvv8ETj7Ynk8g-EzlXz4_QR4adE_j__Wzm3BJxvq5BlQD6uYs4umE93i8PRtxMPznnRvg08x3iSVCAvxHN-6a1_B1aXKG_nucYpK4p5Zft/s1600/P1000995.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFjNVwud2f3PpB6zmvmfvXXOBnRxGX-OCklql_UAsApTG_aBUbkyyfJ2GnAViIt1HqlSDDZN6z561H9TccQTggBNfxZlpQkeDy7HSCqqqduggTk5ERs9lZaAphy3s6UmMmEqz0DsHOv6o/s1600/P1010014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFFjNVwud2f3PpB6zmvmfvXXOBnRxGX-OCklql_UAsApTG_aBUbkyyfJ2GnAViIt1HqlSDDZN6z561H9TccQTggBNfxZlpQkeDy7HSCqqqduggTk5ERs9lZaAphy3s6UmMmEqz0DsHOv6o/s1600/P1010014.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-16739183789452234672014-09-29T13:55:00.000-07:002014-09-29T13:55:21.583-07:00Dicing with Delhi (2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today's entry is all about the things that have made my time here less than enjoyable at times: the 'Thorns'. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">1). DELHI – despite what I said yesterday living here is occasionally quite tough, although the culture shock is starting to diminish. It’s a
cliché, but unfortunately Delhi is invariably an assault on the senses, as well
as bleakly depressing at times. The constant blare of horns, streets strewn
with litter and human waste, the stench from street-corner public urinals, countless
numbers of beggars and dispossessed…for someone accustomed to living in such
genteel, affluent places as Edinburgh and Tunbridge Wells, living in a city seemingly with little charm or subtlety has been wearing
at times. I would recommend Rana Dasgupta’s ‘Capital: A Portrait of Twenty-First
Century Delhi’ – a scathing, sobering critique of contemporary Delhi high society
and the role of 20 years of economic and cultural liberalisation in widening
the yawning gap between the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’. Being able to go away on trips fairly frequently has stopped me going stir-crazy in this intense city of 22 million people. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f_sHrOGB03kcttxhWkeq2N2JRQii0jdNHKQnNyztTNwqCONXL33CQHqIvR5J83Y2L1NIn7vYQCcrAFK4ITvxOzG9HS9f8mphhDB66GhgvDr7acVx7QMNmgoiF2lN2NsszfMX_VNZYFcr/s1600/P1000082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f_sHrOGB03kcttxhWkeq2N2JRQii0jdNHKQnNyztTNwqCONXL33CQHqIvR5J83Y2L1NIn7vYQCcrAFK4ITvxOzG9HS9f8mphhDB66GhgvDr7acVx7QMNmgoiF2lN2NsszfMX_VNZYFcr/s1600/P1000082.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A domestic workshop in Old Delhi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">2). THE WEATHER - This
year’s damp squib of a monsoon has also made life fairly grim at times. I arrived in forty-degree heat in mid-July and experienced Delhi's hottest August days in nearly a quarter of a century. Feeling
like you’re sweating spinal fluid and about to melt into a sorry puddle, whilst
trying to haggle with surly auto-rickshaw drivers or negotiate your way through
the bureaucracy, is not exactly a barrel of laughs. It’s starting to cool down
now, but anywhere in the mid-to-low thirties is still the norm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY5e6-Wt2z2dv7b9by192QmfXENUO4evc1ay0kKb23BIOO0NwW70TbswYYinlhBBO-yXxSmNW1983NSUW0f02KGSq1S2kF1W4SYzLX_-GyV0B62ukJIFaPzJ9IciDAoOBZiYmZMyf_hTK/s1600/P1000245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtY5e6-Wt2z2dv7b9by192QmfXENUO4evc1ay0kKb23BIOO0NwW70TbswYYinlhBBO-yXxSmNW1983NSUW0f02KGSq1S2kF1W4SYzLX_-GyV0B62ukJIFaPzJ9IciDAoOBZiYmZMyf_hTK/s1600/P1000245.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rare sight this summer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">3). THE BUREAUCRACY –
Against such an array of dull-minded, risk-averse minions and jobsworths,
progress here is often measured in half-steps. Having a sense of
humour and knowing that the bureaucracy and ‘Indian Stretchable Time’ (the word
‘punctuality’ doesn't seem to exist here) are partners-in-crime helps, but
there were certainly times that tried my soul. Even in such a prestigious institution as Delhi University, everything is still done on paper. Considering the huge pool of IT talent in India, the lack of a centralised university web portal is incredible - creating one would probably make a lot of jobs (even more) redundant, so it's easy to see why things are the way they are. Having to prove multiple times and in various ways to the history department, Gwyer Hall, the International Students House etc that I was a genuine exchange student and not just a white guy here for shits and giggles was not something I'll look back on with any affection though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">4). UNIVERSITY – a tad
disappointing. While the course content is certainly interesting enough (all
Indian history) the mode of delivery is exclusively lectures. Very little
interaction with the teachers over an hour and fifty minutes - assuming they
turn up on time, or at all - makes for some fairly monotonous sessions at times. I'm
only assessed through essays assigned throughout the semester, not
end-of-semester exams, which is something to be grateful for though. As my fellow exile from Edinburgh Paddy said, it would be such a waste if we were chained to the library by too much work,
so an undemanding schedule is probably a bonus overall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">5). HEALTH – although I've only been seriously ill once (a fairly messy bout of Delhi belly for a
day), I feel as if my time here so far has probably had a detrimental effect on
my health. Adjusting to life in Delhi and the heat has made lengthy exercise almost
impossible until recently. When it’s nearly forty degrees and a rickshaw can
get to you to university or the local shopping district for 30 rupees (basically
30 pence), the prospect of walking doesn't seem that appealing. The horrific pollution hasn't done me many favours either. The World Health Organisation claims that
Delhi’s air pollution levels are the worst globally, easily surpassing Beijing. I'm planning on doing the Delhi Half-Marathon in November, so hopefully having something tangible to focus on will help me get fitter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiAznCOc9jbUduw7-Lbr2FPGK4Vji_zOqbl_pk9o2o-C727mt7v4gBx51shMy48LGMS8C7FDYohhFYpBu7HjnvDjFarEdmIjTwaVeBOwN5JTDjEKV1HeUJUrRw2-uAqOn5QiQ6Dw8-96rY/s1600/P1000362.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiAznCOc9jbUduw7-Lbr2FPGK4Vji_zOqbl_pk9o2o-C727mt7v4gBx51shMy48LGMS8C7FDYohhFYpBu7HjnvDjFarEdmIjTwaVeBOwN5JTDjEKV1HeUJUrRw2-uAqOn5QiQ6Dw8-96rY/s1600/P1000362.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rack of kebabs in Nizamuddin village</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Despite these problems,
I'm certainly glad I chose to spend a year of my life in Delhi. I like to think of each challenge,
when viewed in hindsight, as character-building, something that future
employers might be interested to hear about as I try to desperately convince
them this year-abroad lark wasn't just a massive holiday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So, what does the
future hold? Thanks to India’s predilection for public holidays (due to the
country’s many disparate religious communities and secular foundations) and a mid-semester break,
October’s going to be a great month: 12 days in the south-eastern state of Kerala, celebrating my 21<sup>st</sup>
on a houseboat, 10 days in the city of Lucknow and Nepal, celebrating Diwali and gorging on
Indian sweets with my friend Shiv and his family, and just one week of lectures. Can’t really complain!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Finally, just to show
how frequently India has confounded my preconceptions, here’s one more
anecdote for now. In order to become a legal resident of India, I had to
register my visa within two weeks of arriving or face being chucked out.
Arriving at the registration office, I braced myself for a day of mind-numbing
tedium. However, after a relatively painless few hours, the end was in sight. Handing
my passport over one more time, I was amazed to hear the guy behind the desk
break into a rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’, before giving it an Indian twist
second time round – a definite
improvement. Seeing my puzzled expression he said, ‘You’re Nicholas, right?
Father Christmas? Maybe you can come round to my house at Christmas dressed as
Santa.’ A few minutes later, I was free to live in India. In the most unlikely
of settings, Christmas had come early. Alvida!</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8087618471850213139.post-65571982079944037852014-09-28T14:19:00.003-07:002014-09-28T14:19:57.128-07:00Dicing with Delhi<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How to encapsulate two
and a half months of life in such a weird and wonderful place as Delhi? The
demands of settling in (as well as laziness) have relegated this
whole blog thing to the back of my mind until recently. I'm going to use the ‘Roses
and Thorns’ method as taught by my Canadian friend Chris – the ‘Roses’ are the
highlights, the ‘Thorns’ the lowlights. Fairly self-explanatory. This first
post will be all about the ‘Roses’, in no particular order. Tomorrow’s will be
the ‘Thorns’. Here goes…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOwiJWWmKClQdT7a16Q1_9pYW-WmqtlqVq7a-hZCg5uJyE0NN8dYFIcOftvcWGqKQpLGWee0qZ3bYWCyKWVmP8jyOelW1VDvYJDHsufQGeKFQVbmvGWzS6CIMyOuDKCoBqAKsclskuLTdz/s1600/P1000015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1_m2Helb6KDB9fWG3HpKcEFDLm01a6KSd6UfoD2E07_S6kV-5DSoX8BTkot7EAV8lQKeeqa0V1TZi2fkWr7hUtr30RIawGgHnDsIBwJNaBGmPJ_Oe0-oJRwhzLfn6iRnQjnzmvgGC2t_/s1600/P1000062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1_m2Helb6KDB9fWG3HpKcEFDLm01a6KSd6UfoD2E07_S6kV-5DSoX8BTkot7EAV8lQKeeqa0V1TZi2fkWr7hUtr30RIawGgHnDsIBwJNaBGmPJ_Oe0-oJRwhzLfn6iRnQjnzmvgGC2t_/s1600/P1000062.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gwyer Hall - spent a happy 2 months living here</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">1). THE FOOD – I’ll
admit that the first McDonalds I had here, 2 weeks in, was glorious;
globalisation never tasted so sweet. The array of distinctive cuisines on offer
in Delhi is something else though. From the mouth-watering seekh kebabs which
have been served up at Karim’s in the heart of Old Delhi for over a hundred
years, to the south Indian vegetarian thalis (a mound of rice served on a steel
tray and surrounded by various spicy pickles and chutneys), to the cheap yet
delicious street food… blandness and uniformity are not words that can ever
describe the food here. Even the goat’s brain curry I had to eat after losing a
game of ‘Odds-On’ was better than expected – slightly slimy texture and an odd
taste, but still nowhere near as bad as sour lassi (basically a drink made
from yoghurt). As disgusting as it sounds! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">2). FRIENDS/THE PEOPLE
– too many friends, both Indian and Western, to mention. Needless to say, life
here would have been a lost less interesting, enlightening and enjoyable
without them. Having white skin makes you catnip for the locals;
while many are content just to ask where I'm from and what I'm doing, some
encounters have been more amusing and bizarre. Whilst visiting one of the most
sacred shrines in Sufism in Delhi, one man, after finding out that I was
British, immediately asked if I could help him set up a business in the UK. The
amount he was assuming about me (that I knew anything about the intricacies of starting
up a business, that I was clearly trustworthy enough to be his business partner etc.)
was just incredible. Just one example of how differently Indians sometimes go
about interacting with other people!</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfOlc15B-TyFzzg4BXgeKdu6G0ptdRSU8WLNvz-7DsuQNJ5_jx5StlZeblU0W5e9rGeBivdweb0F9oGH-Kzuja_EufROfqJUQIp1kSislP6xzOfXA2bRZ25Dlo-znBxCototKaLlUy74A/s1600/P1000160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfOlc15B-TyFzzg4BXgeKdu6G0ptdRSU8WLNvz-7DsuQNJ5_jx5StlZeblU0W5e9rGeBivdweb0F9oGH-Kzuja_EufROfqJUQIp1kSislP6xzOfXA2bRZ25Dlo-znBxCototKaLlUy74A/s1600/P1000160.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddy and Toby kite-flying in Shri Ram College</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2_LsaYYOLTMUlkSuY3Fz1bmzdE3_8RzYLnfSB5_IkmE1aCYQ0ySVyFaW6D5_94b8gvYFVxU6xodMEAYJnx3knQpjxfRb1Ca3BbeKPaI1TiqwvkvnqBfm5E407-3C1i7ez05kviaC58_d/s1600/P1000099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI2_LsaYYOLTMUlkSuY3Fz1bmzdE3_8RzYLnfSB5_IkmE1aCYQ0ySVyFaW6D5_94b8gvYFVxU6xodMEAYJnx3knQpjxfRb1Ca3BbeKPaI1TiqwvkvnqBfm5E407-3C1i7ez05kviaC58_d/s1600/P1000099.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kite-flying on the rooftops of Old Delhi</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">3). DELHI – If you look
hard enough and try not to get too ground down by some of the things happening
around you (see tomorrow’s post), Delhi is a great place to live, and I’ve
found numerous places to while away a happy afternoon or evening with friends. I’ll
be dedicating an entire post to Delhi itself, so watch this space! In the
meantime, I recommend William Dalrymple’s ‘City of Djinns’ for anyone wanting to learn more about Delhi. It offers an accessible
history of the city, interspersed with often humorous and insightful anecdotes
about his time living there for a year. Even though it was only published a mere
twenty years ago it’s already quite dated, thanks to the incredible pace of
change in Delhi society. Definitely worth a read though.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">4). THE WILDLIFE – The
only time I ever saw peacocks back home was in the grounds of stately houses
and castles. Here </span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.3999996185303px;">I've</span></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif; font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> seen them on the roof of the university’s health centre,
contentedly basking in a glorious sunset. Monkeys are a daily fact of life here,
and my attempts to commune with them, à la David Attenborough, have been a
mixed success; I won’t forget being chased by one in a local park in a hurry – carrying
a cane or rock is the locals’ solution! They’re great fun to watch from a
distance though, particularly the younger ones. My favourite wildlife moment so far was seeing an elephant walking down a main street near where I live, blissfully oblivious
to the chaos it was causing behind it. No doubt India’s many bureaucrats (more on them tomorrow) would
have been inspired by such a scene. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IKLEvt-BDQs8yV0Ox6kX_zhXgl1yOAPVitLc-wrCvno0YR9fdTa48_P11SMeAboM3DlC3FoL0J4A7FVs9VkdOlIFEpkMUAcoahL5IVPtfyPAG6WElNSX2RRm-lOgBgJlnKusIqYFv2A0/s1600/P1000032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IKLEvt-BDQs8yV0Ox6kX_zhXgl1yOAPVitLc-wrCvno0YR9fdTa48_P11SMeAboM3DlC3FoL0J4A7FVs9VkdOlIFEpkMUAcoahL5IVPtfyPAG6WElNSX2RRm-lOgBgJlnKusIqYFv2A0/s1600/P1000032.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the squirrels are more interesting here.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">5). TRAVELLING - Thanks
to an undemanding university schedule and numerous public holidays, I've managed
to visit Nainital, Shimla (both hill stations), Agra and the Kathmandu valley
in Nepal since I arrived in India. Again, I’ll write about these trips in greater length in another
post.</span></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Finally, as I'm not
taking this too seriously, I'm going to introduce an ‘Idiot Abroad’ section to
end each post. There were lots of moments to choose from, but the clear winner
was my wardrobe malfunction in the first week or so here. Having sat down with
friends in a café, I was told by staff to pull my trousers up. Not exactly in Janet
Jackson’s league, but context is everything. This happened in Nirula's, a fast
food restaurant frequented by sweaty, clueless westerners such as me and Indian
teenagers, so not exactly a fixture on Delhi’s elite dining circuit. Imagine
being told to pipe down in Greggs because you’re disturbing the ambience, and you might realise how ridiculous yet embarrassing this was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">That’s all for today.
For anyone who was waiting for this (probably just family members) hope it was
worth the wait, and feedback would be appreciated. Alvida! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06176544094467260663noreply@blogger.com0