See You Soon Before Monsoon

Some interim reflections/ confessional rant on India:

After 7 weeks in India a little time on the beach has allowed for some interim reflections on previous phlittering environment. Adjustment and acceptance levels now stabilising I can move on from the temporary paralysis on Palolem Beach. India invokes strong and sometimes conflicting feelings bouncing from fascination, repulsion, amusement, schizophrenia, shanti, agitation...

Pleasantly accustomed to the fine things India has to offer I enjoy the comfort and privacy of the better class of trains as well as the cheap passenger trains which chug along sluggishly through the lush southern jungles with warm air washing over my face as I chat to curious locals who have been surreptitiously peering at me with amber eyes while sharing samosas.

Trusted Thali

I enjoy arriving in a new town and taking time to barter good-heartedly for a tuk tuk, the comical little machines which keep the chaos fluid. The comforting familiarity of my old friend the tuk tuk. I enjoy the familiarity. The familiarity of India's culinary delights: mango lassis, prawn curries, vegetable thalis (the safest bet in town for my tea – veg curry, pickles, rice, chappati, curd, daal and if I'm lucky a popadom – all for a quid or thereabouts) and masala chai – served whenever you need it by the ubiquitous chai wallahs whose tinny cry echoes into my railway slumber. And now I know the real costs of the delights and how things work I can relax and enjoy the ten minutes it takes to negotiate down to 15 Rupees for my papaya.

Hello to The Queen – a mysteriously named typical Indian dessert (perhaps only typical for the tourists?).

The enjoyment eases the challenges of travelling around India. It eases my agitation at the hassle and shoving of the cities. I thought I would be more tolerant of people then find myself reacting to trickery by shouting at hoteliers and ignoring friendly people in the street because I suspect they are trying to sell me a camel safari then I feel guilty for my behaviour. And for every brusque money grabbing tricky person I meet I also meet a gentle curious person who wants to enquire about me, my nice country and profession. And if I soften and consent, he might take a photo to show his wife this strange unmarried white monkey he met on his business trip to Vasco de Gama. I enjoy the mutual photo taking on trains, buses and everywhere really – getting mobbed by excitable school trips or kids on bikes.

The wonderful trains also provide a challenge to my sentiments with the odour of excrement and urine which drifts in from stations. And the general filth and pollution in India provides also a general challenge. Searching for a non-existent bin on the train I follow my fellow passenger's suggestion and throw my rubbish from the window. Seconds later I am filled with horror at my action, an action which is so normal to millions of Indians who are accustomed to their rubbish being cleaned away by the lower castes. Another common waste disposal system is to burn rubbish at night on the side of the street polluting the air with toxic fumes....a clear lack of litter bins, waste disposal system and education.

But my acceptance of the lack of litter bins is growing. As is my acceptance of how slowly business is carried and my acceptance that I can't walk on city pavements because they are covered with crap and I need to walk into the oncoming blaring stream of motorbikes, dogs, bulls and tuk tuks whilst dodging open sewers.

The dogs and cows are tolerated in the name of religion. Perhaps cynically I perceive

that greater tolerance is given to animals than to the ragged street children, who are booted into the gutter by shopkeepers. Meanwhile let's paint the holy cow's horns and give money to holy men.

I vow to stop giving money to saddhus, who have chosen their holy path of charity, to irritating hare krishnas and to people providing un-requested services (incl. singing me a welcome song, giving me irrelevant “information” and forcibly decorating my hand with henna). If I am going to be milked for money in India then my funds are going to cripples who wheel themselves painfully (for me or the?) along the street. To the wretched woman sprawled in a crowded street, howling an unsettling repetitive wail, crying for money. Her head on the ground and her face covered with a black veil. She lies in an awkward sprawl with a protruding stump of a leg positioned prominently upwards. The stump is smudged with red and black like a piece of painted wood or old crayon. A nightmarish vision of damnation. Or to the man in dirty white rags, half naked, black grime caked into his skin being chased by a vicious dog.

Visions of chaos and a lack of personal space. A palpable sense of one billion people climbing on top of each other to thrust themselves forward. People crush in and out of trains and traders disregarding each other to compete. I hear about “jugaad” which refers to the unique creativity of Indians to overcome constraints in their circumstances to achieve, produce and succeed. This is striking in Mumbai. In Dharavi, Mumbai's main slum, a quarter of a million people work scavenging waste across the city and process the waste recycling in the slums with an annual turnover of $1 billion.

The chasm between slum dwellers and the upper classes is striking. Then the new middle classes with bacardi breezers, contrived manners and stunted old fashioned English Old Chap. I visit glitzy city malls with pale skin teenagers gathering to eat McSpciy Chicken burgers, pizza hut and watch the latest Bollywood movie: Ra One or Rockstar which depict luxurious lives of the Indian upper classes. The movies have a schizophrenic storyline jumping inexplicably from a love scene in Mumbai to a snowy mountaintop in Kashmir, the heroine is dying then living. Scenes are interspersed by brash melodies and slapstick humour causing ripples of chuckles from the audience who interrupt the scene with mobile phone calls. The films blend an American convention of cheesy predictable stories with a unique Indian style of humour and situations.

The aspirations for wealth clear in Bollywood films are also apparent in other parts of society. There is a clear obsession with money. Traders kiss their first money of the day and say a prayer. Hindus give offerings of money to the gods. Part of a standard tour guide includes a run down of associated costs of things viewed. Meeting new people involves direct questioning about how much your possessions cost and even how much you earn which can be disconcerting. Children walking with their families come and demand money and pens. In fact this obsession with money can seem perverse and crass to my English sensibilities.

There is an emerging Indian middle class and with this greater aspirations for people to improve their circumstances. This includes a recent increase in the demands of families for huge dowries as part of arranged marriages. Brides are seen as commodities, weddings an opportunity to ameliorate a family's economic status. Poor families cannot afford to have too many daughters.  

The obsession with money is matched with the strength of religion. The diversity and strength of religion is incredible. Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Muslims and Christians – a common fervour.

The kitsch Catholic shrines in Goa came as a surprise after the colourful Hindu shrines in the North. Religion is a strong part of peoples' identity and purpose. I read a newspaper article expressing concern at the frequent crushes at pilgrimage sites, a holy rush to get darshan first. Last week we visited the mountain where Hanuman, the monkey god, was born and this week we arrive at Gokarna where Shiva was reborn through the ear of a cow. The land holds an intricate mythological map of Hinduism with a country wide complex of sites providing physical proof to quell any religious doubts although the pilgrims I speak to offer a conflicting range of stories about the strange but complicated stories and significance of events. It is a confusing and exhausting time for pilgrims to visit and understand this mass of places. Perhaps the good faith of the visit is what's important.

Hanuman

On the road for over two months now and it is amazing how normal it feels but some lurking work ethic guilt thing sometimes creeps in on reflection of my new found indolent and decadent lifestyle. Days spent making difficult decisions. Should I have a boiled or fried egg? Shall I walk to the left or right of the beach today? How many nights to spend in this village? Oh, time to take my malaria pill again – the monotony!