Running Backwards Man

Delhi has many mysteries. One that I'm yet to see featured in a William Dalrymple book is Running Backwards Man, who does his 'retro-running' on Shantipath (one of Delhi's grand boulevards). Here he is. Note his most excellent headphones and wrist bands (in national colours which begs the question... is there an Indian running backwards team and if so who do they compete against?)



I googled 'running backwards' to see if anyone else was this nuts. It turns out backwards running is a more than a sport - it is a social movement. Here is a sample -

"The emergence of backward running is not a matter of chance, it is both a sign and the symbol that something “in the air” is becoming reversed. This new way of running announces the beginning of a new civilization. To reverse the most basic and common act of man, walking or running, is tantamount to touching his essence. What could be more effective than this simple exercise which will modify our view of everything? It can change our human relationships, our relationship to money, our conception of time, and at the social level can alter the face of our cities, our transportation and exchange systems, etc. At a time when an unprecedented human mutation is taking place before our very eyes, if practised as an exercise conducive to a change in our perceptions, the advent of backward running can bring down the certainties that underlie the general escapist movement. More than words can, a backward motion of our bodies will provoke a fundamental questioning of our commonest attitudes and bring about the social change that the urgency and gravity of the problems of our day require."

Well how about that! I guess that makes me, a forward runner, part of the embedded 'escapist movement.'

And then I discovered this... an awesomely amateur video demonstration of Delhi's running backwards man, Puran Chand, with a few interview fragments. He says he is training for the Commonwealth Games. The interviewer points out running backwards is not part of the Commonwealth Games. Chand replies that he hopes to provide a demonstration of backwards running in the main stadium. Book your seats for that one folks - or just go visit him on Shantipath.

A canvas most large

The walls of India would make fine art if they were chopped up and displayed in a posh western gallery. People would ooh and ahh over "the luscious textures" and "bold use of colour," the "hints of the figurative" and the "post-modern comment on the impermenence of commerce." They are the work of many hands, and many brushes, of many colliding purposes, and of India's heat and dust and bleaching sunlight and cleansing rains. In fact, I might take lots of wall photos and test this theory on return: You are invited to an exclusive viewing of "A Canvas Most Large - The Walls of India."

Rajasthan is:

.... hot, dry, beautiful and quiet. We soaked up the evening stillness from the top of a rocky peak, gazing out over dusty plains where farmers battle concrete-dust soil, and on to an ancient Aravalli mountain range that runs into Pakistan. After the bussling chaos of Indian cities, it was magic to soak up the silence as a hot breeze ran through our hair and the sun set for the day.

Hard yakka in a sari

It is hard not to notice how much hard manual labour gets done by women in India. I'm not sure what to say about it, apart from noting its sad inevitability as families scratch out a livelihood in adverse circumstances. I remember reading a particularly touching story of the transformative effect tap water had on a woman in rural South Africa. She had walked 5km to fetch water twice a day, taking six hours. When running water was connected to her house she was suddenly liberated - she had six hours every day, forty two hours every week, to focus on bringing up her kids and earning money. Such a simple improvement in her life, but so transformative to her human existence. May such good things come to many more women who toil hard for little reward.

A tale of two rivers

Every evening at dusk above northern New South Wales' Clarence River, thousands of bats fly downstream to feast through the night on the lush sub-tropical fruit plantations. In the silence you can hear their wings dislodging the warm pungent air. Occasionally they swoop low over the river chasing insects or losing touch with the pack.

I was amazed to find the same phenomenon recently in dust-dry rural Rajasthan. As the sun set over the rough-hewn mountains, an endless stream of large bats flew upriver, sticking closely to a course marked by sand and scrub. The river, like most I saw in Rajasthan, ran dry. Tracing the course on google-maps later, I saw the river rise abruptly in the nearby mountains and after meandering and linking with many other tributaries, disappear again in the glaring white expanse of the Thar desert a few hundred km away. Quite where the bats were headed is a mystery, by my friend (bat boy pictured here) reckons it is a nightly pilgrimage. Perhaps there's fruit in them there hills.

A very cheery chai wallah in old Delhi

To find him and his delicious chai, turn left off chandi chawk near the paratha wallahs, then left again at the shop that sells cloth in ten thousand shades of pink, then right at the parked bicycles, then left at the old man sitting on the steps, then right, then left, then right, thenrightthenleftthenright........

A building I like

Delhi has a glut of magnificent mughal buildings, and plenty of raj-era grandeur, but strangely for a city with such a modern overlay, very few interesting modern buildings. This is one of the few I like - nice and simple, unusual in its sloping sides, and thankfully unafflicted by the air-conditioning outlets which blemish most Delhi facades like barnacles on yachts. It currently houses the Commonwealth Games Secretariat (hence the sporty stripes which I suspect were not part of the architect's original vision).

A half dozen bricks each

I wish to dedicate this International Women's Day to all the women who carry bricks on their heads on building sites across India. There's thousands of them and they deserve to be celebrated, if only for a moment in an isolated backwater of the internet. All I can say is I'm amazed by your balance, sad at your lot, admiring of your dignity and deeply hopeful that your husbands share your work ethic. And may your daughters grow up to find less backbreaking professions. Here's to you sisters!

Abida Parveen

Last night Delhi turned on a sublime evening of Sufi music in the mughal gardens surrounding Humuyun's Tomb. Abida Parveen, a Pakistani Sufi singer, filled the still dusk air with her music of the mystics. As a fat moon rose gently above the dome of the Tomb I leant my back against the monument walls and soaked in their warmth. Summer is here. Delhi is magic.

Get a feel for Abida Parveen here: