6 August 2009
3 August 2009
Work in progress
I've been trying for a week to write an update for friends on my life in Delhi. Six months ago when I landed, Indira Gandhi International Airport was shrouded in a thick mist, and now my thoughts are afflicted by the same. The things I know are these:
1)Living in India is deeply humbling. I feel small amidst its people and culture. That which I've learned before coming here feels abstract and foreign. I've crossed over to another world and my old one will never be the same.
2)There is a teeming energy everywhere that defies description, in peoples conversations, in the traffic, in the air. Life is in perpetual motion here, nothing is still.
3)Ancient India and modern India are inseparable. They pull away from eachother but one is nothing without the other - where they meet is a faultline. New forms of creativity are emerging as the ancient morphs into the modern. But there's baggage too.
4)This is a ruthless place, and life is tough for so many. But people don't complain. They just get on with living. I don't want to become immune to the reality of people's lives. I don't want to glorify their struggle either, just admire it, and be thankful for what I have been given.
5)The expat bubble is an occasional comfort, but equally a curse. It must be escaped.
6)There is nowhere I'd rather be right now than India. I feel like I've just begun.
1)Living in India is deeply humbling. I feel small amidst its people and culture. That which I've learned before coming here feels abstract and foreign. I've crossed over to another world and my old one will never be the same.
2)There is a teeming energy everywhere that defies description, in peoples conversations, in the traffic, in the air. Life is in perpetual motion here, nothing is still.
3)Ancient India and modern India are inseparable. They pull away from eachother but one is nothing without the other - where they meet is a faultline. New forms of creativity are emerging as the ancient morphs into the modern. But there's baggage too.
4)This is a ruthless place, and life is tough for so many. But people don't complain. They just get on with living. I don't want to become immune to the reality of people's lives. I don't want to glorify their struggle either, just admire it, and be thankful for what I have been given.
5)The expat bubble is an occasional comfort, but equally a curse. It must be escaped.
6)There is nowhere I'd rather be right now than India. I feel like I've just begun.
The buses of Delhi
The old buses are being phased out of Delhi's fleet, replaced by shiny green machines. This is pretty much universally welcomed as an improvement to the lives of commuters. And given the number of unsuspecting pedestrians and cyclists that the buses mow down, this is probably a win for safety too. But there is something about Delhi that will be gone forever with them - something aesethic about the buses that is both brutal and free. Perhaps it's the open windows that emanate a glow in the early evening traffic, or the steep staircases that challenge each boarding. Perhaps it's the scraped bumpers gesturing to road battles faught and won, or the wide-eyed mania of the men who drive them. I'm not sure how to say this without it sounding like development is a bad thing, but I fear a future where every city in the world has the same sort of perfect bus, and perfect commuters commute to perfect workplaces and perfectly execute their jobs so they can afford the perfect education for their perfect children who repeat the pattern for eternity. Something is lost. Something of character.
1 August 2009
Division of labour
This amused me - quite clearly there are proscribed limits to the job description of tractor drivers. Drive tractor. Rest.
White Tiger - The Musical
I tipped my toe into the White Tiger side of Delhi last night. A friend of a friend knew a guy who was having a party at a water park near Delhi airport's perimeter. We drove past parked interstate trucks down dimly lit streets. Rising from the 1am darkness, the spotlit waterslides looked tired, as though they had seen better times. A line-up of late-model imported cars spoke to the clientele inside.
We headed for the open air dancefloor where a motley crew were swaying unconvincingly. Bangra mixed with house music blared out at a volume fit for Wembly stadium, dwarfing the small crowd. We were introduced to a strikingly tall Ukranian woman who said the word 'model' with a thick east european accent. She was smiling at everyone, pulling business cards from her gold handbag as though at an Amway convention.
Under the faux-Hawaii huts, Indian men sipped drinks and slapped eachothers backs. Tired looking white women mingled in their midst, occasionally laughing. There was not a single Indian woman there.
We danced for a while, and talked to some NRI-types from London. One mixed a surprisingly tasty cocktail of beer, pear juice, orange juice and white wine - he swore by it - and so a hangover was born. We ran though fountains and got drenched and then danced some more. And then we left.
It was the wierdest party vibe I can recall. On the way home my driver (whose antenna is clearly more attuned than mine) told me it was a Rs2000 a head function, with the promise of free booze and lots of loose white women. Not pretty. If they ever make a 'White Tiger' musical, they'd do well to include a scene from the water park.
We headed for the open air dancefloor where a motley crew were swaying unconvincingly. Bangra mixed with house music blared out at a volume fit for Wembly stadium, dwarfing the small crowd. We were introduced to a strikingly tall Ukranian woman who said the word 'model' with a thick east european accent. She was smiling at everyone, pulling business cards from her gold handbag as though at an Amway convention.
Under the faux-Hawaii huts, Indian men sipped drinks and slapped eachothers backs. Tired looking white women mingled in their midst, occasionally laughing. There was not a single Indian woman there.
We danced for a while, and talked to some NRI-types from London. One mixed a surprisingly tasty cocktail of beer, pear juice, orange juice and white wine - he swore by it - and so a hangover was born. We ran though fountains and got drenched and then danced some more. And then we left.
It was the wierdest party vibe I can recall. On the way home my driver (whose antenna is clearly more attuned than mine) told me it was a Rs2000 a head function, with the promise of free booze and lots of loose white women. Not pretty. If they ever make a 'White Tiger' musical, they'd do well to include a scene from the water park.
28 July 2009
The rock garden of Chandigarh
In Chandigarh there is a place called 'the Rock Garden' which in fact is constructed almost entirely of industrial and household waste. It was created by a glorious eccentric called Nek Chand in the years after partition. According to wikipedia, it was not discovered by authorities until 1975 (which I find a little hard to believe given it is right next to the Supreme Court and by 1975 sprawled over 12 acres!). Anyway, it's a pretty amazing place, and it draws as many visitors to Chandigarh as Le Corbussier's modernist buildings beside it. This wall is made of discarded computer parts (not bones I promise). The maze of interlocking nooks and crannies seems to attract young Chandigarhis who sheepishly explore the same in its quieter corners.
To be frisked or not to be frisked
There are two types of people in India - those who get frisked and those who don't. The rules of the game are very clear and displayed for all to see - exhibit A. It is judged that the dignity of those listed would be undermined by the act of passing through airport security. This made national Indian news on the weekend - not as you might expect because it is horribly elitist, but because an ex-President was frisked as he boarded a Continental Airlines flight to the US. This, cried some media, was nothing less than an insult to him, and to India. Slow news day? I asked my driver and he thought the concept of two rules for frisking quite silly - let them all be frisked he said. Couldn't agree more.
Mumbai taxi
I'm not sure if it's got to do with the relative size of bottoms in Maharastra and Delhi, but the back seats of taxis in Mumbai are pretty tight. Yet they're zippy little things - this one blurred past us late at night during a break in the Mumbai summer mist.
Clouds over Bihar
Last week I flew into the sunset from Kolkata to Delhi as the clouds attempted to bring the Monsoon north. I'd started to think this monsoon thing to be a tad overhyped - and then it hit and the streets of Delhi became flowing rivers. Steadfast into the torrent, an old man rode his pushbike home, clothes soaked and hair streaked across his face, but a flash of childish glee on his face at the outrageous amount of water everywhere.
Bangalore Races
I picked the winner of the Kingfisher Derby - or rather a very pissed bloke told me if I didn't bet my house on the horse I was nuts. So I did and it led from start to finish and I pocketed Rs1600. A storm was brewing in the sky and amongst the less successful punters.
27 June 2009
Jantar Mantar
Be warned - I think this place is supercool. My pals in Delhi think I'm too into Jantar Mantar, but it's such a novelty I'll be dragging all unsuspecting visitors there. It's an astrological site from the 1700s, built in the days before rulers were accountable for the use of public money. Further explanation during your respective visits..... intrigued I am sure.
Old New Delhi
I took a long walk around Connaught Place a few weeks back. Weaving between newspaper-wallahs and touts, I stumbled across this old gem - the Madras Coffee House. The austere space has long been superseded by shinier coffee shops with flat screen tvs and young waiters who serve with verve. It is a relic of the state owned coffee houses of the 1930s and 40s. It was apparently the first coffee shop in Connaught Place when CP opened as the shopping heart of New Delhi in 1935. The day I visited, this Sikh gentleman and I were the only customers. The click of my camera reverberated across the silent room, muffled only by the whir of the ceiling fans overhead. The coffee was ..... unpretentious, but effective.
Lake: Mountains - Pretty
Mountains rising steeply from Dal Lake: Despite the warmth of Srinagar, a glacier could be seen at the top of the valley. The boats on the water are clearing weed from the lake.
Kashmir
This week I visited Srinagar in Kashmir which is just as beautiful as the odes suggest. The Dal Lake does shimmer peacefully in reflected sunset, and the mountains do stand by as guardians. It reminded me more of east asia than the parts of India I have seen so far. Pitched rooftops point to snowy winters, but at the height of summer the air was beautiful, warm and still. I heard the non-sound of silence for the first time in months.
I was fortunate to meet many interesting people who spoke passionately about their respective causes. One friend told me that people had fought over Kashmir for centuries only because it was so beautiful - beauty as a mixed blessing. He hoped his son might see a peaceful Kashmir. Another lamented that some young Kashmiris were despairing, leaving formal education for more militant approaches.
All through town, heavily armed police manned checkpoints and patrolled the streets. Fighter jets flew high over the valley (just as falcons soared on thermals rising from the forested slopes). The infrastructure of watch towers and barbed wire reminded me of the left-over shell of apartheid South Africa. But that gave me hope - that where conflict and confrontation were once the norm, a more sustainable peace was eventually achieved. Watch towers were abandoned, and barbed wire was rolled back from township checkpoints.
The Kashmiris I spoke to shared a strong sense of identity as Kashmiris, and a longing for self determination, however that might be shaped. A number said they were seeking 'freedom' in lieu of independence. Most were realistic about the challenge of bringing such an aspiration to fruition. They were frustrated that their wellbeing was part of a larger game.
I came across a few culinary delights - and look away those who are skeptical about my vegetarian credentials. We were given beautifully spiced lamb kebabs in one meeting - hints of cardamon and mint. This was washed down by 'Kava', a mixture of saffron, cardamon pods, chopped almonds and sugar - delicious and worth emulating. And to top this, our hotel had fresh Kashmiri trout cooked in the tandoor - I had this for dinner on successive nights. Be assured that I am returning to a strict diet of lentils, chappattis and vegetarianism now that I'm back in Delhi!
In preparing for the trip, I googled the lyrics to 'Kashmir' by Led Zeppelin. Putting aside the stirring arrangement, the lyrics rang true. "My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again; Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin through kashmir." And so, I hope, will I, perhaps in the winter to try out the ski slopes.
I was fortunate to meet many interesting people who spoke passionately about their respective causes. One friend told me that people had fought over Kashmir for centuries only because it was so beautiful - beauty as a mixed blessing. He hoped his son might see a peaceful Kashmir. Another lamented that some young Kashmiris were despairing, leaving formal education for more militant approaches.
All through town, heavily armed police manned checkpoints and patrolled the streets. Fighter jets flew high over the valley (just as falcons soared on thermals rising from the forested slopes). The infrastructure of watch towers and barbed wire reminded me of the left-over shell of apartheid South Africa. But that gave me hope - that where conflict and confrontation were once the norm, a more sustainable peace was eventually achieved. Watch towers were abandoned, and barbed wire was rolled back from township checkpoints.
The Kashmiris I spoke to shared a strong sense of identity as Kashmiris, and a longing for self determination, however that might be shaped. A number said they were seeking 'freedom' in lieu of independence. Most were realistic about the challenge of bringing such an aspiration to fruition. They were frustrated that their wellbeing was part of a larger game.
I came across a few culinary delights - and look away those who are skeptical about my vegetarian credentials. We were given beautifully spiced lamb kebabs in one meeting - hints of cardamon and mint. This was washed down by 'Kava', a mixture of saffron, cardamon pods, chopped almonds and sugar - delicious and worth emulating. And to top this, our hotel had fresh Kashmiri trout cooked in the tandoor - I had this for dinner on successive nights. Be assured that I am returning to a strict diet of lentils, chappattis and vegetarianism now that I'm back in Delhi!
In preparing for the trip, I googled the lyrics to 'Kashmir' by Led Zeppelin. Putting aside the stirring arrangement, the lyrics rang true. "My shangri-la beneath the summer moon, I will return again; Sure as the dust that floats high and true, when movin through kashmir." And so, I hope, will I, perhaps in the winter to try out the ski slopes.
4 June 2009
Further to....
A friendly soul sent me this in response to my rant a few days back
“I understand how it feels to be called a racist, when you know that you are anything but that. Our cricketers were subjected to the same humiliation in Australia sometime back and we didn't take that very lightly either. So your anger is justified. But I can't stop myself from saying this - By getting 'pissed off' with India, aren't you doing the same mistake as the Indian media is - blaming an entire country for the foolishness of a few people? Something to ponder about...”
I take that on the chin… sloppy writing on my part. I’ve re-framed the issue for myself and feel a little less like getting on the plane. In branding ‘Australia’ racist, the media are not specifically aiming at me – though that is how it felt in the face of a broken fire-hydrant of cable television opinion. National stereotypes are universally unhelpful, and it’s never wise to judge a people by their delinquent youth or their media, (or their governments for that matter). That said, if ‘Australia’ was an individual, not a country, she’d have fairly strong grounds for a defamation case.
I remain sad that has not been space for more measured Indians to say their bit – particularly those who know Australia and Australians to be on the whole a welcoming, multicultural place and people. My country has a lot of work to do to change perceptions here, and it needs its friends in India to speak up – I see a few are doing so. I wish more of those who spent the last week re-branding my country as racist (a word that sticks like mud) could visit Australia and get some context for their comments.
Meanwhile, the whole episode has baptised me into the ways of public debate in India, and some of the sensitivities here about perceived racism. A learning experience……
“I understand how it feels to be called a racist, when you know that you are anything but that. Our cricketers were subjected to the same humiliation in Australia sometime back and we didn't take that very lightly either. So your anger is justified. But I can't stop myself from saying this - By getting 'pissed off' with India, aren't you doing the same mistake as the Indian media is - blaming an entire country for the foolishness of a few people? Something to ponder about...”
I take that on the chin… sloppy writing on my part. I’ve re-framed the issue for myself and feel a little less like getting on the plane. In branding ‘Australia’ racist, the media are not specifically aiming at me – though that is how it felt in the face of a broken fire-hydrant of cable television opinion. National stereotypes are universally unhelpful, and it’s never wise to judge a people by their delinquent youth or their media, (or their governments for that matter). That said, if ‘Australia’ was an individual, not a country, she’d have fairly strong grounds for a defamation case.
I remain sad that has not been space for more measured Indians to say their bit – particularly those who know Australia and Australians to be on the whole a welcoming, multicultural place and people. My country has a lot of work to do to change perceptions here, and it needs its friends in India to speak up – I see a few are doing so. I wish more of those who spent the last week re-branding my country as racist (a word that sticks like mud) could visit Australia and get some context for their comments.
Meanwhile, the whole episode has baptised me into the ways of public debate in India, and some of the sensitivities here about perceived racism. A learning experience……
1 June 2009
The issue of the week is...
So I’m sitting here watching a panel discussion on the highest rating Indian television channel. The topic is ‘Is Australia stuck in a white’s only mindset.’ It has now been 5 days and 5 nights of CONSTANT fever-pitch coverage of the three horrid attacks on Indian students in Melbourne and Sydney. Words cannot describe how damaging it has been for my country’s reputation here.
Last Wednesday I was so sad that these visitors to my country had been treated so shabbily. I wished the numbskull 17 year old schmucks, who wander Melbourne’s train system making nuisances of themselves, would understand that robbing and beating people is unacceptable. I felt for the families in India who had sent their children so far away in pursuit of education - and their worries. I felt for the students who arrived in a foreign country and found the adjustment hard. I was glad that my people were appalled, that governments were promising action, and that Indian students were making their voices heard. That was 5 days ago.
The media here seized on the racism angle – and with reason, after all three Indian kids lay in hospital, hit by separate attacks in separate parts of Melbourne and Sydney. But since then, Wednesday last week, there has barely been a new fact to discuss. Instead the media has wallowed in the racism story. The pursuit of fact has been abandoned for the endless recitation of opinion. I have never seen such a self-indulgent display of group-think in my life. There are NO dissenting voices.
The presenter asks “Is Australia, a country of convicts, trying to overcompensate for its geography by being whiter than white.” A pompous man responds with “yes” and starts rabitting on like an encyclopaedia about a policy scrapped three years before my birth 32 years ago. This is trash journalism. I wish I could call up and tell them how much the accusation of racism hurts. “Racist” is not a word to be thrown around lightly.
So, tonight I’ve had enough – India is pissing me off. I want to go home to my city, Melbourne, and be reassured that it remains one of the most multicultural places on earth, richer for it, challenged by it, but a snapshot of our global future. I pray that tomorrow the sun will rise and India’s media will find something more important to talk to itself about.
Last Wednesday I was so sad that these visitors to my country had been treated so shabbily. I wished the numbskull 17 year old schmucks, who wander Melbourne’s train system making nuisances of themselves, would understand that robbing and beating people is unacceptable. I felt for the families in India who had sent their children so far away in pursuit of education - and their worries. I felt for the students who arrived in a foreign country and found the adjustment hard. I was glad that my people were appalled, that governments were promising action, and that Indian students were making their voices heard. That was 5 days ago.
The media here seized on the racism angle – and with reason, after all three Indian kids lay in hospital, hit by separate attacks in separate parts of Melbourne and Sydney. But since then, Wednesday last week, there has barely been a new fact to discuss. Instead the media has wallowed in the racism story. The pursuit of fact has been abandoned for the endless recitation of opinion. I have never seen such a self-indulgent display of group-think in my life. There are NO dissenting voices.
The presenter asks “Is Australia, a country of convicts, trying to overcompensate for its geography by being whiter than white.” A pompous man responds with “yes” and starts rabitting on like an encyclopaedia about a policy scrapped three years before my birth 32 years ago. This is trash journalism. I wish I could call up and tell them how much the accusation of racism hurts. “Racist” is not a word to be thrown around lightly.
So, tonight I’ve had enough – India is pissing me off. I want to go home to my city, Melbourne, and be reassured that it remains one of the most multicultural places on earth, richer for it, challenged by it, but a snapshot of our global future. I pray that tomorrow the sun will rise and India’s media will find something more important to talk to itself about.
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