Abandoning the project for a few days, on Thursday I took a nine hour bus ride from Vellore to Dindegal to visit my aunt. She has rented a house for two months in an attempt to avoid the English winter and to lessen the trauma of an 80th birthday (not hers).
Funnily enough, as I waited amongst sacks of rice and leaking boxes of bottled water for the bus to arrive, I hoped my seat would not be broken as it once was on an, admittedly much longer bus trip, between Goa and Mumbai. It was. Not disastrously, but just enough to be slightly annoying. It had one position - horizontal. As the bus left at 7 o’clock, I spent the first couple of hours perched upright on the seat, eating my supper (mushroom biryani) and trying to brace myself against a non-existent back, whilst silently battling with my neighbour to prevent her shutting the window completely.
On a pair of seats designed for Indian proportions, my neighbour was one of the few Indian women with a bottom more in line with my dimensions than those of her fellow country women, consequently hostilities extended way beyond the Battle for A Tiny Breath of Fresh Air/Howling Draught, and included the War of the Occupancy of the Armrest, the Campaign for Buttock Spread under the Armrest and the Feud of the Straying Elbow. To make matters more bitter, the lights were turned off at about 8.30pm. I was buggered if I was going to go to sleep at a time more suited to a 10 year old, so, I read, awkwardly lying flat with a torch nestling on my chest, throwing strange shadows around the bus. The woman, wrapped melodramatically in a shawl as if she were braving a Siberian winter, slept with pursed lips, all the while never giving up her bid for supremacy.
At 4.30 in the morning, amongst much huffing and puffing on behalf of my adjacent adversary, I exited the bus at Dindegal. Should be called Dingygal. The bus stopped somewhere on the bypass road, a non-descript track with enough tarmac for two slim cars to pass each other, dropping off to a dusty road-side scattered with parked lorries. Standing on the road with no discernable means of identifying where I was, I wondered vaguely if the repeated “Yes, madam”s to my question of whether this was Dindegal, were answering the question I asked or merely over-enthusiastic acknowledgement that I had indeed spoken. I prepared to walk to the only place with a hint of habitation, but there was a line of men, all of whom had got off the bus to pee, standing like soldiers at an officer’s wedding creating a glittering triumphal arch onto the verge, necessitating my having to dodge a series of enormous lorries pounding past on the other side of the road to avoid being unpleasantly anointed.
After an interesting exchange with a group of men wrapped up as snugly as the woman on the bus, having a reluctant cup of tea in a lonely tea shack, the pre-arranged taxi eventually found me and I wove my way up the mountainside to Palam Palace - the Palace of Fruit – to my aunt.
She is staying in a twice-reconstructed 18th century Bungla, which was erected in it’s current location to satisfy the whim of an 80 year old descendant of Elizabeth Fry (of Quaker chocolate fame) who felt that he should correct a lifelong oversight, namely, that he had never created a garden in India. Sadly, he lived only a couple of years after it was built and did not get to see the garden completed, but his son now lives here, amongst other places, and has experimentally rented it out to my aunt.
It is a long, low-lying wooden structure constructed in a square around a central open courtyard shaded by two trees. Rooms have no windows, but sliding wooden panels which give you the option of dressing in the dark or flashing to the birds in the trees. My bedroom has a charming single four poster bed with three carved wooden sides inset with little glass fronted cupboards, containing painted Indian horses and small carved elephants. I was delighted to discover a whole new place to keep knick-knacks.
The house is situated a cool kilometre above the stifling Madurai plains on a hillside thick with stocky banana palms and elegant silk cotton trees, up which sinuously climb pepper plants; leg warmers with peppercorn tassels. Lemon trees and coffee bushes loaded with red berries harbouring the pre-roasted white bean, scent the air with their aromatic flowers, while drongos, bee-eaters, woodpeckers, orioles, hoopoes, babblers colour the air with their bright feathers and melodious songs.
That first morning, with the mist rising and moon setting, followed by a lithe dog descended from Krishna’s favourite hunting hound, I wandered around drinking in the extraordinary other-worldliness.
It has been wonderful to be here, because it is rare to have the opportunity in India of walking though secluded forests and glades so rich with bird and plant life. We have gone for long walks every day, sometimes with a charming man called Murugan, who, were there to be a “Best Named Baby” competition, would win, hands down, with his daughter, Boomiha. Apart from seeing acres of naturally occurring coffee, bananas, pepper, oranges and limes, we have also discovered clove trees, cardamom, which grow as succulent pods on a nondescript plant in which form they have absolutely no fragrance, kapok, used for stuffing, which is the satiny fluff surrounding the seed of the silk cotton tree and seen many familiar houseplants growing to incredible heights in their natural environment.
On the first walk we undertook, intrepidly unaccompanied to a ridge overlooking the plains, we were followed by a giggle of schoolchildren, made bold in their native tongue, running after us chattering and repeating our names which we had, in a moment of rash indulgence, revealed.
“Ah-rub’el-ah, Ah-rub’el-ah, Ah-rub’el-ah” loaded the air, mingling with ecstatic laughter. One particularly precocious bare-footed boy, probably 10 or 11, but the size of an English 6 year old, from somewhere under my left elbow asked my name hundreds of times, followed by guffaws and gestures looking suspiciously like the universal sign for huge gazongas. I’m sure it was nothing but a simple Tamil greeting.
Today’s walk was outstanding. Boomiha’s father, in flip flops, carrying secateurs and our lunch in an old army rucksack, patiently helped the clumsy English walkers kitted out with hats, walking sticks and sturdy shoes cross angular rocks and cleared thorny brush from our paths. After an hour or so of climbing uphill beside a swirling river, we emerged onto a ledge. Above us a thinly sheeting waterfall descended the rocky face into a greenish pool; below us the stony river churned to gentle rapids.
We stopped for lunch and a swim. Two young boys who eagerly accompanied us, chanting different mantras to the previous boys, of “Take care madam”, took their shirts of and, with nervous faces entered the water. I had brought my swimming costume, but feeling that this might not be an appropriate mode of dress, slid my way in wearing all my clothes. The water was not deep, the pool was not wide and the rocks were slippery, but it was heaven none-the-less. The boys splashed about but were too scared to come with me to the edge of the waterfall where the water was slightly deeper. My bravado was cut short when I was sure I felt some slithery thing nibbling my toe and winding around my leg. I hightailed it out of the water, rapidissimo. The enjoyment of swimming was further dampened by the discovery of many tiny, and fortunately inexperienced leeches, who wriggled hopelessly on my skin but didn’t stick.
Safely leech-free on the side and eating lunch, we were delighted to see a frog jumping out of the water towards us. He paused in the sun, his throat pouch gently undulating with each breath. There was an unnecessary mad scramble for our cameras as we feared his being scared off before we had a chance to capture his bronze eyes and gleaming green skin. He hopped a bit nearer. Delighted, I snapped away. After a few more hops, it became apparent that not only was he not scared by us, but he was actually making a beeline for me. It would appear he thought me to be a shady rock. To my astonishment he hopped right under my skirt. Not one for womanly vapours, I nevertheless found myself squawking in alarm as I tried to move away from his amphibious advances. All that happened was that perched as I was on a steeply sloping rock, I could only lift my bum about two or three inches off the ground. The grateful creature moved directly into the copious shade and I could feel him bouncing up and down head butting my left buttock. I was luckily rescued from squashing him, as I was rapidly becoming incapacitated with laughter, by Murugan who hauled me up and away from him, simultaneously flicking him back towards the water with a quick swish.
In a extraordinary display of Durrell-like derring-do Richard, my Aunt’s other half – the one with the impending traumatic birthday - leapt in unison with the frog to capture him and show his lady love. Scrambling across the rocks in identical manners, legs akimbo, arms bent, eyes slightly popping, the stalked was caught by the stalker. Several gasps, from both the transfixed spectators and the increasingly tightly clutched animal rent the air as the big game hunter began sliding, splatchcocked, towards the pool. How lucky we were to have Murugan to hand again.
After a thorough perusal by all, the frog was released and this time making for a real shady crevice he hopped in and began singing, no doubt thrilling the local incredulous amphibian population with his astonishing tales.
The walk home was stunning but relatively uneventful. We wound along more coffee plantations waving to the young men and women plucking the ripening berries. Several passed us, heavy footed, with bulging sacks precariously balanced on their heads. Round a corner in the open yard of a ramshackle building, twenty or so people crouched on the floor separating the coffee beans into two piles – red bean and green beans. The atmosphere was relaxed and full of chit chat but it is a sobering thought that this is how coffee in its sanitised supermarket packaging starts its life. Actually, its amazing to see how all this produce originates – pepper, cardamom, oranges, cloves, coffee, tea - carried in dirty sacks on the backs of small bare-footed underpaid local people, whose houses may not have electricity to boil a kettle and make a cup of coffee in the first place.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
When is enough enough?
There are limitless tragic tales in India and each time I come here, there are a whole new set to hear. This week has been full of deeply disturbing, stories, due to the changing dynamics around me. I think perhaps being a returning visitor who spends more than a few days, who is associated with foreign funds and who displays a sense of personal freedom becomes a lodestar for people who feel helpless and impotent.
The most extraordinary story wasn't told to me directly, in fact, but by a friend who witnessed it. It gives an amazing insight into why the elderly are such an ignored group within society.
One of the RUHSA staff, a man who is involved with the elderly welfare project and works in a truly dedicated manner to improve the lives of the poor people in the areas around RUHSA., invited this friend of mine to dinner.
During dinner, a bent old man came to the door, wearing only a ragged dhoti and leaning on a stick. He was invited in to have some food but refused and sat on the steps outside the house. During dinner, the younger man went out several times with things to eat, tea, snacks. Each time the man refused to come in. The wife, neither encouraged nor discouraged the old man. After he had his meagre sustenance, he laid down on the concrete outside and slept with no mattress, pillow, cover, walls or roof. It was only when my friend was leaving after dinner, that she learnt that the old man was the young man's father. There is so much unsaid here. The refusal of the man, the lack of encouragement fo the wife, the passive acceptance of the son. Who is ashamed of who. But it does give an idea about the collective sense of worth for the elderly whether it is their own sense or that of others.
In the village, I have been struggling with an increasing difficulty in understanding the nature of how the community centre has helped the elderly. It clearly is of some benefit and the elderly themselves are keen that it continues, but with no real idea of what it should become or how it should evolve. I have an increasing sense of "drop-in-the-oceanness". Of course, compared to last year they are better off. Not only do they have an extra meal a day, but they have had a lot of attention, which for an ignored section of society is a rare gift. But what is the result? They do not seem to be fatter, they do not seem to have a greater sense of self-worth; in some ways I fear that all that has happened is that their difficult and tragic lives have been highlighted in a way that they were ignorant of before. They have moved from unconscious hardship to awareness of how miserable their lifes were and, apart from a few changes, essentially, still are. This makes one wonder about the ethics of embarking upon a project like this. Of course, there is so much which can be done to make their lives better, but when is enough, enough? In a Huxley-like debate, is it better to leave them as they were or give them a little and make them realise how little they have?
Interestingly, their focus has moved from their empty bellies to their impoverished living conditions. One man, who during the medical check up I did, complained of back pain and other generalised aches and pains. He went on to say that he has nowhere to sleep, no house, no family and so sleeps where he can on the floor. Of course he's got bloody back ache. I've got backache despite 2 mattresses at RUHSA. Another man has no roof to his house - in a climate like India, it's mostly OK, but in the rainy season it's disastrous. These issues, moving up the pyramid of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, are still only on the second rung. There are a good few to go before full potential is acquired.
So, it is very interesting to see how things have evolved here, there are some many positive improvements, the most telling of which is that they have definitely found their voice, which is wonderful. Just yet, however, they still feel too disempowered to project it far. That must be the next stage of the project.
The most extraordinary story wasn't told to me directly, in fact, but by a friend who witnessed it. It gives an amazing insight into why the elderly are such an ignored group within society.
One of the RUHSA staff, a man who is involved with the elderly welfare project and works in a truly dedicated manner to improve the lives of the poor people in the areas around RUHSA., invited this friend of mine to dinner.
During dinner, a bent old man came to the door, wearing only a ragged dhoti and leaning on a stick. He was invited in to have some food but refused and sat on the steps outside the house. During dinner, the younger man went out several times with things to eat, tea, snacks. Each time the man refused to come in. The wife, neither encouraged nor discouraged the old man. After he had his meagre sustenance, he laid down on the concrete outside and slept with no mattress, pillow, cover, walls or roof. It was only when my friend was leaving after dinner, that she learnt that the old man was the young man's father. There is so much unsaid here. The refusal of the man, the lack of encouragement fo the wife, the passive acceptance of the son. Who is ashamed of who. But it does give an idea about the collective sense of worth for the elderly whether it is their own sense or that of others.
In the village, I have been struggling with an increasing difficulty in understanding the nature of how the community centre has helped the elderly. It clearly is of some benefit and the elderly themselves are keen that it continues, but with no real idea of what it should become or how it should evolve. I have an increasing sense of "drop-in-the-oceanness". Of course, compared to last year they are better off. Not only do they have an extra meal a day, but they have had a lot of attention, which for an ignored section of society is a rare gift. But what is the result? They do not seem to be fatter, they do not seem to have a greater sense of self-worth; in some ways I fear that all that has happened is that their difficult and tragic lives have been highlighted in a way that they were ignorant of before. They have moved from unconscious hardship to awareness of how miserable their lifes were and, apart from a few changes, essentially, still are. This makes one wonder about the ethics of embarking upon a project like this. Of course, there is so much which can be done to make their lives better, but when is enough, enough? In a Huxley-like debate, is it better to leave them as they were or give them a little and make them realise how little they have?
Interestingly, their focus has moved from their empty bellies to their impoverished living conditions. One man, who during the medical check up I did, complained of back pain and other generalised aches and pains. He went on to say that he has nowhere to sleep, no house, no family and so sleeps where he can on the floor. Of course he's got bloody back ache. I've got backache despite 2 mattresses at RUHSA. Another man has no roof to his house - in a climate like India, it's mostly OK, but in the rainy season it's disastrous. These issues, moving up the pyramid of Maslow's hierarchy of needs, are still only on the second rung. There are a good few to go before full potential is acquired.
So, it is very interesting to see how things have evolved here, there are some many positive improvements, the most telling of which is that they have definitely found their voice, which is wonderful. Just yet, however, they still feel too disempowered to project it far. That must be the next stage of the project.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The official evaluation has now begun
Today, the "Team" of myself, Mathew, Kalaimanai and Jebaraj went to the village to begin the evaluation officially. All the elderly folk were there, it was a busy time. Mathew and Kalaimanai interviewed everyone individually, asking seven open-ended questions for feedback:- what do you thing the role of the centre is, what do you like about it, what do you not like about it, how do you think you can contribute to it, what do you think the future of the centre is, do you have any ideas for income generation plans and how can we make the centre more efficicient.
In a separate room to maintain confidentiality, Jebaraj carried out the WHO-Bref questionnaire which is a validated questionnaire measuring four domains - physical, psychological, social and environmental. We carried it out last year and are repeating it to see if there is any improvement. Meanwhile, I finished measuring their skinny arms and legs.
Whilst the others were busy with their quesionnaires, I watched the elderly people doing their activities. It was a pleasing sight. One man patiently and meticulously completed the jigsaw puzzle of the world. It was fascinating to see how he did it. There are only about 30 pieces and they are roughly 4-5inches, so I think it would take an adult in the UK, who would have been doing jigsaws since a toddler, less than 5 minutes to do. This gentleman, Rathinam, who reads the newspapers out to the others, quite quickly completed the outside and then, with great care took each piece and methodically tried to fit it in all the spaces, turning it round several times and only giving up when he had tried each spot twice or more. Then he would pick up another one and do the same. Each piece to be fitted took a good few minutes; the concentration was fierce. Once it was completed, which took a good half an hour, the others sat round whilst he pointed out all the countries. In a sea of Tamil could be heard th words, Austraia, Japan, India et cetera. I sent the jigsaw in May or June last year and it is still giving enormous amounts of pleasure. I am going to scour the country when I get back for other suitable puzzles.
A quiet man, leaning against a water barrel, read the newspaper, whilst next to him two men squatted, chatting busily, waving the hands to illuminate their points. One of them, on his feedback questionnaire, said that before the centre started, he had felt like an orphan. Two women sat on the floor playing a local version of Baduki - the game where you pick up stones and drop them off going round a board, in order to collect as many as possible. There seemed to be a bit of a tournament going on because as soon as the game was over, the winner played someone else.
A woman, called Vimala, sat chopping onions in a very efficient manner to help the women cooking. She has always struck me as being quite an impressive, dynamic person. We will have to consider her as a leader of men when we start the income generation schemes. Some fo the elderly people still feel helpless, as evidenced by their asnwers to some of the proactive questions like how they feel they might be able to help the centre, but some have been very positive. One man used to be a mechanic and he seemed keen to contribute his skills. When the kitchen was opened he stood up and told us how having his hernia operation made him feel so much better that now he could work again, so there is clearly a force to be utilised here.
Once the individual questionnaires are finished and analysed, we will have a focus group discussion to try and find some solutions to the ever thorny issue of self-sustainability. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I will cycle to the village daily along that lovely road as I listen to my MP3 player. Today, appropriately, I was singing aloud to Queen's "I'm going slightly mad".
In a separate room to maintain confidentiality, Jebaraj carried out the WHO-Bref questionnaire which is a validated questionnaire measuring four domains - physical, psychological, social and environmental. We carried it out last year and are repeating it to see if there is any improvement. Meanwhile, I finished measuring their skinny arms and legs.
Whilst the others were busy with their quesionnaires, I watched the elderly people doing their activities. It was a pleasing sight. One man patiently and meticulously completed the jigsaw puzzle of the world. It was fascinating to see how he did it. There are only about 30 pieces and they are roughly 4-5inches, so I think it would take an adult in the UK, who would have been doing jigsaws since a toddler, less than 5 minutes to do. This gentleman, Rathinam, who reads the newspapers out to the others, quite quickly completed the outside and then, with great care took each piece and methodically tried to fit it in all the spaces, turning it round several times and only giving up when he had tried each spot twice or more. Then he would pick up another one and do the same. Each piece to be fitted took a good few minutes; the concentration was fierce. Once it was completed, which took a good half an hour, the others sat round whilst he pointed out all the countries. In a sea of Tamil could be heard th words, Austraia, Japan, India et cetera. I sent the jigsaw in May or June last year and it is still giving enormous amounts of pleasure. I am going to scour the country when I get back for other suitable puzzles.
A quiet man, leaning against a water barrel, read the newspaper, whilst next to him two men squatted, chatting busily, waving the hands to illuminate their points. One of them, on his feedback questionnaire, said that before the centre started, he had felt like an orphan. Two women sat on the floor playing a local version of Baduki - the game where you pick up stones and drop them off going round a board, in order to collect as many as possible. There seemed to be a bit of a tournament going on because as soon as the game was over, the winner played someone else.
A woman, called Vimala, sat chopping onions in a very efficient manner to help the women cooking. She has always struck me as being quite an impressive, dynamic person. We will have to consider her as a leader of men when we start the income generation schemes. Some fo the elderly people still feel helpless, as evidenced by their asnwers to some of the proactive questions like how they feel they might be able to help the centre, but some have been very positive. One man used to be a mechanic and he seemed keen to contribute his skills. When the kitchen was opened he stood up and told us how having his hernia operation made him feel so much better that now he could work again, so there is clearly a force to be utilised here.
Once the individual questionnaires are finished and analysed, we will have a focus group discussion to try and find some solutions to the ever thorny issue of self-sustainability. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I will cycle to the village daily along that lovely road as I listen to my MP3 player. Today, appropriately, I was singing aloud to Queen's "I'm going slightly mad".
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Leaving Bangalore and resolving crises
Whilst in Bangalore, I visited Celine who runs Karuna Niwas, the Home of Compassion, for women. It was her 21st anniversary on Tuesday and was having a celebratory mass to which I was invited. I have never been to a Catholic mass, and not strictly being a believer, I was nervous about going because I felt like it was slightly dishonest. Having said that, I know that she expects no Damascene conversions. Her faith is unassailable and has enabled her to do incredible things, but she judges no-one for their beliefs. It was important to her, she had asked me, so I went.
She was as extraordinary and vibrant as ever. She had arranged for a priest from the US to come and conduct mass for her, which he did, travelling from the US to Bangalore via Kenya and Kerala, staying for one night - actually a total of 10 hours only - before flying up to Nagarland in the North East of India. He was called Father Joseph and was a bouncing bundle of enthusiasm and non-stop chatter. He was accompanied by his polar opposite. A dour man, whose face only lit up when he smiled, called Father Xavier, from Mexico.
Upstairs, Celine has built a chapel where mass is said daily. Several of her women, no doubt inspired by the energies and compassion of the woman who saved them from the strictures and judgements of their own culture, have converted to christianity. But many women don't. We entered the small, modest chapel with a small sea of a different sort of chappel outside. A couple of Christmas decorations hung on the green, plain walls and a verse from the bible was spelled out in fluorescent polystyrene letters on the purlins facing the congergation. There were about 10 women and 8 children inside, waiting quietly. Celine's cousin was also present. She is a nun who made it all the way through and she works in an addiction centre nearby, treating and supporting alcoholics from the local community.
Father Joseph started the service as Xavier was still struggling into his cassock. As he talked movingly about Celine's work and the strength of God's Love, the women sat, transfixed by his voice if not his words. The hymns were sung with great force and the reverberations around the tiny room lingered long after the last note left our throats. It was very moving to be in the presence of people who had such a strong faith. After the short service, during which Father Joseph prayed several times that everyone should have a good and deep sleep that night, subconsciously echoing his own heartfelt desires, the women and children lined up to be blessed by him.
In turn, each came forward and Celine said a few words. Father Joseph was quick to understand their needs and bless them accordingly. A young girl, with learning difficulties, who had just given up her baby for adoption, was blessed for the courage of her difficult decision and the care she took of her baby in the womb. For a Celine's beautiful assistant who has a hand deformity, he prayed that her compassion and caring keep her strong and not tire out. He noted in the eyes of one woman a lost hopelessness and he urged God to help her follow the dreams she held in her heart. To the two young children who had witnessed their father burning their mother to death, he prayed that they should grow strong and happy in the caring environment they found there and be extraordinary people. For Celine, there was a special blessing. As she knelt on the floor, everyone gathered round and placed their hands on her. I found the whole experience very moving. Not because of what it meant to me, I still am an ish-believer, but because of the incredible effect it had on everyone else who was there. There was such a strong sense of belonging and selfless love radiating from Celine which energised everyone in the room. I know that others felt that this was God's presence, but it seemd to me to have a much more mortal origin. Nonetheless, I found myself deeply moved. Sadly, my time there was too short as we all left the next morning at 7 to catch our various forms of transport to toher parts of the country - Celine by bus to Kerala, myself by train to Vellore and the two priests by plane to Nagarland.
Also, whilst in Bangalore, I drafted a letter to KRJ to vent my spleen and, in a polite and respectful way, to find out how the land really lay. After my nose-bubble episode I felt generally much calmer about it and, perhaps if I had been someone else I might have ignored it and just carried on. But, I felt that to do that would be to miss an opportunity to clarify my position and to squander bridges I had spent 8 months building. On my return, I hand delivered it to his home, phoned him to tell him it was there and made an arrangement to see him to discuss its contents.
The next day I met an entirely different KRJ. He was smiling, appreciative and thanked me for my "well-constructed letter, with valid points". He was (rather too) complimentary, which as always is very effective at diffusing problem situations and we agreed to move forwards amicably, making plans to construct an International Visitors' Hostel at RUHSA, so there are proper facilities and fewer stupid rules. He then and there arranged a meeting with the KPP team to discuss the forthcoming evaluation. He told Mathew he should stay behind and not come to Delhi and we made great progress not only with our plans, but also for an external evaluating team to assess the project, which is fantastic. Of course we are all subconsciously going to put a positive spin on things, so to have an independent view of how the project has been for the last year is a fantastic move. I hope they don't discover it's been pointless!
Meanwhile, there had been a few underground team meetings before this new spirit of reconciliation and the evaluation had begun. I have been out to the village several times to carry out repeat nutritional measures, like weight, mid-arm circumference and calf circumference. Interestingly, the weights and CCs seem to have fallen but the MACs have increased. They need to be analysed statistically and take into account the normal changes of aging, but they are interesting findings so far. By some measures, the MAC is the most sensitive marker of nutritional status, measuring muscle bulk and subcutaneous fat, so it is interesting that this one alone seems to have increased. The elderly are reporting that they are more mobile than before which might contribute to weight loss, but we will have to wait for the results of the BREF questionnaire which measures perceptions about physical, psychological social and functional well-being to see whether they really feel better, as they seem to us - with our rosy-coloured spectacles.
The full evaluation will comprise, in addition to the nutritional measures and BREF questionnaire, an individual, open feedback questionnaire and focus group discussions to find out the elderly members perceptions of the role, future and their contribution to the centre. We hope to be able to come to some clear conclusions about the success of this project as a pilot study to set up other community centres for the elderly, as well as those about the future for this centre involving greater community involvement and some sustainability measures.
She was as extraordinary and vibrant as ever. She had arranged for a priest from the US to come and conduct mass for her, which he did, travelling from the US to Bangalore via Kenya and Kerala, staying for one night - actually a total of 10 hours only - before flying up to Nagarland in the North East of India. He was called Father Joseph and was a bouncing bundle of enthusiasm and non-stop chatter. He was accompanied by his polar opposite. A dour man, whose face only lit up when he smiled, called Father Xavier, from Mexico.
Upstairs, Celine has built a chapel where mass is said daily. Several of her women, no doubt inspired by the energies and compassion of the woman who saved them from the strictures and judgements of their own culture, have converted to christianity. But many women don't. We entered the small, modest chapel with a small sea of a different sort of chappel outside. A couple of Christmas decorations hung on the green, plain walls and a verse from the bible was spelled out in fluorescent polystyrene letters on the purlins facing the congergation. There were about 10 women and 8 children inside, waiting quietly. Celine's cousin was also present. She is a nun who made it all the way through and she works in an addiction centre nearby, treating and supporting alcoholics from the local community.
Father Joseph started the service as Xavier was still struggling into his cassock. As he talked movingly about Celine's work and the strength of God's Love, the women sat, transfixed by his voice if not his words. The hymns were sung with great force and the reverberations around the tiny room lingered long after the last note left our throats. It was very moving to be in the presence of people who had such a strong faith. After the short service, during which Father Joseph prayed several times that everyone should have a good and deep sleep that night, subconsciously echoing his own heartfelt desires, the women and children lined up to be blessed by him.
In turn, each came forward and Celine said a few words. Father Joseph was quick to understand their needs and bless them accordingly. A young girl, with learning difficulties, who had just given up her baby for adoption, was blessed for the courage of her difficult decision and the care she took of her baby in the womb. For a Celine's beautiful assistant who has a hand deformity, he prayed that her compassion and caring keep her strong and not tire out. He noted in the eyes of one woman a lost hopelessness and he urged God to help her follow the dreams she held in her heart. To the two young children who had witnessed their father burning their mother to death, he prayed that they should grow strong and happy in the caring environment they found there and be extraordinary people. For Celine, there was a special blessing. As she knelt on the floor, everyone gathered round and placed their hands on her. I found the whole experience very moving. Not because of what it meant to me, I still am an ish-believer, but because of the incredible effect it had on everyone else who was there. There was such a strong sense of belonging and selfless love radiating from Celine which energised everyone in the room. I know that others felt that this was God's presence, but it seemd to me to have a much more mortal origin. Nonetheless, I found myself deeply moved. Sadly, my time there was too short as we all left the next morning at 7 to catch our various forms of transport to toher parts of the country - Celine by bus to Kerala, myself by train to Vellore and the two priests by plane to Nagarland.
Also, whilst in Bangalore, I drafted a letter to KRJ to vent my spleen and, in a polite and respectful way, to find out how the land really lay. After my nose-bubble episode I felt generally much calmer about it and, perhaps if I had been someone else I might have ignored it and just carried on. But, I felt that to do that would be to miss an opportunity to clarify my position and to squander bridges I had spent 8 months building. On my return, I hand delivered it to his home, phoned him to tell him it was there and made an arrangement to see him to discuss its contents.
The next day I met an entirely different KRJ. He was smiling, appreciative and thanked me for my "well-constructed letter, with valid points". He was (rather too) complimentary, which as always is very effective at diffusing problem situations and we agreed to move forwards amicably, making plans to construct an International Visitors' Hostel at RUHSA, so there are proper facilities and fewer stupid rules. He then and there arranged a meeting with the KPP team to discuss the forthcoming evaluation. He told Mathew he should stay behind and not come to Delhi and we made great progress not only with our plans, but also for an external evaluating team to assess the project, which is fantastic. Of course we are all subconsciously going to put a positive spin on things, so to have an independent view of how the project has been for the last year is a fantastic move. I hope they don't discover it's been pointless!
Meanwhile, there had been a few underground team meetings before this new spirit of reconciliation and the evaluation had begun. I have been out to the village several times to carry out repeat nutritional measures, like weight, mid-arm circumference and calf circumference. Interestingly, the weights and CCs seem to have fallen but the MACs have increased. They need to be analysed statistically and take into account the normal changes of aging, but they are interesting findings so far. By some measures, the MAC is the most sensitive marker of nutritional status, measuring muscle bulk and subcutaneous fat, so it is interesting that this one alone seems to have increased. The elderly are reporting that they are more mobile than before which might contribute to weight loss, but we will have to wait for the results of the BREF questionnaire which measures perceptions about physical, psychological social and functional well-being to see whether they really feel better, as they seem to us - with our rosy-coloured spectacles.
The full evaluation will comprise, in addition to the nutritional measures and BREF questionnaire, an individual, open feedback questionnaire and focus group discussions to find out the elderly members perceptions of the role, future and their contribution to the centre. We hope to be able to come to some clear conclusions about the success of this project as a pilot study to set up other community centres for the elderly, as well as those about the future for this centre involving greater community involvement and some sustainability measures.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Pucking brilliant
Owing to all the RUHSA shennanigans coinciding with Pongal, which is the three day Tamil festival involving cow decorating, coloured chalk floor patterns and bull racing, it was a good time to get away. There was a fabulous interpretation of A Midsummer Night's Dream touring in Bangalore, directed by an Englishman, Tim Supple, drawing from all sources of traditional, modern, formal and street Indian theatre, so we decided to go.
Once again I found myself on the train, biddledeeing to Bangalore. This time, despite being told I was in the Ladies compartment, and paying a supplement of 20p for the priviledge, I was in a packed mixed carriage mostly full of laughing, chattering muslim men who all seemed to know each other. Protecting their wives from the horror and dishonour of sitting next to a strange man, and the wives being occupied with looking after the children and the widowed mothers, all the men sat on the aisle seats, leaning across to each other at the crossroads, discussing, laughing, slapping thighs and exchanging snacks with noisy freedom. Occasional timid taps, eliciting brief glances back towards their families, would barely ripple the torrent of male ebullience.
The women sat in purdah, pale hands stroking childrens' liberated arms; sometimes a glint revealing the direction of a look. I noticed how hard work it was to eat a packet of crisps when wearing a burka. It reminded me of a cake in a play which, unsure of the scene it was supposed to be in, slid backwards and forwards under the curtains whilst disembodied hands debated its destination. There is an assumption that nothing but unparrallelled beauty lies behind the veil. Catching an unexpected glimpse during a quick adjustment revealed no kohl-eyed houri, but a pleasant-faced ordinary looking woman with intelligent eyes. It was interesting to observe this gender separation in the light of events at RUHSA. Respect and freedom always make uncomfortable bed-fellows, but here their ill-suitedness is much more apparent.
In Bangalore, the play was an extraordinary experience. (Click on title link to see the advert). The director spent a year travelling around mostly South India learning about Indian theatre cultures and recruiting actors from all around. The result is spectacular. I had never heard about it (I don't think it made the Coro in Ulverston), but it had a sell-out tour in the UK twice since 2006.
It is spoken in 8 different languages, English, and seven Indian languages. Four from South India - Kannada, Tamil, Malayallam and Marathi - another from Sri Lanka- Singhalese - and two fromm North India - Hindi and Bengali. Each actor speaks in his mother tongue and English. As Shakespeare is pretty linguistically inaccessible anyway for the average bod (myself included), the concentration levels required are no greater. In fact it becomes a little bit like watching Pingu - you are totally convinced you can understand what they are saying anyway. It was fabulous to have fully gusty aufdience laughter after some of the Indian lines, it provided fabulous glue between the switching dialects.
The staging was intriguing. A bamboo scafffolding covered in white paper provided the backdrop to a sandy-floored semi-circle with ropes and silken sheets hanging down. As the play starts set in the human world, the acting is prosaic and posturing. The players are dressed in stiff clothing and moved formally. The Athenians rules and dictates are established. When the lovers Hermia and Lysander run away to the forest, as the story descends further into fantasy, the movements become more fluids, the clothing becomes freer and all the dimensions of the stage space are used. The fairies, led by a brilliant Puck (with a very cute, tiny pot-belly to add to his sense of mischief) burst through the paper on the scaffolding at all levels and scramble on the frame like bees on a comb. As Titania's fairies and Oberon's sprites clash, with clattering sticks they roll on the floor, dust clouding in the lights and with astonishing agility they use the rope and silks to create the illusion of moving through the air as acrobatically as mosquitos
Each actor brought a different kind of theatre to their role. There were dancers with elegant movements, comics with grandiose gestures, actors with dignified stature, gymnasts with dazzling bravery and straight-men with perfect timing. It was wonderful seeing this with an Indian audience, because it emphasised and highlighted how each language created a cultural difference between characters. And it was so funny. Really, very, very funny, yaar.
Once again I found myself on the train, biddledeeing to Bangalore. This time, despite being told I was in the Ladies compartment, and paying a supplement of 20p for the priviledge, I was in a packed mixed carriage mostly full of laughing, chattering muslim men who all seemed to know each other. Protecting their wives from the horror and dishonour of sitting next to a strange man, and the wives being occupied with looking after the children and the widowed mothers, all the men sat on the aisle seats, leaning across to each other at the crossroads, discussing, laughing, slapping thighs and exchanging snacks with noisy freedom. Occasional timid taps, eliciting brief glances back towards their families, would barely ripple the torrent of male ebullience.
The women sat in purdah, pale hands stroking childrens' liberated arms; sometimes a glint revealing the direction of a look. I noticed how hard work it was to eat a packet of crisps when wearing a burka. It reminded me of a cake in a play which, unsure of the scene it was supposed to be in, slid backwards and forwards under the curtains whilst disembodied hands debated its destination. There is an assumption that nothing but unparrallelled beauty lies behind the veil. Catching an unexpected glimpse during a quick adjustment revealed no kohl-eyed houri, but a pleasant-faced ordinary looking woman with intelligent eyes. It was interesting to observe this gender separation in the light of events at RUHSA. Respect and freedom always make uncomfortable bed-fellows, but here their ill-suitedness is much more apparent.
In Bangalore, the play was an extraordinary experience. (Click on title link to see the advert). The director spent a year travelling around mostly South India learning about Indian theatre cultures and recruiting actors from all around. The result is spectacular. I had never heard about it (I don't think it made the Coro in Ulverston), but it had a sell-out tour in the UK twice since 2006.
It is spoken in 8 different languages, English, and seven Indian languages. Four from South India - Kannada, Tamil, Malayallam and Marathi - another from Sri Lanka- Singhalese - and two fromm North India - Hindi and Bengali. Each actor speaks in his mother tongue and English. As Shakespeare is pretty linguistically inaccessible anyway for the average bod (myself included), the concentration levels required are no greater. In fact it becomes a little bit like watching Pingu - you are totally convinced you can understand what they are saying anyway. It was fabulous to have fully gusty aufdience laughter after some of the Indian lines, it provided fabulous glue between the switching dialects.
The staging was intriguing. A bamboo scafffolding covered in white paper provided the backdrop to a sandy-floored semi-circle with ropes and silken sheets hanging down. As the play starts set in the human world, the acting is prosaic and posturing. The players are dressed in stiff clothing and moved formally. The Athenians rules and dictates are established. When the lovers Hermia and Lysander run away to the forest, as the story descends further into fantasy, the movements become more fluids, the clothing becomes freer and all the dimensions of the stage space are used. The fairies, led by a brilliant Puck (with a very cute, tiny pot-belly to add to his sense of mischief) burst through the paper on the scaffolding at all levels and scramble on the frame like bees on a comb. As Titania's fairies and Oberon's sprites clash, with clattering sticks they roll on the floor, dust clouding in the lights and with astonishing agility they use the rope and silks to create the illusion of moving through the air as acrobatically as mosquitos
Each actor brought a different kind of theatre to their role. There were dancers with elegant movements, comics with grandiose gestures, actors with dignified stature, gymnasts with dazzling bravery and straight-men with perfect timing. It was wonderful seeing this with an Indian audience, because it emphasised and highlighted how each language created a cultural difference between characters. And it was so funny. Really, very, very funny, yaar.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Mixed reception at RUHSA
My first full day at RUHSA, ignoring a few details, was, until 9.30 in the evening, a great day.
Firstly, in the morning I walked around the campus wishing old friends and familiar faces a Happy New Year. Mathew, the main project co-ordinator was especially pleased to see me and we had a lovely chat. We made plans for what I would do in my three and a half weeks there. He was keen to get the evaluation done and also to formalise some income generation programs for the elderly so that they cane start contributing back to the project. I felt very positive and was glad I had come back.
I had still not seen Dr John. I finally caught up with him. He gave me a cool greeting, merely mentioning that he had been very anxious about me travelling to the airport (9 months ago) by rickshaw. Slightly puzzled by this belated and unexpected concern I assured him that I had arrived safely and that all was well. As I had emailed him several times during the year and he had not mentioned it in any of his letters, I wondered vaguely why this sudden enquiry.
Dr William Cutting, one of the main trustees and original members of VRCT, the agency in UK who have been funding RUHSA for the last 30 years, and his wife, Margot, arrived in RUHSA for an annual 2 day visit to see how things have been getting on. A detailed and comprehensive agenda for their two days was planned. Ignoring the fact that my arrival was anticipated with a smaller fanfare than an ant's fart, I tagged along with them for the day.
One of the main items on the agenda, was the official opening by William of the Keelalathur kitchen, which had finally been built. A plaque was unveiled stating this fact. I went along, and was so delighted to see all the elderly people, Muniammal, Sukkupattu, Perimmal, Kriashna, Venugopal, amongst others, looking so happy. There were limitless Vannakums, big beaming smiles and general head wobbling all round for a good half an hour. Anytime I caught anyone's eye the whole process started again until my head was ready to drop off and my cheeks got cramp.
Another UK visitor from VRCT had personally contributed a goat to each of the elderly people and today was the day that they were officially given ownership. They had gone with a vet plus a staff member of RUHSA to chose and bargain for their own goat and they were sooooooo proud of their little bleating cuties on a rope. They get the goat free but they give RUHSA back ther first female kid so the gift can be passed on to others.
Several of the elderly people stood up and made speeches, they were confident and happy. A woman showed us some of the exercises she had been taught and said how they had improved her pain from arthritis. One of the more educated men is literate and reads the newspaper to the rest of the group. I had sent some jigsaw puzzles out which they were enjoying. One was a map of the world and one of the group pointed out India with pride. Trying to find the dot that is the UK, I showed them where I lived (they looked a bit surprised at its minuteness). All in all it was very rewarding to see that they all still come, some have had successful health interventions like operations, spectacles, hearing aids and they all looked much less downtrodden than they had a year ago.
After lunch we visited the next village, Sholampur, where they are planning the next elderly welfare program. Firstly there was a meeting of all the elderly to hear about their problems and issues. The contrast between the Keelalathur villagers and these people was marked. This dejected grubby disempowered group was how the first group had been before we started the program. It showed so clearly how far they have come and, if nothing else, how much improvement can be gained by showing an interest in people. At the end of the day we were buzzing about how much benefit simple interventions could produce. Listening to the elderly and giving them a sense of being valued provides great help for the most vulnerable and poorest members of a social structre where there is increasing family disintegration.
William, Margot and myself chatted in the evening about the implications of all we had seen that day. Then came the bombshell. Very tactfully, William said that Dr John had been concerned about my coming back to RUHSA because he had heard all sorts of rumours about my inappropriate behaviour - like having men in my room. I bloody wish. It had been like living in a convent the entire time I had been here I was not even free to talk to men without someone lurking in the bushes watching for any signs of impropriety. Of course, being English and having actually met members of the male sex without resorting to unsolicited lust, I do tend to talk to them in a manner which might seem forward when compared with that of the rural village women's. But we are not talking about a rural village man, we are talking about an educated doctor who should be able to make the distinction between the falsehoood of catty rumours founded on jealousy and the truth of the results of all the work I put into the project over a period of 8 months.
Initially, I laughed it off, it was so unexpected and, I thought, utterly ridiulous, that it barely warranted attention. And then I began to stew. And steam. How dare somebody negate and dismiss everything I had done for this. How dare I be marginalised, like some Fallen Woman in the eyes of the Righteous, how dare all this happen without anyone being adult enough to confront me with their concerns. How dare men be so disgustingly hypocritical and judgemental.
It was then that I made a personal discovery which I'm sure anyone who knows me has realised at least 30 years ago, maybe more, which is that I am a bit of an emotional steamroller and once I set off in a direction I can't really stop. All fine and good if it's positive energy and enthusiasm. All a bit messy if it's fury and tears. By the afternoon of the next day I was in unstoppable mode, startling several people with my scarlet face and enormous nose (it always swells when I cry). I went to talk to Dr Cutting to see what I could do about it, because by this stage I was totally incapable of being rational and I did suspect that if I had a "chat" with Dr John it would get seriously out of hand.
I went in calm. For 2 nanoseconds. Then I started hiccuping gently, then not so gently. He had removed his hearing aids to have a snooze (which I disturbed) and the lighting was low, so neither hearing nor seeing very clearly he started some banal chit chat, with his wife, in her soft Edinburgh tones, interrupting gently, saying, "I think she's a wee bit upset, dear." They were so charming and kind and I was so unrestrained and noisy in my sobs (I think I even blew a nose bubble at one point), but the combination of calm (from them) and pressure release (from me) finally allowed me to simmer down enough to be civil enough to Dr John when I next saw him - about 10 minutes later- and Blessed Margot later seriously ticked him off for not appreciating all the work I had done and continued to do. So, it is all fine now. I feel fine about it and I think this is a good test for me. It represents several issues to negotiate - religious, cultural and cross-gender jealousies and it is very interesting to see how things work and learn from them.
Firstly, in the morning I walked around the campus wishing old friends and familiar faces a Happy New Year. Mathew, the main project co-ordinator was especially pleased to see me and we had a lovely chat. We made plans for what I would do in my three and a half weeks there. He was keen to get the evaluation done and also to formalise some income generation programs for the elderly so that they cane start contributing back to the project. I felt very positive and was glad I had come back.
I had still not seen Dr John. I finally caught up with him. He gave me a cool greeting, merely mentioning that he had been very anxious about me travelling to the airport (9 months ago) by rickshaw. Slightly puzzled by this belated and unexpected concern I assured him that I had arrived safely and that all was well. As I had emailed him several times during the year and he had not mentioned it in any of his letters, I wondered vaguely why this sudden enquiry.
Dr William Cutting, one of the main trustees and original members of VRCT, the agency in UK who have been funding RUHSA for the last 30 years, and his wife, Margot, arrived in RUHSA for an annual 2 day visit to see how things have been getting on. A detailed and comprehensive agenda for their two days was planned. Ignoring the fact that my arrival was anticipated with a smaller fanfare than an ant's fart, I tagged along with them for the day.
One of the main items on the agenda, was the official opening by William of the Keelalathur kitchen, which had finally been built. A plaque was unveiled stating this fact. I went along, and was so delighted to see all the elderly people, Muniammal, Sukkupattu, Perimmal, Kriashna, Venugopal, amongst others, looking so happy. There were limitless Vannakums, big beaming smiles and general head wobbling all round for a good half an hour. Anytime I caught anyone's eye the whole process started again until my head was ready to drop off and my cheeks got cramp.
Another UK visitor from VRCT had personally contributed a goat to each of the elderly people and today was the day that they were officially given ownership. They had gone with a vet plus a staff member of RUHSA to chose and bargain for their own goat and they were sooooooo proud of their little bleating cuties on a rope. They get the goat free but they give RUHSA back ther first female kid so the gift can be passed on to others.
Several of the elderly people stood up and made speeches, they were confident and happy. A woman showed us some of the exercises she had been taught and said how they had improved her pain from arthritis. One of the more educated men is literate and reads the newspaper to the rest of the group. I had sent some jigsaw puzzles out which they were enjoying. One was a map of the world and one of the group pointed out India with pride. Trying to find the dot that is the UK, I showed them where I lived (they looked a bit surprised at its minuteness). All in all it was very rewarding to see that they all still come, some have had successful health interventions like operations, spectacles, hearing aids and they all looked much less downtrodden than they had a year ago.
After lunch we visited the next village, Sholampur, where they are planning the next elderly welfare program. Firstly there was a meeting of all the elderly to hear about their problems and issues. The contrast between the Keelalathur villagers and these people was marked. This dejected grubby disempowered group was how the first group had been before we started the program. It showed so clearly how far they have come and, if nothing else, how much improvement can be gained by showing an interest in people. At the end of the day we were buzzing about how much benefit simple interventions could produce. Listening to the elderly and giving them a sense of being valued provides great help for the most vulnerable and poorest members of a social structre where there is increasing family disintegration.
William, Margot and myself chatted in the evening about the implications of all we had seen that day. Then came the bombshell. Very tactfully, William said that Dr John had been concerned about my coming back to RUHSA because he had heard all sorts of rumours about my inappropriate behaviour - like having men in my room. I bloody wish. It had been like living in a convent the entire time I had been here I was not even free to talk to men without someone lurking in the bushes watching for any signs of impropriety. Of course, being English and having actually met members of the male sex without resorting to unsolicited lust, I do tend to talk to them in a manner which might seem forward when compared with that of the rural village women's. But we are not talking about a rural village man, we are talking about an educated doctor who should be able to make the distinction between the falsehoood of catty rumours founded on jealousy and the truth of the results of all the work I put into the project over a period of 8 months.
Initially, I laughed it off, it was so unexpected and, I thought, utterly ridiulous, that it barely warranted attention. And then I began to stew. And steam. How dare somebody negate and dismiss everything I had done for this. How dare I be marginalised, like some Fallen Woman in the eyes of the Righteous, how dare all this happen without anyone being adult enough to confront me with their concerns. How dare men be so disgustingly hypocritical and judgemental.
It was then that I made a personal discovery which I'm sure anyone who knows me has realised at least 30 years ago, maybe more, which is that I am a bit of an emotional steamroller and once I set off in a direction I can't really stop. All fine and good if it's positive energy and enthusiasm. All a bit messy if it's fury and tears. By the afternoon of the next day I was in unstoppable mode, startling several people with my scarlet face and enormous nose (it always swells when I cry). I went to talk to Dr Cutting to see what I could do about it, because by this stage I was totally incapable of being rational and I did suspect that if I had a "chat" with Dr John it would get seriously out of hand.
I went in calm. For 2 nanoseconds. Then I started hiccuping gently, then not so gently. He had removed his hearing aids to have a snooze (which I disturbed) and the lighting was low, so neither hearing nor seeing very clearly he started some banal chit chat, with his wife, in her soft Edinburgh tones, interrupting gently, saying, "I think she's a wee bit upset, dear." They were so charming and kind and I was so unrestrained and noisy in my sobs (I think I even blew a nose bubble at one point), but the combination of calm (from them) and pressure release (from me) finally allowed me to simmer down enough to be civil enough to Dr John when I next saw him - about 10 minutes later- and Blessed Margot later seriously ticked him off for not appreciating all the work I had done and continued to do. So, it is all fine now. I feel fine about it and I think this is a good test for me. It represents several issues to negotiate - religious, cultural and cross-gender jealousies and it is very interesting to see how things work and learn from them.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Rickshaw Ride to RUHSA
I have had a lovely, lovely time staying with Victoria who allowed me to use her house like it was my own (I have filled every inch of it with knick knacks - just kidding). It was geat fun to be with her, we spend loads of time hooting with laughter at various daft things and it's going to be strange without her company now, but I'm coming back to the theatre (v posh) at the weekend, so no need to be too sad. But now, I have finally left for RUHSA on the Brindavan Express, a massive engine dragging 28 carriages from Bangalore to Katpadi and then on to Chennai.
This trip has been strange because it feels normal to be here. There has been no adjustment to a new country like there usually is. I have barely noticed the fact that people around me are wearing saris or lunghis and not thick woolly jumpers and scarves. The traffic noise penetrates my drums by its familiar cacophony, but I walked around Bangalore like a native of the city. It did register that I ought to take care whilst walking on the pavements which are not at all like they are at home. They consist of a series of concrete blocks set in concrete with occasional gaps between them. Through these gaps, in an impenetrable blackness, an occasional gurgle can be heard, as millions of gallons of vile sewage flows under. It is a risky business walking on them, because although they look very solid and well set, every now and then there is a broken slab, often with a man-sized hole where part of it has fallen in. There is no telling what critical mass is required to break these stones, but as I have a considerably higher mass than just about every one else in India, I am not going to test the physics of it by walking on them. Consequently, the lesser of two evils, astonishingly, is to walk in the road, negotiating the lurching, swirling traffic.
Of course the train was a lovely exotic familiarity. I had three seats to myself so I spent half the time lounging against the window, luxuriating in the soft warm winter Indian sun, whilst idly watching the amazing array of hawkers weaving their way through the aisles offering a wider selection of wares than even a 24 hour Tesco.
One thing I noticed is that there is a distinct group characteristic for each of the different sellers. I know this is the country of rigid social structure, but even so it seems extraordinary to have such clear identities associated with each product. There are the official train employees who walk up and down offering food and drink – cut-ell-et; bread om-ell-et; tomato sooooop; ch-ai-ee, ch-ai-ee; sam-o-sas; cheeps, biscuits, etc etc. These are usually young men (with moustaches) and their similarities are exaggerated as they have to wear a uniform. Then there are small, delicate women carrying wide baskets mounded with fragrant rose posies and jasmine flower strings. There are wailers – usually elderly men who have been given bad career advice and, following it to the letter, now try to make a living screeching an unintelligible – from both a lyric and melody point of view – song thing. Then there are the sellers of an extraordinary selection of lurid plastic toys, which one would be disappointed to find in a budget Family Choice cracker - pairs of plastic hands on a stick which, when waved quickly make a clacky-clack sound; lethal-looking flammable dolls in short nurses uniform, with those weird pointy toes and enough nylon hair which to stuff a pillow; puny whistles; cheap Rubik’s cubes in strange colours. None of the items would ever be on anyone’s wish list, surely, these people can’t sell anything, let alone enough to support even the most meagre lifestyle. Certainly, I have never seen anyone buying anything. But the most peculiar aspect is that all these sellers – and they are on every train I have ever been on, varying only in exact variety of crap they sell – every single one is blind. I became concerned today that perhaps there was a wholesaler who sold lots of things, some good, some bad and these poor blind buggers get fobbed off with all the crap left over because they can’t tell what it is. They are probably still selling off the first lot they ever had, desperate to move on and do something more dynamic, but they can’t do until they have shifted this load of plastic dolls and fake mobile phones. Poor things. Maybe I should buy something. Any requests?
On arrival at Katpadi railway station, the nearest to RUHSA, of course I was inundated with rickshaw drivers all eager to take me somewhere for three times the local price. A shortish man wiggled his way to the front and shouted ever-decreasingly outlandish prices vociferously. Another driver leant through the throng, repeating the same prices in a slurred voice. I turned to him in surprise.
“You're drunk,” I accused.
“No, no,” he insisted, through bloodshot eyes.
Misinterpreting my disapprobation for enthusiasm and sensing a gap in the market, another man pushed forward.
“Madam, I’m drunk,” he said proudly. I told him firmly that I wasn’t actually looking for a drunk driver, which luckily cleared up that confusion, otherwise goodness knows what might have happened. Glad to have had a fortunate escape, I finally set a price with the first short man who was wearing a small pair of earmuffs. Keenly he took my bags to his rickshaw, chatting triumphantly to his defeated friends still following closely behind. We got in. He turned on the engine. He got out, gave the headlight a futile thump, shrugged and got back in.
“No light?” I asked.
“No light, madam.”
Ah. The longest and darkest road to be negotiated and no form of illumination. He stopped briefly at a rickshaw parts kiosk to see if changing the bulb improved the situation. It didn’t.
He set off unconcerned, making no concessions in either speed or in enthusiasm for veering onto the wrong side of the road. After a slightly hair-raising encounter with an unlit steam-roller, I decided to find my torch. We must have looked a strange sight- a darkened rickshaw, the driver in earmuffs, and a white arm sticking out of the top shining a torch onto the road as a makeshift headlight. It did help pick out a few invisible cyclists.
So now I am back at RUHSA in my old room, which apart from a snazzy new pair of nylon pink curtains, is otherwise sweetly familiar. The same old ryvita mattress with stripy bed linen, the concrete floor and rush broom to keep it pristine, the capacious cupboard with lime-washed shelves which leave a residue on anything that touches them, the scampering, rubbery gecko lurking by the light and of course the delicious sit-down loo. But there were a couple of notable absences, the Underwear Fairy, devoid of underwear, had obviously had to lay her fairy eggs elsewhere, but most significantly of all, not a single ant. Yet. They obviously have not been informed of my return. I wonder how long the peace will last.
This trip has been strange because it feels normal to be here. There has been no adjustment to a new country like there usually is. I have barely noticed the fact that people around me are wearing saris or lunghis and not thick woolly jumpers and scarves. The traffic noise penetrates my drums by its familiar cacophony, but I walked around Bangalore like a native of the city. It did register that I ought to take care whilst walking on the pavements which are not at all like they are at home. They consist of a series of concrete blocks set in concrete with occasional gaps between them. Through these gaps, in an impenetrable blackness, an occasional gurgle can be heard, as millions of gallons of vile sewage flows under. It is a risky business walking on them, because although they look very solid and well set, every now and then there is a broken slab, often with a man-sized hole where part of it has fallen in. There is no telling what critical mass is required to break these stones, but as I have a considerably higher mass than just about every one else in India, I am not going to test the physics of it by walking on them. Consequently, the lesser of two evils, astonishingly, is to walk in the road, negotiating the lurching, swirling traffic.
Of course the train was a lovely exotic familiarity. I had three seats to myself so I spent half the time lounging against the window, luxuriating in the soft warm winter Indian sun, whilst idly watching the amazing array of hawkers weaving their way through the aisles offering a wider selection of wares than even a 24 hour Tesco.
One thing I noticed is that there is a distinct group characteristic for each of the different sellers. I know this is the country of rigid social structure, but even so it seems extraordinary to have such clear identities associated with each product. There are the official train employees who walk up and down offering food and drink – cut-ell-et; bread om-ell-et; tomato sooooop; ch-ai-ee, ch-ai-ee; sam-o-sas; cheeps, biscuits, etc etc. These are usually young men (with moustaches) and their similarities are exaggerated as they have to wear a uniform. Then there are small, delicate women carrying wide baskets mounded with fragrant rose posies and jasmine flower strings. There are wailers – usually elderly men who have been given bad career advice and, following it to the letter, now try to make a living screeching an unintelligible – from both a lyric and melody point of view – song thing. Then there are the sellers of an extraordinary selection of lurid plastic toys, which one would be disappointed to find in a budget Family Choice cracker - pairs of plastic hands on a stick which, when waved quickly make a clacky-clack sound; lethal-looking flammable dolls in short nurses uniform, with those weird pointy toes and enough nylon hair which to stuff a pillow; puny whistles; cheap Rubik’s cubes in strange colours. None of the items would ever be on anyone’s wish list, surely, these people can’t sell anything, let alone enough to support even the most meagre lifestyle. Certainly, I have never seen anyone buying anything. But the most peculiar aspect is that all these sellers – and they are on every train I have ever been on, varying only in exact variety of crap they sell – every single one is blind. I became concerned today that perhaps there was a wholesaler who sold lots of things, some good, some bad and these poor blind buggers get fobbed off with all the crap left over because they can’t tell what it is. They are probably still selling off the first lot they ever had, desperate to move on and do something more dynamic, but they can’t do until they have shifted this load of plastic dolls and fake mobile phones. Poor things. Maybe I should buy something. Any requests?
On arrival at Katpadi railway station, the nearest to RUHSA, of course I was inundated with rickshaw drivers all eager to take me somewhere for three times the local price. A shortish man wiggled his way to the front and shouted ever-decreasingly outlandish prices vociferously. Another driver leant through the throng, repeating the same prices in a slurred voice. I turned to him in surprise.
“You're drunk,” I accused.
“No, no,” he insisted, through bloodshot eyes.
Misinterpreting my disapprobation for enthusiasm and sensing a gap in the market, another man pushed forward.
“Madam, I’m drunk,” he said proudly. I told him firmly that I wasn’t actually looking for a drunk driver, which luckily cleared up that confusion, otherwise goodness knows what might have happened. Glad to have had a fortunate escape, I finally set a price with the first short man who was wearing a small pair of earmuffs. Keenly he took my bags to his rickshaw, chatting triumphantly to his defeated friends still following closely behind. We got in. He turned on the engine. He got out, gave the headlight a futile thump, shrugged and got back in.
“No light?” I asked.
“No light, madam.”
Ah. The longest and darkest road to be negotiated and no form of illumination. He stopped briefly at a rickshaw parts kiosk to see if changing the bulb improved the situation. It didn’t.
He set off unconcerned, making no concessions in either speed or in enthusiasm for veering onto the wrong side of the road. After a slightly hair-raising encounter with an unlit steam-roller, I decided to find my torch. We must have looked a strange sight- a darkened rickshaw, the driver in earmuffs, and a white arm sticking out of the top shining a torch onto the road as a makeshift headlight. It did help pick out a few invisible cyclists.
So now I am back at RUHSA in my old room, which apart from a snazzy new pair of nylon pink curtains, is otherwise sweetly familiar. The same old ryvita mattress with stripy bed linen, the concrete floor and rush broom to keep it pristine, the capacious cupboard with lime-washed shelves which leave a residue on anything that touches them, the scampering, rubbery gecko lurking by the light and of course the delicious sit-down loo. But there were a couple of notable absences, the Underwear Fairy, devoid of underwear, had obviously had to lay her fairy eggs elsewhere, but most significantly of all, not a single ant. Yet. They obviously have not been informed of my return. I wonder how long the peace will last.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Liberated from my essay crisis
Unbelievably, despite being nearly 40 years old, I spent my first days in India under the spell of an essay crisis. But now, after a marathon 30 hours non-stop writing, apart from breaks for tea, lentils salads, Walkers shortbread biscuits, chit chats, refuelling of the rosemary essental oil burner (good for concentration apparently - made me feel like a leg of lamb) and of course loo (of the divine seated variety) breaks. I finally completed it. All night I had been on the internet checking references to substantiate my made up theories, it was swift and effortless (the internet connection, no my thought process).
Come the time to upload the bloody thing and the internet connection went down. For an hour and a half so my essay, after staying up all night to finish it, was late.
Since then, however, I have been liberated. I have been wandering around Bangalore soaking up the atmos. I went and bought my ticket to Vellore (home of the trouser suit of course) and felt like such a pro as I cheerily discussed the Brindhavan Express leaving at 9 am and the Lalbagh at two thirty, and deciding what seat types to get. I think men crowding behind me, squishing me against the counter, just trying to get close so they could marvel at my local knowledge.
On the way back in the rickshaw the light across Bangalore glowed like lava. The flame trees lining the roads, became blazing infernos. At a corner, a group of uncertain looking young men were holding cameras next to a tata van with PRESS on the side. One of the men seemed straighter and more confident. He was holding the mike. A couple of lathi-wielding policemen with outrageous side whiskers bristled menacingly. Of course all 12 lanes of traffic strained to see who was coming out to be interviewed.
A bus pulled gently in between me and the scene, blocking it out. I sat back in the rickshaw, where my view was obscured by the umbrella like canopy.
As I did so, I heard a noise. It was like a cross between an expression of astonishment and a burp. There was a pause as I looked up puzzled. The came the most almighty splat as the side of the bus, side of the rickshaw and a tiny area of my toe was redecorated with copious quantities of muttar paneer. The riskshaw driver was most unimpressed and despite being wedged in between other rickshaws in traffic tighter than seeds in a pomegranate, managed to maneouvre himself a full vomit spans distance from the bus. I did have to share the remainder of the trip with a couple of escapeas.
So tomorrow I am off to Vellore and who knows what will be in store. I am looking forward to it and of course I'll keep you pasted.
Come the time to upload the bloody thing and the internet connection went down. For an hour and a half so my essay, after staying up all night to finish it, was late.
Since then, however, I have been liberated. I have been wandering around Bangalore soaking up the atmos. I went and bought my ticket to Vellore (home of the trouser suit of course) and felt like such a pro as I cheerily discussed the Brindhavan Express leaving at 9 am and the Lalbagh at two thirty, and deciding what seat types to get. I think men crowding behind me, squishing me against the counter, just trying to get close so they could marvel at my local knowledge.
On the way back in the rickshaw the light across Bangalore glowed like lava. The flame trees lining the roads, became blazing infernos. At a corner, a group of uncertain looking young men were holding cameras next to a tata van with PRESS on the side. One of the men seemed straighter and more confident. He was holding the mike. A couple of lathi-wielding policemen with outrageous side whiskers bristled menacingly. Of course all 12 lanes of traffic strained to see who was coming out to be interviewed.
A bus pulled gently in between me and the scene, blocking it out. I sat back in the rickshaw, where my view was obscured by the umbrella like canopy.
As I did so, I heard a noise. It was like a cross between an expression of astonishment and a burp. There was a pause as I looked up puzzled. The came the most almighty splat as the side of the bus, side of the rickshaw and a tiny area of my toe was redecorated with copious quantities of muttar paneer. The riskshaw driver was most unimpressed and despite being wedged in between other rickshaws in traffic tighter than seeds in a pomegranate, managed to maneouvre himself a full vomit spans distance from the bus. I did have to share the remainder of the trip with a couple of escapeas.
So tomorrow I am off to Vellore and who knows what will be in store. I am looking forward to it and of course I'll keep you pasted.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Photo ID
Today is the first day I have ventured out properly. We went out last night to celebrate a friend's birthday and in traditional manner, they brought a cake, which, being Indian, was sweeter than concentrated saccharine and I could feel my pancreas exhausting itself after the first mouthful. Luckily, after Sudhir's friends had smeared it liberally over the face of the birthday boy, there wasn't a lot left to eat, so another slew of diabetic crises was averted.
This morning, having redeemed my reputation for minimal sleeping by waking at 7 o clock, without the assistance of a certain hound's noisy desperation for breakfast, I slipped on my flip flops and with toes joyously liberated from the confines of English winter footwear, I pounded the streets of Bangalore to find an internet cafe in order to start work on yet another assignment for my MSc.
I returned to one which had been a good setup for me when I was last here and checked in, just to see if I had any credit remaining. I didn't, so I had to re-register, but this time, a new rule said that I needed photo id. A credit card on it's own would not be enough. I had nothing with me, no passport, no driving licence, nothing. The young girl tried to be helpful.
"Do you have any small, small photo?"
"No, I have nothing"
Root, root in capacious, surprisingly empty bag.
"Oh, I do have a photo of my mum and my niece and I look quite like my mum." I said, hopefully, showing the girl. She regarded the photo speculatively.
"OK, madam, I will use"
So, now I have a photo of my two year old niece and my mum laughing as they are nearly being knocked over dogs outside my parents' house, taken two years ago, as the id for my internet access. Brilliant. Quite brilliant.
This morning, having redeemed my reputation for minimal sleeping by waking at 7 o clock, without the assistance of a certain hound's noisy desperation for breakfast, I slipped on my flip flops and with toes joyously liberated from the confines of English winter footwear, I pounded the streets of Bangalore to find an internet cafe in order to start work on yet another assignment for my MSc.
I returned to one which had been a good setup for me when I was last here and checked in, just to see if I had any credit remaining. I didn't, so I had to re-register, but this time, a new rule said that I needed photo id. A credit card on it's own would not be enough. I had nothing with me, no passport, no driving licence, nothing. The young girl tried to be helpful.
"Do you have any small, small photo?"
"No, I have nothing"
Root, root in capacious, surprisingly empty bag.
"Oh, I do have a photo of my mum and my niece and I look quite like my mum." I said, hopefully, showing the girl. She regarded the photo speculatively.
"OK, madam, I will use"
So, now I have a photo of my two year old niece and my mum laughing as they are nearly being knocked over dogs outside my parents' house, taken two years ago, as the id for my internet access. Brilliant. Quite brilliant.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
A New Adventure
Twelve hours ago I landed in Bangalore airport. I am back again in India. Just for a month this time, to see how the project has got on in the year since it started, specifically in the interim 9 months since I have been home. There has been little contact with those running the project, only about three or four emails from various people. I am not sure if this is due to the out-of-sight-out-of-mind phenomenon, or something more significant, but it is better that way. It is their project and should not have an absentee person deeply involved, however, I am a little apprehensive about how I will be received once I go back to RUHSA. I sent an email a while ago giving dates and times and have only just heard today, not a long letter, just a brief note. Still at least I know I am expected. It will be very interesting to see how the land lies.
Meanwhile, I landed at Bangalore and made my way to stay with a friend I met last year in Jairpur. It was early in the morning, the pre-dawn air a lovely warm 19 degrees. The locals, of course, were wrapped in woolly hats (most of the hat containing air above the head), fleeces and scarves. Of course, I was instantly transported back when I saw the first porn-star moustache and tiny-bottomed polyester trousers flaring wildly over gnarled toenails and sandals. Ahh, blissful joy. My taxi driver and I had the mandatory pidgen converstion to try and come to an agreement about where my friends lived. We found the house eventually, but I think perhaps it might have been easier, in the pitch black, if he had used his headlights.
Today, after a long discussion immediately on arrival at 6 am, with me telling Victoria that I needed no sleep, that since my days of being a junior doctor I can sleep on a clothes line for minimal periods of time needing little refreshment, I went for a peppy little snooze and woke 7 hours later. So I have done nothing today except chat, but we are planning to go out later with a friend of her and her boyfriend's (Sudhir) whose birthday it is. Tomorrow, I tackle India properly.
Meanwhile, I landed at Bangalore and made my way to stay with a friend I met last year in Jairpur. It was early in the morning, the pre-dawn air a lovely warm 19 degrees. The locals, of course, were wrapped in woolly hats (most of the hat containing air above the head), fleeces and scarves. Of course, I was instantly transported back when I saw the first porn-star moustache and tiny-bottomed polyester trousers flaring wildly over gnarled toenails and sandals. Ahh, blissful joy. My taxi driver and I had the mandatory pidgen converstion to try and come to an agreement about where my friends lived. We found the house eventually, but I think perhaps it might have been easier, in the pitch black, if he had used his headlights.
Today, after a long discussion immediately on arrival at 6 am, with me telling Victoria that I needed no sleep, that since my days of being a junior doctor I can sleep on a clothes line for minimal periods of time needing little refreshment, I went for a peppy little snooze and woke 7 hours later. So I have done nothing today except chat, but we are planning to go out later with a friend of her and her boyfriend's (Sudhir) whose birthday it is. Tomorrow, I tackle India properly.
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