Discovered what Pandian's friend is called, he's called Babu. Justine was not so keen to learn his name, as she was fervently hoping she would never see him again. Sadly, his enthusiasm for her now far outstrips Pandian's for me and so we met the very next day. Her foul bate, stemming from acute embarrassment, was mollified somewhat by being allowed to drive the rickshaw home (What is foreplay to an auto driver? "Do you want to drive my rickshaw home?"). However, it also gave Babu the opportunity to stroke her hand with his, previously unnoticed, 1" long finger nail on his little finger, whilst they fought over the throttle. Must have brought back memories.
Am currently in Bangalore (again, feel like I practically live here sometimes) in order to sort out changing my flight home, which had been booked for 3rd february; send off an application form, at vast expense by DHL, as I forgot that I should have sent it weeks ago (deadline is 1st February) and book flights to Sri Lanka to renew my visa which runs out on the 2nd February. It has been quite a rush trying to organise everything, but I am off to Sri Lanka on Thursday for a few days with Justine - goodness knows what we will get up to there, she has a bad influence on me - then back to Vellore for a few days before going to Delhi to meet Mum and Dad on the 12th. In the meantime, my godbrother Damian Arnold, who is my Dad's godson as I am his Dad's goddaughter, is coming to Vellore for a few days between Sri Lanka and Delhi. It will be nice to see him as I haven't seen him for at least ten or more years. I have a vague memory of kermit the frog puppet, but I think that belongs to an older memory that a 10-year-old one.
Today, I was sitting in a very smart shopping complex eating a sandwich made with sugarless bread. I was thinking to myself how ubiquitous shopping centres were. There was a Marks and Sparks; smart sportswear shops; shops selling overpriced and pointless ornaments; a huge plush-seated cinema (went last night to a traumatic film about the Gujarati riots of 2002) and loads of fast food joints. Only the chaat masala flavoured sweetcorn gave away the fact that it was in the heart of India, otherwise, we could have been anywhere in the world. Then, as I tucked into my nasty but curry/sugar free sandwich, there was a powercut. The lights went out, the escalators stopped, the toxic canned music was silenced and I felt curiously relieved that nothing escapes being Indianified, even posh shops and characterless arcades. It only lasted a few minutes - well, each of the three cuts only lasted a few minutes each - but it served to remind me that I was still in India.
Yesterday, I passed a group of transvestites/transgender eunuchs called Hijras by whom it is apparently lucky to be blessed. I have seen them a couple of times around India and what always amazes me is how enormous they are. Ironically, they are amongst the only truly manly sized male Indians and these guys were no exception. They all, to a man/woman, were incredibly tall, at least over 6 foot, broad-shouldered with firm, strong jawlines and masculine limbs, but were all also wearing brightly coloured, silver-adorned saris and walking with a distinctive sashay. I watched, fascinated, as they bore down on a terrified-looking, more usually sized Indian man, ie about 5'4", with a vigourous moustache designed to detract from his lack of stature, with shoulders more suited to a contender for the Mr Puniverse title and thighs the size of my wrist, encased in trousers so tight they looked painted on. As the bangle-bedecked wrist ending in a hand the size of a ping pong bat, with enormous purple talons, slowly moved towards the unfortunate passerby's forehead, his blinking became rapid and frantic, undoubtably in rhythm with his heartbeat. The hand laid briefly on his head as there was faint ululations from the other sari-clad giants. It was like watching trout-tickling. Robotically, his head fixed, as if glued to the Hijra's hand, he rummaged around in his overtight trouser pockets for a coin which would be the magic release from this hell. I bet he now wishes he had worn baggier trousers with more accessible pockets. The girls, having made easy money, moved on and I saw them again later, triumphantly celebrating their earnings with a cup of tea. It's really hard to know what to think about this kind of community. They must have membership of some kind but it comes at a terrible price. I saw on the station platform a group of albino beggars, a few couples and several playing children, and I thought the same about them. How incredibly difficult must it be to be an albino in India, but on the other hand, they have acceptance within their own, albeit entirely excluded from mainstream, community.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
A stalker, a mistaken identity and a double date
Yesterday was another surreal day in India. It started with a series of phone calls in the morning.
For about the last 6 weeks, I have intermittently received phone calls from some loony Indian man who professes to want to “make friends with me”. He phones from different phones each time he calls meaning I can’t block his number, so every now and then I hear his familiar pleading tones saying,
“Please madam, don’t hang up, I just want to make friend with you. Please madam, come and see me. I am an orphan.”
All very heartwrenching stuff, but not the most ideal basis from which to start a friendship. The conversation usually continues briefly with me asking him if he actually knows who I am (he doesn’t appear to), who he is (he seems equally ignorant of that), how he got my number (someone called Joe in Delhi gave it to him apparently. Who Joe? No idea, I know no Joe) or vaguely and not very enthusiastically asking him why he keeps calling and what he actually wants (similar lack of knowledge in that department also).
Yesterday, he played a blinder. Bored of his calls, I tried having a more fulsome conversation with him to find out exactly what was going on. He burbled something about wanting to look at me. Ok, so that sounds distinctly dodgy; at which point, I got uppity and, in my most Lady Bracknell tones, asked him if he thought it was entirely appropriate to be conducting such a conversation with an unknown lady, would he allow his sister to be spoken to like this etc etc. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I hung up decisively.
There was silence for about 15 minutes. Then, from a different number, he called back. His voice sounded less pleading and more determined this time.
“I want you to come and see me tomorrow,” he said firmly.
“No,” I said, equally firmly.
“Well, if you don’t come, I am going to kill your colleague. I know where you live, I know your address. I will come and find you.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I said. “You know nothing about me. How do you imagine this line of conversation is going to make me want to be your friend?”
“Will you come tomorrow or not?”
“No.”
Phone cut off again. I can’t believe I have a bloody loony stalker in India who, if I don’t make friends with him, is threatening to kill people. What can be going through his head?
About 20 minutes later the phone rings again with a different number but the same code. Obviously, the majority of people with whom I have a telephone relationship and whose friendships are not based on threat and extortion, have their numbers programmed in with their names. It was patently going to be my stalker.
“Hello,” I said amiably. “Are you ringing up to threaten to kill me again?”
“Til now I haven’t bothered you,” he said menacingly. “Til now.”
“Actually,” I pointed out, not unreasonably, “you have been a real pain in the arse.”
“You haven’t been bothered. Til Now,” he repeated.
Then he hung up.
That, so far, is the last I have heard from him. The numbers he is calling from are all in Coimbatore, which is about 12 hours away. I feel it is unlikely that he will carry out his threats. I wonder if he thinks I am someone else? Nothing like this ever happens to me in Cumbria. Which, I suppose, being quite a lot closer to home, is a good thing.
After this telephonic encounter with a stalker, there was a flag raising ceremony at RUHSA to mark Republic Day. Apparently, India became a Republic on 26th January 1951, 4 years after Independence, and after a flurry of local holidays, this is one of the few nationally celebrated days. We had a sweet gathering around the campus flagpole whilst a local figurehead, a woman who spends time fighting for women’s rights and ensuring that eligible people can get pensions and welfare as appropriate, raised the Indian flag, scattering petals on the heads of those watching. She made a good speech about fighting for rights and individuals doing their duty by society. She seemed to be one of the few politicians here who (a) doesn’t look like a fat frog (b) seems be consistent between what she says and what she does and (c) fights for the rights of the underdog instead of getting fatter and more frog-like by lining her own pockets.
Whilst listening to the singing and speeches, I noticed someone whom I thought was the wife of a friend of mine, with whom I had had dinner just before I went home for Christmas. Having not seen this woman since, I made a beeline for her, in order to tell her what a lovely time we’d had at her house. She seemed a bit puzzled at the attention I was paying her and even more puzzled when I thanked her profusely for dinner, saying how lovely her home was and what a nice family she had. She persisted in looking puzzled, and even a bit scared, but, knowing that most people have great difficulty following what I say, I reiterated everything louder and more slowly, adding that I was surprised Selvakumar (the aforementioned friend) hadn’t mentioned to her what a lovely time I’d had, I had especially asked him to. No, no he hadn’t said anything to her, she said, backing away slowly. Oh men, I tutted, they are so hopeless. She agreed, for lack of an alternative. After a few more fruitless minutes of platitudes, I eventually gave up trying to thank this ungracious person, who seemed most reluctant to accept any good wishes.
Today I went to the library to return some books and there sitting behind the counter, looking a tiny bit apprehensive at my entrance, sat the librarian. Not Selvakumar’s wife. The librarian. I’ve seen her lots of times, sitting in exactly the same place. I have never been to her house. I have never met her family. We have never even eaten a meal together. In fact, I have only ever exchanged the briefest of greetings over a library book with her.
I brazened it out.
“Did you have a lovely day yesterday,” I said breezily.
“Yes,” she said, nervously.
“Good,” I boomed heartily. “I thought it was lovely too.”
I made a swift exit, giggling feebly to myself.
After the first two episodes of the day, I should have known better than to go into Vellore, as history proves that most Ridiculous Days have three Ridiculous Episodes in them, but Justine and I wanted to do a couple of things in town, so off we went.
Justine is a great lass and I enjoy her company a lot, but she can be a slight liability, having, as she does, a familiar and casual relationship with any kind of alcohol. Unbeknownst to me (initially), she had a water bottle which I thought contained water, but which in fact contained a ¼ bottle of vodka. I did wonder why, whilst we were wandering around the shops in Vellore, she was loudly demanding we find samosas, with which she developed an immovable fixation.
After a couple of hours, we were both getting increasingly crotchety with each other and I was ready to go home. We were wandering aimlessly towards the bus station, when a rickshaw with a grinning driver slid in front of us. It was Pandian, my fiance. I greeted him with more enthusiasm than was probably seemly, but I was a bit relieved to see someone who appeared to be sober. We chatted for a while and then he asked us to go for a coffee. Quite enjoying his company by this stage, I agreed and off we went.
On the way he picked up a friend of his who looked about 12, wore impossibly tight jeans and sported a quiff of architectural proportions, but who owned the rickshaw Pandian drove. We ended up, essentially, on a double date, starting with dinner and continuing with a Tamil movie.
The evening was going quite well. Justine had perked up, temporarily forgetting her obsession with samosas, and Pandian and friend were good company. It was clear that he was hoping for some sort of return for his attentions, but I was good naturedly ignoring his hopeful, lustful glances. In truth, I was quite enjoying the attention, and he was doing great, until he asked me if I slept well. I replied that, owing to the fact that I now had three mattresses, I did sleep very well. I didn’t mean that, he said, I meant, you’re so fat, how do you sleep? After a resounding slap to the head (his) our relations remained frosty for several hours until, after the film (completely incomprehensible) he allowed me to drive his auto all the way home, a good 30 km.
Obviously, he did it to give him an excuse to put his arm around me whilst driving, claiming that there wasn’t enough room on the seat and he had to hang onto me. After a few kilometres, he squeezed me and after a few more he laid his head on my shoulders.
“Enough of that,” I said sharply, “or I’ll drive into the ditch at a great speed.” The squeezing ceased and I could feel the palpable disappointment, especially in light of what was going on in the back.
Justine, by now a further half bottle ahead of herself in the vodka stakes and reunited with her samosa obsession, was cosying up to the friend (who’s name we never learnt, or if we did, we forgot) and, between suspicious slurping noises, was giving us a running commentary on various portions of his anatomy, trying to dispel the myth viciously started in a report on condom sizes for Indian men by the BBC. (I am not sure precisely what was being slurped over, I was concentrating on the road ahead and the hands behind, but Justine assured me later that it couldn’t have been as bad as it sounded, she’s just not that type of girl.)
All this served to increase Pandian’s expectations, despite the fact that he knew I was not in the same accommodating state as Justine and I had already slapped his hands away a couple of times. Actually, I almost felt sorry for him. He gets the fatty who doesn’t put out and doesn’t get drunk either to enable him to take advantage of vodka-induced willingness.
In the end, he acted like a perfect gentleman. We arrive back safely, I pay over the odds to try and minimise hope for alternative forms of payment and he and friend leave - me to sleep and Justine to stagger around the campus waking various people up in her unrelenting quest for samosas.
Today of course, I feel fine and have great fun laughing at Justine who feels far from fine; plus, I have the added enjoyment of relating her nocturnal activities, about which she is completely amnesic, back to her with great relish.
For about the last 6 weeks, I have intermittently received phone calls from some loony Indian man who professes to want to “make friends with me”. He phones from different phones each time he calls meaning I can’t block his number, so every now and then I hear his familiar pleading tones saying,
“Please madam, don’t hang up, I just want to make friend with you. Please madam, come and see me. I am an orphan.”
All very heartwrenching stuff, but not the most ideal basis from which to start a friendship. The conversation usually continues briefly with me asking him if he actually knows who I am (he doesn’t appear to), who he is (he seems equally ignorant of that), how he got my number (someone called Joe in Delhi gave it to him apparently. Who Joe? No idea, I know no Joe) or vaguely and not very enthusiastically asking him why he keeps calling and what he actually wants (similar lack of knowledge in that department also).
Yesterday, he played a blinder. Bored of his calls, I tried having a more fulsome conversation with him to find out exactly what was going on. He burbled something about wanting to look at me. Ok, so that sounds distinctly dodgy; at which point, I got uppity and, in my most Lady Bracknell tones, asked him if he thought it was entirely appropriate to be conducting such a conversation with an unknown lady, would he allow his sister to be spoken to like this etc etc. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I hung up decisively.
There was silence for about 15 minutes. Then, from a different number, he called back. His voice sounded less pleading and more determined this time.
“I want you to come and see me tomorrow,” he said firmly.
“No,” I said, equally firmly.
“Well, if you don’t come, I am going to kill your colleague. I know where you live, I know your address. I will come and find you.”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” I said. “You know nothing about me. How do you imagine this line of conversation is going to make me want to be your friend?”
“Will you come tomorrow or not?”
“No.”
Phone cut off again. I can’t believe I have a bloody loony stalker in India who, if I don’t make friends with him, is threatening to kill people. What can be going through his head?
About 20 minutes later the phone rings again with a different number but the same code. Obviously, the majority of people with whom I have a telephone relationship and whose friendships are not based on threat and extortion, have their numbers programmed in with their names. It was patently going to be my stalker.
“Hello,” I said amiably. “Are you ringing up to threaten to kill me again?”
“Til now I haven’t bothered you,” he said menacingly. “Til now.”
“Actually,” I pointed out, not unreasonably, “you have been a real pain in the arse.”
“You haven’t been bothered. Til Now,” he repeated.
Then he hung up.
That, so far, is the last I have heard from him. The numbers he is calling from are all in Coimbatore, which is about 12 hours away. I feel it is unlikely that he will carry out his threats. I wonder if he thinks I am someone else? Nothing like this ever happens to me in Cumbria. Which, I suppose, being quite a lot closer to home, is a good thing.
After this telephonic encounter with a stalker, there was a flag raising ceremony at RUHSA to mark Republic Day. Apparently, India became a Republic on 26th January 1951, 4 years after Independence, and after a flurry of local holidays, this is one of the few nationally celebrated days. We had a sweet gathering around the campus flagpole whilst a local figurehead, a woman who spends time fighting for women’s rights and ensuring that eligible people can get pensions and welfare as appropriate, raised the Indian flag, scattering petals on the heads of those watching. She made a good speech about fighting for rights and individuals doing their duty by society. She seemed to be one of the few politicians here who (a) doesn’t look like a fat frog (b) seems be consistent between what she says and what she does and (c) fights for the rights of the underdog instead of getting fatter and more frog-like by lining her own pockets.
Whilst listening to the singing and speeches, I noticed someone whom I thought was the wife of a friend of mine, with whom I had had dinner just before I went home for Christmas. Having not seen this woman since, I made a beeline for her, in order to tell her what a lovely time we’d had at her house. She seemed a bit puzzled at the attention I was paying her and even more puzzled when I thanked her profusely for dinner, saying how lovely her home was and what a nice family she had. She persisted in looking puzzled, and even a bit scared, but, knowing that most people have great difficulty following what I say, I reiterated everything louder and more slowly, adding that I was surprised Selvakumar (the aforementioned friend) hadn’t mentioned to her what a lovely time I’d had, I had especially asked him to. No, no he hadn’t said anything to her, she said, backing away slowly. Oh men, I tutted, they are so hopeless. She agreed, for lack of an alternative. After a few more fruitless minutes of platitudes, I eventually gave up trying to thank this ungracious person, who seemed most reluctant to accept any good wishes.
Today I went to the library to return some books and there sitting behind the counter, looking a tiny bit apprehensive at my entrance, sat the librarian. Not Selvakumar’s wife. The librarian. I’ve seen her lots of times, sitting in exactly the same place. I have never been to her house. I have never met her family. We have never even eaten a meal together. In fact, I have only ever exchanged the briefest of greetings over a library book with her.
I brazened it out.
“Did you have a lovely day yesterday,” I said breezily.
“Yes,” she said, nervously.
“Good,” I boomed heartily. “I thought it was lovely too.”
I made a swift exit, giggling feebly to myself.
After the first two episodes of the day, I should have known better than to go into Vellore, as history proves that most Ridiculous Days have three Ridiculous Episodes in them, but Justine and I wanted to do a couple of things in town, so off we went.
Justine is a great lass and I enjoy her company a lot, but she can be a slight liability, having, as she does, a familiar and casual relationship with any kind of alcohol. Unbeknownst to me (initially), she had a water bottle which I thought contained water, but which in fact contained a ¼ bottle of vodka. I did wonder why, whilst we were wandering around the shops in Vellore, she was loudly demanding we find samosas, with which she developed an immovable fixation.
After a couple of hours, we were both getting increasingly crotchety with each other and I was ready to go home. We were wandering aimlessly towards the bus station, when a rickshaw with a grinning driver slid in front of us. It was Pandian, my fiance. I greeted him with more enthusiasm than was probably seemly, but I was a bit relieved to see someone who appeared to be sober. We chatted for a while and then he asked us to go for a coffee. Quite enjoying his company by this stage, I agreed and off we went.
On the way he picked up a friend of his who looked about 12, wore impossibly tight jeans and sported a quiff of architectural proportions, but who owned the rickshaw Pandian drove. We ended up, essentially, on a double date, starting with dinner and continuing with a Tamil movie.
The evening was going quite well. Justine had perked up, temporarily forgetting her obsession with samosas, and Pandian and friend were good company. It was clear that he was hoping for some sort of return for his attentions, but I was good naturedly ignoring his hopeful, lustful glances. In truth, I was quite enjoying the attention, and he was doing great, until he asked me if I slept well. I replied that, owing to the fact that I now had three mattresses, I did sleep very well. I didn’t mean that, he said, I meant, you’re so fat, how do you sleep? After a resounding slap to the head (his) our relations remained frosty for several hours until, after the film (completely incomprehensible) he allowed me to drive his auto all the way home, a good 30 km.
Obviously, he did it to give him an excuse to put his arm around me whilst driving, claiming that there wasn’t enough room on the seat and he had to hang onto me. After a few kilometres, he squeezed me and after a few more he laid his head on my shoulders.
“Enough of that,” I said sharply, “or I’ll drive into the ditch at a great speed.” The squeezing ceased and I could feel the palpable disappointment, especially in light of what was going on in the back.
Justine, by now a further half bottle ahead of herself in the vodka stakes and reunited with her samosa obsession, was cosying up to the friend (who’s name we never learnt, or if we did, we forgot) and, between suspicious slurping noises, was giving us a running commentary on various portions of his anatomy, trying to dispel the myth viciously started in a report on condom sizes for Indian men by the BBC. (I am not sure precisely what was being slurped over, I was concentrating on the road ahead and the hands behind, but Justine assured me later that it couldn’t have been as bad as it sounded, she’s just not that type of girl.)
All this served to increase Pandian’s expectations, despite the fact that he knew I was not in the same accommodating state as Justine and I had already slapped his hands away a couple of times. Actually, I almost felt sorry for him. He gets the fatty who doesn’t put out and doesn’t get drunk either to enable him to take advantage of vodka-induced willingness.
In the end, he acted like a perfect gentleman. We arrive back safely, I pay over the odds to try and minimise hope for alternative forms of payment and he and friend leave - me to sleep and Justine to stagger around the campus waking various people up in her unrelenting quest for samosas.
Today of course, I feel fine and have great fun laughing at Justine who feels far from fine; plus, I have the added enjoyment of relating her nocturnal activities, about which she is completely amnesic, back to her with great relish.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Abso-loo-tly marvellous!
I wrote this posting immediately I returned from Delhi, but with one thing and another I haven’t posted it yet. It is a rave about my new loo. After 4 months ruining my knees during my early morning activities, lovely Donald, my arch-nemesis, actually did job number 27 before jobs numbered 1-26, which, as #27 was installing a western loo for me, I will love him forever.
So my first thoughts on seeing the vision of loveliness were as follows:
Today I sat for at least half an hour on my new, gorgeous, beautiful, glistening, masterpiece of a Western loo. What a welcome back to my little room at RUHSA. It was the first thing of which I took a photo. Its elegant curves sweep upwards to the delicately moulded seat, perched high above the concrete floor, the slim-line cistern with it’s modern flush system complimenting the pale blue walls perfectly. All in all, it is a marvellous thing to behold. You may think that, as I have been in the UK for Christmas, I need not be so poetic about a lavatory, but I can assure you, it is a very exciting thing indeed to see in my bathroom.
So my first thoughts on seeing the vision of loveliness were as follows:
Today I sat for at least half an hour on my new, gorgeous, beautiful, glistening, masterpiece of a Western loo. What a welcome back to my little room at RUHSA. It was the first thing of which I took a photo. Its elegant curves sweep upwards to the delicately moulded seat, perched high above the concrete floor, the slim-line cistern with it’s modern flush system complimenting the pale blue walls perfectly. All in all, it is a marvellous thing to behold. You may think that, as I have been in the UK for Christmas, I need not be so poetic about a lavatory, but I can assure you, it is a very exciting thing indeed to see in my bathroom.
My time is drawing to an end
Today we had a brilliant staff meeting about the elderly care program. It has been running now for nearly 2 weeks and there is a core group of 20 members who are regularly coming for meals. We went to see them again yesterday, taking some Australian Social Workers from a RUHSA appreciation society back in Australia, people who have been to RUHSA in the past, working on various projects over the years. They were very interested in the program. Several of them had done projects involving the elderly, some of which we used as references, and so they knew very well what sort of problems they face.
What is very interesting to observe is how the elderly are being empowered by the program. It seems that even the fact that someone is paying attention to them and asking their opinion has given them strength and an identity in the village once again.
Today everyone met for a discussion about the future of the program. I have been anxious that my plans for the future in term of expansion and development weren’t matched by the other team members; that people were so pleased to see the feeding program successfully starting that they would place less importance on the further development of other services etc. I was worried that people would concentrate on the feeding program and ensure that it all ran smoothly that they would forget that spending £3000 on feeding 20 elderly people for a year cannot really be classed as a success, anyone can do that, given that amount of money; for the program to be a success it has to be developed further and involve the wider community, including other vulnerable groups.
However, my fears were foundless. We had a fantastic meeting. Everyone is so keen to move the project forward and develop it according to exactly how we envisaged, there is very little bullying and cajoling needed to be done by me now. Everything that I have been hoping would happen is being planned for and everyone is in accordance with the ideology of how it will develop further in the future. It really was an amazingly fantastic meeting. The only sadness for me is that my time here is drawing to it’s natural conclusion. It is clear that there is enough momentum to keep everything moving forward without further input needed from me. Obviously, this is exactly the plan as intended but it’s still sad to know that this is ultimately neither my project or my responsibility, I have just been a guest – and a troublesome, difficult, noisy, bossy one at that! It was quite sad to listen to them planning how they were going to manage things in the future, knowing that I couldn’t be included in the plans as I was not going to be around for much longer.
All that is left for me to do now is to finish the medicals and do full nutritional assessments on everyone attending the program, some of whom slipped through the net before it started, as part of the evaluation and monitoring process.
There is one other thing that I would like to do before I leave and that is hold a focus group in the village to discuss their perceptions of what local health services can, do and should provide. I was discussing this with Dr Rita today, who is developing expansion of the mobile nurse and medical clinics and she was excited at the idea. CMC outpatients departments are overrun by people “inappropriately” attending for things which could be dealt with in primary care. There are primary care centres (of sorts), RUHSA has a weekly clinic in the village and there are various private doctors in the area. With such a smorgasbord of medical care theoretically available, it is important to find out how these services are being used. This will help us understand were the service gaps are and where health education is needed to ensure that services are used optimally. It will also help us to understand why people don’t use medical services, even though it’s clear they should. I think this will be a phenomenally useful piece of research and will help in developing the primary care facilities more efficiently.
So, my plan is to spend a few more weeks here and then leave in March, which is a little earlier than I was planning before Christmas. I definitely do not want to be hanging around, not doing very much except being an “executive” at the meetings, I need to be remembering that first and foremost I am a GP and I need, at some stage, to be planning getting back into work at home. Also, I had an exciting email from a previous teaching colleague, who said that the University of Liverpool was enquiring about my return, hopefully because there is another opening doing GP teaching next academic year, which is tres exciting.
Mum and Dad are coming out to India in mid February, and apart from having to negotiate renewing my visa, which runs out in about 10 days time, I anticipate being at RUHSA until about the end of March. I may or may not then go travelling, I haven’t decided. Depends, I think on how frivolous I think I’ve been and how much responsibility I feel for me to return to a proper job!
The downside to all this is that I’ve got to start thinking about packing. Oh my God. Why am I not surprised at the amount of stuff I have accumulated. Maybe they will let me leave stuff in the attic. I have left stuff in attics wherever I have been; one day I’ll go back to my first year room at Oxford, climb into the roof space and see what I left behind 16 years ago! I can’t remember at all what it was, but I’m sure I would be delighted to be reunited with it again after all these years.
What is very interesting to observe is how the elderly are being empowered by the program. It seems that even the fact that someone is paying attention to them and asking their opinion has given them strength and an identity in the village once again.
Today everyone met for a discussion about the future of the program. I have been anxious that my plans for the future in term of expansion and development weren’t matched by the other team members; that people were so pleased to see the feeding program successfully starting that they would place less importance on the further development of other services etc. I was worried that people would concentrate on the feeding program and ensure that it all ran smoothly that they would forget that spending £3000 on feeding 20 elderly people for a year cannot really be classed as a success, anyone can do that, given that amount of money; for the program to be a success it has to be developed further and involve the wider community, including other vulnerable groups.
However, my fears were foundless. We had a fantastic meeting. Everyone is so keen to move the project forward and develop it according to exactly how we envisaged, there is very little bullying and cajoling needed to be done by me now. Everything that I have been hoping would happen is being planned for and everyone is in accordance with the ideology of how it will develop further in the future. It really was an amazingly fantastic meeting. The only sadness for me is that my time here is drawing to it’s natural conclusion. It is clear that there is enough momentum to keep everything moving forward without further input needed from me. Obviously, this is exactly the plan as intended but it’s still sad to know that this is ultimately neither my project or my responsibility, I have just been a guest – and a troublesome, difficult, noisy, bossy one at that! It was quite sad to listen to them planning how they were going to manage things in the future, knowing that I couldn’t be included in the plans as I was not going to be around for much longer.
All that is left for me to do now is to finish the medicals and do full nutritional assessments on everyone attending the program, some of whom slipped through the net before it started, as part of the evaluation and monitoring process.
There is one other thing that I would like to do before I leave and that is hold a focus group in the village to discuss their perceptions of what local health services can, do and should provide. I was discussing this with Dr Rita today, who is developing expansion of the mobile nurse and medical clinics and she was excited at the idea. CMC outpatients departments are overrun by people “inappropriately” attending for things which could be dealt with in primary care. There are primary care centres (of sorts), RUHSA has a weekly clinic in the village and there are various private doctors in the area. With such a smorgasbord of medical care theoretically available, it is important to find out how these services are being used. This will help us understand were the service gaps are and where health education is needed to ensure that services are used optimally. It will also help us to understand why people don’t use medical services, even though it’s clear they should. I think this will be a phenomenally useful piece of research and will help in developing the primary care facilities more efficiently.
So, my plan is to spend a few more weeks here and then leave in March, which is a little earlier than I was planning before Christmas. I definitely do not want to be hanging around, not doing very much except being an “executive” at the meetings, I need to be remembering that first and foremost I am a GP and I need, at some stage, to be planning getting back into work at home. Also, I had an exciting email from a previous teaching colleague, who said that the University of Liverpool was enquiring about my return, hopefully because there is another opening doing GP teaching next academic year, which is tres exciting.
Mum and Dad are coming out to India in mid February, and apart from having to negotiate renewing my visa, which runs out in about 10 days time, I anticipate being at RUHSA until about the end of March. I may or may not then go travelling, I haven’t decided. Depends, I think on how frivolous I think I’ve been and how much responsibility I feel for me to return to a proper job!
The downside to all this is that I’ve got to start thinking about packing. Oh my God. Why am I not surprised at the amount of stuff I have accumulated. Maybe they will let me leave stuff in the attic. I have left stuff in attics wherever I have been; one day I’ll go back to my first year room at Oxford, climb into the roof space and see what I left behind 16 years ago! I can’t remember at all what it was, but I’m sure I would be delighted to be reunited with it again after all these years.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Revenge of the Mouse
As the last posting showed, my Karma took a serious dent and although I was expecting it, I wasn't expecting to feel the repercussions of my mousetake so soon. Unfortunately for me, the cycle of karmic destiny inexorably turned and the needle landed on "Payback" the very next day.
My sister and her boyfriend, Robert, with whom I had spent a lovely few days in the North for New Year, ended their trip by visiting me in the South. Prior to their arrival I made loads of excited plans. I wanted to show them the campus and introduce them to everyone. I arranged for Vimala, who is in charge of the canteen, to give us a biryani lesson. I hired bicycles so we could visit all the local sites and go and spend some time in the villages, meeting some of the village people involved in the project, ie the self-help group women and some of the elderly people. Obviously, I wanted to show them the community centre and get them to meet Dr John.
Their visit co-incided with Pongal, which is a 4 day Tamil festival, a combination of New Year and Harvest Festival. Tamils celebrate all things new, together with blessing and giving thanks for the fertility of the land in a typically exuberant way. Every house is decorated with familiar floral pujas and sugar cane sticks; outside on the floor are beautifully coloured and intricately drawn Kolom - the chalk patterns traced on the dusty ground, which are usually monochromatic, but for Pongal take on a new dimension with vibrant colours creating interwoven images of flowers, butterflies, birds, animals or just geometric designs.
Each day there is a new activity. The first day, Bhogi Pongal, is a day for the family. Old unwanted items are taken outside and painted or washed to give them a new life. The farmers bless the fields prior to the harvesting of the crop. Surya Pongal, the second day, is dedicated to the worship of Surya, the Sun God who is offered boiled milk and jaggery (sugar syrup). The third day, Mattu Pongal, is the most important for the farmers, because it is dedicated to cows or Mattu.
These already highly revered creatures receive special attention on this day. They are scrubbed, their horns are polished and then they are painted, decorated and garlanded to extreme means. The whole of Tamil Nadu is awash with slightly sheepish looking bullocks, their horns brightly painted a rainbow myriad of spots, stripes and swirls, on the tips of which bob garlands, tassles and even balloons.
One of the legends of Pongal suggests a reason why cattle are destined, despite being worshipped, to work for man. Shiva, that most Manly of Gods, previously seen starring in the tragic episode about a small mud child and an elephant's head, had a faithful bull called Basava. Shiva wanted humans to show due deference to the Gods and thus, he entrusted, perhaps foolishly, his Bull with the task of telling humans that they needed to take an oil bath every day and eat once a month.
Repeating to himself, religiously, the mantra: "Bathe daily. Eat monthly", Basava, with misplaced confidence went down from heaven to earth to deliver the message.
You guessed it. He told the mortals to bathe monthly and eat daily. Shiva, not famed for his tolerant and forgiving nature, cursed Basava and banished him to live on the earth forever. He would have to spend the rest of his life ploughing the fields and helping the humans produce the food they would now, courtesy of his incompetence, need to be eating on a more regular basis than was planned. Thus, the association between man and beast was formed. I suspect that a further part of his punishment was that he would have to have balloons tied to his horns once a year to remind him of his stupidity.
On the last day, Pongal festival climaxes with the eating of a disgusting sweet rice porridge mixture called......Pongal.....which ends up being fed to the poor beleaguered cattle and birds "In Thanks", although, I suspect it's actually because it is so unpalatable.
So Lottie and Robert were arriving in perfect time to witness this crazy mayhem of livestock adornment and I envisaged us cycling around the villages, maybe being asked to lend a creative hand to a horn or two.
Unfortunately, the day they arrived, I was struck down with a lesser known form of the Mouse's Revenge (or flu) and retired to bed with a temperature of 38.5C. For the next three days, I was incapable of lifting my head off the pillow without a) a coughing fit b) sobbing uncontrollably in frustration and self pity c) generating unfeasible amounts of mucus from both nostrils d) feeling like shit.
For their entire visit, except for the last day, I was bed ridden and the best I could do was wave feebly from my pressure-sore inducing, crispbread-resembling mattress as they went and had biryani lessons on their own. Robbie Burns, who also clearly fell foul of the Rodent's Curse, never penned a truer word with the immortal lines "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley".
Luckily, I perked up a little bit for the last day, for which I had planned various exciting things, including going to my friendly tailor, doing a bit of shopping, going to the Pongal fair which had exciting rides and candyfloss stalls and culminating in staying over in Vellore at a Nice Hotel so we could have a good dinner and a couple of beers. I managed to galvanise enough energy to go into Vellore and check into, what turned out to be the most ridiculous hotel in the world. I also had just enough energy to potter around the fair, watching Justine fearlessly go on a ride which turned her upside-down whilst notionally tied into her seat by a granny knot in a single, puny-looking strap.
The fair was great, it has to be said. It was heaving with excited families, many of whom were sitting around on the floor picnicking on the wares of the many different food stalls. There were lots of rides, varying hugely in the fear factor. My favourite one, from a strictly spectator point of view, was a slightly down-sized maruti car in pea green going round in tiny circles containing a large number of beaming children, the greatest beam of all coming from the one sitting behind and turning the pointless steering wheel. The bumper cars, probably put in for essential training for rickshaw drivers, were also great fun to watch.
At the end of the day, we went back to our Ridiculous Hotel, where they wanted us to register at the Police Station in order to stay there; where their Room Service, which finished at 11pm, was not available for food at half past ten ("What to do, Madam?"); where, when we asked for plates and eating utensils for the food we had to go out and buy, they took half an hour to bring one plastic plate and a spoon and where, the receptionist had a wall eye and a pot belly and no charm. At least the bed was comfortable and my pressure sores began to recede.
The next morning, horribly early, I waved goodbye to Lottie and Robert, with whom, despite the flu, I had had a really lovely time. I then went back to bed not knowing that I was to re-awaken in the Ridiculous Hotel, to have to most Ridiculous Day yet in India.
My most Ridiculous Day started with the less deformed receptionist, who looked normal, but had the tenacity of a Rottweiler, waking me to tell me again that I needed to go down to the police station to register (I am currently already registered anyway, and have been since August). Suffice it to say that, my mood, consisting as it did of the potent mixture of Day 1 period, dregs of a virus and insufficient sleep was not conducive to a reasonable conversation. I told her over the phone and then I went down in person to tell her and, by then, her other charmingly unique co-worker, that, unless they wanted to carry me (I was fairly confident that they wouldn't want to do this) I WAS NOT GOING TO THE BLOODY POLICE STATION. Hotel relationship was severed with me storming out, screeching like a banshee.
Fuming, I stomped off and found a rickshaw to take me back to the relative sanity of RUHSA. The guy I found, when asked how much, said 100 rupees, clearly indicating that he had no idea where RUHSA was. As I wanted to stop at the supermarket and fruit stall, I said I would give him 150. Once home, having had an uneventful ride, just long enough to enable me to cool off, I gave the driver 200rs and awaited my change. Of course he tried to pull the "No-change-madam" ploy, so you end up giving them more than agreed. Today was not the day for him to try that stunt on me. My furious bate reignited, I stomped off (I did a lot of stomping that day) to find change myself. The driver followed me, pointing to his rickshaw, saying, "Madam, madam, inside". I stubbornly refused to and so ended up walking across the campus, stamping up little puffs of furious dust with each step, with a slowly moving auto following close behind.
By far the most ridiculous aspect of my Ridiculous Day occurred later that evening, after a small amount of recuperative sleep. I was feeling much better and was sitting outside my room, talking to Lottie on the phone before she got on the plane home, when another auto driver, Pandian, whom I had met a few months previously, having heard I was sick, arrived unexpectedly outside my building. Unfased by the fact that I resembled a startled and slightly greasy cockatoo with a very red shiny nose and Bed Head, he proceded to give me advice on how to get well again, all under the distrusting, watchful eye of RUHSA security, who take a dim view of the sexes fraternising between themselves. Their suspicion proved well-placed, when, between guidance on effective cold remedies and tips for fever reduction, Pandian expressed a desire that one day, God-willing, I might be his wife. So, my Ridiculous Day concluded with me having a Ridiculous Conversation with a relative stranger trying to justify why it was not likely that a Cumbrian GP would want to settle down in wedded bliss with a charming, if ambitious, rickshaw driver in Vellore.
The net result of all these events is a new found respect for the power of Mice. It's live and let live from now on.
My sister and her boyfriend, Robert, with whom I had spent a lovely few days in the North for New Year, ended their trip by visiting me in the South. Prior to their arrival I made loads of excited plans. I wanted to show them the campus and introduce them to everyone. I arranged for Vimala, who is in charge of the canteen, to give us a biryani lesson. I hired bicycles so we could visit all the local sites and go and spend some time in the villages, meeting some of the village people involved in the project, ie the self-help group women and some of the elderly people. Obviously, I wanted to show them the community centre and get them to meet Dr John.
Their visit co-incided with Pongal, which is a 4 day Tamil festival, a combination of New Year and Harvest Festival. Tamils celebrate all things new, together with blessing and giving thanks for the fertility of the land in a typically exuberant way. Every house is decorated with familiar floral pujas and sugar cane sticks; outside on the floor are beautifully coloured and intricately drawn Kolom - the chalk patterns traced on the dusty ground, which are usually monochromatic, but for Pongal take on a new dimension with vibrant colours creating interwoven images of flowers, butterflies, birds, animals or just geometric designs.
Each day there is a new activity. The first day, Bhogi Pongal, is a day for the family. Old unwanted items are taken outside and painted or washed to give them a new life. The farmers bless the fields prior to the harvesting of the crop. Surya Pongal, the second day, is dedicated to the worship of Surya, the Sun God who is offered boiled milk and jaggery (sugar syrup). The third day, Mattu Pongal, is the most important for the farmers, because it is dedicated to cows or Mattu.
These already highly revered creatures receive special attention on this day. They are scrubbed, their horns are polished and then they are painted, decorated and garlanded to extreme means. The whole of Tamil Nadu is awash with slightly sheepish looking bullocks, their horns brightly painted a rainbow myriad of spots, stripes and swirls, on the tips of which bob garlands, tassles and even balloons.
One of the legends of Pongal suggests a reason why cattle are destined, despite being worshipped, to work for man. Shiva, that most Manly of Gods, previously seen starring in the tragic episode about a small mud child and an elephant's head, had a faithful bull called Basava. Shiva wanted humans to show due deference to the Gods and thus, he entrusted, perhaps foolishly, his Bull with the task of telling humans that they needed to take an oil bath every day and eat once a month.
Repeating to himself, religiously, the mantra: "Bathe daily. Eat monthly", Basava, with misplaced confidence went down from heaven to earth to deliver the message.
You guessed it. He told the mortals to bathe monthly and eat daily. Shiva, not famed for his tolerant and forgiving nature, cursed Basava and banished him to live on the earth forever. He would have to spend the rest of his life ploughing the fields and helping the humans produce the food they would now, courtesy of his incompetence, need to be eating on a more regular basis than was planned. Thus, the association between man and beast was formed. I suspect that a further part of his punishment was that he would have to have balloons tied to his horns once a year to remind him of his stupidity.
On the last day, Pongal festival climaxes with the eating of a disgusting sweet rice porridge mixture called......Pongal.....which ends up being fed to the poor beleaguered cattle and birds "In Thanks", although, I suspect it's actually because it is so unpalatable.
So Lottie and Robert were arriving in perfect time to witness this crazy mayhem of livestock adornment and I envisaged us cycling around the villages, maybe being asked to lend a creative hand to a horn or two.
Unfortunately, the day they arrived, I was struck down with a lesser known form of the Mouse's Revenge (or flu) and retired to bed with a temperature of 38.5C. For the next three days, I was incapable of lifting my head off the pillow without a) a coughing fit b) sobbing uncontrollably in frustration and self pity c) generating unfeasible amounts of mucus from both nostrils d) feeling like shit.
For their entire visit, except for the last day, I was bed ridden and the best I could do was wave feebly from my pressure-sore inducing, crispbread-resembling mattress as they went and had biryani lessons on their own. Robbie Burns, who also clearly fell foul of the Rodent's Curse, never penned a truer word with the immortal lines "The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley".
Luckily, I perked up a little bit for the last day, for which I had planned various exciting things, including going to my friendly tailor, doing a bit of shopping, going to the Pongal fair which had exciting rides and candyfloss stalls and culminating in staying over in Vellore at a Nice Hotel so we could have a good dinner and a couple of beers. I managed to galvanise enough energy to go into Vellore and check into, what turned out to be the most ridiculous hotel in the world. I also had just enough energy to potter around the fair, watching Justine fearlessly go on a ride which turned her upside-down whilst notionally tied into her seat by a granny knot in a single, puny-looking strap.
The fair was great, it has to be said. It was heaving with excited families, many of whom were sitting around on the floor picnicking on the wares of the many different food stalls. There were lots of rides, varying hugely in the fear factor. My favourite one, from a strictly spectator point of view, was a slightly down-sized maruti car in pea green going round in tiny circles containing a large number of beaming children, the greatest beam of all coming from the one sitting behind and turning the pointless steering wheel. The bumper cars, probably put in for essential training for rickshaw drivers, were also great fun to watch.
At the end of the day, we went back to our Ridiculous Hotel, where they wanted us to register at the Police Station in order to stay there; where their Room Service, which finished at 11pm, was not available for food at half past ten ("What to do, Madam?"); where, when we asked for plates and eating utensils for the food we had to go out and buy, they took half an hour to bring one plastic plate and a spoon and where, the receptionist had a wall eye and a pot belly and no charm. At least the bed was comfortable and my pressure sores began to recede.
The next morning, horribly early, I waved goodbye to Lottie and Robert, with whom, despite the flu, I had had a really lovely time. I then went back to bed not knowing that I was to re-awaken in the Ridiculous Hotel, to have to most Ridiculous Day yet in India.
My most Ridiculous Day started with the less deformed receptionist, who looked normal, but had the tenacity of a Rottweiler, waking me to tell me again that I needed to go down to the police station to register (I am currently already registered anyway, and have been since August). Suffice it to say that, my mood, consisting as it did of the potent mixture of Day 1 period, dregs of a virus and insufficient sleep was not conducive to a reasonable conversation. I told her over the phone and then I went down in person to tell her and, by then, her other charmingly unique co-worker, that, unless they wanted to carry me (I was fairly confident that they wouldn't want to do this) I WAS NOT GOING TO THE BLOODY POLICE STATION. Hotel relationship was severed with me storming out, screeching like a banshee.
Fuming, I stomped off and found a rickshaw to take me back to the relative sanity of RUHSA. The guy I found, when asked how much, said 100 rupees, clearly indicating that he had no idea where RUHSA was. As I wanted to stop at the supermarket and fruit stall, I said I would give him 150. Once home, having had an uneventful ride, just long enough to enable me to cool off, I gave the driver 200rs and awaited my change. Of course he tried to pull the "No-change-madam" ploy, so you end up giving them more than agreed. Today was not the day for him to try that stunt on me. My furious bate reignited, I stomped off (I did a lot of stomping that day) to find change myself. The driver followed me, pointing to his rickshaw, saying, "Madam, madam, inside". I stubbornly refused to and so ended up walking across the campus, stamping up little puffs of furious dust with each step, with a slowly moving auto following close behind.
By far the most ridiculous aspect of my Ridiculous Day occurred later that evening, after a small amount of recuperative sleep. I was feeling much better and was sitting outside my room, talking to Lottie on the phone before she got on the plane home, when another auto driver, Pandian, whom I had met a few months previously, having heard I was sick, arrived unexpectedly outside my building. Unfased by the fact that I resembled a startled and slightly greasy cockatoo with a very red shiny nose and Bed Head, he proceded to give me advice on how to get well again, all under the distrusting, watchful eye of RUHSA security, who take a dim view of the sexes fraternising between themselves. Their suspicion proved well-placed, when, between guidance on effective cold remedies and tips for fever reduction, Pandian expressed a desire that one day, God-willing, I might be his wife. So, my Ridiculous Day concluded with me having a Ridiculous Conversation with a relative stranger trying to justify why it was not likely that a Cumbrian GP would want to settle down in wedded bliss with a charming, if ambitious, rickshaw driver in Vellore.
The net result of all these events is a new found respect for the power of Mice. It's live and let live from now on.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
A Fatal Mousetake
Here are photos of some of the people in our group. They are so photogenic it's ridiculous, I'm sure they are sick and tired of having me shoving my lens in their faces just so they can have a square meal. Maybe they think they are going to be famous.
Annoyingly, I didn't bring my camera lead into Vellore today, so, I haven't got any pictures of the big day itself. I shall post them later.
Just in case I was getting too big for my boots, feeling like I am dispensing munificence, doing wonderful things or generally being a Good Egg, an event occurred which brought me back down to earth. Justine, my Australian next door neighbour, found a tiny brown mouse in her room running around her bedroom. It was really cute, but not wanted. So, fancying myself as a bit of a Gerald Durrell, after quite an energetic chase during which the mouse no doubt had severe palpitations (I was a little breathless myself), I caught the mouse under a cup and went to the door to set it free. I flung it a few feet out onto the courtyard declaring "Run free, little mouse, run to freedom". It took a few happy, scurrying steps across the darkened gravel, its tail raised perkily. I felt proud that I had done a Good Thing. Suddenly, out of nowhere, an owl swooped rapidly and silently down and terminated its progress. Oh the raw cruelty of nature. I'm sure I heard, as the owl flew up into the trees a little squeaky voice yelling out "You bastaaaaaaaaaard".
I felt my karma slipping instantly. I think I'm going to come back as a mouse.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Opening Day
Yesterday was the opening day for the Elderly Welfare Centre. It was chosen because one of the Trustees for the charity which funded the program is visiting from the UK, although he came via the US, New Zealand and Singapore!
For the last few days, apart from the boredom of having picked up a cold and fruity cough from someone in the CMC library on Saturday, I have been in seventh heaven painting posters and doing some general arts and crafty stuff in preparation for the Open Day. Many a happy hour has been spent trawling through the stationery shops in Vellore for paints, pens, paper, glue, double-sided sticky tape etc. My room now looks like the playroom in a Kindergarten; people have said to me in the past that I am a frustrated primary school teacher! The theme of the open day was to create awareness in the wider community, to educate people as to the future plans of the community centre and to inform CMC about the program and work done.
The day before, in preparation for the open day, Mathew, myself and a couple of willing electrical engineering students from the vocational program at RUHSA, set off in that most peculiar of Indian vehicles (amongst some quite stiff competition), the three-wheeled pick-up truck, to go to the village. Rather resembling the Queen of Sheba during a dip in her fortunes, I sat in the back on a plastic chair facing backwards, with my two young attendants standing behind, smiling and waving at the enthusiastic locals, who were most surprised to see a white woman using a mode of transport more traditionally used by coolie workers on their way to building sites or fields.
On arrival, we inspected the whitewash job done by the beleaguered Donald and team (which I just learnt today, does not include a plumber or plum-per as it is pronounced here). Of course there were drips all over the floor and less than perfect edges, but the building did look a lot better. The two electricians set to work immediately mending some indeterminate wire going from one place to another without any apparent purpose, but which was no doubt crucial. Some local women had drawn coloured chalk patterns on the floor (I suspect to disguise the drips left by the menfolk) which are a traditional South Indian decoration called Kolom. Altogether, there was an air of festivity and anticipation about the place.
On the day itself, I cycled to the village at 9.30. The proceedings were due to start at 11, and in one of my typical last minute rushes - which fits right into the Indian way of doing things - I had to put up all the posters, label them with their Tamil labels, with someone to help me in case I stuck them all on upside down and make a collage of the photos I had taken of them all, to give them something to giggle at.
I sat outside in the backyard, on a concrete slab, happily surrounded by "making stuff" and, whilst listening to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, mounted the posters and the photos. I had a very willing group of helpers, who despite being unfamiliar with the properties of double-sided sticky tape and not being quite so anal as myself about sticking the photos down in straight lines with equal gaps between them, ensured that I was able to have the posters on show in record time.
The room was packed for the opening. There were local politicians and villagers, RUHSA staff and even a minibus from CMC with staff and foreign visitors, not to mention the elderly who numbered 28, which was considerably more than we were expecting and almost capacity – we had budgeted for 30.
Mathew and I had planned for a few speeches. We agreed that there shouldn’t be more than four speakers. At least 10 people stood up, including one of the elderly men and 2 village women who sang welcome songs. Most of the speeches were in Tamil, so I was only able to get the gist from a reluctant translator sitting next to me, but everyone was very positive and impressed. Several people commented on how this group in society, being so vulnerable, has been difficult to deliver care and aid to but our model of village participation and consultation should be developed further.
All this was of course very pleasing, but by far the most moving moment was when the bigwigs left and the elderly sat down to have lunch. The women who had volunteered to cook and serve it did a magnificent job, bringing steaming pots of rice balanced on their head and carrying pails of sambar and vegetables. The elderly sat around the edges of the room on rush mats, their thin, worn clothes wrapped around them and stared fixedly at their plates as the food was piled on. There was not a sound except the occasional clunking of a serving spoon as they dug their hands into the piles of rice and scooped the food into their mouths.
It was a good sight.
Here are a few photos of the day itself:
Me having fun painting posters
The crowd gathers (note outcome of "fun" in background")
Birds in a row enjoying their lunch
For the last few days, apart from the boredom of having picked up a cold and fruity cough from someone in the CMC library on Saturday, I have been in seventh heaven painting posters and doing some general arts and crafty stuff in preparation for the Open Day. Many a happy hour has been spent trawling through the stationery shops in Vellore for paints, pens, paper, glue, double-sided sticky tape etc. My room now looks like the playroom in a Kindergarten; people have said to me in the past that I am a frustrated primary school teacher! The theme of the open day was to create awareness in the wider community, to educate people as to the future plans of the community centre and to inform CMC about the program and work done.
The day before, in preparation for the open day, Mathew, myself and a couple of willing electrical engineering students from the vocational program at RUHSA, set off in that most peculiar of Indian vehicles (amongst some quite stiff competition), the three-wheeled pick-up truck, to go to the village. Rather resembling the Queen of Sheba during a dip in her fortunes, I sat in the back on a plastic chair facing backwards, with my two young attendants standing behind, smiling and waving at the enthusiastic locals, who were most surprised to see a white woman using a mode of transport more traditionally used by coolie workers on their way to building sites or fields.
On arrival, we inspected the whitewash job done by the beleaguered Donald and team (which I just learnt today, does not include a plumber or plum-per as it is pronounced here). Of course there were drips all over the floor and less than perfect edges, but the building did look a lot better. The two electricians set to work immediately mending some indeterminate wire going from one place to another without any apparent purpose, but which was no doubt crucial. Some local women had drawn coloured chalk patterns on the floor (I suspect to disguise the drips left by the menfolk) which are a traditional South Indian decoration called Kolom. Altogether, there was an air of festivity and anticipation about the place.
On the day itself, I cycled to the village at 9.30. The proceedings were due to start at 11, and in one of my typical last minute rushes - which fits right into the Indian way of doing things - I had to put up all the posters, label them with their Tamil labels, with someone to help me in case I stuck them all on upside down and make a collage of the photos I had taken of them all, to give them something to giggle at.
I sat outside in the backyard, on a concrete slab, happily surrounded by "making stuff" and, whilst listening to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, mounted the posters and the photos. I had a very willing group of helpers, who despite being unfamiliar with the properties of double-sided sticky tape and not being quite so anal as myself about sticking the photos down in straight lines with equal gaps between them, ensured that I was able to have the posters on show in record time.
The room was packed for the opening. There were local politicians and villagers, RUHSA staff and even a minibus from CMC with staff and foreign visitors, not to mention the elderly who numbered 28, which was considerably more than we were expecting and almost capacity – we had budgeted for 30.
Mathew and I had planned for a few speeches. We agreed that there shouldn’t be more than four speakers. At least 10 people stood up, including one of the elderly men and 2 village women who sang welcome songs. Most of the speeches were in Tamil, so I was only able to get the gist from a reluctant translator sitting next to me, but everyone was very positive and impressed. Several people commented on how this group in society, being so vulnerable, has been difficult to deliver care and aid to but our model of village participation and consultation should be developed further.
All this was of course very pleasing, but by far the most moving moment was when the bigwigs left and the elderly sat down to have lunch. The women who had volunteered to cook and serve it did a magnificent job, bringing steaming pots of rice balanced on their head and carrying pails of sambar and vegetables. The elderly sat around the edges of the room on rush mats, their thin, worn clothes wrapped around them and stared fixedly at their plates as the food was piled on. There was not a sound except the occasional clunking of a serving spoon as they dug their hands into the piles of rice and scooped the food into their mouths.
It was a good sight.
Here are a few photos of the day itself:
Me having fun painting posters
The crowd gathers (note outcome of "fun" in background")
Birds in a row enjoying their lunch
Saturday, January 06, 2007
How have they coped in my absence?
Rather well, I'm galled to discover, there have even been 2 meetings without me!
Since I left, Mathew and Kalaimanai - the two main movers and shakers of the project, have met a couple of times with the village women, specifically, the four self help groups, 2 from the main village and one each from the 2 satellite (lower caste) colonies. As Donald has not managed to build the kitchen (really no surprise), if we are to start the program on it's destined inauguration day (11th January), we need to enlist the help of village women to cook the food around which the program is based. RUHSA will subcontract to the women to provide food, but not for a very princely sum. Partly it's supposed to be a service in the interest of the community, but given the general poverty there is also a financial incentive.
All four groups were asked and, interstingly, the poorest two - from the lower caste colonies - were very eager to help and the self-help groups from the main village, who are in general better off, were not at all willing to help. This does present a potential problem with regard to higher caste villagers, not wanting to eat the food cooked by the lower castes, but we have to make do with what we have and come up with a solution.
The women are being given 10rs per day per person for food plus 500rs a month for firewood and this is supposed to be enough to provide rice, sambar (watery lentil water) and a small protion of vegetables. Whoever actually cooks the food will also get 30rs in payment. There are 85 rs to the pound. As mentioned previously, although the money has been sent, it is stuck between committees and not able to be released yet. There is some emergency money available for the women to buy the ingredients, but there is none for utensils etc. Plates and tumblers have been bought and "donated", which enables RUHSA to bypass the accounts committee. The sum came to £20 for 30 steel plates and 30 steel tumblers plus engraving. If anyone wishes to contribute £20 to buy these, it would be most appreciated!
Yesterday, we had a meeting with all the people eligible to come to the project and we were very happy with the turnout; 22 elderly people came and there were reports of several others who are intersted but were unable to attend. Of those 22, 21 stated categorically that they would attend the centre. It has a Tamil name which translates roughly as "Elderly Welfare Centre", which I think is a good title. Among the other ideas given to us regarding their needs, the elderly mentioned soap, dressings, clothes and other relatively simple necessitities. All of these will be taken into account and tried to be accommodated.
Preparatins for our inauguration on 11th January is also progressing well. The elderly will come to the clinic, as will other local bigwigs, RUHSA staff and anyone else who is interested. There will be posters outlining the process by which we arrived at this point, also about elderly needs and issues affecting the elderly eg diabetes, poverty, mental ill health. Also, I have taken many photos over the last few months of villagers during the meetings etc and there will be a display of these. I am hoping to use my new projector to run a slide show on the, hopefully, newly whitewashed walls.
There will be speeches (not from me), snacks for the bigwigs and then everyone leaves and the program starts. It's very exciting, because there is plenty of interest. The village has been engaged throughout and this may be a reflection of that.
Other exciting developments include the design and setting up of a website for RUHSA, so their work can be disseminated to a wider audience, as well as establishing a regular newsletter which may be linked to the charity which donates to the CMC and has a huge following. Of course, most importantly, is the progressive development of a primary care service to the village which is the ultimate aim of the project, of which this is but a tiny, tiny start.
Since I left, Mathew and Kalaimanai - the two main movers and shakers of the project, have met a couple of times with the village women, specifically, the four self help groups, 2 from the main village and one each from the 2 satellite (lower caste) colonies. As Donald has not managed to build the kitchen (really no surprise), if we are to start the program on it's destined inauguration day (11th January), we need to enlist the help of village women to cook the food around which the program is based. RUHSA will subcontract to the women to provide food, but not for a very princely sum. Partly it's supposed to be a service in the interest of the community, but given the general poverty there is also a financial incentive.
All four groups were asked and, interstingly, the poorest two - from the lower caste colonies - were very eager to help and the self-help groups from the main village, who are in general better off, were not at all willing to help. This does present a potential problem with regard to higher caste villagers, not wanting to eat the food cooked by the lower castes, but we have to make do with what we have and come up with a solution.
The women are being given 10rs per day per person for food plus 500rs a month for firewood and this is supposed to be enough to provide rice, sambar (watery lentil water) and a small protion of vegetables. Whoever actually cooks the food will also get 30rs in payment. There are 85 rs to the pound. As mentioned previously, although the money has been sent, it is stuck between committees and not able to be released yet. There is some emergency money available for the women to buy the ingredients, but there is none for utensils etc. Plates and tumblers have been bought and "donated", which enables RUHSA to bypass the accounts committee. The sum came to £20 for 30 steel plates and 30 steel tumblers plus engraving. If anyone wishes to contribute £20 to buy these, it would be most appreciated!
Yesterday, we had a meeting with all the people eligible to come to the project and we were very happy with the turnout; 22 elderly people came and there were reports of several others who are intersted but were unable to attend. Of those 22, 21 stated categorically that they would attend the centre. It has a Tamil name which translates roughly as "Elderly Welfare Centre", which I think is a good title. Among the other ideas given to us regarding their needs, the elderly mentioned soap, dressings, clothes and other relatively simple necessitities. All of these will be taken into account and tried to be accommodated.
Preparatins for our inauguration on 11th January is also progressing well. The elderly will come to the clinic, as will other local bigwigs, RUHSA staff and anyone else who is interested. There will be posters outlining the process by which we arrived at this point, also about elderly needs and issues affecting the elderly eg diabetes, poverty, mental ill health. Also, I have taken many photos over the last few months of villagers during the meetings etc and there will be a display of these. I am hoping to use my new projector to run a slide show on the, hopefully, newly whitewashed walls.
There will be speeches (not from me), snacks for the bigwigs and then everyone leaves and the program starts. It's very exciting, because there is plenty of interest. The village has been engaged throughout and this may be a reflection of that.
Other exciting developments include the design and setting up of a website for RUHSA, so their work can be disseminated to a wider audience, as well as establishing a regular newsletter which may be linked to the charity which donates to the CMC and has a huge following. Of course, most importantly, is the progressive development of a primary care service to the village which is the ultimate aim of the project, of which this is but a tiny, tiny start.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
A Foggy Day in Delhi Town
I'm back!!!! I had a totally lovely time in the UK seeing a few friends and spending Christmas with my family. Sadly it was all too short; there were many other friends I would have loved to see, so apologies to those whom I missed, hope you all had a lovely Christmas too.
The only downside to going home was that, having spent the first three days not going to public restrooms, even in dire circumstances, owing to the (mistaken) belief that it would be an Indian loo with no loopaper, in the remaining few days, I managed to unlearn the necessity of carrying bogroll in my handbag, a fact which was brutally brought to my attention at Colombo Airport whilst seated in the 3rd compartment of the Ladies Lavatory.
It was lovely to be home, to have a cold nose, to speak English rapidly without (too many) people looking at me blankly and not having total strangers asking me my "good name". Although, there was a Lancastrian man on the train to Barrow, buoyed up with Festive Spirits who, whilst leaning across me in order to help with my sudoku, asked me where I was from. I was really, really confused. I started to say Eng-uh-land (my default response for the last 4 months) and then realised that probably, even in his inebriated state, he would have worked that out and was enquiring because I didn't sound Lancastrian. We then had a complicated conversation which befuddled him and confused the hell out of me before we agreed to abandon the whole line of equiry and concentrate on the sudoku instead, at which he was irritatingly good.
I flew to Bangalore to fly to Delhi to meet my sister and a few friends for New Year in a tiger sanctuary where no-one had seen a tiger since 2004. Despite the manifest lack of tigers, we had a lovely time. In the afternoon, we took a trip through the wildlife park and saw loads of birds. My newly brought out binoculars and newly acquired Christmas present of "Birds of the Indian Subcontinent" proved handy and our driver, who was adorable, was very knowledgeable about birds and told me all their names. We saw painted stork, shrikes, herons, treepies - who ate out of Robert's hands - bulbuls, babblers as well as sambar, antelope, wild boar, jackals and monkeys in a very beautiful setting, so it was well worth the trip.
In the evening, we celebrated New Year's Eve with a show of Rajasthani dancing, including a fire-eater, who must have swallowed gallons of kerosene over the years, and a man who balanced a few spinning bicycle wheels on various parts of his body whilst either perched on a column of upturned metal cups or crunching over broken glass. We then sat round the fire until midnight, chatting to the locals who mostly couldn't speak English, but with whom we still managed to have fun and laugh. It was a lovely peaceful evening and great to have Lottie and Robert there too.
The next day, feeling a little jaded (and also freezing) we had a spectacular drive through some remote Rajasthani villages where still groups of rug-enshrouded men crouching around heavily smoking dessicated cowpat fires, and beautiful, clear-eyed children, wearing a selection of novelty headgear - including one with a bright yellow bra like a pair of ear muffs - watched our progress with intent interest. We passed camel carts so heavily laden that the usual expression on the camel's face was for once appropriate. We drove through a khaki world where the breaths of the watching villagers and their various beasts of burden mingled with the hovering mist, creating the illusion of a land of emerging genies. It was quite beautiful.
After a few hours driving - the beauty of the scenery was at least partially offset by the bumpiness ofthe road - we arrived in Agra to see the Taj, a must for Ture who after 4 1/2 months is leaving soon and hadn't yet seen it. Of course we had to choose the busiest day of the year. Not only that, but due to fog delaying our inbound flight, we only had half an hour in which to see it. I am ashamed to say that for the first time in my life I bribed my way to the front of the queue. Shamelessly. Of course we had to go through the rigmarole of pretending that it wasn't bribery, but a "fee-for-service" the guard was offering and it all took place through a middle man while the guard turned his back and pretended not to be a part of the whole sordid process. We then got to the front of the queue where the person in charge of ripping the tickets provided another obstacle. We referred him to the guard (who was still feigning ignorance). The ticket man said he couldn't let us through or the other Indian women would fight (there were two queues, a gents' queue and a ladies' queue). I apologised so profusely and loudly that the lady in front turned round and said,
"What happened?"
I confessed to my shamless queue-barging, whereupon she stood aside with a huge grin and said,
"Well, do more so. Go in front!"
Thanks to her generosity of spirit, everyone got to see the Taj, albeit briefly, but even a transient glimpse is worth it. It really is beyond words. As you pass through the darkness of the gate, revealing itself little by little through the arch, a pale delicate facade shimmers. Then suddenly, across the heads of thousands of equally awe-inspired visitors, it emerges, subtle and magnificent, fragile and strong, substantial and ethereal. An astounding achievement.
There then followed several more hours of driving to Delhi airport to catch our plane back to the South. Luckily, we arrived in plenty of time to check in. Unluckily all the flights out of Delhi were cancelled due to fog. So, along with a million other people, we hacked and wove our way through the endless queues, luggage trolleys, screaming children, irritated, frustrated travellers and TV cameras trying to capture the chaos, to discover that the next available flight back would be in 4 days. We are catching a train. It will only take us 33 hours and then, on arrival in Chennai (Madras), we have 5 minutes to make our connection to Vellore. I'm sure a train which has been travelling for a day and a half will not be more than 5 minutes late. After all, this is India.
The only downside to going home was that, having spent the first three days not going to public restrooms, even in dire circumstances, owing to the (mistaken) belief that it would be an Indian loo with no loopaper, in the remaining few days, I managed to unlearn the necessity of carrying bogroll in my handbag, a fact which was brutally brought to my attention at Colombo Airport whilst seated in the 3rd compartment of the Ladies Lavatory.
It was lovely to be home, to have a cold nose, to speak English rapidly without (too many) people looking at me blankly and not having total strangers asking me my "good name". Although, there was a Lancastrian man on the train to Barrow, buoyed up with Festive Spirits who, whilst leaning across me in order to help with my sudoku, asked me where I was from. I was really, really confused. I started to say Eng-uh-land (my default response for the last 4 months) and then realised that probably, even in his inebriated state, he would have worked that out and was enquiring because I didn't sound Lancastrian. We then had a complicated conversation which befuddled him and confused the hell out of me before we agreed to abandon the whole line of equiry and concentrate on the sudoku instead, at which he was irritatingly good.
I flew to Bangalore to fly to Delhi to meet my sister and a few friends for New Year in a tiger sanctuary where no-one had seen a tiger since 2004. Despite the manifest lack of tigers, we had a lovely time. In the afternoon, we took a trip through the wildlife park and saw loads of birds. My newly brought out binoculars and newly acquired Christmas present of "Birds of the Indian Subcontinent" proved handy and our driver, who was adorable, was very knowledgeable about birds and told me all their names. We saw painted stork, shrikes, herons, treepies - who ate out of Robert's hands - bulbuls, babblers as well as sambar, antelope, wild boar, jackals and monkeys in a very beautiful setting, so it was well worth the trip.
In the evening, we celebrated New Year's Eve with a show of Rajasthani dancing, including a fire-eater, who must have swallowed gallons of kerosene over the years, and a man who balanced a few spinning bicycle wheels on various parts of his body whilst either perched on a column of upturned metal cups or crunching over broken glass. We then sat round the fire until midnight, chatting to the locals who mostly couldn't speak English, but with whom we still managed to have fun and laugh. It was a lovely peaceful evening and great to have Lottie and Robert there too.
The next day, feeling a little jaded (and also freezing) we had a spectacular drive through some remote Rajasthani villages where still groups of rug-enshrouded men crouching around heavily smoking dessicated cowpat fires, and beautiful, clear-eyed children, wearing a selection of novelty headgear - including one with a bright yellow bra like a pair of ear muffs - watched our progress with intent interest. We passed camel carts so heavily laden that the usual expression on the camel's face was for once appropriate. We drove through a khaki world where the breaths of the watching villagers and their various beasts of burden mingled with the hovering mist, creating the illusion of a land of emerging genies. It was quite beautiful.
After a few hours driving - the beauty of the scenery was at least partially offset by the bumpiness ofthe road - we arrived in Agra to see the Taj, a must for Ture who after 4 1/2 months is leaving soon and hadn't yet seen it. Of course we had to choose the busiest day of the year. Not only that, but due to fog delaying our inbound flight, we only had half an hour in which to see it. I am ashamed to say that for the first time in my life I bribed my way to the front of the queue. Shamelessly. Of course we had to go through the rigmarole of pretending that it wasn't bribery, but a "fee-for-service" the guard was offering and it all took place through a middle man while the guard turned his back and pretended not to be a part of the whole sordid process. We then got to the front of the queue where the person in charge of ripping the tickets provided another obstacle. We referred him to the guard (who was still feigning ignorance). The ticket man said he couldn't let us through or the other Indian women would fight (there were two queues, a gents' queue and a ladies' queue). I apologised so profusely and loudly that the lady in front turned round and said,
"What happened?"
I confessed to my shamless queue-barging, whereupon she stood aside with a huge grin and said,
"Well, do more so. Go in front!"
Thanks to her generosity of spirit, everyone got to see the Taj, albeit briefly, but even a transient glimpse is worth it. It really is beyond words. As you pass through the darkness of the gate, revealing itself little by little through the arch, a pale delicate facade shimmers. Then suddenly, across the heads of thousands of equally awe-inspired visitors, it emerges, subtle and magnificent, fragile and strong, substantial and ethereal. An astounding achievement.
There then followed several more hours of driving to Delhi airport to catch our plane back to the South. Luckily, we arrived in plenty of time to check in. Unluckily all the flights out of Delhi were cancelled due to fog. So, along with a million other people, we hacked and wove our way through the endless queues, luggage trolleys, screaming children, irritated, frustrated travellers and TV cameras trying to capture the chaos, to discover that the next available flight back would be in 4 days. We are catching a train. It will only take us 33 hours and then, on arrival in Chennai (Madras), we have 5 minutes to make our connection to Vellore. I'm sure a train which has been travelling for a day and a half will not be more than 5 minutes late. After all, this is India.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)