Means Home of Compassion. At present I am staying in the guest house of a lady called Celine Mayanai who runs Karuna Niwas, in Bangalore. She is an extraordinary women. I was introduced to her, remotely, by the wife of a college friend of my brother’s, Karina FitzPatrick, who lives in New York. She has been a fundraiser for Celine’s project for the last 20 years.
Celine is an ex-catholic nun from Kerala, who, when she was a Novice in Bombay, was visiting local women with her superiors, when she heard about a Goan girl who was very young, frightened and pregnant. She felt this young girl should be seen immediately to see how they could help, but her superiors were reluctant to break the order in which they had decided to see people. We’ll get to her eventually, don’t worry, another few days only, she can wait her turn. Tragically, when they finally got round to seeing her, they learnt that she had committed suicide. This was when India was even more unforgiving than now and there was nowhere to whom single mothers, ostracised by their communities, could turn. It was at that point that Celine felt her calling was not to be in a Convent, but to set up a home for women in similar circumstances. Her vision was to create a safe, accepting environment where women could repair their lives without judgement. During their stay, they could learn a trade, for example beautician work, computing and ultimately leave Karuna Niwas as independent women, some to jobs, some to new marriages.
In order to realise her dreams, Celine herself went through hardships. Her family felt disgraced by her leaving the convent, partly because it was unacceptable, and partly because they worried about her becoming a burden to them instead of being taken care of in the convent. Luckily, she found a job in America where she earnt some money and found sponsors to help build her first refuge centre. These American sponsors have been the only source of income for the last 20 years.
Now, Karuna Niwas has a beauty parlour, computing centre, hostel as well as the original refuge and the inauguration of the Day Care centre and Creche is on 9th April. It is a very peaceful, happy place housing 10 women and 10 children. Celine’s current worry is the schooling of the children for whom, even if the mothers have left, she retains a continuing responsibility. Good schools are expensive and if these children are to have a future and worthwhile education, they need to go to good schools. Additional costs such as school books, uniforms and transport to and from school make it impossible for the mothers, starting new lives afresh, to afford.
What I found astonishing about Celine is that, despite being extremely religious, she casts no judgement on others’ religions. For her, having a personal relationship with "your God" is most important and whether that is through Christianity, Hinduism, Islam or Judaism is a matter of personal choice. Similarly, she expects no Damascene conversion from the women she helps, all she wants is that they regain their sense of worth and become independent. She is happy and fulfilled doing what she does and does not expect people to feel grateful to her. She said to me that if she expected gratitude from people all the time, she would spend her life unhappy. She attributed her success to God’s will. I attributed it to this amazing woman.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Squirrel Curry
A few days ago, I went on an impromptu visit to a tribal village at supper time, with a group of people who were carrying out a nutritional assessment there.
Tribal people are a complex entity in India. There are many different tribal populations throughout the country, mainly in remote and hilly places, but they don’t seem to be equivalent to the indigenous Maoris of New Zealand, or the Native Americans for example. For example, in Tamil Nadu, the tribal members are viewed with suspicion and distrust by the “locals” as having weird and strange customs, yet they are Hindu, speak Tamil and look Dravidian. To the outsider, they seem to be culturally equivalent, but not to those in the know. Their main difficulty is lack of land rights. Without land-owner ship they are destined to work for others, as they cannot generate any income from farming. The tribal people I visited are traditionally snake catchers. In this capacity only, they are tolerated by the locals, who are happy to have snakes removed from their homes, but don’t want to mingle with them socially or allow their women folk to marry any of them. Again, to an outsider, this seems no different to the other many, many castes prevalent in India, which dictate the job, for example rope-makers, latrine cleaners, sweet-makers, leather tanners and lifestyle you and your entire family for generations must have. The strength of these castes is most powerful in the villages where there is little social mobility or migration. It strikes me that the tribal people are just another bottom-dwelling caste ostracised by those microscopically higher up the social scale. They are another marginalised group amongst the myriad of others scattered liberally throughout the land.
Unfortunately, as if life weren’t hard enough, having been too successful at catching snakes, they have worked themselves out of a job. There are not to many snakes endangering villages, and the few serpentine intruders seen are not enough to keep those, for whom this is their only source of income, in the money. They have tried to redress this by diversifying to catching rats, but this too is hardly going to reverse their fortunes and make them millionaires.
As they have no land to farm, not only is their income restricted, but their diet is also limited to what they can find or catch. It is for this reason that RUHSA staff wanted to carry out a nutritional assessment and what better time to go than suppertime, when pots are steaming and people are gathering.
At first, they seem genuinely irritated to be disturbed at such a crucial moment in order to answer impertinent questions about what they eat, when, how often etc; especially as their stomachs were probably gurgling in anticipation at the smells coming from the pots and having Important People barging in simply meant a delay in tucking in.
Questions flew backwards and forwards about the contents of the pot. Did it contain enough carbs, protein, vitamins. It looked like brinjal (aubergine) at first and then I looked more closely. There was a tiny leg floating in it. Having relaxed slightly and accepted our intrusion as an inevitable delay to eating, and probably in an attempt to hurry us on our way, they offered us moresels of this delectable feast to the Honoured Guests. Of course I couldn't refuse, that would be rude and I'm always ready for new gastronomic experiences.
It tasted like chicken. Just kidding, more like pheasant and even more stringy. I think they left the skin on and I was picking squirrel fur out of my teeth for ages afterwards. It could have been much worse. The next door-neighbours were having rat curry.
Tribal people are a complex entity in India. There are many different tribal populations throughout the country, mainly in remote and hilly places, but they don’t seem to be equivalent to the indigenous Maoris of New Zealand, or the Native Americans for example. For example, in Tamil Nadu, the tribal members are viewed with suspicion and distrust by the “locals” as having weird and strange customs, yet they are Hindu, speak Tamil and look Dravidian. To the outsider, they seem to be culturally equivalent, but not to those in the know. Their main difficulty is lack of land rights. Without land-owner ship they are destined to work for others, as they cannot generate any income from farming. The tribal people I visited are traditionally snake catchers. In this capacity only, they are tolerated by the locals, who are happy to have snakes removed from their homes, but don’t want to mingle with them socially or allow their women folk to marry any of them. Again, to an outsider, this seems no different to the other many, many castes prevalent in India, which dictate the job, for example rope-makers, latrine cleaners, sweet-makers, leather tanners and lifestyle you and your entire family for generations must have. The strength of these castes is most powerful in the villages where there is little social mobility or migration. It strikes me that the tribal people are just another bottom-dwelling caste ostracised by those microscopically higher up the social scale. They are another marginalised group amongst the myriad of others scattered liberally throughout the land.
Unfortunately, as if life weren’t hard enough, having been too successful at catching snakes, they have worked themselves out of a job. There are not to many snakes endangering villages, and the few serpentine intruders seen are not enough to keep those, for whom this is their only source of income, in the money. They have tried to redress this by diversifying to catching rats, but this too is hardly going to reverse their fortunes and make them millionaires.
As they have no land to farm, not only is their income restricted, but their diet is also limited to what they can find or catch. It is for this reason that RUHSA staff wanted to carry out a nutritional assessment and what better time to go than suppertime, when pots are steaming and people are gathering.
At first, they seem genuinely irritated to be disturbed at such a crucial moment in order to answer impertinent questions about what they eat, when, how often etc; especially as their stomachs were probably gurgling in anticipation at the smells coming from the pots and having Important People barging in simply meant a delay in tucking in.
Questions flew backwards and forwards about the contents of the pot. Did it contain enough carbs, protein, vitamins. It looked like brinjal (aubergine) at first and then I looked more closely. There was a tiny leg floating in it. Having relaxed slightly and accepted our intrusion as an inevitable delay to eating, and probably in an attempt to hurry us on our way, they offered us moresels of this delectable feast to the Honoured Guests. Of course I couldn't refuse, that would be rude and I'm always ready for new gastronomic experiences.
It tasted like chicken. Just kidding, more like pheasant and even more stringy. I think they left the skin on and I was picking squirrel fur out of my teeth for ages afterwards. It could have been much worse. The next door-neighbours were having rat curry.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Performa
This posting is not for the faint-hearted, so anyone of a queasy nature, look away now. My neighbour has been living a lie. In order for her to have her partner of several years staying in her room when he visits – they live together in Boston – she told RUHSA that they were married. Not knowing who was friend and who was foe initially she told every one the same lie. For six weeks she maintained this façade as we became friends, until one day she could bear it no longer and, with an anguished face, suddenly blurted out to me that her marriage was a farce.
Concerned, I thought she was intimating her husband was actually gay, or referring to the fact that he could only perform if she dressed up as a Buddhist nun with fishnets or some other fetish which made her outwardly normal life a falsehood.
"Oh no," I said, "what’s up?" Still with a look of complete distress, she went on.
"We not married. I lied so we could stay together." Practically in tears, she said, "I don’t even believe in marriage." I burst out laughing, it was all too much.
"You know, I don’t really care whether you are married or not, I don’t feel betrayed that you lied to me. This is not a big deal."
However, she was right to look anxious, because in India, land of Karmic destiny, no action goes unpunished. In order to reap the benefits of having lied about their marital status, she told me, they bought some home-crafted Indian condoms, called Performa, with, or so she believed, a reliable Durex label on. Stamped across the packet in bold letters, was the legend "For Sale in India Only". She foolishly ignored this and bought them anyway. They boasted that they would prolong sexual intercourse and ensure the "Lady’s" complete satisfaction, with the use of a "special" lubricant. Bonus, she thought.
The next time her "husband" came to stay they were all set. It all started out fine and sure enough, it did seem to last a bit longer. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice anything was wrong until he took the condom off.
Lying there afterwards, having a metaphorical fag, he started getting distressed. "It feel’s weird, what’s going on, it doesn’t feel normal."
"What do you mean," she asked, concerned.
"I can’t feel it properly, it feels really peculiar."
They looked closely at the packet. In tiny, tiny letters they found the reason for his feeling so odd. The "special" lubricant contained in the condoms was a local anaesthetic. He had a totally numb dick. He felt a totally numb dick. Only in India would they think that being able to go all night without feeling anything is an improvement in sexual enjoyment. Obviously, here, it’s not what you feel that counts, it’s how long you last. As if that wasn’t enough, it didn’t wear off for hours, causing more humiliation later. During the night, not being able to feel anything, he failed to notice that he had peed himself. She woke up to another anguished cry. There’s no doubt in my mind that Karma has a cruel and unusual sense of humour.
Concerned, I thought she was intimating her husband was actually gay, or referring to the fact that he could only perform if she dressed up as a Buddhist nun with fishnets or some other fetish which made her outwardly normal life a falsehood.
"Oh no," I said, "what’s up?" Still with a look of complete distress, she went on.
"We not married. I lied so we could stay together." Practically in tears, she said, "I don’t even believe in marriage." I burst out laughing, it was all too much.
"You know, I don’t really care whether you are married or not, I don’t feel betrayed that you lied to me. This is not a big deal."
However, she was right to look anxious, because in India, land of Karmic destiny, no action goes unpunished. In order to reap the benefits of having lied about their marital status, she told me, they bought some home-crafted Indian condoms, called Performa, with, or so she believed, a reliable Durex label on. Stamped across the packet in bold letters, was the legend "For Sale in India Only". She foolishly ignored this and bought them anyway. They boasted that they would prolong sexual intercourse and ensure the "Lady’s" complete satisfaction, with the use of a "special" lubricant. Bonus, she thought.
The next time her "husband" came to stay they were all set. It all started out fine and sure enough, it did seem to last a bit longer. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice anything was wrong until he took the condom off.
Lying there afterwards, having a metaphorical fag, he started getting distressed. "It feel’s weird, what’s going on, it doesn’t feel normal."
"What do you mean," she asked, concerned.
"I can’t feel it properly, it feels really peculiar."
They looked closely at the packet. In tiny, tiny letters they found the reason for his feeling so odd. The "special" lubricant contained in the condoms was a local anaesthetic. He had a totally numb dick. He felt a totally numb dick. Only in India would they think that being able to go all night without feeling anything is an improvement in sexual enjoyment. Obviously, here, it’s not what you feel that counts, it’s how long you last. As if that wasn’t enough, it didn’t wear off for hours, causing more humiliation later. During the night, not being able to feel anything, he failed to notice that he had peed himself. She woke up to another anguished cry. There’s no doubt in my mind that Karma has a cruel and unusual sense of humour.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
RUHSA Update
Including Sri Lanka and travelling with Mum and Dad, I have been away from RUHSA in one way or another for about month so when I got back there was a lot to catch up on. In order for Mum and Dad to meet as many people as possible in the short time they had, we organised a special lunch in the canteen for everyone involved in the project and of course, we went to the village to see the centre and meet some of the oldies.
Pleasingly, there has been quite some progress since my last visit. The main improvement is the addition of a temporary kitchen in the corner of the backyard. The women from the self-help group were no longer having to carry heavy pots of rice and sambar on their heads for a mile from their houses to the centre. This temporary "kitchen" consists of a concrete sheet leaning against the side of the building, propped up by two bamboo poles. I had a moment of concern when I heard the roof was asbestos, which is clearly unethical, but when I made a fuss everyone said no, no it's not asbestos it's concrete. So who knows whether it is or it isn't, but they assure me it's not, so let's hope so.
Underneath the sheeting, on the ground is a makeshift firewood stove which can cook one pot at a time. A woman is crouching down, building up the fire with sticks they've carried in as bundles on their heads and stoke the flames by blowing down an old plastic water pipe. From this raw, crude scene emanate delicious smells as the sambar gently steams to one side and the rice boils on the fire. Another woman is chopping onions, chilli and coriander to add to the pot.
Water is a huge problem for us, as Keelalathur is a drought-prone area and the government supply is insufficient. There is a 30 foot well with not a drop in it. At present we are having to buy water in pots for cooking, eating and washing from a private supplier. A final solution to this conundrum has still not been found. We are aiming for a kitchen with a working tap, but I'm not sure how we will achieve it.
As the steamy aroma of lunch wafts through the building, about 26 elderly people are sitting on mats occupied by reading newspapers, chatting, playing games with beans on a board marked out on the floor in chalk, and doing simple jigsaws. I look closer at one of the jigsaws. It is a health education puzzle. I feel it may not be in the hands of the intended target audience. As I watch, an elderly lady, with grey hair and a thin sari, shakily makes a picture of male genitalia with a condom on, bearing the legend in English and Tamil "Safe sex protects from HIV". I hope she takes note.
Whilst they wait for their lunch, Kalaimanai introduces my parents to the group. Everyone is smiling, their hands together in front of their faces, touching their foreheads with their fingers. Vannakum to Dr Arabella's Amma and Appa. There is a marked difference between the Indian and the English sexagenarians. Certainly, no-one would feel the need to start a feeding program for the visitors. Then the most amazing thing happened. One of the gentlemen stood up and spoke in Tamil. Kalaimanai translated. He was asking us if we would like to join them for lunch. How incredible is that? They are so comfortable and settled in the centre that they now regard it as their own. Being asked to share their food was an extreme honour, which we had to decline as it was the day of the special lunch at RUHSA and we were expected back, but I was deeply touched and excited by the implications of that invitation. We will have my last lunch in India together at the centre, which is fitting.
In a flurry of Vannakums (which means hello and goodbye) we take leave and go back to RUHSA. Vimala, the lady in charge of the canteen has outdone herself and prepared a delicious lunch for us. South Indian food is very different to that found in flock-wallpapered curry houses in England. Rice is the staple and not light, elegant basmati, but stocky, slightly sticky grains which absorb the spicy sambar, a thin, lentil gravy, heavy with curry leaves and the occasional floating drumstick (a woody stalk plentiful in the area). Rasam is even thinner, called South Indian Firewater, almost a soup not a sauce, with a delicious, tart, coriander and black mustard seed flavour. Again, curry leaves float on the top, lonely for the company of other vegetables. There are overflowing dishes with carrots, chopped and cooked so they are still slightly crunchy, with onions, sesame seeds and chillies; spinach with coconut; a deep yellow potato masala, speckled with black mustard seeds, and delicious chicken lightly covered with a rich fiery tomato masala. There are two other types of rice, fried with peanuts and curd rice with pomegranate seeds. And of course poppadums. As we tuck in, I think of the elderly at Keelalathur, slightly shamed by the amount of food in front of us, but glad that they at least have something to eat at lunch.
Now Mum and Dad have left, I have been able to concentrate whole-heartedly on completing my role here at RUHSA. For the last few days, I have been compiling and updating the medical records; picking up important issues and discussing them with the other doctor on the team who is arranging referrals and investigations for those who need it. For example, the lady with a thyroid nodule will see the surgeon in a week's time; several people with high blood pressure will get regular check ups and medication. A couple of men with persistent coughs will have sputum samples to check for TB. Some have been cleared already, which is good.
On Saturday, I took everyone’s photo for their medical records. This is an unusual solution to the fact that unique identification is difficult for people who have no date of birth, address or last name. All things we take for granted in the UK. Interestingly, one lady did not recognise herself in the photo, which makes one think – if she has no mirror, how would she know what she looked like?
The final jobs include developing a questionnaire for evaluation, compiling all the meeting minutes and writing a report on the months I have been here. In addition, in my last 2 weeks, I am visiting a women’s refuge in Bangalore, going on a four day trip to the mountains and trying to meet up with Justine, which I think is going to be impossible, as she has not been in contact for weeks. She’s probably staggering around Kerala looking for vodka and samosas, oblivious to the ringing of her phone.
I have some concerns about the project once my bullying presence leaves, because each time there is a meeting, I go in thinking that we are all in agreement, but everyone is astonished by the plans when I recap the last meeting and we rehash the same ground until everyone agrees again. Between meetings, which don’t really happen when I’m not there, people carry on with their own ways not really working as a team. It’s as difficult to get a consensus on action as it is easy to get a consensus on saying yes, yes to shut me up. However, Mathew, who will be the driving force once I’ve left, and I, have drawn up a tight, manageable and logical schedule for the next 10 months with dates for reports and evaluations for which he has taken responsibility. I have his mobile and his email. I will be calling. He is scared. Very, very scared.
Pleasingly, there has been quite some progress since my last visit. The main improvement is the addition of a temporary kitchen in the corner of the backyard. The women from the self-help group were no longer having to carry heavy pots of rice and sambar on their heads for a mile from their houses to the centre. This temporary "kitchen" consists of a concrete sheet leaning against the side of the building, propped up by two bamboo poles. I had a moment of concern when I heard the roof was asbestos, which is clearly unethical, but when I made a fuss everyone said no, no it's not asbestos it's concrete. So who knows whether it is or it isn't, but they assure me it's not, so let's hope so.
Underneath the sheeting, on the ground is a makeshift firewood stove which can cook one pot at a time. A woman is crouching down, building up the fire with sticks they've carried in as bundles on their heads and stoke the flames by blowing down an old plastic water pipe. From this raw, crude scene emanate delicious smells as the sambar gently steams to one side and the rice boils on the fire. Another woman is chopping onions, chilli and coriander to add to the pot.
Water is a huge problem for us, as Keelalathur is a drought-prone area and the government supply is insufficient. There is a 30 foot well with not a drop in it. At present we are having to buy water in pots for cooking, eating and washing from a private supplier. A final solution to this conundrum has still not been found. We are aiming for a kitchen with a working tap, but I'm not sure how we will achieve it.
As the steamy aroma of lunch wafts through the building, about 26 elderly people are sitting on mats occupied by reading newspapers, chatting, playing games with beans on a board marked out on the floor in chalk, and doing simple jigsaws. I look closer at one of the jigsaws. It is a health education puzzle. I feel it may not be in the hands of the intended target audience. As I watch, an elderly lady, with grey hair and a thin sari, shakily makes a picture of male genitalia with a condom on, bearing the legend in English and Tamil "Safe sex protects from HIV". I hope she takes note.
Whilst they wait for their lunch, Kalaimanai introduces my parents to the group. Everyone is smiling, their hands together in front of their faces, touching their foreheads with their fingers. Vannakum to Dr Arabella's Amma and Appa. There is a marked difference between the Indian and the English sexagenarians. Certainly, no-one would feel the need to start a feeding program for the visitors. Then the most amazing thing happened. One of the gentlemen stood up and spoke in Tamil. Kalaimanai translated. He was asking us if we would like to join them for lunch. How incredible is that? They are so comfortable and settled in the centre that they now regard it as their own. Being asked to share their food was an extreme honour, which we had to decline as it was the day of the special lunch at RUHSA and we were expected back, but I was deeply touched and excited by the implications of that invitation. We will have my last lunch in India together at the centre, which is fitting.
In a flurry of Vannakums (which means hello and goodbye) we take leave and go back to RUHSA. Vimala, the lady in charge of the canteen has outdone herself and prepared a delicious lunch for us. South Indian food is very different to that found in flock-wallpapered curry houses in England. Rice is the staple and not light, elegant basmati, but stocky, slightly sticky grains which absorb the spicy sambar, a thin, lentil gravy, heavy with curry leaves and the occasional floating drumstick (a woody stalk plentiful in the area). Rasam is even thinner, called South Indian Firewater, almost a soup not a sauce, with a delicious, tart, coriander and black mustard seed flavour. Again, curry leaves float on the top, lonely for the company of other vegetables. There are overflowing dishes with carrots, chopped and cooked so they are still slightly crunchy, with onions, sesame seeds and chillies; spinach with coconut; a deep yellow potato masala, speckled with black mustard seeds, and delicious chicken lightly covered with a rich fiery tomato masala. There are two other types of rice, fried with peanuts and curd rice with pomegranate seeds. And of course poppadums. As we tuck in, I think of the elderly at Keelalathur, slightly shamed by the amount of food in front of us, but glad that they at least have something to eat at lunch.
Now Mum and Dad have left, I have been able to concentrate whole-heartedly on completing my role here at RUHSA. For the last few days, I have been compiling and updating the medical records; picking up important issues and discussing them with the other doctor on the team who is arranging referrals and investigations for those who need it. For example, the lady with a thyroid nodule will see the surgeon in a week's time; several people with high blood pressure will get regular check ups and medication. A couple of men with persistent coughs will have sputum samples to check for TB. Some have been cleared already, which is good.
On Saturday, I took everyone’s photo for their medical records. This is an unusual solution to the fact that unique identification is difficult for people who have no date of birth, address or last name. All things we take for granted in the UK. Interestingly, one lady did not recognise herself in the photo, which makes one think – if she has no mirror, how would she know what she looked like?
The final jobs include developing a questionnaire for evaluation, compiling all the meeting minutes and writing a report on the months I have been here. In addition, in my last 2 weeks, I am visiting a women’s refuge in Bangalore, going on a four day trip to the mountains and trying to meet up with Justine, which I think is going to be impossible, as she has not been in contact for weeks. She’s probably staggering around Kerala looking for vodka and samosas, oblivious to the ringing of her phone.
I have some concerns about the project once my bullying presence leaves, because each time there is a meeting, I go in thinking that we are all in agreement, but everyone is astonished by the plans when I recap the last meeting and we rehash the same ground until everyone agrees again. Between meetings, which don’t really happen when I’m not there, people carry on with their own ways not really working as a team. It’s as difficult to get a consensus on action as it is easy to get a consensus on saying yes, yes to shut me up. However, Mathew, who will be the driving force once I’ve left, and I, have drawn up a tight, manageable and logical schedule for the next 10 months with dates for reports and evaluations for which he has taken responsibility. I have his mobile and his email. I will be calling. He is scared. Very, very scared.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
M&D's BIA Part 2: The World’s Smallest Eggs and the World’s Largest Chandeliers
The other day, when looking in my cupboard, I found, most extraordinarily, underneath a pair of pants, what looked like two tiny birds eggs. Knowing that the hummingbird is the smallest bird in the world and that a) they are not indigenous to these parts, b) I would surely have noticed one hovering above my underwear and c) even these eggs looked too small to have come from the not enormous HB's bottom, I dismissed the idea that they were eggs, but couldn’t at all figure out what they were. Being a collectomaniac, I put them to one side and every now and then would contemplatively pick them up and roll them between my thumb and forefinger, wondering what the hell they could be. They looked a little like those mints you get in small decorative tins with an aniseed at the centre, but again, a) there was no minty smell and b) I definitely hadn’t been secreting sweets amongst my smalls. For four days, I gazed at these peculiar objects, half hoping, I think, that they would hatch and a fairy would emerge. Finally, yesterday, while trying to tidy a few bits and pieces on my desk, one of them rolled off and landed on the floor. Bugger me, it WAS an egg. A tiny, weeny splattered egg, with microscopic fragments of shell around the spilt yolk. I was, and remain, mystified. I did recall that reptiles lay eggs, but theirs are usually soft-shelled, I thought, and this egg had a shell just like a grit-eating, dolls-house bantam. Completely amazing, perhaps I have discovered a new species of Underwear Bird, which lives amongst gussets and lacy seams and is all but invisible to the naked eye. I fear that I may have disturbed the nest of the only breeding pair in the world and that my discovery will never gain recognition. If anyone else has any experience of eggs in their underwear, I would love to know.
As for the remainder of my parents' trip, it was wonderful, although it already seems an age ago. We left Ram at Agra and found Ram II at Jaipur, who was a slightly bigger toothpick. He too was very nice, but laughed less enthusiastically at my jokes. He was also frustrated because, unlike Ram I, he actually knew a thing or two about the history of Jaipur and was keen to show us around and tell us, but we spent most of the time at the local tailor so Dad could replenish his wardrobe. This meant that, whenever Ram II said, “ Where next?”, no matter what our intentions to visit monuments, sites, forts and palaces (and we did squeeze a few in) were, the answer was invariably, “Back to the tailors.” He would roll his eyes, no doubt wondering what we had brought with us in our enormous suitcases if we were so short of clothes. Shamefully, as we emerged for the last time from the tailors with 14 carrier bags full of suits, shirts, a dress or two for me and Mum and a couple of outlandish waistcoats, we gave the reputation for the profligacy of foreigners an unnecessary boost.
Before Jaipur, we visited Gwalior, which has a history spanning 1000 years, is named for a legendary hermit, Gwalipa, who cured the founder of the city, Suraj Sen, of leprosy. Not much of a reward for a good deed if you are an isolation-loving hermit, having someone found a town on the previously empty, inaccessible place you lived, but perhaps being remembered for 1000 years is some consolation for that.
Gwalior is most famous for its spectacular fort, perched high on a 100m basalt outcrop above the plain. The walls are 10m high at the edges of the rock, resulting in a sheer drop to the dusty, busy town below, scintillating through a haze of reflected sunlight and an orchestrated symphony of horns, hooters and whistles, music, shouting and laughing. The fort has been the scene of centuries of conflict between Hindu rulers - such as the Tomars; the Mughals - Babur, Shah Jehan and Jenangir all have fought battles here and the British who acceded the fort to the Maratha Scindias, still bigwigs in the town today. A Tomar Ruler, Raja Man Singh, in the fifteenth century built the majority of the fort as it stands, although there have been defence structures on the same site since Ol’ Suraj’s times and whenever the fort was taken over by new rulers, new palaces and structures were built to make their mark, resulting in an architectural timeline reflecting it’s history.
In the town, the nineteenth century Jai Vilas Palace was built for the Maharajah of Gwalior (one of the aforementioned Scindias) by his Architect, Sir Michael Filose, who is notable for having the riskiest technique for establishing roof strength. The maharajah, in a typical display of Nouveau Riche pretension, wanted his palace to house the largest chandeliers in the world. He ordered, from Venice, two enormous glass constructions of 13m width and weighing 3 tonnes each. When they arrived, although not stated exactly, we can guess that Sir Michael felt a little queasy at the prospect of dangling these gigantic objects from the ceiling. I expect they were a little pricey and would be worth considerably less if reduced to a pile of shattered glass. Luckily, he had a brainwave. He would test the strength of the roof before hanging the lights. Brilliant. Using only the best local tools and equipment, he built a ramp outside the palace and marched several of the least vertigo-suffering elephants up to the roof to ensure it could take the weight of the chandeliers. Fortunately, although we can all see how utterly flawed and foolish this plan is, the roof held and the elephants, Sir Michael’s reputation and the chandeliers were safe. Unsurprisingly, this technique did not become common architectural practice.
The rest of the trip through the North was a feast of stunning palaces, majestic forts and brilliant shopping. An unexpected delight were the step wells, unique to Gujurat, of which I had neither heard nor seen before. These step wells, called Vavs or baolis in Gujurat, are a highly decorative and ingenious way of ensuring cool water in this arid region. They tend to be built by women of high birth and serve as places of recreation as well as a source of water. Unlike the more traditional well, which is simply a shaft down to the water table, they are huge structures. One enters the Vav at ground level, then descends 30m down a series of steps and platforms in increasing coolness to the subterranean tanks of refreshing water. The different levels, all beautifully carved, serve as shady areas of recreation away from the burning Gujurati heat. Adalaj Vav, a little out of town, built by Queen Rudabai in 1499, is exquisite and is still in use today for the locals who come and sit, chatting amongst its decorated pillars and galleries.
Exhausted by all our sightseeing, we flew south to spend Dad’s 69th birthday relaxing by the beach at Mamallapuram, with which I was now thoroughly familiar, but, having saved my tour guide energies for relatives’ visits, I had yet to revisit the fabulous Pallava temples since I had been in 1989. These are a series of magnificent, naturalistic carved temples dating from the 6th century. I had been quite anxious about Mum hating the heavily stylised and over decorative Hindu sculpture, vastly different from Western European art, but these temples were so fluidly carved and lacked the grapefruit-breasted, sinuous Apsari dancing girls which abound in later temples, that she was smitten. We managed to fit it all in: shore temples, elephant sculptures, lobster, birthday cake, swimming in the sea and a bit of a tan. Not bad for 3 days. It was lovely.
Finally, they spent a few days at RUHSA seeing what I had been spending my time on for the last 7 months. The next entry is going to be a full RUHSA update so you’ll hear all about it then.
As for the remainder of my parents' trip, it was wonderful, although it already seems an age ago. We left Ram at Agra and found Ram II at Jaipur, who was a slightly bigger toothpick. He too was very nice, but laughed less enthusiastically at my jokes. He was also frustrated because, unlike Ram I, he actually knew a thing or two about the history of Jaipur and was keen to show us around and tell us, but we spent most of the time at the local tailor so Dad could replenish his wardrobe. This meant that, whenever Ram II said, “ Where next?”, no matter what our intentions to visit monuments, sites, forts and palaces (and we did squeeze a few in) were, the answer was invariably, “Back to the tailors.” He would roll his eyes, no doubt wondering what we had brought with us in our enormous suitcases if we were so short of clothes. Shamefully, as we emerged for the last time from the tailors with 14 carrier bags full of suits, shirts, a dress or two for me and Mum and a couple of outlandish waistcoats, we gave the reputation for the profligacy of foreigners an unnecessary boost.
Before Jaipur, we visited Gwalior, which has a history spanning 1000 years, is named for a legendary hermit, Gwalipa, who cured the founder of the city, Suraj Sen, of leprosy. Not much of a reward for a good deed if you are an isolation-loving hermit, having someone found a town on the previously empty, inaccessible place you lived, but perhaps being remembered for 1000 years is some consolation for that.
Gwalior is most famous for its spectacular fort, perched high on a 100m basalt outcrop above the plain. The walls are 10m high at the edges of the rock, resulting in a sheer drop to the dusty, busy town below, scintillating through a haze of reflected sunlight and an orchestrated symphony of horns, hooters and whistles, music, shouting and laughing. The fort has been the scene of centuries of conflict between Hindu rulers - such as the Tomars; the Mughals - Babur, Shah Jehan and Jenangir all have fought battles here and the British who acceded the fort to the Maratha Scindias, still bigwigs in the town today. A Tomar Ruler, Raja Man Singh, in the fifteenth century built the majority of the fort as it stands, although there have been defence structures on the same site since Ol’ Suraj’s times and whenever the fort was taken over by new rulers, new palaces and structures were built to make their mark, resulting in an architectural timeline reflecting it’s history.
In the town, the nineteenth century Jai Vilas Palace was built for the Maharajah of Gwalior (one of the aforementioned Scindias) by his Architect, Sir Michael Filose, who is notable for having the riskiest technique for establishing roof strength. The maharajah, in a typical display of Nouveau Riche pretension, wanted his palace to house the largest chandeliers in the world. He ordered, from Venice, two enormous glass constructions of 13m width and weighing 3 tonnes each. When they arrived, although not stated exactly, we can guess that Sir Michael felt a little queasy at the prospect of dangling these gigantic objects from the ceiling. I expect they were a little pricey and would be worth considerably less if reduced to a pile of shattered glass. Luckily, he had a brainwave. He would test the strength of the roof before hanging the lights. Brilliant. Using only the best local tools and equipment, he built a ramp outside the palace and marched several of the least vertigo-suffering elephants up to the roof to ensure it could take the weight of the chandeliers. Fortunately, although we can all see how utterly flawed and foolish this plan is, the roof held and the elephants, Sir Michael’s reputation and the chandeliers were safe. Unsurprisingly, this technique did not become common architectural practice.
The rest of the trip through the North was a feast of stunning palaces, majestic forts and brilliant shopping. An unexpected delight were the step wells, unique to Gujurat, of which I had neither heard nor seen before. These step wells, called Vavs or baolis in Gujurat, are a highly decorative and ingenious way of ensuring cool water in this arid region. They tend to be built by women of high birth and serve as places of recreation as well as a source of water. Unlike the more traditional well, which is simply a shaft down to the water table, they are huge structures. One enters the Vav at ground level, then descends 30m down a series of steps and platforms in increasing coolness to the subterranean tanks of refreshing water. The different levels, all beautifully carved, serve as shady areas of recreation away from the burning Gujurati heat. Adalaj Vav, a little out of town, built by Queen Rudabai in 1499, is exquisite and is still in use today for the locals who come and sit, chatting amongst its decorated pillars and galleries.
Exhausted by all our sightseeing, we flew south to spend Dad’s 69th birthday relaxing by the beach at Mamallapuram, with which I was now thoroughly familiar, but, having saved my tour guide energies for relatives’ visits, I had yet to revisit the fabulous Pallava temples since I had been in 1989. These are a series of magnificent, naturalistic carved temples dating from the 6th century. I had been quite anxious about Mum hating the heavily stylised and over decorative Hindu sculpture, vastly different from Western European art, but these temples were so fluidly carved and lacked the grapefruit-breasted, sinuous Apsari dancing girls which abound in later temples, that she was smitten. We managed to fit it all in: shore temples, elephant sculptures, lobster, birthday cake, swimming in the sea and a bit of a tan. Not bad for 3 days. It was lovely.
Finally, they spent a few days at RUHSA seeing what I had been spending my time on for the last 7 months. The next entry is going to be a full RUHSA update so you’ll hear all about it then.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Krishna and the 60,000 Cocoa Beans
Despite Agra being a shit heap, it does have scattered within it, some quite nice buildings. Having seen the Taj in January, I was a little more composed this time, but Mum was blown away. Her first view was at sunset, glowing golden across the Yamuna river, and we raced across town to see it during the last moment of the dying sun. What is extraordinary, is that, no matter what expectations one has, no matter how many times one has seen pictures of it on Indian Restaurant walls or on boxes of joss sticks, it exceeds them all. We ended up going round separately, as we were trying to escape a phenomenally, irritating and patronisingly opinionated guide with an indifference to personal hygiene, whom the travel agency had sent without asking, so whilst he was sorting out the tickets we gave him the slip. Mum sobbed her way around clockwise, I meandered an anti-clockwise circuit and Dad raced up and back in half the time.
Next day, luckily, we had a different guide, Ram, who was fab. He was smaller than a toothpick and laughed at my jokes. I liked him. We sat in the back chatting away, with his contributions emerging somewhere from underneath my left elbow. He expressed the desire to find a beautiful English wife. I told him I’d let him know if I found anyone suitable. Of course at the monuments he was hopeless, knowing very little about any of them, but he was great at getting us from A to B weaving through tiny backstreets, seemingly half the width of the car and half filled with cows, to get from beautiful building to beautiful building in record time.
Between sites, we talked about Hinduism and the many, many gods within it. In essence, Hinduism, like Greek mythology, is based on a series of folk tales, which describe the Godly and less than Godly activities of the Holy Trinity - Brahma, the Creator, Vishnu, the Preservor and Siva the Destroyer. These three Gods are not three different Gods, but manifestations of the highest God, the Supreme Iswara or Dynamic Brahmin. The other Gods worshipped in Hinduism are all manifestations of the Holy Trinity and their consorts, Saraswathi, Lakshmi & Parvati respectively. The great advantage of this is that instead of one God being all things to all people, believers can pick and chose the God they like or relate to the best.
Shiva is probably the most popular. He's the one most like a Bollywood action hero, unpredictable, violent (remember the story of how Ganesh got his elephant head), but with oomph and pizazz. His machissmo is perfectly exemplified by the following story. Vishnu and Brahma were arguing one day when a fiery pillar appeared between them. It was so long that they could see neither top nor bottom. Forgetting their argument, they became curious about the origins of this pillar. Lord Brahma, in the guise of a swan flew upwards and Lord Vishnu as a Boar buried through the ground. For thousands of miles they travelled, but neither reached the end. Brahma, sneakily, induced a flower he had passed to lie for him and say that he had indeed reached the top. Exhausted, they returned, defeated, whereapon Shiva appeared from the midst and revealed that the pillar was his phallus, showing how futile they were against his awesome power. I mean, really. Boys and their toys. However, it does give Hindus the excuse of worshipping Shiva's Lingam (phallic symbol) and explains why there are few temples to Brahma, which was a result of his lying about having reached the top.
Vishnu and his incarnations or Avatars, for example Rama and Krishna, are almost as popular as Shiva. Lord Krishma is the blue one, who's very cheeky and Rama is the one who defeated the Demon Ravanna who had stolen his wife and taken her to Sri Lanka.
I asked Ram who his favourite God was. He said Krishna. In reverential tones, he described how Krishna was like a Playboy; a prankster who played the flute so beautifully that women fell instantly in love with him (Ram was learning the flute). Once he saw some women swimming and he stole their clothes so they had to climb out of the water naked whilst he was watching from a tree. Instead of being furious at his childish behaviour, they gathered around and let him have his wicked way with all of them. With immense pride and not a little envy, Ram told me that Krishna, due to his irrisistable ways, had 60,000 Cocoa Beans. I was incensed, imagining that this was a derogative term for small brown women who lay about doing not much but awaiting the pleasure of their Lord and Master.
"You can't talk about women like that," I said, "and anyway, no English wife would tolerate being called a Cocoa Bean and certainly wouldn't allow you have have other Cocoa Beans on the side."
We wandered around the stunning baby Taj and the majestic Red Fort, with me tutting every now and then, muttering, "Cocoa Beans, indeed!" under my breath. Especially as we heard that having Cocoa Beans seemed to be a national pastime. In the Red Fort, we learnt that Shah Jehan's last days, as he wandered broken-hearted around his prison overlooking the Taj Mahal where the love of his life lay, was consoled by 5,000 Cocoa beans. Akbar, was also a big Cocoa Bean fan. He had three official wives, but he secreted a few Cocoa Beans in between times.
Three days later, we realised he had been trying to say concubines.
Next day, luckily, we had a different guide, Ram, who was fab. He was smaller than a toothpick and laughed at my jokes. I liked him. We sat in the back chatting away, with his contributions emerging somewhere from underneath my left elbow. He expressed the desire to find a beautiful English wife. I told him I’d let him know if I found anyone suitable. Of course at the monuments he was hopeless, knowing very little about any of them, but he was great at getting us from A to B weaving through tiny backstreets, seemingly half the width of the car and half filled with cows, to get from beautiful building to beautiful building in record time.
Between sites, we talked about Hinduism and the many, many gods within it. In essence, Hinduism, like Greek mythology, is based on a series of folk tales, which describe the Godly and less than Godly activities of the Holy Trinity - Brahma, the Creator, Vishnu, the Preservor and Siva the Destroyer. These three Gods are not three different Gods, but manifestations of the highest God, the Supreme Iswara or Dynamic Brahmin. The other Gods worshipped in Hinduism are all manifestations of the Holy Trinity and their consorts, Saraswathi, Lakshmi & Parvati respectively. The great advantage of this is that instead of one God being all things to all people, believers can pick and chose the God they like or relate to the best.
Shiva is probably the most popular. He's the one most like a Bollywood action hero, unpredictable, violent (remember the story of how Ganesh got his elephant head), but with oomph and pizazz. His machissmo is perfectly exemplified by the following story. Vishnu and Brahma were arguing one day when a fiery pillar appeared between them. It was so long that they could see neither top nor bottom. Forgetting their argument, they became curious about the origins of this pillar. Lord Brahma, in the guise of a swan flew upwards and Lord Vishnu as a Boar buried through the ground. For thousands of miles they travelled, but neither reached the end. Brahma, sneakily, induced a flower he had passed to lie for him and say that he had indeed reached the top. Exhausted, they returned, defeated, whereapon Shiva appeared from the midst and revealed that the pillar was his phallus, showing how futile they were against his awesome power. I mean, really. Boys and their toys. However, it does give Hindus the excuse of worshipping Shiva's Lingam (phallic symbol) and explains why there are few temples to Brahma, which was a result of his lying about having reached the top.
Vishnu and his incarnations or Avatars, for example Rama and Krishna, are almost as popular as Shiva. Lord Krishma is the blue one, who's very cheeky and Rama is the one who defeated the Demon Ravanna who had stolen his wife and taken her to Sri Lanka.
I asked Ram who his favourite God was. He said Krishna. In reverential tones, he described how Krishna was like a Playboy; a prankster who played the flute so beautifully that women fell instantly in love with him (Ram was learning the flute). Once he saw some women swimming and he stole their clothes so they had to climb out of the water naked whilst he was watching from a tree. Instead of being furious at his childish behaviour, they gathered around and let him have his wicked way with all of them. With immense pride and not a little envy, Ram told me that Krishna, due to his irrisistable ways, had 60,000 Cocoa Beans. I was incensed, imagining that this was a derogative term for small brown women who lay about doing not much but awaiting the pleasure of their Lord and Master.
"You can't talk about women like that," I said, "and anyway, no English wife would tolerate being called a Cocoa Bean and certainly wouldn't allow you have have other Cocoa Beans on the side."
We wandered around the stunning baby Taj and the majestic Red Fort, with me tutting every now and then, muttering, "Cocoa Beans, indeed!" under my breath. Especially as we heard that having Cocoa Beans seemed to be a national pastime. In the Red Fort, we learnt that Shah Jehan's last days, as he wandered broken-hearted around his prison overlooking the Taj Mahal where the love of his life lay, was consoled by 5,000 Cocoa beans. Akbar, was also a big Cocoa Bean fan. He had three official wives, but he secreted a few Cocoa Beans in between times.
Three days later, we realised he had been trying to say concubines.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Mum and Dad’s Big Indian Adventure: Part One
Mum and Dad: First day of their Big Indian Adventure
I have just had a fabulous 3 weeks with Mum and Dad, travelling around India from Delhi to Gwalior, Jaipur to Ahmedabad and Mamallapuram to Vellore. I have been having so much fun that I haven’t had a chance to write anything on my blog for weeks. Also, it must be confessed, despite being nearer 40 than college age, I had an essay crisis, so any writing to be done had to be in the context of International primary care and not telling joyful tales of guides called Ram and unlit camels coming towards us on the wrong side of the dual carriageway. Finally, at 0713 this morning after a non-stop marathon of writing during the night, which has the distinct advantage of being so much cooler than the day, I sent in my essay, a mere 7 days overdue. So now, I can settle down and tell you all about Mum and Dad’s Big Indian Adventure.
I left you last at Hotel Singh, awaiting their arrival. Shortly later, I went to the airport to pick them up with our driver for the week ahead who was called Ajay and utterly adorable. He only spoke Hindi at first, and my only Hindi phrase is hum shakakari hai, which means, I am a vegetarian. Not very useful for giving directions, but it did lead me to discover early on that Ajay was full shakahari (vegan) – and also learned the slightly more truthful phrase hum masahari hai, which means, I am a non-vegetarian. Actually I discovered that he spoke fluent pidgin English, which I too have learnt since being here, so, much to the amusement of my parents who could neither understand him nor make themselves understood, we had lengthy conversations, both sounding like Peter Sellers.
After meeting M & D at the airport, looking as everyone does on arrival, slightly shell-shocked and ruffled, we went straight to the hotel. The next morning, it was clear the Rain Goddess had arrived. I woke to the unmistakable and unseasonal sound of wet tyres rolling along wet tarmac.
It’s amazing, we really should market Mum to sub-Saharan Africa and other drought-prone areas, because, regardless of how long it is since they saw a molecule of water dropping from the sky, as soon as Mum arrives anywhere it pours. Every holiday she has taken is punctuated by expletives from her and gasps of astonishment from the locals who say things like, “It hasn’t rained in July in the desert before in living memory.” Luckily, it didn’t last long and apart from a downpour in Udaipur (another drought-prone area, in fact a few years ago the lake dried up completely) the weather was lovely.
Delhi is a strange introduction to India. It’s oddly soulless compared to other places, but in some ways, not being as full frontal as, say Mumbai or Chennai, makes it a little easier on novice initiates. The most Indian thing about it of course is the traffic, which astonished Mum and Dad from the beginning. Ajay, knew how wide his car was to the millimetre (I think he had whiskers attached to the front) so he would weave into tiny gaps between buses and lorries without breaking pace, honking indignantly, as if it was his right of way to make a fifteenth lane amidst standing traffic. Mum spent a lot of time clutching the seat in front of her whenever a dog/cow/goat/person/rickshaw sauntered across his path as if they were going for a stroll in a meadow, but Ajay, with the enthusiasm, if not the skill of Ayrton Senna, missed them all. It seems at first, as one’s head reels from the cacophony of horns, hooters, whistles, bells and other peepi-peepi devices, as if no one is paying any attention to the noise, which seems a reasonable tactic for preservation of sanity, but actually, it causes a barely perceptible, but definite drift to the left.
Through the amazement of Mum and Dad I was reacquainted with the hilarity of cyclists coming towards you through thick lanes of traffic, of camels and elephants on the road with no headlights, of mopeds carrying whole families including furniture, of rickshaws bulging with schoolchildren, of buses carrying as many people outside as English buses carry inside and the hair-raising experience of being inside a vehicle in the midst of this chaos. Dad had the most brilliant idea. He is hoping to introduce in parliament at the first opportunity a bill proposing that anyone who is convicted of road rage in the UK has to come to India, at their own expense, and spend a week driving around Delhi. They will either die of apoplexy in the first day or learn inner tranquility for survival.
On day one, mindful of the lure of Indian handicrafts and shopping opportunities, Mum said very firmly that she wasn’t going to make any purchases until she had “got her eye in”. Very sensible, I agreed, it’s easy to be taken for a ride in the first days when you’ve got no idea of the real price of things. Dad had no such reservations. His day’s tally was one briefcase, one shawl, one emerald and diamond ring, one wallet and 24 handkerchiefs. His shopping continued at roughly the same pace throughout the trip.
In Delhi, we saw many and varied sites. We started at India Gate and then drove up to Raisana Hill, where British architects Sir Edward Lutyens and Herbert Baker, instructed to design a new capital for India in 1911, built, in my view, quite heavy neo-classical administrative buildings. They are stretched out in uncharacterististic spaciousness amidst elegant Mughal style gardens, with rows of Ambassador cars parked in front of the Embassy, which amused me.
Your Ambassador, Ambassador.
Monsieur Ambassador, with this Ambassador you are really spoiling us. etc etc
Of course the buildings turned out to be extortionate to build and the British only got a few years out of them. However, whilst occupying them, they employed 340 gardeners of whom 50, apparently, were bird scarers. This job is still available for the ambitious in India today. We saw some in the gardens of the more lavish hotels we visited. Usually, the post involved walking round and round languidly waving a white flag about, which the pigeons ignored. One, who was obviously high up in the ranks of Bird Scaredom, had a catapult.
My favourite site in Delhi was the beautiful octagonal tomb of Isa Khan. He was an Afghan nobleman involved in Sher Shah's coup which resulted in the interruption of the Mughal dynasty for over a decade. Ironically, it is in the gardens where the Mughal he helped displace, Humayan, the second great moghul and grandfather of the Taj creator, Shah Jehan, also has a tomb. Humayan's tomb is much grander and heavier and was built by his favourite (!) wife. Isa Khan's tomb was built many years before the Taj but has the same lightness about it. Humayan's barber also has a tomb in the same complex.
We left Delhi after two days, having stayed in on of my favourite hotels of the trip, mainly because I had a bed the size of my whole room at RUHSA and of a delicious softness. Also, the room service menu was joyous. On the front it said:
For room service ring 7. For delayed service (if any) ring 14 or 9.
I was very tempted to ring 14 when I couldn’t decide if I wanted a sandwich or not. I thought maybe by the time it arrived I would be hungry, but then I wouldn’t really care if it didn’t come at all.
After Delhi we moved onto Agra, which is basically a shit heap so we stayed in our poshest hotel of the whole trip, the Trident Hilton. It was really quite posh, but there was still an Indian flavour, as demonstrated by the fourteen year old receptionist who said when I came in dressed in a Salwar Kameez - "Oh! You look really strange in Indian Dress."
I suggested he might need to polish up his welcoming repartee for the sake of improved customer relations.
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