Whilst in Bangalore, I visited Celine who runs Karuna Niwas, the Home of Compassion, for women. It was her 21st anniversary on Tuesday and was having a celebratory mass to which I was invited. I have never been to a Catholic mass, and not strictly being a believer, I was nervous about going because I felt like it was slightly dishonest. Having said that, I know that she expects no Damascene conversions. Her faith is unassailable and has enabled her to do incredible things, but she judges no-one for their beliefs. It was important to her, she had asked me, so I went.
She was as extraordinary and vibrant as ever. She had arranged for a priest from the US to come and conduct mass for her, which he did, travelling from the US to Bangalore via Kenya and Kerala, staying for one night - actually a total of 10 hours only - before flying up to Nagarland in the North East of India. He was called Father Joseph and was a bouncing bundle of enthusiasm and non-stop chatter. He was accompanied by his polar opposite. A dour man, whose face only lit up when he smiled, called Father Xavier, from Mexico.
Upstairs, Celine has built a chapel where mass is said daily. Several of her women, no doubt inspired by the energies and compassion of the woman who saved them from the strictures and judgements of their own culture, have converted to christianity. But many women don't. We entered the small, modest chapel with a small sea of a different sort of chappel outside. A couple of Christmas decorations hung on the green, plain walls and a verse from the bible was spelled out in fluorescent polystyrene letters on the purlins facing the congergation. There were about 10 women and 8 children inside, waiting quietly. Celine's cousin was also present. She is a nun who made it all the way through and she works in an addiction centre nearby, treating and supporting alcoholics from the local community.
Father Joseph started the service as Xavier was still struggling into his cassock. As he talked movingly about Celine's work and the strength of God's Love, the women sat, transfixed by his voice if not his words. The hymns were sung with great force and the reverberations around the tiny room lingered long after the last note left our throats. It was very moving to be in the presence of people who had such a strong faith. After the short service, during which Father Joseph prayed several times that everyone should have a good and deep sleep that night, subconsciously echoing his own heartfelt desires, the women and children lined up to be blessed by him.
In turn, each came forward and Celine said a few words. Father Joseph was quick to understand their needs and bless them accordingly. A young girl, with learning difficulties, who had just given up her baby for adoption, was blessed for the courage of her difficult decision and the care she took of her baby in the womb. For a Celine's beautiful assistant who has a hand deformity, he prayed that her compassion and caring keep her strong and not tire out. He noted in the eyes of one woman a lost hopelessness and he urged God to help her follow the dreams she held in her heart. To the two young children who had witnessed their father burning their mother to death, he prayed that they should grow strong and happy in the caring environment they found there and be extraordinary people. For Celine, there was a special blessing. As she knelt on the floor, everyone gathered round and placed their hands on her. I found the whole experience very moving. Not because of what it meant to me, I still am an ish-believer, but because of the incredible effect it had on everyone else who was there. There was such a strong sense of belonging and selfless love radiating from Celine which energised everyone in the room. I know that others felt that this was God's presence, but it seemd to me to have a much more mortal origin. Nonetheless, I found myself deeply moved. Sadly, my time there was too short as we all left the next morning at 7 to catch our various forms of transport to toher parts of the country - Celine by bus to Kerala, myself by train to Vellore and the two priests by plane to Nagarland.
Also, whilst in Bangalore, I drafted a letter to KRJ to vent my spleen and, in a polite and respectful way, to find out how the land really lay. After my nose-bubble episode I felt generally much calmer about it and, perhaps if I had been someone else I might have ignored it and just carried on. But, I felt that to do that would be to miss an opportunity to clarify my position and to squander bridges I had spent 8 months building. On my return, I hand delivered it to his home, phoned him to tell him it was there and made an arrangement to see him to discuss its contents.
The next day I met an entirely different KRJ. He was smiling, appreciative and thanked me for my "well-constructed letter, with valid points". He was (rather too) complimentary, which as always is very effective at diffusing problem situations and we agreed to move forwards amicably, making plans to construct an International Visitors' Hostel at RUHSA, so there are proper facilities and fewer stupid rules. He then and there arranged a meeting with the KPP team to discuss the forthcoming evaluation. He told Mathew he should stay behind and not come to Delhi and we made great progress not only with our plans, but also for an external evaluating team to assess the project, which is fantastic. Of course we are all subconsciously going to put a positive spin on things, so to have an independent view of how the project has been for the last year is a fantastic move. I hope they don't discover it's been pointless!
Meanwhile, there had been a few underground team meetings before this new spirit of reconciliation and the evaluation had begun. I have been out to the village several times to carry out repeat nutritional measures, like weight, mid-arm circumference and calf circumference. Interestingly, the weights and CCs seem to have fallen but the MACs have increased. They need to be analysed statistically and take into account the normal changes of aging, but they are interesting findings so far. By some measures, the MAC is the most sensitive marker of nutritional status, measuring muscle bulk and subcutaneous fat, so it is interesting that this one alone seems to have increased. The elderly are reporting that they are more mobile than before which might contribute to weight loss, but we will have to wait for the results of the BREF questionnaire which measures perceptions about physical, psychological social and functional well-being to see whether they really feel better, as they seem to us - with our rosy-coloured spectacles.
The full evaluation will comprise, in addition to the nutritional measures and BREF questionnaire, an individual, open feedback questionnaire and focus group discussions to find out the elderly members perceptions of the role, future and their contribution to the centre. We hope to be able to come to some clear conclusions about the success of this project as a pilot study to set up other community centres for the elderly, as well as those about the future for this centre involving greater community involvement and some sustainability measures.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Pucking brilliant
Owing to all the RUHSA shennanigans coinciding with Pongal, which is the three day Tamil festival involving cow decorating, coloured chalk floor patterns and bull racing, it was a good time to get away. There was a fabulous interpretation of A Midsummer Night's Dream touring in Bangalore, directed by an Englishman, Tim Supple, drawing from all sources of traditional, modern, formal and street Indian theatre, so we decided to go.
Once again I found myself on the train, biddledeeing to Bangalore. This time, despite being told I was in the Ladies compartment, and paying a supplement of 20p for the priviledge, I was in a packed mixed carriage mostly full of laughing, chattering muslim men who all seemed to know each other. Protecting their wives from the horror and dishonour of sitting next to a strange man, and the wives being occupied with looking after the children and the widowed mothers, all the men sat on the aisle seats, leaning across to each other at the crossroads, discussing, laughing, slapping thighs and exchanging snacks with noisy freedom. Occasional timid taps, eliciting brief glances back towards their families, would barely ripple the torrent of male ebullience.
The women sat in purdah, pale hands stroking childrens' liberated arms; sometimes a glint revealing the direction of a look. I noticed how hard work it was to eat a packet of crisps when wearing a burka. It reminded me of a cake in a play which, unsure of the scene it was supposed to be in, slid backwards and forwards under the curtains whilst disembodied hands debated its destination. There is an assumption that nothing but unparrallelled beauty lies behind the veil. Catching an unexpected glimpse during a quick adjustment revealed no kohl-eyed houri, but a pleasant-faced ordinary looking woman with intelligent eyes. It was interesting to observe this gender separation in the light of events at RUHSA. Respect and freedom always make uncomfortable bed-fellows, but here their ill-suitedness is much more apparent.
In Bangalore, the play was an extraordinary experience. (Click on title link to see the advert). The director spent a year travelling around mostly South India learning about Indian theatre cultures and recruiting actors from all around. The result is spectacular. I had never heard about it (I don't think it made the Coro in Ulverston), but it had a sell-out tour in the UK twice since 2006.
It is spoken in 8 different languages, English, and seven Indian languages. Four from South India - Kannada, Tamil, Malayallam and Marathi - another from Sri Lanka- Singhalese - and two fromm North India - Hindi and Bengali. Each actor speaks in his mother tongue and English. As Shakespeare is pretty linguistically inaccessible anyway for the average bod (myself included), the concentration levels required are no greater. In fact it becomes a little bit like watching Pingu - you are totally convinced you can understand what they are saying anyway. It was fabulous to have fully gusty aufdience laughter after some of the Indian lines, it provided fabulous glue between the switching dialects.
The staging was intriguing. A bamboo scafffolding covered in white paper provided the backdrop to a sandy-floored semi-circle with ropes and silken sheets hanging down. As the play starts set in the human world, the acting is prosaic and posturing. The players are dressed in stiff clothing and moved formally. The Athenians rules and dictates are established. When the lovers Hermia and Lysander run away to the forest, as the story descends further into fantasy, the movements become more fluids, the clothing becomes freer and all the dimensions of the stage space are used. The fairies, led by a brilliant Puck (with a very cute, tiny pot-belly to add to his sense of mischief) burst through the paper on the scaffolding at all levels and scramble on the frame like bees on a comb. As Titania's fairies and Oberon's sprites clash, with clattering sticks they roll on the floor, dust clouding in the lights and with astonishing agility they use the rope and silks to create the illusion of moving through the air as acrobatically as mosquitos
Each actor brought a different kind of theatre to their role. There were dancers with elegant movements, comics with grandiose gestures, actors with dignified stature, gymnasts with dazzling bravery and straight-men with perfect timing. It was wonderful seeing this with an Indian audience, because it emphasised and highlighted how each language created a cultural difference between characters. And it was so funny. Really, very, very funny, yaar.
Once again I found myself on the train, biddledeeing to Bangalore. This time, despite being told I was in the Ladies compartment, and paying a supplement of 20p for the priviledge, I was in a packed mixed carriage mostly full of laughing, chattering muslim men who all seemed to know each other. Protecting their wives from the horror and dishonour of sitting next to a strange man, and the wives being occupied with looking after the children and the widowed mothers, all the men sat on the aisle seats, leaning across to each other at the crossroads, discussing, laughing, slapping thighs and exchanging snacks with noisy freedom. Occasional timid taps, eliciting brief glances back towards their families, would barely ripple the torrent of male ebullience.
The women sat in purdah, pale hands stroking childrens' liberated arms; sometimes a glint revealing the direction of a look. I noticed how hard work it was to eat a packet of crisps when wearing a burka. It reminded me of a cake in a play which, unsure of the scene it was supposed to be in, slid backwards and forwards under the curtains whilst disembodied hands debated its destination. There is an assumption that nothing but unparrallelled beauty lies behind the veil. Catching an unexpected glimpse during a quick adjustment revealed no kohl-eyed houri, but a pleasant-faced ordinary looking woman with intelligent eyes. It was interesting to observe this gender separation in the light of events at RUHSA. Respect and freedom always make uncomfortable bed-fellows, but here their ill-suitedness is much more apparent.
In Bangalore, the play was an extraordinary experience. (Click on title link to see the advert). The director spent a year travelling around mostly South India learning about Indian theatre cultures and recruiting actors from all around. The result is spectacular. I had never heard about it (I don't think it made the Coro in Ulverston), but it had a sell-out tour in the UK twice since 2006.
It is spoken in 8 different languages, English, and seven Indian languages. Four from South India - Kannada, Tamil, Malayallam and Marathi - another from Sri Lanka- Singhalese - and two fromm North India - Hindi and Bengali. Each actor speaks in his mother tongue and English. As Shakespeare is pretty linguistically inaccessible anyway for the average bod (myself included), the concentration levels required are no greater. In fact it becomes a little bit like watching Pingu - you are totally convinced you can understand what they are saying anyway. It was fabulous to have fully gusty aufdience laughter after some of the Indian lines, it provided fabulous glue between the switching dialects.
The staging was intriguing. A bamboo scafffolding covered in white paper provided the backdrop to a sandy-floored semi-circle with ropes and silken sheets hanging down. As the play starts set in the human world, the acting is prosaic and posturing. The players are dressed in stiff clothing and moved formally. The Athenians rules and dictates are established. When the lovers Hermia and Lysander run away to the forest, as the story descends further into fantasy, the movements become more fluids, the clothing becomes freer and all the dimensions of the stage space are used. The fairies, led by a brilliant Puck (with a very cute, tiny pot-belly to add to his sense of mischief) burst through the paper on the scaffolding at all levels and scramble on the frame like bees on a comb. As Titania's fairies and Oberon's sprites clash, with clattering sticks they roll on the floor, dust clouding in the lights and with astonishing agility they use the rope and silks to create the illusion of moving through the air as acrobatically as mosquitos
Each actor brought a different kind of theatre to their role. There were dancers with elegant movements, comics with grandiose gestures, actors with dignified stature, gymnasts with dazzling bravery and straight-men with perfect timing. It was wonderful seeing this with an Indian audience, because it emphasised and highlighted how each language created a cultural difference between characters. And it was so funny. Really, very, very funny, yaar.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Mixed reception at RUHSA
My first full day at RUHSA, ignoring a few details, was, until 9.30 in the evening, a great day.
Firstly, in the morning I walked around the campus wishing old friends and familiar faces a Happy New Year. Mathew, the main project co-ordinator was especially pleased to see me and we had a lovely chat. We made plans for what I would do in my three and a half weeks there. He was keen to get the evaluation done and also to formalise some income generation programs for the elderly so that they cane start contributing back to the project. I felt very positive and was glad I had come back.
I had still not seen Dr John. I finally caught up with him. He gave me a cool greeting, merely mentioning that he had been very anxious about me travelling to the airport (9 months ago) by rickshaw. Slightly puzzled by this belated and unexpected concern I assured him that I had arrived safely and that all was well. As I had emailed him several times during the year and he had not mentioned it in any of his letters, I wondered vaguely why this sudden enquiry.
Dr William Cutting, one of the main trustees and original members of VRCT, the agency in UK who have been funding RUHSA for the last 30 years, and his wife, Margot, arrived in RUHSA for an annual 2 day visit to see how things have been getting on. A detailed and comprehensive agenda for their two days was planned. Ignoring the fact that my arrival was anticipated with a smaller fanfare than an ant's fart, I tagged along with them for the day.
One of the main items on the agenda, was the official opening by William of the Keelalathur kitchen, which had finally been built. A plaque was unveiled stating this fact. I went along, and was so delighted to see all the elderly people, Muniammal, Sukkupattu, Perimmal, Kriashna, Venugopal, amongst others, looking so happy. There were limitless Vannakums, big beaming smiles and general head wobbling all round for a good half an hour. Anytime I caught anyone's eye the whole process started again until my head was ready to drop off and my cheeks got cramp.
Another UK visitor from VRCT had personally contributed a goat to each of the elderly people and today was the day that they were officially given ownership. They had gone with a vet plus a staff member of RUHSA to chose and bargain for their own goat and they were sooooooo proud of their little bleating cuties on a rope. They get the goat free but they give RUHSA back ther first female kid so the gift can be passed on to others.
Several of the elderly people stood up and made speeches, they were confident and happy. A woman showed us some of the exercises she had been taught and said how they had improved her pain from arthritis. One of the more educated men is literate and reads the newspaper to the rest of the group. I had sent some jigsaw puzzles out which they were enjoying. One was a map of the world and one of the group pointed out India with pride. Trying to find the dot that is the UK, I showed them where I lived (they looked a bit surprised at its minuteness). All in all it was very rewarding to see that they all still come, some have had successful health interventions like operations, spectacles, hearing aids and they all looked much less downtrodden than they had a year ago.
After lunch we visited the next village, Sholampur, where they are planning the next elderly welfare program. Firstly there was a meeting of all the elderly to hear about their problems and issues. The contrast between the Keelalathur villagers and these people was marked. This dejected grubby disempowered group was how the first group had been before we started the program. It showed so clearly how far they have come and, if nothing else, how much improvement can be gained by showing an interest in people. At the end of the day we were buzzing about how much benefit simple interventions could produce. Listening to the elderly and giving them a sense of being valued provides great help for the most vulnerable and poorest members of a social structre where there is increasing family disintegration.
William, Margot and myself chatted in the evening about the implications of all we had seen that day. Then came the bombshell. Very tactfully, William said that Dr John had been concerned about my coming back to RUHSA because he had heard all sorts of rumours about my inappropriate behaviour - like having men in my room. I bloody wish. It had been like living in a convent the entire time I had been here I was not even free to talk to men without someone lurking in the bushes watching for any signs of impropriety. Of course, being English and having actually met members of the male sex without resorting to unsolicited lust, I do tend to talk to them in a manner which might seem forward when compared with that of the rural village women's. But we are not talking about a rural village man, we are talking about an educated doctor who should be able to make the distinction between the falsehoood of catty rumours founded on jealousy and the truth of the results of all the work I put into the project over a period of 8 months.
Initially, I laughed it off, it was so unexpected and, I thought, utterly ridiulous, that it barely warranted attention. And then I began to stew. And steam. How dare somebody negate and dismiss everything I had done for this. How dare I be marginalised, like some Fallen Woman in the eyes of the Righteous, how dare all this happen without anyone being adult enough to confront me with their concerns. How dare men be so disgustingly hypocritical and judgemental.
It was then that I made a personal discovery which I'm sure anyone who knows me has realised at least 30 years ago, maybe more, which is that I am a bit of an emotional steamroller and once I set off in a direction I can't really stop. All fine and good if it's positive energy and enthusiasm. All a bit messy if it's fury and tears. By the afternoon of the next day I was in unstoppable mode, startling several people with my scarlet face and enormous nose (it always swells when I cry). I went to talk to Dr Cutting to see what I could do about it, because by this stage I was totally incapable of being rational and I did suspect that if I had a "chat" with Dr John it would get seriously out of hand.
I went in calm. For 2 nanoseconds. Then I started hiccuping gently, then not so gently. He had removed his hearing aids to have a snooze (which I disturbed) and the lighting was low, so neither hearing nor seeing very clearly he started some banal chit chat, with his wife, in her soft Edinburgh tones, interrupting gently, saying, "I think she's a wee bit upset, dear." They were so charming and kind and I was so unrestrained and noisy in my sobs (I think I even blew a nose bubble at one point), but the combination of calm (from them) and pressure release (from me) finally allowed me to simmer down enough to be civil enough to Dr John when I next saw him - about 10 minutes later- and Blessed Margot later seriously ticked him off for not appreciating all the work I had done and continued to do. So, it is all fine now. I feel fine about it and I think this is a good test for me. It represents several issues to negotiate - religious, cultural and cross-gender jealousies and it is very interesting to see how things work and learn from them.
Firstly, in the morning I walked around the campus wishing old friends and familiar faces a Happy New Year. Mathew, the main project co-ordinator was especially pleased to see me and we had a lovely chat. We made plans for what I would do in my three and a half weeks there. He was keen to get the evaluation done and also to formalise some income generation programs for the elderly so that they cane start contributing back to the project. I felt very positive and was glad I had come back.
I had still not seen Dr John. I finally caught up with him. He gave me a cool greeting, merely mentioning that he had been very anxious about me travelling to the airport (9 months ago) by rickshaw. Slightly puzzled by this belated and unexpected concern I assured him that I had arrived safely and that all was well. As I had emailed him several times during the year and he had not mentioned it in any of his letters, I wondered vaguely why this sudden enquiry.
Dr William Cutting, one of the main trustees and original members of VRCT, the agency in UK who have been funding RUHSA for the last 30 years, and his wife, Margot, arrived in RUHSA for an annual 2 day visit to see how things have been getting on. A detailed and comprehensive agenda for their two days was planned. Ignoring the fact that my arrival was anticipated with a smaller fanfare than an ant's fart, I tagged along with them for the day.
One of the main items on the agenda, was the official opening by William of the Keelalathur kitchen, which had finally been built. A plaque was unveiled stating this fact. I went along, and was so delighted to see all the elderly people, Muniammal, Sukkupattu, Perimmal, Kriashna, Venugopal, amongst others, looking so happy. There were limitless Vannakums, big beaming smiles and general head wobbling all round for a good half an hour. Anytime I caught anyone's eye the whole process started again until my head was ready to drop off and my cheeks got cramp.
Another UK visitor from VRCT had personally contributed a goat to each of the elderly people and today was the day that they were officially given ownership. They had gone with a vet plus a staff member of RUHSA to chose and bargain for their own goat and they were sooooooo proud of their little bleating cuties on a rope. They get the goat free but they give RUHSA back ther first female kid so the gift can be passed on to others.
Several of the elderly people stood up and made speeches, they were confident and happy. A woman showed us some of the exercises she had been taught and said how they had improved her pain from arthritis. One of the more educated men is literate and reads the newspaper to the rest of the group. I had sent some jigsaw puzzles out which they were enjoying. One was a map of the world and one of the group pointed out India with pride. Trying to find the dot that is the UK, I showed them where I lived (they looked a bit surprised at its minuteness). All in all it was very rewarding to see that they all still come, some have had successful health interventions like operations, spectacles, hearing aids and they all looked much less downtrodden than they had a year ago.
After lunch we visited the next village, Sholampur, where they are planning the next elderly welfare program. Firstly there was a meeting of all the elderly to hear about their problems and issues. The contrast between the Keelalathur villagers and these people was marked. This dejected grubby disempowered group was how the first group had been before we started the program. It showed so clearly how far they have come and, if nothing else, how much improvement can be gained by showing an interest in people. At the end of the day we were buzzing about how much benefit simple interventions could produce. Listening to the elderly and giving them a sense of being valued provides great help for the most vulnerable and poorest members of a social structre where there is increasing family disintegration.
William, Margot and myself chatted in the evening about the implications of all we had seen that day. Then came the bombshell. Very tactfully, William said that Dr John had been concerned about my coming back to RUHSA because he had heard all sorts of rumours about my inappropriate behaviour - like having men in my room. I bloody wish. It had been like living in a convent the entire time I had been here I was not even free to talk to men without someone lurking in the bushes watching for any signs of impropriety. Of course, being English and having actually met members of the male sex without resorting to unsolicited lust, I do tend to talk to them in a manner which might seem forward when compared with that of the rural village women's. But we are not talking about a rural village man, we are talking about an educated doctor who should be able to make the distinction between the falsehoood of catty rumours founded on jealousy and the truth of the results of all the work I put into the project over a period of 8 months.
Initially, I laughed it off, it was so unexpected and, I thought, utterly ridiulous, that it barely warranted attention. And then I began to stew. And steam. How dare somebody negate and dismiss everything I had done for this. How dare I be marginalised, like some Fallen Woman in the eyes of the Righteous, how dare all this happen without anyone being adult enough to confront me with their concerns. How dare men be so disgustingly hypocritical and judgemental.
It was then that I made a personal discovery which I'm sure anyone who knows me has realised at least 30 years ago, maybe more, which is that I am a bit of an emotional steamroller and once I set off in a direction I can't really stop. All fine and good if it's positive energy and enthusiasm. All a bit messy if it's fury and tears. By the afternoon of the next day I was in unstoppable mode, startling several people with my scarlet face and enormous nose (it always swells when I cry). I went to talk to Dr Cutting to see what I could do about it, because by this stage I was totally incapable of being rational and I did suspect that if I had a "chat" with Dr John it would get seriously out of hand.
I went in calm. For 2 nanoseconds. Then I started hiccuping gently, then not so gently. He had removed his hearing aids to have a snooze (which I disturbed) and the lighting was low, so neither hearing nor seeing very clearly he started some banal chit chat, with his wife, in her soft Edinburgh tones, interrupting gently, saying, "I think she's a wee bit upset, dear." They were so charming and kind and I was so unrestrained and noisy in my sobs (I think I even blew a nose bubble at one point), but the combination of calm (from them) and pressure release (from me) finally allowed me to simmer down enough to be civil enough to Dr John when I next saw him - about 10 minutes later- and Blessed Margot later seriously ticked him off for not appreciating all the work I had done and continued to do. So, it is all fine now. I feel fine about it and I think this is a good test for me. It represents several issues to negotiate - religious, cultural and cross-gender jealousies and it is very interesting to see how things work and learn from them.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Rickshaw Ride to RUHSA
I have had a lovely, lovely time staying with Victoria who allowed me to use her house like it was my own (I have filled every inch of it with knick knacks - just kidding). It was geat fun to be with her, we spend loads of time hooting with laughter at various daft things and it's going to be strange without her company now, but I'm coming back to the theatre (v posh) at the weekend, so no need to be too sad. But now, I have finally left for RUHSA on the Brindavan Express, a massive engine dragging 28 carriages from Bangalore to Katpadi and then on to Chennai.
This trip has been strange because it feels normal to be here. There has been no adjustment to a new country like there usually is. I have barely noticed the fact that people around me are wearing saris or lunghis and not thick woolly jumpers and scarves. The traffic noise penetrates my drums by its familiar cacophony, but I walked around Bangalore like a native of the city. It did register that I ought to take care whilst walking on the pavements which are not at all like they are at home. They consist of a series of concrete blocks set in concrete with occasional gaps between them. Through these gaps, in an impenetrable blackness, an occasional gurgle can be heard, as millions of gallons of vile sewage flows under. It is a risky business walking on them, because although they look very solid and well set, every now and then there is a broken slab, often with a man-sized hole where part of it has fallen in. There is no telling what critical mass is required to break these stones, but as I have a considerably higher mass than just about every one else in India, I am not going to test the physics of it by walking on them. Consequently, the lesser of two evils, astonishingly, is to walk in the road, negotiating the lurching, swirling traffic.
Of course the train was a lovely exotic familiarity. I had three seats to myself so I spent half the time lounging against the window, luxuriating in the soft warm winter Indian sun, whilst idly watching the amazing array of hawkers weaving their way through the aisles offering a wider selection of wares than even a 24 hour Tesco.
One thing I noticed is that there is a distinct group characteristic for each of the different sellers. I know this is the country of rigid social structure, but even so it seems extraordinary to have such clear identities associated with each product. There are the official train employees who walk up and down offering food and drink – cut-ell-et; bread om-ell-et; tomato sooooop; ch-ai-ee, ch-ai-ee; sam-o-sas; cheeps, biscuits, etc etc. These are usually young men (with moustaches) and their similarities are exaggerated as they have to wear a uniform. Then there are small, delicate women carrying wide baskets mounded with fragrant rose posies and jasmine flower strings. There are wailers – usually elderly men who have been given bad career advice and, following it to the letter, now try to make a living screeching an unintelligible – from both a lyric and melody point of view – song thing. Then there are the sellers of an extraordinary selection of lurid plastic toys, which one would be disappointed to find in a budget Family Choice cracker - pairs of plastic hands on a stick which, when waved quickly make a clacky-clack sound; lethal-looking flammable dolls in short nurses uniform, with those weird pointy toes and enough nylon hair which to stuff a pillow; puny whistles; cheap Rubik’s cubes in strange colours. None of the items would ever be on anyone’s wish list, surely, these people can’t sell anything, let alone enough to support even the most meagre lifestyle. Certainly, I have never seen anyone buying anything. But the most peculiar aspect is that all these sellers – and they are on every train I have ever been on, varying only in exact variety of crap they sell – every single one is blind. I became concerned today that perhaps there was a wholesaler who sold lots of things, some good, some bad and these poor blind buggers get fobbed off with all the crap left over because they can’t tell what it is. They are probably still selling off the first lot they ever had, desperate to move on and do something more dynamic, but they can’t do until they have shifted this load of plastic dolls and fake mobile phones. Poor things. Maybe I should buy something. Any requests?
On arrival at Katpadi railway station, the nearest to RUHSA, of course I was inundated with rickshaw drivers all eager to take me somewhere for three times the local price. A shortish man wiggled his way to the front and shouted ever-decreasingly outlandish prices vociferously. Another driver leant through the throng, repeating the same prices in a slurred voice. I turned to him in surprise.
“You're drunk,” I accused.
“No, no,” he insisted, through bloodshot eyes.
Misinterpreting my disapprobation for enthusiasm and sensing a gap in the market, another man pushed forward.
“Madam, I’m drunk,” he said proudly. I told him firmly that I wasn’t actually looking for a drunk driver, which luckily cleared up that confusion, otherwise goodness knows what might have happened. Glad to have had a fortunate escape, I finally set a price with the first short man who was wearing a small pair of earmuffs. Keenly he took my bags to his rickshaw, chatting triumphantly to his defeated friends still following closely behind. We got in. He turned on the engine. He got out, gave the headlight a futile thump, shrugged and got back in.
“No light?” I asked.
“No light, madam.”
Ah. The longest and darkest road to be negotiated and no form of illumination. He stopped briefly at a rickshaw parts kiosk to see if changing the bulb improved the situation. It didn’t.
He set off unconcerned, making no concessions in either speed or in enthusiasm for veering onto the wrong side of the road. After a slightly hair-raising encounter with an unlit steam-roller, I decided to find my torch. We must have looked a strange sight- a darkened rickshaw, the driver in earmuffs, and a white arm sticking out of the top shining a torch onto the road as a makeshift headlight. It did help pick out a few invisible cyclists.
So now I am back at RUHSA in my old room, which apart from a snazzy new pair of nylon pink curtains, is otherwise sweetly familiar. The same old ryvita mattress with stripy bed linen, the concrete floor and rush broom to keep it pristine, the capacious cupboard with lime-washed shelves which leave a residue on anything that touches them, the scampering, rubbery gecko lurking by the light and of course the delicious sit-down loo. But there were a couple of notable absences, the Underwear Fairy, devoid of underwear, had obviously had to lay her fairy eggs elsewhere, but most significantly of all, not a single ant. Yet. They obviously have not been informed of my return. I wonder how long the peace will last.
This trip has been strange because it feels normal to be here. There has been no adjustment to a new country like there usually is. I have barely noticed the fact that people around me are wearing saris or lunghis and not thick woolly jumpers and scarves. The traffic noise penetrates my drums by its familiar cacophony, but I walked around Bangalore like a native of the city. It did register that I ought to take care whilst walking on the pavements which are not at all like they are at home. They consist of a series of concrete blocks set in concrete with occasional gaps between them. Through these gaps, in an impenetrable blackness, an occasional gurgle can be heard, as millions of gallons of vile sewage flows under. It is a risky business walking on them, because although they look very solid and well set, every now and then there is a broken slab, often with a man-sized hole where part of it has fallen in. There is no telling what critical mass is required to break these stones, but as I have a considerably higher mass than just about every one else in India, I am not going to test the physics of it by walking on them. Consequently, the lesser of two evils, astonishingly, is to walk in the road, negotiating the lurching, swirling traffic.
Of course the train was a lovely exotic familiarity. I had three seats to myself so I spent half the time lounging against the window, luxuriating in the soft warm winter Indian sun, whilst idly watching the amazing array of hawkers weaving their way through the aisles offering a wider selection of wares than even a 24 hour Tesco.
One thing I noticed is that there is a distinct group characteristic for each of the different sellers. I know this is the country of rigid social structure, but even so it seems extraordinary to have such clear identities associated with each product. There are the official train employees who walk up and down offering food and drink – cut-ell-et; bread om-ell-et; tomato sooooop; ch-ai-ee, ch-ai-ee; sam-o-sas; cheeps, biscuits, etc etc. These are usually young men (with moustaches) and their similarities are exaggerated as they have to wear a uniform. Then there are small, delicate women carrying wide baskets mounded with fragrant rose posies and jasmine flower strings. There are wailers – usually elderly men who have been given bad career advice and, following it to the letter, now try to make a living screeching an unintelligible – from both a lyric and melody point of view – song thing. Then there are the sellers of an extraordinary selection of lurid plastic toys, which one would be disappointed to find in a budget Family Choice cracker - pairs of plastic hands on a stick which, when waved quickly make a clacky-clack sound; lethal-looking flammable dolls in short nurses uniform, with those weird pointy toes and enough nylon hair which to stuff a pillow; puny whistles; cheap Rubik’s cubes in strange colours. None of the items would ever be on anyone’s wish list, surely, these people can’t sell anything, let alone enough to support even the most meagre lifestyle. Certainly, I have never seen anyone buying anything. But the most peculiar aspect is that all these sellers – and they are on every train I have ever been on, varying only in exact variety of crap they sell – every single one is blind. I became concerned today that perhaps there was a wholesaler who sold lots of things, some good, some bad and these poor blind buggers get fobbed off with all the crap left over because they can’t tell what it is. They are probably still selling off the first lot they ever had, desperate to move on and do something more dynamic, but they can’t do until they have shifted this load of plastic dolls and fake mobile phones. Poor things. Maybe I should buy something. Any requests?
On arrival at Katpadi railway station, the nearest to RUHSA, of course I was inundated with rickshaw drivers all eager to take me somewhere for three times the local price. A shortish man wiggled his way to the front and shouted ever-decreasingly outlandish prices vociferously. Another driver leant through the throng, repeating the same prices in a slurred voice. I turned to him in surprise.
“You're drunk,” I accused.
“No, no,” he insisted, through bloodshot eyes.
Misinterpreting my disapprobation for enthusiasm and sensing a gap in the market, another man pushed forward.
“Madam, I’m drunk,” he said proudly. I told him firmly that I wasn’t actually looking for a drunk driver, which luckily cleared up that confusion, otherwise goodness knows what might have happened. Glad to have had a fortunate escape, I finally set a price with the first short man who was wearing a small pair of earmuffs. Keenly he took my bags to his rickshaw, chatting triumphantly to his defeated friends still following closely behind. We got in. He turned on the engine. He got out, gave the headlight a futile thump, shrugged and got back in.
“No light?” I asked.
“No light, madam.”
Ah. The longest and darkest road to be negotiated and no form of illumination. He stopped briefly at a rickshaw parts kiosk to see if changing the bulb improved the situation. It didn’t.
He set off unconcerned, making no concessions in either speed or in enthusiasm for veering onto the wrong side of the road. After a slightly hair-raising encounter with an unlit steam-roller, I decided to find my torch. We must have looked a strange sight- a darkened rickshaw, the driver in earmuffs, and a white arm sticking out of the top shining a torch onto the road as a makeshift headlight. It did help pick out a few invisible cyclists.
So now I am back at RUHSA in my old room, which apart from a snazzy new pair of nylon pink curtains, is otherwise sweetly familiar. The same old ryvita mattress with stripy bed linen, the concrete floor and rush broom to keep it pristine, the capacious cupboard with lime-washed shelves which leave a residue on anything that touches them, the scampering, rubbery gecko lurking by the light and of course the delicious sit-down loo. But there were a couple of notable absences, the Underwear Fairy, devoid of underwear, had obviously had to lay her fairy eggs elsewhere, but most significantly of all, not a single ant. Yet. They obviously have not been informed of my return. I wonder how long the peace will last.
Monday, January 07, 2008
Liberated from my essay crisis
Unbelievably, despite being nearly 40 years old, I spent my first days in India under the spell of an essay crisis. But now, after a marathon 30 hours non-stop writing, apart from breaks for tea, lentils salads, Walkers shortbread biscuits, chit chats, refuelling of the rosemary essental oil burner (good for concentration apparently - made me feel like a leg of lamb) and of course loo (of the divine seated variety) breaks. I finally completed it. All night I had been on the internet checking references to substantiate my made up theories, it was swift and effortless (the internet connection, no my thought process).
Come the time to upload the bloody thing and the internet connection went down. For an hour and a half so my essay, after staying up all night to finish it, was late.
Since then, however, I have been liberated. I have been wandering around Bangalore soaking up the atmos. I went and bought my ticket to Vellore (home of the trouser suit of course) and felt like such a pro as I cheerily discussed the Brindhavan Express leaving at 9 am and the Lalbagh at two thirty, and deciding what seat types to get. I think men crowding behind me, squishing me against the counter, just trying to get close so they could marvel at my local knowledge.
On the way back in the rickshaw the light across Bangalore glowed like lava. The flame trees lining the roads, became blazing infernos. At a corner, a group of uncertain looking young men were holding cameras next to a tata van with PRESS on the side. One of the men seemed straighter and more confident. He was holding the mike. A couple of lathi-wielding policemen with outrageous side whiskers bristled menacingly. Of course all 12 lanes of traffic strained to see who was coming out to be interviewed.
A bus pulled gently in between me and the scene, blocking it out. I sat back in the rickshaw, where my view was obscured by the umbrella like canopy.
As I did so, I heard a noise. It was like a cross between an expression of astonishment and a burp. There was a pause as I looked up puzzled. The came the most almighty splat as the side of the bus, side of the rickshaw and a tiny area of my toe was redecorated with copious quantities of muttar paneer. The riskshaw driver was most unimpressed and despite being wedged in between other rickshaws in traffic tighter than seeds in a pomegranate, managed to maneouvre himself a full vomit spans distance from the bus. I did have to share the remainder of the trip with a couple of escapeas.
So tomorrow I am off to Vellore and who knows what will be in store. I am looking forward to it and of course I'll keep you pasted.
Come the time to upload the bloody thing and the internet connection went down. For an hour and a half so my essay, after staying up all night to finish it, was late.
Since then, however, I have been liberated. I have been wandering around Bangalore soaking up the atmos. I went and bought my ticket to Vellore (home of the trouser suit of course) and felt like such a pro as I cheerily discussed the Brindhavan Express leaving at 9 am and the Lalbagh at two thirty, and deciding what seat types to get. I think men crowding behind me, squishing me against the counter, just trying to get close so they could marvel at my local knowledge.
On the way back in the rickshaw the light across Bangalore glowed like lava. The flame trees lining the roads, became blazing infernos. At a corner, a group of uncertain looking young men were holding cameras next to a tata van with PRESS on the side. One of the men seemed straighter and more confident. He was holding the mike. A couple of lathi-wielding policemen with outrageous side whiskers bristled menacingly. Of course all 12 lanes of traffic strained to see who was coming out to be interviewed.
A bus pulled gently in between me and the scene, blocking it out. I sat back in the rickshaw, where my view was obscured by the umbrella like canopy.
As I did so, I heard a noise. It was like a cross between an expression of astonishment and a burp. There was a pause as I looked up puzzled. The came the most almighty splat as the side of the bus, side of the rickshaw and a tiny area of my toe was redecorated with copious quantities of muttar paneer. The riskshaw driver was most unimpressed and despite being wedged in between other rickshaws in traffic tighter than seeds in a pomegranate, managed to maneouvre himself a full vomit spans distance from the bus. I did have to share the remainder of the trip with a couple of escapeas.
So tomorrow I am off to Vellore and who knows what will be in store. I am looking forward to it and of course I'll keep you pasted.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Photo ID
Today is the first day I have ventured out properly. We went out last night to celebrate a friend's birthday and in traditional manner, they brought a cake, which, being Indian, was sweeter than concentrated saccharine and I could feel my pancreas exhausting itself after the first mouthful. Luckily, after Sudhir's friends had smeared it liberally over the face of the birthday boy, there wasn't a lot left to eat, so another slew of diabetic crises was averted.
This morning, having redeemed my reputation for minimal sleeping by waking at 7 o clock, without the assistance of a certain hound's noisy desperation for breakfast, I slipped on my flip flops and with toes joyously liberated from the confines of English winter footwear, I pounded the streets of Bangalore to find an internet cafe in order to start work on yet another assignment for my MSc.
I returned to one which had been a good setup for me when I was last here and checked in, just to see if I had any credit remaining. I didn't, so I had to re-register, but this time, a new rule said that I needed photo id. A credit card on it's own would not be enough. I had nothing with me, no passport, no driving licence, nothing. The young girl tried to be helpful.
"Do you have any small, small photo?"
"No, I have nothing"
Root, root in capacious, surprisingly empty bag.
"Oh, I do have a photo of my mum and my niece and I look quite like my mum." I said, hopefully, showing the girl. She regarded the photo speculatively.
"OK, madam, I will use"
So, now I have a photo of my two year old niece and my mum laughing as they are nearly being knocked over dogs outside my parents' house, taken two years ago, as the id for my internet access. Brilliant. Quite brilliant.
This morning, having redeemed my reputation for minimal sleeping by waking at 7 o clock, without the assistance of a certain hound's noisy desperation for breakfast, I slipped on my flip flops and with toes joyously liberated from the confines of English winter footwear, I pounded the streets of Bangalore to find an internet cafe in order to start work on yet another assignment for my MSc.
I returned to one which had been a good setup for me when I was last here and checked in, just to see if I had any credit remaining. I didn't, so I had to re-register, but this time, a new rule said that I needed photo id. A credit card on it's own would not be enough. I had nothing with me, no passport, no driving licence, nothing. The young girl tried to be helpful.
"Do you have any small, small photo?"
"No, I have nothing"
Root, root in capacious, surprisingly empty bag.
"Oh, I do have a photo of my mum and my niece and I look quite like my mum." I said, hopefully, showing the girl. She regarded the photo speculatively.
"OK, madam, I will use"
So, now I have a photo of my two year old niece and my mum laughing as they are nearly being knocked over dogs outside my parents' house, taken two years ago, as the id for my internet access. Brilliant. Quite brilliant.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
A New Adventure
Twelve hours ago I landed in Bangalore airport. I am back again in India. Just for a month this time, to see how the project has got on in the year since it started, specifically in the interim 9 months since I have been home. There has been little contact with those running the project, only about three or four emails from various people. I am not sure if this is due to the out-of-sight-out-of-mind phenomenon, or something more significant, but it is better that way. It is their project and should not have an absentee person deeply involved, however, I am a little apprehensive about how I will be received once I go back to RUHSA. I sent an email a while ago giving dates and times and have only just heard today, not a long letter, just a brief note. Still at least I know I am expected. It will be very interesting to see how the land lies.
Meanwhile, I landed at Bangalore and made my way to stay with a friend I met last year in Jairpur. It was early in the morning, the pre-dawn air a lovely warm 19 degrees. The locals, of course, were wrapped in woolly hats (most of the hat containing air above the head), fleeces and scarves. Of course, I was instantly transported back when I saw the first porn-star moustache and tiny-bottomed polyester trousers flaring wildly over gnarled toenails and sandals. Ahh, blissful joy. My taxi driver and I had the mandatory pidgen converstion to try and come to an agreement about where my friends lived. We found the house eventually, but I think perhaps it might have been easier, in the pitch black, if he had used his headlights.
Today, after a long discussion immediately on arrival at 6 am, with me telling Victoria that I needed no sleep, that since my days of being a junior doctor I can sleep on a clothes line for minimal periods of time needing little refreshment, I went for a peppy little snooze and woke 7 hours later. So I have done nothing today except chat, but we are planning to go out later with a friend of her and her boyfriend's (Sudhir) whose birthday it is. Tomorrow, I tackle India properly.
Meanwhile, I landed at Bangalore and made my way to stay with a friend I met last year in Jairpur. It was early in the morning, the pre-dawn air a lovely warm 19 degrees. The locals, of course, were wrapped in woolly hats (most of the hat containing air above the head), fleeces and scarves. Of course, I was instantly transported back when I saw the first porn-star moustache and tiny-bottomed polyester trousers flaring wildly over gnarled toenails and sandals. Ahh, blissful joy. My taxi driver and I had the mandatory pidgen converstion to try and come to an agreement about where my friends lived. We found the house eventually, but I think perhaps it might have been easier, in the pitch black, if he had used his headlights.
Today, after a long discussion immediately on arrival at 6 am, with me telling Victoria that I needed no sleep, that since my days of being a junior doctor I can sleep on a clothes line for minimal periods of time needing little refreshment, I went for a peppy little snooze and woke 7 hours later. So I have done nothing today except chat, but we are planning to go out later with a friend of her and her boyfriend's (Sudhir) whose birthday it is. Tomorrow, I tackle India properly.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Post Script
I have now been home for more than three weeks and have finally got used to the extortionate prices, the absence of roadside ablutions, the lack of visibly dangerous activities, undercrowding on the buses and blessed peace to my ears. I am also enjoying driving again, despite having already called out the AA, a mere 2 days after renwing my membership and an even narrower margin of one day after my car's MOT. However, I am enjoying the fact that people definitely stop at junctions, horn-use is restricted to sufferers of road rage and cow-slaloming skills are not required. I do miss that no-one cycles in a lunghi and the lorries are really boring with no decorations at all.
Since my return, I have reported back to one of the trustees of the charity which has funded the project about what has been going on for the last eight months. He was very pleased with everything and has asked me to come to the AGM in June to update the remainder of the trustees. I hope that we can discuss fund raising plans, specifically the idea of developing community to community funding for future projects, as well as the future of the pilot project. Also by then, I hope, we would have had the first report from RUHSA following their May evaluation, which will give us a good idea of how the project is progressing and whether they are managing to hold meetings when I am not around to bully them into coming!
My plan for the next few months is to find varied and interesting jobs incorporating clinical work and teaching, but still allow me time off for good behaviour; continue my search for a non-anorexic worm in this country to avoid putting on all the weight I left behind in India and capitalisng on my new found interest in socialising. Step three is coming along nicely, steps one and two need work.
As for the rest of it, you will have to await part two of this gripping tale, which will be coming to a computer near you in January 2008.
Since my return, I have reported back to one of the trustees of the charity which has funded the project about what has been going on for the last eight months. He was very pleased with everything and has asked me to come to the AGM in June to update the remainder of the trustees. I hope that we can discuss fund raising plans, specifically the idea of developing community to community funding for future projects, as well as the future of the pilot project. Also by then, I hope, we would have had the first report from RUHSA following their May evaluation, which will give us a good idea of how the project is progressing and whether they are managing to hold meetings when I am not around to bully them into coming!
My plan for the next few months is to find varied and interesting jobs incorporating clinical work and teaching, but still allow me time off for good behaviour; continue my search for a non-anorexic worm in this country to avoid putting on all the weight I left behind in India and capitalisng on my new found interest in socialising. Step three is coming along nicely, steps one and two need work.
As for the rest of it, you will have to await part two of this gripping tale, which will be coming to a computer near you in January 2008.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Going going gone
So here I am, once again sitting in an airport lounge awaiting a flight, this time to leave India and my fantastic sabbatical behind. There is something about airports which drains you of the ability to feel any emotion, which is a good thing, although I have been surprisingly calm about leaving, despite not looking forward to having to be a responsible adult with a job, once more. Obviously, I am keen to see my family, my dog, my friends and my house; equally obviously, I am sad to be leaving India which has provided me with such rich and unique experiences over the last 8 months.
Being totally knackered from driving all night in a rickshaw the above paragraph was all I managed to write at the airport. Now I am back in England, enjoying the bright, cool spring sunshine, showing off my tan to anyone who is interested (and quite a few who aren't) and wallowing for hours in a hot, fragrant bath. It is strange to be back for several reasons. Firstly, England and my parents' house, where I am staying for a while, is so familiar having been my home since I was 2 years old, that it barely seems as if I have been away at all. Secondly, flying is no way to join two destinations in a seamless fashion. Spending time in an airport and on a plane, creates a delineated separation, like a portal between two worlds where you are cleansed and reassembled before arriving at the next place. There is no ceremony in flying; it is the full stop and capital letter between locations. Obviously, unless I had wanted to spend two months on a ship travelling around the Cape of Good Hope or, perhaps to save a few weeks, through the Suez canal, flying is the only option, but it is a featureless, dry activity, that wrenches you from one place, shakes you around to disorientate you and drops you into another place without any warning.
Having said that, there was an observable transition during the trip. People became progressively greyer and more passing English language intruded into my consciousness as I left India, travelled through Dubai, got on a London bound plane and arrived in Gatwick. Eventually, the transformation was complete as everyone, with the exception of a Sikh Customs Official, looked pink and pale and their dull, quotidien, conversational snippets crashed through my consciousness like stones against a window. I don't want to know that Steve phoned yesterday and you wouldn't believe what he said. I don't want to hear that an Irishman is always behaving badly and not to, on this occasion, shame his wife at the Imigration counter. I especially don't then want to hear him showing her up, schmoozing the supremely uninterested Immigration Officer, who is wondering what he did in a former life which meant he had to work over the Easter Weekend. But, after months of blissful ignorance about the mindless chit chat people indulge in, on returning home it becomes claustrophobic. I must remember to change my "Bus-compressed-air-horn Ear Filter" for my "Drivel-people-talk-on-a -daily-basis Ear Filter".
You may think, reading the above that I am unhappy to be home and wish I were back in India. Well, that's not true. This trip came to a natural conclusion, and the law of diminishing returns was beginning to apply. It was time for the toddler of a project to take it's first independent steps and see whether, without my extreme bullying presence, it can develop further. Also, I have been away from clinical practice for a longtime and I was beginning to enjoy too much the freedom and lack of responsibility being thousands of miles away from your home confers. I really felt that staying longer would need justification to myself and any future employers. The best aspect of this trip is that it has not been a "once-in-a-lifetime" "never-to-be-repeated" opportunity, but the beginning of a professional and personal relationship which will enrich and inform my future practice and give me a perspective on issues to which I would have no access if I stayed all my working life in Cumbria. As someone said to me, it has become woven into my life and will be a continuous thread. That is why it doesn't feel strange enough being home. I now have the exciting task of figuring out how I am going to mould a professional life for myself which allows me to develop this new perspective and apply the learning experience I have had for the future.
Of course, at the moment, the thought of actually having a job, makes me nauseous.
Being totally knackered from driving all night in a rickshaw the above paragraph was all I managed to write at the airport. Now I am back in England, enjoying the bright, cool spring sunshine, showing off my tan to anyone who is interested (and quite a few who aren't) and wallowing for hours in a hot, fragrant bath. It is strange to be back for several reasons. Firstly, England and my parents' house, where I am staying for a while, is so familiar having been my home since I was 2 years old, that it barely seems as if I have been away at all. Secondly, flying is no way to join two destinations in a seamless fashion. Spending time in an airport and on a plane, creates a delineated separation, like a portal between two worlds where you are cleansed and reassembled before arriving at the next place. There is no ceremony in flying; it is the full stop and capital letter between locations. Obviously, unless I had wanted to spend two months on a ship travelling around the Cape of Good Hope or, perhaps to save a few weeks, through the Suez canal, flying is the only option, but it is a featureless, dry activity, that wrenches you from one place, shakes you around to disorientate you and drops you into another place without any warning.
Having said that, there was an observable transition during the trip. People became progressively greyer and more passing English language intruded into my consciousness as I left India, travelled through Dubai, got on a London bound plane and arrived in Gatwick. Eventually, the transformation was complete as everyone, with the exception of a Sikh Customs Official, looked pink and pale and their dull, quotidien, conversational snippets crashed through my consciousness like stones against a window. I don't want to know that Steve phoned yesterday and you wouldn't believe what he said. I don't want to hear that an Irishman is always behaving badly and not to, on this occasion, shame his wife at the Imigration counter. I especially don't then want to hear him showing her up, schmoozing the supremely uninterested Immigration Officer, who is wondering what he did in a former life which meant he had to work over the Easter Weekend. But, after months of blissful ignorance about the mindless chit chat people indulge in, on returning home it becomes claustrophobic. I must remember to change my "Bus-compressed-air-horn Ear Filter" for my "Drivel-people-talk-on-a -daily-basis Ear Filter".
You may think, reading the above that I am unhappy to be home and wish I were back in India. Well, that's not true. This trip came to a natural conclusion, and the law of diminishing returns was beginning to apply. It was time for the toddler of a project to take it's first independent steps and see whether, without my extreme bullying presence, it can develop further. Also, I have been away from clinical practice for a longtime and I was beginning to enjoy too much the freedom and lack of responsibility being thousands of miles away from your home confers. I really felt that staying longer would need justification to myself and any future employers. The best aspect of this trip is that it has not been a "once-in-a-lifetime" "never-to-be-repeated" opportunity, but the beginning of a professional and personal relationship which will enrich and inform my future practice and give me a perspective on issues to which I would have no access if I stayed all my working life in Cumbria. As someone said to me, it has become woven into my life and will be a continuous thread. That is why it doesn't feel strange enough being home. I now have the exciting task of figuring out how I am going to mould a professional life for myself which allows me to develop this new perspective and apply the learning experience I have had for the future.
Of course, at the moment, the thought of actually having a job, makes me nauseous.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Last Day
This is the last morning of my time at RUHSA and I have woken early, surrounded by too many, too heavy bags, for which I am sure Emirates will charge me a ridiculous amount. As has been the case every place I have stayed in for longer than a week, I have accumulated so many things that packing is an ordeal, a mathematical impossibility. I have no idea where the stuff comes from. It seems, especially here, that I have lived a Spartan existence. I have no bedspreads, no ornaments, no kitchen things to pack up. OK I have a couple of cushions but that is because the pillows provided are like bricks and smell of mushrooms. The main problem is books. I have lots. They are cheap to buy here and I have had no television for the last 8 months. Also, I have had a lot of salwar suits made, they are the only thing to wear and being such a hot climate, a new one is needed every day, so two or three is not enough as the dhobi (laundry man) takes 3-4 days to get the clothes back. I do occasionally wash them myself by hand in a bucket and then spend the next few days with swinging, dripping pants draped across my room, but as the dhobi only charges 11p per item for washing and ironing, it is churlish to refuse him the business, especially as my washing attempts are pathetically ineffective.
It seems amazing that finally this extraordinary experience is drawing to a close. Up until the last days I have been seeing and doing new things, meeting new people and it has not seemed as if I am leaving at all. Yesterday, we had our last team meeting with me present. It was a sombre affair. There are concerns about the future of the leadership at RUHSA, staff are unhappy, and I think they enjoyed my involvement because I was able to be a bridge between themselves and their erratically brilliant and compassionate, but very tricky head of Department, who is undergoing so much stress at present that the brilliant/erratic balance is tipping further towards the undesirable end. However, there are some good signs. The staff are proud of what has been achieved so far and are keen our efforts should not be wasted. Mathew and I have written a clear, simple and achievable timeplan for the next year, with specific dates for monitoring and evaluation and goals to be achieved at the end of the first year. The team members know what needs to be done and they know how to do it, so with luck, despite the difficulties, I will return in a year and see that it has been achieved. Although, I understand their concerns, I trust them to be able to carry this embryonic venture forward into maturity, for it is only with its successful expansion into the wider community that it will achieve what it intends, which is addressing the needs of all vulnerable people and providing a workable prototype to develop in other areas.
Knowing I’m coming back in January and that this is the start, I hope, of a long professional and personal relationship with everyone here makes leaving much easier. I haven’t felt sad, because I don’t feel anything is ending but that something is beginning. Pandian, my fiance, does not feel the same way. He is very sad. I thought he had got over the whole fiance thing, but yesterday he asked me to marry him again. I said no.
"When you coming back?"
"January"
"OK, I wait, then."
"No don’t wait, I’m not going to marry you at all."
"I wait. 9 months, 9 years. I wait"
I gave up. I thought perhaps it was the quirks in my character which attract him, but, call me cynical and callous, I fear the vast difference in our relative incomes has a bearing on his adoration.
As for saying goodbye to everyone at RUHSA, some are happy to see me go. I have been a thorn in their side and rocked their comfortable existence by being challenging and demanding, but some seem, on the face of it, to be sorry I am leaving. Being a delusional optimist, I like to think the latter group forms the majority.
I shall miss the ride to the village through the unruly headed coconut palms. The effort but release of cycling in the heat, concentrating on the ground when there is a slight incline, seeing only the spiky shadows of the leaves cast on the hot tarmac. I shall miss the transient company of the other cyclists as we pass each other: the old men in dhotis travelling at snail’s pace without wobbling or falling; the young men carrying mountains of pots or wide, drooping bundles of sugar cane; and the young girls, their hair still in plaits, tied with jasmine and bows, two or three to a bicycle, slyly looking and giggling as sweatily I pass them, usually singing loudly to Rigoletto on my MP3 player. I wonder if the ladies of the rope making village, who wave cheerily as I pedal and they weave, will notice that I no longer pass on occasional mornings.
I shall definitely be sad to say goodbye to the oldies in the village, whose names, I have only just managed to remember, Sukkupattu, Chinnathambi, Rajamani, Pushpa, Chandrammal and many others. Today, they are giving me lunch to say goodbye. I hope they will still be here in January. I shall enjoy our last morning together, all of us wobbling our heads, united in our mystification of the other’s language. My cheek muscles will be aching by the end of lunch from all the smiling, the only avenue of international communication open to us, but it will be worth it.
The rest of the day will be spent wrapping books in packages of less than 2kg to send back to UK at ¼ of the minimum potential cost of excess baggage; weighing my suitcases to see how much overweight they still are and traumatically chucking out salwar suits that I will never use in England but to which I have a sentimental attachment. I have bags containing old clothes and medicines for Rita, read books and pots for Jackie and Alex who are in Vellore for the year, stationery for Mathew and socks for Dr John. That still leaves three enormous suitcases. No presents this time, I have too much of my own stuff.
The funny thing is, the ants know I’m leaving and they have invaded my space already, scavenging for any hitherto unnoticed crumbs and dead insects. The ongoing Battle for Supremacy which has been raging for 8 months is in the balance. At present the ants are winning, but I have a secret plan up my sleeve. As soon as the suitcases are outside. I am going to sweep like a maniac and clear them, plus all their food out, so it will just be a bare concrete block again. Hah. I will win.
It seems amazing that finally this extraordinary experience is drawing to a close. Up until the last days I have been seeing and doing new things, meeting new people and it has not seemed as if I am leaving at all. Yesterday, we had our last team meeting with me present. It was a sombre affair. There are concerns about the future of the leadership at RUHSA, staff are unhappy, and I think they enjoyed my involvement because I was able to be a bridge between themselves and their erratically brilliant and compassionate, but very tricky head of Department, who is undergoing so much stress at present that the brilliant/erratic balance is tipping further towards the undesirable end. However, there are some good signs. The staff are proud of what has been achieved so far and are keen our efforts should not be wasted. Mathew and I have written a clear, simple and achievable timeplan for the next year, with specific dates for monitoring and evaluation and goals to be achieved at the end of the first year. The team members know what needs to be done and they know how to do it, so with luck, despite the difficulties, I will return in a year and see that it has been achieved. Although, I understand their concerns, I trust them to be able to carry this embryonic venture forward into maturity, for it is only with its successful expansion into the wider community that it will achieve what it intends, which is addressing the needs of all vulnerable people and providing a workable prototype to develop in other areas.
Knowing I’m coming back in January and that this is the start, I hope, of a long professional and personal relationship with everyone here makes leaving much easier. I haven’t felt sad, because I don’t feel anything is ending but that something is beginning. Pandian, my fiance, does not feel the same way. He is very sad. I thought he had got over the whole fiance thing, but yesterday he asked me to marry him again. I said no.
"When you coming back?"
"January"
"OK, I wait, then."
"No don’t wait, I’m not going to marry you at all."
"I wait. 9 months, 9 years. I wait"
I gave up. I thought perhaps it was the quirks in my character which attract him, but, call me cynical and callous, I fear the vast difference in our relative incomes has a bearing on his adoration.
As for saying goodbye to everyone at RUHSA, some are happy to see me go. I have been a thorn in their side and rocked their comfortable existence by being challenging and demanding, but some seem, on the face of it, to be sorry I am leaving. Being a delusional optimist, I like to think the latter group forms the majority.
I shall miss the ride to the village through the unruly headed coconut palms. The effort but release of cycling in the heat, concentrating on the ground when there is a slight incline, seeing only the spiky shadows of the leaves cast on the hot tarmac. I shall miss the transient company of the other cyclists as we pass each other: the old men in dhotis travelling at snail’s pace without wobbling or falling; the young men carrying mountains of pots or wide, drooping bundles of sugar cane; and the young girls, their hair still in plaits, tied with jasmine and bows, two or three to a bicycle, slyly looking and giggling as sweatily I pass them, usually singing loudly to Rigoletto on my MP3 player. I wonder if the ladies of the rope making village, who wave cheerily as I pedal and they weave, will notice that I no longer pass on occasional mornings.
I shall definitely be sad to say goodbye to the oldies in the village, whose names, I have only just managed to remember, Sukkupattu, Chinnathambi, Rajamani, Pushpa, Chandrammal and many others. Today, they are giving me lunch to say goodbye. I hope they will still be here in January. I shall enjoy our last morning together, all of us wobbling our heads, united in our mystification of the other’s language. My cheek muscles will be aching by the end of lunch from all the smiling, the only avenue of international communication open to us, but it will be worth it.
The rest of the day will be spent wrapping books in packages of less than 2kg to send back to UK at ¼ of the minimum potential cost of excess baggage; weighing my suitcases to see how much overweight they still are and traumatically chucking out salwar suits that I will never use in England but to which I have a sentimental attachment. I have bags containing old clothes and medicines for Rita, read books and pots for Jackie and Alex who are in Vellore for the year, stationery for Mathew and socks for Dr John. That still leaves three enormous suitcases. No presents this time, I have too much of my own stuff.
The funny thing is, the ants know I’m leaving and they have invaded my space already, scavenging for any hitherto unnoticed crumbs and dead insects. The ongoing Battle for Supremacy which has been raging for 8 months is in the balance. At present the ants are winning, but I have a secret plan up my sleeve. As soon as the suitcases are outside. I am going to sweep like a maniac and clear them, plus all their food out, so it will just be a bare concrete block again. Hah. I will win.
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