A long, hungover bus journey took me from the dusty, busy city of Amritsar up to the peaceful hills of Dharamshala. The roads got steadily worse as we wound our way uphill, but the air got cleaner and fresher, and the scenery became more and more majestic until night closed in.
After the short connecting hop up to McLeod Ganj, I'm tired and hungry enough to just bag the cheapest room I can find, then head out for a beer and a curry on a rooftop overlooking the village. The night sky has a few clouds, but the nearly-full moon still shines through with enough strength to cast impressive shadows. On the northern horizon we can see snow-capped peaks looming large over the wooded ridges below, and a scattering of individual lights illuminating the isolated farmers' and shepherds' huts cut into the sheer slopes. The twinkling of the lights in the village itself reminds me of a nocturnal Alpine scene, where chalets and villas almost seem ready to topple down on top of one another.
As I'm staring out at this and waiting for food, there is a sudden power cut. I'm sure it's playing havoc in the busy kitchen below, but right now I have the best view in town, and I light a cigarette as I look out over the moonlit valley below. It's such a change from the busy cities I have been in up till now, and a very welcome one. The air is chilly, not humid, and I can see the stars for the first time. The silence is perfect.
The moment lingers, thankfully, until an understandably harried waiter brings up our food by candlelight a few minutes later. The power kicks back in soon after that, and we're left to enjoy our meal. I've decided to try and eat mainly vegetarian food whilst I'm here, as it's probably the easiest country in the world to do so, and the addition of meat to any dish puts the price up by 50% or more.
A few days later and I've moved further up the hillside, to the nearby settlement of Bhagsu, an old hippie hangout which is being slowly redeveloped. It's even quieter up here, and the two- or three-kilometer walk each way is a good way to wake up in the morning, or to clear the head when returning from the pub. My days are lazy and slow, and often I only set myself one small task to accomplish, so I can feel like I've been productive by lunch, then just see what the rest of the day brings. There are some amazing characters here, both resident and transient, including a large number of Tibetan refugees, many of whom have made the epic trans-Himalayan journey across the Chinese border to get here.
It is also the home of the Dalai Lama, and there is a beautiful kora trail around his complex and the main Buddhist temple that I have taken to walking on most days. The sight of thousands of colourful prayer-flags flapping in the breeze is at once both peacefully reassuring and a symbol of defiant hope, one which the Tibetan people carry within them in their struggle for a free homeland. There are plenty of volunteering opportunities here too, so I've been spending weekday afternoons teaching English to refugees, and learning more about the ongoing occupation and its history in the evenings. It's still amazing how little coverage this issue gets in the West.
Anyway, I have plenty more to tell, but no time right now, as I've got to go and meet someone. I will be out of contact for the next 12 days, as I'm entering a monastery for a secluded meditation course. So I should have plenty to write about after I get back, having had many days to think about it!
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Fun at the Mall
Despite there being very little to see, I had stuck around in Amritsar for an extra day, in order to catch up with some new friends who I’d met on the train – local engineering students Yash and Namit. Asking them where would be best to meet, they offered me a choice of the temple or the mall, and since I had already been to the former, I decided to see what this mall would be like (unfortunately, the third option I proposed, going out drinking, was ruled out by it being a Hindu holy day, with alcohol not allowed).
I had a quick look at a local map, and found a small shopping centre marked, named after Nehru, so I headed there. My phone’s battery then died, so I was stranded with a suspicion that I was in the wrong place, as this didn’t look at all like the building they had described. I borrowed a phone from some bemused guys hanging around on a motorbike, and found out that I was miles away from the out-of-town complex where I should have been. The two guys found it rather funny that I’d got so lost, but gave me some basic directions and wished me luck. As I set off, though, they called me back, and had a hurried conference with much gesticulation, pointing especially at me, and in the general direction of what I supposed was the mall. After 30 seconds or so, some sort of consensus was reached, and they told me to wait here. I nodded, and they drove off.
Five minutes later, just as I was beginning to think that they might be playing some sort of joke on me, they returned, and one hopped off the back of the bike, motioning to me to get on. This wasn’t what I’d expected, but I figured that a free ride would be better than paying for a taxi, and the experience would be quite fun anyway.
Fun was probably the wrong word though. The traffic in Amritsar was even worse than in Mumbai, and my driver (who appeared to be quite fashionable, with sunglasses even at night and slicked-back hair) saw this as an opportunity to show off his driving skills, weaving in and out of the variously-paced vehicles, bicycles and handcarts at great speed before having to brake hard for a red light. I had visions of ending my days in pieces under an auto-rickshaw. He turned to me with a big smile, and said “You like? Haha!” before zooming off again when he saw a gap (I saw none) in the crossing traffic, jumping the red in the process and dodging blindly in front of a bus.
At the next stop he shouted at a neighbouring driver and a motorcycle in front, then pointed at me on the back, evidently pleased to be carrying a Westerner as a passenger. I smiled back with an attempted bravery that wasn’t really there.
We soon reached the main raised highway, which cuts the town in half and is a pretty ugly eyesore, but at least the traffic was more open there. This meant that we could get up to full speed finally, but I had no problem with this – I’ve always enjoyed fast driving, and it was far preferable to reckless overtaking and sudden braking. A few minutes later he dropped me outside the mall, then took a photo of us both on his mobile. With a quick wave, and looking really pleased with himself, he roared off back into town.
So, unexpectedly having arrived at the mall in good time, I walked across the parking lot. At least I hadn’t kept Yash and Namit waiting too long. I spotted them in the glow of light by the entrance, and hurried up to greet them.
The mall was far more than I was expecting. It was a carbon copy of the many modern shopping mausoleums that litter the towns of England, and the suburbs of the American city sprawl. Even the brands were the same; the only difference was in the range of cuisines offered in the food court. I was impressed, even though I hardly felt that I was experiencing anything new. We browsed through a few designer label stores, with me making relatively uninformed comparisons between the prices here and in the UK. Clothes were generally cheaper, I believed, but shoes and watches were pretty much the same. I may well be wrong though, as I don’t do a lot of shopping back home.
We chatted over coffee, and I tried a couple of the local specialities picked for me (and paid for by) the two guys. They wouldn’t hear of me offering any money towards the meal, which, considering they are students themselves, was very touching. Their insistence that I was their guest only rang slightly true – after all, we were sitting in a brand-new expensive building made for rich Indians, not their home.
The music being played was a mix of mid-90s UK pop hits, which was nostalgic but hardly enjoyable. I found out that neither the Spice Girls nor the Vengaboys (yes, really) had improved with age into anything listenable. I’m glad we’ve managed to sweep much of that era under the carpet, hopefully to be forgotten forever!
Wandering around like mall-rats, then, we searched for something to do besides making security guards anxious when we approached the top-tier watches or jewellery. We came across an old-school amusement arcade on one of the upper floors. Several games of air hockey, Time Crisis and hoop-shooting (we top-scored!) later, we were laughing and joking around, trying to see what prize we could claim for our tokens. With anything good well out of reach of our haul, I eventually opted for a smiley-face stress-ball, and got both of the guys to sign it. After this, they had to get back though, so we parted on very good terms and headed separately back into town.
I had a quick look at a local map, and found a small shopping centre marked, named after Nehru, so I headed there. My phone’s battery then died, so I was stranded with a suspicion that I was in the wrong place, as this didn’t look at all like the building they had described. I borrowed a phone from some bemused guys hanging around on a motorbike, and found out that I was miles away from the out-of-town complex where I should have been. The two guys found it rather funny that I’d got so lost, but gave me some basic directions and wished me luck. As I set off, though, they called me back, and had a hurried conference with much gesticulation, pointing especially at me, and in the general direction of what I supposed was the mall. After 30 seconds or so, some sort of consensus was reached, and they told me to wait here. I nodded, and they drove off.
Five minutes later, just as I was beginning to think that they might be playing some sort of joke on me, they returned, and one hopped off the back of the bike, motioning to me to get on. This wasn’t what I’d expected, but I figured that a free ride would be better than paying for a taxi, and the experience would be quite fun anyway.
Fun was probably the wrong word though. The traffic in Amritsar was even worse than in Mumbai, and my driver (who appeared to be quite fashionable, with sunglasses even at night and slicked-back hair) saw this as an opportunity to show off his driving skills, weaving in and out of the variously-paced vehicles, bicycles and handcarts at great speed before having to brake hard for a red light. I had visions of ending my days in pieces under an auto-rickshaw. He turned to me with a big smile, and said “You like? Haha!” before zooming off again when he saw a gap (I saw none) in the crossing traffic, jumping the red in the process and dodging blindly in front of a bus.
At the next stop he shouted at a neighbouring driver and a motorcycle in front, then pointed at me on the back, evidently pleased to be carrying a Westerner as a passenger. I smiled back with an attempted bravery that wasn’t really there.
We soon reached the main raised highway, which cuts the town in half and is a pretty ugly eyesore, but at least the traffic was more open there. This meant that we could get up to full speed finally, but I had no problem with this – I’ve always enjoyed fast driving, and it was far preferable to reckless overtaking and sudden braking. A few minutes later he dropped me outside the mall, then took a photo of us both on his mobile. With a quick wave, and looking really pleased with himself, he roared off back into town.
So, unexpectedly having arrived at the mall in good time, I walked across the parking lot. At least I hadn’t kept Yash and Namit waiting too long. I spotted them in the glow of light by the entrance, and hurried up to greet them.
The mall was far more than I was expecting. It was a carbon copy of the many modern shopping mausoleums that litter the towns of England, and the suburbs of the American city sprawl. Even the brands were the same; the only difference was in the range of cuisines offered in the food court. I was impressed, even though I hardly felt that I was experiencing anything new. We browsed through a few designer label stores, with me making relatively uninformed comparisons between the prices here and in the UK. Clothes were generally cheaper, I believed, but shoes and watches were pretty much the same. I may well be wrong though, as I don’t do a lot of shopping back home.
We chatted over coffee, and I tried a couple of the local specialities picked for me (and paid for by) the two guys. They wouldn’t hear of me offering any money towards the meal, which, considering they are students themselves, was very touching. Their insistence that I was their guest only rang slightly true – after all, we were sitting in a brand-new expensive building made for rich Indians, not their home.
The music being played was a mix of mid-90s UK pop hits, which was nostalgic but hardly enjoyable. I found out that neither the Spice Girls nor the Vengaboys (yes, really) had improved with age into anything listenable. I’m glad we’ve managed to sweep much of that era under the carpet, hopefully to be forgotten forever!
Wandering around like mall-rats, then, we searched for something to do besides making security guards anxious when we approached the top-tier watches or jewellery. We came across an old-school amusement arcade on one of the upper floors. Several games of air hockey, Time Crisis and hoop-shooting (we top-scored!) later, we were laughing and joking around, trying to see what prize we could claim for our tokens. With anything good well out of reach of our haul, I eventually opted for a smiley-face stress-ball, and got both of the guys to sign it. After this, they had to get back though, so we parted on very good terms and headed separately back into town.
Golden Temple
A short rickshaw ride through some of the narrowest streets I have yet seen brings me to the gates of the huge complex. Arranging a pick-up time with the driver, I head off to deposit my shoes and find something to cover my head with. Also, I’ve remembered to leave my cigarettes at the hostel, as tobacco, alcohol and drugs are all forbidden here. Even matches aren’t allowed in, though sacrilegious arson is hardly high on my list of priorities right now.
The Golden Temple is the most sacred site for the Sikh religion, which formed several hundred years ago as a reaction to both Hindu and Muslim orthodoxy. As such, it did away with the idea of a caste system, instead promoting equality; many of its ideals are remarkably modern and liberal, at least when compared with the archaic dogma of many other religions. This insistence upon equality invites the non-Sikh into the temple with as much respect as the dedicated pilgrim, and, provided you obey the few rules, allows you into the holiest and most venerated of the shrines.
The large square courtyard contains a huge pool which pilgrims come to bathe in, and the sight of pot-bellied Sikh doctors from, say, Birmingham, disrobing down to their underwear before descending into the lake would, in other circumstances, be quite amusing. As it is, the place has an awed reverence to it, as the visitors are wowed into hushed whispers by its beauty and stillness.
Everything is pure white marble, which makes the barefoot walk very pleasurable, and the fanned colonnades provide a respite from the sun, which is fighting through the Amritsar haze to keep the air fairly baking. The gilded roof of the centrepiece, though, glints almost as brightly in the sunshine, forcing the viewers to shade their humbled eyes to look at it.
There is a long wait to get inside the central building itself, so I decide to let the heat of the day dissipate whilst I go and get a meal at the temple’s 24-hour free canteen, open to all throughout the year. I’d not really eaten anything in the last day, so it is with a grateful hunger that I join the huddled queue. I look around, and it appears that I’m the only obvious foreigner here, which of course garners some curious glances (one kid wants a photo with me), but at least makes me feel that I’m not just here for the photo opportunity, but am actually becoming part of the temple’s activity, albeit temporarily. I think that this has always been a crucial distinction for me – I find it much more rewarding to interact, even in small ways, with the ongoing life of a place, than to just be shuttled from viewpoint to viewpoint.
Tin tray and water bowl in hand, we are all hurried into the main eating hall as soon as the previous group has finished and the floors have been given a quick sweep. We dash to find places on the mats on the floor. There is some chanting, taken up by the pilgrims as they settle themselves, and a pair of holy men walks up and down, orchestrating the voices and offering blessings to all. After this, the serving starts, with volunteers lugging large baskets full of dhal, rice and chapattis up and down the rows, ladling out huge portions to everyone. The food is simple but filling, and I am offered second helpings of everything, which I gladly accept. My fingertip-eating skills are improving, so I manage to avoid using the spoon provided until only the dregs are left, which impresses (I think) my neighbour, a small wiry man with large eyes and a benevolent smile. I nod in thanks back to him, then tuck straight back in, as the volume of eaters served each day is great enough to necessitate a quick turnaround between sittings. My plate is still half-full when the first people begin to leave. I gulp down the rest as quickly as possible, not wanting to be the foreigner who holds everything up.
I carry my plate out to the washing area, a noisy bustling hive of movement, resounding with the crashes of used trays and cups being hurriedly recycled. The number of volunteers here is exceptional, and the reality behind their dedication to receiving everyone equally is most clear here, as a small army washes, scrubs and dries the immense amount of tableware used many times each day – the cleared items are practically handed straight from the fingers of the last drier into the hands of a hungry devotee.
This experience – being fed for free no matter who I am – is thoroughly heartwarming, and I leave the temple with a great respect for the Sikh faith, one which is often misunderstood. The unfortunate reputation for militarism seems to be overstated, and mostly a thing of the past, even if its orthodox sword-carrying members are still a fearsome sight.
If militarism is ever to be condemned, another nearby site could be used as incontestable evidence by any prosecutor. In 1919, a small group of British troops, led by one General Dyer, opened fire on an unarmed gathering of Indian protestors in a cramped bit of wasteland known as Jallianwala Bagh. They were there to discuss responses to the British imposition of imprisonment without trial for those suspected of sedition, a situation whereby anyone who the colonial rulers took a dislike to could be shut away: several prominent Punjabis had already suffered this fate. (It seems that the restriction of habeas corpus is usually a sign that there is something untenable about a government’s legitimacy).
The soldiers kept firing for several minutes, and left several hundred people dead (no-one knows the exact toll, some put it over 2000). They covered the only exit from the area, so escaping meant climbing over walls around ten feet high. Many, in desperation, dived into an open well for cover – over 150 bodies were recovered from it afterwards. The bullet-holes still on display today are a sad reminder of the slaughter.
The site has now been turned into a memorial park, and as such is one of the few well-maintained public areas I’ve seen (excepting certain holy places). There is a fitting aura of remembrance, and the lush foliage and trimmed grass make me forget about the heat and dirt of the surrounding city. After spending some time contemplating the evils of the world in the silent shade of the main flame-shaped statue, I head off to meet the rickshaw driver, ignoring the swarm of taxi-touts and souvenir-sellers that crowd the single exit.
The Golden Temple is the most sacred site for the Sikh religion, which formed several hundred years ago as a reaction to both Hindu and Muslim orthodoxy. As such, it did away with the idea of a caste system, instead promoting equality; many of its ideals are remarkably modern and liberal, at least when compared with the archaic dogma of many other religions. This insistence upon equality invites the non-Sikh into the temple with as much respect as the dedicated pilgrim, and, provided you obey the few rules, allows you into the holiest and most venerated of the shrines.
The large square courtyard contains a huge pool which pilgrims come to bathe in, and the sight of pot-bellied Sikh doctors from, say, Birmingham, disrobing down to their underwear before descending into the lake would, in other circumstances, be quite amusing. As it is, the place has an awed reverence to it, as the visitors are wowed into hushed whispers by its beauty and stillness.
Everything is pure white marble, which makes the barefoot walk very pleasurable, and the fanned colonnades provide a respite from the sun, which is fighting through the Amritsar haze to keep the air fairly baking. The gilded roof of the centrepiece, though, glints almost as brightly in the sunshine, forcing the viewers to shade their humbled eyes to look at it.
There is a long wait to get inside the central building itself, so I decide to let the heat of the day dissipate whilst I go and get a meal at the temple’s 24-hour free canteen, open to all throughout the year. I’d not really eaten anything in the last day, so it is with a grateful hunger that I join the huddled queue. I look around, and it appears that I’m the only obvious foreigner here, which of course garners some curious glances (one kid wants a photo with me), but at least makes me feel that I’m not just here for the photo opportunity, but am actually becoming part of the temple’s activity, albeit temporarily. I think that this has always been a crucial distinction for me – I find it much more rewarding to interact, even in small ways, with the ongoing life of a place, than to just be shuttled from viewpoint to viewpoint.
Tin tray and water bowl in hand, we are all hurried into the main eating hall as soon as the previous group has finished and the floors have been given a quick sweep. We dash to find places on the mats on the floor. There is some chanting, taken up by the pilgrims as they settle themselves, and a pair of holy men walks up and down, orchestrating the voices and offering blessings to all. After this, the serving starts, with volunteers lugging large baskets full of dhal, rice and chapattis up and down the rows, ladling out huge portions to everyone. The food is simple but filling, and I am offered second helpings of everything, which I gladly accept. My fingertip-eating skills are improving, so I manage to avoid using the spoon provided until only the dregs are left, which impresses (I think) my neighbour, a small wiry man with large eyes and a benevolent smile. I nod in thanks back to him, then tuck straight back in, as the volume of eaters served each day is great enough to necessitate a quick turnaround between sittings. My plate is still half-full when the first people begin to leave. I gulp down the rest as quickly as possible, not wanting to be the foreigner who holds everything up.
I carry my plate out to the washing area, a noisy bustling hive of movement, resounding with the crashes of used trays and cups being hurriedly recycled. The number of volunteers here is exceptional, and the reality behind their dedication to receiving everyone equally is most clear here, as a small army washes, scrubs and dries the immense amount of tableware used many times each day – the cleared items are practically handed straight from the fingers of the last drier into the hands of a hungry devotee.
This experience – being fed for free no matter who I am – is thoroughly heartwarming, and I leave the temple with a great respect for the Sikh faith, one which is often misunderstood. The unfortunate reputation for militarism seems to be overstated, and mostly a thing of the past, even if its orthodox sword-carrying members are still a fearsome sight.
If militarism is ever to be condemned, another nearby site could be used as incontestable evidence by any prosecutor. In 1919, a small group of British troops, led by one General Dyer, opened fire on an unarmed gathering of Indian protestors in a cramped bit of wasteland known as Jallianwala Bagh. They were there to discuss responses to the British imposition of imprisonment without trial for those suspected of sedition, a situation whereby anyone who the colonial rulers took a dislike to could be shut away: several prominent Punjabis had already suffered this fate. (It seems that the restriction of habeas corpus is usually a sign that there is something untenable about a government’s legitimacy).
The soldiers kept firing for several minutes, and left several hundred people dead (no-one knows the exact toll, some put it over 2000). They covered the only exit from the area, so escaping meant climbing over walls around ten feet high. Many, in desperation, dived into an open well for cover – over 150 bodies were recovered from it afterwards. The bullet-holes still on display today are a sad reminder of the slaughter.
The site has now been turned into a memorial park, and as such is one of the few well-maintained public areas I’ve seen (excepting certain holy places). There is a fitting aura of remembrance, and the lush foliage and trimmed grass make me forget about the heat and dirt of the surrounding city. After spending some time contemplating the evils of the world in the silent shade of the main flame-shaped statue, I head off to meet the rickshaw driver, ignoring the swarm of taxi-touts and souvenir-sellers that crowd the single exit.
Sunset at the Border
After a long sleep and the achievement of some practical matters, such as my laundry, I decide to head for the Indian-Pakistani border, about 30km west of Amritsar itself. The crossing at Wagha is apparently the only place where it’s possible to get from one country to another on foot, so the place holds some significance, especially with the troubled history between these two nations.
Since Partition, there have been wars, riots, and much bloodshed on both sides of the border as Hindu-Muslim relations deteriorated to open hostility. There is still a fair amount of distrust from both sides, heightened by the Mumbai terror attacks in 2006, which were carried out by Pakistani nationals.
On the drive out there, by auto-rickshaw on the first open highway (i.e. good road) I’ve seen in India, this lingering distrust is clear to see, as I pass mile after mile of military installations. There are soldiers all over the sides of the road, and machine-gun posts and checkpoints ready and waiting to be called into action, as well as menacing displays of tanks and artillery pieces inside the several layers of barbed wire. As I get closer to the border itself though, the road becomes more congested with parked buses, cars and rickshaws, all of which have made the trip out to witness tonight’s bizarre spectacle. I arrange a meeting point with the driver, and start off into the crowd, all headed one way.
The atmosphere on the road is akin to the excitement felt before a big football match. Everyone’s hurrying to get there on time, only stopping to buy snacks or souvenirs. Young ones are waving Indian tricolours, or are decked out in other patriotic garb. There are plenty of women in green and saffron saris, while the Sikh men are sporting appropriately-coloured turbans too. There’s singing and chanting, and as we get slowly closer to the stadium-like enclosure, we can all hear the turbulent noise of those already inside. Once past a series of unnecessary and repetitive security checks, I’m ushered towards a VIP gate (because I’m clearly a tourist), and, passport in hand, am prodded to enter the arena.
Both sides take part in this odd nightly ceremony, and over the border gates themselves, I can see a similar, though slightly smaller, Pakistani crowd, with the women segregated from the men. Thanks to my VIP skin colour I’ve got a good spot, in amongst other tourists and some upper-caste Indians. There’s a long stretch of road in front of me which passes between the two countries, through two ceremonially painted gates, with huge seating areas arranged at each end to view the impending closure of the border. I wait expectantly.
An Aussie next to me nudges me and says “Here we go”, having spotted a line of formally uniformed Indian soldiers getting into position. Over the tannoy comes a long, loud military call to attention, the soldiers’ backs stiffen, and we’re off.
Decorated with ornate red-and-gold turbans with fan-like headpieces on top, the soldiers, obeying commands which all sound exactly the same to me, perform a series of quick, high-stepping and high-arm-swinging marches to and from positions that undoubtedly have some significance, though to me there was little discernable pattern. The guy in charge of the soldiers then marches himself straight towards the gates, which makes me think that something is going to happen, but then he salutes his Pakistani opposite number (the choreography on both sides seemed to be exactly the same, with one specific gesture being the exception), and marches right back to where he had started.
This is the call for a musical interlude, with a non-uniformed MC chanting call-and-response slogans at the crowd, who shout back with gusto. These chants seem to be nationalistic in meaning, as I recognize some of the words used to refer to India as a nation. The Pakistanis are trying to outdo us (I guess I’m a token Indian for the night) with their own chants, but we outnumber them and they are some distance away, so it sounds like we’re winning. Some more marching ensues, to random cheers from the crowd, who are liable to make lots of sudden noise for no clear reason. Some of the moments which I was finding most symbolic, by contrast, often received little or no adulation.
Anyway, this cycle of marching and chanting repeats a few times, slowly moving the troops around to whatever final position they’re supposed to be in, until the flags of both nations are ready to be hauled down. The high-stepping flourishes at the end of the individual marches are now preposterously overdone, involving several stamps and a couple of inexplicable quarter-twists. This flourish, when performed opposite a Pakistani soldier, ends with an aggressive elbow-raise, showing a ritualistic strength and defiance. The corresponding Pakistani finish is one of spread arms and jutting chin, as if to say “Come on then!”. It’s like watching a ballet of football hooligans where someone has got the costumes terribly wrong. I have to say, though, that the black uniforms of Pakistan look far more menacing than the India’s almost office-like beige.
Now, even with the flags ready to be lowered, there are seemingly still more marches to complete, and chants to shout. The spectacle is surely impressive (if a little strange and too militaristic), but the component parts seem needlessly interminable, with little sense of progression from one to the next. In fact, the Aussie’s video camera is nearly out of tape, so he switches off and waits for something worthwhile to happen, hoping that one minute’s worth of recording time will be enough to capture the finale. He doesn’t seem optimistic.
Finally, after several more manoeuvres, the flags begin to be brought down, and the crowd is told to stand. In this moment, the symbolism of the ceremony becomes clear, and looking around at the hordes of Indian faces intently concentrating on their flag, the pride and fervour are clear to see. India’s borders are once again ceremonially enshrined by the lowering of a flag and the slamming of a gate, and until tomorrow, the homeland is safe.
Perhaps it’s something that I, coming from a fairly safe island nation, cannot fully appreciate, but there is definitely something in this ritual of closing the gates that keeps these stands packed night after night. It celebrates an Indian identity and commonality, a pride in the country and the strength in that belief. In order for these crowds to create a united identity for the disparate collection of peoples, religions and languages that make up India, they must collectively shut the gate on something foreign, something other.
Since Partition, there have been wars, riots, and much bloodshed on both sides of the border as Hindu-Muslim relations deteriorated to open hostility. There is still a fair amount of distrust from both sides, heightened by the Mumbai terror attacks in 2006, which were carried out by Pakistani nationals.
On the drive out there, by auto-rickshaw on the first open highway (i.e. good road) I’ve seen in India, this lingering distrust is clear to see, as I pass mile after mile of military installations. There are soldiers all over the sides of the road, and machine-gun posts and checkpoints ready and waiting to be called into action, as well as menacing displays of tanks and artillery pieces inside the several layers of barbed wire. As I get closer to the border itself though, the road becomes more congested with parked buses, cars and rickshaws, all of which have made the trip out to witness tonight’s bizarre spectacle. I arrange a meeting point with the driver, and start off into the crowd, all headed one way.
The atmosphere on the road is akin to the excitement felt before a big football match. Everyone’s hurrying to get there on time, only stopping to buy snacks or souvenirs. Young ones are waving Indian tricolours, or are decked out in other patriotic garb. There are plenty of women in green and saffron saris, while the Sikh men are sporting appropriately-coloured turbans too. There’s singing and chanting, and as we get slowly closer to the stadium-like enclosure, we can all hear the turbulent noise of those already inside. Once past a series of unnecessary and repetitive security checks, I’m ushered towards a VIP gate (because I’m clearly a tourist), and, passport in hand, am prodded to enter the arena.
Both sides take part in this odd nightly ceremony, and over the border gates themselves, I can see a similar, though slightly smaller, Pakistani crowd, with the women segregated from the men. Thanks to my VIP skin colour I’ve got a good spot, in amongst other tourists and some upper-caste Indians. There’s a long stretch of road in front of me which passes between the two countries, through two ceremonially painted gates, with huge seating areas arranged at each end to view the impending closure of the border. I wait expectantly.
An Aussie next to me nudges me and says “Here we go”, having spotted a line of formally uniformed Indian soldiers getting into position. Over the tannoy comes a long, loud military call to attention, the soldiers’ backs stiffen, and we’re off.
Decorated with ornate red-and-gold turbans with fan-like headpieces on top, the soldiers, obeying commands which all sound exactly the same to me, perform a series of quick, high-stepping and high-arm-swinging marches to and from positions that undoubtedly have some significance, though to me there was little discernable pattern. The guy in charge of the soldiers then marches himself straight towards the gates, which makes me think that something is going to happen, but then he salutes his Pakistani opposite number (the choreography on both sides seemed to be exactly the same, with one specific gesture being the exception), and marches right back to where he had started.
This is the call for a musical interlude, with a non-uniformed MC chanting call-and-response slogans at the crowd, who shout back with gusto. These chants seem to be nationalistic in meaning, as I recognize some of the words used to refer to India as a nation. The Pakistanis are trying to outdo us (I guess I’m a token Indian for the night) with their own chants, but we outnumber them and they are some distance away, so it sounds like we’re winning. Some more marching ensues, to random cheers from the crowd, who are liable to make lots of sudden noise for no clear reason. Some of the moments which I was finding most symbolic, by contrast, often received little or no adulation.
Anyway, this cycle of marching and chanting repeats a few times, slowly moving the troops around to whatever final position they’re supposed to be in, until the flags of both nations are ready to be hauled down. The high-stepping flourishes at the end of the individual marches are now preposterously overdone, involving several stamps and a couple of inexplicable quarter-twists. This flourish, when performed opposite a Pakistani soldier, ends with an aggressive elbow-raise, showing a ritualistic strength and defiance. The corresponding Pakistani finish is one of spread arms and jutting chin, as if to say “Come on then!”. It’s like watching a ballet of football hooligans where someone has got the costumes terribly wrong. I have to say, though, that the black uniforms of Pakistan look far more menacing than the India’s almost office-like beige.
Now, even with the flags ready to be lowered, there are seemingly still more marches to complete, and chants to shout. The spectacle is surely impressive (if a little strange and too militaristic), but the component parts seem needlessly interminable, with little sense of progression from one to the next. In fact, the Aussie’s video camera is nearly out of tape, so he switches off and waits for something worthwhile to happen, hoping that one minute’s worth of recording time will be enough to capture the finale. He doesn’t seem optimistic.
Finally, after several more manoeuvres, the flags begin to be brought down, and the crowd is told to stand. In this moment, the symbolism of the ceremony becomes clear, and looking around at the hordes of Indian faces intently concentrating on their flag, the pride and fervour are clear to see. India’s borders are once again ceremonially enshrined by the lowering of a flag and the slamming of a gate, and until tomorrow, the homeland is safe.
Perhaps it’s something that I, coming from a fairly safe island nation, cannot fully appreciate, but there is definitely something in this ritual of closing the gates that keeps these stands packed night after night. It celebrates an Indian identity and commonality, a pride in the country and the strength in that belief. In order for these crowds to create a united identity for the disparate collection of peoples, religions and languages that make up India, they must collectively shut the gate on something foreign, something other.
Heading North
Leaving Bombay after a hectic first week, I found that a great hangover cure is a 32-hour train journey northwards. If you travel in second class, the fares are incredibly small, even though it means you’re forsaking air conditioning, and any semblance of comfort. However, this is more than made up for by the array of interesting strangers I meet, who all ask me if I’m married, and what my job is – I already have a small stack of business cards from various Indian men (“Thank you very much, I will surely think about investing in your plastics/foodstuffs/carpentry/telephone business once I’m back home in London”). Also, simply watching countryside roll by for a long time can be a very pleasurable experience, almost meditative in its repetitiveness.
There’s a haze hanging across much of the landscape that we pass, though this is not the urban smog which I later encounter in Amritsar, my destination. It is harvest time, and once the crops have been collected, the stubble is burnt off. There are little plumes of white smoke in all directions, and the burning smells from the countryside are fairly pleasant compared to the unpredictable array of aromas that I stumbled through in Bombay.
The land is clearly very fertile, with crops being grown year-round (the rice is being harvested, wheat is due to be planted), and large flocks of cows, goats and water-buffalos can be seen at regular intervals, often grazing amongst the weird, half-completed construction projects that litter the landscape, apparently abandoned. I’ve never seen this much reinforced concrete waiting to be finished off before – quite a common sight is a one-floor building in current use with the beginnings of the second-floor columns poking optimistically out of the top of the structure – but it makes one wonder who is paying for all this useless building work.
The train passes through Delhi, and I get my first glimpses of the capital, but I’m not going to be visiting the city for some time yet, having decided to head up to the mountains before the winter starts closing in, and then making my way gradually southwards from there. Still very little in the way of a plan, but I’ll probably spend one or two days in the Amritsar, in the Punjab, before heading uphill for some cooler weather and more relaxing atmosphere.
There’s a haze hanging across much of the landscape that we pass, though this is not the urban smog which I later encounter in Amritsar, my destination. It is harvest time, and once the crops have been collected, the stubble is burnt off. There are little plumes of white smoke in all directions, and the burning smells from the countryside are fairly pleasant compared to the unpredictable array of aromas that I stumbled through in Bombay.
The land is clearly very fertile, with crops being grown year-round (the rice is being harvested, wheat is due to be planted), and large flocks of cows, goats and water-buffalos can be seen at regular intervals, often grazing amongst the weird, half-completed construction projects that litter the landscape, apparently abandoned. I’ve never seen this much reinforced concrete waiting to be finished off before – quite a common sight is a one-floor building in current use with the beginnings of the second-floor columns poking optimistically out of the top of the structure – but it makes one wonder who is paying for all this useless building work.
The train passes through Delhi, and I get my first glimpses of the capital, but I’m not going to be visiting the city for some time yet, having decided to head up to the mountains before the winter starts closing in, and then making my way gradually southwards from there. Still very little in the way of a plan, but I’ll probably spend one or two days in the Amritsar, in the Punjab, before heading uphill for some cooler weather and more relaxing atmosphere.
The Other Mumbai
Whilst wandering fairly aimlessly downtown, I came across a crazy character called Terence, an Indian with (he claimed) some Irish ancestry. With a bandana and a braided beard, he looked like a Bollywood version of Captain Jack Sparrow, and was just as inspiringly mad. My plan for the day, which was pretty much just to see what I chanced upon, had thrown up an interesting result already.
He had been employed by an engineering company, and had spent plenty of time all over Europe, but now made his living giving unconventional tours of Mumbai for the intrepid traveler – taking the willing and the careless to the seedier, dirtier underbelly of the city. This was to be no ordinary sightseeing trip, instead venturing into the backstreets, the slums, the red light district, and the oddly hidden gems that few tourists find. Having felt like a bit of a chump amongst the shutter-happy Indian families on holiday, I decided that Terence’s promise to “turn me upside down, shake me around, then put me back together again” could prove a tempting alternative. Having bargained him down to what seemed like a reasonable price (with the taxi rides and a few beers thrown in), we set off for the afternoon.
First up was an ancient water tank, which we reached via a rich suburb and then a crammed slum. Turning just a single corner took us from a row of expensive foreign-made cars to a shantytown, full of tumbledown structures of corrugated iron and cardboard. Passing through this area, with heads turning at our unlikely pairing, we came to a row of temples hidden away, where a small crowd celebrating Navratri examined us curiously. I’m not sure what was more surprising – the sight of a white boy out of his depth in the slum, or the ridiculous pirate-like figure accompanying me. Still, we kept moving.
Just past the temples, some steps took us down to the water tank itself. Having not been sure what this term even meant, I was surprised at both the size and the architecture of the place. Imagine a sunken swimming pool made up of four staircases descending to a central point, filled with water sourced from a small spring at one end. This spring, legend has it, is where Rama fired an arrow into the hillside, causing water to pour forth. Whatever the truth of this, the stonework is undoubtedly very old, supposedly built over 3000 years ago.
It was a really secluded, quiet place (by Bombay standards), and, with ducks roaming freely and fish swimming serenely in the shallows, a nice hideaway to sit and meditate for a bit. At least, it was, until Terence decided to crack open a bottle of vodka and start dancing up and down the steps, ranting about religions all being cults. Whilst I didn’t entirely disagree, I didn’t want to encourage him into starting a one-man riot (or two-man, I guess), so I tried to placate him by talking about heavy rock music, guessing from his clothes and his Western experience that we probably shared this obsession. He wasn’t really listening though, instead pouring invective at a passing Hare Krishna who had tried to engage us in spiritual conversation. From his rant, and later ones at taxi drivers, I can probably now approximate some Hindi swearwords, even though I don’t know what they actually mean. At least it extends my vocabulary beyond purely foodstuffs learnt from takeaway menus…
Anyway, with Terence in full flow, still bouncing up and down the steps, I tried a different, though still rock-based approach, starting to loudly hum the opening riff from Smoke on the Water, while joining him in his dance/stomp. Somehow, it worked, as his inner rocker, unable to resist such a hook, joined in (complete with air guitar), and forgot his religious enemies for a while. Now, at least, the scene just looked like two out-of-place headbangers drinking vodka on some temple steps, which, though strange and unexpected, was preferable to the previous anger.
Once I’d got him calmed, we chatted for a while about our favourite bands, finished the vodka, then left, but not before an impromptu rendition of Hotel California from Terence, whose voice was good but whose memory of the lyrics left something to be desired, and who insisted in singing it massively up-tempo. Still, it was a nice moment, and on that note we left to get beer.
The way out was crowded with more temples that I hadn’t noticed on the way in, a sign of how closely linked religion is to daily life here. I think we’re used to a more secular separation between worship and the rest of existence in the West, and even for non-believers, we give religious buildings some sanctity and veneration, some space to breathe free from the surrounding profane world. This is clearly not the case in India, where – apart from the really large monumental temples – these places exist in and around the muck of everyday life, within and of the people. Likewise, even the auto-rickshaws, buses, street-food stalls and people’s balconies are decorated with religious symbols and flowers, bringing the spiritual into the routine. I don’t know enough to really begin to say what this might mean, but it does seem like a more holistic way to approach belief than by going to a church on a Sunday then forgetting about it until the following one.
Anyway, back in town near the seafront of Marine Drive, Terence and I are drinking in a dingy bar, being watched suspiciously by some policemen. He starts to tell me, between sips of vodka, about his drinking problem. I manage to feign surprise at this revelation. However, he thinks he’s now on the right track, since he’s down to just one litre of spirits per day. I nod supportively, and order another beer.
After the bar, we try in vain to get a cab, but it’s rush-hour and they’re only stopping for the office workers and their longer, more lucrative trips to the suburbs. Our short hop to the red light district receives two flat refusals, which sends Terence into a rage again. Apparently there are a lot of problems with taxi drivers in Bombay, so much so that there have been commuter-organized ‘Meter Jam’ days, where carpools take the place of taxis in protest at the drivers’ indifference to small fares and certain types of people. Now I can see why. We eventually fool a cabbie into taking us by giving him a destination much further away, then stopping him when we’re near to where we want to be. He’s mad at us, but I think we hold the moral high ground, as he shouldn’t refuse us anyway.
One street further, and I’ve seen enough of the prostitutes’ quarter to know that this is a terrible, terrible place. Poverty and prostitution go hand in hand generally, but the extremes on display here are sickening. Girls as young as 9 or 10, certainly pre-pubescent, vie for trade with haggard old women and pregnant whores with ravaged faces. There’s very little to say about the neighbourhood itself – the eyes and bodies of the women tell their own story all too clearly.
Feeling as if I’m descending into some nasty, repulsive pit of darkness, and certainly not wanting to know what might lie further in, I decide to turn back and head for the lights of the main road. This is no place to be, drunk or sober (the slight tipsiness quickly drains from me), but gives a staggering insight into what the realities of extreme urban poverty can mean for individuals.
Terence is slightly oblivious to my horror, and points rather vaguely in several directions, saying simply, and unnecessarily, “Red light district”. We walk to the main road, with me trying to proceed quickly but Terence dawdling, and I tell him that I have to go (which was the plan anyway). He seems surprised, even offended, until I remind him that I have to go, and that I’d already told him this several times. I say my thanks for a truly memorable afternoon and evening, and head off into the night. I am soon to experience the other end of the Bombay social spectrum, at a party in the wealthy suburbs. Thinking of this different world, I cast a glance back at pirate Terence, who gives me a last, swaying wave, before stumbling slightly into the street and dodging between two cars.
He had been employed by an engineering company, and had spent plenty of time all over Europe, but now made his living giving unconventional tours of Mumbai for the intrepid traveler – taking the willing and the careless to the seedier, dirtier underbelly of the city. This was to be no ordinary sightseeing trip, instead venturing into the backstreets, the slums, the red light district, and the oddly hidden gems that few tourists find. Having felt like a bit of a chump amongst the shutter-happy Indian families on holiday, I decided that Terence’s promise to “turn me upside down, shake me around, then put me back together again” could prove a tempting alternative. Having bargained him down to what seemed like a reasonable price (with the taxi rides and a few beers thrown in), we set off for the afternoon.
First up was an ancient water tank, which we reached via a rich suburb and then a crammed slum. Turning just a single corner took us from a row of expensive foreign-made cars to a shantytown, full of tumbledown structures of corrugated iron and cardboard. Passing through this area, with heads turning at our unlikely pairing, we came to a row of temples hidden away, where a small crowd celebrating Navratri examined us curiously. I’m not sure what was more surprising – the sight of a white boy out of his depth in the slum, or the ridiculous pirate-like figure accompanying me. Still, we kept moving.
Just past the temples, some steps took us down to the water tank itself. Having not been sure what this term even meant, I was surprised at both the size and the architecture of the place. Imagine a sunken swimming pool made up of four staircases descending to a central point, filled with water sourced from a small spring at one end. This spring, legend has it, is where Rama fired an arrow into the hillside, causing water to pour forth. Whatever the truth of this, the stonework is undoubtedly very old, supposedly built over 3000 years ago.
It was a really secluded, quiet place (by Bombay standards), and, with ducks roaming freely and fish swimming serenely in the shallows, a nice hideaway to sit and meditate for a bit. At least, it was, until Terence decided to crack open a bottle of vodka and start dancing up and down the steps, ranting about religions all being cults. Whilst I didn’t entirely disagree, I didn’t want to encourage him into starting a one-man riot (or two-man, I guess), so I tried to placate him by talking about heavy rock music, guessing from his clothes and his Western experience that we probably shared this obsession. He wasn’t really listening though, instead pouring invective at a passing Hare Krishna who had tried to engage us in spiritual conversation. From his rant, and later ones at taxi drivers, I can probably now approximate some Hindi swearwords, even though I don’t know what they actually mean. At least it extends my vocabulary beyond purely foodstuffs learnt from takeaway menus…
Anyway, with Terence in full flow, still bouncing up and down the steps, I tried a different, though still rock-based approach, starting to loudly hum the opening riff from Smoke on the Water, while joining him in his dance/stomp. Somehow, it worked, as his inner rocker, unable to resist such a hook, joined in (complete with air guitar), and forgot his religious enemies for a while. Now, at least, the scene just looked like two out-of-place headbangers drinking vodka on some temple steps, which, though strange and unexpected, was preferable to the previous anger.
Once I’d got him calmed, we chatted for a while about our favourite bands, finished the vodka, then left, but not before an impromptu rendition of Hotel California from Terence, whose voice was good but whose memory of the lyrics left something to be desired, and who insisted in singing it massively up-tempo. Still, it was a nice moment, and on that note we left to get beer.
The way out was crowded with more temples that I hadn’t noticed on the way in, a sign of how closely linked religion is to daily life here. I think we’re used to a more secular separation between worship and the rest of existence in the West, and even for non-believers, we give religious buildings some sanctity and veneration, some space to breathe free from the surrounding profane world. This is clearly not the case in India, where – apart from the really large monumental temples – these places exist in and around the muck of everyday life, within and of the people. Likewise, even the auto-rickshaws, buses, street-food stalls and people’s balconies are decorated with religious symbols and flowers, bringing the spiritual into the routine. I don’t know enough to really begin to say what this might mean, but it does seem like a more holistic way to approach belief than by going to a church on a Sunday then forgetting about it until the following one.
Anyway, back in town near the seafront of Marine Drive, Terence and I are drinking in a dingy bar, being watched suspiciously by some policemen. He starts to tell me, between sips of vodka, about his drinking problem. I manage to feign surprise at this revelation. However, he thinks he’s now on the right track, since he’s down to just one litre of spirits per day. I nod supportively, and order another beer.
After the bar, we try in vain to get a cab, but it’s rush-hour and they’re only stopping for the office workers and their longer, more lucrative trips to the suburbs. Our short hop to the red light district receives two flat refusals, which sends Terence into a rage again. Apparently there are a lot of problems with taxi drivers in Bombay, so much so that there have been commuter-organized ‘Meter Jam’ days, where carpools take the place of taxis in protest at the drivers’ indifference to small fares and certain types of people. Now I can see why. We eventually fool a cabbie into taking us by giving him a destination much further away, then stopping him when we’re near to where we want to be. He’s mad at us, but I think we hold the moral high ground, as he shouldn’t refuse us anyway.
One street further, and I’ve seen enough of the prostitutes’ quarter to know that this is a terrible, terrible place. Poverty and prostitution go hand in hand generally, but the extremes on display here are sickening. Girls as young as 9 or 10, certainly pre-pubescent, vie for trade with haggard old women and pregnant whores with ravaged faces. There’s very little to say about the neighbourhood itself – the eyes and bodies of the women tell their own story all too clearly.
Feeling as if I’m descending into some nasty, repulsive pit of darkness, and certainly not wanting to know what might lie further in, I decide to turn back and head for the lights of the main road. This is no place to be, drunk or sober (the slight tipsiness quickly drains from me), but gives a staggering insight into what the realities of extreme urban poverty can mean for individuals.
Terence is slightly oblivious to my horror, and points rather vaguely in several directions, saying simply, and unnecessarily, “Red light district”. We walk to the main road, with me trying to proceed quickly but Terence dawdling, and I tell him that I have to go (which was the plan anyway). He seems surprised, even offended, until I remind him that I have to go, and that I’d already told him this several times. I say my thanks for a truly memorable afternoon and evening, and head off into the night. I am soon to experience the other end of the Bombay social spectrum, at a party in the wealthy suburbs. Thinking of this different world, I cast a glance back at pirate Terence, who gives me a last, swaying wave, before stumbling slightly into the street and dodging between two cars.
Tourist Sightseeing
I’m writing this in an art gallery café, where I’m killing time until rush hour calms down and it’s a bit cooler for my cross-town trip to the railway station. The café is self-proclaimed as an ‘artist-bohemian’ joint, but all the people around me are families and a few businessmen. The music, hilariously, is an instrumental pan-pipes version of I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues! Truly ludicrous, though India seems to have a thing for covering Western songs badly, then playing them in bars and cafés, airports and shops. Don’t ask me why.
Today I got to see the touristy side of the city, visiting the imperial, hubris-filled Gateway to India, built in the Raj days to welcome one of the Georges and his wife to Bombay. It’s impressive, superbly monumental, but now is just a huge arch leading nowhere, perhaps a fitting metaphor for the end of the colonial era in general.
It was nice to see that the majority of the tourists flocking around it were Indian, not Western, and it made me smile to see these domestic sightseeing families performing exactly like their European counterparts would do in front of, say, the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. Kids looked either bored or overexcited depending on their ages, parents looked overworked and were happy to buy conciliatory ice-creams for their broods, and there was usually at least one member of the family looking confused over how to operate the latest moment-capturing piece of technology whilst the rest waited impatiently, trying to follow the shouted directions: “Back! Back! Smile! Stop hitting your sister! Stop crying! Smile! Left! Come on, smile!”
Today I got to see the touristy side of the city, visiting the imperial, hubris-filled Gateway to India, built in the Raj days to welcome one of the Georges and his wife to Bombay. It’s impressive, superbly monumental, but now is just a huge arch leading nowhere, perhaps a fitting metaphor for the end of the colonial era in general.
It was nice to see that the majority of the tourists flocking around it were Indian, not Western, and it made me smile to see these domestic sightseeing families performing exactly like their European counterparts would do in front of, say, the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty. Kids looked either bored or overexcited depending on their ages, parents looked overworked and were happy to buy conciliatory ice-creams for their broods, and there was usually at least one member of the family looking confused over how to operate the latest moment-capturing piece of technology whilst the rest waited impatiently, trying to follow the shouted directions: “Back! Back! Smile! Stop hitting your sister! Stop crying! Smile! Left! Come on, smile!”
The City
Downtown Mumbai is a very different beast to the suburbs. The roads are wider and there are fewer beggars, but the pace is massively increased – it’s definitely not a place to stand still. It’s also a lot more Western, with high-end tech and jewellery stores, and markets full of Levi’s and Calvin Klein knock-offs. Still, though, I am a very conspicuous outsider, having only seen a couple of white faces all day. Most of the crowd gives me at least a quick glance, if not a prolonged stare.
The earlier rain ended up coming down much harder as the day progressed, inducing me to buy an umbrella (vaguely functional, but liable to try and spring open at inopportune moments), but at least preventing me from looking quite so sweaty. The humidity is still much higher than I’m used to, so long walks – my preferred way of exploring cities – are just as tiring.
I’m not being hassled nearly as much as I was led to believe I would be. Apart from the beggars, who don’t discern between me and the suited businessmen, I’m more of a curiosity than a target. Nobody shouts at me to sell their wares, though perhaps that’s because the experienced street-vendors know better than to hope for a purchase from such a scruffy-looking backpacker. Generally, I’ve found that those approaching me with postcards or other tourist kitsch are only using it to hide the hashish secretly cupped in their fists, which, though stupidly cheap, is not really what I’m after.
Having to fight to get onto a rush-hour local train here is quite a fun experience, though I doubt I’d like to have to do it every day. Since there are no doors, just holes in the side, the first few passengers begin leaping out as the train is still moving, aiming for the small (to me, imperceptible) gaps between others now running along the platform to get on board, before the scrum intensifies as the carriage comes to a halt. It’s every man for himself (the women have different carriages reserved – where apparently the fighting for space can get even more vicious) as passengers are pouring into and out of the train in the few seconds before it moves off again. Stragglers and the overflow simply have to wait for the next one. The best spots, on account of the breeze, are those hanging out the side, so there’s another squirming match as the train departs, before it settles down and the victors get to enjoy their hard-won ventilation while those in the interior sweat.
I ended up wedged next to a very friendly local called Binoh, and we chatted in broken English between stops (where the main activity was to not get swept out by the tide of those exiting). He was a map-seller at one of the museums, and had only learned English from talking to tourists, so had a surprisingly good grasp of the language. He, along with much of the Hindu community of Mumbai, was in the middle of Navratri, a 10-day festival dedicated to Ganesh, the elephant-headed remover of obstacles., who is wildly popular throughout the city and the state of Maharashtra. Just before my stop, though, came a moment of particular sadness when I asked him about his family. Looking pleased with himself for knowing the words, he said “I have one children”, then, smile disappearing, “He is dead”.
The earlier rain ended up coming down much harder as the day progressed, inducing me to buy an umbrella (vaguely functional, but liable to try and spring open at inopportune moments), but at least preventing me from looking quite so sweaty. The humidity is still much higher than I’m used to, so long walks – my preferred way of exploring cities – are just as tiring.
I’m not being hassled nearly as much as I was led to believe I would be. Apart from the beggars, who don’t discern between me and the suited businessmen, I’m more of a curiosity than a target. Nobody shouts at me to sell their wares, though perhaps that’s because the experienced street-vendors know better than to hope for a purchase from such a scruffy-looking backpacker. Generally, I’ve found that those approaching me with postcards or other tourist kitsch are only using it to hide the hashish secretly cupped in their fists, which, though stupidly cheap, is not really what I’m after.
Having to fight to get onto a rush-hour local train here is quite a fun experience, though I doubt I’d like to have to do it every day. Since there are no doors, just holes in the side, the first few passengers begin leaping out as the train is still moving, aiming for the small (to me, imperceptible) gaps between others now running along the platform to get on board, before the scrum intensifies as the carriage comes to a halt. It’s every man for himself (the women have different carriages reserved – where apparently the fighting for space can get even more vicious) as passengers are pouring into and out of the train in the few seconds before it moves off again. Stragglers and the overflow simply have to wait for the next one. The best spots, on account of the breeze, are those hanging out the side, so there’s another squirming match as the train departs, before it settles down and the victors get to enjoy their hard-won ventilation while those in the interior sweat.
I ended up wedged next to a very friendly local called Binoh, and we chatted in broken English between stops (where the main activity was to not get swept out by the tide of those exiting). He was a map-seller at one of the museums, and had only learned English from talking to tourists, so had a surprisingly good grasp of the language. He, along with much of the Hindu community of Mumbai, was in the middle of Navratri, a 10-day festival dedicated to Ganesh, the elephant-headed remover of obstacles., who is wildly popular throughout the city and the state of Maharashtra. Just before my stop, though, came a moment of particular sadness when I asked him about his family. Looking pleased with himself for knowing the words, he said “I have one children”, then, smile disappearing, “He is dead”.
Monday, 25 October 2010
First Forays
A light rain is falling over midday Bombay (as all the locals call it, ‘Mumbai’ apparently only used by official sources and foreigners), and the air is a lot cooler than yesterday. There are still plenty of people in the streets though, along with the omnipresent yellow-and-black auto-rickshaws. Traffic here appears to be, as expected, completely chaotic, with right-of-way being determined – at all but the larger, manned or signaled junctions – by whoever gets their nose out first.
There are people everywhere, at all times of day and night, and the juxtaposition of rich and poor is startling: on the same street corner there will be sunglass-wearing playboys and film stars alongside orphan beggars and disfigured cripples in rags. Of course, the extreme poverty of Bombay’s infamous slums is well-known, but it’s the closeness of it all which is so unexpected. However, with all these different social strata having to squeeze into the same packed streets, the place is alive with dynamism and energy. The continual hustle and bustle is even reminiscent of the non-stop streets of Lower Manhattan (another locale where the use of the car horn is inescapable).
Last night I went for a walk with my friend Guarav along the seafront ‘promenade’ (the Anglicisms everywhere are hard for me to ignore, and are a mixture of oddly incongruous and a little quaint) of Bandra, the relatively well-off suburb where I’m staying. The numerous lights of the fishing boats in the ocean made it seem as if there was another city lurking across the bay, whilst the shoreline itself was little more than a dirty swathe of rubbish being lapped by even dirtier water. Whilst there are plenty of signs and posters entreating the locals not to litter, spit, or otherwise pollute the neighbourhoods, these are generally ignored except in a few tourist-friendly locations, where police are on hand to enforce them. You quickly get used to the amazing array of smells, ranging from the succulent to the repulsive, but the sea-breeze was consistent enough to freshen the air. We even managed to run into an ex-Miss India on the beachside, just a hundred yards or so from a cluster of especially pitiful beggars – just another example of how intertwined the various worlds of the city can be.
Anyway, the rain is now little more than a drizzle, so I’d best be getting out. I need an Indian SIM-card, a haircut (it’s pretty hot and humid), and a toothbrush, before heading downtown to have a look around. Let’s go see if I can figure out the transport system.
A Mumbai Dawn
So, a new dawn breaks, my first since Heathrow so many hours and coffees ago, and I’m in India. There’s a mist across the sky but it won’t stay for long. Taxi horns and chirping insects provide the soundtrack, as well as the hubbub of the early morning crowd, milling, chatting, selling. In some ways this could be just about any international airport forecourt – the brands on display are the same as ever – but the smells, the air, is different, and for me at least, pregnant with possibility.
My sketchily arranged plans have somehow fallen into place, and it seems like I’ve got a place to crash for the next few nights at least. I’m pleased at this, and feel that my laissez-faire attitude isn’t entirely out of place here. Even the coffee-cups seem infected with this form of passive optimism, the message on their sides proclaiming, “Everything is okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” Whilst this attitude has got me into trouble in the past (essay writing, job applications, in fact almost anything bureaucratic or involving a deadline…), I think it will be much more at home here.
Various Western writers and travellers have been frustrated by the lack of a goal-oriented efficiency involved in this ‘let it be’ attitude (I’ve been doing at least a little research – my reading list has been exclusively Indian-written or about India for the past few months). Some have seen it as a kind of fatalism, one buttressed by the Hindu belief in reincarnation, whereby any individual life is only one among many, but I’m not sure there’s anything fatal about it. Maybe it’s actually a positive thing, allowing life and its varied happenings to intervene, rather than trying to force our plans onto the world at any cost. There’s a surrender of control, yes, but it’s in no way morbid, more something which contains a bit more humility as regards one’s own influence. The world is very big and very mysterious – facing it with any degree of certainty is perhaps a little arrogant.
Whether this is true or not, or whether I’ll soon be wringing my hands over diverse inefficiencies, remains to be seen. Still, it’s how I’ve been feeling for a while, and I enter this journey wide-eyed and open-minded, not really knowing what to expect. I think I’ll let this function as my pre-trip disclaimer for basically blundering my way around the subcontinent! Though if I don’t know what’s coming next, I guess it makes it that much more fun.
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